‘Do you have anything to say?’ Dr Mason’s voice cuts through the mist of years and finally Sister Cummings looks up at him.
‘No.’
‘Then I have to tell you that you will be leaving the hospital this morning. At least that will relieve you of the embarrassment of having to appear at an investigation of your abuse of some of our patients.’ He turns to Matron. ‘Matron, is there anything you wish to add?’
Miss Endsleigh shakes her head. ‘Perhaps you could gather your personal belongings now.’
Sister Cummings, pale but dry-eyed, opens her desk drawer without a word, takes her pen and a comb, closes the drawer carefully and stands. Dr Mason opens the door and stands back. Sister Cummings steps out and, without even a final look at the ward, walks away with Dr Mason and Matron at her heels.
The ward is deathly quiet, as if even the patients know that something momentous is happening. The eyes of all the staff follow the procession out of the ward. Gladys looks at Stan and they hold each other’s eyes for a moment, then Stan claps his hands. ‘So what are you all staring at? Come on, there’s work to do.’
Chapter Seventeen
1956
Seventeen years
Ever since the dismissal of Sister Cummings, years ago, there have been changes on an almost weekly basis. Sure, the odd slap still happens – the older staff are too set in their ways to change everything. And people sometimes ‘fall out of bed’ after a confrontation. Occasionally there are still shouts and screams from the sluice or the treatment room, but, on the whole, things are better. There’s also a new drug – chlorpromazine – that has quietened a lot of patients, although the side effects aren’t pretty. And it’s by no means the most effective change to have come to Rowan.
In 1953, a television was installed so that patients and staff alike could watch the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. It was a public holiday, so there was only a small crew of nurses, but they sat together with the patients to watch the black-and-white images and listen to the choir of Westminster Abbey and the cheers of the crowds. Tea and plates of cake and biscuits were passed around. There were the usual moans and groans with the odd scream for good measure, but what dominated were animated conversation and sighs of wonder, with just the odd yell telling someone to quieten down. A party followed, the trees and bushes decorated with red, white and blue bunting, a Union Jack flying high. The Salvation Army band was a hit, getting hands clapping, toes tapping. Both staff and patients danced. Nora wore a pale green flowery frock with a nipped-in waist and a narrow tan belt. She even had beige sandals. Joe looked smart in his navy jacket and a red tie that looked striking against his white shirt. He smiled at Nora and she at him, though they kept their distance. Dr Stilworth, in a grey suit rather than his white coat, didn’t dance because of his leg, but smiled encouragingly at the patients who did, while Dr Mason was seen fleetingly, wandering about smiling at people and exchanging a few words here and there before making a smart though dignified getaway within the hour, allowing the staff to relax again.
The effects of the television on staff and patients were remarkable, and so, music followed. Alma Cogan and Matt Monro, Bing Crosby and Petula Clark have an effect on morale that’s nothing short of miraculous.
But some things don’t change. On winter mornings, cold fog rises up from the earth and clings to the trees, while the souls of the departed creep around, just as they did when clothed in their tortured bodies. Nurses emerge from the knee-deep mist, torches in hands, awaiting a dawn that will bring relief from the deep gloom of grumbling skies. Though the patients are alive, many are quiescent, their spirit extinguished. Stilled and silenced for so long, they sit tethered, eyes vacant as they wait for a final release.
A change in Nora has been noted. Quizzical eyes follow her and questions form in the minds of her keepers. Relieved of daily bullying and punishment, she can breathe, and even though life may still be hard and empty, Nora, at thirty-four, is alive once more.
But today, she hasn’t felt warm since she awoke in the middle of the night, her toes frozen, chilblains itching and sore. The bitter wind blows under her dress and sneaks up past her knees to the chafed inside of her thighs. Her one regulation sanitary towel is sodden and uncomfortable, and it’s not yet lunchtime. She carries her basket of peelings and scraps and inches out of the door, bracing herself. Her hands smart at the new assault on her broken skin, and newly closed cuts spring open again, oozing blood. She hardly feels it any longer.
At the back door of the kitchen, old men – coughing and wheezing, heads bowed and eyes screwed – suck the last life out of second-hand tobacco they’ve scavenged. Feet stamping, gnarled knuckles made purple by the cold, they pull their old, threadbare jackets around their even older bony bodies. There’s neither conversation nor eye contact, no social smiles. Just hacking coughs and furtive glances. The men shuffle out of Nora’s way as she hoists the pail to the high lip of the bin, tips it and waits till all the cold, wet scraps slide into the open mouth. Then, returning to the kitchen, she takes up her place in the corner.
Nurse Jenny Turret is in the kitchen collecting tea and coffee for the staffroom. She pauses and puts both hands flat on the countertop, leaning forward with her weight on her hands. Pristine in starched white collar and cuffs and high cap, she hunches her shoulders, her head hanging forward. Nora watches surreptitiously from where she stands peeling yet more potatoes, concern clouding her face. The presence of Nurse Turret disturbs her. She puts her head down and concentrates on her own work, hardly feeling her cold, chapped hands as she drops one potato after the other into icy water. Her hands anaesthetised by the cold, more than once she cuts herself. She glances over at Nurse Turret every few seconds.
‘What are you gawping at?’ Nurse Turret snaps, drawing the back of her hand across her nose, embarrassed at her own distress. Nora quickly tries to reassemble her face, deconstructing the concern written upon it. ‘I asked you what you’re gawping at.’
Nora drops her head again and starts to quiver all over. She knows there’s no appropriate answer. Really, none is required. She tries her hardest to disappear, but her heart is thumping in her chest. She suddenly remembers Peggy – beautiful Peggy – and the day of the biscuit. Marshalling all her courage, she puts down the knife and dries her hands on her apron. Shaking with fear, but her face set in determination, she makes her quiet way to Nurse Turret’s side and takes a deep breath. ‘Are you unwell?’ she asks in a tremulous voice. ‘Can I get you some water?’
The nurse lifts her tear-stained face and looks at Nora with incredulity. None of the patients has ever asked after the staff. She doesn’t say anything and, after a few moments, Nora turns to go back to her corner. That’s it now; she must be in real trouble. But then Nurse Turret starts to sob and Nora turns, confused and a bit frightened. Nurse Turret looks at her through her tears, and the words just tumble out. ‘I was pregnant. I lost my baby.’ A spasm shakes the nurse and her head drops lower until she rests her forehead on her hands and weeps.
Nora looks on helplessly. She has no idea what to do, though her heart breaks for this poor woman. Then words form, and almost involuntarily pop out. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmurs. ‘I lost mine too. I know how you feel.’ She has an urge to touch the nurse, offer her some physical comfort, but dare not.
Nurse Turret raises her head and looks at Nora, her eyes wide. This is the most eye contact she’s had with a patient in years. Then, in a low voice, as though she too is afraid, she says, ‘How can you feel sorry for me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Nora mutters, retreating a few steps.
‘Don’t be. Even though it was before my time, I know you lost your baby, and I know you’ve had a very hard time here over many years. I’m like one of your jailers. How can you find it in your heart to be sorry for me?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nora stammers. ‘I just know how awful it felt. I’m sorry.’
Nurse Turret sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. ‘No, N
ora. It’s me who should be sorry. I don’t think any of us have thought too much about your grief and pain – any of you. I think we thought you didn’t have feelings like us.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re . . . well, you’re . . .’
‘Defective?’
The nurse blushes. ‘How did you have the courage to offer me comfort?’
‘I’m sorry – I don’t know.’
Nurse Turret just looks at her. ‘You don’t need to be sorry. It was very kind of you.’ Nora’s confusion is clear on her face, and the nurse continues. ‘We’re not allowed to express our feelings here. Whether we might feel fond of someone, or dislike them, it doesn’t matter; we’re not allowed to say anything.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’ Nora thinks for a moment. ‘But you ask me how I feel and expect me to tell you . . .’
‘It’s different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m staff and you’re a patient.’
‘Oh.’ Nora pauses, taking a few moments to process this. ‘But we’re both women?’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘But not equal women?’
Nurse Turret looks embarrassed again, then the mask is back. ‘I don’t have time for all this chatter,’ she blusters, and Nora, admonished, retreats back to her corner, and back into herself.
The following day, when Nurse Turret comes into the kitchen, Nora keeps her head down.
‘Nora, how are you today?’ Nurse Turret calls over to her.
Nora’s knife hovers over the potato she’s peeling. Is she really talking to me?
‘Nora? How are you today?’
Without moving her head, Nora steals a glance along to where Nurse Turret is standing. ‘I feel sad,’ she says, her voice barely audible.
‘I’m sorry.’
Nora freezes, astonished. None of the nurses has ever instigated a conversation with her, let alone expressed sympathy with her. Well, Gladys does sometimes when they’re out on one of their walks, and Kumar sometimes jokes a bit at night, but that’s all. Nora’s body tingles. Something amazing has just happened. She wonders if she dares continue the conversation.
‘And how are you?’ she asks shyly.
‘I feel a little better today, thank you,’ says Nurse Turret, with a weak but definite smile.
‘That’s good,’ whispers Nora. She lifts her head a little and smiles, too.
Chapter Eighteen
1961
Twenty-two years
Gladys enters the day room with her usual cheery smile. ‘Are you ready?’ she says. Nora, who has been ready and waiting for the last couple of hours, smiles. She enjoys her walks with Gladys, who is kind and yet keeps her in line if necessary – like the day when Nora and Joe were chatting and she was quite impatient with them both. But in the main, she behaves rather like a benevolent grandmother. ‘Come on, then,’ says Gladys. ‘Are you going to be warm enough without your cardigan?’ Nora loves it when Gladys says things like that. It’s so long since anyone seemed to care one jot about how she is or who she is, but she knows Gladys does.
They walk together, chatting with ease about how Nora feels and about this new television programme, Coronation Street. Lost in conversation, Gladys takes them on a different route. The dog violets and wild honeysuckle are just starting to share their scent and Nora, as always, touches the flowers as they stroll along, remembering walks with her grandfather.
They come to a place where the branches are low, tenderly reaching out to each other until they almost touch. Some of the new leaves are starting to adopt a livelier spring green; the light filtering through them has a soft, golden glow. Nora pauses to take in the beauty of it, her mother’s voice in her head – Fill your memory banks . . .
But the afternoon sun glints on something in the sparse undergrowth. She shifts her gaze and sees that there are dozens of small objects in the grass. She stares, transfixed. ‘What are all those little things?’ she asks, glancing at Gladys.
Gladys’s face changes instantly. Her smile disappears and she looks distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Come away, Nora,’ Gladys says, pulling on Nora’s sleeve. ‘This isn’t a nice place to walk.’
She attempts to steer Nora away with an urgency that only serves to increase Nora’s curiosity. ‘But what are they?’ she persists. ‘There’s so many of them.’
‘They’re nothing. Now, come away or we’ll be late back.’
But Nora stubbornly hangs back. She’s not so easily put off at thirty-nine as she was at seventeen. ‘They can’t be nothing,’ she scoffs.
For the first time in all Nora’s years of knowing her, Gladys looks irritated. ‘For goodness’ sake, Nora. If you must know, they’re grave markers. This is the cemetery. It’s where people who once lived here are buried.’
‘Here in the institution?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, yes. Joe said his mother was buried here in the cemetery.’ Nora’s eyes linger a few moments longer, then wander to an area where the little markers are huddled together as though for comfort. Then, a tug on her sleeve brings her back to herself. ‘Nora, come away.’
For once, Nora disobeys, staying rooted to the spot. ‘Why are those ones over there different?’ she asks, pointing.
Gladys doesn’t meet her eye. ‘Nora. We have to go. I shouldn’t have brought you here. It’s an awful place. We’ll be late and there’ll be hell to pay.’
Though she finally walks after Gladys and away from the graves, Nora can’t help but look back at them. ‘But Gladys, why are they here?’
There’s a long pause and then, her voice heavy with reluctance, Gladys responds. ‘They’re children’s graves. Now, do as you’re told. Hurry up.’
Nora stops still, her brow puckering in confusion. ‘But there aren’t any children here.’
Gladys looks flustered, something else Nora hasn’t seen before, which only makes her even more curious. ‘Nora, we’re going right now,’ she snaps. ‘If we’re not back before the bell sounds for supper, we’ll both be for it.’ She walks on and Nora finally does as she’s bidden, allowing herself to be guided along the path. But part of her still lingers in that place with its shifting light. Suddenly, a cold shiver creeps up her spine, enveloping her neck and causing beads of cold sweat to form on her brow. She stops abruptly and is left behind until Gladys realises she’s not following.
As Gladys turns, Nora finds her voice again, tremulous and breathy. ‘Gladys, who adopted my little girl?’ she demands. She watches as Gladys blanches then blushes, avoiding Nora’s eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ she manages as she turns and walks ahead, her shoulders looking more hunched, as though her neck is trying to disappear between them. Nora watches as if from down a long tunnel, and eventually trudges in Gladys’s footsteps.
Sitting in the day room, questions assault Nora’s mind, tapping their impatient toes, begging answers, seeking resolution. The little metal markers have resurrected a long-forgotten memory of the time when her grandmother died. She was only six or seven at the time but, as if it were only yesterday, she can see her mother lifting the black net veil over her face to mop away the tears while her father’s hand cups her elbow in support. She pictured that evidence of his love for her mother for years afterwards, remembering it every Sunday when the family visited the grave after mass.
The speckled grey granite headstone said so much in just a few words.
In loving memory of Beth Anderson.
Faithful wife, beloved mother and grandmother.
6 June 1868–27 November 1927
Rest in peace in the loving arms of the Lord.
Her grandmother was loved and remembered. She was an early summer baby who had an early winter passing and had lived for fifty-nine years. She was faithful to her husband and had raised her children to bear their own. She was wished rest and peace now that she had completed her task, and was with Jesus, who loved her and would hold her for ever.
Nora can’
t stop thinking about the difference between her grandmother’s beautiful, well-tended grave and those tiny afterthoughts in the dirt outside. Does anyone come here and cry about these people? Will anyone come and cry over her when she dies? She wonders if the amount that people cry is dependent upon how much they loved the person who died. How can Nora have cried so long and so much – and still – for the baby she never met, even though she’s alive but living somewhere else? She wonders if she’s still with her adoptive mother, or if maybe she’s a mother now in her own right. ‘I might be a grandmother,’ she whispers to herself.
But as she sees again the afternoon sun slanting through the trees and the light dancing on the grave markers, her heart clenches and her blood seems to freeze in her veins. She looks straight ahead with a strange mixture of confusion and clarity. Surely not . . . But the graveyard reels her in as if she’s been harpooned. Her heart starts to race and her hands claw at the arms of her chair. No . . . it can’t be . . .
She has to know. She glances around furtively, then stands up. Most people are watching television. She is almost at the door when Gladys’s voice surprises her, making her jump. ‘Where are you going, Nora?’
Nora turns and manages to look directly at Gladys. ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ she mutters, and turns away before Gladys can question her further. She waits for a few seconds outside the day room, gathering all her courage, then sets off as casually as she can. Out in the corridor, she ignores the left turn that would take her towards the toilets.
She keeps close to the wall, trembling but resolute, never looking back. She can hardly breathe. The back door is in sight. Quietly, she opens it and exits into the yard.
Then she breaks into a run.
The trees are silhouetted eerily against the dying sun. It’s so cold, and she realises too late that she isn’t dressed for the weather, but her body surges forward, spurred on by a will and urgency of its own. Branches clatter together as the wind gathers, making a noise like toothless, chattering old women. She presses on through the wooden gate, then hurries along the path. An owl, disturbed by her passing, screeches as it flaps out of its resting place on silent wings.
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 12
