The Student

A medical student in McGill Peter assaults a prostitute and fleas

 

The Student

Chapter One

June 1861

 

He had read the last book and had written the last test.  Gray's Anatomy he had digested and spat out, as his instructors had demanded of him.  For the first time in two years Peter had nothing left to do.  He sat in his room thinking of the emptiness of the hours stretching ahead of him. He had no fears about the exam results. He had always done well in tests. Why should he not?  Passing had been a straightforward matter of concentration. Peter did not waste his vital energies or money on foolishness or on common vices. Other students might indulge themselves in tobacco, whiskey or in women. Peter had learned to avoid such traps.

He had built a world of unvarying routine. Every morning at six he rose and said his prayers kneeling beneath the small crucifix in his room. He would study for an hour after a simple breakfast of tea and toast, with a bowl of porridge in winter.  At seven he would leave his room, walking the quarter miler to McGill, preferring that to the crowded horse trolley.  Peter liked his routine. He had his lectures, his studies and his microscope.  At term's end he would hurry back to Kilmarnock. His feet paced the streets of Montreal but his mind remained elsewhere. People, horses and wheeled vehicles surged past unnoticed. Shouts by news vendors in both French and English went unheard. The visit of the Prince of Wales, the fall of governments in Ottawa and the breakup of the American Union he brushed off as faint whispers of distant lands.

                A quarter hour early for lectures he would enter the hall when it was empty. This gave him the chance to choose his favorite seat, the one nearest to the door. Peter would sit and read not looking up as the other students arrived. He would listen to the lecturers, take notes, listen to other students ask questions, careful never to ask questions himself. His lectures finished, he would walk home, having his supper alone in his room and study or read until he fell asleep.  Sometimes when sleep would not come, when the rest of the house was asleep, he would slip out for a walk usually steering for the mountain.

                He loved the mountain. The smell of the pine trees and the cool air reminded him of Kilmarnock. It also reminded him of another place that he had once known a long time before. In good weather he would  sit long into the night watching the city darken, the stars brightening  above him. Every Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, he would sit on the mountain, read and pen three letters, the first to the the McKays, the second to Maggie Ferguson and the last to his former teacher, Mister Jessup.  He would describe his week and his progress in his studies careful to ask the appropriate questions, to answer any questions they wished to have answered, always enough to fill both sides of two pages.

                Peter cherished the boundaries of his world. At lecture time he paid no more attention to the students sitting next to him than if they had been in Austria. After two years he had never even asked any of them their names. Why should he? He had no wish to allow them to distract him. During his first days in Montreal he had repulsed attempts to lure him from his studies. Two of his lecturers, friends of Doctor McKay, had invited him for tea. He had politely declined. When students asked him to join him, he pretended not to hear and hurried away.  He had cultivated a habit of walking at a rapid pace. It made him appear as if he were in a hurry thus lessening the chances of being approached. The walking also helped keep away the memories that often crowded in on him at night. Because of them he preferred summer to winter finding it easier to slip outside, fleeing from the shadows that stalked him in his room.

                For years he had toyed with the idea of sailing away to a remote island blessed with a warm climate. No one would know him there. He would travel far from the shadows. Peter felt some pride in not succumbing to that dream. The McKays, Mister Jessup and the memory of Alex had held him to his course. Doctor Peter MacTavish would be Alex's victory.  Now that he had won the victory, he felt no sense of triumph. Peter had nothing left to do but brood. The shadows had begun to creep back. He tried to ignore them. Bent over a text he had read for the fourth time the symptoms and treatment of typhus. With every word he remembered his mother, brother and sister, the darkening of their skins, the fever, the bleeding and finally the choking that had taken their lives.

                His supper sat half-eaten on his table. For an extra four dollars a month he had persuaded Madame Lambert, his landlady, to serve him his meals in his room. He had told Madame that it would give him more time for his studies. So it had but Peter knew that was not the reason for his willingness to pay four dollars.  The thought of eating at the common table with the other boarders, of being jostled and nagged with questions he had found unendurable.

                Madame Lambert had become quite fond of her young Anglais, for all his peculiar ways. She had first been quite reluctant to take him. Her rooming house served middle-aged and elderly men, widowers and confirmed bachelors, dull company for a young man.  She permitted no loud noises, no overnight guests and no drunken behaviour. He would also have a long walk to the university although he could catch a trolley.

                The young man had examined the room. In halting French he had told her that it would suit him quite well. He had also inquired about the nearest church a question that had pleased Madame. Few young people were serious-minded about such matters. Before the week was out she was suggesting that Monsieur MacTavish would be pleased to join her and her niece Monique for tea. In the politest of terms he had declined.  He gave Madame Lambert the impression that he had a permanent attachment with a young lady back in Kilmarnock. Such a lucky young mademoiselle thought Madame.

During the following two years she observed the young man in his room buried in his studies or hurrying off in the early morning to his lectures. A serious young physician would make a fine husband. She had only one criticism to make of him, his habit of taking long evening walks after his supper. She feared that he had gone off to waste his time in taverns with immoral women as so many young men did. When she persisted in pointing out the possible dangers his voice rose. If his habits did not suit her, he had told her, he would remove himself the next day. Madame was profuse in her apologies. She never raised the subject again but she remained troubled. Too many things could happen at night to a fine young man. Monsieur should understand that.

                Peter enjoyed his evening walks.  In Kilmarnock he would walk for hours along the river. Deep into the woods he would go where they could not see him. The movement of his legs and the shelter of the surrounding trees would drive away the turmoil troubling his mind and body. Sometimes, late on a summer night when the heat of his room stifled him, he would slip out. Beside the river he would doff his clothes and dive into the cool water. The cold would strike him like a fist, numbing him. It would scour off the perspiration with it the thoughts and feelings that had made sleep impossible.

                That night was the last night that he would be in Montreal.  Tomorrow he would catch the Kingston steamer.  For the last time he took his usual route up to the top of the mountain. From Mont Royal he would look up at the stars and feel farther away from the sleeping city.  Here, as in the woods of Kilmarnock he could find a refuge from himself and from the others.  As he looked down at the city Peter knew that he would have to tell Doctor McKay the truth. Whatever his future was it did not include being a physician in Kilmarnock or anywhere else. He did not doubt his ability. He lacked neither skill nor knowledge. The simple fact was that in his years of study Peter had never once examined a living patient. It had all been bookwork. For two years he had been telling himself that given time he could grow to touching human skin without being repulsed by it.

                That final term he had done his practical training with Doctor McKay.  He had assisted in the office before, preparing medicines, sweeping and helping with the paperwork.  Doctor McKay had seen to the actual handling of patients. During the four months of his practical training, Doctor McKay had looked on as he had bound up wounds and treated fevers. Peter had struggled through keeping conversation with the patients to a minimum, trying not to look too relieved when he had finished. For four months he had borne it before returning to Montreal to write his final exam. How could he bear it for the rest of his life?

                The stench. The dirt; the actual placing his hands on it.  Speaking words of comforts, words he knew were lies.  He could not do it. He saw his future not as a practitioner but as a student of the causes of disease.  He saw himself working alone in a laboratory surrounded by tidy specimens, undisturbed by the slovenliness of human beings.

                Over the years Peter had developed a third defense, after the books, after the hiding; lies.  He had lied to Madame Lambert giving her the impression that he had a fiancé. He had none. Neither did he have the intention of having one.  The sexual act he regarded as being necessary for most people but not for him. If over the years Peter doubts concerning his view of himself, he only had to remember that God had shown him for what he was.

               

                In September Peter left Kilmarnock to go to school in Kingston. The McKays had decided upon a school run by Mister and Mrs. Gregson. The Gregsons, being Liberal in their views, accepted both Protestants and Catholics provided none of the latter were Irish. They promised a sound education in the sciences and liberal arts.  He would have to find accommodation within the city.  As the McKays studied possible residences the village schoolmaster, Mister Jessup, came forward with a solution.

                He would give up his position in Kilmarnock and rent a house in Kingston. If the McKays were willing to contribute towards the rent he would give Peter a room in the house and assist him in his studies. George and Peter offered the suggestion their immediate approval. Maureen reluctantly agreed.

                Barrie Street marked the western end of the city. Beyond it were fields and the large private estates of the wealthy. On the street, close to the lakefront, a mere six blocks from the school, was a two-story limestone house. Mister Jessup had secured it for fifty dollars annual rental. He moved into the house with Peter in August of 1852.

With the house came a staff of three, a cook and housekeeper, Mrs. Patricia Hamilton widow of the late Sergeant Hamilton of the Royal Engineers, a yard man Emmanuel Lewis and as scullery maid, Janet Ryan. For the next four years, apart from holidays, the house on Barrie Street would be Peter's home. It would be a quiet, peaceful time in his life, one that he would look back to with fondness. Only two incidents intruded upon the quiet.

The first had been the growing familiarity between Mister Jessup and Mrs. Hamilton. The housekeeper was approaching what Peter considered to be the advanced age of thirty-five. He considered her features to be plain, her nose a shade too large. A mole on her left cheek did little to add to her charms. Mister Jessup seemed oblivious to these faults. The woman Peter admitted was efficient in her duties, honest in her mortals and clean in her person. Any decent servant would be. Beyond that, he took scant interest in her.  It disturbed him to realize that a man he respected for intelligence was becoming quite irrational towards a mere servant.

Busy as he was with his studies Peter failed to see the looks between them, the whispered tones filled with a meaning known only to the two of them.  Maggie first pointed out the growing attraction between the two.  She was attending Mrs. Chapman's School for Young Ladies. Jessup abetted by Mrs. Hamilton, had decided to have Miss Ferguson over for tea, to heal the breach between Maggie and Peter. Her visit was followed and another, until Maggie became a regular visitor.

Peter looked up from the third volume of Gibbon and looked at Jessup. His former teacher sat in front of an easel painting a portrait of Mrs. Hamilton.

“He's sweet on her,” Maggie smiled.

Peter frowned. He could not imagine Mister Jessup being sweet on anyone.

                “You'll see,” Maggie added.

                Peter frowned. Feminine nonsense. He returned to Gibbon.

                The following Saturday, the weather being warm, Mister Jessup hired a carriage The four of them boarded the ferry for Wolfe Island. As they crossed the straight between the island and the mainland, the ladies admired the view of Fort Henry and the harbour. Jessup and Peter strolled the starboard side of the ferry.  Jessup glanced at the receding city and expressed his interest in putting it on canvas. Peter who considered Jessup's painting to be largely a waste of time, said nothing. Jessup added, almost as an afterthought, that Mrs. Hamilton and he were to be married.

                Peter said nothing. What could he say; that he was disappointed. He could understand an immature female such as Maggie swept away with thoughts of romance; but Mister Jessup? A marriage should be much like a business contract, serving the mutual needs of both parties. Mister Jessup could do much better than Mrs. Hamilton. He must be able to see that. From far off to the left, he could hear the squawking of a gull. Its shriek echoed his thoughts.

                What were women after all that sane rational men should lose their heads over them? They had the same bodily functions as men, excerpt for one to the further detriment of women.  If Jessup must marry let there be some profit in it for him. At least look to someone of the same social position.

“So,” Jessup asked.

                “Are you asking for my approval?”

The reply irked Jessup.  “It is customary to extend congratulations.”

                “Congratulations. Why her?”

                “She pleases me. I've been alone too long. It's not good for a man. We suit each other.”

                At least that sounded more rational thought Peter. “She is a good woman. I wish you luck. When are you planning the ceremony?”

                “In four weeks. That's be enough time to allow for the reading of the banns. We'll have it at Saint George's. You'll come?”

Peter hesitated. Saint George's was Anglican. “Of course. You'll want me to find another room, I suppose?”

“No reason for that,” said Jessup. “As a matter of fact, with one bedroom free, we're thinking of offering it to Miss Ferguson.”

Peter frowned. “She's comfortable enough where she is.”
                “Well, I'll mention it to her parents.” Jessup clapped the young man's left shoulder. “There'll come a time lad when you'll have to think of making a similar step.”

“I don't think so.”

“You're young yet. In a few years….”

Peter found the conversation increasingly distasteful. He shook his heads hoping that Jessup would turn to something else.

“Miss Maggie is quite taken with you,” said Jessup.

Peter looked over the railing pretending to look back at Kingston. “Miss Maggie is fourteen. Many young men will take her fancy before she settles for one. It will not be me.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

“You should tell her that.”

Peter agreed that he should, when the proper time came.  During the years that followed the proper time never seemed to come. Telling Maggie became a part of a long list of things he could never speak of for fear of offending someone.  Mister Jessup and Maggie were his friends but they would remain so only if they never knew what he had been. The few other friends that he had, the McKays, the Campbells, Judge Strachan, Rebecca Cleary and Father Byrne liked him because he was the son of Alex MacTavish. If he told Jessup or Maggie the truth, what reason would they have to like him?

At Jessup's and Mrs. Hamilton's urging he agreed to remain in their home. There he stayed for another two years until he left for Montreal to study medicine. Maggie continued her visits, her parents having declined to allow her to live with the Jessups. She had decided to become a teacher, a decision that Peter supported. Their friendship remained fixed to the same routine of visits, discussions about books and their mutual friends in Kilmarnock.  Peter recognized that the friendship could not last much longer. The basis of that relationship hinged upon Maggie remaining the same. As she approached her fifteenth year, it was manifest even to Peter that Maggie was growing into womanhood.

Peter himself had reached his full height of five feet and six inches.  Like most young men, he took great interest in his appearance but not out of a sense of vanity. He refused to buy jewelry or bright coloured waistcoats. Cleanliness and sobriety he told Jessup were the marks of a gentleman. Everything else was trash. He wore gray and black, partly because they were cheaper but mainly because they reflected the seriousness of character that he wished to project.  Other young men could allow frivolity into their lives. He could not.

                           ***

Helene had been walking the streets for hours. Her feet aching, her stomach empty she was returning to her room the room that she shared with her two children. She had little luck that night. She had hoped to earn another five dollars for her month's rent. Jerome would be by in the morning to demand money for drink. She knew what he could do if she had none to give. Still, what could she do? Some nights were better than others.  She turned down the street leading to her room.  Then she saw the young gentleman standing beside the gas lamp. He was watching her from across the street. She smiled. A gentleman would have only one reason for being ion the street at that time of night. “Monsieur?”

She could tell from the way that he looked at her that he was interested. Helene hurried towards him.

                           ***

Each night as he lay on his cot he would remember Janet Ryan.  After the wedding on the first of June the Jessups left for a week at the Clifton House at Niagara Falls. They planned after returning to close up the house at the end of June and spend the summer in Kilmarnock. Janet and Emmanuel would be let go and the house boarded up until the Jessups should return. Peter, in nominal control of the house while the Jessups were away, was too absorbed in his studies to take more than a passing interest in either the house or the servants. Janet, quiet, dark-haired, snub-nosed, was a silent fixture of the house much like the giant elm in the front yard. Peter surmised as her scrubbing the floor that with her long hair pulled back some men might consider her attractive by some, but he never gave the matter much thought. She was only a servant.

That evening after the Jessups left Peter took his supper in his room and studied for the upcoming exams. Just after the mantel clock chimed eight Janet knocked at his door asking permission to clear away the dishes. Peter grunted permission and continued reading, not bothering to look up.   After she had cleared away the dishes, Peter read for another two hours.  At ten he put down his books, undressed and fell into bed.

The dreams returned that night; perhaps because of the heat, perhaps because he felt himself to be alone. Once more Josef ran through the dark towards a chapel door. He was tumbling through the door when with a sudden cry he sat up naked in bed.  The coolness of the air in the dream dissipated in the warmth of the summer night. He stumbled out of the bed towards the room window. He slid up the lower pane and leaned outside to breathe in the air. It would be a fine evening for a stroll he thought. As he looked down, he saw a horse and cart parked in front of the house. Odd; tradesmen approached from the rear. Besides, why would a tradesman call at this time of night? A tapping at the door interrupted him.

On the other side of the door, Janet asked, “Is anything wrong, sir?”

“Go away.”

Peter went over to his night table. He poured some water out of the pitcher into the basin.  He wet his hands and ran them over his face and chest.  As the water trickled down his belly Peter felt the old fears stirring. The door opened.  Janet dressed only in a shift, stood in the doorway. Peter lunged for his robe.

“I told you to go away,” he said his fingers scrambling for the tie of his robe.

She did not move. “I'm sorry sir. I thought that you were ill.”

She should have stepped back, apologized and closed the door.  Instead, she remained as if expecting something. He wanted to shout at her, to scream at her to leave. Instead he found himself apologizing. Embarrassed he felt too awkward to scold her. “I didn't mean to wake you” he mumbled.

“I couldn't sleep anyway” she smiled.

He could feel her eyes studying his chest and moving down towards his waist.

"It's too warm, don't you think sir?"

“Yes. You had better ….”

He should tell her to go. He was the master of the house. “You should leave” he mumbled.

With one sweep of her arms, Janet pulled the shift off over her head and dropped it on the floor.  “Cooler this way, isn't it sir?”

The girl stepped towards him. As Peter told her that she should leave, she placed his unresisting hands upon her breasts.  She pressed closer against him letting him feel the touch her breasts against his chest.

“This is not right,” he murmured.

“Only us here. What harm is there You've always wanted this, haven't you? You do like it don't you?”

                “It's wrong. It's …” he should push her away. He should punish her. He should….

                Janet dropped to her knees and unfastened his robe. Her hands pressed against his buttocks. She placed her lips against his penis, kissing it. As she caressed it she looked up. In her short life, Janet had learned how her lovers would react at this point. Peter's reaction was not one that she had seen before. Tears trickling down his face he kept murmuring please. She knew what he wanted to hear. “I love you,” she whispered. She hesitated for a moment Once more kissing his penis, she placed it in her mouth.

      ***

                Peter awoke to find Janet gone. She would be downstairs preparing breakfast.  He had no time for breakfast this morning. As he lay in bed, he resolved to tell her, once he returned from school, how much he loved her. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he could love someone. Someone could love him. It must be about seven now. He listened to the early morning street noises.  He  looked towards the mantel clock to find it gone. Janet was not in the kitchen. He could not find her in her room, nor in the dining room nor outside. Neither could he find Emmanuel Lewis. Gone too was the silverware, Mrs. Jessup's cashbox, his five dollars in pocket money, most of the provisions and Alex's watch. Peter had just replaced the inner workings paying the watchmaker six dollars for parts and labour much to the man's puzzlement. For only ten dollars Peter could have bought a brand-new watch.

                The Jessups, bidden by a telegraph sent by Peter, returned two days later. Peter sat in his room chair watching the carriage bring them up to the house. As Jessup and Patricia had stepped out of the carriage, Peter thought of going downstairs, of greeting them but he could not move from the chair. He looked beyond the carriage, beyond the houses and the fields at the blue line that marked the horizon.

                Janet was there somewhere.  At the sound of Jessup's call her closed his eyes and dreamed of sailing across the water.  He had done what he could to make amends. Emptying his bank account, he had just enough after paying for the telegram, to replace the foodstuffs and the mantel clock. With no money left, he had spent the last two days sitting alone in his room, waiting.

                Jessup found him there still sitting beside his window. Something about the boy's stillness stirred the man's temper. “Couldn't you at least have come downstairs to greet us?”

                “It was all my fault,” Peter lisped, looking out the window. “There's a list of things that they took on the table. I'll pay for it.”

                Jessup glanced at the sheet of paper on the walnut writing table. “Some of that silver is over fifty years old. How are you going to pay for that? Mrs. Jessup had over twenty dollars in that box. Are you going to pay for that as well?”

                “Yes.”

                “Have the police heard anything about Lewis?”

                A minute passed before Peter could reply.  “I didn't tell them,” he whispered.

                “You didn't … why the hell not?” Jessup crumpled the paper and flung it at him. It struck the back of his head and dropped to the floor.

                Peter looked down at his hands.  “I couldn't tell them. I was too ashamed.”

                Jessup's voice softened. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”

                When Peter had finished Jessup sat on the edge of the bed and thought for a moment.

                “I didn't think,” Peter admitted.

                “No one does when they're sixteen” Jessup muttered.

                “I should have.”

                “Yes. You should have.”

                “You won't tell the McKays will you?”

                “How in God's name could you have been so stupid?”

                “She said that she loved me,” Peter murmured.  “I knew that she was lying but I thought she was saying it out of kindness. I don't know what I thought. She didn't mean it at all, did she?”

                “They used you, lad, she and Lewis. Well you're not the only fool in the house. I should have been more alert. Too many years left to rust.”

                Peter turned his head. “What do you mean?”

                “Nothing. What about your schooling?”

                “I haven't been able to think about it.”

                “Well start.  I'll write a letter to Mister Gregson telling him that you've been ill.      You'll bring it to school.  Then I'll leave.”

                “Leave?”

“To find Mister Lewis and Miss Ryan.”

“But they could be anywhere.”

                “No. they're somewhere. It's just a matter of figuring out where. I assume they're across the border and heading south. That'll do for a start. I'll leave at first light.”

                “But couldn't you go to the police?”

                “No. you were right about that. Best not to.”

      ***

                “Monsieur. Cinq piastres seulement.”

                Five dollars. Seemed reasonable Peter told himself. He had been worth that much to Janet. He turned away from the woman and hurried across the street turning back towards his boarding house.

                An hour before Helene would have let him go but she would have no more customers that night. She trotted after him, catching up with him before he could reach the corner of the street. She caught his right arm and pressed herself against him hoping that the smell of her perfume and the warmth of her body would overcome his shyness.

                “Je suis joli, non Monsieur?”

                He plucked her hand away from his arm. “Go away.”

                “I speak English. You like me, yes?”

                Careful to remain in front of him to bar his way Helene kissed him. He tried to push her away. She clung to him with both arms. By the light of the lamp, he could see the lines of hunger partially painted over by rouge. He also some someone else, his mother kneeing in front of Milos as her dead eyes stared at her child.  He could feel the birch slashing him her screaming at him that he was nothing but s**t. He could feel Janet writhing as he thrust deeper into her and imagined how she must have laughed knowing him for the fool that he was.

                The woman's screams brought him back. He felt something pounding at him, the woman's free hand. Peter looked down to see her on her knees the fingers of her right hand squeezed and twisted by the grip of his hand. He released her.

She slid down onto the cobblestones. Moaning she cradled her right hand. When he tried to examine it she crawled away, screaming and crying.  Peter fumbled for his wallet. He drew out a ten- dollar note. Pushing it into her hands, once more he tried to tell her that he was sorry. The woman spat at him. Peter stumbled back turned and ran off  into the dark.