‘But John will be expecting me.’
Iris balled her fists and felt her nails slice into the skin of her palm. She must remain calm, or she would be no better than John.
‘Then he will be disappointed.’
They had to stop several times on the walk home, leaning against brick walls so that Shirley could catch her breath. The illness had left her shivery, and the fever had turned to aches and pains. Iris led her inside the house. As they reached the stairs, Mum emerged from the living room.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Shirley’s staying here for a few days. She’s not feeling too well.’
‘What’s wrong with her own house?’
Iris shot her mother a warning look.
‘I hope it’s not catching,’ her mum muttered and turned her back on them both.
Iris helped Shirley up the stairs and placed her on the bed.
‘I don’t mean to get you into trouble.’
Iris pulled off Shirley’s shoes. ‘You’ve got me into plenty of trouble before. What’s new?’ She rolled down Shirley’s stockings. ‘Let’s get you into something comfy.’
She found an old, thin nightgown at the back of one of her drawers. For a moment, Shirley hesitated, but then let Iris strip her uniform away. Iris tried not to gasp at the marks on Shirley’s body; swathes of purple, brown, and yellow bruises crossed her ribs and back.
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Not long. I really did trip… after he pushed me.’
‘Has he hit you?’
Shirley’s reluctance to answer said enough.
Iris clamped her teeth together as she imagined Shirley cowering in a corner of a strange bedroom, thinking this was love. She eased the cotton gown over Shirley’s head. ‘Lie down.’ Iris put Elvis on the record player and turned the volume low, hoping it would act as a lullaby. ‘I’ll get you some water and bring up a little supper for you later.’
She crept downstairs and into the kitchen where she found her mother and Simon at the kitchen table. Simon beamed at her, but the edges of his smile faltered as she glared back at him.
‘Everything all right?’
‘What is he doing in here?’
‘I let him in. I’ll have who I like in my house.’
She had no time for her mother’s pettiness. ‘Get out.’
Simon opened his mouth to speak but shut it again.
‘I said, get out.’
‘You will not be so rude, young lady.’ Mum got to her feet and slammed her chair into the table. The two cups of tea rippled.
‘It’s fine. I’ll go. Thank you for the tea, Mrs Lowe,’ Simon whispered before slinking out through the back door.
‘What on earth has gotten into you?’
Her heartbeat pulsed in her ears. She grabbed hold of the back of the chair, trying to hold herself together, to push the anger down… push it down.
But she couldn’t.
She flew out into the yard, shoving open the door so hard that it whacked against the wall. Her mind did not have the space to worry about a cracked handle.
‘How could you?’ She charged at Simon. He spun round just in time.
‘How could I what?’
‘Shirley. She’s black and blue in there.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Iris. Slow down.’
‘Don’t fucking touch me!’ She smacked his hand away. He pushed his fingers into his pockets.
She fell back against the wall. She was so tired, so tired of everything! Hot tears scorched her cheeks. She stared at Simon’s face, seeing something sinister in the softness of his cheeks; there was nothing but a lifetime of privilege for boys like him, boys like John, who felt entitled to everything, who got anything they wanted any way they could.
‘He’s a sick bastard.’
Simon regarded her warily. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘John. Dr John Brown. Such a nice young man.’
‘John’s hurt Shirley?’
She bit her bottom lip and tasted the metal tang of blood on the tip of her tongue. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’
‘Iris…’ He took a step towards her. She stepped back. ‘I had no idea about this. What has he done? Iris, please. Please tell me what has happened. I can’t believe John would—’
‘Well, believe it.’ She folded her arms and straightened up. She would not be weak in front of him. ‘Your best friend is a woman-beater.’ He tried to speak but she cut him off. ‘You can tell John from me, that if he comes near Shirley again, I’ll kill him.’
It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. Iris couldn’t do a thing to John. She stalked towards the kitchen and didn’t look back at Simon.
‘Stay away from me.’
21
1901
Wednesday, 2nd January
Everyone is so excited for a new year, all talking about what marvellous inventions and discoveries might be made in the next century. They have asked my opinion on it, but I have none to give. In truth, my mind has not been able to focus on it. It is like Mrs Leverton warned; the rage has come upon me. I remember my night with Bertie, and I am as angry with myself as I am with him.
I imagine Mabel Robins. I have only seen her a handful of times, their farm being on the outskirts of the village. It is their fields that I walk over to get here, their cows that I found comfort in that night.
I could slash the cows’ necks, kill all of them, leave their bloated carcasses for precious Mabel Robins to find one fine morning and ruin her day. Would she cry over killed cattle? She is a hard woman, from what I have seen of her, as strong as any man on the farm; her father’s daughter. I doubt she would cry over anything.
I could not kill the cows, though. I could not set fire to her crops before the harvest. I could not do any of the twisted ideas that have found me in the middle of the night. I think I must soon join Mrs Leverton on my knees and pray for forgiveness for my wicked thoughts.
I have not seen Dr Basildon properly since Christmas, only when he is on his rounds. Sometimes I think he is looking at me, but I cannot be certain.
I start to question the memory of Christmas afternoon. Did I think too much of it? I can only remember the closeness of his eyes and know that I cannot bear to look at them again.
Daniel still haunts me. I hear him in the night, his footsteps on the cobbles as he paces outside the laundry door. I will not go to the window and look down at him. He will not see my bare face and loose hair in the moonlight, like Bertie used to. No man will see me like that until I have a wedding band on my finger.
Tuesday, 8th January
I have burned myself out with rage. It does nothing, it is useless and exhausting, and I will not do it any longer. I must see Bertie. I must see him in the light of a new year, and I must fight for him. I gave up too easily last time.
She will not have him.
I have written him a letter, only two lines long. It reads:
Bertie Blackbird,
If you care for me at all, you will meet me this Friday night at ten o’clock, in our spot. I shall wait for you for one hour, and if you do not come, I will walk to the village and tell Mabel what we have done.
Yours,
Katy
I put it in the mail bag in the main house before I had time to change my mind. It has gone now, and I imagine him recognising my writing and sneaking it to his room. He will curse me, no doubt, but I had to ensure he would come.
22
1956
Shirley stayed with Iris for two nights. Iris liked to have her close, to feel the warmth of her body as the cold air from the open window blew across their faces in the dark of the night, to hear the quiet, rhythmical sound of her sleeping breath.
Shirley was so tired that she didn’t want to gossip, and that suited Iris fine. It was possible to see the soft side of Shirley when she was quieter; it was possible to believe Shirley actually cared for more than just boys and makeup.
She spoke a little of her family. Despite their years of friendship, Iris had never been to Shirley’s house. Shirley had never said much about her parents, and Iris had known better than to ask, but over those two nights she had recounted stories of hiding in the cupboard under the stairs when her dad came home from the pub, of her mother locking Shirley’s bedroom door and never giving her dad the key, even when he hit her.
The violence was less frequent now. Her father was too fat to run about after them both, and her mother kept feeding him to make sure he couldn’t get out of his chair easily.
‘He’s the best dad when he hasn’t had a drink.’ Shirley stared up at Iris like a little girl.
Iris brushed out her curls and felt the weight of Shirley’s head as it relaxed against her thighs. She bathed Shirley’s scabs with salt water and patted them dry with clean paper. She told Shirley a fairy tale each night to send her to sleep.
‘I always wanted to be Cinderella,’ Shirley said, her voice muffled by the pillow she was hugging. ‘I thought John was my prince.’
‘You’ll find him soon.’
‘What about you? What about Simon?’
Iris stiffened. ‘There’s nothing between us. There never was.’
‘He really likes you.’
Something flipped in Iris’s stomach. She did not want to be proud or happy because of Simon’s attention. It meant nothing, after all; he was as bad as John. But there was a twitch when she thought of him, like a stab of nausea, which she could not hide from herself.
‘I won’t be seeing him again.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m looking after you.’ Iris kissed Shirley’s cheek.
‘You’re looking after me and Kath and thirty other patients. Who is looking after you?’
Before Iris woke on Saturday, Shirley had washed and sorted out her things. She nudged Iris awake.
‘What are you doing?’ Iris rubbed the sleep out of the corners of her eyes.
‘Going home. You’ve taken care of me for long enough, and I’m better now.’ She was wearing one of Iris’s dresses, a muddy brown colour which didn’t flatter anybody. She had no makeup on, and her hair rippled messily to her shoulders. She was beautiful again.
‘Are you coming in today?’
Nurse Carmichael had let Shirley have the rest of the week off; the risk of sickness to the patients was too high. Now, Iris thought Shirley could probably return to work.
Shirley pursed her lips and pretended to heave. ‘Think I best stay away until Monday.’ She winked; back to her old self.
Iris waved her goodbye from the front step and watched her skip down the pavement in the early morning light.
Her mum came behind Iris, dressing gown fastened tight around her waist, and handed Iris a cup of sweet tea. The two of them stood in the doorway, watching the sky brighten from pale blue to the deep azure of midsummer. They didn’t speak; the atmosphere would have been ruined if they had. They sipped in comfortable silence, both of them happy to be close again.
The morning was rather lovely after that. Most of the patients were in good moods, happier now that the oppressive heatwave had turned into a quintessential English summer. A dragonfly came through one of the windows, its wings snapping like clapper boards, and the old women stared at it in awe. When was the last time they had seen a dragonfly? They watched it zoom across the day room, its green-gold back glinting in the light, bringing a slice of colour to the place, and giggled as Nurse Shaw flapped around after it, trying to usher it back outside.
There were more family visitors on Saturdays, which helped the nurses out. Saturday afternoon was a time of cleaning: extra mopping and dusting and moving beds around whilst daughters cared for their own mothers. Only a handful of patients had no visitors, so Iris collected them all at one dining table and read to them, taking advantage of the absence of Nurse Carmichael, who would have made Iris do something far more useful than entertain the patients.
At three o’clock, her little group were growing tired. She let them sit in the soft chairs around the wireless whilst she did the tea round, then she sneaked to the phone at the top of the room. It should only be used for emergencies, but Iris would be quick.
‘Shirley? Is that you?’
‘Iris?’
‘I thought I’d give you a quick ring to see how you are.’
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ Shirley whispered into the line. Iris wondered if her father was in earshot.
‘How do you fancy going to the picture-house tonight? It’s been so long since we went, just you and me. The film is probably awful but that doesn’t—’
‘I can’t.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
‘I’m not as well as I thought I was… I’ve been sick again this afternoon.’
‘Oh dear.’ Iris tried not to be too disappointed. She scratched the craving for sweets and lemonade out of her mind. ‘Right, not to worry. Do you want to come back to mine tonight if you’re still unwell?’
‘No, no. I’m sure you’ve had enough of me.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I have to go now, Iris. I need a sit-down.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She tried to hear any background sounds on the end of the line, but the murmur of patients and visitors was too loud. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye.’ Shirley put the phone down.
After church on Sunday, Iris strolled through the woods. The spring flowers were long gone, and the area was now a lush landscape of thick greenery. She picked handfuls of ferns and bunches of honeysuckle and tried to arrange them into something resembling a bouquet. Then she tied it all together with a strip of yellow ribbon from her hair.
It wasn’t too far to Shirley’s. She came out of the woodland near Smedley and continued walking for another twenty minutes, until the streets became narrower and the houses turned a dirty grey, as if they needed a good clean.
A loose dog trotted towards her, its eyes red and itchy-looking, slowly wagging its tail. She offered a hand to it, only for it to shy away and lope off.
She found number thirty-three. Next-door’s children played in the front yard, seeing who could chuck a stick the farthest. They stared at Iris as she pushed against the little gate with one hand and awkwardly held the bouquet with the other. The gate was so rusted and slanted that she had to pick it up so it didn’t stick on the ground. It made a dreadful screech as it opened.
She smiled at the children. She had never been good with children; they either smiled too much or never at all. These children didn’t offer even the slightest smirk. She felt them scrutinising her as she rapped on the wooden door.
‘He’ll be in the back,’ the tallest boy said, swinging off the handle of his front door.
‘Is Shirley in?’ she said, hoping they would suddenly become friendly. But they ignored her and started throwing their sticks again.
She called to say that she was coming in, then pushed the door open. It butted into a pile of letters on the floor. She picked them up but, seeing no table on which to put them, placed them back on the floor.
The air around her seemed grainy and unclear, as if years of cigarette smoke was choking the place. As she looked up the stairs, she saw how the corners of the wallpaper were peeling, their underside a sickly yellow.
She peeked through the door on the right of the hallway to discover a small living room, empty but for a few hard chairs and a dusty coffee table.
There was only one other door. The first thing she noticed was the smoke curling against the ceiling. Next, an old table in the centre of the room, followed by a stove which must have been cooking a joint of beef, for she could smell the familiar scent of it, and finally, one great big chair in the corner, where Shirley’s dad sat.
‘Who are you?’ he said, a little too nonchalantly, considering he had never seen Iris before. He tapped the end of his cigarette into the arm of the chair, and Iris saw how the material was black and singed from years of
the habit.
‘Mr Temperton. I’m Iris, Shirley’s friend.’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Iris,’ she repeated, louder this time, and Mr Temperton nodded.
‘You’re not as pretty as your namesake.’ He raised the cigarette to his wet lips. His shirt was loose at the top, and his great belly spread out over his thighs, bulging into the arms of the chair. ‘What do you want?’
‘Is Shirley in?’
His eyes rolled towards the ceiling. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘How is she today?’
‘Was there something wrong with her?’
Iris hugged the bouquet closer and breathed in the scent of sweet honeysuckle. ‘I brought her these. Shall I take them up to her room?’
He opened his palm, granting her permission. She turned her back on him and shut the door. Her shoulders relaxed once she was free.
The stairs gave a little under her weight. She doubted Mr Temperton would be able to get to bed up here; he would fall through the floorboards if he tried. Indeed, it was clear he hadn’t been up there in years; she could have been in a completely different house. The windows were pushed open and a cleansing breeze meandered between the airy rooms.
The first room she tried must have belonged to Shirley’s mother, for it was plain and neat, with a simple cream coverlet over the small double bed. A dark blue dressing gown hung from the back of a narrow wardrobe, a pair of slippers placed carefully underneath, ready for the wearer.
The other room was, no doubt, Shirley’s. The walls were littered with posters of Elvis Presley, James Dean, Marylin Monroe, Diana Dors, and Marlon Brando. Her makeup sprawled over a table, and brushes and lipsticks sat perilously close to the edge. Her bed was not made, the sheets thrust in a heap beside a frilly pink nightgown. At the foot of the bed, a stack of dresses lay piled on top of each other, their coat hangers scattered everywhere. The faint hint of perfume clung to the air.
Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries) Page 18
