The Silent Lady

by Catherine Cookson

  How long it took her to reach the hospital she didn’t know, she had twice lost her way; once she actually stopped and, opening her mouth, she forced herself to speak to a woman, saying, ‘Royal Lon-don hos-pital.’ And the woman, obviously puzzled by the weird-looking creature, pointed, saying, ‘Along the main road there. Then two streets . . . no, three. Somebody will show you the way after that, but keep to the main road here.’

  Irene nodded her thanks, then walked on.

  However, when she reached the hospital she was neither amazed nor distressed by the bustle of people around her she seemed to have been here before – but a number of times she was pushed aside or jumped at the sound of an ambulance or a car horn, before a porter who was helping someone into a car banged the door closed and, in standing back, nearly fell over her.

  He was about to say, ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ when he stopped and surveyed her. She was coughing desperately and he said now, kindly, ‘You want the Outpatients?’

  She did not answer him, but he said, ‘Well, come along this way.’

  He led her to a door and into a kind of hallway, and at the reception desk he said, ‘She’s wandering about; I think she’s looking for Outpatients. She’s got a bark on her like a dog.’

  Exhausted, Irene leant on her forearms on the desk and brought out the word, ‘Doc-tor Bain-dor.’

  At the desk two girls were attending to phones that seemed never to stop ringing, and the receptionist said to her, ‘Dr Baindor?’ Then she said, ‘You want Outpatients.’

  At this Irene shook her head and repeated, ‘Bain-dor.’

  The girl stared at the weirdly dressed individual: she was definitely a vagrant of some sort, but she wanted Dr Baindor.

  She pressed a button at the side of her desk, and to the woman who came to the counter she said, ‘This one wants Dr Baindor; she doesn’t want Outpatients.’

  The newcomer leant forward on the desk and surveyed the dirty-coated, weird-hatted individual. She looked at the deathly white face, and then Irene again put her head back and brought out the word, ‘Baindor.’

  ‘Get ward six,’ the woman said; ‘and find if he’s on duty.’

  Irene stood waiting. She heard the receptionist speaking on the phone and she heard part of what she said; one of the words was ‘weird’ another was ‘insists’. Then the woman was nodding into the phone; and after she had put it down she came to the desk and said, ‘Dr Baindor has gone off duty for the weekend; he won’t be back until Monday.’

  Irene looked at her for a long time, then slowly she turned, tottered out of the hall and made for the entrance. Outside, she was confused. There were so many cars, so many ambulances, so many people. She walked down a side-road, but before she reached the end of it she knew that she was going to fall. She looked about her: by the kerb was a large wooden box, as if someone had just delivered it or put it there to be picked up. She dropped on to it and sat with her head bowed and her hands in her lap. What was she to do? She couldn’t wait here until Monday and she couldn’t walk back to Bella’s; she didn’t know the way. But she had money, she could get a taxi.

  At the sound of laughter, her head lifted. Three men had turned the corner into this side-road and were coming towards her; and at the sight of them her whole body seemed to leap into the air: the man in the middle, yes, the man in the middle, that was Richard! He looked like her father; he had her father’s features and his mouth. This she had always said and been so proud that it was so.

  She wasn’t aware of jumping up and of approaching the men, or that they had stopped and one was saying, ‘What now? Look at this!’

  What she did, and to all their surprise, was grip the wrist of the man in the middle, who, now more surprised than the rest, said, ‘What is it? You want Outpatients?’

  She stared into his face. It was Richard. He was just like her father.

  A man to the side of her said under his breath, ‘She’s a nut. She’s begging.’

  She turned towards the man, and such was the look she gave him that he stepped back; and now opening her mouth wide, she brought out, ‘Rich.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said the man. ‘She’s begging. She says you’re rich; she’s heard about you.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said the man in the middle.

  But the man on the other side had put his hand in his pocket and was handing her a shilling. She looked at it, then slapped the back of his hand so hard that the coin went spurting into the air, bounced on the ground and rolled into the gutter.

  The man in the middle said, ‘She’s . . . she’s not after money. She’s in trouble of some sort. Sit down,’ he said, and, his wrist still held tight, he led her back to the box. As she started to cough again he said, ‘Oh, my goodness! You must get to Outpatients. They’ll see to you there.’

  She shook her head, and the talkative man now put in, ‘It’s you she’s after. You do this to the women.’

  ‘Shut up, Alex! For God’s sake, shut up!’

  This was Richard; he looked like her father. Her father was never handsome like him but the features were the same.

  The young man now loosened her fingers from his wrist, saying, ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a car waiting, but my friend here’ – he now pointed to the other man – ‘my friend here will take you to Outpatients.’

  He backed away from her; then, turning to the man called Alex, he said, ‘See to her, will you, Alex? That chest is bad, very bad.’

  Alex. Help. Alex helped. He helped her father. Alexander? Yes, Alexander. For the moment she saw the dreadful face hovering over her; then in its place came another, a nice face. Alexander. Armstrong. Her head went back and she said the word aloud, ‘Armstrong.’

  The kindly man said, ‘You want to see Mr Armstrong?’

  She shook her head. Then in a flash it came to her, Alexander Armstrong. He was a solicitor. He came to the house, the great house. Alexander Armstrong the solicitor. Beverley Square. She had been to Beverley Square. The young man bent over now and said, ‘Come along, my dear. Come along; you can’t sit here all day. And that box will soon have to be moved.’

  She looked up at him and said one word, ‘Taxi.’

  ‘Taxi?’

  She nodded, then put her hand inside her coat and brought out some silver and showed it on the palm of her hand.

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean, my dear, you can pay for a taxi. Do you know where you want to go?’

  She put her head back, then tried to bring out Beverley but couldn’t. Suddenly he said, ‘Could you write it?’

  She nodded, and he brought from his inner pocket a small book with a pencil. It was an address book, and turning to a plain page, he said, ‘There. Write it there.’ And so, in large letters that almost covered the small sheet, she wrote ‘Beverley Square. Armstrong, Solicitor.’

  After reading it he did not say anything for a moment; then he repeated to her, ‘You want to go to Beverley Square and a solicitor there called Armstrong?’ She bowed her head deeply, and he said, ‘Come along. I’ll get you a taxi.’

  When he stopped a taxi, he opened the back door, then said to the cabby, ‘This lady wants to be dropped at Beverley Square near the office of a solicitor called Armstrong. Will you do that?’

  The cabby looked from him back to his passenger, and he muttered, ‘That’s what I’m here for, sir.’

  ‘She has enough money to pay you, so don’t worry.’

  About ten minutes later the taxi entered the square and cruised slowly, until it stopped opposite a flight of steps at the top of which was a large brass plate with, imprinted on it, Alexander Armstrong and Son, Solicitors.

  He got out and opened the door for her, and again from her pocket she brought a palm full of half-crowns. Being a moderate man, he took only what was his due, one halfcrown, and when she nodded to him, he said, ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ and watched her stagger up the steps and into the remainder of her life.

  PART THREE

  1955

  1


  She lay, as it were, between two worlds. One in which soft voices spoke to her as they dripped food into her mouth and washed her body. That was a nice feeling. Why had she ever been afraid of her body? But had she been afraid of it? Oh, yes; she had in that other world that kept coming and going. She was still afraid of her body, and of hands going over it. Nails digging into her. Leather straps striking her. But these hands were as soft as the words that were spoken. The voices talked above her head as if she couldn’t comprehend. She could, though; she had always been able to comprehend, hadn’t she, even in the other world? She mustn’t try to bring back that world because in this present one were Mr Armstrong and Glenda. Oh, yes, Glenda. Glenda had put her on the train, but she hadn’t told her about the other world. And her son. Her son was coming. Glenda had promised her that. And he was grown-up. He was more than four. She closed her eyes tightly. Of course he is, she said to herself, in a very strange voice that seemed to come from the past. Don’t be silly. He is a doctor. You’ve held his hand. But Alex has promised to bring him back and we will have dinner together.

  Will Mrs Atkins be there to serve it? Mr and Mrs Atkins knew a lot of what was going on, and she was so kind, she wasn’t like an ordinary housekeeper. And Trip knew too. Oh, he knew what was going on. He hadn’t been a butler to father and son for nothing. He and Mrs Atkins talked. They talked about her, but kindly. They knew what she was going through, especially Trip. He was the only one who slept in the main house, and he must have heard her at night.

  There it was again, the face! Oh, no! She didn’t want to see it. She was in this soft, soft bed. They were washing her body, or they had washed her body. Yes, they had and she was resting. But why? Why had he to come again? He was haunting her. She heard her voice yelling, yelling, ‘Don’t! Don’t! You filthy swine! I am not an animal. I hate you! I hate you!’ Then the lifting up and the throwing of her body here and there. And now she was in that last night when she knew it was the end. She had planned to escape and she was going to escape or she would die under his hands. And he was shaking her as she yelled at him, ‘You are worse than any animal. You are a filthy pervert!’ Yes, she had yelled at him; and that was when he shook her until her brains seemed to rattle in her head. She could feel them, and his voice must have vibrated through the house when he said, ‘Don’t you ever dare speak again.’ Then there was more shaking, and, his voice deeper, louder, more terrible, now screaming, ‘Don’t you ever dare open your mouth again!’

  She couldn’t remember how those words finished, only that they put a stamp on her mind. She must never speak again. Never, never, never. He had screamed that at her, and he had beaten her body back and forward on to the bed, his great hands lifting her shoulders, then throwing her back; and then he had done what he usually did, and she could fight no more.

  But there was one hope. The escape was planned. Mr Cox, dear Mr Cox, whom that devil had sacked just because he played the piano for her. Cox had taken the money, more than a thousand pounds. She had saved this over the years, not spending her lavish allowance, and now he had booked a passage on a liner and she and Richard were going to America where Timothy was. Timothy was her very dear childhood friend. He was married, oh, yes, but that wouldn’t matter. He would hide her somewhere, because her husband would have her followed. But it was all arranged. She only wished she could tell dear Alex. But Trip knew, at least she thought Trip knew. But Freda McArthur could be trusted because she, too, knew what went on at night and how she suffered, because she had helped to bathe her on many a morning, when the tears had run down her face. And she would have helped her anyway, because Freda was in love with Mr Cox and, she knew, she was going to leave soon and they were to be married. It was all planned. They were just waiting for his next trip abroad, and it had come. She had been so full of joy that she wanted to please Alex and sing at his concert. And how she had enjoyed that. Oh, it was in defiance, because he would never let her sing; never mind stand on a platform. The beast, the horrible filthy beast of a man. And then she hadn’t time to think about the plan of going to America to see Timothy, because there he was and she was in his arms, and then the world broke up: there was nothing but screams and blows and terror and the voice yelling again, ‘Don’t you dare speak!’ She had tried to explain the surprise visit but the voice had bawled her down. Then a great weight had come on her head and she had fallen into another world; and there she had remained until now.

  And the old world was on her again and she screamed out, ‘I hate you! I loathe you! You dirty, dirty . . .’

  She knew her voice had trailed away.

  The prick in her arm brought her back into the softness of the bed, and there were voices all around her, some saying, ‘Dreadful. Poor creature.’ Who were they talking about? It didn’t matter, she was going to sleep.

  2

  ‘I can’t do this on my own, Father. I just can’t. You’ll have to talk to him.’

  Alexander sighed and lay back in his chair. Then he said, ‘Shall we have him here?’

  ‘No,’ James said. ‘I don’t think this is the place to break such a story. I think it should be at Glenda’s, where he’ll be able to see her clothes and the rags and tatters she must have worn under that dreadful coat. Dear Lord! Well, you’d better get on the phone and invite him to hear the change that’s going to take place in his life. Where d’you think he’ll be?’

  ‘Back in the hospital,’ said Alexander. ‘But it’s Monday and they’ll all be on different times. I’m certainly not going to ring his home; for if he shouldn’t be in I’d be put through to his father, and the thought of that man makes my gall rise.’

  He picked up the phone but didn’t, as would have been usual, ask his secretary to get him the number, but dialled the hospital himself.

  He was told he would be put through to Dr Baindor’s ward, where a curt voice said, ‘Yes, Dr Baindor is on duty, but he’s busy.’ Alexander almost shouted, ‘Well, please will you tell him wherever he is that Mr Alexander Armstrong wishes to speak to him on a very important matter, and now!’

  There was silence, and when he glanced across the table at his son, he saw that he had covered his ear with one hand. James said softly, ‘They’re probably too frightened to bother the great man if he’s on a ward round.’

  Alexander turned quickly to the phone, saying, ‘Hello there! Is that you, Richard?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it’s me. And what a way to send a message. You are a bully of a man, you know. What is it now?’

  ‘Richard, when will you be off duty?’

  ‘In half an hour’s time.’

  ‘Well, I would ask you, in fact I would tell you, that you must come straight to the nursing home where James and I will be waiting for you. There is a patient here you must see.

  ‘A patient in the nursing home? But, Alex, what have I to do—’

  ‘Be quiet! Just listen to what I say. This is most important.’

  ‘Something to do with me?’

  ‘Everything to do with you.’

  ‘Concerning my father?’

  It was almost a yell into the phone, ‘Yes, concerning your father! Now don’t ask any more; and, please, don’t phone home and tell them where you’re going. We’ll expect you . . . well, within the next hour. Now get here, Richard, as quickly as you can.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line for a moment; then came the words, ‘As you say, Alex. As you say.’

  They were in Glenda’s sitting room, Alexander in an easy chair and James at the end of the couch. Glenda was standing by the sofa table, and her fingers were beating on it as if keeping time to something. She was saying, ‘I hope she comes back a little to herself before he arrives, because she’s had an awful turn. I wouldn’t like him to hear her repeat what she was saying. His father must have been quite inhuman. At one point she must have imagined she was in bed with him. Dear God! It was awful. You know what she said?’ Glenda now looked from her brother to her nephew. Then, her head drooping, she said
, ‘“I am not an animal! I won’t be treated like an animal!” And then her body heaved in that strange way again, up and down, up and down, and then she was begging him, actually begging him, not to do something. Then quite suddenly she croaked – in her mind she must have been screaming, you know, like in a dream – but she croaked, “I hate you. You’re worse than any animal. You’re a filthy pervert!” Then her body began to lift from the bed as if she were being pushed back and forward. We had to try to hold her down in case she injured herself. I don’t know where she got the strength, because she’s so frail. And then she was gasping, “Don’t dare speak! But I will! I will!” And then it was as if her body seemed to be lifted in the air and thrown on to her face, because she heaved herself round in Sister’s arms and fell on her face. I had to give her an injection. It’ll be a wonder if she survives this one. This is the first time I’ve seen her in this state.

  ‘Before that, she imagined she was back in the house talking to Mrs Atkins and Trip, and she mentioned Mr Cox, the valet, and was on about something like an escape he had planned for her. Do you remember Cox, the valet?’ She looked at her brother.

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes.’

  ‘And she mentioned her lady’s maid and the nurse. She was talking to the nurse as if she were standing beside the boy’s bed. It was pitiable. Her chest has eased a little but she can’t last much longer. This has taken away the very little energy she’s got left.’

  Her fingers were again beating on the table and she said, ‘What I’d like to know is how Richard’s been kept in ignorance all these years, I mean of what actually took place.’

  ‘Simply because, my dear, his father is a clever man. If you remember, he took him straight away to Italy, and they stayed there for more than two years. The boy was seven or so when he brought him back and put him in that Catholic boardingschool. It was only he who visited him, and immediately the holidays came he was whisked off abroad or away somewhere. He was about twenty when the war ended; but before that he had made up his mind as to what he wanted to be, once he got out of the Army, and he stood his ground against his father for the first time. He was going to be a doctor and, of all things, he chose plastic surgery. This caused such a row that things have never been the same between them since.’