The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  ‘Open it,’ he said, his face suffused with happy anticipation.

  Excitedly she had unveiled the sleeved vinyl. ‘Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ Joe had said, smiling while she stood frozen. ‘Nora. It’s for you. For your birthday.’ And he had taken it out of her hand, slid it out of its sleeve and placed it on the turntable of his gramophone right there on his lap.

  From then on, she’d known what to spend her money on. When men and women were finally given permission to share a day room, Joe and Nora would sometimes play their music there; even the staff would come to listen.

  The gloved hand of a fellow patient shoots past Nora’s nose to reach the magazine rack next to her, startling her back to the present. Nora studies the woman. Her head has what would have, at one time, been called a noble bearing. Her finger taps unconsciously, occasionally stilling whenever she becomes aware of it. She gathers her beautiful coat that has spilled over the seat around her and repeatedly slaps her leather gloves into her palm. Nora taps her own fingers to the rhythm.

  The door opens, Janet appears and Nora’s heart leaps. She stands and, simultaneously, so does the woman.

  Janet looks quickly back and forth at both of them. Nora sits down, eyes to the carpet, her colour rising. She must have made a mistake. Janet looks directly at the other woman and smiles. ‘I’m so sorry,’ says Janet. ‘Maybe we have an administrative error. I’m afraid your appointment was yesterday.’

  Tears spring to Nora’s eyes. ‘It’s OK,’ she murmurs, gathering her things together to leave.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the other woman says coldly, and Nora’s head springs up.

  ‘I have a cancellation at twelve, if you’d like to wait.’ Janet smiles.

  ‘No, my appointment is now.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken. It was yesterday. I dictated a letter to you last evening, enquiring after you since you hadn’t attended, and suggesting you call for another appointment.’

  ‘Well, I . . . I don’t have time to wait . . .’ She makes an exaggerated play of looking at her watch and huffs angrily.

  ‘Then if you pop into my secretary’s office, perhaps she can help find a slot that’s mutually convenient,’ Janet says, then turns to Nora and gives her the fullness of her smile. ‘Miss Jennings,’ she says, and shepherds Nora into her room with a hand hovering somewhere in the region of her back.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Janet says as she closes the door behind Nora. ‘This is your appointment.’ And she opens her arms for Nora to enter and they hug. ‘You made it on your own, Nora! Wonderful. Well done.’

  Though Nora says nothing, she notes with joy that Janet seems proud of her and, for the first time, she understands. It will be all right to leave at the end of the session; they will be seeing each other again.

  On the train, Nora rests back in her seat, feeling more relaxed than she has since Janet left Hillinghurst. She watches the green blur of fields and listens to the train’s rhythm thrumming in her head. Huge white clouds busy themselves across the cornflower blue sky and she’s suddenly aware that she’s smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  1990

  Nora stands in the middle of the room, motionless except for her eyes, which roam around in excited disbelief. She can hardly contain the squeal of delight that longs to burst from within her. Here she is, in her very own flat, where she will live alone for the first time in all her sixty-eight years. It’s three years since Nora was discharged from Hillinghurst, and today, with the support of Audrey and Evelyn, she moved into this flat owned by a Christian charity and reserved for people just like her.

  All of her belongings are here around her. The ballerina on her music box pirouettes to the strains of Liebestraum as the beauty of the music fills the space, touches the walls, permeates the fabrics and thrills Nora’s heart. She holds her hands as if in prayer, her fingertips to her lips. Her breathing is shallow, her elbows tucked in. She closes her eyes, and tries not to free the grin that she feels could break her face in two.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she whispers.

  She lifts the curtain that hangs between the sitting room and the tiny cupboard of a kitchen, with its two-ring stove and her new kettle. Two mugs hang on hooks and she straightens them a little, then steps back again to survey her new domain. She closes her eyes and blinks back tears of joy. Her back aches with the carrying of boxes up two flights of stairs and she’s tired, but cannot think of going to bed.

  Suddenly, a wave of anxiety threatens to sweep her away. She’s completely alone for the very first time since she was seventeen.

  Come on, Nora, keep busy!

  As she bustles to the kitchen and puts on the kettle, she comforts herself by remembering that, two weeks from today, she’ll have her first very special invited guest.

  Though Janet is no stranger to visiting patients’ homes, she’s not usually bringing flowers and coming because of an invitation to tea. Yet, ignoring her traditional schooling on professional ethics, here she is, climbing the stairs to visit Nora.

  The door opens almost before she’s knocked upon it and standing there is Nora, her hair now almost silver, her face glowing with delight. She’s wearing a simple, short-sleeved cotton dress with a buckled belt, and a necklace of brown glass beads hugs her throat. Delight shines from every pore of her beaming face.

  ‘Nora,’ Janet smiles, ‘you look wonderful.’

  Nora opens the door more widely. ‘I’m so happy that you came. Please come in.’

  Nora accepts the proffered flowers with unadulterated joy. ‘Oh, they’re gorgeous,’ she says, burying her head among the pink carnations. ‘I’ll stand them in water in the kitchen for now.’ She disappears behind the curtain.

  The room is small with a blue two-seat settee and one matching chair separated by a rose-emblazoned fireside rug. The small grate holds a pretty china bowl containing a few dried flowers in pinks and purples, and the narrow mantelpiece is home to a small figurine of a woman and child clinging to each other and for ever entwined, tethered as they are in a piece of green soapstone. Janet’s eyes linger upon it. She feels a lump in her throat and blinks quickly, hoping Nora hasn’t noticed. Atop the small chest of drawers that doubles as a sideboard stand a few books, Nora’s music box, and a bunch of wild flowers in a glass jar.

  In a corner between the settee and the curtain stands a small drop-leaf table, draped with a pink-checked cloth, perfectly positioned with a point hanging down towards the floor. Two chairs with black leatherette seats are somehow accommodated in the tiny gap between the settee and the table. Nora re-emerges from behind the curtain, smiling and looking deceptively young. It’s obvious that she has taken pains to make this special – from the presence of the little rose-painted jug to the ironed handkerchiefs that are standing in for napkins. The crockery is a collection of odd pieces, but all share the common motif of roses. The scones are home-made, and the little pot of jam is topped with checked gingham. ‘May I take your jacket?’ Nora says, her voice soft yet confident. She hangs it on the single coat hanger suspended from a peg on the wall.

  Nora returns with a teapot in a hand-knitted cosy, then she hovers for a moment, her expression anxious. ‘Oh, sorry, I’ll have to move you,’ she says.

  ‘No problem.’ Janet stands and moves towards the fireplace while Nora pushes the settee forward and prises out the chairs, placing one at each end of the table and effectively blocking the entrance into the kitchen.

  ‘It’s a bit of a squeeze,’ she says, with much more aplomb than Janet could have mustered in similar circumstances, and surveys the table, checking everything off a mental list. ‘Would you like to sit down? Oh, I forgot a knife . . .’ Janet stands so that the furniture can be eased once more to allow Nora access to the kitchen. ‘Sorry it’s so small.’

  ‘Nora, please don’t apologise. It’s just so wonderful to see you settled and managing on your own. It’s amazing what you’ve done.�
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  Janet is rewarded with a beaming smile. ‘It’s three years since I left Hillinghurst. I’ve been so lucky.’

  ‘And you’ve worked hard. You deserve it, Nora. Every bit.’

  Nora pours the tea and hands Janet the plate of scones, gently pushing the jam and cream in her direction.

  ‘Mmm – my favourites,’ says Janet. ‘Did you bake them?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I always liked to bake scones when . . .’ She looks down into her lap, then lifts her chin and manages to look straight at Janet. ‘My dad used to say my scones were heavenly.’ She blushes.

  ‘I sometimes get nervous when I’m cooking for company, worrying if cakes and Yorkshire puddings will rise,’ Janet says.

  ‘Do you?’ Nora says incredulously, as though it had never occurred to her that Janet might ever be nervous, or maybe even that she ever cooks. Then she gives a little laugh. ‘That makes me feel better.’ Something tugs at Janet’s skirt and she looks down, startled. A small, furry face peers up at her. ‘Oh,’ she exclaims in delight. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I hope he didn’t damage anything,’ Nora bends down and picks up the black and white kitten. ‘His name’s Tuppence. I got him from the RSPCA. Isn’t he lovely?’

  ‘He is.’ Janet reaches across to scratch the kitten behind his ear.

  ‘I’d really love a dog, but I’m not allowed to have one here. I had a dog when I was a little girl. In fact, he was old but still with us when I . . .’ She seems to falter, but recovers herself, though a trace of the old sadness shadows her face. ‘He was very old . . .’

  ‘Nora, I imagine it’s still hard sometimes?’ Janet probes gently.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’m fine, thank you.’ She smiles brightly, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. They sink into a companionable silence. ‘Oh, I have something else to tell you,’ says Nora with a big smile, trying to persuade the kitten to get off her lap. ‘Get down now, Tuppence.’ She brushes some crumbs off her skirt. ‘It’s exciting.’ She brings her hands together as if in prayer, then takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve joined a choir,’ she announces, with all the excitement of a little girl on Christmas morning.’

  Now it’s Janet’s turn to beam. ‘A choir?’

  Nora glows. ‘Yes. My singing lessons have been going well and Susan suggested that I might like to meet some of her other singers, and they invited me to have a cup of tea with them. They’re all in the choir and they asked if I’d like to join.’ The words come in a hurry and then she pauses, eyes wide with wonder. ‘I could hardly believe it, but I went to just see what it was like and it’s lovely. Everyone’s so kind. So, I’ve been going for a month now.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Nora,’ Janet says, sharing Nora’s delight. ‘I’m thrilled for you. What fun!’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Then her smile fades. ‘I’m a bit worried though,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘Well, Susan says that someone pays for my lessons – some charity. They want to be anonymous, so I can’t even thank them.’

  ‘I don’t think that matters,’ Janet says, looking away to hide her smile. ‘I’m sure they would be so happy that their money’s being well spent and enjoyed. I wouldn’t worry about it.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I do. They obviously just want you to enjoy your singing.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s wonderful of someone to do that and I really wish I could thank them.’

  ‘Maybe you could give Susan permission to tell them how you’re getting on every now and then.’

  ‘Oh – that’s a good idea! I will.’

  Janet smiles then needs to look away. Her eyes alight on the ballerina and she points to it. ‘Your ballerina is beautiful,’ she says.

  ‘It’s musical,’ and Nora reaches for it, turns the key and hands the pirouetting dancer to Janet. ‘I’ve had it since I was a girl,’ she says. ‘My parents gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday.’

  ‘How lovely.’

  ‘I didn’t have her for a long time – I wasn’t allowed – but then I got her . . .’ and her voice trails off and she looks a little fretful.

  She looks down at her hands for a moment, then gathers herself and lifts her chin and smiles. ‘I have more news, too,’ she says, as she takes the music box and replaces it on the chest. ‘I joined the library,’ she says, regaining her enthusiasm. ‘I can get four books each week if I want to, but usually I only need two or three. The lady there is so nice. She asked if I’d like to go a couple of afternoons a week and tidy the books and look after the children’s corner.’

  Admiration floods through Janet once more. ‘Really? Nora, that’s great.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s like having a job – even though I won’t get paid. I’ve never had a job, except at the hospital. Then it wasn’t a real job. Being among all the books is so exciting. Look what I got this week,’ she enthuses, picking up the three books from the chest and handing them to Janet.

  ‘Oh, I love this book,’ Janet says, fingering A Story Like the Wind. ‘Isn’t Laurens van der Post wonderful? I read it a long, long time ago. There’s a sequel—’

  ‘A Far-off Place?’ Nora breaks in eagerly.

  ‘Yes – that’s it. I loved them both.’

  ‘They’re going to get it for me. Isn’t that amazing?’

  Janet smiles. ‘Yes, it is.’

  Nora looks down and picks up Tuppence again, hugging him to her cheek. Then she pauses and puts him down on the carpet, smoothing down her skirt and fiddling with the sugar bowl. ‘Janet, I went to look at Fenshaw and my old home. My parents passed away some years ago but I just had a look at the house. I wish I’d been to see them earlier. I could have, if I’d asked. There are things I could have said that can’t be said directly to them now . . . But I’ve said them out loud anyway, and, you never know, maybe they could still hear them.’

  Janet pauses and dabs her lips with the handkerchief serviette. ‘You’re very wise, Nora. I think they probably heard you.’ And in that moment, she too decides to say what needs to be said to her parents before it’s too late.

  ‘And how was it? Being there, I mean.’

  ‘I thought I’d feel sad, or . . . something, at least. But I didn’t feel anything, really. I knew nothing of their lives for the last fifty years.’ She sighs. ‘My father told Robert that Angela had died, years before I knew myself what had happened to my daughter. That was the final betrayal, really, I think. I felt dreadful that I had caused my mother to lose her daughter as I lost mine. But hers was alive. She could have found me, and didn’t. I know I would have spent all my life trying to find Angela. But maybe there were things I couldn’t know. I did my grieving years ago, so I’m all right, really.’

  She smooths out her skirt and looks back at Janet. ‘I’m sorry. You look sad. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t,’ Janet says quickly. ‘You just reminded me of something I need to do.’

  Nora reaches across and takes Janet’s plate and serves her another scone. ‘I’m still sorry that I caused the break-up of my family and that each of us lost the life we could have had. It doesn’t feel right that, in the end, I’m the one who survived and am happy.’

  ‘Are you happy, then, Nora?’

  ‘Sometimes I feel very happy. Sometimes I don’t know. But I’m grateful to be free and have some life. And now there’s the choir . . . and Tuppence, of course.’

  Janet smiles. ‘I’m so glad. You made it, Nora.’

  After Janet has left following fond goodbyes, Nora stands in her little kitchen looking out at the view, her hands in the warm washing-up water, reviewing the day and feeling satisfied.

  Before Janet arrived, Nora promised herself that she would keep the visit completely positive, and she’s happy that she managed not to tell Janet about how at night thoughts still arise unbidden, creeping and cruel, arousing her from sleep, then perching somewhere in her consciousness, from where they taunt and harass. Night after n
ight, she sits in the ECT queue listening to the protestations of those who’ve been taken first, then watching as they’re wheeled out groaning, all the while dreading her own turn and that awful feeling that the top of her head has been sawn off. Or she scrubs the floor, knees sore, back aching, waiting for the mocking laughter, then the boots that march over the newly scrubbed area and the voice that screams at her to do it again. Or she’s sprawled face-down on the floor with someone’s foot on her back, while she quashes the humiliation, compresses the rage, and fights down the urge to scream – just breathing and praying that she can hold on until the moment when she can cry into her pillow, biting her hand to stifle sound that might attract attention.

  Many nights, she moans and squirms, clutching her pillow and burying her face, childishly hoping that hiding will make the bad memories go away so that she can find an island of peace in the sea of confusion. Sometimes she’s tempted to fantasise like she used to that she’s with her family, happy, and with Robert standing beside her, but though she used to be able to stretch out this fantasy for an hour or more, during which she’d hug herself and smile, in the end it would collapse like a burst balloon, leaving her desolate and lonelier than ever. Now it’s just too hard to reach, and to trick herself into believing. Sometimes she muses that Dr Mason may have been right when he suggested it might be better if she considered her family dead.

  But then she thinks of Joe and Gladys and Peggy and how glad she is that they were in her life. And, of course, Angela. Even though she died, Nora carried her and gave her life, and she will always have that.

  Such memories over years had braided themselves together like a silken noose: soft and caressing even as it tightened around her throat – until one day she realised that she had the power to remove it and be free.

  So now, here in her little flat, she’s finding new ways to lift herself. She runs through a litany of wild flowers that she’s seen; imagines shrews and field mice scampering, and the odd mole, finding itself strangely above ground, doing its hilarious scuttle on short stubby legs, curiously placed at each corner of its flat, rectangular body, as it looks for cover.