‘So . . .’ says Nora, in a tone bordering on patronising, ‘you see, it’s safer if you just choose for me.’
Janet laughs again. ‘Maybe so, but I’m not going to do that. Deep inside yourself you have a voice. Listen to that voice. Listen and do what you know you need to do. And then we can talk about how, if you’d like that.’
Nora tosses her head like a horse trying to swat off a fly, and Janet tries not to smile. She really likes this newly revealed bit of Nora that will get into a skirmish and not let go. Bravo.
‘So, really – you’re not leaving?’ she asks finally.
‘I told you – not at present, and if ever I am, I’ll give you plenty of warning. OK?’
Silence, then a tiny, ‘OK.’
Janet arrives home ready for a quiet evening, and maybe some TV. However, no sooner has she settled down with a tray on her lap than the phone rings. She heaves a sigh and picks it up.
‘OK,’ she says, looking mournfully at the pesto pasta that she knows is destined for the bin. She should have known better on her on-call night. ‘Give me an hour . . .’
The drive back to the hospital is fraught with slanting sleet and treacherous roads, all courtesy of an icy wind from the east, and in the end it takes her almost two hours to do a journey she can usually do in forty minutes.
Ben, the night porter, tips his cap. ‘Dr Janet.’
‘Ben.’ She nods as always, and she moves on with a smile at what has become a bit of a game between them. Sometimes she wonders what he’d do if she stopped for a natter.
Her boots clatter on the marble floor, creating a cadence of echoes in the corridor. Besmirched by a century of suffering, the pain of hundreds of patients still clings to the walls. This place requires a strong constitution at night; in spite of herself, Janet shivers.
Ash ward is illuminated by a flash of lightning as she enters, revealing row after row of ageing women waiting to make their final escape from their tortured lives. Janet sighs and fights the sinking feeling in her chest. She refuses to let Nora end up here.
She examines Sarah Golson quickly. Crackles in both lungs – not much longer for her to suffer. The odour of death already surrounds her. Janet picks up the cold, skinny hand and holds it gently, then lays her other hand on the high forehead with its waxy skin, pale violet veins weaving across it.
‘Sarah,’ Janet whispers. ‘Sarah.’ There’s the slightest of movement of her eyelids. ‘Just rest, Sarah. Well done.’ She hopes that this old lady, almost at her journey’s end, will hear the caress in her voice and know that she’s not alone.
Kumar appears at her elbow. ‘Thanks, Janet.’
Janet smiles and turns to Kumar, whose brown face is gleaming. He simply nods.
‘It’s quiet,’ he says. ‘I’ll stay with her as long as I can.’ The soft light throws shadows onto the far wall as Janet gently squeezes the hand she holds and then grips Kumar’s shoulder gently. She knows Sarah is in good hands; Kumar has been here for decades.
‘Let me know,’ she says.
As she prepares to walk away, Janet glances at the old lady’s locker. Here, in this little steel cabinet, is all of Sarah’s life. Atop it is an old sepia photograph. A perfectly poised woman sits holding a pudgy baby on her lap, a hand under each chubby armpit. At her side stands an unsmiling light-haired girl of about three, with an arm stretched up to rest her hand on her mother’s shoulder where the photographer no doubt had placed it. The woman looks serious, handsome rather than pretty, her dark hair drawn severely back and upwards. No smile, staring straight into the eye of the camera, doing what she’s told. Janet studies it. There’s no intimacy, no emotion. Just three separate pieces of a family arranged together for posterity.
Janet glances back at the shrunken and wrinkled face as, with toothless mouth gaping, Sarah struggles with her last breaths. Is the woman her? Or the serious child? She wonders if anyone here knows.
By the time she reaches the car, the first tinges of the dove-grey of dawn are appearing, revealing the black silhouettes of the distant hills. Clouds like shards of granite point eastward, harsh and accusing. Her tyres crunch the hills of frozen slush as she pulls the Clio into the parking space outside her home. The house, rising above her, tall and beautiful, begins to reveal itself to the morning. There’s just enough light to pick out the vigorously pruned roses; they look sad now, but in the summer will once again be riotous clad in scarlet, with their perfume drifting down the road to meet that of their sisters in neighbouring gardens. It was never her plan to live here alone and, as she gazes at her once-happy home, her loneliness pierces her like a knife. She still misses Ian so much it physically hurts.
She turns off the engine and pulls her coat more tightly around her. She tucks in her scarf, stretches her neck and rolls her tired shoulders, then leans forward onto the steering wheel. The feelings she has been suppressing so successfully finally well up and she crumbles as tears fall. Tears for her child self, tears for Sarah, tears for Nora, tears for her own aloneness, which is no longer chosen solitude, tears for Ian and for Martin, who is so upset and confused about what’s happened to his parents. And for her own mother and father, so long estranged from her . . . Just tears, and more tears.
Finally, she gathers herself together and opens the car door. As she steps out, her foot slips on a patch of ice. Her right knee twists, and she puts out her hand to try to save herself, but she hits the frozen ground hard and lies for a moment, gasping. She moves her knee experimentally and winces with the pain. Suddenly she feels very tired.
Lying on the road with her left foot still in the car, she tries to work out how she’s going to get up. It’ll be hard to gain traction on the ice. She checks herself over again, more cautiously this time. Sore right wrist – sprained probably; best not to try to put too much weight on that. She pulls on the door frame with her left hand and tries to lower herself completely onto the road. As she does so, her handbag falls and its contents scatter about her. Her left foot comes neatly out of the car and promptly kicks her lipstick which, as though in slow motion, rolls the last couple of inches towards the drain and descends between the bars with an elegant finality. She hammers her good fist on the road.
‘Fuck!’ she screams as she lies on the ground, wondering how on earth she’ll make the few metres to her front door.
Chapter Eleven
Janet’s knee is hot and swollen and she winces as she shifts a little. Her mouth is parched and she longs to brush her teeth, but remembers the fiasco of getting to the bathroom earlier and tries to settle down. But half an hour later, she has to accept that she’s going to need help. She glances at her watch – seven thirty. Is this an OK time to call a working woman with a family? It’s going to have to be.
‘What’s up?’ Audrey’s gentle voice is already laced with concern, this being the first time that Janet has ever called her out of hours.
When Janet has finished telling Audrey about what happened, there’s a short pause at the end of the phone before Audrey says, ‘Sounds like you won’t be in tomorrow either.’
‘No. Probably not.’
‘Do you need somebody to have a look at it?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘OK. No problem. Just give me time to make a couple of phone calls and I’ll come around and pick you up.’
Janet sighs with relief and gratitude. ‘I always said you were an angel.’
‘Oh, don’t say that, or it’ll be hard to keep my feet on the ground.’ She laughs. ‘I bet you haven’t even been able to have a cup of tea, have you?’
Janet manages a smile. ‘No, I haven’t. And I’ve got withdrawals.’
Audrey chuckles. ‘OK. That’ll be my first job when I get there. Just stay where you are. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Janet smiles, replacing her phone in its cradle. She’s always amazed at how gracious people are when you need help. Tears of relief aren’t far away now she knows the cavalry is coming.
As soon as Audrey arrives and
sees Janet’s knee, she insists they go to casualty. Though Janet protests, she knows it’s the right thing to do, and gives in after only a short while. Audrey helps Janet out to the car and Janet tries not to show how every bump in the road causes pain to shoot through her leg.
They hobble in, and Janet looks with dismay at the scene. Is there ever a time when casualty is empty? Audrey deals with the business of registration, then parks Janet in a wheelchair. Heaven knows how long some of these people have been waiting. But moments later a nurse calls Janet’s name, emphasising the ‘doctor’, presumably to mollify everyone else as Janet jumps the queue. She squirms as she raises her hand.
‘So, doctor, what have we here?’ The junior doctor wears his crisp white coat with panache and his eyes are soft and kind, with irises the same brown as his skin, but they look glassy with tiredness. Janet wonders how long he has been on duty and remembers her own days on a punishing on-call rota. She doesn’t miss them.
Within an hour, the diagnosis of a torn medial meniscus is confirmed, a date for meniscectomy made, and Janet and Audrey are good to go, with strict instructions regarding bed rest. ‘At least three weeks, I’m afraid, Janet. And no cheating.’ The consultant smiles. ‘We all know that we doctors are the worst patients.’
Once Janet is safely in the car, Audrey turns to her. ‘You’d be very welcome to come to us,’ she says. ‘But if you prefer to be at home, then I’ll come around every morning when I’ve got the children sorted and between us we’ll manage.’ She smiles. ‘Can I trust you to be good?’
‘I don’t think my knee will let me be otherwise. And I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but yes, I’d prefer to stay at home, if possible.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
The next few weeks are the slowest of Janet’s life. She isn’t used to inactivity and now that she’s alone at home, feeling vulnerable and lost, she finds his absence especially difficult to bear. Several times a day during the first week her heart strays to Ian and her hand to the phone, her pulse racing at the thought of hearing his voice. She wakes in the night, her knee throbbing and her arm searching the Ian-shaped space beside her, longing for his warmth, his touch, his familiar smell. She hugs her hot-water bottle for comfort and somehow drifts back into a shallow, troubled sleep, proud that she has managed not to call him but aching for him nonetheless. It’s all the more tempting because she knows that if she did call, he’d come. But she doesn’t want her neediness to be the reason he finally comes home. Still lurking somewhere in her mind is that old belief that he only married her in the first place because she needed him.
The days pass in a sluggish blur of restless routine and, at the end of it all, she wonders how on earth she managed to get through it without going mad. The night before her return to work, she feels jittery with excitement and energy.
The next morning, Janet pulls her car into her parking space by Rowan. She spies Nora looking out of the window and smiles, but Nora’s face remains immobile, her eyes flat with a hint of accusation. Then she’s gone.
Janet sighs and gathers her things, opens the car door and stands her crutches out on the road propped up against the car, then pulls herself upright. Only then does she notice that Nora is now leaning against the front offside wing, her eyes looking straight ahead and away from Janet.
Ah, that’s the game.
‘Hello, Nora,’ she calls, but she’s met with a stony silence. Janet steadies herself. Nora hasn’t moved, though Janet can feel she’s longing for contact. ‘Good morning, Nora,’ she says again, her tone light and questioning. ‘Are you going to speak to me?’
Nora studiously ignores her, but as Janet starts to move, Nora finally sees the crutches and looks horrified, but Janet also detects a flash of relief in her eyes. ‘Oh, you’re hurt!’ Nora’s eyes fix for a moment on Janet’s leg. ‘I thought you’d gone away.’ Janet feels amused that her being hurt is obviously the more acceptable option.
‘I fell and had to have a little operation on my knee.’
‘Nobody told me.’
‘Didn’t they? Are you sure?’ Janet knows full well that Ellen has tried to explain to Nora.
‘No. They said you were off sick.’
‘Well, I was.’
‘But it was a long time . . .’
‘Just three weeks.’ Janet smiles. ‘Nora, I told you, if – when – I have to go, I’ll give you plenty of warning.’ She hobbles into the building. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Ellen is dealing with a patient in reception, and Janet hovers until she is finished. ‘Oh, that still looks painful,’ says Ellen.
‘Too much dancing in my teens,’ Janet quips.
Ellen pulls up another chair so that Janet can put up her leg. ‘How was Nora?’
‘Well enough to punish me.’ Janet smiles.
‘Thought she might. She’s hardly been eating and hasn’t slept well.’
‘Those old abandonment issues take a long time to heal, don’t they?’
‘If ever.’ Ellen looks thoughtful. ‘It’s a tightrope you walk, I guess, when you work as you do – when you let them get close to you . . .’ She trails off, her face serious.
Janet doesn’t miss the hint of disapproval. ‘I just can’t do it any other way,’ she says. ‘Well, that’s not altogether true. I do manage it differently with people who simply can’t take emotional warmth. But others . . . I want them to have the chance of knowing they’re special and cared for. Sometimes it’s the first time they’ve ever felt that.’
‘And when you leave, do you not just give them another bereavement?’ Ellen’s eyes are kind but the words sting.
‘I hope not. Oh Ellen, I hope not. I believe that nothing’s ever lost. Even though they may be sad at parting, they’ll remember that they were valued.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘I see what’s happened with Nora, Janet, and I’ve seen what’s happening with others you work with too. It’s amazing to see how quickly they can change, but I just wonder what happens afterwards.’
‘Afterwards?’
‘When you move, as of course you will. What then? You can’t follow up with everyone.’
Janet sighs and worries at some loose skin on her lip. ‘No, I can’t. But do you think it would be better for them never to have had anyone really caring for them?’
‘We all care for them, Janet. Well – not everybody. But many of us do. Maybe we just don’t show it like you do.’ She looks at Janet’s crestfallen face. ‘Janet, don’t get me wrong. What you do is great and you obviously get results, but make sure you don’t just leave a trail of broken hearts behind you.’
‘That’s not fair,’ she protests.
‘Isn’t it?’
There’s an uneasy pause. ‘I’ll be careful,’ Janet says.
The older woman smiles. ‘I know you will – just checking.’
Catching up on acute, Janet flicks the patients’ cards on the Rolodex.
‘Oh . . . Miles Little is in?’ she says, and looks up at Dale. ‘His cycle’s getting quicker. It’s only been about a month since his last admission.’
‘Not even a month,’ says Dale. ‘He was dishevelled and suicidal when he came in. He’s a bit more stable now, but only just.’
‘Poor man,’ she says. ‘Was he taking his meds?’
‘His parents seemed to think so, though they said they couldn’t be sure.’
What a tragedy – this courageous man with a brilliant mind, whose life has been stolen by this awful illness. His once promising banking career lost after two hypomanic episodes, during one of which he assaulted his boss. Early retirement with a generous pension was the best thing on offer. But now, in his forties, he has little or no prospects. His marriage ended a few years ago and he’s back living with his elderly parents, who love him, but are constantly worried about what the next day will bring.
Janet heads for the ward and has a long chat with Miles. There’s not much le
ft in her armamentarium but depot medication and ECT, both of which he refuses to consider. And once again, his mental state has switched very quickly and he does seem stable again for the time being. When he begs for discharge, Janet can’t make a good case for refusing to let him go home, apart from the fact that his parents need a rest. They discuss the necessity for him to take his medication but she knows he’ll have difficulty adhering to his promise if he gets high again. So she remains uneasy. With Miles it’s never simple and she prays she’s made the right decision.
Back in her office, she picks up her Dictaphone to record a discharge summary for Miles when there’s a sudden crash of thunder and the sky opens, releasing its long-held burden. Par for the course. I knew I should have brought my umbrella. There’s a soft knock on her door.
‘Come in,’ she says absently. Then, when there’s no response, she calls irritably, ‘Come in,’ and hobbles to the door. ‘Come in,’ she says again, as she opens it herself, her attention still elsewhere.
There stands Nora, her new handbag hooked over her arm and her gloves clasped in her hand, wearing her new Oxfam coat. Her eyes are lowered. ‘I was going to go for a walk but it’s raining.’
For once, Janet is speechless. What’s this about? ‘Come in, Nora,’ she says, standing back to allow her to pass. She hopes that her irritation of seconds ago did not come across. The last thing Nora needs is to think that she has to rescue Janet, or to feel somehow responsible for her. Nora doesn’t need to know how hard Janet, herself, has found it to stand up, or how often she still has to steel herself to do so.
Thankfully, Nora sits down, but says nothing. Her brows are knitted together as though she’s trying to get her thoughts in order before she speaks. Janet waits and wonders about Ellen’s words.
‘I want to say I’m sorry,’ Nora says finally.
‘For what?’
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 22
