Then, at last, morning approaches, the world wakes up and it’s not so bad. She fills her kettle and lights the little gas stove, sets out her cup, sniffs yesterday’s milk and gives thanks that she’s survived another night of ‘freedom’.
Her enemy is unaccounted time. Everything is planned so that there are no treacherous caverns in which fear can linger, waiting to grab her and drag her to the depths where she could drown. If necessary, she goes to her lists in her notebook – diversions, distractions, time fillers, suicide avoiders. Choose something. Anything. Go for a walk. Have a bath. Do a crossword.
But sometimes, no matter what she does, anxiety rises and nausea spreads. Panic will be next unless she does something. Years ago, this would have led to her cutting herself, feeling the physical pain, watching the blood flow and then the relief as the emotional pain drained out with it. But that is no longer an option. She sees Janet’s fingers on her wrist and hears her voice. ‘No, Nora, this is now behaviour of the past.’
And, even when the loneliness curls its cold tendrils around her feet and climbs up her legs, she can do something – scrub the already clean floor, wash the already sparkling windows, sweep the already pristine rugs, scour again the two-ring job she refers to as her cooker. And she survives.
And now she has Tuppence. He is her new responsibility. Something to live for.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Though Janet loves to drive, the train feels the better option for this journey. It also gives her a definite timetable – some structure – that may well be useful. She sets off at six when dawn is just breaking and, as the train ploughs through miles of fields still with their bales of hay or straw from the recent harvest, she tries to remember what this journey used to be like all those years ago. But, in the end, not much seems to have changed. England is England.
A memory wafts into her mind. She is about sixteen, sitting in the village hall at a meeting that her mother is chairing. Everyone stands as the lady at the front strikes a couple of chords on the old, somewhat out-of-tune piano. In unison, there is a mass intake of breath and, lungs expanded to their full extent, all the women sing.
And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God on England’s pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine, shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here among these dark satanic mills?
Yes, England is England from mountains green, to pleasant pastures, to clouded hills, to dark satanic mills and, as she approaches her destination, she wonders if the people will also still be the same or may have changed over the years since she saw them.
The phone call wasn’t easy, but at least her mother said that her father said she would be welcome if she wanted to come. That’s what he always said when he fell out with anyone, then he’d add, ‘They’ll need me before I need them.’
What Janet had been unable, or unwilling, to acknowledge all these years was that she might need them. But maybe Ian was right, all the difficulties they had as a couple may well have started here, and now she needs help to put it right.
The woman who opens the door looks little like she remembers her mother looking, and yet, those eyes are her own and the worried, puckered brow is the same.
‘Hello, Mum,’ Janet says and her mother tries to smile and steps back, holding the door open. Janet steps through the door and leans forward to kiss her mother’s cheek. ‘Long time.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Janet. So sorry.’ And she’s in Janet’s arms and the years melt away.
‘You’ve come then,’ her father says from across the room, pushing himself up with his hands on the arms of the chair. ‘How have you been?’ And he struggles across the space between them and holds out his hands, which Janet takes in her own. As easy as that.
‘Ian’s not with you?’
‘No, I thought I’d come on my own,’ Janet says, trying to hide her shock at his frailty. No longer the proud strong father she knew. His white hair, the thick glasses, the shaking hands.
‘He’s always welcome if he wants to come.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Come and sit down. Edie, are you making a cup of tea?’
‘I made an apple pie and some scones,’ her mother says. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on.’ She dabs at her eyes as she leaves.
Janet’s eyes wander around the room. Little seems to have changed. Her school photographs are in their same cluster. The clay mallard ducks are still flying across the sitting-room wall, and the clock she bought them for their twentieth wedding anniversary is still ticking on the mantelpiece. Their wedding photograph is still on the sideboard: her mother wears a long white dress and a veil secured with a garland of orange blossom, a bouquet held in two hands; her father stands proudly smiling beside her, with his handsome unscarred face and unscarred mind. The man in this photograph never returned from the war. What he brought with him was a damaged brain, a ravaged mind and a wounded soul. Now she understands, and can be at peace with it. Her father stokes the fire and picks up his pipe, and all that Janet thought she would say, all that she rehearsed on the train, falls away. All is forgiven, dissolved somewhere in a twenty-year gap. What she has held all these years was just a memory. Nora has taught her how to forgive and let go.
Her mother arrives, pushing the same squeaky trolley with its two orange plastic tiers, one bearing the tray of tea and the cake and knife, and the other the plates and scones and paper serviettes. Janet stands and, as though she did it just yesterday, places a piece of cake on a plate and hands it to her father, then pours him a cup of tea and adds two spoonfuls of sugar. She catches her mother’s smile and feels the love, gratitude and relief in equal parts contained within it.
Back on the train Janet composes a letter to Ian, though she’s still unsure as to whether she will send it or not.
Chapter Twenty-Four
1991
Janet sits opposite Nora, regarding her with a worried frown. In the last year, Nora has flourished and their sessions, while often dealing with quite serious issues, are nevertheless filled with easy, meaningful communication. However, today things are different. So far, their appointment has been filled with stilted, half-finished sentences, strained silences and, more importantly, Nora seems to have regressed to the time when she would rather hide away than speak. There are only minutes of this session left and then there’ll be no possibility of seeing each other for the next three weeks.
‘Nora, I know something’s troubling you and, as always, you don’t have to tell me what it is if you don’t want to, but I’d hate to think that you’d leave still feeling worried when we may have been able to resolve whatever’s going on.’
Still there’s silence. She looks up at the clock on her office wall – only eight minutes to go. Hardly time to process anything now, even if Nora did decide to speak.
‘Well, we’re just about at the end of our time for today, Nora. So, let’s wind down. What are your plans for the next week or two?’
‘I haven’t any really. I’ll be at the library and I have an appointment with Audrey.’
‘And you’re singing on Thursday?’ Nora seems to fall into herself. ‘Nora, is something amiss with your singing?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ But sadness stalks across her face like a shadow.
‘Nora, we still have a little time if you want to talk,’ Janet offers.
‘I’m OK, really.’
‘All right.’ Helpless to do anything else, Janet knows she needs to shift the pace now if the session is going to end well. ‘Same train as usual today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. So, we’ll see each other in three weeks.’ She stands and gives Nora her usual hug and opens the door, but after only a couple of steps, Nora pauses. Janet hasn’t seen this behaviour since before Nora was discharged, and her heartbeat quickens.
<
br /> ‘I’m sorry, Janet,’ she says.
‘For what?’
‘I’m not really OK.’
‘I know,’ says Janet, closing the door softly.
Nora looks up and meets Janet’s eyes, something she’s refused to do throughout the session. She takes a deep breath. ‘The choir is going to Berlin to sing.’
‘Wow. But that’s wonderful,’ Janet cries.
‘I can’t go.’
‘Oh . . . I see.’ Janet frowns. ‘Come, let’s sit for a minute and you can tell me all about it.’
Nora returns to her seat. ‘I haven’t got a passport.’
‘Ah . . .’ Janet’s mind starts to race. ‘Well, maybe we can get you one. When are they going?’
‘In early October.’
‘Well, that should give us plenty of time, I think.’
‘But that’s not all,’ and Nora keeps her head down. ‘They’re all wearing a kind of uniform.’
‘A uniform?’
‘A black skirt and a cream blouse.’
‘Right . . .’ Now she gets it. ‘And they’ll be flying out?’
‘I don’t know, but I think so.’
Janet thinks for just a moment. ‘Nora, there’s a fund for just this kind of thing. It would pay for your uniform and your ticket and maybe even to get some clothes to go in and have your hair done or whatever you want.’
Nora’s eyes widen, incredulous. ‘Really?’
Janet can’t quite meet her eye. ‘Really,’ she echoes.
Nora’s mouth gapes open and Janet can almost hear the questions formulating themselves.
‘I’ll tell you what. Leave it with me and I’ll have a chat with them and see what we can do.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. Just give me a few days.’ Her heart melts at the relief and gratitude that’s written on Nora’s face. ‘Now you’d better get off for your train. I’ll let you know what happens, or else I’ll chat with Audrey and she’ll let you know.’
The door closes and Janet rests back on her chair. She thinks for a moment and swivels round and dials Audrey’s number. ‘Hi. How are you? . . . Good. Me too. Audrey, I just had a session with Nora. She’s doing well, but something’s come up. The choir she’s singing with is going to Berlin in October and she really wants to go, but hasn’t got a passport, or the clothes she needs. Funds are available, but she’ll need some help, I think . . . Oh, that’s great. I have someone else just now, but I’ll come back to you – or you can give me a call when you’re ready . . . Oh, it’s just a small fund that gives grants for exactly this kind of thing . . . Yes, will do. Thanks, Audrey. Perfect.’
Janet replaces the receiver and smiles. She can’t think of a happier way to spend her money.
Bright and beautiful sunny Sunday mornings like this would usually lift Janet’s spirits. But not today. She feels lonely and restless and, as she catches sight of two pigeons mating in the cherry tree, she vaguely wonders how long it is since she made love.
She has a backlog of dictation to catch up on and she determines that, on this, her third attempt, she’ll get all the correspondence completed. She sighs and moves a hand towards them, but . . .
Maybe a shower, first.
An hour later finds her in her old red anorak and jeans at the Sunday market, carrying her purse, keys and a guilty conscience. So much for good intentions. The weather’s mood seems to be as fickle as her own, and it starts to pour with rain. Her hair quickly becomes plastered to her face and neck as the cold rain makes its way down her previously warm back. Really, she should just go home. The gaudy colours, Indian fabrics, crystal jewellery, antique boxes of loose buttons and knick-knacks that usually thrill her have lost their charm. No – correction. It’s she who has lost hers. She hasn’t even been able to think of a single quip, retort or playful greeting for any of the stallholders, or get into the good-humoured banter she usually enjoys. She’d have been better off doing the dictation– at least she wouldn’t have the guilty conscience, then. Come on, Janet, she chides herself. Get your act together!
She sighs and moves to a stall of silk scarves, waistcoats, flowing tops and palazzo pants, seemingly in every possible colour, but keeps her head down and hopes she won’t be seen by anyone. She fingers a piece of silk adorned with flamingos and exotic plants in a stunning mix of blues and green. Then, too late. The beautiful, round Indian stallholder sees her.
‘Like mine,’ she says, pointing to her brilliant sari of orange and flame, whipping the blue-green off the rack and billowing it out into its rich fullness. ‘Or you can make bedspread.’ She smiles.
Janet backs away with a weak, apologetic smile, but then hears an excited cry. ‘Dr Humphreys? Is that you?’
She groans inwardly. No . . . Of all the days . . . But she turns around and tries to smile. ‘Clara!’ One of her young outpatients stands sporting a beautiful multicoloured umbrella, perfectly dry, perfectly coiffed in a glorious green waterproof ensemble, looking gorgeous. Meanwhile Janet, imagining the wet anorak, jeans, rat-tails hair and makeup-free face, wonders how she could still be recognisable as Dr Humphreys. She wishes a crater would appear in the pavement and swallow her whole.
Clara’s face blanches with alarm. ‘Are you OK, Dr Humphreys?’
‘Apart from being cold and drenched, do you mean?’ she grimaces wryly.
Clara smiles. ‘My mother’s just over there. She’d love to meet you,’ and she cranes her neck over the crowd and waves to a stout middle-aged woman looking at ornaments encrusted with crystals.
Oh, please let me disappear, Janet thinks, but it’s too late. Clara’s mother is advancing through the crowd, vigorously bulldozing everyone in her way.
‘Dr Humphreys! Dr Humphreys! We’ve heard so much about you.’
Janet squirms, but manages to summon a wan smile.
‘My husband’s somewhere around,’ Clara’s mother says, and she raises an arm and beckons wildly. ‘Andrew – come and meet someone.’
He arrives and the conversation proceeds without much input from Janet, who feels as though she’s drowning. She is peering around, desperate for escape, when the shape of a familiar head and shoulders not six feet away catches her attention. Thankfully, he is facing in the other direction. He is casting his gaze over a piece of jewellery, and fingering it with that hand she knows so well. She knows how it moves, how it holds a cup, how she felt when it used to touch her.
Her heart somersaults, as it always did. She can almost smell him, hear that lilting Irish accent, see the hazel of his eyes, the strong forehead with its brows almost meeting above the bridge of his nose, threatening to overwhelm the rest of his face as it tapers down to an angled chin that bears a cleft deep enough to make it impossible to shave there. That mouth. Oh, that mouth . . .
Her own mouth is suddenly a desert and she feels unable to articulate a single word. The world has become silent. She has to get out of here.
She lifts her wrist and looks blindly at her watch. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mumbles to Clara and her parents. ‘I didn’t realise the time. I have an appointment. So lovely to meet you.’ And she gives Clara a quick hug and inches sideways through the throng of Sunday shoppers, tears streaming down her face.
Chapter Twenty-Five
East Sussex is at its best in late August, Janet thinks. The trees are already changing into their autumn yellows and rusts, with the occasional stunning red sweet buckeye and acer. Distracted by the beauty around her, Janet almost misses the sign for Folgarth House. She turns left between stone pillars, then up the gravel drive with its sentinels of lavender and heather, immaculate lawns, busy herbaceous borders and well-tended rose gardens. She can almost see the little girls of the past in flouncy skirts and petticoats, their ringlets bouncing under lacy caps, laughing and chasing each other, interrupting the adults in their games of croquet.
She steers round the stone fountain with dolphin and maiden in eternal embrace, then pulls up into a parking space in front of the beautiful c
ountry house, now converted into luxury apartments. She gets out of the car, walks up to the door and rings the bell for one of the first-floor flats.
An old man in an Argyle jumper and fading tweed trousers opens the door and smiles. His white hair drapes over his forehead and he brushes it back with his hand and peers through his glasses. ‘Dr Humphreys?’
Janet smiles, and warmth creeps across her chest. ‘Dr Stilworth?’
His once beautiful face, still with its wide, generous mouth and intelligent eyes, lights up. ‘Do come in. I’m so glad you managed to find me. Forgive me if I go ahead. I hate it when I’m in a new place and don’t know where I’m going.’
Janet smiles and follows his limping gait, noting the slope of his shoulders and the delicate hand that reaches for the wall now and then to steady himself. He leads her into a generous living room with windows overlooking the front lawns and the magnificent woodland beyond. A climbing rose taps at the frame of the open window and offers the gift of its perfume. There are woollen throws over the settee and chairs and a book lies open on the coffee table alongside a silver tray set for two. Bookshelves line the wall, surrounding a fireplace that is fitted with a modern gas fire and topped by old sepia photographs. Janet thinks how lovely it must be to live here.
‘Nora speaks very highly of you,’ she says when they’re comfortably settled with cups of tea and shortbread biscuits. She notes the tender look that lit up his face when she mentioned Nora’s name, and warms to him even more.
‘That’s very kind,’ he says, taking a sip of his tea. ‘So, tell me about you, Dr Humphreys. Why did you come to see me?’
‘Well, as I mentioned on the phone, I’ve been working with Nora, and she’s doing so well that I’d love to share her progress with you, since you were so important to her survival all those years. And it would be great if you could maybe fill in a couple of gaps for me – with regards to diagnosis, mainly.’
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 31
