The clock chimed eleven. Her dad crept in, his slippers whispering against the floor, his cotton pyjamas smelling of soap. He poured himself a cup of water out of the tap.
‘How is she?’ Iris said.
‘Sleeping.’ He drank. ‘You’ve upset her, love.’
Iris nodded. More tears fell. ‘I just can’t get through to her, Dad. I don’t want a husband.’
He walked towards her, and his soft fingers brushed her cheek. ‘We’re not all bad, love.’
Of course, she didn’t mean him; she didn’t mean to ridicule the life he had given her mother and her and Alan. She didn’t mean any of it to come out like it had.
‘Give her time. Then a bunch of flowers.’
They laughed quietly.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘It’s all right, love.’ He kissed the top of her head then crept out as carefully as he had come in.
18
1956
Iris concentrated on the sound of her footsteps as she made her way to Kath’s ward. She would not think about Flo, how she had lain shrivelled in the bed, how her hand had finally released its grip; she tried so hard to push the image away. The terrible sound of someone’s last breath, deep and long, a sigh that carries them into somewhere or nowhere. Iris heard that sound now, in the swish of her nylons, in the wind through the windows, in the opening and closing of doors.
‘Iris.’
She stopped. Shirley whirled in front of her, blonde curls wisping across her forehead, her breath coming quickly.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see Kath.’
No recognition passed across Shirley’s face. Instead, a smile pulled at her lips. ‘Are you working this Sunday?’
Iris tried to recall what day it was. Everything had become blurred.
‘Come for a picnic, won’t you? It’s Simon’s birthday, and John thought it would be nice if we went for a drive and stopped along the river.’
‘No.’
‘What? But Simon likes you. It will make his day for you to be there.’
Iris cleared her throat. ‘I don’t like Simon.’
‘Don’t do it for him, then. Do it for me. I don’t want to be all on my own with those two. What would I have to talk about?’
Shirley was brighter than she had been. Her sparkle had returned; the wiggle in her walk was as provocative as ever.
‘You’ll be fine without me.’
‘Please, Iris. John wants you to come. I need you to come.’ Her smile faltered.
A doctor walked past them, staring because of the intensity of their conversation. Shirley flicked her eyes at him, and he fixed his gaze on the floor.
‘Fine.’
Shirley squealed. ‘Thank you! John will be so happy.’ She skipped away, and other nurses smiled at her happiness; some scowled.
‘What time?’ Iris called.
‘Be ready for two.’
Iris and her mum hadn’t spoken since their row. The house was unusually quiet. Whenever Iris entered a room, her mother stopped talking, rammed her knitting needles into a ball of wool, and left. Iris’s dinners had been kept in the range, lukewarm and congealing, but she ate them anyway and washed up her own plate, not wanting to create any more fuss.
The church service was the longest time they’d spent in each other’s company for days. Her dad sat between them, acting as a human barrier, unsure if either of the women in his life would behave themselves. Mum hadn’t spoken on the walk there, but once the hymns started, her alto voice boomed louder than anybody else’s, just like normal.
The vicar let them sit then stepped into the pulpit and began to read a section from Corinthians. Iris’s attention wandered to the stained-glass windows, to the light filtering through them, casting rainbows of colour over the congregation.
It was easy to believe in God whilst sat in a church with the vicar’s voice reverberating around her. She imagined the cracked hands of Christians building this place, precisely placing stone upon stone, perching on the beams of the roof as sunshine warmed their backs, imagining it was God’s own hand cradling them as they created His house. The stone floor beside her had a groove running through the middle of it from centuries of shoes shuffling up to take communion. She thought of the countless souls being christened and married and buried here, anticipating their riches in heaven.
Was Flo in heaven? She hoped she was. She hoped her skin was smooth once more, her eyes clear, her hands free of age spots. She hoped Flo was bounding through those famous gates, free at last and scared of nothing.
‘Love,’ the vicar said, bringing Iris back to the present, ‘is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.’
She sneaked a sideways glance at her mother. Her chin was raised, her jaw working.
‘It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.’
Her mum might not be easily softened, but after Flo’s death, Iris did not want to fight anymore. She tried to catch her attention, but Mum would not take her gaze off the vicar.
‘Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.’
Iris put her arm through her dad’s as they walked out of the service. Her mum mingled with the other women, trying to catch the ear of the vicar to talk about the church flower show they were arranging for August. They waited for her under the lichgate whilst sleepy bumblebees buzzed around the rose arch.
It was swelteringly hot on this last day of June, and the air was still, the clouds building and blocking out the full force of the sun. The promise of a storm lingered on the horizon.
Finally, Mum joined them, cackling with the neighbours about something that neither Iris nor her father managed to hear.
‘Lovely service, wasn’t it?’ Dad said.
Mum remained silent as she walked on ahead.
‘Looking forward to your picnic?’
Iris smiled and nodded. She watched her mother’s calves wobble as she stamped on the pavement.
‘Is Alan coming tonight?’ Iris said. They were the first words she had directed to her mother for so long. She waited for a response, but there was nothing. She didn’t try again, and the three of them marched home in silence, sighing at the heat and themselves.
When they turned onto their street, they found a shining red car parked outside their house. Simon leant on the bonnet, his long legs stretching into the pavement in light grey trousers, his black leather shoes gleaming. He stood up straight when he saw them, uncrossed his arms, and rolled on the balls of his feet.
Iris hoped her face did not look as hot as it felt. She faltered for a moment, before her dad pulled her along.
‘Good morning, Mrs Lowe, Mr Lowe.’
‘Hello, Simon.’ Her mum melted at the sight of him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to take Iris out for the picnic.’
Iris’s dad patted her arm and nudged her forward.
‘Where are Shirley and John?’
‘I said we’d meet them later.’
All three of them stared at her.
‘It’s too early, I’m not ready.’ She gestured at her clothes. She was going to wear something dark and frumpy, not the nice, cool and light-yellow dress reserved for best.
‘You look perfect for a picnic.’ Simon held open the passenger door for her.
She glanced at her mum, whose face had darkened again; Iris imagined the eruption if she refused to go with Simon, so she slid into the car.
‘I need her back for six,’ Mum called, grinning. She and Dad stood on the front step waving them off.
‘You really do look lovely,’ Simon said once he’d driven around the corner. His face was slippery with sweat, and he dabbed it with a hanky from his shirt pocket. He tried to put it back into his pocket, but he was too clumsy, and the hanky tumbled onto his leg. Iris shoved it in his shirt.
‘I
wish you wouldn’t do that, you know,’ she said.
‘Do what?’
‘Just turn up. It’s rude.’
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘I don’t like surprises.’
He pushed his hair off his face, but it blew back in the breeze from the open window. ‘Sorry.’
She turned her face to the view and let her arm rest on the hot metal of the car, feeling the vibrations rumble into her shoulder. She closed her eyes as the wind put cold kisses on her clammy skin, and smelt the sharp zing of petrol and muck spreading. Something smacked into her neck and she opened her eyes to find a honeybee tumbling into the back of the car. There was an oblong leather case on the back seat.
‘What’s that?’
Simon glanced over his shoulder. ‘My new camera. Thought I’d test it out.’
She’d forgotten it was his birthday and felt silly congratulating him on it now. ‘How old are you?’
‘How old do you think?’
She tutted; she didn’t want to play games. ‘Forty.’
He winced. ‘Twenty-nine.’
‘So…’ She scratched her neck and her fingertips came away damp. ‘Have you had a nice morning?’
‘It’s getting better.’
He didn’t see her roll her eyes. ‘Where are we going?’
He looked at her nervously, hopefully. ‘I thought you said you wanted to go back to Highfields?’
Above them, the sky was bruising, casting the scorched grasses of the fields below an unusual dull grey. Highfields was the colour of soured milk in this light, and its windows reflected the roils of bulging clouds like ghosts.
They parked on the driveway. Simon’s was the only car this time. Perhaps no one was in. Perhaps Edgar had already sold it off.
Simon led the way up the steps. He knocked on the door. No one came.
‘Want to go for a look around while we’re here?’ he said.
She didn’t think he would be so bold – he’d certainly changed since their last visit. He strode off, walking past what used to be the female wing, straining on his tiptoes to peer through the windows.
Following him, they rounded the side of the house. In front of them was a long, low building, at the end of which was a courtyard, where thick weeds had sprouted up through the cobbles, making the open space look like a miniature forest.
She traced her fingers across the rough outer walls. Fat spider webs laced the windowpanes and clung to the arches of the old wooden doorways. Peeking through the glass, she saw slate troughs for milk and a huge butter churn crouching in the corner of the room like an instrument of medieval torture.
The next door creaked as she opened it. Inside, it was stingingly cold; she shivered for the first time in weeks. Wooden benches had been pushed against the walls and were littered with old irons. At one end, a fire grate was dusted with ashes, and to the left of it, there was a door.
The handle was worn and scratchy, the few steep steps leading upwards were dented and shiny. Then came another door. She pushed it open.
In the attic room, three narrow beds lay in a row, stripped of mattresses. A tiny dressing table sat before the one small window in the room. She crept towards it, looked down on the courtyard, and saw Simon pointing the camera at her. She jumped backward, then his footsteps banged up the stairs towards her.
‘Thought I’d take some photographs and you could show them to your friend?’ He entered the room, stooping from the lowness of the ceiling.
‘This was where she slept.’ Iris touched the knob of the bed post. ‘I know it.’
He gawped, open-mouthed, taking in his surroundings.
Iris stared at the bed, imagining Katy lying in it, heartbroken.
A faint rumbling sound – the distant crunch of wheels on gravel. They ran downstairs, keen not to be seen as busy-bodies, and across the cobbles to the front of the house.
Edgar pulled onto the drive in his cream-coloured sports car. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ he said as he gently pushed the door shut. ‘Just in time, too. The new owners are arriving a week Saturday. It’s going to be a country hotel. Come in.’
He sprang up the steps and opened the door with an iron key the size of his palm. In the hallway, the sheet-covered furniture had disappeared. The paintings too had vanished, and now the yellowing walls held only square after square of white space.
‘Everything is almost gone now, just some old nick-nacks that I’ll be taking with me.’ He ushered them into the library, where the bookshelves were bare. Only the curtains and a handful of fraying chairs remained, along with two monstrous chests, which had been pushed into one corner. ‘The files are all in there. It’s a bit of a jumble, I’m afraid. I should have asked you the name of the patient, and I could have sorted it out for you.’
‘Not to worry.’ Iris put her fingers on the cold oak wood, eager to open it. ‘May I?’
‘Of course, go for it. Will you take tea?’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Simon said.
Iris heaved the lid open. Dust rose in a dense cloud, and she fanned it out of her face. The chest was full of old books, all curling at the edges and splitting on the spines. It smelt musty. She picked up one book and flicked through the pages, feeling the grit of age and attic grime under her fingertips.
This one was about a patient called Paul Roberts. There was a picture of him stuck inside the front page, a tiny black-and-white headshot showing a man with small, beady features and a blurred mouth. His malady was named as mania, brought on by bankruptcy. His brother had had him committed in January 1912. There were several scrawled pages of notes about Paul, dating until May 1913, which detailed aspects of his behaviour and treatment and how he was finding life in The Retreat (not very well, it seemed). Then the notes abruptly ended with, Discharged, unable to pay for treatment.
Simon sifted through some of the other notebooks, grimacing at what he saw. ‘I think these are the male patients. How about you try the other chest?’
He was right; she flicked through several books in this chest to find only women in the photographs. She lifted handfuls of them out at a time, checking the dates and names. It would be some time before she found Persephone Leverton.
‘Any luck?’ Edgar returned with a tea tray rattling in his hands.
‘Not yet,’ Simon said as he helped Iris trawl through the female trunk.
Edgar put the tray on the single table in the room and poured black tea into cracked china cups. ‘I was always scared of him, you know, my uncle. Both of them, actually – Harriet and Ernest. They weren’t the sort who liked children.’ He sauntered towards the window and gazed at the view. ‘I was fifteen when he died. The funeral was a grand affair. I remember him laid out in the hallway and you know, he didn’t look dead at all. I stared at his eyes and was sure they’d open and he’d find something to tell me off about.’
Simon stood, his knees cracking as he straightened, and sipped his tea. ‘My grandfather was the same. He was an officer in the great war. I think he was rather disappointed I was too young to fight the Nazis, and even more disappointed when I went into the bank.’
‘Families. I’ve never understood mine. Ernest’s funeral was the last time I saw Aunt Harriet alive. I remember the black veil across her face, the Victorian dress she insisted on wearing. She never cried for him, you know. I watched her the whole day, certain there must be something soft inside her, but nothing. I don’t think she loved him at all.’ Edgar gulped the last of his tea. ‘Top up?’
Iris lifted out another handful of books and wiped the dust-induced drip off the end of her nose with her wrist – there was no time to find a tissue. She opened the book on top of the pile and turned over the first page.
The woman who stared back at her had high cheekbones, small, plump lips, and eyes as sharp as a ferret’s. Her dark hair was parted in the centre and pulled neatly back from her face. Her dress had a high collar with black lace trimming against her neck, and her waist was waspishly
thin.
Persephone Leverton.
‘Found her.’
She sat in one of the lumpy chairs. Simon and Edgar followed suit, waiting for her to speak.
‘What does it say?’
The writing was thin and heavily slanted. She could make it out more clearly if she squinted. She read aloud.
‘12th November 1870. Persephone Patience Leverton. Female, 25 years. Married. Gentlewoman. Church of England. Previous residence: Argoed, Gwynedd, Wales. First attack at 25 years. No previous care or treatment. Admitted by Mr Henry Leverton, husband. Suffering Puerperal Insanity and Delusions.’
Iris flicked the page.
‘12th November 1870. Hysterical on arrival. Two attendants had to restrain her. After an hour, she calmed herself and took a little food at dinner. Sat in her room and cried for two hours. When asked why, would not answer. Miss Reed to remain outside her door.’
‘Who is writing this?’ Simon said.
‘I imagine it would be my great uncle, Ernest I.’
Iris continued. ‘3rd January 1871. Her moods change rapidly. She is averse to the routine of The Retreat. Has tried to escape several times and is now under constant supervision. Is forming a bond with Miss Reed and now trusts her to bathe her. Says she will be hanged.
‘13th June 1871. The fine weather suits her. Spends many hours outdoors, reading or sewing, or walking her new little dog. She has called it Annie, and it has helped to calm her. The dog was a suggestion by her husband, who believes the death of her last dog worsened her depression. Asks when “they” are coming for her.’
‘What’s all that about?’ Edgar said.
Iris sipped her tea. She felt like she was betraying Kath and Persephone to talk of their secret conversations, but Edgar had let her into his house, after all, had let her nose around in business that was not hers.
‘She believed she killed someone.’
‘My God.’ Edgar rolled his shoulders back and glanced around the room as if the dead were watching him. ‘I’ve never liked this place. I can’t imagine the sorrow held in these walls. I would see them wandering in the grounds when I visited as a child. They didn’t look like humans, most of them. Wretched souls. Ernest could scream until he was blue that he had their best intentions at heart, but…’ Edgar shook his head.
Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries) Page 15
