From here she can see the southern English countryside, its patchwork of fields separated by hedges that have withstood storms and gales over aeons of time. Sturdy oaks are gathered in intimate groups, while sycamores, their sticky buds still under wraps, guard the land even as the north wind punishes them. Soon snow will soften the contours, then finally forsythia will splash the spring with yellow blossom and snowdrops will nod at fairy rings of crocus. And maybe I’ll be home walking with Robert among the bluebells . . .
A flash of movement draws her eye. Someone is coming up the drive on a motorbike. She blinks. Can it be? Surely not . . . Her heart feels as though it will either stop or burst out of her chest altogether. She blinks again, her hands now flat on the window and her mouth open ready to laugh or scream, she doesn’t know which.
Robert parks his bike and alights, unfastening his leather helmet and finger-brushing that wonderful blond hair. He unbuttons his jacket and – oh my goodness – he’s in army uniform. Her right hand curls itself into a fist. He’s going to war, then . . . She can hardly breathe, cannot take her eyes off him as he bends down to take something from the pannier.
Oh, it’s a present! He’s brought me a present. He’s come to take me home. We can be married. It will all be all right . . . Her tears of sadness become liquid joy as her forehead touches the window and she gulps long breaths of relief.
He moves towards the building and out of sight – he’ll be coming up the steps. Now he’ll be talking to them downstairs. They’ll come and get her. She’ll be home for Christmas lunch and Mummy will hug her and Daddy will say he’s sorry and so will she and they can sort out about the baby and what they’re all going to do. Nora feels so weak with happiness and relief that she has to lean against the window for support, hardly aware of the iciness of the glass or her aching back.
But a movement on the path below catches her eye, and Nora turns to look out again. It’s Robert and he’s running. He jumps back on his bike and roars off. He reaches the gates and is through them in a moment. He is gone. And she is again left behind.
Her heart clenches. What’s happening?
As the truth dawns on her, her hands curl into fists and start hammering on the window. ‘No! Robert! Come back! Robert!’ she cries, but he neither hears nor sees her and she slumps down to her knees, her face squashed up against the glass. She weeps with a heart-wrenching sound that is more animal than human, and eventually subsides into a whimper. ‘Robert . . .’
The fresh young face of the new probationer nurse, Jamison, bends over her. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks urgently, and Nora clutches at her hand.
‘Robert . . . he was here, I saw him. What happened? Why did he leave?’ She looks back at the window, keening that inhuman sound again, her hands trailing on the glass as if to try to catch him and bring him back.
‘You’re not allowed visitors,’ Nurse Jamison says with a gentle voice, glancing around as if hoping that someone will tell her what to do.
Nora slumps to the floor, desolate, tears still pouring from her closed eyes. She is back to that night – that one and only night that she could have conceived. It was such a brief but wonderful encounter, when a kiss led them so rapidly from adolescent dreaming to adult desire. Neither of them had thought beyond that one delicious snatched hour. Would she change it if she could? Deny herself the joy of having been kissed, held, touched? And that painful but wondrous moment when he became part of her? No.
‘Jennings, get up!’ someone barks, then turns to Nurse Jamison, who is crying softly. ‘And you – go and sort yourself out.’
Nora doesn’t move, even though she’s already learned to jump when anyone shouts. They can do what they like to her now. Nothing matters any more. A strong hand grips her wrist then her arm is yanked and she is on her knees. ‘Get up!’ Too exhausted to even be afraid, Nora allows herself to be dragged towards a chair where the hand lets go of her arm and a foot pushes against her knee. She slumps like a rag doll. Nothing really matters now.
Minutes pass, with Nora immobile in some far-off place where there is neither pain nor thought nor time – just a state of nothingness. And when she eventually opens her eyes, it’s to face a horrible new reality. He isn’t coming for her. She lets out a howl of anger. But Nurse Jamison’s words – ‘You’re not allowed visitors’ – ring in her mind, and the fury dissipates as quickly as it arrived. It wasn’t his fault. He would have come to see her if he could. So, when eventually she is allowed visitors, he’ll come . . . and so will her mother . . .
Then she sees him again in her mind’s eye, leaving, only now realising that he wasn’t carrying the present.
Chapter Seven
Five months
Nora shuffles towards Dr Mason’s office, her footsteps faithfully following those of the aide, with her odd posture and her arms swinging at a strange angle. Nora, too, has acquired a gait that she’d never quite understood in pregnant women before she was one herself – inclined slightly backwards, supporting her aching lower back with her hands and allowing her swollen belly to lead the way. She allows herself a glance out of the windows. The short, dark days have given way to lighter evenings, and April showers are the order of the day. She hopes her mother will be enjoying the spring spectacle – the magnolia tree from the kitchen window and the camellias, browning now as the morning sun warms them too quickly.
As the months have passed, a sense of acceptance has settled within Nora, alongside the endless grief. Her main concern is that her baby must be coming soon, though no one will answer her questions. Nurse Hatton would have done.
Just as she approaches Dr Mason’s door, the baby kicks and she holds her hand lovingly to the tiny knee that protrudes. Her mind returns yet again to the fact that she has no idea what preparations should be made for the arrival of a baby. She often thinks of the family joy around the birth of her cousin’s first child a couple of years ago – the tiny pink newborn, her little body dressed in clothes that had been so lovingly made for her – and, whenever she does, waves of sadness threaten to engulf her. She’ll be the only one truly welcoming this baby. But that means that she must make it as special as she can. She’d have liked to knit some things, but she’s not allowed to use knitting needles any more. Never mind. At least there’ll be Mrs Lampeter’s matinee jacket. She frowns. Surely they’ll give it back to her when the baby comes.
Dr Mason’s door opens into the familiar office and, as always, her eyes go first to her ballerina still standing there awaiting the music. Her heart yearns to run to the desk and turn the key and make her dance one more time. One day . . .
Dr Mason sits behind his desk and, unusually, one of the chairs at this side of the desk is occupied. Nora draws a breath as she recognises the reed straightness of the back, the tilt of the head, the hair tucked under the maroon felt hat. She feels a surge of disappointment. Why is she here? Something must be wrong. Has someone died? Nora swallows loudly. She makes a quick tour through shock, dread, hope and fear, then she pauses, collecting herself and trying to settle her racing heart, whose frantic beating feels as though it should be visible through her smock. Show no emotion, Nora.
‘Come in, Nora.’ Dr Mason gestures towards the empty chair. ‘You have a visitor. Come. Sit.’
Mrs Lampeter turns slightly and Nora hopes that her eyes don’t betray her lingering sadness that her visitor is not her mother. If Mrs Lampeter does see it, she’s kind enough not to show it, though her eyes are uncertain and sad. Nora’s few steps to the chair feel as though she’s wading through a swamp. Am I allowed to speak? She’s learned to check out everything for permission; anything spontaneous can have painful repercussions. She looks at Dr Mason, hoping to find an answer.
‘Hello, Miss Nora.’ Mrs Lampeter’s attempt at a smile is only partially successful, but Nora finds herself smiling in a way she hasn’t for months.
‘Hello, Mrs Lampeter.’ She can hear her voice an octave lower than it used to be, but still soft and warm, and allows hers
elf a second of something akin to pride that she hasn’t lost her manners. The look and the moment linger between them, and Nora mentally hugs this woman with all her might, though her hands remain securely clasped in her lap. She can feel Mrs Lampeter leaning towards her even though she hasn’t moved, and between them the love flows as it always did. For the first time in what seems like years, Nora feels whole.
Dr Mason clears his throat, almost as though he’s aware that he’s witnessing something deeply intimate that part of him at least doesn’t want to interrupt. But he does so regardless. ‘It is our usual policy to allow no visits until people are settled, and then only from family members. However, since there has been no attempt by any family member to see you—’ words uttered so carelessly that Nora gasps and feels her heart will stop beating from the pain – ‘and since Mrs Lampeter assures me that she’s a good friend of the family, I’ve decided to grant her visiting rights.’
‘Thank you,’ Nora whispers.
‘Mrs Lampeter has visited several times,’ Dr Mason says, ‘and she has written letter after letter asking to see you. I hope you will be very grateful for her persistence.’ Nora hears him talking but nothing he’s saying seems important right now. Mrs Lampeter is here and that’s all that matters. But still he drones on. ‘And for her friendship, which, in the circumstances, you are lucky not to have lost.’ He fixes Nora with a stern frown.
Nora lowers her eyes. He cannot possibly know how she feels about this woman, who has been a fact of her life throughout all her life. She has protected and cherished her, noted her joys and her ills; prompted her to put away her toys; changed her bed when she wet it without betraying her to her father and his belt. How this woman has loved her like a mother, yet never dropped the respectful ‘Miss’ from her name. He cannot know how Nora’s heart aches that she has betrayed this woman just as much as she has betrayed her parents and Robert, and how moved she is that, despite all of this, she is here.
‘Thank you, Dr Mason,’ she whispers again, and though Mrs Lampeter doesn’t move a muscle, Nora can feel her hand gripping her own in reassurance, just as it has done in the past on the mornings of exams, on the days after Nora had been disciplined by her father, as it probably would have loved to do on the morning she brought the quinine.
‘Yes, well . . . You can use the family room,’ says Dr Mason, springing open his pocket watch. ‘Half an hour. My secretary will show you the way.’ He raises his hand and Nora flinches, but it merely lands sharply on the little brass bell. They are dismissed.
Nora’s heart accompanies the little ballerina in a joyful pirouette, and a smile that she dares not reveal glows within her. ‘Thank you,’ she and Mrs Lampeter say in unison, neither daring to look at the other yet. They follow the middle-aged secretary to the room and Nora, excited at the prospect of half an hour of freedom, lets her hand gently brush Mrs Lampeter’s coat for an instant.
The family room is surprisingly pleasant. At the centre of the mantel stands a photograph of King George VI in splendid Garter robes, and a tall window looks out onto the garden, where the trees are waving proudly in their pale and youthful foliage. The sight of the vase of forsythia resting on the black marble hearth makes tears well up in Nora’s eyes – such beauty doesn’t belong in this godforsaken place. The door closes behind them. She stands like a child in the middle of the room and puts out her arms to Mrs Lampeter, who softly, tenderly, encloses Nora in a motherly hug. She hasn’t felt this well for what seems like a lifetime.
‘Miss Nora—’
‘Mrs Lampeter—’ they begin simultaneously, then smile, pause and wait. Mrs Lampeter sits on one of the chairs by the fireside and Nora follows to sit on the other, though she wishes there was not such a distance between them. She sinks down into the overstuffed leather armchair and has to hold in a groan of pleasure. Only now does she realise how uncomfortable the stiff, wooden chairs she has become used to are.
‘How are you, Miss Nora?’
Nora can see Mrs Lampeter’s gaze taking in her short, uneven, lifeless hair that once was a cascade of shining chestnut curls. As well as the dark shadows under her eyes. Nora pictures the sore place on her cheek where she feels she has a bruise. But since she has no access to a mirror, she has no idea really what she looks like now – not that she would be able to do anything about it anyway. She also knows that apart from her huge baby bump, she’s much thinner, and of course her hands are cracked and red and bleeding. Though she knows it is vanity, she blushes, ashamed that Mrs Lampeter is seeing her like this.
‘I’m all right . . . Don’t worry about me,’ Nora says, but she knows she will. ‘More importantly, how are you? How is my mother? And my father? And Robert?’ The questions tumble out all at once.
‘They’re all fine.’ Mrs Lampeter hesitates. ‘They all miss you, I’m sure.’
‘Do they know you’re here?’
‘No, Miss Nora. I thought it best not to say.’ Nora’s eyes fall to her lap as she struggles to hold back her tears. Mrs Lampeter breaks the silence with a quavering voice. ‘I’m so sorry about the tablets, Miss Nora.’
‘No, Mrs Lampeter,’ Nora says, reaching across to touch her friend’s sleeve. ‘You were so kind. Please don’t be sorry. And thank you for the beautiful matinee coat and the bonnet and bootees.’ She could never tell her that they, too, became an instrument of deprivation and loss.
‘Miss Nora, there’s something I want to tell you.’ Mrs Lampeter sits upright and takes a deep breath, preparing herself as she meets Nora’s questioning face. ‘Me and my Pat was pregnant when we got married. It was early, and everyone thought our Jess must be a honeymoon baby, but she wasn’t. It doesn’t mean you’re wicked, Miss Nora. You have to forget that. I wouldn’t want it to happen to my girls, and I’m sad that it happened to you. But all this . . .’ She looks around and waves a hand to indicate everything. ‘This is terrible. I don’t think God wanted any of this to happen just because you made a slip.’
Nora’s eyes remain in her lap, and the tears spill over.
‘Might it help if you told them who the father is?’ Mrs Lampeter suggests tentatively. ‘He could marry you and it would be all right.’
Nora shakes her head firmly. ‘I can’t do that, Mrs Lampeter.’ Her voice cracks and she turns away.
‘Don’t fret, Miss Nora. When is the baby . . . ?’ but Mrs Lampeter’s voice trails away as Nora looks down in embarrassment and confusion and sees the liquid forming a pool around her feet. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Mrs Lampeter reaches out to grip Nora’s hand. ‘Nora, it’s all right. Your waters have broken, that’s all. Let me get somebody.’ And she’s out of her chair and calls from the doorway. ‘Please, someone help.’ Then she’s back at Nora’s side, holding her hand, smoothing her brow. ‘Your baby’s coming soon, that’s all. It’s going to be fine.’ Her voice is soothing and, though Nora continues to clutch the arm of the chair, she hasn’t missed the dropping of the formal ‘Miss’ and a flood of gratitude almost drowns out the pain.
The burly aide arrives at the door and takes in the scene. ‘Come with me,’ she barks at Nora. ‘And you – you’d better go.’ Mrs Lampeter takes Nora’s arm and helps her up. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ The aide’s voice is rough.
‘Please, let me stay,’ Mrs Lampeter begs.
‘Absolutely not. You need to leave now.’
Nora’s hand clutches at Mrs Lampeter. ‘Please don’t go.’
‘Now!’ The aide’s face is like thunder. ‘Or you’ll have your visiting rights withdrawn.’
‘But I want to—’
‘Now!’
Mrs Lampeter watches helplessly as the nurse bustles Nora out of the door. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can,’ she calls, her voice thick with tears.
Nora looks back and, despite the encroaching fear of what is to come, all she can think is: when will she see her friend again?
Chapter Eight
A searing pain takes Nora’s bre
ath away and she gasps for air. ‘What’s happening to me?’ she says, her voice strangled.
‘You’re having a baby, that’s all,’ the aide says dismissively. ‘Stop making such a fuss.’
Another pain assaults Nora and a sound emerges from her throat that she hardly recognises as her own. She wants her mother, Mrs Lampeter, anyone. But the aide looks ahead while Nora’s eyes fix on the dreaded stark white sign jutting into the corridor: TREATMENT ROOM. She shivers. Though she’s never been to this room, she hasn’t escaped the stories and screams that come from within, nor the sight of people being wheeled out after shock treatment with red marks on their foreheads and rubber gags still between their teeth. Her heart fills with terror as she is pushed over the threshold. No natural light and a four-lamped contraption that is a perverse caricature of a chandelier. Brown leather straps, complete with buckles, emerge from the sides and corners at the foot of the iron-framed bed. A wheeled trolley holds an array of instruments and bottles. Two shiny kidney bowls. A metal pail on the floor at the foot of the bed.
Sister Beatrice Cummings is checking a pile of towels and sheets. She glances at Nora, who shivers at the idea that this woman – who, ever since the incident with Nurse Hatton and the baby clothes, has gone out of her way to make her life miserable – will be presiding over the birth of her child.
‘Let’s have a look at you and see what’s happening,’ says Sister Cummings, not bothering to meet Nora’s eyes. She motions to the young probationer, Nurse Jamison, to help get Nora onto the bed. ‘Get her a gown. This baby might not be far away.’ She turns her back and puts on a face mask and then dons surgical gloves.
Nurse Donaldson does likewise. ‘Take off your knickers and open your legs.’ Nora’s eyes move from one to the other of these three women, mortified by her sodden underwear, but she does as she’s told. Hands move roughly about her belly and then grip above her pelvis. ‘Head’s engaged,’ Sister Cummings announces to no one in particular. Rough fingers enter Nora and move quickly. She gulps and grasps handfuls of the sheet, but fights against herself to hold still and feels immeasurably relieved as the hand is removed. Sister Cummings takes off her gloves. ‘Shave and OBE and be quick about it.’
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 5
