The red was Mother and Mother was no more.
In both times, Nellie blacked out and hit the floor. Just before she fainted, she heard the baby screaming. It was her sister; yet it was not her sister . . .
Pain, oh God, such pain. Shapes, mouths, great black holes making the pain, teeth biting on the pain, tongues shaping it, making it worse, better, bigger, smaller. Lily. Lily giving pain, Aaron, Danny, Roy, Spot, Skinny, pain and pain and pain.
Lily sat on the edge of the sofa. ‘Nellie?’
Oh, please stop the hurt!
‘Nellie?’
The pain was in the shape of Lily’s mouth. The real agony came from Spot and his mother. Red, red, the red had gone, but the agony remained, here, real and now.
‘Nellie?’
That was her name. She recognized the shape of her name, but no more than that. There was huge discomfort beyond the window, outside the house where life continued, where Sal Higgins had just given birth.
So. The red had been her own mother, her birth mother, bleeding to death. The man was her father. The newborn was her sister. And if this was hearing, Nellie begged God with all her heart to take it away from her again. Where were the birds, the lowing cows, the gentle trickle of that fountain, the soft breezes in the trees? Hearing in the dreams had not been like this. Although her concept of dream-hearing had been vague during waking hours, she could not recall it being frightening until it reached the red part.
Lily stood back. ‘Danny?’
‘Yes, Mam?’
‘Fetch Dr Clarke. Unless I’m very much mistaken, I think your Auntie Nellie can hear again. Tell the doc she’s been passed out for well over quarter of an hour, then get him here. Aye, something’s happened and this one can hear again, so can we have a bit of hush?’
While she waited for the doctor, Lily sat and held Nellie’s hand. ‘You’ll be all right, love. No matter what it takes, I’ll make sure you’re all right.’
It was not all right, it was all wrong. The words were the correct shape, but voices hurt, scalded her head, made it sore. Then there was another thing, a heaving thing, almost black, dark. It was her own breathing. Sharp things, bold, purple, happening all the time – was that the clock? Mam’s clock. Mam was dead and Mother was dead, so what about the sister?
Air made noise. Air moved, was not silent. It was too much. She placed her hands over her ears and forbade them to work. She would never sleep again, would never rest. How did the hearing sleep? How did they shut out all this disturbance, all this agony?
By the time the doctor arrived, Nellie was wild-eyed and her stomach had begun to heave. She vomited, lay back, her face bathed in sweat. There was no peace, no relief. The enemy had invaded her territory and she was defenceless.
He took her pulse, watched her face. ‘You say she can hear? She has always been deaf.’
‘No,’ said Lily, ‘she spoke about dreams. She remembered hearing and could hear in a way when she was asleep – birds singing – she wrote it all down for me.’
‘So she suddenly went deaf?’
‘I think so,’ answered Lily, ‘and that was why she got adopted, I’d say. They gave her away, Dr Clarke.’
The woman’s heart was racing. ‘I think we’ll have her in the infirmary for a day or two, see what’s what. We don’t want her having a heart attack. How long has she been like this?’
‘Since she delivered Sal Higgins’s new baby.’
‘Ah.’ He stood up. ‘Shock of some sort, I’d say. Let the experts look at her. Now, don’t worry,’ he advised Lily. ‘You have had enough on your plate, so stay calm. Miss Hulme will be cared for.’
By the time Nellie was removed from her house, her appearance had decayed until she resembled an insane person, somebody from a nasty film, the sort who should be locked up for the rest of her life. Lily went with her. Guilt struck again, because Lily knew that the absence of this woman would hurt her more than the death of Sam. As they drove away, she patted Nellie’s hand. ‘Don’t you fret, love, I’ll get that new tablecloth up to the laundry and I’ll look after your lads.’ Yes, they were Nellie’s lads, too.
Nellie cried. The vehicle was loud, almost red, so terrifying. Monstrous clatterings went on outside the ambulance, crudely interwoven colours from the primary end of the palette. It was invasive, cruel, nasty. There was no space for thought, no escape, no comfort. ‘Lily,’ she mouthed, ‘help me.’
But no-one could help. Nellie Hulme, now cursed with the gift of hearing, had entered the reality of her nightmare. She gave herself up into the pain and passed out of consciousness.
Peter had never been summoned into the Presence before. He waited outside the front living room of Knowehead, bowler twisting nervously between very clean fingers. He had washed in Dot’s kitchen behind the shop, had shaved, had even allowed Dot to find a shirt of Frank’s that was not too grossly large for him.
Why was he so afraid, so shaken? She was just another woman, another unwed female who needed his help. According to rumour, she had started to walk again, just a few steps, just into her own garden. It seemed that Magsy and Beth O’Gara had changed Katherine Moore, had managed what no-one had achieved before. Through them and through Dot’s daughter-in-law, the crone had finally begun to show a degree of humanity.
Magsy came out of the room, held the door wide for him. ‘Go in now.’ She smiled. He had not been told about the summer house, as that was Miss Moore’s business, but Magsy wished that she could keep an ear to the door. Peter Smythe was a character, one who would not easily wear the guise of one of the old lady’s chess pieces. More locked horns, she thought as the door closed behind him.
He studied Katherine, so frail, thin, almost translucent. But the voice was strong. ‘Sit,’ she commanded.
He sat without thinking, would not have dreamt of disobeying.
She stared at him, unblinking, eyes hard and cold. ‘You work in my gardens.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? I have never met you before, of course, though people hereabouts say that you have clearly had a decent education, so why do manual labour?’ The eyes twinkled for a second. ‘They say you “talk proper”.’
‘Yes, I was taught by my mother, though I trained for no particular occupation. She was an educated woman, so I speak as she did.’
‘Very good,’ she replied absently, ‘and I feel I must congratulate you on the way you have dealt with my land, especially the garden at the rear. It was quite a wilderness. I was beginning to feel that I had invented England’s first true jungle.’
He relaxed slightly. ‘I know a great deal about plants and their habitat. And I study people.’ For a reason he could not understand, he did not mention his writing. ‘People fascinate me,’ he added.
‘I have heard about your book,’ she told him. ‘I have also heard that you are living in a caravan.’
He bridled slightly. What business of hers was that? His mode of living had been chosen. He did not want to be tied to a house. Even this short stay in Knowehead was making him feel claustrophobic.
‘Will you buy a house when your book makes money?’
‘If it makes money,’ he replied. ‘No. I do not have the desire to own a property.’
She nodded wisely. ‘But you do not mind using other people’s properties?’
‘No. The world belongs to everyone. I consider borders and boundaries to be in direct conflict with nature.’
‘And money is of no interest to you?’
He shrugged. ‘I believe in inheritance. But I never knew my father. Mother lost him before I was born; thus I had nothing to gain from my predecessors. My way of life may seem strange to you, but I am happy with it.’
‘So your mother was widowed?’
‘Yes,’ he replied after a short pause.
The pause was noticed and Katherine identified him as illegitimate. This was, indeed, an interesting man. Something about him made her feel as if she had known him for ever. Like herself, he was eccentric, was
ploughing his own furrow. ‘You used to live in my summer house.’
He made no apology. ‘Yes, that is the case.’
‘Now, a caravan?’
‘Yes. Miss Moore, if my book were successful, I might buy a horse to tether between the shafts. Then I could move house on a regular basis.’
Katherine loved the sound of that, indulging herself for a few moments, imagining the freedom, the sheer joy of travelling aimlessly through life, a gypsy, a liberated spirit. Without arthritis, naturally. ‘The summer house is yours, if you wish. No rent, just tend my garden and take the accommodation as payment. I shall also supply you with coal to heat the place and oil to light it. I may have electricity put in eventually, but not just yet.’
He swallowed. He loved that summer house, had written much of his prose and some of his poetry in there, while the light had lasted. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then say nothing, just nod for yes.’
He nodded.
‘Then that is settled, Mr Smythe. The O’Garas will be moving into the house – they are to use the upstairs rooms. I am not sure yet of the date, but we shall inform you. Oh, one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘I demand a free and signed copy of your book. Do we agree?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And Mrs O’Gara, my housekeeper, may need you to help occasionally in the house. Will that be satisfactory?’ There was tiredness in her tone now, and an air of dismissal accompanied the words.
‘I shall be glad to help, Miss Moore. And thank you.’ He rose. ‘I shall not shake your hand, as that might cause pain.’
‘Ask Mrs O’Gara to come in, will you?’ said Katherine. ‘Tell her I need one of the blue pills, Mr Smythe. I have enjoyed our conversation. Goodbye.’
He left her, found Magsy in the kitchen, told her about the blue pill. ‘She suffers greatly,’ he said.
‘I know. But she is trying, Mr Smythe, is making an effort to move.’
‘You and Rachel have given her reasons to live. And, speaking of living, I am to have the summer house. It was a royal edict from the one who must be obeyed.’
Magsy laughed, picked up a bottle of pills. ‘She is not bad, you know. Yes, the pain is awful and yes, her father treated her abominably – that is the main reason for her bitterness. But you know what she has done for my daughter?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘She is manipulative, insensitive, sometimes cruel. But underneath, there is a gold side to her. Sometimes, I find myself almost liking her. Hers has not been an easy life. She has no-one of her own, but she has chosen me, my daughter, Rachel and you to be a sort of substitute family.’
‘Then she is privileged,’ he laughed, ‘since most of us are given a family and have no choice in the matter.’
He left the house and stood in the garden that was his own creation. Lawn, flower beds, herb patch, raspberries, lettuces, radish, rhubarb – all of these were his own work.
Yes, it was time to settle down. The summer house was probably the nearest he would come to true domesticity. He was home. And he had to go now, because Dot would be waiting to hear the tale.
Seventeen
The small room was cream, a colour more peaceful than white. White could be stark, too bright for new ears. Oh, what was she thinking of? Were her senses so welded together that sound would for ever be coloured? But at least the fear was receding, while those terrible nightmares were now consigned to her past.
She wore pads over her ears, was protected as well as possible from the bustle of this very busy hospital. She had been suffering from hysteric deafness. No-one had come across an hysteric deafness that had spanned so many years, so Nellie was an object of kindly interest. Her doctor was a warm-hearted man, one who treated people with illnesses of the brain. Nellie, who needed no surgery, who fitted no set of particular symptoms, was being treated for her reaction to restored hearing.
So that little child, the one who had rested her chin on tables, who had been too short to look inside a horse trough, had gone deaf because of shock. Her subconscious mind had chosen to go deaf. Dr Christian, a gentle man whose character suited his name, had guided her through a process that had taken many weeks. She had been witness to her own mother’s death, had heard the screams of the dying, the cry of the newborn. And her brain had simply closed down the hearing department, had decided not to leave little Nellie open to any similar shocks.
When Sal Higgins had given birth, the sight of blood had triggered something in the depths of Nellie Hulme’s head. The first sound she had heard had been the cry of Sal’s baby son. Redness had swamped Nellie, had drawn her back to that other time, to the death and the birth she had witnessed in infancy.
Some noises got through lint and cotton wool. There was the clanking of the cleaners’ buckets, loud laughter, the clatter of the dinner trolleys. But it didn’t matter any more. Nellie no longer shrank into herself when sounds reached her – she was even beginning to use her newfound ability, was learning to foretell the progress of life outside her little room. Hearing might even be useful once she got the hang of it. Speech – ah – that was a different matter, a whole new dimension.
Every few days, another layer was removed from the padding. Noise soaked through more easily each time the protection was lessened. Soon, she would have to face the pain and the joy of hearing, would be taken outside by Lily and the boys, would re-enter the land of the truly alive.
Dr Christian came into the room, mouthing, ‘Hello, Nellie,’ as soon as he had her attention.
‘Speak,’ she said. Talking was funny. She had discovered her vocal chords while sobbing, was having trouble getting them under control. Dr Christian had told her not to worry about that, had explained that she heard herself from inside her head as well as from the outside. She would learn, he said firmly.
‘Ah, so you wish to hear my dulcet tones?’ he asked, smiling broadly. ‘Carry on reading my lips, Nellie. Separating sounds comes much, much later. Every voice is different. Soon, you will know who is coming long before you set eyes on them.’
‘All right,’ Oh, God, would she ever be normal?
He sat beside her, moving a pile of books and some knitting from this second chair. ‘Nellie?’ He made sure that she was looking at him. ‘Today, we uncover your ears and take out the earplugs. And I have a treat for you. Are you ready for this?’
She nodded.
‘Say yes.’
She said a bright blue ‘yes’, rather sharp, jagged.
He made a beckoning motion towards the door. Nellie turned to see that it was half open, that a nurse stood there with a large object in her hands. It was a gramophone. Nellie had read about those, knew that they produced music and that some music was judged to be beautiful.
The nurse placed the item on a table, then removed Nellie’s bandages. ‘Hello,’ she said to the new ears.
‘Hello,’ answered Nellie, the tone still sharp blue.
The girl walked to the table, her footfalls softened by crepe-soled shoes.
‘Music?’ Nellie asked.
‘Better than that,’ answered the doctor.
The room was suddenly filled with Nellie’s dream, the good part, the best and blessed part. Birds. She closed her eyes, but fat, heavy teardrops pushed their stubborn way under tight lids and down her face. Mother sewing, Father smoking a cigar. The trees were high and so green, waving, moving gently against a sky of brightest blue. Horse trough, kitchen table too tall, standing on tiptoes, hands grasping a chair. Oh, dear God, who was she?
They twittered and warbled, chirruped and cheeped, these little creatures who were taken for granted by the hearing population. Nellie felt as if she were floating, as if she had been lifted physically out of the room and into a time that was neither past nor present; she was visiting eternity.
The record stopped and she opened her eyes. ‘Birds,’ she said, dashing the tears from her cheeks.
‘Birds,’ he repeated.
&nb
sp; She copied his voice until her own was a reasonable facsimile.
The doctor nodded towards the nurse. ‘Music now, Nellie. Written by a man who went deaf. He wrote it but could not hear it towards the end of his life. He was the other way round, Nellie, lost his hearing and could not find it again.’
‘Sad,’ she said.
He found himself almost envying Nellie, because she would hear the sixth symphony for the very first time. Would she know rhythm? Would she enjoy the form, the patterns created by this great master? How would she feel?
At first, it was just noise, just another new thing, a series of golden, pain-free sounds that rose and dropped like a bright waterfall. She looked from doctor to nurse, wondered what she was supposed to be feeling. So she closed her eyes, forbade distractions. And it simply entered her, became one with her blood, with her cells, with her very foundation.
‘It had to be Beethoven,’ he mouthed to the nurse. Mozart would not have been right, too many fiddly and twiddly bits, not enough flame. And so it was that this young doctor had the privilege of watching a very old lady as she fell in love with one of mankind’s greatest products. The only trouble with Beethoven was that he had not lived for ever, that he had not written more before silence and death had claimed him.
The three of them sat through the movements, doctor and patient on chairs, nurse perched on the bed. The two professionals watched as Nellie’s hand came up to her mouth, knew that her pores had opened to receive all the power and beauty of this huge maestro. To hell with medicine, Dr Christian thought – not for the first time. In this case, beauty was the cure.
It ended. Nellie opened her eyes in a different world.
‘How was it?’ the doctor asked.
And she responded in the only way she knew, with the words that described perfectly what she had just heard. ‘It was a rainbow,’ she replied, the syllables distorted by creaky vocal chords.
And the nurse wept.
Saturday's Child Page 24
