As Janet folds the letter, they meet each other’s eyes.
‘When I showed you the photo of him from the paper, you said we looked like brother and sister . . .’ Nora shrugs. Then something akin to defiance flits across her face. ‘He loved me, Janet. Right to the end, he loved me.’
‘Yes.’
‘I just wanted you to know, that’s all.’
‘I’m deeply honoured.’
Nora smiles. ‘You and me both,’ she says.
Chapter Thirty
1994
The kitchen clock says five past seven. Janet butters her toast, careful not to get any grease on her fitted white shirt and smartest navy skirt. On the radio, Terry Wogan is wittering on – something about socks lost in washing machines and spoons left in washing-up bowls. She chuckles at the absurdity of his morning chatter.
Suddenly arms encircle her from behind and Ian nuzzles his favourite place at the nape of her neck. ‘Busy day?’
She leans into him then turns to kiss him briefly, and hands him a plate of toast. ‘As always,’ she says, reaching for the teapot and carrying it to the table. ‘You?’
‘Same.’
They sit in comfortable silence, each with a sheet of the morning paper, as they breakfast in the way that couples secure in each other’s love and content in each other’s presence do. Janet peers at him over the top of the paper, taking in all that she loves about him, and once again feels a swell of gratitude that they finally found each other again. He feels her eyes on him and looks up, smiling.
Ten minutes later she’s in her suit jacket and bends to kiss the top of his head. ‘Got to be off. See you tonight.’
‘I’ll be right behind you,’ he says. ‘Any idea what time you’ll finish?’
‘Around six, I imagine. I’ll ring if I get held up.’
‘OK.’
Celine Dion soothes her through the morning traffic. She thinks of Ian and his quiet, sweet ways and wonders how she ever doubted that he loved her. She smiles as she touches the silver bracelet he bought her that first weekend they went away after they got back together – how long is it – three years ago now? Then she shifts her focus to the day ahead. Busy as always. The morning passes in a blur and the next time she glances at the clock, Janet is astounded to find that it’s lunchtime. If she deals with the rest of the patient notes quickly, she’ll have time for a quick snack. She usually has a midday appointment but, oddly, found there was nothing in her diary today – which is fortunate given how behind she is. She picks up her pen to get going when her secretary Melanie pops her head around the door.
‘Janet – you have an appointment in the patients’ common room.’
‘Are you sure? There’s nothing in my diary.’
‘Yes, you definitely have a meeting downstairs.’
‘A meeting? I don’t remember organising any meeting.’ Janet is baffled.
‘Janet – you’re going to be late,’ Melanie says, fussing like a mother.
‘All right, all right. I’m going. Do I have an agenda or anything? I’m not prepared for a meeting.’
‘Janet, just go.’
She stands up grumpily and heads down the stairs, muttering to herself all the while. She opens the door to the common room and stops in her tracks, and gasps.
In her long black skirt and the silky cream blouse with the bow at its neck and ties trailing, Nora stands, smiling – a broad, deep smile, with none of the timidity that used to constrain it. She moves towards Janet, taking command of the whole room, delight, laced with amusement, playing in her eyes.
‘I came to sing for you.’
Janet can’t speak. She takes in the shining eyes, the gently styled hair, the hint of blusher and the pale pink lipstick. She hasn’t seen Nora since she moved to the coast, though she has photographs of the bungalow with its flowery garden and the little scruff that Nora rescued from the RSPCA.
‘For me?’
‘A concert for one,’ she says with a steady voice that oozes self-confidence. She reaches out and hugs Janet, who is feeling strangely shy and wrong-footed by this unexpected, undreamed-of gift.
‘Where would you like to sit?’ Nora says, coming to her rescue.
‘Nora, you look beautiful,’ Janet finally manages, trying to hold back the flood of emotion that threatens to sweep her away. ‘Just beautiful.’
There was a time when Nora could not have accepted a compliment and would have shied away, but today her smile widens even further. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
Janet decides on the sofa, and settles into its ample softness with its chintz tea roses all around her. Nora turns to Susan, who is seated at the piano. She nods, then takes her position slightly to the fore.
Glowing, Nora looks directly at her much-loved Janet, and clasps her hands at her waist. She makes no introduction, but is breathing and obviously pacing herself as Susan caresses the notes of the prelude. And then she closes her eyes as she inhales slowly and steadily. Strong and clear and with perfect pitch, she begins.
I can’t cover up my feelings, in the name of love,
or play it safe, for a while that was easy,
and if living for myself, is what I’m guilty of,
go on and sentence me, I’ll still be free.
It’s my turn, to see what I can see, I hope you’ll understand,
this time’s just for me . . .
As the song ends, Nora gives a slight bow, her eyes twinkling – the little girl peeping out from time gone by. She tilts her head to one side, smiling into Janet’s tear-soaked face, then turns briefly to Susan. Janet stares at her, awestruck – this woman who courageously fought and won a victory over captivity, loss and abuse. Janet can hardly breathe.
Flashes of Nora, as she was, attempt to parade across Janet’s mind, but they find no purchase, for she’s engrossed. The swell of Nora’s chest, the movement of her lips, the clarity of her diction, the sparkling richness of her voice, the beauty of her – these hold Janet mesmerised as tears brim again in her eyes. Nora smiles mid-note, her eyes filled with love and something else – compassion! It is she who is offering compassion to Janet. Compassion and gratitude in equal parts.
As the cadence settles and the sound of Nora’s voice retreats, Janet brings her hands together as though offering a prayer, and bows her head so that her lips settle on her fingertips. Applause feels inappropriate, but she lifts her eyes and taps her fingers together as she smiles at Nora, and nods. She dares not speak. Everything is understood between them.
Nora gives a slight bow, a small smile playing on her lips.
‘Now, I want to sing you one of my favourites,’ she says simply. Her stance shifts a little, she lifts her head proudly, and appears quite changed. She rests one hand on top of the piano and is now half turned away, treating Janet to a different angle of her face and indeed to a whole new face of Nora. But when her first notes are due, she turns at the last moment and faces Janet as she begins. And Janet is lost. Lost in years of memories of this beautiful woman’s recovery and the honour of having walked with her.
Janet can see the girl who laughed and enjoyed performing for her family and others. And at the end of the song there’s a pause and then Nora laughs, bending forward in a kind of bow, yielding to the joy of the moment.
And then, the laughter is gone and Nora straightens and nods once again to Susan, then brings her eyes back to Janet and takes a deep breath, her hands clasped in front of her.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus . . .
Clear and clean, Nora’s voice is totally in her command, delivering, seemingly without effort, this prayer; this pledge of gratitude. Nora is home in herself at last. She has won. And as Janet listens and watches, and knows that her work here is complete, she rejoices. This is what it’s all about. This is the goal. This is the reward. They hold each other’s eyes. No longer doctor and patient, but just two women, equals.
Nora bows and offers her ha
nds to the pianist, who now steps out to stand beside her and smiles knowingly at Janet. They bow in unison.
Janet rises, tears streaming down her face, yet smiling as broadly as she’s able. ‘Nora, I don’t know what to say. This was so beautiful. Thank you. Thank you. I can’t tell you what this means to me.’
Again, Nora bows, and moves forward with both hands outstretched. ‘We did it, Janet. We did it.’
We hope you loved
THE GIRL BEHIND THE GATES;
if you did, please click here to review.
Acknowledgements
So many people have helped me on my journey that it’s impossible to mention each of them individually. However, first of all, I’d like to thank my beloved Les who has been the wind beneath my wings for over sixty years and whose love and support I always cherish. Then my beautiful daughter, Lesda, who has encouraged, supported, listened, cried and laughed with me over Nora’s story, as well as typing, formatting, sorting out my technical issues and helping me hone my computer skills. Thank you, Angel. And the beautiful Tilly who has supplied me with enough playfulness, hugs, amusement and laughter to leaven any sombre moment.
Thank you to my wonderful friend and soul sister, Claire Gilman, who read the first draft and encouraged me to submit it. At Hodder, Rowena Web, who was my non-fiction editor in the 1990s, read it and promptly sent it on to fiction where Thorne Ryan took over as my editor and has worked unceasingly to help me fashion a raw manuscript into the book you find here. Thank you, Thorne – you’ve been amazing – and thanks also to the copy editor, Penny Isaac, the proofreader, Sharona Selby, and the whole Hodder team.
The Arvon Foundation has also been an inspiring presence over many years, and I’d like to thank the tutors and fellow writers and others who have been part of my journey while writing the novel and also adapting it to a screenplay. What amazing people I have met through Arvon – I thank all of you for being in my life and I love the way we cheer each other on.
My other soul sister, Annie Lionnet, has been a beautiful presence in my life for more years than either of us might care to remember and has been a championing voice throughout. Thank you, Annie. Scott Hunt is one of the kindest, funniest people I know and an amazing psychiatric nurse and an old friend. Thank you, Scott, for always being only an arm’s length away. I’d also like to thank Silvio Andrade, Emma Craig, Margaret Martin and Tara Hawes who have held the fort for me while I’ve been busy writing, and Melanie Blanksby, who is also a supportive voice in my ear. Then there is my dear friend, Linda Miller, who I just love. Thank you for always being there, Linda. And Lisa in Texas. So many friends, students, patients and colleagues – too many to mention individually – have graced my life over the years and over continents. Each one has taught me much on the journey to all of us becoming better versions of ourselves. One of my mentors from the dim and distant past was Dr Robin Farqueharson, an amazing psychiatrist, a wonderful, caring man and an inspiring teacher who showed me what a scientific art psychiatry could be and modelled a deep respect for patients that I have tried to emulate. Thank you, Robin. I have never forgotten.
To all who have accompanied me on my journey in whatever capacity – I thank you for all you taught me, for all we shared, for however brief a moment. And most of all, thank you, Nora. What an amazing woman you were. Thank you for entrusting your story to me and nagging me to tell it. This is for you.
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 34
