The Iron Gates

by Margaret Millar

  “I can swallow everything whole,” Betty explained proudly to Miss Eustace.

  “Don’t talk to her,” Mary said. “She’s a spy.”

  Smiling and calm Miss Eustace began to talk about her house in the country and what she had for breakfast there and how her tulip tree first blossomed in the spring and when the blossoms fell off the leaves appeared.

  “What color blossoms?” Mary asked, suspiciously. “Pale pink, almost white, really.”

  “That’s very funny about the leaves. I don’t believe it for a minute.”

  “It’s true,” Lucille said suddenly. “I had a tulip tree, too.”

  “I wish I had one,” Betty said.

  Her sister touched her hand. “I’ll buy you one.”

  “You always say that and you never do.”

  “Ungrateful liar.”

  “HI swallow something whole if you call me that.”

  “Oh, Betty, don’t! Darling, please don’t!”

  A maid arrived with orange juice, oatmeal cooked with raisins and a covered dish of eggs on toast.

  Lover-like, the twins quarreled, while Miss Eustace talked about dogs. Collies were nice, and so were cocker spaniels, but she preferred Airedales, really. They were very faithful.

  “Cats are best,” said Mary, unable to resist Miss Eustace’s dangling bait. “We like cats best of all.”

  “Well, cats are nice too,” Miss Eustace agreed. “What do you like best, Mrs. Morrow?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Lucille said. “Dogs, I guess.”

  “Dogs are vicious,” Mary said, and closed her mouth decisively on a piece of toast.

  “Some of them are, of course,” Miss Eustace went on. “It depends mostly on the training and to a certain extent on heredity. I personally have never been able to quite trust a chow, for instance.”

  “I’d rather have a tulip tree,” Betty said.

  Mary leaned over and muttered something in her ear but Betty tossed her head and looked scornful.

  Miss Eustace watched Lucille out of the corner of her eye to see if the scene interested her or upset her. She noted with approval that Lucille had eaten half of her oatmeal, and, though she didn’t talk voluntarily herself, except for the remark about her tulip tree, she seemed to be following the conversation.

  We should have quite a good day, Miss Eustace thought, and felt pleased with herself.

  The twins were fighting again, in low voices but with a great many flashing glances and passionate gestures. Finally Mary retreated into cold silence, and it was then that Miss Eustace saw her pick up her spoon and tuck it carefully into the bun of hair at the back of her head.

  With a furtive glance around the room Mary rose and made for the door. Miss Eustace rose too.

  “We’re not supposed to take spoons out of the dining-room,” she said kindly. “Put it back please.”

  “Spoon?” Mary cried in great surprise. “What spoon?”

  “Put it back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The nurse in charge of the dining room was making her way toward them between the tables. She had the spoon out of Mary’s hair before Mary was aware it was missing.

  “Now, Mary,” she said. “You know better than to do that. This is the second time this week.”

  “I’m running away,” Mary cried. “I’m leaving her flat. She can’t treat me like that and get away with it! I’m running away so she’ll know what it’s like to be left with no one to look after her!”

  “I’ll swallow something,” Betty said calmly, and before anyone could stop her she had removed her ring from her finger and popped it in her mouth. Gulping and gasping she was dragged out of the room and pounded vigorously on the back by the nurse. But it was too late, the ring had already joined the collection of other articles in Betty’s stomach.

  The twins departed in disgrace with Miss Scott.

  “Her insides must be a regular museum,” the dining-room nurse said to Miss Eustace. “I’m going to 'catch it for this.”

  “It wasn’t your fault at all,” Miss Eustace said and returned to the table to finish her breakfast.

  The episode had apparently made no impression on Lucille. She was intent on her toast, breaking it up into small pieces and arranging them symmetrically around the plate.

  She’s being very co-operative, Miss Eustace thought, she’s really trying to eat.

  Aloud she said, “Sugar for your coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  The fat pink sugar bowl was passed. Lucille would not touch it, its flesh was too pink, too perfect. Not real flesh at all, she thought, but she knew it was because she could see it breathing.

  Miss Eustace’s spoon clanged against the grains of sugar. “One or two?”

  “One”

  “There. Stir it up before you drink it. No, dear, stir it up first.”

  She picked up her spoon, dreading the feel of it. Everything was alive, everything hurt. She was hurting the spoon, and though it looked stupid and inert it was hurting her in return, digging into her fingers.

  “Not so hard, Mrs. Morrow.”

  Round the cup the spoon dashed in fury and pain, stirring up the hot muddy waves and all the little alive things. She swallowed them, in triumph because she had won, and in despair, because, swallowed and out of sight, they would take vengeance on her.

  Everything was alive. The floor that hurt your shoes that hurt your feet. The napkin that touched your dress that pressed against your thighs. Pain everywhere.

  No privacy. You could never be alone. You always had to touch things and have them touch you. You had to swallow and be swallowed, have things inside you—alive things . . .

  Her shoulders began to twitch.

  She’s impatient to leave, Miss Eustace thought. A good sign. Usually she just wants to stay where I’ve put her.

  Miss Eustace rose. Callously her feet struck the floor, roughly she folded the napkins.

  “Come along and we’ll get the mail.”

  She put out her hand as if to help Lucille up. Lucille stared at the hand, and a shriek began to rise up inside her, making her throat raw and thick.

  Miss Eustace saw the screaming eyes and began to talk fast and at the same time to coax her with gentle fingers out into the corridor.

  The mail—push—what did she suppose she’d get this morning?—push—you never could tell with mail—parcels were the best, though . . .

  Arm in arm, close, intimate, they strolled down the corridor.

  They stopped at the mail desk. Andrew’s daily box of flowers had arrived, but the incoming mail had not come yet and the girl behind the wicket was looking over the patients’ outgoing mail. She picked up an envelope labeled in red crayon. “Wother.”

  “Look at this,” she said, and passed the letter through the wicket to Miss Eustace. “He writes dozens of them every day.”

  “Wother? What’s that?”

  “He inverts his M’s. He means his mother. I can’t let his letters go out, I have to take them in to Dr. Nathan. They upset his mother terribly because all the boy does is complain.”

  “Hush,” said Miss Eustace with a frown toward Lucille.

  But Lucille hadn’t heard anything. She was standing with her arms tight around the box of flowers. Brutally, the box hugged her breasts, and she embraced the pain.

  “Though I just hate to suppress any letters,” the girl said. “It’s against my principles.”

  “Dear Wother,” Miss Eustace read. “I can’t stand it any longer the inflationary bargains of the state of the world, wother they are cruel to we they hate we and hardly any consequence could eventuate under the status quo of”

  It was not signed but there was a row of X’s at the bottom.

  “Such a pity,” said Miss Eustace, sighing. “I always say, it’s the family that suffers most.” She raised her voice. “Mrs. Morrow, you’re crushing the box. Shall we go back up now or do you want to wait for the mail?”
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  “I don’t know,” Lucille said.

  “Then I suppose we might as well wait. Shall we open the flowers?”

  Lucille’s grasp on the box tightened for an instant and then quite suddenly her fingers relaxed and the box fell on the floor. The lid came off and there was a spill of violets.

  “Oh, the darlings,” said Miss Eustace, picking them up. “Aren’t they grand? Such an earthy smell, somehow.” She nuzzled them while Lucille watched, suffering in silence for the violets, the long-limbed delicate children, too delicate to breathe and so, dead, and blue in the face, giving off the smell of earth, earth-buried coffins.

  The live floor quivered under her feet, the air touched her cheeks and arms, its caress a warning and a threat, and the violets returned to life. They had only been holding their breath like Cora, and their little bruised faces puckered in pain! Oh, I hurt, I hurt, and what have I done? Oh, what have I done?

  So tight and sad did the little faces become that they turned into eyes, damp blue eyes dragging their limp and single legs behind them into the box.

  “Here you are,” Miss Eustace said, passing the box to her. “Why, they’re just the color of your eyes.”

  Lucille felt the sharp corner of the box touch her arm. The pain was so intense and unbearable that she had to reach out and grab the box and thrust the corner of it into her breast like a knife.

  I have died. I am dead.

  She smiled, and clutching the symbol of death, she moved silently and swiftly down the corridor.

  “Mrs. Morrow, wait for me!” Miss Eustace caught up with her, panting. “Well, I declare, I didn’t know you were in that much of a hurry. Were you going somewhere?”

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “I want some fresh air.”

  “Oh, you do?” Miss Eustace said, half-pleased, half-suspicious.

  “I want some fresh air.”

  “Well, let’s wait a bit until the sun gets stronger, then we’ll go out on the roof garden, there’s such a pretty view from there. Wait here a minute and I’ll go back for the mail.”

  Miss Eustace returned to the wicket, moving in a kind of sideways fashion so that she could keep Lucille in sight. Lucille made no attempt to get away from her. She stood, straight and alert, as if she was standing guard over something precious to her.

  Miss Eustace came back. “Here’s a letter for you, dear. Now aren’t you glad we waited?”

  Lucille wouldn’t take the letter so Miss Eustace put it in the pocket of her uniform. So unnatural not to be interested in mail, she thought, and tried again when they reached the room.

  “Here’s your letter. You can read it while I’m doing the chart. Sit down right there. I’ll put the flowers in water.”

  She settled Lucille in a chair and placed the letter on her lap. Then, humming softly, she went into the bathroom and filled a Monel vase with water. She was always excited by mail, other people’s as well as her own. Even the most commonplace observations on the weather were glamorous when sealed and postmarked, with privacy protected by His Majesty, King George VI.

  I wonder who it’s from, she thought, and returned to the room. “Do you want me to read it to you?”

  “I don’t care.”

  Miss Eustace, thrilled, slit the envelope with an efficient thumbnail.

  “It’s signed ‘Edith.’ I always peek at the end of a letter just to see who it’s from. Well, here goes. ‘Dear Lucille: I hope you received the chocolates and pillow rest I sent day before yesterday.’ Well, of course, we did, didn’t we? Those back rests are very comfy. ‘It is very difficult to get chocolates these days, one has to stand in line.’ Wasn’t it silly of you to destroy them when she went to so much trouble to buy them?”

  Lucille turned her head and looked deliberately out of the window. It is very difficult to get poisoned chocolates these days, one has to stand in line.

  “ ‘We all miss you a great deal, though I feel so hopeless saying it because I know you won’t believe it.’ ”

  I feel so hopeless.

  “ ‘Everything is such a mess. The policeman Sands was here again, talking about the train wreck. You remember that afternoon? I don’t know what he was getting at, but whoever did anything to you, Lucille, it wasn’t me, Lucille, it was not me! I don’t know, I can’t figure anything out any more. I have this sick headache nearly all the time and Martin is driving me crazy.’ ”

  “She isn’t very cheerful, is she?” said Miss Eustace in disapproval. “Shall I go on?”

  “Go on.”

  “Very well. ‘They have always seemed like my own children to me, the two of them, and now, I don’t know, I look at them and they’re like strangers. Meals are the worst time. We watch each other. That doesn’t sound like much, but it’s terrible—we watch each other.’ ” Silly woman, thought Miss Eustace, and turned the page.

  “ ‘I know Andrew Wouldn’t like me to be writing a letter like this. But, Lucille, you’re the only one I can talk to now. I feel I’d rather be there with you, I’ve always liked and trusted you.’ ”

  I’ve always loathed and been jealous of you. We watched each other.

  “ ‘Everything is so mixed up. Do you remember the night Giles came and I said, God help me, that we were a happy family? I feel this is a judgment on me for my smugness and wickedness. I don’t know how it will all end.’ ”

  This is a judgment on me for my wickedness. It will all end.

  “That’s all,” said Miss Eustace.

  That is all. It will all end and that is all.

  Miss Eustace returned the letter to its envelope, her movements brisk because she was annoyed. People shouldn’t write problem letters. Letters should be nice and homey and rather dull.

  “Let’s bundle all up and get some nice fresh air, shall we?”

  Lucille didn’t move. She sat, heavy and inert, while Miss Eustace lifted her arms into her coat and tied a scarf around her head and put on her gloves.

  The roof garden glittered in the sun. Snow clung to the high fence, and where the strands of barbed wire ran around the top, there were globules of snow caught on the barbs.

  Slowly Lucille walked over to the fence and put her hand on it. Snow sifted down on her upturned face, touching her eyelids lightly and coldly. She looked down through the fence and saw little people walking, their tracks behind them in the snow the only sign that they were real. So tiny and futile they seemed from a distance, like the skiers in the park.

  Futile, futile, she thought and pressed her forehead hard against the fence, branding her flesh with a diamond.

  “Goodness, I just can’t look down from high places,” Miss Eustace said. “It makes me quite dizzy.”

  She looked down anyway, shivering with cold and dread delight. Then she stepped back, and squinted her eyes against the sun. She breathed deeply because she didn’t get much fresh air in her job and she had to get as much of it as she could when the chance came.

  In—hold—out—hold—in—hold . . .

  Miss Eustace felt glad to be alive.

  Lucille remained pressed against the fence. She did not feel the cold, the pain, the heat of the sun. She was not aware of Miss Eustace behind her. She looked down, her eyes strained. The snow burst into orange flame, the sharp black shadows pointed at her, the smoke curled up at her, the windows stared at her, the wind went past whispering, it will all end.

  In and out Miss Eustace breathed. She was beginning to wheeze a little but when she spoke she sounded triumphant.

  “One hundred. Phew! I didn’t realize just breathing was such hard work. Still, I always say there’s practically nothing the matter with anybody that one hundred deep breaths won’t cure. Shall we walk a bit now?”

  Lucille didn’t answer, but Miss Eustace was feeling too invigorated to care. She strode away, planting her feet firmly, making nice clear tracks in the snow.

  Twenty strides north, twenty strides south, in the rising wind.

  It will a
ll end.

  “If you don’t move around a bit, Mrs. Morrow, you’ll be cold.”

  I will be burned in the snow they are waiting for me it will all end.

  “No, really, you mustn’t take your gloves off, dear, your hands will freeze.”

  She could feel Miss Eustace coming up behind her, but she didn’t hurry with the second glove, she didn’t even look to see what she was doing. She was filled with a great power because for the first time in weeks she knew now what she must do. Miss Eustace, no one, could stop her.

  Her hands clung to the fence like eagle’s claws, and she began to climb. Slowly. There was no hurry. She braced herself by catching the heels of her shoes in the fence holes, and up she climbed, bent double, her coat flapping around her.

  Miss Eustace screamed “Stop!” and caught hold of one of her ankles and pulled. The heel of the other shoe came down viciously on the bridge of her nose and there was a crunch of bone and a spurt of blood. Miss Eustace lurched back screaming and wiping the blood out of her eyes.

  “Come back! Come back!”

  No—no—this is a judgment on me for my wickedness . . .

  The barbed wire tore her hands and her face, but she felt nothing, made no sound. At the top she hoisted herself over, clumsily, but with great strength. Her coat caught on a barb and for a second she hung suspended in the air, a grotesque thing, bleeding and flapping.

  Then the threads of the coat broke and she fell. Her big black shadow slid quietly down the wall of the building.

  Part Three

  THE HOUNDS

  11

  “Mr. Sands?”

  “Yes. Sit down, Miss Morrow.”

  “Mr. Sands, is this the end of it? It must be the end of it. She’s dead now—the inquest is over—she’s going to be buried this afternoon. . . «”

  “Why not sit down?” Sands said and waited while Polly let herself drop into a chair.

  She wore a black dress and a dark fur coat and the brim of her black hat shaded her eyes. She looked thinner than he remembered her, and more vulnerable. She kept her head down when she talked as if she was trying to hide behind her hat.

  “I don’t know why I came here. To get away from the family, I guess, and the smell of those damned flowers. Calla lilies. I feel as if they’re sprouting out of my ears.”