The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  Her father lights his pipe, draws upon it, then looks at Ian. ‘So?’

  Ian takes a breath then begins in a strong, even voice. ‘Janet and I would like to get married.’

  Janet’s mother’s face lights up as she looks at Janet, but then she reads the fear on her daughter’s face. Her father looks up, his eyes flitting between Janet and her mother, but he says nothing. The silence stretches treacherously across the strained gap.

  ‘We want you to know that Janet is pregnant,’ says Ian finally. And the statement hangs there momentarily before it ruptures, splattering all four of them with its misery.

  Janet’s eyes flash to her mother. Her father’s eyes bore into Ian then turn their fire on Janet. Her mother fidgets with her handkerchief. Ian looks at each in turn with a look of disbelief at this parody of a family.

  Janet’s mother breaks the silence. ‘What on earth will the neighbours say?’

  ‘There’ll be no wedding from here,’ her father pronounces, his voice like black ice.

  ‘It’s OK. We won’t embarrass you in the village,’ says Janet. ‘We’ll find a flat and marry from there.’

  Her father glowers at her, eyes narrowing, stabbing through the air with his pipe. ‘You’ll do as you’re told, miss.’

  Janet squeezes Ian’s hand, pleading through this contact for him not to push things any further. But he doesn’t understand – or, if he does, he doesn’t listen. ‘We’ve talked about this. We’re two adults who love each other and we’ll find a place and be fine.’

  ‘There’s nothing fine about this,’ Janet’s father says flatly, to no one in particular. Then he taps his pipe on the grate and turns his gaze on Ian. He points threateningly with his pipe, and in a deadly calm voice says: ‘And you – you’d better leave. You’ve done enough damage.’ Then swings his attention to Janet. ‘And you, miss, get to your room.’

  Ian stands, still holding Janet’s hand. ‘If I have to leave, that’s fine, but we’ll go together.’

  Janet’s mother bursts into tears and Janet’s anxiety bubbles over. ‘It’s all right, Ian,’ she says, her voice trembling. ‘I’ll pack and you can come and get me in the morning.’

  He looks down at her and Janet shrivels at the hurt in his eyes at this first betrayal.

  ‘I don’t think—’ he begins, but she cuts him off, her eyes pleading as she looks away and towards her mother.

  ‘Ian. Just go. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  His hand grips hers more tightly. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘I can’t . . .’

  Her father looks back and forth between the two of them while her mother cries. ‘Look what you’ve done to your mother.’

  Janet stands and shifts from one foot to the other, her eyes darting from one person to the other. ‘Please, Ian. Just go,’ she says.

  His eyes search her face. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be fine. Come for me around ten.’ And she signals with her eyes that he should leave.

  With one last pleading look, he turns, and Janet’s eyes follow him, guilt flowing towards him like a stream to the ocean. Please understand . . .

  The door closes. Janet feels bereft and she trembles with fear.

  ‘Get to your room,’ her father says. And as she closes her bedroom door, she hears her mother’s voice. ‘No, Jack.’

  ‘You just get on with your knitting.’ Her father’s voice carries cold anger, and Janet shivers. She knows what is to happen next. As he opens the door, he is holding his belt.

  The next morning, painful and sore, Janet packs her one suitcase, then comes out of her room, a welt across her arm and a bruise on the side of her face. Her mother is lighting the fire and looks up helplessly.

  ‘I’ll be leaving this morning,’ Janet says, her monotone voice devoid of emotion. ‘I’ll let you know my address and the date for the wedding. You’ll both be welcome if you want to come. But you both need to know that if he ever lifts a hand to me again, I’ll hit him right back.’

  Chapter Eight

  1982

  Forty-three years

  Though she was determined to make it to work this morning, by the time Janet gets out of her car she is already struggling to breathe past the jagged hole in her chest where her heart is breaking. As she prepares for the day in her office, her eyes keep darting to the phone. She wants nothing more than to call him, just to hear his voice. But then what? They both need time. So for now, she must subdue the emotions she can’t bear and that have no place here. Neither Nora nor any of her other patients deserve this.

  She starts at a tap on the door.

  ‘Janet, are you all right?’ Dale calls gently.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she says, tugging on her skirt, patting her hair, smoothing her lips. She opens the door and tries to smile, but she can see from Dale’s face that she wasn’t very successful.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ he says. ‘Dorothy said you didn’t look well when you came through reception.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she says, her voice unsteady. ‘But can you make my apologies? I’ll be late for the ward round. Ten minutes max.’

  ‘Done,’ he says. ‘And if there’s anything else you need, just shout.’

  A couple of hours later, the ward round out of the way without incident, Janet does a quick round of the acute patients, organises a couple of discharges, makes sure that those having weekend leave have their medication sorted and then toys with a sandwich in her office. She glances at her watch and finds that there’s just time to get across to Rowan for their ward meeting – more low-key than the weekly round here that Dale refers to as the Friday Follies, but important nevertheless. There’s excitement among the staff about Nora’s progress.

  ‘She’s definitely more present and open,’ Ellen offers, ‘and she smiles more. Still pretty solitary, but she’s eating and sleeping better too. And she’s quite articulate when she gets going.’

  ‘Yes, I have to admit that I hadn’t expected the depth and breadth of her vocabulary,’ Janet says, energised too by Nora’s ongoing metamorphosis in a place where progress is usually measured in terms of stability rather than change. ‘Her father was a solicitor and her mother a music teacher, so she was probably pretty bright, but still. What a life, bless her.’

  ‘Great to have a bit of hope around here,’ says Kit, a beautiful round West Indian nurse who seems to have been here for ever. ‘Let’s hope it’ll rub off on some of the others.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be lovely!’

  ‘She seems eager to learn,’ Ellen adds. ‘She carries her diary everywhere.’

  ‘Great. I know she’s institutionalised but she also has serious complex post-traumatic stress disorder that could take a long time to heal. But she does seem motivated. Astonishing, really, after all these years,’ Janet says. ‘And she must still have fears about the future. But just to acknowledge that there might be one is a huge step forward.’

  Audrey looks thoughtful. This is a woman for whom Janet has great respect. She’s a wise and reliable sounding board. Widowed thirteen years ago, she’s now proud to be the mother of two graduates making their way in the world. And at last, she’s found love with Angus, a stout, lovable, dependable Scot, a widower who adores her. When Janet saw them greeting each other with such sweet affection in the car park one day, her heart stung for what she herself has lost. ‘Has the topic of discharge been mentioned?’ she asks. ‘I know we’re all concerned about the political situation and the imminent closure of psychiatric hospitals.’

  Janet frowns, thinking back. ‘I haven’t broached the subject yet, but I think you might have done, Ellen?’

  ‘I’ve mentioned it to some of them – including Nora – but I don’t want to cause distress to any of them about it until we really know about Hillinghurst’s fate,’ Ellen says. ‘I’m concerned that if we push Nora, we might lose her and she’ll regress again.’

  ‘I agree,’ says Janet. ‘Let’s just keep going as we have been for the mome
nt. I don’t think closures are that imminent, anyway, but you never can tell with British politics.’

  In the small consulting room later that afternoon, Nora sits alert, her hands clutching her diary. Janet smiles to herself. ‘I see you have your diary.’ Nora’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly. ‘It’s OK, Nora. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.’

  Nora looks up, her eyes still full of doubt.

  ‘Yes, really.’ Janet smiles. ‘Nora, you have rights that you don’t even know about yet. Do you remember when we said we were making new rules until you were able to accept those rights as freedoms? Well, today’s new rule is that you can say “no” to me whenever you want to.’ And she wonders how long it will be before Nora has the courage to exercise that right. ‘So, whenever you want to, you can share with me what’s been happening or what you’ve thought about. But just to move us along a bit, I thought we could look at what happens when we get hurt and what we need to do to get better.’ Nora raises her eyes a little to almost meet Janet’s, though her grip on her diary remains. It’s Janet who draws her eyes away. How much she herself needs this lesson today.

  ‘Nora, if you had a wound on your arm, ideally you’d bathe it, examine it carefully to see that there was nothing stuck in it that might prevent it from healing, maybe put a bandage on it and rest it. And, even though it might hurt, it would eventually heal. It would leave a scar, but that would fade over time. If you didn’t do those things it might get septic, it wouldn’t heal properly, it would be very painful and you might even lose the ability to move your arm at all. You’d probably be scared that anyone might touch it because it’s so painful.’

  Nora tilts her head, listening attentively.

  ‘Emotional wounds need the same amount of attention as physical wounds, but often we don’t give them that,’ Janet continues. ‘We just carry on and try to forget about them; pretend they aren’t there.’ But sometimes there’s nothing else we can do, she thinks, taking a long breath before she continues. ‘But then we end up with all sorts of problems later. Parts of us don’t work very well; we still have pain we hardly dare let anyone touch. We often feel confused about why we feel and behave as we do but can’t seem to do anything about it. That isn’t our fault. And since we’re not bleeding and we don’t have a bandage or a leg in plaster or whatever, nobody else can understand why we are as we are, either, and they don’t know what to do with us, so we are often just left to get on with it, but that doesn’t help us get better either.’ She pauses. ‘Are you still with me, or am I going too fast?’

  Nora nods then shakes her head. ‘Yes, I’m still here and no, you’re not going too fast.’ They meet each other’s eyes and Nora gives a tentative smile.

  ‘You’re amazing, Nora,’ Janet says with a smile. ‘The good news is that we can always go back and have another look and do the same as we do with physical wounds – examine them and gently clean them up and take care of them till they heal. It might hurt as we do it, but it’s the only sure way to get them to heal properly.’

  Nora takes a deep breath.

  ‘So . . . you can choose, Nora. We don’t have to go there unless you’re OK with that. You can say no. But if you can bear it, we can really look at what’s happened and you can start to get better.’

  She watches until Nora looks up with questions in her eyes. ‘You can ask me any questions about any of this, Nora. So now I’ll be quiet for a little while to give you time to tell me what you think, whether you’d like to try that or not. Remember, you can choose.’

  Janet puts her hands in her lap and sits in silence, trying not to even look in Nora’s direction, until, in a voice that’s almost inaudible, Nora begins. ‘Most of the time I don’t feel anything any more. Then sometimes, like last time, it’s different. I don’t know what happens. I just get a funny feeling, then I’m scared and I can’t think straight and I want to run away. Sometimes it stops, but sometimes it gets worse and I’m terrified that I’m going to scream.’

  ‘And do you? Scream, I mean.’

  ‘Sometimes . . .’ She pauses and seems to curl in on herself. Then she looks up again. ‘I used to, but then . . .’

  ‘Then?’ Janet coaxes.

  ‘I’d get hit or have to have treatment.’

  Janet shudders. That’s a whole different can of worms. Best not even go there right now. She observes the bowed head, the drawn-up shoulders, the fingers entwined with each other, the in-turned toes, and her heart floods with compassion. It would be so easy to stop, but she knows she has to press on.

  ‘I think it’s about things that happened that for a long time hurt you too much to remember,’ Janet says carefully – it would be dreadful to stifle this little trickle of communication by trying to go too fast. ‘Memories always have several parts – an emotional bit, a physical bit and a psychological bit. And when something awful happens, we feel shocked, and the memory of it gets split into those parts and some of them seem to get lost altogether. Then we don’t really know what’s happened because we can’t remember it properly. But actually, all the pieces are there somewhere. And, to get well, we need to find them all and see if we can put them back together again, so we can finally deal with what really happened. That’s what I’d like you and me to do together, so you can let go of some of the awful things that happened to you and then be able to get on with your life.’

  Even as she says this, Janet feels like a fraud. Have I managed to do that myself? Her heart yearns to be able to talk through some of that with Ian. But . . . he said he’d only talk about parenting stuff . . . nothing intimate. She drags herself back to Nora, whose eyes are still full of questions.

  Janet presses on. ‘You’ve still got lots of life left, Nora. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could start to enjoy it? Maybe find out what you’d like to do, where you’d like to be?’

  Nora stares uncomprehendingly. ‘But I’m here.’

  ‘Maybe you could be somewhere else.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, maybe in the future you could live somewhere else and do something else with your life,’ Janet says softly. ‘Is there anything you always wanted to do?’

  ‘You mean . . . before?’

  ‘Yes. When you were young.’

  Nora gazes into Janet’s eyes as if trying to read something there. Then she shifts her focus. ‘No,’ she whispers. But Janet has glimpsed something different and that old excitement arises in her chest. This woman wants to live. Yes!

  She smiles. ‘There. You used your new word – “No!” – and that’s fine. If there’s ever anything you’d like to ask me or tell me, I’m listening.’

  Nora shakes her head. It’s not yet the right time.

  ‘If you’re tired and want me to stop, then that’s fine, but I’m going to try to go just a bit further if we can. OK?’ Nora nods. ‘Sometimes flashbacks may still recur for a long time, and they can leave you feeling exhausted and sometimes embarrassed about your behaviour. But hopefully you’ll learn to be patient with yourself and tell the pain that it’s only a memory; that it’s not happening now; that you’ve survived. Together, we’re going to learn what your symptoms are trying to tell us, until you can speak about things and not have your body act them out. Still OK?’ Nora nods.

  ‘Right,’ Janet says. ‘We’re changing gear a bit. I looked at your notes. It seems you’d been very quiet for the few days running up to that session and hadn’t been eating very much. Ellen said you’d looked sad. What happened?’

  Nora hesitates then finally says, ‘I didn’t feel very well.’

  ‘What kind of not very well?’

  Nora looks away then looks directly back at Janet, and the effort of doing so appears painful to Janet.

  ‘That day, I was out for a walk. I was feeling OK. Then I saw Flo. Her family. Her granddaughter was pushing Flo’s wheelchair and her daughter was pushing a baby in a pram.’ She blinks, lowers her eyes and shakes her head a little and when she speaks again, her voice
is barely a whisper. ‘I was angry that she has a baby.’

  Janet notes the wringing of her hands and a little agitated tap of her foot. ‘I imagine it must still hurt that you couldn’t have your baby, Nora.’

  But Nora’s eyes won’t meet hers any more, and Janet knows she is already starting to shut her out. ‘Nora, please don’t run away now. Stay with me. I know it hurts, but just allow yourself to go into the pain. You’ve already survived it. Just breathe now, and let’s look at the pain.’

  Janet’s breath catches a little. She knows what this feels like, to be on the brink and hardly dare inch forward. Come on, Nora.

  ‘I can’t.’ Nora shakes her head and covers her face.

  Janet desperately wants to touch her; to make sure she knows that somebody cares for her. But Nora has to do this bit by herself. ‘You can,’ Janet says, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Suddenly, Nora’s body heaves and a wail fills the room as she rocks back and forth. ‘They took my baby before I even saw her. My beautiful little girl . . .’

  Janet looks on, blinking back her own tears as she watches this woman’s struggle, knowing she mustn’t rob her of this moment. Nora must emerge from this by herself.

  Now the words spurt out of Nora’s mouth like water from a faucet. ‘I took quinine tablets. It was me who killed her.’ She holds herself tightly as the tsunami of grief bursts forth, flooding every cell, leaving Nora quivering.

  Janet waits until the sobs have subsided somewhat then she speaks slowly and quietly. ‘She died, Nora, but you didn’t kill her. You were only eighteen and did all you could . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nora murmurs, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I should be able to forget it.’

  Janet shakes her head. ‘The death of a baby is a major bereavement, and especially if the baby is just whisked away and the mother never even gets to see or hold the child. It’s perfectly normal that it comes up for you, and especially when you see other women with their new babies.’