Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Deszree reacted positively to Mal, too. Showing off the layout of the little unit she felt she would have no reason to be fearful. After the last attempt at sharing caveat emptor were her by-words so this time she was trying to be more objective. She needed help though; rents had started to go through the roof. “I had someone-else reply to the ad., so I’ll have to get back to you. Is that OK?” She did not want to say ‘yes’ right away.

  “Fine. How soon can you let me know?” Mal was disappointed. She had hoped to get herself settled before Nigella. She had enough saved for rent in advance and being a sublet, Deszree was not asking for key money. Still, perhaps ‘after’ would be better. Anyway, these things had their own time-table and what would be would be.

  As it happened, she did make her move before Nigella. That weekend she settled into Deszree’s place and not until the following Wednesday could Nigella be transferred to Fulton House. However, it was just as well there was a hold up in the vacancies. A considerable amount of discussion and cajoling had been required to bring her around to accepting the translocation. At one time she would be all for it, another time, completely against. Mal had no way of knowing what to expect one day to the next. Eventually she was reconciled to the idea of people her own age being better for her. The problem stemmed not only from a fear of change, but she liked being treated as special by the old ladies. They appreciated her gentleness and liked to ‘mother’ her. She felt comfortable with them and did not want to lose their fussing. Even the nurses had a soft spot for her.

  “You’ll make new friends Jellie and have lots of fun you’ll see.”

  At Fulton House the rooms were compact, but her room had everything she might need including a small desk and chair, as well as a mirrored dressing table and a single door closet. By now she was used to the fact that furniture was not made out of timber and beds did not need to have a board at each end. The house dated from the mid-fifties when the mock Tudor/Elizabethan combinations were popular. Of modest dimensions, it still retained a good sized garden and the original large rooms had been successfully divided for the increase in residents. Unfortunately, kitchens in those days were not generous, but everyone managed good-naturedly in the cramped space. There was a bathroom on each floor and money had been found, at the time of conversion, to install a guest closet in the basement. The location was the leafy suburb of Edgbaston; more suitable than one of the modern subdivisions. Mal thought Nigella might even find it interesting to walk to the cricket, when it was in season.

  On being introduced to Brendan, Nigella retreated into herself not knowing how to respond. Cory, being older and more fatherly was not so threatening. At the time of her arrival few people were about, so the house was quiet and after she and Mal had put way her few possessions and had explored, she was able to stretch out. Mal was now free to complete the paper-work so went down to the basement.

  She had been impressed with Cory, finding him capable and understanding. He had an avuncular appearance being somewhat corpulent with thinning hair he did not try to hide. Most of all she appreciated that he had the young people’s interests at heart. He was willing to keep an extra eye out for Nigella.

  “I’ll come round as often as I can Cory. I’d like to take her outside, too.”

  “That’s all right. We have a book you can sign for times in and times out … and of course the name of the client. We don’t call them patients here,” he explained, smiling. She handed over the documentation naming her as official guardian and he took photocopies for the girl’s file, adding them to the Disability Services forms authorising the cheques. The business side of the settlement completed she asked for more detail regarding the other young people.

  “At the moment we have almost a full house and with Nigella, an equal number of boys and girls, that’s ten all told. You haven’t met our ‘house-mother’ yet, Rachelle Sellwood. Everyone calls her Mom. I’ve passed on Dr. Stubbs’ report so she’s up to speed on Nigella’s condition and meds. Come with me, I’ll introduce you.” She followed him upstairs to a room centrally located, off the living area. A light, warm voice called them in following Cory’s knock.

  To her surprise Rachelle was tall and willowy, beautiful enough to be a model. She guessed she was in her late twenties and had the most intense brown eyes, the same colour as her spiky hair, which this month had been decorated with an orange streak. When she thought about it, she could see how both the girls and boys would respond to someone like her – responsible yet trendy; not too much older. No generation gap.

  “Rachelle has not long been with us, but already everyone is very comfortable with her.”

  “To begin I think Nigella will want to call you Miss. Sellwood; a figure in authority you see. I don’t think she’ll be comfortable with ‘Mom’. She might get to Rachelle eventually,” Mal explained. They looked surprised. Usually their young folk could not wait to get past stuffy formalities. “Since the accident she’s become extremely reticent, you might even say old-fashioned.” She was trying to make her sound not too strange. They found this weird enough. “She can be child-like at times.” Nor did she want to put these people off before they had even met her.

  “That’s all right, Mallory. We’ll take our time. Go gently,” Cory assured her. Rachelle nodded her endorsement.

  “I think it might be a good idea if you meet her while I’m still here. Is that possible?” Mal addressed herself to Rachelle who readily agreed.

  “Just give me five minutes to finish this and I’ll be right up.”

  With that they left and Mal returned to room #9. It was the one next to the bathroom which added to its convenience. Through all the traumas and with her cocktail of pills, Nigella’s periods had not yet resumed. One less complication! She awakened her gently and prepared her for the meeting with the ‘house-mother’.

  “You’ll be able to go to her for anything you want to know, or need. Her name is Miss Sellwood. Think of her as a younger Mrs. Aldred.”

  Nigella nodded then asked: “Why isn’t she called Mrs. Sellwood then?” Mal was taken by surprise.

  “Why would she be, she’s not married?”

  “Silly! All housekeepers are called Mrs. whether they’re married or not.”

  Mal thought back to her Guilfoyle days. So that’s why there wasn’t a ring on Mrs. Aldred’s finger. A smile of understanding touched her lips. “They don’t follow that convention anymore and when you get to know her, it’ll be OK to use her first name. She won’t be one to stand on ceremony like Mrs. Aldred.” A flash of recollection: the day Mrs. A. had shown her to the carriage house. What a distance had existed in their wave-lengths. A chuckle escaped her – she could afford to now.

  Nigella for her part was just about to object that she would never be so rude, when a dainty knock heralded Rachelle’s arrival. She looked to Mal who nodded that she should speak.

  “Come in.” The words were almost a croak and much too quiet. Mal mouthed ‘again’ raising her hand and she said it louder.

  Rachelle was perfect. She took the other chair and said how pleased she was that Nigella had joined them. She explained about dinner and that everyone would be down by half-past six and that usually they went to the games room, or watched TV afterwards.

  “This first night Jellie, if you want to be on your own, you can come back to your room,” Mal reassured her.

  A nervous frown clouded her face. “Where will you be?”

  Rachelle spoke up. “You’ll be all right here Nigella. We have some other new residents, so we’ll all be getting to know each other.”

  “I’ll come visit you after work about five o’clock. I’ll see you then and you can tell me all about it.” Mal injected a hearty note to her voice, but in truth was apprehensive about this first night. Don’t be such a worrywart she’s in good hands; she tried to bolster herself. Eventually, Rachelle went off to organize dinner and left them setting up what looked like an artist’s easel.

  “You have your books and music Jellie
. Try not to stay up too late. They’ll probably check on you at bed-time.”

  “How will I know when it’s ‘too late’?”

  “Oh yes.” She looked about, but there was no clock. “I’ll tell you what, you keep my watch and I’ll bring you a desk clock tomorrow.” Mal stretched the band and slipped it off her wrist. On Nigella’s it was obviously too big. She removed it and propped it on the bedside table. “You’ll be able to tell the time in the dark, the dial’s luminous.”

  “How is that Mal?” Again Nigella was intrigued, studying the watch-face fascinated. It was so unlike Papa’s fob-watch. The recollection stabbed through to the soft, vulnerable places beneath her protective shell and she had to fight against the stinging in her eyes; that memory too intense. She shook her head.

  Mal misread the sign. “You’ll have to wait ’til night-time to see the glow,” she declared as she looked around one last time. “Are you all right now? I have to get back, but I’ll see you just before dinner OK?”

  Nigella let her go reluctantly, but the door’s closure was final. In her mind she shored up her courage with thoughts of Mal’s return. In this new place she felt so isolated. Fearful imaginings began to prey upon her thin veneer of collected composure and judgement. Feelings of abandonment pressed down on her until she thought she would suffocate. Distraction was imperative. Closer inspection of her surroundings could help, she began to circulate.

  After a short interval, sounds of bumping and banging penetrated the thin walls. High pitched voices and loud shouts made her instantly alert to new developments. Everyone sounded energetic and boisterous. Emphatic music played at the other end of the corridor. She knew it was music, but such as she had never heard before. More like rhythmic chanting to a staccato drumbeat. Listening intently, she could not say she liked it, but nor did she find it offensive – just surprisingly unusual. All her senses were attuned. There were constant sounds of the water closet in action, accompanied by what seemed incessant door banging. Sitting on the side of the bed she continued to listen, but did not dare open the door to see or be seen. Her heart had begun to pound, but at last silence returned and she lay down.

  Another knock commanded her attention. Rachelle was asking if she wanted dinner. It was after six-thirty and they were ready to eat. She looked across at Mal’s watch. She had not thought to check the time; dinner had always been announced or come to her. She called out: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sellwood. I didn’t mean to be late.” She opened the door. “Please forgive me. I don’t want to cause trouble.” Her green eyes grew round with pleading and her hands twisted together nervously. Rachelle did not correct her form of address, not wanting to upset the girl anymore and tried to hearten her that there was nothing wrong.

  “Come with me to my room and I’ll give you your pills before we eat. Each day I’ll give you your medications.” She took the girl’s hand and led her downstairs.

  When they entered the dining-room the scene that met Nigella’s eyes pulled her up. She stopped abruptly. One large table carrying an assortment of condiments and bottles ran down the length of a sparsely furnished room. The bare boards on which it sat were covered by two old rugs so thin, they constantly caught in people’s feet. Although she had seen the room before it had not properly registered. Young people, in an amazing variety of clothing styles sat on plastic chairs, of which no two were alike. A jumble of surprised faces turned at their entrance and Rachelle called out for everyone to say ‘Hi’ to Nigella, the new girl in number nine.

  “I won’t tell you all the names now …” Rachelle murmured: “… there’re too many for you to remember, but you can introduce yourself again later, on an individual basis.”

  Once seated at the vacant place, Brendan called out from the kitchen hatch: “Come and get it,” and systematically each person rose and proceeded in Indian File to receive their plate.

  “You go before me,” a boy’s voice whispered to her when she made no move. She felt so out of place wishing she could be anywhere but here. She knew tears would do no good and made a big effort to control her breathing. With trepidation she followed the others toward the servery and saw they collected a fork and spoon rolled in a napkin. When her turn came she discovered it was made of paper. Handed her plate she carried it back to her seat and, like the rest of them, placed it before her. It was piled high with creamy, string-like threads in a reddish-brown sauce and a soft bun sat on the side. She had no idea what this was and the odour was unusual. She was positioned between a young girl, younger than she and an older boy, the one who had spoken to her. She watched them manipulating the utensils and was amazed. What is this food?

  Even holding back to observe, she was not sure she could master their technique, but it was obvious one could not use one’s fingers. The young girl, a skinny little thing, introduced herself and urged her to try it. “The Bolognese tastes good and it’s filling. If you don’t want your roll I’ll have it.”

  The boy, a young man really, told her to lay off and let her eat in peace.

  Nigella was trying her hardest not to be rude and stare. The girl’s appearance was like nothing she had ever seen. Very short hair, pulled back and clipped, except for a long strand which fell across her brow and down one cheek. In the other eyebrow was a silver ring with a tiny ball. Not only that, a small stud in the opposite nostril and the outline of a blue butterfly tattooed near it, held her attention. Perhaps she’s Indian? But she has no colour.

  Most of all, she was fascinated by how she talked. It was all she could do not to follow the accompanying tongue-thrust, occasioned by the stud located in its tip. The boy’s voice broke into her speculations. “Don’t take any notice of Tyra. She’s always hungry. She’ll eat all this and still come down in the night to raid the fridge.”

  “The fridge?”

  “Yeah; there’s usually some leftovers and they don’t mind us taking them if we have an attack of the munchies.”

  “An attack of the munchies?”

  He was beginning to wonder about this one. But man, she was a ‘hottie’. Jason Mullins had been at Fulton House for some time and seen them come and go. His case was one of the more difficult ones and it had been a challenge to move him on. This was his second stint and at last he had landed a job. Well, an apprenticeship really. He was not that fussed over it, but best to give it a go, otherwise he could see himself ending up totally institutionalised and he had seen how that turned out.

  “Worse than the Fosties,” he would claim. “You can always tell them … won’t look at you properly.” He reckoned some had an aversion to eye contact. “Creepy stuff, but that’s what happens when you get locked too long in the system.”

  He watched her picking up first the fork in her left hand, then the spoon in her right. She studied the spoon, checked the mass on her plate and shook her head. It was obvious that would not work. She was about to change them over like the others, but this felt so strange, when he spoke again.

  “Just use the fork. You don’t have to be a garbage-guts like Tyra and pile it on, the fork’s cool.”

  “Garbage-guts?”

  She’s probably not the full quid but fuck me, them green eyes … awesome! With that black hair … or are they contacts? His deep-set eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to look more closely, but twisting around and peering at her like that made her draw back. He stopped, not wanting to call attention that could raise an alarm.

  “Like this.” He demonstrated.

  She attempted the same, but then did not like the taste. The rest of the time was spent sliding the spaghetti around the plate until the congealed mass looked totally unappetising.

  “You finished?” Tyra asked when she finally gave up. She nodded and quickly the girl swapped their plates. She continued to observe her companions. Some were animated, but a number were withdrawn just eating quietly. That course finished, they took the plate back and returned with a bowl of what looked like ice cream. She could give this a try. She picked up Tyra’s things, t
ook them to the servery and got herself a bowl. Once seated she realised she had no spoon. She had to get up again. Brendan explained she was supposed to keep her utensils for the next course. “Have to save on washing-up, right?” He gave her the double thumbs up.

  She was too overwhelmed; these unfamiliar experiences were unravelling her senses. By the time she got to desert she was totally fragmented. It did taste good though and she had no problem finishing it off. All the things went back to the hatch and when Brendan saw her again, he came round to see if everything was all right. Shyly she said it was. He spelled out how there was a roster of duties for everyone, but being new, she did not have to worry about it tonight. “Mom will fill you in on all that. Would you like to watch TV? It’s through here.”

  She followed him to the room she remembered from her tour. She had not noticed the television set then, but now it was on the moving image captured her gaze. Two contestants were answering questions fired at them with staccato rapidity. They made room for her on a long, bumpy couch. It looked like she should just sink down comfortably, but even the cushions fought back. Two more girls joined her and started responding to the questions, their bodies too close she felt endangered again, but she could see they were enjoying themselves; no real threat. She was being silly harbouring such fears. It’s all in your head. You have to get used to this.