by Ros Franey
Sunday June 26
By Saturday, no plausible reason has occurred to me for skipping morning service at the Mission next day, and on Sunday I wake too early, worrying about how to fulfil my promise to Fred. He won’t remember, I tell myself, plumping up my hot feather pillow and trying to turn over and go back to sleep, but the possibility that Miss Mildred Blessing might be working at the hospital is too intriguing to be missed and I lie awake in the dawn resolving to get to the chapel somehow. I have no plan. It’s only when I come down to breakfast, bleary-eyed and cross, and see the bottle of calcium lactate on the kitchen table, that there’s a glimmer of hope: is Mother having one of her sick headaches, then? She doesn’t appear, and as I boil Daddy’s egg – Elsie is having a rare weekend off – I start to think it may be possible after all.
‘Your mother says can you take the basket of clothes for China to Nora Dyer,’ Daddy tells me.
‘How is Mother?’ I ask. ‘I saw the medicine bottle.’
He grunts. ‘Poorly.’ He’s reading his paper. There’s a short silence. Then he recollects himself as if perhaps feeling he ought to show more concern. ‘She takes on too much, does Agnes. Your own poor mother was just the same. She’ll be right as rain by teatime. Rest’ll do her good.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Daddy, Fred asked could I go to chapel at the hospital with him today. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?’
He looks up at me. Our eyes meet. We both know Mother would not have allowed it. ‘How much do you see of Fred, then?’ he asks.
‘Oh, not a lot. He’s very … withdrawn.’
‘So they’re not bothered about you visiting, then?’ It’s as if in Mother’s absence we can talk about it for the first time.
‘They seem pleased I go to see him. There’s no restriction, Daddy.’ I hesitate. I want to add, so I don’t know where Mother got that idea from, but I don’t. I say, ‘You could go too, perhaps, when you’ve a moment?’
‘Perhaps I will.’ He stares ahead in thought. ‘Fred’s troubled, poor boy. Never been strong. Took it the hardest of all of you when your mother died. You were just a nipper; you barely noticed. But it’s harder for boys.’ He sighs.
There’s not much I can say to this. I bring my teaspoon down on top of my egg with such venom that little pieces of shell fly across the table and Daddy looks at me in surprise. ‘Best eat your egg, Daddy,’ I tell him, ‘before it gets cold.’
‘I have a feeling,’ my father goes on, ‘that this is what it’s all about, this business with Fred: your mother’s death. You go and see him: what do you reckon?’
I’m startled. I don’t think he’s ever asked my opinion before. ‘Perhaps it is,’ I say. ‘He’s certainly very sad about something, poor Fred.’
He shakes his head. ‘Bad business. Should never have happened.’ I imagine he’s talking about Fred, but then he says, ‘She wasn’t ill seriously, you know. It was just a silly thing; should have been treatable – an infected hernia.’
‘Treatable?’ Beatrice said something of the kind when we were children. So why, then, why was it not treated? Was it the doctor’s fault? Or her fault for not telling anyone? Why did my dear mother have to go and die of something silly and small? But this isn’t the time for any of that. He eats his egg in silence, then returns to his newspaper, giving it a businesslike shake.
‘Can I go then?’ I ask after a while. ‘To morning service, I mean, at the hospital?’
‘You’ve to get that basket of clothes to Nora What’s-her-name, mind.’
So I take that as a ‘yes’. ‘I’ll drop it off on my way,’ I promise him.
He finishes his breakfast and dabs at his moustache with his napkin. ‘Your stepmother is a remarkable woman,’ he says, giving me a sort of hard stare. Then he picks up his newspaper and leaves the room.
As soon as I’ve done the dishes I gallop upstairs and put on the dress I’ve been planning to wear: plain grey with starched white collar and cuffs; it’s not exactly the same as the patients’ uniforms, but I hope I’ll blend in and not be noticed. By this time, the journey to Mapperley is familiar and, after running down the hill to Miss Dyer’s house with the basket of clothes, I set off back up Woodborough Road at a brisk pace, though I’ve still time enough to get there. I realise as I reach the hospital, feeling rather hot in the flannel dress, that I haven’t thought how I’m going to sneak in without having to explain where I’m going. I’ve no idea if visitors are allowed into the service, but luckily I reach the main door as a family in their Sunday best are being ushered through for a visit, and manage to slip in behind them, unnoticed.
I’ve seen signs pointing to the chapel from the main corridor and set off confidently, defying anyone to ask me where I’m going. As I approach, I can hear the harmonium playing something tinkly, just as it would play for people arriving for a service at the Mission. I slow down and watch as a crocodile of patients is shepherded by nurses and attendants through the double doors. How will I ever find Fred? As the last of them files in and the attendants turn away, I follow on the end, scanning the faces of those already seated for a sign of him. The chapel is lofty and dim with stained-glass windows and rows of chairs, and I stand by the wall towards the back from where I can see the doors. More patients arrive, filling the rows from the front, ward by ward, I’m guessing – now older women; now younger – and then I catch sight of one of the men from Fred’s ward and there, three or four paces behind him, is Fred himself. I move forward and take a seat directly behind my brother, feeling conspicuous, as this part of the nave seems to be exclusively for men. But to my relief, the next ward to enter is a female ward, and I stand to make way for them to pass me, which they do without curiosity. Fred has knelt to pray and I wait until he sits up again before I kneel also, a position from which I can just reach forward and poke him in the back. He turns instantly and his face lights up; he makes to say something, but I notice a sharp-eyed nurse at the end of my row, and place a finger on my lips. She is staring at me. I lower my head in prayer. The important thing is that Fred knows I’m here.
This is not a familiar service – the altar is grander and the robes more ornate than at the Mission, and I don’t know some of the hymns. Everyone recites the Creed, which we don’t say, though I recognize it from hearing it in French at the Protestant church in Bordeaux. My familiar world rocks a little when one or two patients make the sign of the cross and I imagine what Mother would have to say about that! But otherwise it all proceeds much the same as morning service at Golgotha.
At the end, the chaplain disappears into the vestry and after a few moments, the harmonium, which has accompanied us throughout, strikes up with the voluntary. The patients have sat through the service more or less in silence (not counting the one who shouted ‘It’s all so boring!’ in the middle of the sermon and another who wept loudly throughout), but now they start to fidget and chat and some stand up to leave. But I sit transfixed: the music is Sheep May Safely Graze. The business of getting here, of dodging Mother, finding my way to the chapel and meeting Fred, has eclipsed the reason for coming in the first place: I look over to the harmonium, its straight back obscuring the face of the accompanist. But there can only be one accompanist who would have chosen this music today, one of her favourite pieces. Can it be true, then? Has Fred found our Sunday School teacher, Mildred Blessing?
As if in answer, Fred turns around now. ‘See?’ he asks. ‘Didn’t I tell you? At the harmonium!’
‘Is it Miss Blessing? Really, Fred?’
‘Course it is.’
‘What’s she … Is she working here?’
He frowns in disbelief. ‘Hardly!’
The music has stopped and the chapel is emptying out. Women are queuing to pass me; I turn and file into the aisle with them and wait for Fred.
A hand on my arm. I turn: it is the sharp-eyed nurse from the end of my row. ‘I must ask you,’ she demands, ‘what you think you’re doing here? This service is for patients and staff. As far a
s I can see, you are neither.’ She turns to look accusingly at Fred.
‘She’s my sister, Nurse,’ he says meekly, staring at the ground.
‘You have no business—’
I won’t have my brother spoken to like this. ‘Nurse,’ I cut in, ‘I’m sorry. He very much wanted me to come today. I didn’t realise it wasn’t allowed. I thought it would help him.’ I give her a meaningful stare.
‘I shall have to report you to the dean,’ says the nurse. ‘This is a flagrant breach of the rules. Your name will be struck from the visiting register.’
‘Nurse Bleakley!’ Through the departing congregation, someone is coming towards us. ‘I see you’ve met Miss Annie Lang.’
I stare at the woman who has joined us. The voice is Miss Blessing’s, but not the pallid face or the diminished figure under the baggy grey smock, a patient’s smock.
‘Well, Miss Lang has no business to be here,’ the nurse insists. ‘I’ve told her—’
‘Ah, but I think Miss Lang is interested in working here as a volunteer,’ says Miss Blessing. ‘Didn’t the dean put out a notice that he is anxious to expand our force of volunteers, Nurse?’
I can say nothing. I look at Nurse Bleakley and nod dumbly.
My brother stifles a snort – it’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh since he’s been in this place. ‘That’s it, then, Nurse, isn’t it?’ he says, with a flash of insolence I find reassuring.
‘I’m sorry,’ I add. ‘I didn’t know the rules.’
The Nurse examines me coldly; she’s been thrown off balance by Miss Blessing. ‘Well, in that case,’ she says haughtily, ‘I suppose I would be prepared to let it pass. Just this once.’
‘Nurse Bleakley!’ A very senior and august-looking sister in an alarming headdress has appeared at the chapel door. ‘Nurse, your women need you; they’re straying all over the corridor. Take them straight back to the ward at once.’
‘Right away, Sister Bellamy. I’m sorry I was detained—’
‘I’m not interested. Off you go.’ And the mighty Sister Bellamy – for this must be she who approved me as a visitor – turns on her heel and out of the chapel, followed by a scuttling Nurse Bleakley.
We look at each other, Fred, Mildred Blessing and me. For a moment, we’re smiling in relief and astonishment, not knowing how to begin; then I remember where we are. ‘I never thought to see you here,’ I tell her, and immediately feel it’s the wrong thing to say.
‘Nor I you,’ she returns. ‘But oh, how you’ve grown up, Annie! I wouldn’t have recognised you but for your brother. How long is it? More than six years?’ She closes her eyes for a moment, shutting them out. I wouldn’t have recognised her, either. Where is the spirited young woman I knew? But she manages to recollect herself and turns to Fred. ‘I’ve seen you around the hospital once or twice, Mr Lang. How are you?’
‘Fred,’ he says awkwardly. ‘Please. We’re all in the same boat here, aren’t we?’
‘Can we go outside?’ I ask suddenly, hating the place. ‘It’s a lovely sunny day. Can we, please?’
‘You go,’ Mildred says. ‘Can you, Fred? I … can’t.’ She indicates a figure hanging back near the harmonium. ‘I’ve got my jailer, you see.’ She shrugs with a laugh, but there is no humour in it.
I don’t understand. ‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Oh, Doris is all right. She gives me a lot of slack. But I need to get back now.’
‘Back – where?’ I look from Mildred to Fred. I am completely perplexed.
‘Are you … detained, then?’ he asks.
She nods. ‘For my own protection,’ she explains to me. ‘I might run away. Escape.’ She smiles, and for a moment I catch sight of the old Millie.
‘So you are a patient, then?’
‘Oh, most certainly.’
I can’t stop myself. ‘What for?’ I burst out. ‘They let you play for chapel? You can’t be very ill. Why are you here?’
‘My privilege for good behaviour – and they need an accompanist, so it suits them. I thank the Lord for it; it keeps me sane.’
I look at her, but there’s no irony in what she’s saying. ‘Can I visit you?’
She thinks for a moment. The attendant near the harmonium has begun to move towards us. ‘Almost certainly not,’ she says hurriedly. ‘They won’t permit it. But you can, you really can, come in as a volunteer – if you’ve the stomach for it. Ask for the female long-term ward.’ The attendant has nearly reached us. ‘I must go. If you tell them … tell them you’re interested in … becoming an almoner, or some such, they might let you in to work with us. We can talk then.’
‘Ready, Blessing?’ Doris wears a different uniform. It isn’t that of a nurse; she looks more like a policewoman. She is brisk, not unkindly, but her use of Miss Blessing’s surname without ‘Miss’ in front is peculiarly shocking.
Mildred holds out her wrist. For a horrible moment I think she’s going to have to wear handcuffs, but the woman merely grasps her wrist and starts to lead her away. As they go, she pulls back a moment. ‘Annie,’ she says in an undertone. ‘Please don’t tell – anyone at home – that you saw me. And if you do apply as a volunteer, don’t mention my name … anywhere. If you do, they’ll never let you come.’ She looks at me intently.
I nod. ‘I will apply,’ I say. Fred and I watch as she is led from the empty chapel.
This extraordinary encounter leaves me in a state of shock. Fred explains that he only has something called ‘hospital parole’; he isn’t allowed outside, either. So we go to his ward and sit talking until the dinner bell rings and I’m shooed out. I notice he seems much more himself, and more animated, than on any of my previous visits. He explains he has heard that some of the long-term wards are locked, with certain patients detained against their will; he knows little of these wards, only that some inmates are said to be raving mad, confined in padded cells with nothing in them at all for fear they might do damage to themselves or others. It is rumoured a few even need to be kept in straitjackets. But other patients from the locked wards, he says, he has seen in treatment rooms under supervision of people like Doris, and they seem perfectly normal, meekly allowing themselves to be led by the wrist as Miss Blessing did. It’s hard to believe these poor people are a threat to anyone, I say, so why are they locked up? Fred shrugs. He has no idea, but he has heard from other inmates that some have been in the hospital for years – women in particular, he tells me. No one knows much about them because they’re segregated and never discussed. He says it’s as if they don’t exist.
And why should Miss Blessing have joined their ranks? What is her illness? How long has she been here? I resolve to find out, and contemplate the possibilities: since it seems Daddy has connections to the hospital through the Mechanics’ Institute, the easiest route would be to apply to them, via him, as a volunteer. Miss Blessing’s name need not be mentioned, and Mother could scarcely object to such a saintly ambition, since she’s the one who’s been urging me to live for others instead of myself. For a few hours I’m sure this is the way forward, and decide to broach it with Daddy at the first opportunity – even tonight, if Mother is still in bed with her headache.
Yet I hesitate. The truth is that meeting Miss Blessing again has raised unquiet spirits from the past.
FOURTEEN
1926
I remember the first time I heard Miss Blessing play Sheep May Safely Graze. It must have been a whole year after my night in the cellar because it was Winter again, and smoke hung in a yellow blanket over the city. One Saturday, Mother took me with her to buy vests. We were to stop off at the Mission on the way because she had to see to something. I said I’d wait outside; it was not my idea of fun to go into the Mission, with the chill that crept down inside you and the smell of damp hassocks – I had quite enough of that on Sundays. But Mother would have none of it, of course; no leaving me in the evil streets of St Ann’s, though they always seemed quiet and harmless to me, just horse manure, and paper bags blowing, wher
e the girls with no stockings picked their way between the cobbles.
Mother instructed me to stay in the chapel porch on a pew by the door. ‘No slouching. You can practise sitting nicely, for once. Remember that means no closer than four inches from the back.’ She said this before Mission every Sunday and it seemed unfair she had to say it on a Saturday as well.
As soon as she had disappeared towards the vestry I squirmed around to try and count the inches between me and the wooden pew-back, but it was hopeless. My feet almost touched the floor these days. I was definitely growing.
Suddenly, from the depths of the chapel came the quavery notes of the harmonium: someone was practising for tomorrow. I jumped up and opened the heavy swing door a crack. This door was peculiar to the Mission; I couldn’t imagine one anywhere else. It had a Mission clammy feel, and was covered in cold brown material like car seats, but not leather, hammered down with brass studs. Peering round it, I could see no sign of Mother so I slipped inside, leaning on the door to make it close with a quiet swish, not a thwack, as when latecomers hurried through in their embarrassment. The harmonium, as I have described before, was on the far side beneath the pulpit by the front pews. I slipped around the back in the shadow of the gallery and tiptoed up the side aisle. As I had suspected, the harmonium player was Miss Blessing. I waited, listening. I knew the piece and loved it: Sheep May Safely Graze. I had found the music for it myself inside the music stool at home. I fancied Our Own Mother played it and it made me think of green hills and sunshine in the Derbyshire Dales and the woolly white sheep tugging at the grass with no one to bother them, in the days before she had gone and died. I could manage the beginning; it wasn’t very hard, just two flats. But quickly it went into big split chords in the left hand with accidentals, and some of the chords that weren’t split had four notes and I couldn’t reach them all.
Miss Blessing was concentrating on a difficult bit and didn’t notice me at first; when she did, she jumped back with a little frown and her fingers flew off the keys. ‘Annie Lang! Gracious. You gave me a fright. How long have you been there?’ She seemed different. Her voice was snappy.
