A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  Minutes passed, filled only by the loud ticking of the mantel clock. During those minutes, Annie, knowing that her mother’s life had been dictated rather than chosen, concluded that some things simply cannot be dealt with by the human mind, that sensibility and reason can and sometimes must be poles apart. And during those minutes, Annie matured. She realized that even if Nancy had suspected, then her conscious mind could not have allowed such thoughts to filter through.

  If anyone should ever ask Annie where she grew up, she would say ‘In a living room in front of a range listening to a noisy clock.’ It would be the truth.

  Well, this was a pretty kettle and no mistake. Dolly Nelson opened her legs to the fire, heedless of the dark purple mottling on her shins, marks she had acquired over years by sitting too close to the heat. She couldn’t even tell him! Three months gone and not a penny to her name – oh aye, he’d told her it was a chance in a million, him fathering a kid. But it was his alright. No use saying it was Eric’s – she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him for nigh on a year, he was in a steelworks in Sheffield, never even wrote, just stuck a few quid in an envelope now and again for the kids. Eeh God, what a pickle.

  She shifted her bulk and leaned over to roll her stockings down. And she missed Eddie, she really did. He’d never had a lot to say, but he’d kept her company and given her plenty of the other. But he’d given her something else, something she hadn’t bargained for. Oh she was regular enough, but she never thought she’d catch, not now when she was but eighteen months short of forty. Mind you, given that she could still have a kid and that Eddie had a chance in a million, was it any wonder? Hammer and tongs they’d been at it, months on end, couldn’t leave it alone.

  Well, he’d have to be told and that was for sure. He was going to leave Nancy anyroad, so what difference? He could move in here when he got better, same as he would have if he’d stayed well. But it was going to take guts, going up to that place and telling him. If she was any good at writing and such, she could do a letter. Oh heck. She’d have to go up to the hospital, there was nowt else for it. You couldn’t say it right in a letter. Face to face, she could tell him she wanted him – and his kid and all. Not that that was strictly true – four was enough for anybody. But he’d never had a kid, not one of his own. It might cheer him up if he knew she had one in the oven.

  Aye, she’d kept a watch on Nancy so she could work out visiting times. Nancy had been going of a Monday on the bus and a Thursday with the doctor in his car. Right. She’d go tomorrow, Friday night. He’d get right enough once he knew he’d something to get better for, something a bit more lively than that dried-up stick he’d married. What Eddie needed now was a real woman, one who knew how to go about catering for his needs proper, somebody who enjoyed a glass of stout and a bit of slap and tickle.

  She dozed, her slack mouth twitching while she dreamed of herself and Eddie down the registry all dressed up for the occasion. Her eyes flew open as something quickened in her belly. No. She settled back. It was likely wind after that pork pie. Aye, she’d tell him tomorrow. It would all come out right in the end.

  7

  The Rape

  He was going round the bend, he knew that for sure. There were four of them in the room, if you could call it a room – one wall missing half the bloody day and most of the night too. It reminded him of the other place where he’d gone crazy the first time, only then he’d been too weak from lack of nourishment to shout about it. This time he was getting fed and he sometimes had the strength to scream if he had a mind to.

  Nights were the worst, because then he would dream about that prison camp, could smell the stink of vomit and dysentery all around him. He would wake moaning and shouting and nurses would run to his bed, rub him down, change the sheets, trying all the while to comfort him with their stupid talk. What the hell did bloody nurses know anyway? They’d somewhere to go after the shift, this was just a job to them. What did they know about being a prisoner? Because that was what he was, oh aye, he was in prison alright – even if there was a wall missing. They might just as well take his photo and stamp a number over it for all the chance he had of getting out of here – and there’d be no time off for good behaviour. He knew whose fault it was. The flaming Jerries had done this to him, hadn’t they? God, and he used to think he’d had an easy war sitting it out and waiting for the end.

  The other three patients had given up on him. Oh they’d tried the first few days, tipping him off about which nurses would sneak your fags in, where to hide them, how to grab a crafty smoke in the bog or by the window while the nurses were changing shifts. But they’d got the message in the end. They left him alone now and that was how he wanted it.

  Nancy came in twice a week to cheer him up. And she did look cheerful and all, better than she’d looked for years, the bitch. It suited her alright, having him locked up with TB. Dolly had faded into the distance, it seemed years since he’d seen her. She wouldn’t want him now anyway, not with this rotten disease. And he had his eye elsewhere, didn’t he? Not all the nurses were male and that little blonde on nights would do for him if he could just get her on her own. Aye, she reminded him of somebody, did that one. She’d be due on about now, happen he’d have a wander down to the kitchen for his cocoa in a bit. He looked at the other three, all chatting about their families and swapping magazines that their visitors had brought in.

  He got up, slipped into his dressing gown and went out into the corridor. Light streamed from the kitchen at the far end – aye, she’d be in there now with the drinks on a trolley. He’d go and have a look at her – looking cost nothing, did it?

  She turned from the sink as he entered the kitchen. By the hell, she was a bonny piece, blonde hair, blue eyes, good legs. The buttons fair strained over the top half of her body where the uniform clung so tightly that little imagination was needed to visualize what was underneath. And nurses were supposed to be fair game, weren’t they?

  ‘Hello, Mr Higson. Has your wife been in to see you tonight?’

  ‘Aye, she came in for an hour.’

  ‘Good. Here’s your cocoa.’

  He sat on the edge of the table, his eyes fixed on her round ripeness. He itched to touch her, felt his body stirring in readiness. She handed him the drink and he reached out past the mug, his fingers closing over a warm soft breast.

  ‘Now stop that, Mr Higson.’ She sounded cool, as if she was used to it, not a bit put out or frightened.

  ‘I just want a little feel, that’s all.’

  She slapped his hand away with the air of one brushing off a troublesome bluebottle. ‘Come on now. Drink your cocoa and pop back into bed like a good boy . . .’

  Suddenly he was filled with a blinding rage. Be a good boy, do as you’re told – who did she think she was? She reminded him of . . . yes, that snooty she-devil at home, that runt with the high-falutin voice and the big ideas. He felt strange and dizzy. The room began to recede, everything seemed to be turning dark red around the edges. He grabbed her, turned her round so that her back was towards him and clamped a hand tightly over her mouth. He didn’t hear the cup as it clattered to the floor, because by then he was in another time, another place and there was no knife under the mattress. He would show her now. She’d have to be punished for the knife and the poker too. Oh yes, now was his chance to teach her, to use her for the one thing women were fit for.

  She was beginning to struggle, but they usually did, didn’t they? They were good at that, pretending they didn’t want it, didn’t enjoy it. Well, she was going to get it at last. He’d give it to her good and proper, make her pay, make them all pay.

  He dragged her down and straddled her, punching her hard on the jaw when she opened her mouth to scream. Grinning lewdly into Annie’s face, he fastened his fingers round the throat and squeezed until the girl went limp. Quickly, he did what he had to do, ripping into her swiftly, his excitement mounting as she regained consciousness. ‘Aye, I’ve got you,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Whe
re’s your knife now, eh? I told you it would be me, I told you I’d get you first.’ He slowed his frantic movements and tore open the top of her uniform, pulling away the underwear to expose her upper body.

  He was panting hard, ailing lungs struggling for the oxygen he needed to complete his task. He clawed at her trembling flesh, then sank his teeth into a nipple until he tasted blood. There was no end to it, no end. He could go on all night, he knew he could. Feverishly, he thrust deeper, his body slapping against her thighs. Annie Byrne was his, finally his. No matter who had her in the future, she’d never forget this, never, never. He felt power, real power rising in him, driving him on to hurt, hurt this girl, the one he’d prepared, the one who was a woman now. It was so good, just a hair’s-breadth from pain when he finally exploded in an orgasm that went on and on until he had emptied himself into this female vessel. When at last he slumped over her, his tortured lungs rasping, he felt a momentary satisfaction he had never known before, as if he had won a prize or killed an enemy.

  Then they came in looking for their cocoa, another nurse with them. For a second or two he felt confused as he looked at the girl on the floor. The face was wrong. It was bloody and bruised, but he could still tell that it wasn’t . . . Before he could begin to think straight, he was dragged to his feet and out of the room. A man was crying, the stupid bastard, crying like a kid. What for? He’d only had a woman – she’d live, wouldn’t she? He’d only done what every man wanted to do.

  They carried him up the corridor and threw him into a bathroom. Four of them came in with him, bolted the door, then laid into him. They weren’t supposed to be strong, TB patients, but they found the energy from somewhere.

  The beating was so brutal that when the staff eventually broke down the door, it took them a while to work out which was the victim. The five of them lay on the floor covered in blood. Eddie Higson’s blood. Four stood up and stumbled away. The fifth didn’t move.

  They sat at the table with the green check cloth, Annie, Nancy and Dr Pritchard. Nancy was numb with shock while Annie sat pale and still, whitened fingertips gripping the edge of the table. David Pritchard felt as if his heart would break for these two women. Yes, she was a woman now, was little Annie. What he’d just told the pair of them was enough to make her grow up.

  ‘What will happen now?’ she was asking.

  ‘Well – he’s heavily sedated and he’s being given some fairly intensive care. He won’t be charged until he recovers consciousness. When he did come round last night after the . . . er . . . fight with the other patients, he was obviously unaware of where he was.’

  Nancy lifted a shaking hand to her brow. ‘But why would he attack a nurse? He’s not a violent man . . .’ She looked quickly at her daughter. ‘He used to hit Annie, but he hasn’t for a long time – has he, love?’

  ‘No. No, he hasn’t.’

  ‘I think you should leave the room for a few minutes, Anne,’ said David quietly. ‘I have to talk to your mother in private.’

  After a glance at each of them, Annie left the room without question.

  ‘She’s a good girl, Nancy.’

  ‘Aye, I know, I know.’

  David reached two cups from the sideboard then, after taking a bottle from his bag, poured a hefty measure of brandy into each one. She was going to need it once she’d heard what he must say. And he’d need it too, because he was about to break every rule in his book. He drank deeply while Nancy sipped at the burning liquid, coughing as it caught her throat.

  ‘Drink a bit more, Nancy. It’ll take the edge off things.’

  She obeyed, welcoming the warmth as it flooded into her, soothing jagged nerves, taking the stiffness out of her hands.

  He refilled the cups. ‘Right.’ He breathed deeply. ‘Eddie was found by four patients in the kitchen of the sanatorium. The nurse – a female – was unconscious on the floor. They took him away and gave him a beating – he’s lucky to be alive.’ He watched Nancy’s eyes as questions began to arrive in their grey depths. ‘She’d been raped,’ he finished, almost in a whisper.

  ‘Raped?’ Her jaw dropped. ‘Raped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By . . . Eddie?’

  ‘He was the only other person in the room, Nancy. And . . . well . . . his pyjama trousers were disarranged. There’s no doubt in my mind that he did it.’

  She remained very still, eyes fixed on him, mouth still slightly agape.

  ‘There are witnesses, Nancy – people who will testify . . .’

  ‘No! No, I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it!’

  He could make her believe it, he knew he could. But how would she take the rest of it? Would she even choose to disbelieve the awful truth which he must, he felt sure, tell her now on this night before it was too late, before she started to become defensive of Eddie Higson, before she could consider ever allowing him back into her life? And into Anne’s life too.

  ‘He’s a very sick man, Nancy. Some experts in tuberculosis believe that many sufferers display certain symptoms and that one of these can be a heightened libido. That means they want – they need – a lot of sex.’

  ‘But that’s not normal. Rape, I mean. It’s not normal.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why did he do it?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. He must be very ill indeed – and not just physically ill.’

  With trembling fingers she picked up the cup and helped herself to some more brandy. ‘Doctor – you mean he’s mental, don’t you?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  She gulped the drink in two swallows, catching her breath as it seared past her throat.

  ‘You’re going to have to be very strong now, Nancy. What you said before – about rape not being normal – you were right, of course. Your husband’s behaviour has been . . . odd for some time.’

  The brandy was beginning to take effect and Nancy stared at the wall behind the doctor’s head, speaking, it seemed, to herself.

  ‘She never liked him. My little Annie – she used to say “He’s a bad man, he’s a bad man.”’

  ‘Children are quick to spot oddities. You know the saying – out of the mouths of babes – well, Nancy, Anne was right. And she should know better than anybody else.’

  ‘She was so funny.’ Nancy sighed. ‘Begged me not to marry him, she did, but you do what you think’s best, don’t you? I’ll never forget the day we . . .’

  ‘Nancy! Listen to me now, my dear.’ He moved his chair closer to the table and took her hands in his. ‘You know I care a great deal for your daughter. Well, I may hurt her very deeply by what I am about to do, but it must be done, I’m afraid. You see, it’s up to you now – you must protect her.’

  ‘Protect her? What from?’

  ‘From him, Nancy. I promised that I would never mention this to you. I’m even violating a patient’s confidence – breaking an oath, I suppose. But I care more for you and for that girl out there than I do for my job. A lot more.’

  Nancy stared at him for a long time before speaking. What was he saying? What did he know about Eddie and why did Annie need protection? Somewhere at the back of her mind, a warning bell sounded, dull, far away, yet menacing. No, it couldn’t be! None of this was true, none of it real. He’d had a reputation at one time, had Eddie. It was likely something from his army days, kept on file, passed down from one doctor to another. He couldn’t be a rapist. Annie was safe – she’d always been safe . . .

  David read her confusion and tightened his grip on her hands. ‘He didn’t manage it the last time, Nancy. She coped extremely well. He has the scars on his arm to prove that.’

  He watched her face closely, waiting for the impact. At first, she simply looked puzzled, then a dim light invaded her eyes and her cheeks showed twin spots of colour as she suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘You mean . . . oh no . . . it can’t be, it mustn’t be . . .’ She nodded her head towards the door.

  ‘Yes. Yes, Nancy.’

  The noise th
at came from her then was unearthly, something between a howl and a scream, a sound that David had certainly never heard before. She began to rock back and forth, her face nearly hitting the table, the chair almost tumbling backwards each time as she pulled at his hands. ‘No! Aw no, Doctor. Not that – tell me it’s not true!’ It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be. ‘Not my Annie! No, no, please – not my little girl . . .’

  He gritted his teeth and hung grimly onto her hands. She continued to rock violently, putting him in mind of certified cases he’d witnessed long ago during his training. Dear God, had he gone too far? Oh he didn’t care about himself and some outdated bloody oath – they could shove the practice, but what had he done to this little woman? He should have waited. If only she would cry, she had to cry.

  The tears came at last in floods, torrents pouring from her eyes and nose, while from her wide open mouth she howled her primeval misery.

  When Annie ran into the room she found them both standing by the sideboard clinging to one another. Seeing Dr Pritchard crying was a terrible thing. He didn’t make a sound, his face was still as a stone; the only movement on it was made by tears as they ran down, dripping unheeded into Nancy’s hair. Annie didn’t need telling – she knew what had brought this on. Her eyes met David’s and found confirmation there.

  Nancy turned and opened her arms to her daughter. The three of them wept together, clung together for comfort, each feeling glad that the others were there, that something was over and finished with forever. Annie, her face buried in David’s rough tweed jacket, breathed in the medicine and peppermint smell of her saviour, her heart almost bursting with gratitude. Her mother would not, could not grieve forever. As if chains were being tossed aside, she felt her first sense of imminent freedom. Soon, very soon, when Nancy could come to terms with this new shock, mother and daughter could begin, at last, to live.

  They were alone now. Nancy had managed to stir herself sufficiently to make a pot of tea and they sat, one each side of the grate, cups balanced on the full-width fireguard. Inch by inch, she had dragged most of the story out of her daughter, her lips tightening into a hard straight line as she listened to the horror of Ensign Street, the nightmare of her present home, the indignities Annie had suffered in this very house, in the bathroom so treasured till now, till all this . . .