The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  ‘I was just completing her prep for the ECT,’ the aide says, raising his hands defensively.

  Dr Stilworth pushes past him and removes the mouth gag. Nora coughs and gasps for air. ‘You, you . . .’ she screams, unable to find the right words to describe this monster. Dr Stilworth releases her restraints and gently slides his arm under Nora’s back while using the other to pull the sheet up over her, giving her back what is left of her dignity.

  The aide just stands there, watching.

  ‘Nora, I am so sorry this happened to you,’ says Dr Stilworth, and Nora feels his rage in his shaking hands as they envelop hers. ‘Gladys!’ he shouts. ‘Come here and look after Nora.’ He turns to the aide. ‘And you. Get out of here and wait for me in the ward. The police will be called. Do not try to run. You’re not fit to wipe her shoes, you swine.’ Tom is white with rage, but as he turns back to Nora, who is being tended to by Gladys, his face is the picture of shock and concern. ‘This should never have happened, Nora. Nothing I can say could possibly make up for this. I am deeply ashamed and profoundly sorry.’ And he limps out.

  Days later, Nora awakes from a disturbed sleep, blinking as she adjusts to the light. The first thing she sees is Dr Stilworth’s face, tense with sorrow, peering at her with something in his eyes that, at first, she cannot place, but then recognises as a depth of loving care that she used to see sometimes in the eyes of her mother when she was ill as a child.

  ‘There you are,’ he says, his voice gentle and tender. ‘Welcome back.’

  She feels a light pressure on her arm and tests her muscles against it as she usually does with restraints. But the pressure falls away immediately as Dr Stilworth withdraws his hand. Nora holds his gaze as she searches his face. His hazel eyes are clear and bright and his too-wide lips move into a slow smile. ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘You’re back. You’ve been very sick, but you’re safe now.’

  Nora shakes her head. She still feels as though she is clambering out of a murky hole, her brain slowly responding as though it had been steeped in tar. She blinks again and shakes her head, but she can’t quite remember where she is. She pulls her eyes away from his and looks around the room, trying to orientate herself, but it is all just so confusing and she returns her gaze to his face almost immediately.

  ‘It’s all right, Nora,’ he repeats gently. ‘Just take your time.’

  Bewilderment surrounds her like a veil. What day is it? She can’t remember yesterday. What is she doing lying down when it’s daytime? Anxiety wells up within her and she attempts to sit up, but immediately the world spins. She feels so weak. A hand moves behind her neck to support her head and she finally manages to sit up.

  The room is frighteningly familiar, but she still can’t quite place it. She holds onto the bed, grasping the sheet in her hands, and looks around with wide eyes.

  ‘Nora, you’ve been very ill and you’re still very weak, but you’re getting better. Nurse will take you back to your own bed soon.’

  Why is he being so kind? But then he has always been kind. But why? She closes her eyes again and almost falls back onto the bed. Why did she have to wake up? She was so calm and tranquil in her cocoon. She feels a surge of frustration that this man, who clearly cares so much about her, has forced her back into such a cruel existence. She is standing in a garden trying to peg together scraps of memory on a washing line, but the wind snatches them away, scattering them out of her reach. A walk with Gladys . . . some markers in the ground . . . a horrible, animal screaming . . . She presses her head back into the pillow to escape the recollections that begin to settle into a crazy mosaic, dovetailing to form a picture of pain and suffering. No, she doesn’t want to remember.

  The pain raises its head and lunges at her like a striking snake. The world that has consisted of a narrow tunnel down which she peered through a black mist begins to come back into focus. She lifts a hand and brings it into view, moving it cautiously, examining her fingers, the clean nails and unusually smooth skin. Its pale softness seems foreign. She lifts the other and stares at it. Strange. Where has she been? What’s happened?

  There have been times in her inert state that she imagined herself walking, dancing, playing the piano, singing. She searches her mind as though it’s an old, derelict house, looking in every room to see what’s there, but then retreats from the fragmented memories that threaten to engulf and choke her. The horror of all that’s happened these last years. Poignant, excruciating. But proof that she’s still alive. Events from years ago beside those from yesterday, the stark contrast searingly painful; snatches from her teens interspersed with snippets from six months ago, interspersed with barren silences. The timeline of her life starts to flow, viscous as lava at first but slowly speeding up to match reality. And suddenly, relief that she can still think and remember floods through her. Even though the memories are painful, they are hers, and one of the few things that belong only to her. Tears well up and slide down her face.

  Dr Stilworth draws closer, and she starts. She’d forgotten he was there. She stares at him, a little puzzled, then looks away. When she brings her eyes back to his, accusation burns within them and Tom starts back. He hasn’t seen this much fire in Nora’s eyes in years.

  Her eyes fill with tears, which quench the flames and turn them into pools of sadness and despair. ‘You knew about my baby,’ she whispers. It is a statement, not a question, and she finally turns her back to him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The days pass slowly as Nora starts the uphill journey to recovery, her grief as raw now as if she’d lost her baby yesterday. At the approach of the day things seem just a little better, even if only for fleeting moments. But Nora is lonely, imprisoned, and with all that time to think, a new fear emerges that soon eclipses all others: bit by bit, she is sure she is losing herself. Whenever she feels she might pass out from the terror of this, she forces herself to recall memories from her childhood, so as to preserve those parts of herself that are irrevocably bound within them. The look of loving pride on her mother’s face when Nora sang. The delicious secret sense of mischief as she prepared a surprise concert for her parents. Robert in his silk cravat and the tender touch of his hand on hers long before they dared kiss.

  The knowledge that her child is dead leaves her with a haunting, enduring grief and has killed the hope that sustained her for so long. The hope that somewhere her child was growing, healthy and thriving with a family who loved her. And more – the hope that, one day, Nora would find her. Whenever she finds herself replaying that fantasy of finally meeting her daughter in her head, she feels ridiculous and stupid. How could she have fooled herself for so long? She knows the answer, though: because otherwise, what was there to live for? Just more of this. She draws the thin sheet over her face and prays for oblivion.

  ‘Nora.’ Dr Stilworth’s voice pierces the mist and reels her back into the present. ‘Nora. Sit up. Nurse has brought you some tea.’ She hauls herself up and attempts to orientate herself. She feels her face, soft and sagging; runs fingers through her greasy hair. Tears slide down her sunken cheeks. Layers of dreams, fragments of conversation, half-forgotten encounters – the dust motes of her life – hang in the air, then ignite torrents of emotion long buried but never extinguished. Whips of pain, shards of sadness, wisps of joy, snatches of delight, recollected passion. All arise and fade, bruising her painful mind, denuded of its defences.

  ‘Am I ever going to get out of here?’ she whispers.

  ‘One day, I’m sure,’ says Dr Stilworth, though she can tell that he doesn’t really believe it.

  She sits in the day room surrounded by chaos and despair. Though the aide who assaulted her is gone, she can still feel his hands imprinted indelibly upon her skin. She can smell them even though she has scrubbed her body until it is red raw. And every time she thinks of him, she feels a murderous rage flare deep within her.

  She notices how respectfully Dr Stilworth approaches her during his rounds. She has erected the
barrier between them – she knows that. He was part of the deception, part of the reason why she will never be happy again, so she has no choice. If he tries to get closer, she scowls at him from under hunched eyebrows – something she’s never done before – and shows him her defiance rather than despair. He deserves her anger. They all do. She’s glad when he says nothing and eventually moves away.

  She turns back the covers and puts her feet over the side of the bed, using her anger as her strength. She can feel him and Stan turning to watch her, but she doesn’t care. Let them watch.

  Nora stands up on shaky legs, holding onto the bed for support, then lets go and tests out her balance. She’s thin and feels somehow taller and much older than she did those few months ago. She pauses to steady herself then, slowly at first and in a very straight line, she starts to walk, her head held high. Dr Stilworth steps back out of her way and she ignores him and keeps on going. The other nurses move aside to make way for her, and she feels as powerful as Moses parting the Red Sea. The ward is deathly silent. She heads straight for the doors and out into the corridor, slowly but with a mounting sense of purpose. She can feel dozens of eyes watching her, but she pays them no heed. She gathers confidence and speed and strides towards the outside door, sensing Dr Stilworth and Stan following a good way behind her, but still she refuses to acknowledge them. She opens the door and steps out into the pouring rain, still in her nightdress. Soaking wet, she holds her head erect, paying no mind to the fact that she is now wet through. She pushes forward into the strong wind.

  ‘Shall I bring her in?’ Stan asks, his voice hushed, as though afraid to break Nora’s trance.

  ‘Leave her,’ she hears Dr Stilworth say. ‘She’ll come back when she’s ready. Just keep a careful eye.’ And she feels them keeping a respectful distance as they follow her along the muddy path towards where Dr Stilworth knew she was heading the moment she took her first step: her baby’s grave.

  Back in the dormitory, after supper and a warm bath, Nora looks out at the night sky, watching, just as she did as a little girl, star after crystalline star switching on to light up the heavens. The sliver of new moon climbs to meet them. It seems to her that the heavens are preparing to welcome her home. A sky full of freedom to explore, yet Nora is withering day by day in this glorified prison. In all these years she’s rarely contemplated the ultimate escape. But now . . . Enough. She has been here twenty-two years. Eighty-eight seasons. Enough shame, enough humiliation, enough ridicule. Enough of this life. She does not want to grieve through even one more of her child’s birthdays. Not one more Christmas morning remembering Robert’s receding back as she banged on the window and was dragged away. Not one more.

  Her muscles relax and her shoulders fall as a wave of power flows through her body. For the first time she realises that she can be the architect of her own fate, can take command of her life – or death. And with that realisation comes a sense of freedom and hope.

  She tiptoes back to her bed. Since long ago, a pressed blue cornflower and a pink campion that Robert picked for her one early summer have kept each other company in marking a passage in her Bible that has kept her sane in the face of all the humiliation and abuse she has endured. It’s too dark to see, but her fingers trace the outlines of the precious flowers. They have always sustained her with their fragile beauty, oases in her emotional desert.

  She doesn’t need to read the lines. She knows them by heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  1966

  Twenty-seven years

  Dr Mason is weary. The years of being alone, making the hospital his home, the staff his family and the patients his children – naughty and in need of discipline, but still his – have taken their toll. He has made several attempts at the obligatory speech, but each has ended its life in the waste-paper basket. In the end, there’s little to say, since there’s little of which he feels proud. This is not what he hoped for when he became a doctor, nor when his heart led him to specialise in the care of the mentally ill.

  He takes a long breath as he surveys the gathered throng of staff looking up at him. How can it be that I know so few of them? Where have I been? He may have one last chance to make some small reparation for what he has been part of. Suddenly, he knows what he wants to say – and it’s not written on the pages he’s holding in his hands right now. He folds them carefully and slips them back into his inside jacket pocket. He takes a long breath to steady himself, clears his throat, then opens his mouth. There is not so much to say, after all.

  ‘Tomorrow I will be departing with a heavy heart with regard to the legacy I leave behind, but hopefully future generations will think before they demonise us dinosaurs of psychiatry too much. We can do that well for ourselves.’ He pauses and looks at the few faces he does know well – Tom Stilworth, Matron, Stan, Gladys . . .

  ‘Some may have thought that I was not in possession of a heart, let alone love and empathy, but I assure you today that I have all three. I will think of you all, as well as those who have been and still are in our care – your care. Go well. Thank you.’

  And with a simple bow, he turns to leave. Dr Stilworth stands and applauds and others follow until all are on their feet. Dr Mason glances back over his shoulder and registers with surprise the applause he feels he doesn’t deserve. He holds Dr Stilworth’s eyes for a moment and then continues off the stage. He walks, for the very last time, the familiar route back to his consulting room, where he has one last task to complete.

  Nora has been sitting waiting on a chair outside Dr Mason’s room for some time when he finally arrives, his head bent, looking thoughtful. He looks at her as though he’s never seen her before.

  ‘Nora, please come and sit down.’ His voice is kind, but she hesitates, not quite daring to trust him after all this time. After a few moments, she perches on the edge of her usual chair.

  ‘Nora, I’m sure you have heard that I’m about to retire. I have some things for you. In fact, I really should have given you these things a long time ago, and for that I beg your forgiveness.’ She keeps her head down, though her eyes lift just enough to see that her ballerina is still, after all these years, poised mid-pirouette, just waiting for the music. She is confused. Is this a trap? A game? Is she supposed to respond? She settles for a cautious silence and watches as Dr Mason’s hand moves towards the music box and grasps it and moves it forward. He lifts it and with two hands holds it out to her. ‘I want to return this to you. It’s yours, and always has been.’

  She makes no move to take it.

  ‘Nora, it’s yours,’ he insists, but she continues to look on silently. ‘Nora.’ He holds it out further towards her so that it is mere inches from her clasped hands, and his voice cracks. ‘Please take it.’ She lifts her head a little. ‘I have had this here on my desk since the evening you arrived many years ago. It has never been played. I have never taken possession of it. It has just been here and I want you to have it back now. I am very sorry that I deprived you of it for so long.’

  She raises her eyes to his tired face. When did he get to look so old? But then she looks old too, she supposes. The only features she now recognises when she looks in the mirror are her mother’s eyes. She pauses, then lifts her hands and holds them open like a child. Gently, he places the precious weight of the music box into her hands and her fingers close around it, slowly and in a kind of ecstasy. He withdraws his hands, but she still doesn’t move.

  ‘Take it, Nora. Please. It’s yours,’ he says again. Another catch in his voice. Slowly, she draws it towards her chest, holding her breath until she feels her lungs will burst. Then she snatches it, speeding it through the last few inches in case he should change his mind. Now she has it in her hands, she feels unable to be parted from it for another second – wonders how she’s managed without it for all these years. She wants to thank him, but she cannot speak; she simply curls her body round this one last bit of the life she used to know, and hugs it just as she wishes she could have hugged her b
aby.

  Dr Mason coughs, clearing his throat. ‘There is something else, too.’ He twists around a little to reach for something behind him while remaining perched on the edge of his desk. He produces a sizable packet, sealed but bulging. ‘These are yours also. They are letters. I am deeply sorry, Nora.’ But she hardly hears him as she involuntarily gasps and stretches out her hand to take the packet, hugging it up alongside her other treasure. But still he continues, the slight tremor that appears in his voice finally prompting her to dare to look at him.

  ‘I ignored your grief and used it to try to subdue your natural resistance.’ His eyes are moist as he looks away into the distance, summoning the courage to proceed. ‘I should never have deprived you of communication with your family.’

  Now she stares at him, seeing him as a frail old man, but she hardens her gaze as she thinks of her baby. She can never forgive him for that, no matter what apology he brings today.

  ‘There’s nothing I can say other than that I’m sorry. I ask for your forgiveness, but know I don’t deserve it.’ He pauses, perhaps trying to find more words; perhaps hoping for an absolution she cannot give.

  He bows his head. ‘Thank you, Nora.’

  She knows she is dismissed, and slowly she rises, then turns to leave, carrying her treasure with her. But something moves in her heart – a tiny fluttering she hasn’t felt for a very long time. She pauses and faces him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mutters, her voice barely audible. Dr Mason lifts his head and his eyes find hers. He will hold onto those two words until the day he dies.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nora opens the packet and turns out its contents onto her bed, her eyes wide, her heart racing. Dozens of envelopes addressed in her mother’s hand. Tears sting her eyes as she fingers each one lovingly, making the experience last as long as possible. She closes her eyes and allows the memory of her mother’s smile to envelop her. She inhales a half-remembered scent. She can feel on her fingertips the softness of her mother’s skin and hear her gentle voice singing a lullaby. She can feel the pride as she stands upon a stool as her mother arranges the folds of her white taffeta dress and then places the veil ready for her first communion, then lifts it and kisses her cheek. ‘You look beautiful,’ she says, and bends to adjust the hem. Nora looks down on her mother’s hair from her unusually elevated position. She can see how the long hair is wound around a doughnut fashioned out of old stockings. There are tiny patches of pinkish-beige peeping through the strands of dark chestnut hair – the colour almost identical to her own before grey threaded through it.