by Ros Franey
The neighbour shook her head. ‘Don’t know owt about any son: Edwina and Mildred is all I know. Anyway, I can’t be standing out here. You’d better get home to your family, young lady. We don’t want another one disappearing. Maybe your mam can find out where Edwina is in Canada.’
She turned and shuffled back inside her own house. Numbly, I made my way out of the front gate and retraced my steps to the bus stop, the bag containing Nana’s rug and dog biscuits dragging now at my shoulder, and she still trotting beside me, none the wiser as to how her life had almost changed for ever. All the way home on the two buses, I stood crushed against shoppers and men returning from the football match, trying to shield Nana from their feet and their bags. Of course it was wonderful still to have her with us, but how were we going to save her now? The neighbour had said there was trouble. Was Miss Blessing’s mother in some sort of difficulty, then? Was that why she and Daddy had looked so serious last Tuesday? All I could hope for was that Millie Blessing would turn up at the Mission tomorrow as usual, her mother having moved house for some reason. Yes, surely that would be it. Then Beatrice and I could maybe speak to her on the quiet after Sunday School when Mother wouldn’t be around; everything could still be arranged before Bea went back to school on Monday.
But Miss Blessing was not at morning service. The harmonium was played by Mr Wilkinson, which was upsetting in itself – to know that he must be quite pleased about her not being there. Nor did she appear at Sunday School. I sat and listened for the umpteenth time to the Raising of Lazarus with a double sense of dread. What could have happened to the family? Where had they gone? And who would help us rescue Nana and be our Good Samaritan now?
SIXTEEN
1932
Tuesday, June 28
That brief meeting with Millie Blessing after hockey all those years ago is the last time I saw her – until our meeting in the hospital chapel. And the more I think about it now, the more uneasy I am about asking Daddy for help with my plan to become a volunteer. If her name is still forbidden, and Mother and Daddy somehow know what has happened to her, might they not block my scheme on the grounds I could bump into her around the hospital? And besides, Miss Blessing herself has told me I mustn’t breathe a word… I will speak to Beatrice because she will know what to do. As luck has it, she’s coming home for a few days’ holiday next weekend. I must be patient and wait till then.
Monday, July 11
But by the time of Beatrice’s visit, I’m so suspicious of my entire family that I decide it’s too dangerous even to mention to her about Miss Blessing being in Mapperley Hospital. I’m afraid Bea will tell me I mustn’t have anything to do with going in there to find out why she disappeared. So I simply explain that in visiting Fred I’ve become interested in the patients and, since Mother wants me to do some good works, I’ve decided to volunteer.
Beatrice gives me one of her looks. ‘This isn’t your usual style, Annie.’
‘What d’you mean? What is my usual style?’
‘I wouldn’t have said it’s visiting the sick, for one thing!’
I ignore this rather insulting remark. ‘Well, I don’t have much choice, do I? Mother keeps on at me. She’s already got me doing lots of boring stuff in the parish; if I volunteered at the hospital it’d get me out of some of that.’
This seems to ring true with Beatrice. ‘So have you asked her?’
‘Not yet. I wanted your advice: how do I approach it so she doesn’t say no?’
Beatrice laughs. ‘I’m not a clairvoyant! How do I know?’
‘Oh … you’re good at these things, Bea. You know how to make it sound all right.’ I test out Miss Blessing’s suggestion. ‘Shall I tell Mother I’m thinking of becoming an almoner?’
Beatrice wrinkles up her face. ‘No,’ she says, after a moment.
‘Why not? Isn’t it a good thing to be?’
‘Yes, but not for you!’ She bursts out laughing. ‘You’re not the type, Annie. She’d smell a rat.’
‘Why am I not the type? What is the type?’
Beatrice sighs. She thinks for a moment and doesn’t answer the question. ‘Listen, you’re about to go to university and study languages. If you start telling her you want to be an almoner, she could see a way to stop you doing your degree. You don’t need French and German to be one of those.’
This is the thing about Beatrice. She can be prissy and bossy and sometimes a bit religious, but she’s wise. ‘All right,’ I agree. ‘So what do I say?’
‘Tell her the truth, Annie. She’s not going to eat you; she’s perfectly reasonable. Tell her you’ve been visiting Fred—’
‘She only thinks I’ve been there once! I go on her Bible study afternoons.’
‘… Tell her you’ve visited Fred, then, and one of the nurses at the hospital told you they’re looking for volunteers and you thought it would be a good idea to—’
‘Broaden my outlook?’ I suggest brightly.
‘No, that will alarm her no end!’ Beatrice is giggling. ‘Tell her you’re a daft prima donna and you want to visit raving loonies because it’s more dramatic than visiting the ordinary old sick of St Ann’s!’
So then I throw a cushion at Beatrice and realise I’m going to have to think up my own reason.
In the end, it’s one of those conversations that’s simpler than I think it’s going to be. I tell Mother that when I visited Fred I’d met a sister who had mentioned they were looking for volunteers, and I thought that in my endless free time before starting my university course, it would be a worthwhile thing to do. And she considers for a moment, and says that would be acceptable, but that I must take care not to be influenced by some of the godless attitudes I might encounter in the hospital – by which I think she means that they might not all be practising Nonconformists. I promise her I will hold fast to my faith, and that’s that.
Far more problematic, as it turns out, is how to get into the long-term ward. I decide to approach Sister Bellamy, because fearsome as she is, she has already given me permission to visit Fred and has saved me from the bossy nurse in the chapel. This time, my note is answered with an invitation to attend for interview, and I find myself sitting on an uncomfortable leather armchair in front of her shiny desk.
Sister Bellamy asks what skills I think I have to bestow on the unfortunate patients of Mapperley. I have no skills. I am lost for words. I can feel the back of my frock sticking to the leather chair. There is a silence so long and terrible that I almost blurt out about being an almoner but manage to stop myself. Beatrice was perfectly right: Sister Bellamy would see straight through it.
‘Cat got your tongue, girl? You must think you have something to offer, or you wouldn’t be here!’
‘I – I can listen,’ I say falteringly.
‘You can listen?’ She glares at me. ‘And what does that mean, pray?’
My mind is blank. I don’t possess a single quality of the slightest use, apart from listening. I want to run away. ‘My brother—’ I begin, and tail off into silence.
‘What about him?’
‘He. Um, I think. He finds it helpful to … to talk.’ I look at her hopefully.
‘Go on.’
‘Poor Fred.’ To my intense annoyance my eyes have filled with tears. I can’t speak.
‘You’re not going to be any good if you blub over the patients,’ says Sister Bellamy.
‘I’m sorry.’ I dab my nose with a hanky. ‘It’s because he’s my brother and I love him, Sister. I wouldn’t be so hopeless with the others. But I think it helps him to talk and have me listen, and we can sort of get back in touch…’ (What’s this drivel? But she’s listening now.) ‘I mean, even if we’re just talking about silly things, I feel he’s better when I leave than when I arrive and – no, I’m sorry, that sounds arrogant. I don’t mean that, Sister.’
‘I know what you mean, Miss Lang. And because you know your brother, knew him before his breakdown and see him now, you have some insight into what can happ
en to someone when they become ill. Is that it?’
I nod gratefully. ‘Something like that, Sister. Not understand everyone, of course – I wouldn’t presume to – but perhaps I could help others. A little.’
‘So maybe you could visit other patients with short-term problems similar to your brother’s, you mean?’
I am glad to hear Fred’s problems are considered short-term, but this is not what I mean at all. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I don’t think it would make a difference, short-term, long-term; in fact, perhaps if some of them have been here for a long time and maybe don’t see many people, it could be helpful to visit them …?’
Sister sighs. ‘My dear, this is very laudable, but I don’t think you have any concept of what it means to be a long-term patient in this hospital. We deal with some of the most disturbed creatures it’s possible to encounter anywhere in the system. Talking and listening doesn’t arise.’
‘But not for all of them, surely?’ I ask, a little too sharply. Is Miss Blessing a ‘disturbed creature’ in Sister Bellamy’s book?
After her recent thaw, she seems to freeze over again. ‘You’re very young and you have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Lang.’ She places both hands flat on her desk to indicate our interview is over. ‘I am, however, persuaded that you could be useful in some of our milder wards. I am happy to refer you to the relevant authority.’ She glances down at the ledger in front of her. ‘We have your address. We shall write to you shortly. Thank you for coming to see me.’
She nods a dismissal. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ I say as humbly as possible. I stand up to leave. ‘It’s very kind of you, Sister. Goodbye.’
Monday, July 25
So for the past ten days I’ve been taking around cups of tea and talking to patients in the female equivalent of Fred’s ward. Sometimes we’re even allowed to walk in the hospital grounds. I have to admit it’s quite different from visiting the sick of St Ann’s. For a start, they’re depressed and sometimes a little delusional, while the sick of St Ann’s are depressed and all too realistic about what’s wrong with them, which is mostly that they’re poor and can’t afford the medicines they need for themselves and their children. I like the Mapperley patients for the fact their illnesses tend to make them less bound by the rules of good behaviour, and also I don’t have to read the Bible or pray with them or any of that. Best of all, I can forget that I’m the granddaughter of Pastor Eames. All that Lady Bountiful stuff is loathsome and makes it all so false and stilted when I have to go to St Ann’s with Mother – or even on my own – because the Mission parishioners are so deferential to me, a mere stupid girl who knows nothing, that I sometimes want to give them a good shake!
But much as I like going to this ward in Mapperley, it is not where I need to be. I am keeping on the lookout, and trying to see a way of getting myself transferred to the long-term women’s ward. So far, I haven’t the faintest idea how I’m going to do it, and precious time is passing.
Monday, August 1
Then suddenly it happens. We volunteers have a little room called ‘Sister’s room’ in which we leave our coats and lock our bags in a locker. There is a noticeboard in there with news for the volunteers, notices of open days and appeals for people to make cakes, and so on. Today, there’s a new notice:
DOES ANYONE PLAY THE PIANO? ACCOMPANIST WANTED URGENTLY
For staff choir concert on Sept 10th. To take over from their usual accompanist for the concert itself; handover during August. Please apply to Staff Nurse Jennings, LT Women’s ward.
It’s the last line that holds my attention: the long-term women’s ward is Miss Blessing’s ward; surely she must be their ‘usual accompanist’. I go to the nurses’ station on my own ward.
‘Excuse me,’ I ask Sister Jones. ‘I wonder if you can tell me how I can contact Staff Nurse Jennings?’
The sister looks up from her writing. ‘Ooh, Miss Lang, it’s not about the piano playing, is it? Do you play?’
I tell her I do, as long as it’s nothing too enormously difficult.
‘I’m in the choir myself,’ she tells me. ‘We’ve been left in the lurch by our usual accompanist who has decided to take a holiday, if you please, at the very end of August!’
This is disappointing news: I was so sure the regular piano-player must be Miss Blessing, but I listen politely. ‘So this person will teach me the music before he or she goes away?’ I ask.
Sister shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lang, I’m not explaining very well: our regular accompanist, for the rehearsals you understand, is a patient on the long-term women’s ward. She’s awfully good, but of course she can’t possibly perform in the concerts so, as a rule, Mr Beamish takes over for the actual event. It’s Mr Beamish who’s going on holiday, not the long-term patient,’ she adds unnecessarily.
I can’t help asking, ‘Why could the patient herself not accompany for the concert?’
Sister Jones looks a little taken aback. ‘Well, naturally not. She’s a patient. On that particular ward. It would be out of the question.’
I have a brief mental picture of Miss Blessing sitting on the platform during the concert wearing an elegant evening dress and her blue shoes, chained to Doris the security guard. ‘I suppose it would,’ I say.
‘But, Miss Lang, she’s not violent and perfectly under control. You’d be absolutely safe with her, if that’s what’s worrying you. Truly,’ she gives a tremulous smile, ‘you’d be doing us an enormous favour. We have been quite at a loss …’
‘That’s fine, Sister. I’d be happy to do it,’ I tell her.
Sister Jones claps her hands. ‘What a brick you are! Just wait till I tell Muriel Jennings. She’ll be thrilled!’
‘Just as long as I can meet the patient and go through the music with plenty of time to practise.’
‘That isn’t a problem at all. You can meet Nurse Jennings and Blessing – that’s the patient’s name, you know – the next time you’re in.’
And that will be very soon! It feels, at last, as if I’m about to go through a door that’s been closed since I was a child. I start to think more about what happened in those days; how much I knew, and how much I did not.
SEVENTEEN
1926
The Monday morning after our failure to give Nana to the Blessings, Beatrice and I said goodbye to her with heavy hearts. But no sooner had I reached school, than I had a shock that knocked all thought of our beloved dog out of my head. Under cover of her desk-lid as we were tidying our desks before lessons, Marjorie hissed at me: ‘I heard your Miss Blessing’s gone missing.’
I was truly shaken. Marjorie was not a member of our church; where had she heard such a thing? ‘Who says?’ I whispered fiercely.
‘Our Iris is seeing Ernest Wilkinson. He says his dad had to play the harmonium Sunday. He said it were embarrassing,’ she smirked.
I didn’t want to tell Marjorie what I had discovered at the weekend. ‘I’ve no idea where she’s gone,’ I said.
She gave me a look. Then she added, ‘If you ask me, she’s been kidnapped, same as those others.’
At that moment Mrs Spencer came into the room and we all had to shut our desks and stand up. ‘Good morning, Mrs Spencer,’ we chorused, and that was the start of the normal school day. We were doing the Wars of the Roses, but I couldn’t concentrate. Perhaps it was true that Miss Blessing had been kidnapped – but if so, why would her mother have to move house? The neighbour said it was sudden and there was ‘trouble’, and We don’t want another one disappearing, but you wouldn’t move house if your daughter was kidnapped – why would you? I was worrying about this so much all day that I almost forgot to worry about Nana and it was only when I returned home from school that I saw to my immense relief that she was still there.
Later, when Beatrice came home, we compared notes. ‘In my class they’re saying another girl’s gone,’ she told me.
I nodded miserably. ‘Same here,’ I said. ‘Marjorie Bagshaw thinks it’s Miss Blessing.
D’you know, Bea, her sister Iris is friends with the son of the Verger, weird Mr Wilkinson. Imagine!’
‘Well, there’s a reliable witness!’ said Beatrice huffily. ‘I think the two things are getting muddled. Maybe another girl has gone missing. Then a family leaves town and people jump to conclusions. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Miss Blessing has disappeared because her mother’s had to move away for some reason. Nothing more sinister than that. Trust the Bagshaws!’
But, rumour or not, there was no getting away from the fact that Miss Blessing had apparently vanished. Her name was all over our class next day and everyone seemed to assume she had been taken by the mysterious abductor. Marjorie Bagshaw was parading around that morning like Princess Alice on account of having met the latest Missing Person, and ‘being almost the last to see her alive’, as though she was dead or something. Of course, I knew Miss Blessing far better than she did, but something stopped me from saying so and Marjorie was quite happy to soak up the attention.
After break, when we were changing our shoes in the cloakroom, she said, ‘Bet the police will be round your house, anyway.’
I looked at her, startled. Did she suspect Mother of being somehow involved with the missing girls? ‘What for?’ I asked.
‘Well …’ Marjorie paused dramatically, pulling her shoelaces tight. ‘They’ll be wanting to speak to everyone who knew her, won’t they?’
‘My mother didn’t really know her,’ I said. ‘She’s just part of our church.’
‘I’m not talking about your mother, silly.’ She took her left foot off the bench and stood to attention with an air of drama. ‘It’s your father who knew her, isn’t it? It’s him they’ll be wanting to interview.’
Interview? I suddenly felt very scared. ‘My dad doesn’t know Miss Blessing.’
