Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

  Riding back to Fulton House she speculated on her next move. She would phone her parents tonight. They would be overjoyed for her. If she could get back at Christmas it would be a real celebration. Her mind caught on a heart-stopping thought. Nigella might not be ready by then and I won’t go alone. Have to hold fire on that one. Her dominant imperative was to contact Mr. Bingham. Momentarily panic squeezed her. She wondered if he would insist on sighting the employment papers and the certificate before proceeding to the next stage. She really wanted to slice through the red-tape.Don’t go jumping the gun! For sure Monica would be pleased. Mal knew she really needed to rely on her hours, then she could table her an exclusive client list. How great to be earning proper money.

  The move to the unit went surprisingly smoothly, but it did take a long time. She used her bike for most of it, but to transfer the painting gear and suitcase, caught the bus. After lunch at the residence, she made sure Nigella was dressed warmly, including her gloves for appearances then she was ready to go. She took her leave on a rather formal note. Mal recognised the Edwardian protocols, but everyone else felt they were indulging the oddball antics of the mentally unbalanced. Serious hand-shaking preceded the farewells, accompanying Nigella’s hesitant words of thanks and appreciation. She watched their pantomime of formality, but respected the effort to give the girl a good send-off. Nigella in her turn, was trying her best to come out of her shell and show appropriate refinement.

  The ride on the bus turned out to be a fraught experience. Not the presence of the other passengers, there were not too many, but the closeness and speed of the passing traffic. This was unnerving, until she could feel assured there would be no collision. At first she clung to Mal, but eventually relaxed, enjoying the sights and sounds. Mal perceived that once she was confident, she really had quite the venturesome spirit. A hundred years ago, she surmised, she would have been a comparative ‘Modern Miss’. Perhaps even a suffragette.

  Alighting at their stop, it was only a short walk to the unit for which Mal gave thanks since the sky was a threatening heavy grey, streaked with charcoal. They proceeded at Nigella’s pace, allowing her eyes time to explore this strange environment. It was not as affluent as the Lychette neighbourhood, but the grounds surrounding the low-rise apartments were not over-grown and their privet hedges had been neatly trimmed. The odd visitor’s car was parked at the curb side, which occasioned close scrutiny from Nigella as she walked past. She held tightly to Mal’s arm, but inside her mind was running free. You have to get used to this. You can’t hold on to the past. You must let it go. She was seeing her new world for the first time and needed to take it all in. Every detail held its own fascination.

  The unit complex did not look anything like her doll’s house. It was a big, rectangular box with lots of little windows and the staircases were outside. Inside certainly, as she wandered around, the rooms were very small and she was amazed that anyone could fit all their belongings into such tiny spaces.

  “This is our room Jellie.” Mal threw open the door and as soon as Nigella walked in, she saw there was only one bed and asked: “Will I sleep somewhere else?”

  “No … we both sleep here,” she explained, bending down to pull out a slab of foam. “I shall make up my bed on this.”

  “How can that be a bed? It has no legs.” She was stupefied.

  Mal laughed heartily. “That’s no problem. Lots of people have a mattress on the floor. It’s not so bad. You might like to try it sometime after you’ve settled in, then you’ll see.”

  She was not so sure. Even the servants had had some sort of pallet, certainly better than this. She looked around for the wardrobe. Mal guessed her query and slid open the sliding mirror door of the closet. “See, our clothes hang here.” She stepped back: “Your side … and mine. Now that is an admirable device, she marvelled.

  It was almost three o’clock by the time Mal had their things sorted, then she decided to make them afternoon tea. Deszree would be home from her morning shift and this would make a nice introduction. Nigella had hung up her outdoor things and felt relaxed in a knitted top and skirt, sitting at the kitchen table watching all the preparations. Suddenly, she heard a key in the lock and immediately was overcome with the desire to run to the room. Mal picked up the apprehension in her troubled eyes.

  “It’s OK Jellie. That will be Deszree. She’s really nice, you’ll like her. You don’t have to talk ‘hello’ is enough, all right?” She gave her a smile of encouragement as she set down a plate of Digestives and called out: “I’ve made us a pot of tea.”

  Nigella regarded the older woman and remembered Miss Hewitt. No older than she, maybe the same age as Mrs. Aldred, but she did not take over in the same way. The greeting was kindly and she did not mind saying: “Hello.” Mal maintained the flow of conversation which gave both parties a chance to adjust to the other. Deszree observed how reclusive this young woman was. Embers of alarm would smoulder and spark in those arresting eyes, but before flaring into a total retreat, the threat would evaporate, leaving a mystified air to her gentle expression. She was aware of her strangeness, but could not identify it. No doubt she was a girl of contrasts; of great fragility. Her heart went out to her.

  At the conclusion of tea, Deszree declared she would take herself off for a ‘nanna’ nap. After she had gone, Nigella asked what that was and following the explanation, smiled her understanding. “I think I could do with one of those too. Is it all right?”

  “Of course Jellie,” she acknowledged as she put away the dishes. “That will be good, because I have to go out. I’ll be back for dinner. You can stay in our room if you like, or you can join Deszree to watch TV. She won’t mind.”

  “I’d like to listen to music, I think … until you return. She looked once more for approval.

  “That’s fine. Do whatever pleases you. This is your home now,” she assured her.

  That morning she had phoned the Department to give Monica confirmation of her Degree and then made an appointment to see Mr. Bingham. She did not see him in person, but the relevant papers had been left with his secretary for her to complete and sign. This did not take long and quickly she was gone. At last everything was falling into place. Work – money – and Nigella safe.

  Following dinner they watched a music show then Mal started to prepare them for bed. The evening had gone pleasantly with Deszree, but Nigella had remained silent and she could see she was beginning to feel the strain. In their room she pulled out the foam to make up a proper bed. When Nigella returned from the bathroom she climbed into hers and curled on her side to watch the transformation. Perhaps the slab would not be so bad. When Mal got back she asked if she would mind if the light were left on, just the lamp. The dark made her panicky.

  “Oh Pumpkin there’s nothing to be scared of. You’re with me now.” She sat on the side of the bed and watched gently as she softly stroked her hand across the bare shoulder. “Can you tell me why?” She said nothing. “I’ll stay with you here.” Mal stretched her length on top of the bed and Nigella adjusted her position to make room. They still felt nice and close, despite the covers as they lay face to face. She could feel Mal’s steady heart-beat.

  Eventually she spoke, but did not look up. “I can’t tell you about that Mal, but I do want to talk to you about something else. Is that all right?” their eyes met.

  “You can tell me anything Jellie, you know that. We share everything, don’t we? At least, whatever we want to share isn’t it?”

  She took a moment, then inhaled a deep breath and looked down again. “You know my room was next to the washroom. One evening I heard a girl sobbing,” with this she raised her head and regarded Mal sadly. “It was such a heart wrenching sound I had to see if I could help. So when she came out, I called from my doorway to ask if she was all right. She stopped and looked at me and I could tell she was about to take off, so I opened the door wider and invited her in. She was another skinny girl like Tyra.”

  “Tyra, I don’t t
hink I’ve heard that name before.”

  “She’s the one with the tongue stud and tattoos.”

  Mal just nodded. She could come back to her later. “What’s this girl’s name?”

  “Merryn Devery. I sat her down and asked if she could tell me her problem. Oh Mal, she had such a sorry tale to relate. Her story has not left my thoughts.” There was a disconsolate inflection to her words and Mal could see she had been powerfully impacted. Had she been battling with all this in silence, and hurting to the point of desperation? Was this the cause of her recent, mute regression?

  “Is … Merryn … still at Fulton House?”

  Unable to speak just then, she could only return the sympathetic pressure of Mal’s hand. At last she found her voice and took up the narrative. “No. And this was part of her problem. She was due to leave and she didn’t want to.” The bleak eyes searched her face imploringly.

  “Everyone has to move on eventually.”

  Her voice became unsteady, tears were threatening, but she carried on. I saw the scars.” The voice was almost a whisper: “She had cut herself so many times.”

  “Merryn cut herself?”

  “Yes. She said she couldn’t resist the urge to hurt her body. She said she felt her body had betrayed her and it made her feel dirty and evil. But she only feels better for a short time. I can hear her voice still as she said: ‘It doesn’t go away. It always comes again’.” She swallowed hard. “They were sending her back to her parents who are not kind people. This is what has made me so unhappy.”

  The girl’s distress ignited a filament of sympathy which flared at this account, like a burning fuse. How could she help? Had Jellie’s view distorted the reality? I need to bring her into balance. “Tell me her story. Maybe together we can work something out?”

  “Oh Mal, that would be so good. I do so want to be of help, but alone I couldn’t see what to do.”

  “Tell me Jellie,” she pressed gently. There was a long pause, broken only by Nigella’s gulping breaths.

  “She told me her father had died and then her mother remarried. She told me about using substances which made them forget all about her and when they didn’t, they … they did bad things …” She stopped, trying to regain her composure. “… But she did them too because of the hurt she felt inside. But she doesn’t want to be that girl.” Again a long breath and when she continued her voice was raspy as if her throat ached. “The authorities are sending her back.” She turned her dark eyes to look at Mal questioningly: “How can they be so cruel? She’s really a nice girl … underneath those scars.”

  Mal said nothing for a while, trying to digest all she had heard. She searched the girl’s face. “Her parents could be regretting how they treated their daughter and even now are vowing to do better.”

  Nigella assessed this, then: “Do you think she was going back to a happier home?”

  “It’s a possibility. If they had pledged to give up drugs … had promised to go into Rehab.” She looked at the serious face. “We have to be careful not to jump to a wrong conclusion Jellie. I can tell you’ve been very affected by this, but possibly your picture is skewed and things aren’t so bad. Would you like me to call Cory and see if I can find out the circumstances? But even in my position as a social worker, I can’t go seeking an intervention order without sufficient grounds.”

  By now she could feel some tension had eased out of the young body and the response was a sleepy: “That would be good Mal. If I could just know that she’s all right.”

  “I’ll speak to Cory as soon as I can, I promise.” She needed to get her settled. “Now … how about I turn the light off, but open the drapes? There’s a hunter’s moon shining in a clear sky up there … and I’ll be next to you down here.” She gave her a little squeeze: “Good idea, eh?”

  “I can try with you here.”

  Mal found her feet giving her a brief peck ‘good night’ and saying: “That’s my girl,” before crossing to the window. She looked out at the twinkling stars: Our first night together and hoped it would go well for Nigella. She turned back to observe the sleeping form revealed in the lunar radiance penetrating the dark shadows of the room. The thick lashes that fringed the now closed lids stood out blackly against the pallid cheeks. This time the face looked to be at peace.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Nigella and Mal were sitting out on the front balcony, crunching through cereal. It was early, but neither could remain asleep and they did not want to disturb Deszree. It was a peaceful time, just the palest whisper of dawn managing to diffuse through the vaporous clouds and although the night’s chill was still in the air, they were protected in their cosy alcove. The sun’s hazy brush gilded the veiled heads of the neighbourhood trees, imparting a magical glow to the morning. It was theirs alone.

  “Jellie?”

  “Mm…m,” she had just taken a big gulp of apple juice.

  “You know how you were going to paint Patchford House for us …?”

  “Yes, I hadn’t forgotten. It’s just there’s been too much of late.”

  “Not a drama. I was wondering if you would like to take a drive to the country and we’ll go check up on the old place.”

  Nigella was stupefied. She put down her spoon. The possibility of visiting her home had never occurred to her. “Can we really do that?”

  “Just to look, mind. We couldn’t go inside.”

  “No, just to see it again …” It felt as though her heart had stopped in her chest and she could hardly catch her breath. “Really true!” her heart started again in an excited rush. It would be so wonderful … just to be there.

  “Yes. I can hire a car and we can take a picnic. It could be your birthday treat. I know it’s not ’til tomorrow, but treats are better early than late, don’t you think?”

  “My birthday, that date hasn’t been in my head, but now you remind me … yes, tomorrow will be the tenth. I so easily lose track of time, let alone the days. Anyway, birthday or no, I’d love to visit the Park.

  “Great. I’ll ‘T’ it up and we can pick up something for lunch on the way. Dress warmly Jellie ’cos we’ll want to find a nice spot to eat. I’ll leave a note for Deszree, letting her know we’re gone for the day.”

  “You think you can find it again?” she asked dubiously, reflecting upon how far away they lived.

  “No problem. We have detailed maps in the twenty-first century too.” She tilted her head with that characteristic gleam of amusement, so infectious she could not help but join in, with a widening smile.

  By ten o’clock they were merrily rolling along having left the outskirts of the city. The roads were wider and straighter and Mal could open up. When they entered the motorway Nigella found it hard to take it all in. The M1 with its flyovers and multitude of lanes made her feel she was on another planet, but she delighted in their speed. Mal was driving an old model Mazda 323 which she had hired for the weekend.

  A leaden November sky had been threatening rain since they left and now a mist of fine drizzle was steadily descending. No matter, Nigella was enjoying being out on the open road, the overcast weather unable to dampen her high spirits. For a while she was mesmerised, watching the water as it spattered the windscreen, the individual dribbles racing each other down the glass and running together in rivulets, before the wiper blades made them do it all over again.

  From time to time Mal threw quick glances to her passenger. She looked so much happier these days. Her red beret and scarf, in contrast to her black hair, now curling to shoulder length, gave her a festive, vibrant appearance. These past weeks had fashioned an amazing transformation in her. Those demoralizing fears had been allayed, allowing her to grow in confidence and Deszree had just the right manner, too. Also, the routine if their daily lives had given her an empowering sense of security; so much so in fact, dependency on the meds had cut right back. Now she was truly living in the present.

  An unexpected benefit from this had been an improvement in her ability
to concentrate and therefore study. She was loving her books and she had gone a few times with Mal to the library, enjoying her own browsing. On their last visit, the librarian had guided her through the intricacies of the computer. To Mal’s surprise, she had taken to it with ease. She had also developed a healthy appetite, gaining weight and filling out in all the right places.

  Really, more the woman than the girl, Mal speculated, and it suits her. She’s the loveliest creature. It’s more than the beauty of feature or colouring, it’s her vitality; her new awareness at the thrill of it all.

  They took the turn-off for Guilfoyle and Mal observed it no longer said ‘village’. The road dipped, curved and entered a section where the tree canopy was so broad, the branches almost met in the middle, creating a shady tunnel. She thought it prudent to prepare Nigella for possible changes. She wanted this to be a happy experience, not one filled with disappointment or worse, dumbfounding shock.

  “I know Mal. It’s all right, don’t fuss. Naturally things won’t be the same. I just want to see it again. Just knowing it’s here has made such a difference to me. You can’t imagine.”

  Her enthusiasm was contagious, but Mal could feel a deep tension building inside her. The significance of this trip was not inconsiderable. As they approached closer she felt her heart hammering and lurching. She cast her mind back to the weeks of problem sleeping she had endured on her ‘return’, when she would awake with caustic images of unreality. In those days she had felt so tired, as if she had been struggling for a long time with no end in sight; certainly no victory. Sometimes she would get the shakes and open her mouth to speak, but no words came. She recollected how she had felt, as though chunks of her had been ripped out – and the excruciating pain. Not a physical pain; that can be let go. No, the emotional hovering between the literal and the abstract which, upon recall is as vivid as ever, like it was yesterday. Those breathless times when it seemed she would pass out in a heart attack, but in truth the pain was in her head. She started abruptly as Nigella’s excited words pierced her introspection.