Tom gives a snort of exasperation and disgust, then lets out a long breath and lowers his eyes for a moment in an effort to control himself. To accuse his superior of believing such poppycock would not go down well.
‘Tom, it might be beneficial for you to study the scholarly papers on the subject.’
Unable to contain himself any longer, Tom’s frustration bursts forth. ‘I’m well acquainted with the work on sterilisation of degenerates. I know that the state of Indiana, from whence one of those authors comes, has supported the eugenicist’s theory and made sterilisation mandatory, and also made it illegal for mental patients to marry. But surely, we must think for ourselves. I apologise, sir, but I feel that any honourable human being must see that we cannot do this. We have no moral right.’ He takes a breath. In for a penny . . . ‘In fact, I don’t think we have the moral right to segregate them from society or from the opposite sex, either. Thirty years ago, Mr Churchill’s ideas were refuted as being uncivilised. One wonders just how he could make such ludicrous judgements. Labour camps; mass sterilisation. He even suggested that anyone convicted of a second petty criminal offence must be feeble-minded and therefore detained in a labour colony for an indeterminate period.’ He shakes his head in despair. ‘Surely we cannot agree with such sweeping generalities?’
‘Tom, I—’
‘Sir, the Feeble-Minded Control Bill rejected mandatory sterilisation, even though it still made it an offence to marry or even attempt to marry a mental defective. So, if Nora Jennings were to be thought of in such terms, then how could we complain that she remained unmarried? I think it’s shocking that we still uphold registration and segregation. Josiah Wedgwood was right when he denounced it as a violation of human rights. Surely, we have done with this. Enough young women have been forcibly sterilised. Please let us not be led down this path of pious savagery.’
‘Tom, the decision—’
‘Britain never legislated for sterilisation. Detention in institutions was the chosen path. And has Nora Jennings not already suffered enough by being detained and robbed of so many of her human rights? Please do not take this one from her.’
Dr Mason springs to his feet and slams his fist down on the desk. His neck is flushed with rage and his pulse beats visibly in his temples. ‘The decision is made,’ he bellows. ‘The procedure will take place tomorrow morning. You will not be required in attendance, so you can protect your precious conscience. Now, kindly leave my office and close the door behind you.’
‘Dr Mason—’
‘Get out of my office this instant.’ He sinks to his chair, leaving Tom staring. ‘Now!’
Tom turns to Matron. ‘I apologise, madam,’ he says curtly. ‘Good day.’
Dr Mason looks up. ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow, Matron. This matter is closed. Shut the door after you, doctor.’
Chapter Fourteen
1943
Four years
Nora is out on one of her walks, carefully navigating the narrow path. Briars clutch at her shoes, tangling in her socks, drawing blood from tiny, stinging scratches. And then she sees the men. Old men in well-mended jackets, young men in dungarees, men with wheelbarrows; all of them slow and ponderous, but working there in the magical, fertile outdoors. Each team has a healthy-looking younger man in a green coat, giving orders and inspecting work. There are rows of Victorian glasshouses, filled with pots of seedlings, then beyond, a wild woodland with silver birch, elm and willow. She longs to keep walking, but she’s been told she’s not to go beyond here.
Nora watches in amazement and the closest thing to delight she has felt for a long time, but hot on the heels of that joy comes a pang of jealousy at the fact that only the men are allowed to work out here. It strikes her that the only men she has encountered since being brought here are Dr Mason, Dr Stilworth, Stan, and that awful aide who threw her in the isolation room. And Joe, of course. Otherwise it’s become a woman’s world. But that doesn’t seem to have rendered it any gentler. Gladys is motherly, yes, and Nurse Jamison seems sensitive, but the others seem devoid of any human feeling whatsoever. Her thoughts turn to Peggy and how their lives have somehow become wound together through pain and loss, each helping the other to survive in this world that doesn’t seem to care.
There’s a sudden scuffling sound and Stan appears, accompanied by one of the nursing assistants. Even through the fog of her musings, Nora can’t help but notice that he seems distant and distracted. ‘Nora, I want you to go back to the ward and sit by your bed, and have your coat ready.’
She stares at him, her brow furrowed in confusion.
‘Come on,’ Stan chivvies her. ‘Don’t argue, I want you back on the ward now.’
But Nora’s feet won’t move. ‘Why?’ she says in a voice that sounds, even to her own ears, unusually whiny. Why does she have to lose the one tiny freedom she is ever allowed, just to sit in her room?
‘Nora, now.’ Stan’s eyes hold hers and she knows she has no choice but to comply.
She comes back feeling sulky, and waits for what seems like hours, watching out of the window as the sky has become grey and sullen, a bit like her mood. She hates to have nothing to do – too much space for too much thought. Although the work is hard, in many ways it’s a blessing. She quite likes working in the laundry. All the hospital clothing is laundered together, sorted for mending, gathered into piles and distributed daily in those anonymous bails. Doctors’ white coats are washed separately and starched and pressed so that medical staff can draw a pristine uniform each day. Nora takes pride in repairing them with neat stitches, turning collars by hand, sewing on buttons. And day by day, life has somehow become more bearable.
The clouds that were silent grey ghosts are suddenly swollen and angry, arguing with each other, their occasional explosions of temper lighting the sky with silver flashes. Here and there the rain falls in thick, slate-grey curtains. Then there’s a respite, but clouds continue to gather, their anvil tops predicting further clashes. Nora waits, craning her head to watch the battle in the sky through the window.
Stan’s voice startles her. ‘Nora, are you ready? Transport’s here.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
Stan gathers up her coat and hands it to her. ‘Nora, put your coat on.’
Nora remains rooted to the spot. Cold fear licks at her chest. Something’s going on but she has no idea what. Stan is avoiding her eyes and though he’s always kind, she can’t deny that, at the moment, she feels she cannot trust him.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ he says, though he himself looks decidedly worried.
‘But where am I going?’
He hesitates slightly, then mumbles, ‘You’re going out for a ride . . . to have your appendix out.’
Her brow crinkles in a frown, the green eyes below questioning. ‘Why?’
Stan looks away, colour creeping up his neck. ‘It’s just a precaution,’ he says.
‘But I don’t need my appendix out.’
‘Nora, best not make a fuss. Come on now.’
Stan ushers her out of the building and into the waiting hospital van. She feels a mixture of excitement and anxiety as she is driven out of the hospital grounds for the first time in four years. She turns and looks back at those tall gates, thinking of all the times she’s wondered if she was ever going to see them from the outside again. They look very much the same.
The van has turned to the left, away from Fenshaw. Tears prick her eyes as she wonders how she would feel if the journey had taken them the other way. She might have seen her mother at the shops, or some of her friends, or even Robert . . . But she knows she must be very strict with herself. She can’t afford an emotional excursion into the past. It hurts too much to think of how they’ve all abandoned her. Dr Mason was right. It was easier when she started to consider herself an orphan, completely alone in the world. She looks out of the van windows at old familiar landmarks, drinking them in. How strange! Some things have changed, but others are just as she remembers.
But then she looks straight ahead. This is not the world she belongs in any more.
The next day, Nora wakes up in the strange hospital bed. Even before she has the chance to get her bearings, she’s aware of the pain in her lower abdomen and the concerned, angelic face of a young nurse hovering over her. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she says, her brown eyes smiling kindly into Nora’s. Nora blinks but says nothing. ‘Some water? Anything?’ the nurse asks as her hand reaches out to straighten a wrinkle in the sheet.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Nora finally croaks.
Days pass and Nora becomes familiar with the strange routine – woken very early to wash and have her bed made with her still in it. Very odd! Compulsory bedpan. Bed bath. The nurses’ round with Sister and the same questions each day about how often she’s opened her bowels and how much she’s had to drink. Visiting times are the loneliest times of the day, when everyone but her seems to have someone at their bedside with flowers and grapes – always grapes, it seems – and happy faces. She wishes she could disappear, then. She tries to hide herself under the sheet or play a game with herself, trying to guess who is visiting whom.
Then one morning, Sister – nothing like Sister Cummings, thankfully – appears with a special tray and, without explanation or ceremony, pokes around at the still tender wound then proceeds to cut the tiny, neat knots and tweezer out the catgut stitches. She stands admiring the scar with satisfaction, and only then addresses Nora.
‘Now you’ve had your stitches out, you’ll be discharged back to your own hospital. Your escort will be back in a moment. She just slipped out for a short break.’
‘Oh . . .’ Nora has so much she wants to ask, yet she’s learned that it’s always best to say nothing. Everything can be twisted, misinterpreted and come back to bite her – perhaps even here. But one burning question spills out of her. ‘Why did I have to have my appendix out?’
A cloud ripples the surface of the sister’s brown eyes. ‘Your appendix?’ There’s a beat of silence.
‘My appendix. I had my appendix out.’
The sister’s shining eyes become dull and she looks away, flushing, as some fleeting clarity flashes across her face. ‘I think you’ll have to ask the doctor,’ she says and smiles, but the smile does not reach her eyes.
Nora feels a pang of sadness. Something’s going on, though she doesn’t know what.
As she waits for her transport back to Hillinghurst to arrive, Nora sits quietly, thinking. She would never have thought she’d be relieved to be going back there, but she is. Things might be difficult there – the food less plentiful and poorer in quality, the nurses handy at giving the odd slap to keep people in line, and of course having to deal with Sister Cummings – but at least it’s familiar, known.
She wonders whether Joe knows where she is. There was no time to tell him, she was just whisked to the hospital van and found herself here. Not that she had anything to pack or anyone else to tell, except Peggy.
The van arrives and Nora gets up to meet it. Just as she is about to get in, she sees something that makes her stop still. A little girl is running around the hospital grounds. She has a bright green balloon, and is patting it along then chasing it as her mother watches, smiling. The child’s father walks along behind her, no doubt knowing that the balloon will burst soon enough, but enjoying this simple, shared pleasure in the moment. Is that how it is in normal families? Before she can ponder further, her escort shoves her impatiently in the back, and Nora looks away and climbs into the van.
As they near Hillinghurst Hospital, the inevitable water tower and chimney loom in the distance, as forbidding now as they were to her when she was a child, when the ‘madhouse’ of Hillinghurst was whispered about as if even its name might bring a curse upon someone. It could never have dawned upon any of Nora’s family that one of their number would ever bring shame upon them by being committed here.
Today, however, Nora tries to see it differently as she catches the first glimpse of the gates and the gardens stretching out like a cat in the sunshine, as flowers and vegetables hum and chatter their messages to each other, carried by armies of bees and butterflies.
Once on the ward, Nora is told she must stay in the day room today. No work. No walk. She sees that there’s a new admission who sits in restraints. There’s an awful smell. She must have done something in her knickers. She struggles against the leather straps, then her face contorts into what could have become a yawn, then her head falls forward and she’s asleep. Medication.
Despite herself, Nora has a glancing thought that it’s good to be home.
Chapter Fifteen
1944
Five years
Nora taps her foot nervously, the only outward sign of her growing excitement and agitation. Her regular visits from Mrs Lampeter suddenly stopped five months ago, and when Nora built up the courage to ask about it, Dr Stilworth said that she was very ill and in hospital herself. However, today Nora is to have a visit. She longs to see her dearest friend – indeed her only friend, apart from Peggy and Joe. She arrives in the family room with five minutes to spare, having brushed her hair several times and pinched her cheeks to make them look rosy. She has polished her clogs on the back of her stockings then smoothed out any wrinkles. And now she waits.
When Mrs Lampeter enters, Nora feels a jolt of shock deep in her belly. Her friend is bird-thin and her tweed suit hangs around her like a tent. A rather spectacular green felt hat clings precariously to the back of her head, threatening to fall off at any moment. Leather, stocky-heeled lace-ups appear to be weighting her in place, lest she be blown away by a capricious wind. Her face, always round and cheery, is now drawn and thin; her skin, once ruddy, is now putty grey and she has composed her features so as not to betray what is in any case so obvious. But behind it all, love still beams from her eyes. She constantly shifts her gaze away from Nora’s searching eyes, as though this will help protect their secret. But too late. Nora has already seen it. It is the same look that a neighbour had before she died of consumption.
Nora’s wide smile freezes. She takes the older woman’s arm and smiles valiantly through her fear. ‘Mrs Lampeter, it’s wonderful to see you. I’m sorry you’ve been so ill. I hope you’re feeling better?’
Mrs Lampeter smiles weakly, but a fit of coughing interrupts and she has to pause, holding a handkerchief to her mouth. ‘I’m all right, Miss Nora. And what about you?’
‘I’m fine,’ she lies.
‘I brought you some scones. I hope they’ll let you have them.’ She holds out a paper bag.
Nora smiles. ‘Ooh, thank you, Mrs Lampeter. How lovely,’ she enthuses, bubbling with a mischief that she hasn’t felt these last five years. ‘Maybe we should have one now, just in case.’ Mrs Lampeter’s eyes fill with pleasure. But still a gap opens between them – a hammock of time cradling an uneasy silence. They look into each other’s eyes, each aware the other is lying. ‘Mrs Lampeter, is something else wrong? Apart from . . . your cough, I mean.’
Mrs Lampeter reaches out and takes her hand. ‘I have news about Robert.’
Nora’s heart flips. ‘Robert?’ A long list of possibilities parades through Nora’s mind, accompanied by both excitement and fear.
‘Yes,’ and Mrs Lampeter pauses. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. Nora, I’m afraid he was badly wounded in Italy.’
Nora clasps her hand to her mouth. ‘What happened?’ she whispers.
‘It’s difficult to know – that’s what war does. He had a head injury.’ Nora clasps her hand to her mouth. ‘He’s been in Stoke Mandeville Hospital since March and is getting better. I hear they can do amazing things nowadays.’
‘Oh.’ Nora is distraught, her thoughts reeling. A longing to see him. Sadness that she won’t be able to go. And, undeniable, residual anger at his abandonment, all those years ago . . .
Mrs Lampeter takes her hand. ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right, Miss Nora. He was unconscious when he got to the hospital, but he’s awake n
ow and being cared for very well, I’m sure. But I thought you’d want to know. Maybe you’d like to remember him in your prayers.’
Nora feels a wave of guilt. She hasn’t prayed for a very long time. She avoids Father Matthews when he comes to take confession and to bring Holy Communion, unable to forget that he was there that night and said and did nothing to help her. And she feels abandoned by God as well as everyone else – apart from Mrs Lampeter, of course.
Another bout of Mrs Lampeter’s coughing intrudes into Nora’s thoughts. ‘I can’t even go to see him,’ Nora whimpers.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Nora. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Do my mother and father know?’
‘Yes. They’ve been there with him.’
Nora’s face falls. ‘They’ve never been here with me,’ and tears fill her eyes.
Mrs Lampeter’s eyes widen and she looks trapped. Nora hastily wipes her tears away and gives a watery smile. ‘No, please don’t worry, Mrs Lampeter. I’m glad he has them to visit.’
Mrs Lampeter sighs. ‘I’m sorry for all this trouble, Miss Nora.’ She pauses, looking deep into Nora’s eyes. ‘Do you not want to tell them about Robert? I could even tell them for you. It might make things . . .’ but Nora’s colour drains and Mrs Lampeter’s voice fades away.
‘You knew?’ Nora whispers.
‘Your love for each other was written all over your face.’
Nora’s eyes brim with tears. ‘I couldn’t do that. There’d be even more shame because we’re cousins. Best nobody knows.’
‘But you’re here –’ Mrs Lampeter glances around – ‘in this awful place. On your own . . .’
‘Dr Mason said it was already a disgrace for all the family, and that’s even without them knowing about Robert. I’ve done enough damage as it is. I can’t . . .’ Her voice wobbles and she blinks quickly, then takes a deep breath and tries to smile. Mrs Lampeter’s eyes fill and furrows pucker her brow. Nora reaches out to touch her arm. ‘Mrs Lampeter, what about you? Have you been very ill?’
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 10
