The Doorstep Child
Page 34
‘Mom?’ Tracy was running back towards her. Evie straightened up. Tracy must not, on any account, see the doll. She would creep out later, once the children were settled, and move the terrible thing. She could lob it right over into the graveyard.
‘What’re you doing?’ Tracy said.
‘Nothing. I just dropped something. It’s all right.’ Evie shoved her hands under the coats and bags in her arms so that Tracy could not see how much she was shaking. Her legs would hardly hold her and she was not sure whether her voice sounded normal.
‘Come on. Let’s get home.’
Thanks to Mrs Grant, she was able to get through the next few hours. She knew that if she had been alone up in the flat, her mind would have raced out of control. But Mrs Grant made tea and they sat in the garden on the Grants’ rusty garden chairs. Mrs Grant, in a pale yellow frock, brought out tea and chatted about the church bazaar that she was knitting for. The children rolled and cartwheeled across the square of lawn and Mr Grant came out and stood in his shirtsleeves, smiling at them.
Evie hardly took in a word of what Mrs Grant was saying, but the effort of trying to appear normal did make her pulse slow down, and the image of the doll fade, for the moment. Though now, carved into her as never before, was the knowledge that her family did not just hate her, they were out to get her.
She felt terrifyingly alone, as if she was standing at the top of an endlessly high pinnacle, just waiting to fall.
Three days later, at breakfast time, amid the smell of boiled eggs and toast, which Evie felt quite unable to stomach but urged the children to eat, Mr Grant came into the kitchen and said, ‘One for you today,’ pressing a pale blue envelope onto the table.
Evie had barely ever seen Jack’s handwriting, but the envelope, edged with red and navy chevrons, came from Canada. She muttered a thank you, taking it from him. It was surprisingly stiff and would not fit in her skirt pocket so she slid it up under her jumper.
‘Aren’t you having anything again today?’ Mrs Grant said as she got up from the table.
Evie knew that a lecture would follow about breakfast being the most important meal of the day.
‘No thanks, Mrs Grant. Just tea’s fine. I just need to . . .’ Trailing off, she ran upstairs.
Sitting on her bed she tore open the envelope with trembling hands, unexpected hopes rushing into her mind. Jack was missing her! He realized he had made a terrible mistake and wanted them all back!
Inside were three postcards. They were all similar, all of the Rockies near Calgary. Two were for the children – ‘For Tracy, with love from your pa.’ Similar for Andrew. The only time in these seven months that he had bothered to send them anything.
Her card said, ‘Evie, me and Linda want to get married and it seems the right thing to do. So I’ve started on getting us a divorce. You’ll be hearing from a solicitor in England soon. Hope you’re all getting along all right. Jack.’
It was a long time before she managed to get downstairs again. Her whole body was shaking so that she could barely stand and it was only hearing voices downstairs, knowing that soon Mrs Grant would call to her, that made her force herself to her feet.
Afterwards she could remember nothing about that last day at work: who had spoken to her, whether anything had been said. There was a vague memory of Maureen Benson’s face, pink and concerned, her mouth moving. They must all have noticed something but she could not recall.
She could just about remember the greyness as she walked out of Kalamazoo to the Bristol Road. The spring sunshine had gone, the sky a pewter plate, red tail lights the only bright dots in the storm-lit afternoon.
As she left the building, she heard a voice call ‘Evie!’ after her. Later, she found out that it was Alan, wanting to walk with her, but she was walled in, nothing from the outside reaching her, as if she actually had her face pressed up hard against cold brick and could no longer see out.
Usually she crossed the Bristol Road and walked a little way along to catch a bus. She had a hazy memory, later, of standing at the kerb, the rush of traffic, colours, lights, her feet in their court shoes at the edge, waiting; a feeling of knowing that somehow, this was the moment everything must end.
She stepped out into the road. And stopped.
Fifty-Two
‘I’d say she’s been very lucky, stupid bloody woman . . . Things some people will do for attention . . .’
It was a man’s voice. She heard other voices, murmurings, the shuffling of feet. She realized she was lying down on something flat and hard but she could not seem to move or open her eyes.
‘Get her up to a ward. We don’t need her cluttering up the place down here.’
‘Yes, doctor,’ a woman’s voice said, from somewhere near Evie’s head. She could sense people close to her, that there was a light coverlet laid over her. She could feel the flicker of her eyes, the air slipping in and out of her lungs, the throb of pain all down her right side, especially her hip. And a sense that there was a weight pressing down on her, a massive dog of exhaustion and despair parked on her chest.
Someone’s hand slipped into hers. ‘You’ll be all right, love,’ a voice said softly, close to her ear. ‘Don’t you worry. You’re safe now. We’re just going to make you comfy upstairs.’
Evie heard herself make a small sound, a moan of acknowledgement, but she could not open her eyes.
Soon she felt herself moving, being wheeled along a corridor, and the motion lulled her back into unconsciousness.
Now she was aware of light pressing on her eyelids. There was movement, voices in the distance, the clink of cups on saucers.
A swish of curtains nearby, then whispers.
‘Suicide attempt, they think. Walked out into the traffic.’ The voice was stiff with disapproval.
Evie kept her eyes closed, pressed to the mattress by shame. Was that what she had done? Was this what they thought of her – stupid, a waste of time? This was true, she knew. All she could remember was leaving the office building yesterday in the gloom of the afternoon. Then nothing. A screech of tyres. Darkness.
And yet here she was, still pressed under the weight of life. Why was she still here?
‘Poor soul,’ another female voice replied.
Poor soul. Tears rose in her eyes at the kindness in the voice.
‘Poor soul maybe,’ the other voice said, ‘but she’s taking up a bed which someone who’s really sick could be in.’
‘You go, I’ll see to her,’ the kinder voice urged.
She sensed someone standing by the bed, leaning over her. It seemed safest to keep her eyes closed still, but in a few seconds she heard a gasp.
‘Evie? Can you hear me? It is you, isn’t it? Evie Sutton?’
She didn’t know the voice. Very slowly she peeled back her lids. The woman looking down at her, her brown hair pulled back under a nurse’s cap, had a kindly face and her eyes were full of sympathy and wonder.
‘Evie, it’s Melly. Melly Booker.’
Evie focussed. She knew her then, vaguely, now she had been told. Melly was a couple of years older than her.
‘Remember the old end, over in Aston?’ Melly said. ‘God, d’you know, you’ve barely changed!’
Tears ran from Evie’s eyes, down into her hair. It was as if someone was squeezing her inside, wringing grief from her like juice from an orange.
‘I remember . . . your mom,’ Evie managed to say, as sobs broke from her. ‘She . . . was . . . k-kind . . .’
‘There, there,’ Melly said. She cradled Evie’s hand between both of her own, sounding upset. ‘Oh Evie, we always remembered you and wondered what had happened to you. I think Gladys – Dad’s auntie . . . D’you remember her? She saw you once, I think, years ago.’
Evie knew she had seen Gladys Poulter, that night she had come out of a pub near the markets with some bloke or other in tow. She had known exactly who she was – you couldn’t miss Gladys Poulter. But she had pretended not to notice, ashamed of herself.
The tears just came and came. The feel of a warm hand in hers, Melly’s kind, familiar eyes, opened a chasm of need and sadness in her.
‘I . . . My kids . . .’ she began. ‘I can’t . . . just can’t . . .’ And then she was sobbing.
Melly rubbed the top of her arm, trying to be comforting.
‘Oh Evie, I’m ever so sorry. I know things were difficult for you . . .’ Evie could see all the sympathy in Melly’s face, but she could sense that it was hard for her to know what to say.
‘Where are they, Evie? Your children? Is someone looking after them?’
Evie nodded. They would have gone home with Shirley. She felt a sense of surrender. Mom and the rest of them were always trying to take over her kids. Now they’d won. She knew they’d keep them, when she didn’t come back. Mom collected grandchildren like trophies.
‘Good,’ Melly said. ‘As long as you know they’re safe. All right. Look, you need a cup of tea and some breakfast. I’ll go and get you a cup before they’ve finished serving.’ She squeezed Evie’s hand as she began to move away. ‘You’re going to be all right. Don’t fret. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Melly brought her a cup of tea and some cold toast and helped Evie sit up. Her body felt battered and her neck hurt once she was upright, propped against a pillow.
‘I’m on an early today,’ Melly said, stirring in sugar for her. ‘After that I’m off for a few days.’ She looked as if she was about to say more, but stopped herself. ‘Look, you just have a go at this cup of tea. I’ll come and see you later, all right?’ She smiled, a sweet, sadness-tinged smile. ‘It’s really nice to see you again, Evie.’
Evie sipped a little of the tea, then slid back down under the bedclothes. She had been put right as the far end of the long Nightingale ward and felt as if she was in the dunce’s corner, in disgrace. All she wanted to do was hide from everyone.
As it turned out, she did not see anything much of Melly until after dinner. All morning she lay still, turned away from everyone, and she was left alone. She dozed. For the first time in a long time she was able to sleep, woken off and on by the sounds of the ward, but sliding back gratefully into unconsciousness again. She could not think straight about anything. She could not think about what she had done.
Had she tried to kill herself? Yes, she thought. She had wanted only darkness and release. Still wanted it. But she was in disgrace. No one approved of a suicide. She felt guilty, a wicked fool. Her children! She kept the sheet pulled over her head and lay hurting in the dark warmth of the bed, longing not to be here.
Food appeared beside her but she didn’t notice and it was not until Melly arrived again and pointed it out that she saw a plate with two sausages, some lumpy-looking mash and a few peas.
‘D’you want some?’ Melly asked.
Evie shook her head.
Melly drew the chair by the bed closer.
‘Sorry, we’ve been rushed off our feet. I wanted to come and see you, but Sister kept finding me things to do. Why don’t you try and sit up for a bit, Evie?’
Evie looked around fearfully. ‘Everyone hates me,’ she whispered.
‘What?’ Melly sounded disturbed. She spoke very quietly. ‘No they don’t. What’re you talking about? Come on.’ She got up and helped Evie sit against the pillows. Looking closely at her, she smiled. ‘You’re so pretty still – you always were.’
Tears rolled down Evie’s cheeks again. Melly took her hand and sat down.
‘D’you want to tell me about yourself – you said you had children?’
Evie shook her head, looking down at the strip of sheet, the miracle of a hand in hers.
‘All right.’ Melly was quiet for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you about me then.’
Evie listened as Melly told her that she had married Reggie, one of the Morrison boys. Did Evie remember them from Aston? Little blond buggers, she called them. Of course she remembered – a swarm of little fair-haired boys; their mother, with her dark hair and a laughing, pretty face.
‘Dolly,’ Evie said.
‘Yes! Of course you’d remember Dolly. She’s my mother-in-law! Reggie and I live upstairs. Years back, they won the pools – at least Mo did – and they bought this great big house in Moseley and then of course they wanted to fill it up. Dolly loves kids around her and now Donna’s gone, she’s . . . Little Donna, the babby? Oh, she’s so beautiful. She’s an actress, gone down to London to work. Anyway, Reggie and me’ve got two kids. Tina’s nine and Christopher will be seven this year. And d’you remember my kid brother Tommy – same age as you? If you remember, he had problems, from birth. But he’s done ever so well – lives over in Wolverhampton. He’s got a job and he’s married to a lovely girl, Jo-Ann. Then there’s all the others – Mom had six in the end. Too many, I’d say.’ She laughed.
There was a silence, then Melly leaned forward to look up at her.
‘What about your kids? How old are they? What’re their names? I’d love to hear.’
Evie didn’t look at her. She couldn’t seem to stop trembling suddenly, couldn’t hold herself together.
‘T-Tracy,’ she managed to say. ‘She’s seven. And . . . and Andrew . . .’ The image of her little boy’s face swam before her and it was her undoing. ‘He’s five – only five. He’s a babby . . .’
She put her free hand to her face and shook with dry sobs, feeling herself fall apart and lose all control.
‘Oh Evie,’ Melly said. She came and sat on the bed beside her, pulling her into her arms as she shook and began moaning with grief.
While Melly was holding her, stroking her back to try and comfort her, she became aware gradually that they were not alone. Someone was talking to Melly. She heard the words ‘psychiatric assessment’.
And afterwards Melly rocked her like a child, saying, ‘They’ll help you, Evie. That’s what we’re all here for – to help you get better.’
Fifty-Three
‘Evie. Evie! There’s someone to see you. It’s a lady – says she’s called Melanie Morrison. Are you going to come and talk to her?’
‘… … …’
Sandy Hoskins, one of the nurses, plump and reassuring, hair smoothed back into a bun, came and stood before her. Evie, on a plastic-covered chair in the day room, stared down at Sandy’s feet, stolid in black lace-up shoes.
‘Come on, Evie. Why don’t you come down to the visitors’ room with me and see her? She looks ever so nice. A little chat might make you feel better?’
‘… … …’
There was a long pause as Sandy waited. Evie stared at the woman’s feet, her black lace-up shoes. She felt muzzy and separate from everything. It was the pills, she knew, that made her mouth dry and her innards sluggish, sent her into a sort of haze. But it wasn’t just that. She had let go of everything outside. It felt like another life that had happened to someone else. Melanie Morrison? The name was like a faraway echo. How could she go and talk to anyone? She could not find words, had nothing to say.
‘No? All right, I’ll tell her. It’s a shame, though. She looks such a nice lady.’
‘Evie? Another visitor for you. A gentleman this time. Says he’s from your work. Alan Dickson? No? All right then. I’ll tell him you’re not feeling up to it today.’
When she was admitted to Rubery Hill Hospital, Evie stopped crying.
Melly had set off her tears, perhaps because of her kindness and her familiar link with the past. But after that Evie moved into a blank lethargy. She shut down, could barely move. But she felt safe in there, as if within the ward, the long corridors, the
high brick walls, she could just let all of it go. It was as if she had released herself from everything and everyone. Even amid some of the griefs and tragedies of the hospital, it was as though she felt held, cupped within huge hands that would stop her falling right to the bottom. People here seemed to know something she didn’t. She couldn’t understand what it was, but she knew there was something she needed.
She could not have put this into words.
There were the smells of gravy, cabbage, disinfectant; the confused, shuffling ladies reeking of wee. Other women in her ward gradually became known to her: Phyllis, the silent secretary who had had a breakdown; the exotic-looking middle-aged lady called Miranda, with long black hair, who seemed to have come from somewhere abroad. Old Alice who, if not distracted, sat rocking on the rim of her bed hour after hour, her head wrapped in a rough towelling turban and mewling like an animal in pain. There was Mavis, a young black woman, eyes filled with pain. ‘My babies die,’ Mavis told her later. They might have been friends, had either of them had the strength. There were the nurses who bossed and cajoled, were sometimes kind and sometimes sapped of energy themselves, spoke to people as if they were overgrown, deaf children. There were cries and moans and shouts.
There were the routines and pills, the attempts by Dr Rose in his office, sitting beside his desk covered with papers and phones, to penetrate her blankness. There was Sandy Hoskins, with her pink, rough hands, fleshy face and a soul, Evie thought later, deeper and more loving than you could ever guess from her farm-girl body.
Sandy, who quietly advised her, ‘Dr Rose isn’t keen on ECT – he thinks people need to talk. And you will need to, Eve – try and start opening up to him. Otherwise . . .’
She saw some of them, after the treatment, stunned and silent.
There were the polished linoleum corridors, like dimly lit intestines. Somehow, even while she felt incapable even of dressing herself or making a cup of tea, Evie learned where the female wards were in relation to the nurses’ office, the dispensary, the chapel, the rooms for occupational therapy.