by Laura Wilson
‘You know,’ said Jenny, when she’d returned and they were drinking tea, ‘Mrs Ingram asked me to fetch the police again.’
‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s nothing they could do, and she might end up getting carted off to…well, you know where.’
Doris and Jenny looked at each other. Jenny knew that her sister was thinking the same as Mr Ingram had; it had crossed her mind too several times in the last couple of hours. They were both remembering their Aunt Ivy who had been in Friern Barnet Asylum for the last twenty years of her life. As youngsters, the three girls had been pressed into accompanying their mother on her monthly visits. Jenny knew that Doris, like her, was remembering the confusion and despair of the place, their walks around the grounds with her mother struggling to think of things to say and mute Aunt Ivy trying desperately to please them by darting into the bushes and presenting them with handfuls of earth, cigarette ends, and once, appallingly, a dead squirrel.
Auntie Ivy had died before any of them met the men they were to marry. Jenny hadn’t thought it appropriate to mention her existence to Ted – her mother, in fact, had advised against it, and had said something similar to both Doris and Lilian. Even now, Jenny found it hard to talk about, and, judging by Doris’s face, she felt the same way. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, drawing a line under the subject. ‘But I did wonder if I should ask Ted to talk to her. He rescued her, after all.’
‘Yes, but she doesn’t remember it, does she? And think about it: if Ted comes in and introduces himself – “I’m Inspector Stratton” – she’ll know he’s your husband, and then she’ll think the whole world is against her. She’ll see it as proof…’ Doris groaned. ‘I can’t stand it! And what if Don brings Mr Ingram back? He can’t stay here, there’s no room—’
‘Take him to the Rest Centre. Look, Dor, if this carries on, do you want me to look after her for a while? I mean, if she came to us.’
‘Don’t be daft. You’ve got enough to do. It’s not fair to expect Ted to be on his own with her. It’s bad enough for Don and Madeleine, and I’m here.’
‘Well, if you change your mind…’ Jenny glanced up at the kitchen clock.
‘It’s all right, dear,’ said Doris. ‘I’ll be fine. I was just being silly. You go on home. I’ve got the supper to get.’
‘If you’re sure. Only I’d better get back to the Rest Centre. I did leave them in the lurch a bit.’
Doris rose. ‘Course I’m sure. Come here.’ Rounding the table, she gave Jenny a hug. ‘Thanks, love.’
The only good thing about all this, Jenny reflected afterwards, was that it had stopped her worrying, for a whole three hours, about being pregnant. For the last few days she’d told herself that it was worry and being tired that was upsetting her system, or that she’d got the dates wrong, but now – today, in fact – there was no getting round the fact that she was one entire week late.
Twenty-Four
Not knowing whether Fay Marchant was still on duty, Stratton decided to leave visiting the Middlesex until the following day. It would nice to be home on time for a change even if Jenny wasn’t there.
Walking up Lansdowne Road, Stratton was hailed by Donald coming the other way, with someone he did not recognise in tow. ‘I called for you,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink? Mr Ingram and I were just on our way to the Swan.’
Stratton looked at Mr Ingram, wondering if he was all right, or even all there. Jenny had said he was aggressive, but he could see no evidence of this, unless one counted the fact that the little man had the look of a punch-drunk boxer (flea-weight) who was trying to rise to the occasion without knowing quite what the occasion was. Presumably, there’d been some further upset over his wife. ‘How do you do?’ he said, playing for time.
Donald, sensing hesitancy, grimaced at him over Mr Ingram’s head and telegraphed a ‘don’t-you-dare-let-me-down-you-fucker’ message with his eyes.
‘Why not?’ said Stratton.
The pub was full to bursting, as it often was nowadays at the beginning of the week before the beer ran out. The pea-soup haze of smoke in the place was even more acrid than usual and made Stratton’s eyes smart. Standing beside him in the crush at the bar, Donald managed, between securing and paying for three half-pints, to fill him in about the situation in a series of muttered asides. ‘Christ knows what I’m supposed to do,’ he finished. ‘I’m bloody glad you’re here because I haven’t a clue what to say to him.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Stratton. ‘But I hope Jenny and Doris have decided he is who he says he is, so they won’t be expecting me to interrogate the poor bastard.’
Donald responded to this by casting his eyes ceilingward in a ‘women, wouldn’t you know it?’ sort of way, and said, ‘And he’s AWOL. But I didn’t tell you that.’
‘No, you bloody well didn’t,’ said Stratton, grimly.
They stood in an awkward group with their drinks, and managed, by dint of finding common ground in Tottenham Hotspur, to avoid mentioning the subject of Mrs Ingram for a good ten minutes.
They were in the middle of a good-natured argument about borrowing players from other teams to make up the numbers, when Stratton received a clap on the back that was hard enough to propel him forward several inches, slopping his drink. ‘Look out!’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ Donald muttered, ‘bloody marvellous.’
Stratton’s heart sank. He’d been trying to keep an eye out, but what with the crowd and the smoke, it was impossible to see properly who was in the place. ‘Hello, Reg,’ he said, without turning round. Their brother-in-law bustled forward, elbowing him in the ribs. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Fancied a change. How’s the long arm of the law?’
‘It would be a bloody sight better without beer all over it,’ Stratton said, shortly.
‘Sorry about that.’ Seeing Mr Ingram, apparently for the first time, Reg added, ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure…’
‘This is Mr Ingram,’ said Donald.
‘Aaah…’ said Reg, ‘aaah…’ Stratton gaped in disbelief as his brother-in-law closed one eye, inclined his head to one side, and regarded the little man as one might on encountering a problem while putting up shelves. At least, Stratton thought, having a pint in his hand, Reg couldn’t actually cross his arms.
‘Did you hear,’ Stratton began, in an attempt to head Reg off, ‘we’ve taken Caen. Monty’s army’s gone in and—’
He got no further. ‘Are you indeed?’ said Reg, loudly, to Mr Ingram. ‘Having some trouble at home, I hear?’
Stratton felt, rather than saw, the tremor go through Mr Ingram’s slight frame. Turning slightly, he saw the man’s Adam’s apple bob in a convulsive movement and his jaw clench, but Mr Ingram did not speak. Neither did Donald, who was glaring at Reg. Before Stratton could think of anything to say, Reg continued in the same, breezy tone, ‘Your missus staying at the Kerrs’, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Ingram in a low voice, and stared miserably into his pint.
‘You shouldn’t worry too much,’ Reg said, apparently oblivious to the waves of hostility coming from Donald and Stratton, which had now reached a halitosis-like intensity. ‘They can do a lot with these mental cases now, you know. Learnt it from the last lot. I remember…’
Do something, Stratton told himself. Hit him, knock the beer out of his hand, stamp on his foot, anything. Paralysed, he continued to glare at Reg, who, having assumed a professorial stance, was regaling Mr Ingram with a story about a man in his regiment in the Great War who had lost the use of his voice though shell shock. ‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘with modern—’
Mr Ingram cleared his throat. Reg looked at him and held up the admonishing finger of one who is not yet ready for questions from the floor, and continued, ‘With modern methods, they can—’
‘I’m off,’ said Mr Ingram, abruptly. Thrusting his glass into Donald’s free hand, he said, ‘Got to find a place to kip.’
‘Wh
y don’t you—’ began Stratton, but he’d already left them, dodging through the crowd like an eel.
After a loaded silence of about thirty seconds, Donald burst out, ‘What the hell were you playing at?’ Reg looked at him in hurt astonishment. ‘All that stuff about mental cases – what did you think you were doing?’
‘Just trying to be helpful, old man. No need to take it like that.’
‘Helpful!’ said Stratton. ‘Why didn’t you just come right out and tell him to buy her a straitjacket?’
‘There’s no need to be—’
‘Yes, there bloody is,’ said Donald. ‘I don’t believe you sometimes, Reg. I really don’t.’
‘All I meant was,’ said Reg, looking at the pair of them as if he was attempting to reason with two exceptionally backward children, ‘is that if these cases aren’t treated, they can become violent.’
‘Violent! You wouldn’t know this, because neither you nor Lilian have set foot in my house since she’s been there, but Elsie Ingram is a skinny little thing who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and she’s about as likely to become violent as you are to…to…’ Here, Donald’s powers of invention failed him. Stratton, who could have supplied quite a lot of appropriate comparisons (buy a round, crack a joke that anyone finds funny, get through an evening without one of us wanting to knock your teeth out, and so on), said nothing, but nodded his head in agreement.
‘I see,’ said Reg. ‘Well, in that case, I really don’t think there’s anything more to be said. So, if you’ll excuse me…’
‘Now we’re for it,’ said Donald, as they watched him go. ‘Doris’ll kill me.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Stratton. ‘Not when she hears the whole story. And I’m sure Jenny would think the same. Anyway, you said yourself that Lilian’s not been visiting, so…’
‘You don’t think…What Reg was saying about mental cases…You don’t think he could be right, do you? I mean, that she is actually, you know, mad?’
There was an uncomfortable pause while both men considered the possibility, and then Stratton said, ‘Don’t talk cock. Reg has never been right about anything in his life. He’s Reg, for Christ’s sake. Mind you,’ he added, ‘it has to be more likely than Jenny and Doris thinking the bloke wasn’t her husband at all…Look, I don’t know about you, but I could do with another drink, and it’s my shout. And then,’ he added, ‘for Christ’s sake let’s talk about something else.’
Twenty-Five
The Men’s Surgical Ward was in chaos. Orderlies and nurses were hauling temporary bed frames down the length of the room and putting them together, and those patients who were well enough to be moved were being chivvied, pushed and carried to them as soon as they were made. Stratton, feeling sprucer than he had for weeks, thanks to his new razor blade, stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene. They were obviously clearing the beds nearest the door to make room for a new batch of casualties. There were screens around three of the beds, and the pungent stench of burnt flesh and sweat cut through the odour of carbolic. The patients who could sit up were staring, goggle-eyed, as a stream of nurses rushed up and down carrying hot water bottles, blankets, and small trays bearing hypodermic syringes.
Nobody took the slightest notice of Stratton until he put a hand out to stop a small and obviously very junior nurse who was scuttling past with a bucket of dirty swabs. She whirled round at his touch, a blur of stripes, looking so terrified and overwrought that, for a second, Stratton thought she might scream. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
‘Explosion,’ she gabbled. ‘Burns cases, all at once. You’ll have to leave. Sister Bateman won’t—’
‘It’s Sister Bateman I’ve come to see,’ said Stratton. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s not…’ The girl, who looked hardly more than a child, shook her head wildly.
‘May I ask what is going on here?’ The sister, a tall, dark-blue column, appeared so smoothly and silently that, if Stratton hadn’t been able to see her legs (no ankles to speak of) he would have thought she moved on casters. The small nurse uttered a shrill squeak and shot off in the direction of the sluice room. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, Inspector,’ said the sister. ‘As you can see, we’re very busy.’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, feeling about two inches high, ‘and I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak to Nurse Marchant again.’
The sister gave him a look that could have stopped a clock. ‘Is it really necessary to do it now?’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, with all the firmness he could muster. ‘I’m afraid—’
The sister grabbed his arm to move him aside as a man on a trolley was wheeled past, his face, arms and torso glazed with what looked like an ill-fitting skin of dark purple, and two bright white pads over his eyes. Stratton stared, appalled, unable to help himself. ‘Gentian violet,’ the sister told him. ‘Most of the others are worse. Clothes burnt into their skin.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton, again, ‘but I do have to—’
‘Oh, very well.’ She said this with more bitterness and disgust than he would have thought possible for just three words – not that he could blame her, but what choice did he have, with Lamb breathing down his neck? ‘Wait here,’ she ordered, and disappeared behind one of the sets of screens.
After a moment, Fay Marchant emerged, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She gave Stratton a wan smile, and he could see that, although she still looked disturbingly lovely, there were blue smudges of exhaustion under her beautiful eyes. ‘You wanted to see me, Inspector?’
‘Yes, Miss Marchant.’ Stratton moved towards the door. ‘If we could just—’
‘Nurse Marchant!’ The sister reappeared – apparently at the speed of light – beside them. ‘Where do you think you are going?’
‘With the inspector, Sister.’
‘You are about to leave the ward, Nurse. Where are your cuffs?’
Fay’s pale ivory complexion turned a dull red. ‘Sorry, Sister.’
Sister Bateman gave Fay a look that suggested the poor girl was entirely lacking in human decency. ‘There is no excuse, Nurse Marchant. Ever. Put them on at once and do not leave here until you are correctly dressed. Whatever you are doing, you do not leave the ward without cuffs. How do you expect the public to have confidence in you if you don’t look the part?’
Honestly, thought Stratton, as he waited for Fay to fetch and don her cuffs, anyone would think the girl was wearing a negligee or something. Momentarily distracted by the image of Fay in such a garment, he was recalled to his surroundings by a bellow of agony, and felt sheepish.
Fay returned, received a curt nod of approval from Sister, and they left the ward. As they walked down the corridor, Stratton glanced sideways at Fay, who seemed on the point of tears. Bad enough, he thought, to be chewed up by the sister, but worse that he’d witnessed the whole thing. In an attempt to clear the air and establish a friendly atmosphere, he said, ‘Phew! Quite a tartar, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Fay, loyally. ‘She was right. I should have remembered, it’s just…well, I’ve only had a few hours’ sleep. We were meant to come back on duty at eight, but they called us last night when the casualties were brought in.’
‘Then I expect you’d like to take the weight off your feet. You’ll be able to, in a minute.’
They reached the office, which Stratton had managed to re-requisition for a couple of hours, and settled themselves on either side of the desk. Fay looked very relieved to be sitting down, and Stratton guessed that she was simply too shattered to be perturbed at the thought of anything he might have to ask her. He produced the folded scrap of paper from his pocket and slid it across the desk towards her. ‘Did you write that?’
Fay unfolded the note and stared at it for a moment. Then, in a defeated tone, she said simply, ‘Yes.’ Pushing the paper back to Stratton, she said, ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Mrs Reynolds gave it to me. She found it in one of Dr Reynolds�
��s jackets.’
‘Oh, no…’ Fay leant forward and, elbows on the table, held her head in her hands. ‘Does she know…who…?’
‘No. At least, not yet.’
‘Look,’ she said, wearily, raising her head, ‘it’s not what you think.’
‘Isn’t it? There was a bit more than a “mental affinity” between you and Dr Reynolds, wasn’t there?’
Fay nodded miserably. ‘It was just…Oh, dear. Whatever I say it’s going to sound pretty sordid, but it wasn’t like that.’
‘No? Then what was it like?’
‘I was lonely, Inspector. After Ronnie – my fiancé – was killed, I just sort of…closed down inside. But after a while, I started to feel that my whole world had narrowed down to being Nurse Marchant, as if I didn’t have a name any more, because nobody ever said it, and there was nothing else but the hospital, and all I ever did was empty bedpans and scrub things. Look, I’m not trying to make excuses, but that’s all there was…’
‘Until Dr Reynolds came along?’
‘Yes. But I’d broken it off, Inspector, before…’
‘Before he died?’
‘About a month before.’
‘That’s rather vague. Do you remember the date? When did it start?’
‘Last Christmas. We give this concert for the patients, you see.’ With sudden animation, Fay rolled her eyes.
Stratton, encouraged by this, said, ‘As if they weren’t suffering enough?’
Fay smiled. ‘They certainly suffered when they heard Sister Bateman sing “Goodnight Sweetheart”, I can tell you.’
‘And what was your part in this entertainment?’
‘I was in the back row. We did the “Lambeth Walk” and “Run, Rabbit”.’ Fay shook her head. ‘Dreadful.’
‘And Dr Reynolds?’
‘He wasn’t in it. Some of the doctors were, but he just came along to watch. We started talking afterwards. Some people had to get straight back on duty, but there’s this tradition of having a Christmas dinner where the doctors serve the nurses, and we both went to that, and I said something about being desperate to put some normal clothes on and get away from the hospital, and he invited me to have a drink with him in the new year – said we’d go somewhere right away from it all. I thought he was just being kind, but he remembered. He took me out to dinner, and then we went dancing. It was wonderful – like being alive again – and it sort of went on from there. I did have qualms about it, really, but…’