Nigella turned her head and stared at him trying to master her bewildered feelings, but still she would not tell. Only a shuddering breath escaped her lips. They both looked at her pitiful face, eyes swollen with tears, wishing they could help or at least do something to relieve this awful suffering. Eventually Mal laid the girl back down and they went outside.
“I see what you mean,” Brendan acknowledged. He did feel badly.
“What can I do? I’m not confident leaving her here … not after this.” Her voice was shuddery, nerves frayed to breaking point. She was at a loss and willing to accept anything constructive.
“It’ll be all right Mallory.” Compassion swept over him. “I can keep a closer eye on her. We have an intercom we turn on in each room, when in need. We use it if there’s a suspicion there’s risk of self-harm or drug abuse. A responsible adult will be monitoring.” Despite his words his misgivings deepened. Privately he thought she could be right. This might not be the place for Nigella. The other residents had their own issues. They were learning anger and stress management through counselling; often with the help of medication. With her intellectual disability, other people’s emotional problems could be too much for her. Even for him, some of their irrational outbursts or delusional fantasies he found way off the scale. But locating somewhere else would be a Herculean task.
Tomorrow was Friday, there could still be time. Mal had thought to pursue a suite of measures which could go some way to solving the supervision problem, and all the way in the need for ‘safe’ housing. She would make an appointment with the Department of Justice. Although she already had enduring power of attorney, she could still apply for a ‘carers’ allowance. This would give her sufficient funds to provide for Nigella and then she could have her live with her. Unfortunately, she had not yet received her results and work was still only on a provisional basis. So much hung in the balance, while she felt bound and gagged.
“That will be good Brendan.” She had to stay positive; keep those plates spinning. “Tomorrow I’m going to see what I can find. Promise me you’ll really look after her this time.” Her earnest eyes searched his for comfort.
“You have my word no harm will come to her.”
“Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” she apologised. The last hour had left her mentally drained and bodily exhausted. “I was so upset and at my wits’ end what to do. I didn’t mean to take it out on you … personally I mean.”
“It’s all right, Mallory. I know how fiercely emotions can take over.”
“I’ll sit with her now and collect her dinner later. She probably won’t want to eat, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Brendan nodded and Mal went back in.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mal had been unable to get an appointment until Monday. Now here she was back at the Department of Justice, but in the office of the Registrar of the Tribunal. She had already been waiting half an hour for him to put in an appearance, but was not about to complain. She had been accepted as a special ‘squeeze-in’ and had agreed to whatever was necessary. Work had been told she was on a home visit and she would be – only later.
Friday morning she had spoken to Dr. Stubbs before grand rounds, filling him in on events and submitting her new proposal. She would keep Nigella with her where she was staying until she could find her own place. For this she would need extra money, over and above the Disability Services funding and therefore needed to apply for a carer’s allowance.
Her continued degree of personal involvement in this case still surprised him, but he had to admit, Miss Patchford could not be left where she was. Nor could he come up with any other suggestion and in the end, she had won him to her side. He had finished up being very supportive and in fact, instrumental in getting her this appointment so promptly. Her emphasis that ‘time is of the essence’ had struck home and he knew from recent experience what a ‘Jack Russell’ she could be. A carer’s stipend would allow for that all important financial freedom, to achieve those superior outcomes.
Saturday she had been able to discuss her problem with Deszree. In the past week they had been good together and already Deszree was feeling she had made a wise decision, letting Mallory into her life. She was taken aback however, by this new development. Did she have the capacity to go along with another tenant on a trial basis? The extra money would certainly help. She had been hoping for someone long-term, still this might work. She was on rotating shifts and someone home most of the time would be a good safe-guard against vandals, an increasing worry in this neighbourhood. Hers was a good-natured heart and she was willing, at this stage, to be well-disposed toward a casualty recovering from a car crash. She believed everyone needed down time when they were getting over a bad trot.
Leafing through back issues of Home and Garden, Mal pondered on how long she had to go before her results came through. Even if she were granted the allowance, she still needed full-time employment. Nigella was not like a Uni. student, able to sling her pack at a moment’s notice. Now, more than ever she wanted to stay at the QEH, able to slip home at lunch-time if need be.
“Mr. Bingham will see you now,” his secretary informed her.
She chucked the magazine back onto the pile and rose as her heart began to race. So much hung on this! It seemed everything she undertook lately was of an unstable or unpredictable nature, never straight forward. Maybe that’s just my lot in life.
Mr. Bingham was in his middle years and looked as though the world had treated him very well. He had come to the Tribunal by way of jurisprudence and his approach was locked into an evidence-based frame. Mal’s preference was to be interviewed by someone acquainted, even if only obliquely, with those who have suffered cognitive and/or emotional hardship. She sighed. It was not in her competency to pick and choose. At least she was here and he was listening.
“So, you were granted guardianship with the expectation you would be practising your profession, err … Miss Mason?” Mr. Bingham checked his papers then regarded her inquiringly over the black rims of his glasses.
She nodded; her mouth too dry to speak.
“Then you have current employment?” he demanded.
“Well …” she temporised: “… I am working, but it’s on a part-time basis at the moment.”
“Oh. And why is that?” Damn it! This isn’t going well at all.”
“I haven’t … actually … well … I expect to receive my graduation notification … any day now,” was her circuitous response. “The Department will make it official then.”
It was obvious Mr. Bingham was not ready to hand over the Government’s money without knowing all the ‘ins and outs’ of the situation. The interview continued in this vein for a further twenty minutes, Mal becoming more and more despondent with each query. Eventually the Registrar began asking for details about the young person in question. She did her best to put her case forward in the most sympathetic light, falling back on the arguments that had proved successful with Dr. Stubbs, but this time projected through the prism of Fulton House.
He listened without interruption, all the while assessing the strength of her suit from his solicitor’s perspective. Suddenly, the probity and rectitude expressed by this young woman’s words penetrated his layers of legal formulae and he saw through to the underlying exigencies of the problem. He watched her more closely and appreciated her directness. What were her final words? Everyone has the right to their own purpose and agency in life. How true. It was in his power to grant this and he would. However, there would be a proviso.
“Miss Mason,” he paused as he speared her with a constricted look. She would be mistaken if she thought this was being granted lightly. Mal’s apprehensive eyes never left his severe face. “This allowance is being granted with the understanding you have gainful employment. The money is to support the client, not keep you when you can’t get a job.” This last was delivered in stern, forceful tones.
“Oh, I quite understand, Mr. Bingham.”
“You wi
ll inform me of that event …” he was forthright: “… then the change order will go through when you have completed the paper-work.” His eyes continued to fasten hers with an uncompromising stare.
“Yes, Mr. Bingham.” Mal was abruptly reminded of her days at Guilfoyle Park, in Lord Patchford’s study. It seemed some things don’t change; those in authority still dictate and in the same manner.
That evening found Mal once more in Cory’s office, in the basement of Fulton House. She had taken the easy chair and he was relaxed behind his desk.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out for Nigella. Like you, I thought this would be a suitable place for her, but really, she doesn’t have the skills to fit in.”
Mal was over the whole issue and had moved on, but privately she felt there had been a severe climate of negligence. True, since her outburst no problems, but Nigella was not that girl who had originally come here. There had been a regression and now she was reminded more of the first day on grand rounds. It could be acknowledged the disorder was not as severe and she still did talk to her, but there was no interaction with others. Her responses were on the most superficial of levels. With a modest degree of optimism however, she felt she could bring her round again. There was no carer’s stipend yet, but she was sure it would come through. Meanwhile she needed to get Nigella home just as soon as she could manage it.
She had cleared it with Monica to take Wednesday off and agreed with her to make up the lost hours on two consecutive Saturday mornings. She did not want to leave Nigella on her first day and although alone Thursday and Friday, she would be close enough to pop over. There would be no-one to upset her and if Deszree were home she would be in her room, sleeping.
The termination formalities completed Mal went up to see Nigella. She did not socialise at all now; she had retreated into her painting. This seemed to give her solace, being more at ease in her own company. Rachelle had tried sitting with her for short periods, but the girl never opened up.
In her studies, Mal had come across the disorder known as selective mutism. Now she began to worry that the recent traumatic events in Nigella’s life had brought on this condition. The books claimed it was more likely to stem from a familial disposition, where there was a history of phobias. She herself, suspected an element of self-punishment to all this, perhaps in the manner of anorexia nervosa. The ability to speak was not actually lost. Whatever the cause, she hoped she would be able to come through this silent period and that it was not some anomalous form of mutism. She did so want for her happiness.
Following the knock and the announcement: “Hi it’s me,” she slipped past the door and gave her a big hug. Immediately she admired the work then suggested she take a break. “I have something to ask you.” Nigella set her brushes in the water and joined her on the side of the bed. Mal leaned back against the pillows and took her with her. Comfortably settled in her arms she asked: “What is it?”
“Jellie, how would you like to leave this place and come live with me?”
Her response was immediate. “Oh can I Mal? I will be so much happier with you.”
“That’s good Possum. Now just one thing – I don’t live alone.” Her eyes narrowed as she observed the reaction. Totally deflated, the girl looked crestfallen. There was a lengthy silence as she assessed her fate. More people … I don’t like people, she complained, but only to herself. Even so, in the end she knew she would rather be there than here.
“It’s all right. I’m sharing a unit with a very nice lady. Her name’s Deszree.”
“A ‘unit’, what’s that?” The voice was muffled as she had buried her head into Mal’s shoulder. Mal lifted it up so Nigella could see her face.
“It’s another word for ‘rooms’, you know when single people used to live alone? Well, a lot of people are like that now … when they can’t afford a whole house. It just means it’s very small. Think of …” she thought for a moment, how to explain it? “… like being in a doll’s house and we live in a section with the kitchen and bathroom in it.”
The idea was intriguing, but she just could not imagine how this would be. She remembered her own doll’s house. It had so many storeys and lovely rooms. Mama and Papa kept collecting more and more furniture for her to play with. They said she could rearrange it as many times as she liked.
“It’s not a really big house,” Mal continued, letting the girl settle again. “There’re six units and we’ll be in #4. It’s up the stairs, but you can manage them now. People call them ‘self-contained’ because we’ll have everything we need in there.”
“When can we go?” Her eagerness had returned and she wanted it now.
“I can’t get off until Wednesday, but then we’ll have the whole day together to properly explore.”
Again she was disappointed, but only one day to wait was better than lots.
* * *
The next day Mal received a surprise SMS. She had not expected to hear from Kylie once their studies were over. Congatsonyr1stclassKy.What does she know? Mal sent her a text immediately. The reply: CU5:30studentsUKy.
Before going over Mal dropped in briefly on Nigella. She needed to put some of the packing in train, just the bits and pieces she could get into bags and boxes. Last time they had had the benefit of the nursing home bus – this time it was all up to her.
Nigella was quite put out she had to leave early, but Mal stood her ground. She did not want a state of dependency to grow any further, although she sympathised with her position. “Look, be good Jellie. You won’t be alone for long, OK?” Reluctantly she inclined her head. I must learn, she thought.
Her chores completed Mal rode straight over to the coffee lounge, but was still a few minutes late. Daylight had begun to drain from the advancing winter sky when Kylie spotted her through the old panes of the casement window. The early evening light was just edging its way past the screening branches of a tall Plane Tree, but still she picked her out easily. The bicycle stand was positioned under it and she watched closely as the woman locked hers next to all the others then mounted the Union steps, bounding lightly on the balls of her feet. She’s looking fitter than ever. Her heart skipped a beat. Mal deftly threaded her way through the tables, mostly occupied at this time of day, then plonked herself down on the two-seat banquette located in the corner, next to her vigilant friend. “Hi you, you’re looking coo-ool.”
“You too,” Kylie responded with a smile. She was wearing her hair long and loose now. It suited her Mal thought, having a natural curl which the hairdresser had styled in attractive layers. She had bought them each an Ice-Coffee.
“Thanks muchly.” Mal held up the carton before tipping it to her lips. “So … what do you know?”
She smiled again in close collusion. “I was over at the Faculty office trying to get the information I need to pursue a joint degree in law, like how we discussed, you know.” Mal nodded and putting down the drink, sat back.
“Just before I’d decided I’d done enough, the Registrar came through and informed me that the results had just been posted. They receive a copy in addition to the Gazette publication. Of course, I looked us up and there we were so … I sent you the SMS.” Now she too, sat back feeling well content.
“Oh, Ky this is absolutely wonderful news.” Mal was so relieved. “I hoped that was what your message meant, but wasn’t willing to believe it, coming so soon. Congrats. to you too.” She raised the carton in salute.
“Yep, we made it. I was sure you would … you were always such a manic mark-monkey,” she teased.
“I’m not really,” she defended herself. “It was just that so much has been given up by my family for this success. In a way, I couldn’t afford to risk failure … not from lack of application anyway.” For a moment her eyes touched Kylie’s with blunt frankness then they crinkled at the corners as she tossed her head back and laughed throatily: “Now all that worry’s history. Well, not for you if you go on to out-do us and specialize.” The brilliant blue eyes twinkled at her
roguishly.
Kylie had watched mesmerised, falling to the magnetism all over again, a perturbed energy zinging along her veins. What is it about this girl? “Well, why don’t we make the most of it and celebrate?” She decided to gamble everything: “Just the two of us, I know the perfect place.”
“Listen Ky, thank you so much for making my day, but really I can’t.” She looked genuinely sorry. Kylie knew better than to press the issue and tried her best to cover the acute disappointment: “Perhaps, some other time.” The smile was forced. Dramatically she stood, reconciling herself to the fact that it would be back to her on-line date after all. They were getting closer to setting up a meet anyway. “I have to go. So once again congratulations.” This time the voice was bright as cut crystal. She gathered her things. “See you around.”
Mal got up and walked with her. “I am sorry Ky. It would have been a nice chance to really catch up. Another time would be good.” She held open the swinging door. “Let’s not lose touch.”
Kylie turned abruptly to shoot her an intense look. “Do you mean that Mallory?” the possibility that all was not at an end crash-landed into her brain. The result: an instantaneous, breath-drawing hope sharp, hardly coherent, but still exciting to her heart.
“Yes Ky I do, absolutely.” she pronounced sincerely, her low voice mingling conviction with faint surprise. In a detached section of her mind, a guarded portion to which she could decamp all too easily, she had realised that not to see this woman again had left her with a genuine emotion of sadness. The sentiment had articulated itself totally unexpectedly.
Til Morning Comes Page 37
