‘For not trusting you.’
‘Oh.’ Janet smiles.
‘I didn’t want to take up your time. I just wanted to tell you that I do trust you.’
Janet smiles. ‘Thank you. I thought you’d come to tell me you’re leaving . . .’ she teases.
Nora looks shocked. ‘Me? Why?’
‘You have your handbag.’
Nora rewards her with a rare smile. ‘No, I wasn’t, but I promise you I’ll tell you when I’m going to.’
It takes Janet a moment to realise that Nora is parroting her own words back at her, and she smiles widely. ‘You made a little joke, Nora!’
Nora pauses and then looks at Janet, a smile spreading across her face. ‘I did, didn’t I?’
Chapter Twelve
Nora shuffles around the ward, her eyes searching. She needs to find a newspaper. She’s desperate to find out whether what she overheard the nurses talking about this morning is true. She finally sees one discarded in the day room, and she grabs it and dashes into the toilet – her only private space. She searches page by page, and there he is. She can hardly breathe.
Robert Harcourt’s impassioned plea for rights of mental hospital patients
While addressing his South London constituency yesterday, Robert Harcourt returned again to the topic that won him considerable popularity in last year’s general election. Though his views are controversial, the topic of the closure of mental institutions has nevertheless gained much attention of late.
He reported that, in 1920, there were 2,783 unmarried mothers in workhouses in England alone. In 1913, the Mental Deficiency Act had deemed them morally defective and, within that law, they could be certified and committed to mental institutions.
‘It is to our shame that many of them have remained there, without rights, for forty or fifty years or more and have suffered prejudice and a form of imprisonment, by no means commensurate with deeds that would nowadays be accepted perhaps as being unfortunate, but as the new norm,’ he said. ‘We have talked of community care for the last twenty years, and yet the number of patients in our large institutions has continued to increase. Adequately funded care in the community must become a reality so that those who remain vulnerable and unable to tolerate the stresses of modern life can be properly catered for.’ He went on to say that our mental institutions are a public disgrace and an atrocity against humanity that must no longer be tolerated. He blamed underfunding and mismanagement and said that both for the health – mental and otherwise – not only of the patients, but also the staff who man these hospitals without adequate resources, action must be taken now.
He underlined that the closure of old-style mental institutions is essential, but must go hand in hand with a commitment to adequate community and domiciliary care and that this ‘heinous situation’ bequeathed upon this generation by the last should not be allowed to visit future generations also.
Nora gazes at the photograph of Robert, then slowly closes the newspaper and holds it to her chest. She shuts her eyes and tries to see the older man in this photograph as she knew him, in the vibrancy of his youth. Her eyes fill with tears, though this time tears of joy.
Janet parks her bicycle outside Rowan. She hauls her bag out of the basket when she hears Ellen tapping on the window, gesturing enthusiastically for Janet to hurry, and also be very quiet. Though she’s cold and her knee feels stiff and sore after just a short ride, Janet does her best to comply.
‘What’s going on?’ she stage-whispers as she pokes her head round the office door.
Ellen points to the observation window. ‘Come and see.’
Unusually for this time of the morning, the ward is deserted, except for one figure. Nora is standing by the piano, staring down at it. A discarded newspaper lies on the top of the piano.
‘She’s walked to it, then away, then back several times,’ Ellen says excitedly. ‘Do you think she’s going to play?’
‘Dunno,’ Janet says, shrugging her shoulders and leaning closer to the window as though that will help her see more. ‘How long has she been there?’
‘Well, I’ve been watching for maybe five minutes, but I don’t know when it started.’ And together they watch, excited little girls whispering while waiting for a performance to start.
Nora gingerly caresses the piano lid. Janet watches, almost holding her breath in case she disturbs what looks like a miracle unfolding. She reaches for Ellen’s hand and squeezes it.
Slowly, Nora lifts the lid and runs her hand gently across the keys and then pauses, perfectly still. She seems to be looking at her hand.
‘Something’s happening,’ Janet whispers.
Nora looks down at her ageing right hand. She slowly lifts her head and, standing erect, closes her eyes.
Now she sees her hand, soft-skinned, plump and pale, with a fine gold ring bearing the Sacred Heart of Jesus on its little finger. Her peach taffeta dress is draped over the piano stool, its puffed sleeves revealing smooth, sculpted arms. The bodice drapes perfectly, then narrows to a trim waist. Her hands fly skilfully over the ivory, raising elegantly from her wrist, then lifting forward to the ebony, coaxing the melody to unfurl. Bold forte, shy pianissimo, perfectly executed grace notes, her body gently moving with such passion and tenderness, stirred as she is by emotion as the music flows through her. And now she opens her throat to sing, her voice lifting, high and clear, effortless, her heart hardly able to contain the beauty of the moment. Robert, young and golden-haired, stands to her right, ready to turn the page. She can feel the warm beam of his smile at her shoulder.
She can almost hear the breath of her family and assembled friends as she bathes in her parents’ pride. All she loves is assembled here, and she thanks God. The last chord is played and there are sighs of admiration, gasps of joy, eruptions of congratulation and delight, and she allows herself to look at Robert and receive that smile that starts at his eyes and ends at his lips.
‘Wonderful,’ he mouths, and now it’s complete. She has all that she needs and more.
And later . . . it was so simple, so beautiful. Together . . . A gentle awakening . . . A perfect unfolding . . .
Nora blinks. Her hand moves in its crepe, age-spotted skin, under which knotted veins snake blood back to her heart – her tired, aching heart. Her head droops and she folds into herself, weary. Her hand falls away from the keys.
Janet looks at Ellen, concern etched upon her face. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ellen whispers. While these two women – so invested in Nora’s recovery – wait, Nora closes the piano and pulls her cardigan across her chest. She seems to have aged ten years in front of their eyes. She adjusts her body, picks up the newspaper and slowly walks away. Her eyes are moist, and Janet’s too.
Janet exhales. ‘I feel so sad,’ she says.
‘Me too,’ says Ellen.
‘Something happened then.’
‘Yes.’
Nora sits on her bed. None of the other women is here, so she is enjoying a rare moment of peace. She spreads out the newspaper and reads the article again, then carefully tears out the photograph. She stares at it for a long moment and then folds it and places it in her Bible.
She sits staring ahead, then looks at her picture of the peaceful cows chewing their cud and closes her eyes.
As they settle in Janet’s office, she notices that Nora looks subdued. ‘What would you like to talk about today?’ she asks, hoping that she might open up her feelings about the piano, but it takes a while for Nora to respond.
‘When you ask me to talk, I feel afraid that if I do – if I really do – you’ll have the power to keep me here for ever.’ She pauses, watching for Janet’s reaction, though there appears to be none. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ she goes on quickly, ‘it’s just that that’s the way it’s always been – you can’t trust anyone. But there’s something else as well. I don’t want whatever it is that people thought I could do to hurt you or anyone else. They said I coul
d infect people.’
‘Nora you aren’t going to infect me or anybody else,’ Janet says.’ That theory was a kind of fashion at the time – that’s what people believed. But we know more now. And in any case, you’re not sick any more and—’
Nora’s head snaps up and there’s anger in her eyes.
‘—I never was sick,’ she flashes. ‘I was pregnant, beaten and taken from my home and nobody wanted me. I was shocked and heartbroken. And when I was told that I’d never go home again and never leave here, I just didn’t know what to do. It was awful. Then my baby . . .’ Her voice breaks, but the anger remains. ‘How could all of that happen? I was sure my mother or my cousin would come and save me, but they didn’t.’ And now she’s crying with frustration. ‘My cousin came on Christmas morning but he went away without seeing me, and I was banging on the window hoping he’d hear me but he didn’t. I was screaming trying to reach him. Then I got a good hiding because I was angry. That’s not fair.’ She crumples forward, her face in her hands.
‘No, it isn’t, Nora.’
‘People would hit me or tie me down and do awful things to me. How dare they?’ She bangs her hand on the arm of the chair. ‘Wouldn’t you be furious?’
‘I would,’ Janet says quietly.
‘But after a while, I stopped. In the end I learned to play the game like everyone else – be quiet, keep your eyes down, don’t argue. But then everyone assumes you’re sick. Or useless, or without a mind of your own, when really you’re just trying to survive and stay sane.’ She looks up. ‘Isn’t that funny? You have to play at being stupid in order to stay sane?’ There’s a shrill edge to her voice. ‘Then I got to the point that I hoped I would just die. But because I was young and healthy, the only way that was going to happen was if I did it myself. But that then got me into more trouble. If you do that, they come with ECT. There’s no way out . . . No way out.’ Her voice falls to a whisper, but then she lets out a bitter, sad little laugh.
‘Once, we did a play for Christmas. It was the best time we’d had for years. The staff were amazed that we could learn lines. They kept looking at each other and asking how on earth we’d been able to do it. No one ever seemed to have considered that we might have brains and could think and learn. They thought we were only fit to work, or wait for the next meal or the next cigarette or to be told what to do, or for it just to be time to go to bed. We had no hope, no responsibility – just waiting, bored, lost, for years and years.’
Her eyes fill up with tears, but she dashes them away with an angry hand. ‘Every now and then it became so frustrating that one of us blew a gasket and then they thought we were even more sick, and so we had to have drugs or “treatment”. No wonder I still get in a panic even at the mention of the treatment room. I know what that used to mean. We’d be told it was going to be a “talk” so that we didn’t kick up much fuss. But when we got there they could do anything. Maisie was taken to the treatment room for a “talk” one day and they held her hand up against the iron because they said she’d stolen some soap.’
Janet listens, transfixed.
‘We could never decide anything – not even what to wear or what to eat – so we became like dogs that just sit when someone says “sit”, and walk when they’re told to walk, and the rest of the time just lie about. Maybe once in a while they get up and have a mad half-hour. But when we have a “mad half-hour”, it’s thought to be just that – that we’re mad.’
Her nails dig into the arms of her chair. ‘I – was – never – mad,’ she shouts, emphasising every word with a bang of her hands on the chair. ‘There were times when I was sleepy and hardly able to talk because of the medication. I was dragging my feet around the place or sitting there drooling, listening to people discussing how sick I was. I was frightened that no one would see me or hear me inside the lump I’d become.’ She pauses for breath. ‘No one except Dr Stilworth seemed to see me. He did, though. I know he did. He was so kind. It was awful when he retired . . .’
She frowns, eyes dry now, and looks Janet straight in the eye. ‘I used to be scared that people might think I was dead, when I was just slowed right down. It was so frightening. It made me think of the people with the plague who woke up in their graves and tried to scratch their way out. Did you know that they were eventually buried holding bells, just in case?’ She smiles sadly. ‘I often wished I’d had a bell – but I’d probably have been given ECT for ringing it!’
She stops for a moment but, though she hesitates and looks anxious, as though worried she may have said too much, she’s not spent yet. Janet sits perfectly still, praying she’ll continue.
‘The worst thing was to look around and see that we were all the same. We all looked sick and stupid. Maybe none of us was at the beginning. But in the end, it was safer to let them think we were.’
Janet feels a sick swoop of shame that she, too, had assumed that Nora was incapable of such clarity. But here she is, intact, articulate, spirited, despite years of being denied any kind of intellectual stimulation. ‘Nora, if anyone tried to tie me down, I know I’d fight. And if anyone locked me away and took away everything that made me who I am, I’d scream. And I’m so happy to hear you finally complain about such abuse. I’m so sorry all this happened to you, Nora, and so glad that you’re angry about it.’
‘It isn’t your fault,’ Nora says quickly. ‘You won’t give me ECT for being angry, will you?’
‘No, Nora.’ Janet reaches out and touches the back of Nora’s hand. ‘I’m still sad about all that happened to you, but it’s wonderful that you’ve survived in one piece.’
Silent tears stream down Nora’s face. ‘But I didn’t. I daren’t even make a choice when you ask me to.’
‘But you will, Nora. You will.’ She pauses for a moment until Nora’s shoulders fall a little and she stops crying. Nora lifts her eyes, still looking drawn and sad. Janet tilts her head a little and smiles. ‘You’re amazing, Nora. Something kept you alive, kept you going all that time. What was it? Do you have a secret formula for survival that you can share with me?’
Though Nora initially looks puzzled, she finally starts to smile, too, with an unusual twinkle in her eye. ‘Once, when I was starting to get better after feeling so low, I remembered a teacher at school,’ she smiles. ‘I must have been about fourteen. She was teaching us about posture and deportment, and how if you stood up tall, you’d feel better. She had us walk around the classroom waving our arms and hands at each other, and smile even if we didn’t feel like it. It was amazing how good it felt. So . . . I thought I’d try it, but I didn’t want anyone to think that I was having some sort of new problem, so I used to go and do it in the lavatory.’ She glances at Janet. ‘I would stand by the lavatory bowl and stretch very tall, wave my hands up in the air and put my face into a grin then check myself out, and I did feel better. Sometimes I even felt a bit giggly.’ She laughs straight into Janet’s eyes, looking a little proud of herself. ‘Then I’d sit down and watch my breath all steamy while my bottom was so cold.’ She puts her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘I was being rude,’ she whispers.
‘No, you weren’t.’
‘Oh.’ She looks unsure.
‘Go on, Nora,’ Janet says encouragingly.
‘One day I was in there a long time and Sister Cummings must have realised because she shouted, “Jennings, what are you doing? Get out of there.” Then I had to walk back out looking miserable, just in case she thought I was now high or something!’
And the laugh becomes a giggle and Janet, caught up in the joke, laughs too. ‘Are you high now?’ she quips.
Immediately Nora’s chin and eyes drop and she curls in on herself, as though preparing for an attack. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.
Janet blushes, stricken. ‘No, no, Nora. It’s I who need to apologise. I’m so sorry. I meant it as a joke, but it was insensitive. Please go on. I love to hear you talk and tell your story. It’s
wonderful that you can make light of things. And you teach me so much that I don’t know.’
Nora pauses a while longer and then continues, her voice sombre now. ‘For years I longed for someone like you to talk to. Someone I could tell when I was sad or grieving and not be given treatment to get rid of it. I wanted to have emotions – even if they were hard ones to cope with. I wanted to be able to solve my problems and make amends for what I’d done wrong. I wanted to think, and do things. I wanted to try to become me as an adult. I came here when I was nothing but a child really. I don’t know how to be grown up.’
‘Oh, Nora, you do. You’re an amazing adult and I’m honoured that you talk to me. You inspire me.’
‘I inspire you?’ Nora looks shocked.
Janet nods sincerely. ‘Nora, you’re very inspiring. You’ve survived what many people wouldn’t have been able to survive. People weaker than you probably succumbed long ago. I’m so thrilled to hear your thoughts and ideas. And I love it that, despite all that happened to you, you can tell me sweet and funny stories. Please don’t stop. We can talk about anything you want to talk about.’
But Nora’s eyes remain downcast and there’s a painful silence. Janet waits with bated breath, respecting Nora’s need for time but hoping that she has not lost her for today.
‘Nora, what would you have liked to do with your life?’
Slowly, Nora lifts her head. ‘I would have liked to have had a family – four children, maybe. And a life of ideas, of being able to find out about things. I would have liked to know more about the world, and different people . . . and myself. I’d like to know who I really am – why I was born.’ She pauses and gives a little smile. Her eyes are regaining their liveliness by the moment. ‘I can’t believe I was meant to end up spending my life in a hospital and not do anything useful. But maybe thinking that is conceited and sinful.’
Janet marvels at such courage and grace. ‘Nora, you’re certainly neither conceited nor sinful. You’re wise and astute despite a lifetime of being disallowed your right to opinion or freedom—’
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 23
