The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  ‘Very well. After you.’ He gestures towards the open door and Nora and her mother have no choice but to precede him through it and up the stairs.

  Dr Rayne prepares to examine Nora, who lies on her bed, trying to cover herself with a towel. ‘Nora, I have to examine you,’ Dr Rayne says patiently. Nora lets go of the towel, turns her head and stares at the girl looking back at her from the wardrobe mirror. How sad and lost she looks. How hollow. Nothing like the lively, smiling girl who laughed and loved to sing and play the piano. Maybe that one is gone. She prays that, for the sake of this miserable girl in the mirror, this will soon be over.

  ‘Probably three months,’ Dr Rayne says gravely to her mother, who buries her head in her hands.

  While Nora dresses, Dr Rayne washes his hands, then signals Nora to sit down. He looks resigned as he holds up the empty quinine bottle, wagging it back and forth like an accusing finger. ‘We have to talk about this.’ Nora’s stomach swoops with a sudden nausea. How could her mother have betrayed her? ‘Nora.’ Dr Rayne’s gentle voice calls her back and her eyes move reluctantly to his. ‘Did you take quinine to try to get rid of the baby?’

  The words echo in Nora’s ears.

  Get rid of the baby?

  Her mouth opens but there are no words. Nothing she can say will make any of this right.

  ‘Nora. Did you take quinine to try to abort this child?’ His voice is louder and more insistent this time, and his eyes search her face, as though he’ll find the answer written there. She holds his eyes for a long moment, then, finally defeated, she gives a tiny nod. He breathes out a long sigh. ‘Where did you get them from?’

  Nora’s gaze remains on the floor. Her mother rallies. ‘I think that is enough,’ she says, her voice shot through with an unusual strength. She takes Nora by the wrist, and Nora winces and pulls away.

  ‘What’s wrong with your arm?’ Dr Rayne reaches over and Nora tries again to resist. His brow furrows and Nora looks desperately at her mother. ‘What are you hiding?’ he asks, his eyes darting back and forth between the faces of mother and daughter. Slowly, he looks back at Nora’s arm and pushes up her sleeve.

  He takes a sharp breath and steps back, fixing Mildred with a steely gaze. ‘You knew about this?’

  Mildred’s eyes plead for mercy as she puts an arm around Nora’s shoulders. ‘Please . . . just let me take care of her.’

  Dr Rayne’s scowl deepens. ‘Mildred, you must know that this is a criminal matter and compounds an already difficult situation. Nora is unmarried and pregnant. Attempting to procure an abortion carries a term in prison, as does attempting suicide. As does aiding and abetting. You must know I cannot do that. The facts of this must be reported.’ He gathers his jacket, looking older and more tired than ever.

  ‘Please . . .’ Mildred begs.

  Dr Rayne turns away from her, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps when you’re both ready, you could come downstairs.’

  Nora’s mother puts her arms around her daughter, and they look into each other’s red-rimmed eyes, both tearful now. Nora wishes she could crawl out of her skin and nestle within her mother’s bosom where once, what feels like a very long time ago, she was safe. Her mother holds her in silence, her cheek resting on Nora’s hair.

  ‘We must go downstairs.’ Mildred leans back and focuses on Nora’s frightened eyes. ‘Come. Wipe your face. Pinch your cheeks. Pull down your dress. Let me see your hands. Nora – no cream. You must remember to look after your hands. Come. We’ll talk to these people. It’ll be all right.’

  Nora clasps her arms around her mother. Yes, now it will be all right. Her mother does still love her, even though she’s been wicked. They trudge down the stairs hand in hand and Nora allows her mother to lead her back into the parlour where one glance at her father’s face tells her that Dr Rayne has told him everything. The fire her mother’s love rekindled within her sputters and dies.

  Despite his diminutive stature, Dr Mason seems to fill the whole room. He gives a stiff little bow, clears his throat, stands with his feet apart and his arm held slightly in front of him, his chin raised a little. Nora can’t help but think of the bad actor in the performance of The Taming of the Shrew she saw last summer and, despite the situation, feels a bizarre urge to laugh.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Jennings, I offer you my sympathy in this matter. First, I should make you aware of the legal issues, then I will be willing to answer your questions and make provisions.’

  Make provisions? Nora reaches for her mother’s hand but is arrested by a single look from her father, and withdraws it. ‘The Mental Deficiency Act of 1913 categorises four types of mentally disabled people. The only one I need bother you with here is that of the moral imbecile.’

  Nora shrivels inside, sick with humiliation.

  ‘Such people, since 1927 termed “moral defectives”, include those such as criminals, alcoholics and prostitutes –and also unmarried mothers.’

  Is that how she is to be known? An unmarried mother? A moral defective? What happened to just ‘Nora’?

  ‘Such people may be a moral threat to others and therefore they must be strictly controlled and segregated,’ he continues. ‘Other measures may also be necessary, but we don’t need to bother ourselves with them for now.’

  Nora’s face burns and she wishes that she could just disappear, that the floor would open and swallow her whole.

  ‘I don’t understand. Nora’s a good girl, really,’ says Mildred.

  ‘I have no doubt that she knows the difference between right and wrong, Mrs Jennings, and yet she has found it impossible to behave within the moral values of society. Tragically, there is yet a further complication, in that she admits to having attempted to procure an abortion. Heaven knows what damage she has caused to the unborn child. A suicide attempt also needs to be taken into consideration.’

  Nora’s mother gasps as the stark reality of the situation finally dawns on her. She shoots a pleading look in her husband’s direction. Nora glances back and forth between them, struggling to understand the silent war playing out behind each of their eyes. Her mother steps forward. ‘Henry, stop this. It can’t happen—’

  ‘Mrs Jennings,’ snaps Dr Mason. ‘If you would prefer, I can talk to your husband alone.’

  She takes a deeper, more controlled breath and smooths down her dress with shaking hands. ‘No. I’m fine.’

  He coughs, then continues on as though uninterrupted. ‘Provisions under the Act are that young women such as your daughter be committed to a mental hospital, or to some mental deficiency colony forthwith, where she will receive such treatment as is deemed necessary.’

  Nora feels rooted to the spot, her face blank. She is vaguely aware of her mother sinking onto the settee, but she herself couldn’t move if she tried.

  ‘In this case, however, we must also consider the legal route, since we have here two criminal offences.’ His eyes rest momentarily on Nora, as if waiting for her to deny her actions. When she says nothing, he presses on. ‘Were she imprisoned, it would undoubtedly bring shame upon the whole family, and slurs and accusations against yourselves as parents. And of course, a prison sentence would no doubt be long. I doubt that your daughter is equipped for such a life. There would be prolonged suffering for everyone concerned. I would suggest that you think very carefully before pursuing the legal option.’ He appraises Nora as though she were an animal at the market. ‘You also need to bear in mind that, should your daughter make another suicide attempt and be successful, the two of you as parents could also be tried and imprisoned.’

  ‘Stop,’ sobs Mildred, her hands to her ears. ‘Stop!’

  ‘Mrs Jennings, please get a hold of yourself,’ Dr Mason barks impatiently. ‘These two options are both valid under the Act and, if I may say, many physicians would not be giving you a choice.’ He tugs on his waistcoat and takes his pocket watch from its hiding place and snaps it open, looking wounded. He glances at the time and closes it again. ‘Mr Jennings, do you have any questions?�
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  The whole room seems to collapse into a pit as the clock ticks away the moments and Henry makes no attempt to reply. ‘Well then . . .’

  Nora feels faint, as though her whole being is dissolving into nothingness and she’ll disappear – which, though frightening, might be the best thing for everybody. Her only island of refuge might be her mother, but as she dares to let her eyes move to her, what she sees there is equally terrifying. Her mother is pale and trembling, just like Nora herself, her face like a puppet’s mask. And as she opens her mouth, the voice that comes out sounds alien to Nora’s ear. ‘What will happen to the child?’

  ‘Much will depend upon how much damage your daughter has already done to this unborn. It’s impossible to be sure. The children of moral defectives are often themselves defective. Neither your daughter, nor the child, is capable of managing themselves and their affairs. Where there are also criminal propensities, as we see here,’ he shoots a look of disdain at Nora, ‘they require care, supervision and control for the protection of others. I assure you the child will be taken care of.’

  During the interminable silence that follows, Nora watches from the safety of her corner of the ceiling while her body stands silent, focused on the silky fringe of the chenille cloth on the side table. Part of it is twisted out of line and unable to hang properly. Her mother would usually be so particular about such things. Dr Mason springs open his pocket watch a second time and his impatience with this dreadful family fills the room.

  ‘Not prison,’ Henry says quietly.

  Suddenly Nora is back in her body. ‘Help me, someone; please help me!’ she screams – but there is no sound.

  In a groggy haze, Nora drags herself up the stairs once more, her mother following behind her. Reproach snaps at her heels with every step. Judgement claws at her face and terror seeps through her skin so that she can almost smell it. She scans her bedroom. Her pretty dresses hang in the wardrobe and below stand matching shoes side by side, ready to walk, dance or run away. ‘Mummy, what shall I take?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling.’ Nora’s heart soars with hope at this rare endearment, but as she reaches out, her mother shrinks away from her and Nora’s hand is left hanging in mid-air. Somehow, a couple of skirts, jumpers, some underwear, a toothbrush and a nightdress are packed into a small leather case.

  ‘Do you think I could take one more thing?’ Nora asks. Without waiting for an answer, she grabs her music box and stuffs it into the corner of the case. She looks longingly around her cosy bedroom, and it only just occurs to her that it might be a good while before she sees it again.

  Nora finds herself down in the hallway with no notion of how she got there. ‘Daddy,’ she calls from the parlour door in a voice that no longer feels like her own. He stares stonily ahead. Then, as a hand clasps Nora’s elbow, he turns his back to her and instead faces the empty grate. He leans on the mantelpiece and rests his head on his arm, as though it has suddenly become too heavy for his neck to bear. The front door opens and the cold night air rushes in. ‘Mummy,’ Nora cries, but there’s no reply. No kiss. No tearful embrace. Her mother sits in a state of shock, staring straight ahead. Nora could beg them not to send her away, promise them she’d never stray again, plead for mercy. But nothing makes sense any more. Nothing is as it was just a few hours ago. She bites her lip and holds back her tears: she dares not cry again in case she never stops.

  Out on the driveway, a hand at her back bustles her into the rear seat of a black sedan. She will never forget her mother’s heartbroken face framed by her white lace collar, nor her father’s rage and, underneath it, the disgust in his eyes. But now she can only see these things in her mind’s eye, for the door has already closed. Nora is dislocated, amputated, lost.

  She stares out into the black night as the car speeds away, leaving her home and all she knows behind. She puts a hand to the cold window. Tomorrow the sun will come up. The postman will deliver letters. The village shop will open. Her family will have breakfast. But where will she be?

  When Nora opens her eyes again, she sees for the first time the great, looming building ahead, silhouetted in the moonlight. Is this Hillinghurst? The hospital that people hardly even dare to mention in case it should somehow hear and touch them with its inherent malevolence. As terror laces its fingers round her throat, she glances back through the rear window as if she might escape from here. But, as she does, the tall gates close between their two huge stone pillars, separating her from all she has ever known. She clasps the back of the seat in front of her and shudders.

  Chapter Four

  Nora awakes suddenly, her mouth bitter with the unfamiliar taste that she takes a minute to identify as loneliness. Not aloneness. Not solitude. Utter isolation. A pit of nothingness.

  Her full bladder brings her crashing back to reality. She opens her eyes, and the terror that engulfs her contracts into a cold, hard mass that stifles her breath. She wants to scream, but she is paralysed. She glances around the stark room. Paint that may once have been cream clads the cold, bare walls. She raises a hand and pushes against the wall. It doesn’t give. It’s real. The blanket is coarse, prickly fibres interwoven with the rough wool. She nips it, rolls it between her fingers and pulls it up into little hillocks. She raises her head from the lumpy pillow and stares at this space enclosed by walls and a door, with its single bulb hanging from the high ceiling. No wonder it’s so cold down here.

  She puts her hand back under the blanket and touches her arm, her chest, her breast, her gently swelling belly, feeling the softness and the warmth of her skin. She’s here in this cold foreign place, but she’s alive.

  Suddenly, a face cut into tiny squares appears behind the wire mesh in the minuscule window of the door. A handle turns.

  ‘Get up, Jennings.’

  ‘I need the toilet.’ Her voice sounds strange and husky to her own ears.

  ‘Come with me.’ The nurse leads her barefoot into a corridor with a cold black marble floor and points to a large open door. ‘In there.’

  In trying to pull it down, she realises that she isn’t wearing any underwear. She sits on an icy seat and relieves herself. Her feet are blue. And why is her back cold? She looks around and realises that the hospital nightgown is split down the back. She blushes at the thought that she’s walked all the way down the corridor with it gaping open. She wipes herself with shiny Izal toilet paper, but makes no move to get up until nausea rises and she springs up to vomit in the toilet.

  She wipes her mouth and sits down again. With a burgeoning sense of dread, she allows herself to remember more of yesterday’s events. There are still gaps, but . . . She brings her hands to her face, trembling. Her father and his anger. Her mother and her drawn, dry-eyed face. No goodbyes. Her musical box. Father Matthews, Dr Rayne. Strangers. A car. Cold. A woman . . . who? Then nothing. She tries to push her mind into the hole in time but it refuses, a pony shying at the first fence.

  ‘What are you doing in there?’

  The harsh voice startles Nora. With neither question nor complaint, she follows the owner of the voice back down the corridor, trying to hold together the back of the split gown. She focuses only on what is directly in front of her. White mid-calf dress, black cardigan, thick lisle stockings; stocky calves, solid ankles; black shoes with low heel. The right foot throws itself slightly sideways before it makes contact with the floor. A sort of cap over dark hair tethered in a bun. The cold jangle of keys. The nurse opens the door and Nora shuffles inside. She turns to ask her a question, but the door has already been closed and locked behind her.

  She turns back to the room, wondering what she’s supposed to do now, and she sees that someone has put some things on the foot of the bed. She examines the pile, turning each object over in her hands before moving on to the next one. There is a bundle of folded clothes, an enamel bowl with an inch of cold water, some carbolic soap, a scratchy towel, a toothbrush, a tin of dentifrice, a comb, some hair clips, a bowl of grey porridge, a spoon and a
tin mug of tea. A pair of black lace-up boots are by the bed. All of Nora’s worldly possessions now fit in one pile. She stands still. Then something inside her stirs and she starts to move slowly, a silent litany keeping her on track.

  Nora wash.

  Nora dress.

  Nora eat.

  Nora drink tea.

  Nora brush teeth.

  Nora sit on bed.

  Nora wait.

  She closes her eyes and listens. The choir is singing in St Francis’s Church, her own clear soprano taking the solo.

  Ave Maria . . .

  The door opens and the music stops. A youngish man in a starched white coat enters the room, his left leg dragging slightly as he walks. His face is broad, his eyes hazel and fringed with blond lashes and his fair hair, though slicked back, seems to Nora to be in danger of toppling into his eyes at any minute. His lips are generous and his nose a little flattened. Maybe he’s a boxer. He wears a gold signet ring with a seal on the little finger of his right hand.

  ‘Miss Jennings, I’m Dr Stilworth. May I sit down?’ Without waiting for an answer, he pulls the single chair from the corner and lowers himself onto it. ‘I wanted to introduce myself. I will be taking care of you.’ His accent is pure upper class, and Nora relaxes a little. Surely this man of good breeding will understand that she shouldn’t be in this place. ‘You’ll have a meeting with Dr Mason soon, and you’ll be very busy today.’

  Will I? What will I be doing? How can I be busy?

  ‘So, I’ll come and see you again tomorrow. If there is anything you’d like to ask me, please do. We’re all here to help you get well.’ She tries to say thank you – thank you for coming, thank you for helping me. But there’s no sound. She stares at him and he eventually looks away and raises himself from the chair. He places it back in the corner where it belongs. He stands in front of her, his feet together, and makes a little bow. ‘Miss Jennings.’ And he is gone.

  Minutes pass and Nora waits, wondering vaguely what happens next, but she can’t find it in her to care much. Everything is numb.