“I tried to mix and match.” She noticed how pleasure lit up the young face and felt gratified.
“What does that mean?” Her eyes smiled at him, no longer impatient if she did not understand. She would learn.
“You don’t have to have one outfit only. Sometimes you can wear this with this, another time …” she picked up a different skirt: “… you can wear it with this. It just depends what you feel like on the day.”
She regarded him and laughed. “You look funny standing there holding women’s clothes,” then took the garments and began to see how they could go together. The observation pulled Mallory up short. Still a man! How will I deal with this? Her eyes narrowed as she watched her open each bag in turn. Eventually she came to the ones with the underwear.
“Listen Jellie, I’ll leave you to sort through everything and send the nurse to help you dress. She’ll come and tell me when you’re ready and then I have a surprise for you, OK?”
Nigella inclined her head. “That will be very nice.”
“Great.” She went to the nursing office and quickly an aide was dispatched to help. She had time to herself for thought. Things could not go on like this. Nigella would have to know sometime and that ‘sometime’ should be soon. How would she take it after everything else? How should she do this? Was she strong enough to cope with such a revelation? Discouraging misgivings began to fill her with reservations. Could she herself handle the fallout? The repercussions could be shattering. I could stand to lose all that I hold dear!
She wanted to be the most important person in Nigella’s life. She wanted her trust and yes – her love. But did she have the right? How could she earn trust based on a lie? Especially, did she have any right to receive love under false pretences? She sat and pondered.
The nurse’s aide was a West Indian woman from Jamaica, large and motherly with a bubbly personality to go with her cherubic face. Nigella was not only surprised by her appearance, but really intrigued by the accent. As they worked through the dressing process, Rhianna kept up a lively banter and Nigella found out more about her. She chose to match a pale turquoise, long sleeved sweater with a lacy neckline, with a two-toned brown skirt sewn together from triangular panels. The hem flared out and the whole swished gracefully about her legs. It appeared Mallory had chosen well. The footwear she found not as elegant as her button boots, but used now to seeing her feet bare the sandals passed muster.
Rhianna said the blue ribbons looked pretty in her hair. It was parted in the centre and tied either side in entwined spirals. Eventually, once everything was complete Nigella stood before her and asked: “Do you think he’ll like how I look?”
“Who do you mean, Dearie?”
“Why, Mallory of course.”
“Oh, you mean Miss Mason.”
“No, I mean Mister Mallory Mason.” She looked at the black face and considered her foreigness must account for the woman’s confusion.
Poor girl, Rhianna thought. But then head injuries can do strange things. Look at that Jimmy Hanpton in #306 and he’s only in his twenties. She gentled her tone as if to a child. “Mallory Mason is the Social Work student, appointed by Dr. Stubbs to supervise your rehabilitation until you’re better.”
“You mean Mallory Mason is here on doctor’s orders?” she asked slowly, hardly able to move her lips. Her body had suddenly become constricted, the muscles unable to obey her commands. This is just work to him, her inner voice taunted her.
“That’s right.” Perhaps her brain was not so addled after all. She could understand a simple explanation. “She’s in her final year and you’re one of her case load. She’s very keen, always checking at the station that everything is as it should be. She’s never behind in her records.”
The girl’s face had blanched. She did not look well. “Sit here Dearie and I’ll go get her for you.” Rhianna guided her to a chair and Nigella collapsed, as if in a trance saying nothing, her mind all the while whirling at a dizzying speed. Oh too, too cruel! And she had basked in his regard. The knowledge of it had given her comfort and solace in those desolate hours. She had built her hopes like a house of cards and now it had come tumbling down. All of it lay destroyed, crumbled into useless blocks about her. It had all been specious, nothing but illusion. When she had thought they would be together – none of it was true. She had no-one to turn to in this inexplicable world.
Malicious fate had dealt her an indurate hand which she could not play. How could she continue when there was no-one here for her? No caring – no loving! She had thought deep down that he did love her. Had believed she had seen it in those searching, magnetic eyes; felt it in his kiss – but another woman. That could not be. That was unnatural. She remembered her mother’s shudder at the mere mention of Oscar Wilde. She felt her mother’s shudder of horror, even now. Her feelings had been for a man. Like every other young girl that was normal. Emotions of this sort for a woman, it was repulsive. She did not want to see him/her, ever again. It was disgusting what he – what she had done. This is sickening and repellent! Reaching for the bell to ring for the nurse to stop her, the door opened and Mallory came in.
“You do look the pretty one,” she admired, but Nigella turned her head away. There was no responsive smile, no playful rejoinder. “Jellie, what’s the matter? Did the nurse upset you?”
She kept her head averted and refused to speak. She did not want to see this person, let alone converse. She had given the doctor the silent treatment. She could do it to him/her. Mallory walked around to the front. She turned her head to the other side. “Nigella, don’t keep doing this. Look at me, what’s the matter?” Worry began to gnaw her insides. The nurse must have said something. “Did Rhianna upset you?”
She turned to her this time, eyes cold, voice brittle. “You have lied to me. Everything you have said to me has been a deceit.” She looked away and muttered: “I never want to see you again. The sight of you repulses me. I am thoroughly disgusted.”
Mallory took a step back as if struck, then turned away to the window. Now she knew exactly what had happened. It was a long sigh that came from deep within, as her fractured gaze roamed the lawns and flower beds. The morning sun split the air into brilliant shafts, which enhanced the floral colours, but she saw no beauty. A sudden rush of scalding, salt tears stung her eyes as she expelled a long breath and felt her heart beat painfully against her ribs. A pressure was rising in her stomach. A heaviness which at first she could not identify – perhaps contrition? Then, as it started to tighten she realised it was fear. That possibility she had dreaded earlier? What could she do? Should she remove her presence as had been requested? Allow her time to get over this? Would she get over it alone? Mal don’t panic.
She pulled her eyes from that innocent scene, back into this room of contempt and disgrace. They focused on the girl. The mortification was unconcealed as a fleeting look of reproach suffused across the inflamed features. Large, slow tears fell from her lids to drain unheeded down her face. Mallory reached for a tissue and leaned forward.
“Don’t … don’t touch me!” The harsh voice flashed with rebellion as her hand came up to ward off the approach. “Please leave.”
“Nigella, won’t you even allow me to explain myself?” She waited, still as a statue, her breath held in suspension. There was no response. “Can you at least hear me out?” A dark note of pleading crept into her voice. She moved to pull up a chair as the door opened and the other occupant of the room was wheeled in. Instantly, she changed her tone.
“Oh, hello Mavis,” she greeted and straightened up. Nigella said nothing.
“We were just leaving …” she told the assistant: “… for a stroll in the garden. It’s such a fine day.”
“That will be nice. Nigella needs to get out a bit more,” the nurse agreed.
At first she thought she was going to resist, but she did get up. She collected her coat in case the sun, which at the moment was shining majestically, went in. It was indeed a radiant day. The ta
ll spikes of the late blooming Lupins were still brilliant in their bi-colour combinations, reaching high toward the light. The sky was an intense blue, causing the small, fluffy clouds to stand out in silver relief. One of those glorious English, autumnal days that make you think winter will never come.
It was anything but glorious for these poor souls, locked in their private torment, seeing no way out. They walked in silence, Nigella very slow, but Mallory was not bold enough to offer her arm. Anyway, she was sure the offer would be knocked back. There had been no doubt she had this coming, but she had not anticipated a nurse would be the instrument of her downfall.
Not wanting to over-tire her, as quickly as possible she located a seat, a rough bench deep in shadow close to the boundary fence, away from the sunny locations where other residents took their ease. However, they could observe the sun’s rays sparkling on the still water of the over-grown pond. They brought a touch of gold to the bank of Weeping Willows.
“Would you like your coat?”
Nigella shook her head. From her non-verbal communications she sensed the previous outburst had not been a true reflection of her real feelings. She had come along with her; she was sitting here next to her. If I can just strike the right note then perhaps all will not be lost.
She leaned forward, elbows on knees hands clasped, her hair bleaching to an ashblonde in the slanting light. Nigella was impressed by the glimmer of the coppery streaks, but then averted her eyes. It was not for her to like anything about this … this … horrible person. Mallory looked to the ground, affliction swirling in the blue depths of her eyes, mixed with reticence.
“Nigella, I would appreciate this chance to explain to you some of the very difficult problems I’ve had to face and how it all came about. If you agree, I just need you to be patient and then make your own judgement … after you know everything.” She turned to face her now, her earnest eyes searching for a positive response. The girl did not look at her, but continued to sit rigidly upright, arms stiffly folded, but nor did she object.
It took some time for Mallory to cover the story, her voice becoming remote and husky in memory. By the end Nigella had turned toward her, her spine slightly slumped; hands folded in her lap.
“You look chilled. Would you like your coat?”
“Yes please.” She slipped it around her shoulders and Nigella pulled the empty sleeves across her chest.
“I’m not trying to make excuses. I know it all sounds so incredible.” She returned once more to her exploration of the gravel, not wanting to reveal the rawness of the heartache which had been tormenting her since that unnerving outburst, then added: “I do so need you to believe me.” Directly, she too, lapsed into silence.
Momentarily their lives were held in an intermission. She had said all she could and now she was out of words. It was up to Nigella. She tilted her head and regarded the pale face with watchful focus. The depth of the green eyes had intensified; the pupils almost black under the shade of the Chestnut canopy. Although there had been few words spoken, Mallory had heard remorse and compassion softly touching the voice. Understanding what the girl was feeling had been gained more through intonation, than the words themselves. She did not know the source of such deep feeling, but was moved by the sincerity.
Suddenly their relationship had reached a new plateau of accord and discernment. They were genuine, kindred spirits locked together in a shared experience of penetrating insight. They were, for each other, a support and help-meet. They could give what no-one else in the whole world was capable of – true empathy. Without speaking out loud a bond had been forged. They were connected at the heart level. It was an invisible thread, but the synthesis was such it could not be disconnected.
Mallory delivered Nigella to the dining hall in time for lunch. “I’ll see you again after dinner.” The girl watched the movement of the woman’s lips, then looked into the clear blue of her eyes and smiled her thanks.
“I look forward to your return,” she replied with level honesty and so their lives continued, each along its separate track.
Although frank revelations had been admitted on both sides, neither had laid bare the depth of their true love. Mallory’s call: to avoid creating further tribulation. Nor could she risk any more distressing alienation. Enough she had not been banished. There were truths this girl need not combat and she knew her love for her would sustain itself, unrequited. Her driving force was to be in Nigella’s life; to be here to bring her forward into today’s world with all its vibrant abundance. There were no trying demands she would make that could possibly be construed as egotistical. She did love her; and it was devotedly. She would strive for this love to remain beyond any possible accusation of vain or oppressive self-interest.
Nigella did not know where she was in all of this, except contrite over the vehemence of her outburst. She regretted that impassioned anger, desperately wanted to make amends, but did not know how. For her part she knew her feelings had not changed. She had thought the discovery of her real identity would instantly destroy the love; turn her against her – but it had not. Now she was totally confused.
Does this make me one of those strange women?
Mallory had explained why she had carried on the masquerade, but she had never said she felt love. It was just her caring for her that she herself, had misconstrued. There was no fault on Mallory’s part. She was innocent. She was the one, and she alone, who secretly harboured these unnatural feelings. Oh twice cruel world!
Suddenly, everything that had ensued this past twenty-four hours boiled up and surfaced, uncontrollably. Her spirit was not strong enough to bear the load. The dam broke; she was engulfed in a tidal-wave of self-reproach and recrimination as once again the tears flowed, unheaded.
Oh Jellie, have you no back-bone? Where’s your self-determination?
She tried to pull herself together. She had vowed to support Mallory in all that she attempted and she would honour that vow, but she must keep hidden the depth of her feelings. They had run deep before, but now her love ran unfathomed. Darling Mal was her whole world, especially after all that she had shared. If her heart could speak it would reveal her devotion. But her adoration would have to be her secret; a hidden passion that no-one must know. It was as if she stood on the edge of time, detached and distant, holding onto an enormous emptiness. Only Mal could keep her grounded in the real world. Without her, her mind would explode; shatter into a thousand shards of broken images. Without her, she would surely fall to pieces and disintegrate.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mal had to put all her concentration into her studies. She determined there would be no hold-up to a successful graduation. In the time that remained she did all she could to fulfill the necessary final requirements. Consequently, although she spent her evenings with Nigella when she could, their exchanges were minimal.
Nigella for her part tried to be understanding. She knew this was important. However, now that awareness of her true circumstances had thoroughly registered, she was full of unanswered questions, not least about Mal’s real identity. Nevertheless, a sort of harmony developed and while Mal studied, she was able to carry out her own form of learning. She had a pile of books from the library, there being so much to catch up on. They no longer had their play readings, but she had finished it by herself and already started her study of twentieth century novelists. She had taken to John Boynton Priestly, especially his Good Companions. She was thinking to ask for his next one Angel Pavement, but feared she might have to move on faster than that; there were so many in waiting. Her other studies included high school geography and social history. She found it all fascinating, but her level of concentration fluctuated making progress laboriously slow. She was encouraged by the fact that some days were better than others.
She discovered Katrina to be a lovely lady. She was grateful for her help to fathom out the newspapers. She found the information in them dense and difficult. Sometimes she would catch her looking at her quizzically when sh
e passed a remark on an article they were interpreting, as if she had said something uncommon. When asked about it, she would never explain. People could be so frustrating. The days went by, following a more or less predictable pattern. This suited her very well. Regularity, with its lack of surprises, helped her find structure and built her confidence.
It had been a week since Mal had finished her formal studies and was spending her time helping out in the Social Work Department. Monica McBean, the department head, appreciated her assistance and she appreciated the money. With all the seniors gone the staff felt the vacuum keenly. Caseloads in the child safety division had been increasing at an alarming rate. It was not clear why this explosion should have happened just now. Demographics had failed to come up with any clear reason. However, the South Birmingham region was finding it almost impossible to keep up with the demand for family assessments and the possible subsequent placement, into foster care. They all felt over-stretched.
Released from her former tyrannies, Mal’s evenings belonged to her again. She had time to go through Nigella’s lessons and liked having different problems to tackle. Also, being able to clarify details and solve any knotty bits expanded her mind. This new preoccupation was therapeutic. Waiting for results was nerve wracking and sometimes it became too much. They were to be published in the Social Work Gazette, but that was still a month away. Meanwhile, helping Nigella, watching her improve in leaps and bounds was very rewarding. The speed of her progress amazed her. She thought the medication must be kicking in, on the button. Sleep was not so essential and the mood swings had dropped right off.
Til Morning Comes Page 33
