by John Nicholl
Seeing Elizabeth ensconced in that clear plastic cot with a tube inserted up one of her tiny nostrils, down her throat and into her stomach, was truly awful. One of my lowest points. A sight I wish I’d never seen. I strongly suspect that witnessing any child’s suffering is stressful for all but the worst in this world, but seeing my own baby’s distress and feeling it was down to me, knowing it was down to me, was a horrendous burden that was extremely hard to bear. It played on my mind constantly, and I repeatedly told myself that I had to put things right. I had to be there for her. I had to protect her from this cruel world and its many dangers.
Initially I was anxious about touching Elizabeth, for fear of harming such a delicate creature, but I quickly gained a degree of confidence with the encouragement of the nurses, and Dr Carter, who appeared to see us as a priority case. I fed my baby as often as required and met her care needs as best I could within the limitations of circumstance. Not the best of starts for any child, but I did my utmost to make up for my failures. And at least she was loved. That counts for something. She was loved.
Dr Galbraith visited the ward twice daily on weekdays, early in the morning before clinic and during the evening when his work was concluded for the day. He came more often at weekends, sometimes three times and sometimes four, but thankfully he never stayed long. He was disinterested in Elizabeth, unless there were staff in attendance, and more concerned with ensuring I hadn’t discussed the reality of our relationship with anyone than with her progress. I think he came more to warn me of the consequences of speaking out than anything else, ‘I assume you’ve kept quiet about our lives, Cynthia. The social services are still snooping around. They’ve talked of visiting the ward. One word from you could be catastrophic. You do want to keep your baby, don’t you?’
I’d nod frantically and say, ‘Yes.’
‘Then I suggest you do exactly as I say. Keep your mouth well and truly shut and maybe, just maybe, I can keep them at bay.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so very much.’
And he’d sneer and criticise until a member of staff appeared again, when he’d become charm itself, ‘Lovely to see you again, nurse. Have you done something different with your hair? You do a marvellous job, absolutely marvellous. Have you lost weight, my dear? What would we do without you?’ And so on…
Approximately two weeks after the birth, I finally built up sufficient courage to phone my mum, after borrowing two ten-pence coins from a kindly cleaner, who befriended me and often enquired after Elizabeth’s wellbeing whenever she was on the ward. ‘How are you, love? And how’s that beautiful little girl of yours?’
The phone seemed to ring for an age before I eventually heard Mum’s voice say, ‘Hello.’
She sounded faltering, tuneless, not at all as I remembered her. I paused for a second or two before speaking. How would she respond? Should I have rung at all?
‘Hello, who’s there?’
‘Hello, Mum, it’s Cynth.’
I could hear her breathing more heavily as she sucked in the air. ‘It’s good to hear from you, love. It’s been too long.’
I explained my circumstances, all the time wondering if I were doing the right thing. He wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t like it at all.
‘Is Dr Galbraith with you, love?’
I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, he’s working, he won’t be here again until this evening.’
‘What sort of time are you expecting him?’
She was asking the correct questions. That had to be a good thing, didn’t it? ‘He usually visits sometime between six and seven.’
‘I’ll be on my way the second I put down the phone. Dad’s at work. I’ll have to collect the car, but I’ll see you in about forty minutes, if that’s all right with you?’
I smiled nervously. Why would she ask? ‘I love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too. I’ll be with you before you know it.’
Mum paused when she first entered the ward, but then she rushed forwards and flung her arms around me, hugging me so tightly that I struggled to catch my breath. She looked tired, older, as if life had prematurely aged her.
‘Lovely to see you, love. How have you been?’
I freed myself from her grip and took a backward step. ‘Not great, to be honest.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Things will get better, promise.’ And then a smile that melted away the years. ‘Now, where’s that new granddaughter of mine?’
I led her towards the cot, hand in hand, and we stood together, staring at my sleeping child with tears welling in our eyes.
‘She’s lovely. I can’t believe I’m a grandmother. I don’t feel old enough.’
I nodded enthusiastically. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘I have to ask, love. What’s the tube for?’
I’d been waiting for her to ask. Why wouldn’t she in the circumstances? The tube looked so invasive, so out of place, so unnatural, so inappropriate. There was no way of avoiding the subject, however difficult. ‘Have you got time for a quick coffee? The canteen should be open.’
‘A cup of tea would be nice. I’ve got all the time in the world.’
‘Then tea it is.’
We sat together at the table, surrounded by various hospital staff in uniforms, overalls or white coats, and talked for the first time in months. I got the distinct impression that each of us thought the other was the reason for our lack of contact. We both assured one another that that was not the case, but I don’t think either of us was convinced. In fact, now that I think about it, I don’t think she believed a single word I said that day.
‘We’ve been talking to David, love. He’s been very good. He’s explained everything. You’re so lucky to have him.’
‘But, I…’
She raised a hand to silence me just as he would have, and reached across the table to ruffle my hair as she had in years gone by. ‘It’s all right, love, no need to explain. I know you’ve been ill. I hope that we can all make a new start from now.’
I bit my lower lip hard, trying not to cry.
‘You’re married now, love, and to such a caring man.’ She reached out again and touched my wedding ring with her forefinger.
‘I wanted you to be there, Mum, but…’
‘It’s all right. Let’s forgive and forget. David says that’s best. You haven’t been yourself. There’s no point in us raking over what we can’t change.’
I could see the sadness in her eyes, the lines on her face, the sallow skin fighting gravity and gradually losing the battle. ‘Suppose not.’ That’s all I could say. A myriad words stuck in my throat. Such an inadequate response.
‘Just listen to David, love. He’s looking after you now. He’s a wise man. He’s got your best interests at heart.’
She wouldn’t believe the truth even if I said it. Why would she? I was ill. A mental defective. What was the point in trying?
When Dr Galbraith visited that evening, he could barely control his anger, despite his best efforts to make a good impression on all but myself. He knew, he already knew. Maybe he had his spies amongst the staff.
He made a show of seeing Elizabeth very briefly, and talked to various staff, enquiring after her progress before approaching me slowly and pulling up a seat immediately next to me at touching distance.
I looked away, avoiding his accusing gaze as he leant forward and kissed me gently on my forehead before whispering in my ear, ‘You’ve upset your mother.’
What could I say to that? ‘But she wanted to…’
‘She rang me as soon as she left the hospital, you interfering bitch. She’s worried, Cynthia. She doesn’t think you’re capable of looking after the baby.’
‘But she didn’t say…’
He laughed at first, and then whispered again, ‘She didn’t want to see you. She felt she had no choice but to visit after your call.’
‘But, I’m s-sure…’ In reality I wasn’t sure of very much at all.
‘Your mother and fa
ther have already met with social services. They’ve offered to care for Elizabeth if she’s taken into local authority care. After seeing you today, your mother’s convinced that’s the best option.’
I swallowed hard, fighting to control my gag reflex. ‘Can you do something? You’re an influential man, people listen to you, surely you can do something?’
He adopted a contemplative expression, as if deep in thought. ‘If you were to promise never to contact your mother or father again, I’ll see what I can do. It may be possible to persuade them to provide you with the opportunity to prove yourself if you don’t get involved in any discussions.’
My relief was virtually palpable. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘So you won’t go behind my back again? You won’t indulge your ill-advised impulses? You won’t further jeopardise the brat’s future?’
‘No!’
He frowned. ‘And you’re certain of that?’
‘I’ll never do it again. I promise I’ll never do it again.’
He sat back in his chair and relaxed with his broad fingers linked behind his nape. ‘Let’s hope not, Cynthia. For your sake, let’s hope not.’
35
It seems that Emma makes more comebacks than Frank Sinatra. A feeble attempt to inject a little humour into my musings, I know, but it’s the best I can do in the circumstances. Please accept my apologies. Jokes have never been my strong point. I’m yet to discover what is.
She, Emma that is, arrived this morning about forty minutes before breakfast, delivered by a flustered-looking Mrs Martin, who acknowledged my obvious dissatisfaction with a clandestine nod and grimace when Emma’s back was turned.
I was willing the hands of my watch to move faster and signal my escape to the canteen as she arranged and rearranged her meagre possessions and sat bunched up on the very edge of the bottom bunk, repeatedly trying to engage me in conversation despite my reluctance to reply. She is one determined lady. I limited my responses to grunts or single words, but she went on and on until I eventually capitulated and decided to get the inevitable conversation over with as quickly as possible.
‘How are you, Emma? Are you fully recovered?’ Two stupid questions really, given the state of her face, but I was determined to focus on her wellbeing, rather than discuss the reasons for the attack, as I strongly suspected she wanted to.
And then she began crying, and I knew what was happening. It began with a tear or two, but quickly developed into a weeping torrent of snot and tears that caused her chest to heave as she gasped for breath. She hadn’t even bothered asking about my bandaged hand, but I’m a pushover, empathetic by nature, and after a minute or two I reluctantly resorted to asking the question I really didn’t want to ask, despite knowing that it was likely to open a door I didn’t want to go through. ‘What’s upsetting you, Emma?’
Her eyes lit up and I regretted my query immediately. Why do so many of prison world’s residents suffer psychological disorders? Wouldn’t a secure psychiatric hospital be a better option than this place?
‘Why did they attack me? Have you seen the state I’m in?’
A misshapen nose, like that of a stereotypical wicked stepmother in a pantomime, slowly receding bruising and swelling and a new ill-fitting denture that whistled when she spoke. She had a point. It was a vicious assault. ‘Surely you know why?’
She stood and stared at me, and I realised I should have kept my mouth shut as I’d originally intended.
‘Are you saying I deserved it?’
I shook my head and checked my watch again. Why were the hands moving so very slowly? ‘I’m not saying that.’
She smiled thinly and stared at me with red eyes. ‘Then, what are you saying?’
What to say? What on earth to say? I’ve got enough problems of my own without focussing on anybody else’s. ‘You were convicted of murdering a child. There’s a great many people here who find that hard to forgive.’
‘I was ill, I shouldn’t be here. You could explain that to the others. They seem to respect you. They’d listen to you.’
‘I don’t think it would make any difference. They wouldn’t want to hear it.’
She started crying again, clutching at her face and tugging her greasy hair with frantic fingers, whilst occasionally peeping at me to weigh up my reaction. ‘If they hurt me again, I’ll kill myself.’
Was I being manipulated again or was she as desperate as she seemed? To be honest, I didn’t know. I still don’t know. ‘You should talk to one of the guards. Miss Gillespie’s always willing to listen.’
‘I’ve tried that before.’
I checked the time again. Five more minutes and I was out of there. ‘I know you have, Emma. I know you have.’
‘Maybe you hate me as much as the others do.’
This time I felt certain I was being manipulated. She was revelling in the interaction. I wanted to shut her up. I needed to shut her up. ‘Why not talk to Mrs Martin? I’ve found her really helpful. She knows what she’s doing.’
She shook her head with disdain, and I felt completely out of my depth. Tick tock, tick tock, only two more minutes. Pass quickly, please pass quickly. ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Martin for you, if you want me to? I’m due to see her again in a couple of days’ time.’
‘What the fuck is she going to do about it? I want you to talk to the other prisoners for me. I want you to persuade them to leave me alone. If I kill myself, it will be your fault. Nobody else’s, yours!’
One more minute, just one more minute. I’d never disliked another woman so much in my entire life. ‘I’ll do what I can. But don’t expect too much.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
At last, time to make a move. Thank God for small mercies. There was a loud metallic click as the cell door was unlocked and opened. ‘It’s time to go now. I’ve said I’ll do what I can, and I will. Now, leave it there.’
She ran a brush through her hair and smiled. ‘We can talk again later.’
I couldn’t have handled the situation any worse if I’d tried. She had me exactly where she wanted me.
36
The dark grey sky filled the air with fine winter drizzle as I exited the back seat of the Daimler with my baby clutched tightly to my chest, eighteen days after her birth. Her treatment had progressed more quickly than expected, which pleased me, but I found myself increasingly anxious as to what her life would bring. It wasn’t the happiest of homes. I wasn’t the best of mothers. He certainly wasn’t the best of fathers. It was hardly the best start in life.
I was surprised to find the doctor walking alongside me, holding a black umbrella above my head, as I crossed the shiny wet pavement, climbed the three familiar granite steps and stood at the front door. I thought at the time that his actions were well intentioned and on behalf of his young daughter, but later events convinced me otherwise. I strongly suspect that his actions were aimed to impress any passers-by or late-morning curtain-twitchers.
As soon as we were in the house, he told me to lay my sleeping child in her newly purchased pink cot, and to join him in the kitchen as quickly as possible. I was reluctant to separate from her, however briefly, but thought better of objecting, as he stood and tapped his watch repeatedly with two fingers. He was being unusually convivial, why risk exasperating him unnecessarily?
‘Sit down, Cynthia.’
I pulled up a chair and sat at the table as instructed. ‘Would you like a coffee, Doctor?’
He sat opposite me on the other side of the table and smiled contemptuously. ‘I don’t want coffee, or anything else for that matter. Just shut up and listen. You and your brat are here on sufferance. If she turns out to be as useless as you, God help her.’
‘I’ll d-do my…’
‘What part of shut the fuck up don’t you understand, girl?’
I didn’t utter another sound.
‘I’m a very busy man. My work is important to me, as you well know. I don’t expect to be disturbed day or
night. That’s your responsibility. If you can’t keep your brat quiet, I’m sure there’s some medication I could give her which will do the job very nicely. Like mother, like daughter, eh? I suggest you avoid that, if you can.’
Surely not! Not after everything she’d experienced. Would he do that? Yes, yes, he probably would.
‘I seriously considered outlining your responsibilities in a written document as I have previously, but I eventually concluded that it’s unnecessary at this stage. I would have thought that even a simpleton like yourself can provide basic care for an infant. Animals appear to manage it without any significant difficulties. It’s hardly a demanding task, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘I’ll do my best, Doctor.’
And then he held a cupped hand to his left ear. ‘I can hear your damned brat whining. Not a very good start, is it?’
I could feel myself trembling as I struggled to control my emotions. Maybe a tablet? Should I ask for a tranquilliser? No, I had to be strong for my child. ‘No, Doctor, it’s not.’
‘Then I suggest you shut her up before I do.’
And that’s the way it continued. He came and went, working at the clinic and occasionally seeing patients at the house, sometimes with a workmate, or sometimes alone, and I cared for Elizabeth and the home, cleaning, ironing, cooking and anything else that needed doing. I did my best to satisfy his impossibly high standards, but the inspections became more vigorous, the criticisms increasingly stinging and the physical punishments more regular and forceful. He didn’t hit me in the face again after that first impulsive assault, but the blows to my body hurt nonetheless. I was often bruised, but they were always unseen by others. I was entirely focussed on my duties in the interest of survival and otherwise oblivious to events around me. I didn’t see, or maybe I chose not to see, what was happening in front of my face. I hate that now. I don’t like myself very much when I think about it.
I’m not sorry to say that he hadn’t touched me sexually since Elizabeth’s unremembered conception. It’s not something I wanted, certainly not something I yearned for as I had with Steven, but ten days after my return home, when I was still bruised and sore with undissolved stitches, he suddenly demanded sex. There was no suggestion of affection, certainly not love, and my confusion must have shown on my face, because he reacted angrily, poking me hard in the chest before plying me with a single glass of red wine that left me strangely intoxicated. ‘Perhaps you need to start taking the tablets again.’ And then he pushed me hard towards the bed. ‘Now, just undress, lie there and keep your stupid mouth shut.’
