The Secrets of Tenley House

by Patricia Dixon

  Trapped inside the dressing room, Vanessa listened as Kenneth reminded Daphne of his responsibilities at Tenley. She in turn reminded him of his duty to her and their children. He counselled against drastic decisions while she warned of the consequences of remaining under the same roof as Phyllis. Daphne was adamant that they would all be on the first London train the very next day, Kenneth said he thought it best to wait until they all calmed down.

  Vanessa heard the familiar clink of glass on glass as her father poured himself a shot of gumption and her mother simply sobbed into her pillow. Leaning forward, Vanessa deftly opened the lid of her mother’s jewellery box and took out the pearls, her mummy’s favourites. She wasn’t supposed to touch any of the treasures or play with the lipstick and make-up inside the drawers, but Vanessa couldn’t resist. Slipping the necklace over her head before applying a wobbly layer of coral pink lipstick, clumsy fingers then began to count each bead which lay cool against her warm skin. For a while, it occupied tired eyes as sharp ears listened to every word spoken on the other side of the door.

  When Daphne eventually stopped crying, Kenneth suggested she drank some sweet tea, that always made one feel so much better then after a good night’s sleep they could perhaps approach Mother again and smooth over any discord between them. Vanessa had reached pearl number sixty-two when Daphne screamed in temper, causing her to jump. Next she heard her mother’s footsteps on the polished floorboards, coming her way. She was about to be discovered. As the dressing room door swung open, Vanessa pulled hard at the necklace in an attempt to replace the pearls before Mummy saw. Under such panicked force, the string snapped and as the tiny beads strewed onto the dresser and floor, both mother and daughter stared at one another, eyes wide with shock.

  “Vanessa… what on earth are you doing? And look what you have done. My pearls, my beautiful pearls…”

  “I’m sorry, Mummy, I really didn’t mean to, it was an accident.”

  “No it was not an accident, you did it on purpose didn’t you? And you know very well you are not allowed to touch my things… you have been such a naughty spiteful little girl today and I am so disappointed, now go to your room at once.” Daphne was furious. Her last remaining straw had been snapped, just like her mother’s pearls so when Vanessa petulantly answered back, Daphne simply lost control.

  “But Mummy, I said I didn’t do it on purpose. You must say you are sorry for shouting, Daddy, tell Mummy to stop being grumpy.” Vanessa petulantly folded her arms and refused to budge. That was until Daphne lunged forward and grabbed her daughter by the arm and with her other hand, slapped the back of Vanessa’s legs hard, the crack of skin on skin as audible as the wail of pain and Kenneth’s horrified voice.

  “Dear God, Daphne, stop. What’s wrong with you? Vanessa come with me, come along dear, Mummy didn’t mean it, let’s get you into bed.” As his daughter and wife sobbed in unison, Kenneth ushered the child away, leaving the adult, who should have known better, to compose herself.

  Over an hour later, Vanessa listened in the dark as the argument between her parents raged on. Glass smashed and doors slammed, then her father’s car engine revved before it raced down the drive and into the distance. In their respective beds, Kenneth’s wife and daughter cried themselves to sleep and outside, the summer storm raged, forks of lightning as sharp as an old woman’s tongue.

  Further along the corridor, from her room with a view, Kenneth’s mother watched from the window as her son ran away, and at this Phyllis smiled.

  Vanessa could hear footsteps, at last. Standing, she hammered on the door and cried for help. Overcome by a mixture of hysteria and fatigue, she relieved herself, warm liquid running down her cold legs, flooding the floor and her beating heart with shame. When the door burst open, sending Vanessa hurtling backwards, landing in her own urine, she was discovered by Cookie and Mrs Coombs the cleaner.

  Before reaching out to comfort the poor mite, both women recoiled at the sight of the terrified child whose hands were smeared in blood, her face ashen and covered in tears while behind her, Daphne Tenley’s body floated serenely across the pool.

  Sandy

  Sandy ran through the woodland, rain lashing her body and soaking her hair as spindly branches whipped her face. Her breath rasped, the exertion of her pounding heart as it pumped blood fast enough to keep her legs moving caused a sharp pain in her side, causing Sandy to hold her ribs as she ran. As her chest constricted and her lungs desperately sucked in air, terror prevailed so the only option was to run off the stitch, like the stupid PE teachers used to tell you at school. Despite fatigue and pain, Sandy kept going, fear of being spotted somehow propelling her forwards. Mud splashed up her legs and water seeped into her shoes as she raced towards the lay-by where she had parked her car, desperately hoping nobody had spotted it there, frantic in her desire to speed away from the scene.

  As she barrelled through the thicket and into the clearing, Sandy allowed a momentary sigh of relief. The dreadful storm had obviously deterred morning hikers and no other cars were parked beside hers. The coast was clear. All she had to do was get inside unnoticed and then head back into town, away from the horror, fleeing the guilt.

  On reaching her lodgings, thus far undetected by early risers, Sandy parked her car on the side street and while the other residents of the flats still slept, removed her ruined footwear before letting herself inside, then crept stealth like along the hall. Once inside her ground floor room, after hanging her sodden coat on the hook and throwing her shoes into the sink of the tiny kitchenette, Sandy stripped off her tights and dress then climbed into bed wearing just her slip, too exhausted to find alternative bedwear. Pulling open the drawer of her bedside cabinet she removed a glass and a half empty bottle of gin, pouring a healthy measure, swigging it back in one go before pouring another. As the clear liquid began to take effect, Sandy slipped further beneath the eiderdown, eyes closed trying to block out the image of Daphne. Every moment haunted her.

  It began with Daphne’s startled face, eyes wide with shock, locked on to Sandy’s, mirroring that of being spotted like a creepy snooper, freezing them both to the spot. Daphne recovered first and then shot off in the grip of panic, slipping on the wet tiles before falling in slow motion, unable to prevent what came next, her head whacking against the steel handrail that led to the steps. Even though Sandy couldn’t hear the thud, she imagined the dull sound, and then a crack as Daphne’s skull split open allowing blood to spray out.

  From behind closed eyes, gripping the glass of gin with trembling hands, Sandy replayed the final moments of the scene and as much as she wanted to forget it, was at the same time morbidly fascinated by Daphne’s head which seemed to bounce on impact with the steel before slamming onto the slippery tiles below, her cheek squashed flat onto a sea of chlorinated blood.

  Seeing Daphne lying motionless on the tiles had broken the spell and forced Sandy into action, running further along the side of the orangery to get a closer look. Using her cuff, she wiped the window which was smeared with rain. Directly in front of Daphne, whose eyes were closed, Sandy noticed that her fingers moved slightly, still signs of life despite evidence to the contrary. Blood had splattered across the floor and a dark, oozing trickle of red escaped from her skull.

  Sandy didn’t know what to do, should she raise the alarm? But then the police would be called and she would be arrested for trespassing and despite changing her name they might still discover her true identity, reveal her secret. Nobody could know that she was formerly Ivy Emsworth, the real and rightful mother of Vanessa, the baby Daphne stole from her, six long years earlier.

  No, doing the right thing simply wasn’t an option and she had to flee before someone discovered Daphne, who would say she’d spotted someone in the woods. Sandy told herself that Daphne would be alright, she was still breathing, life not yet extinct. Sandy hadn’t come all this way to be discovered. That would be too cruel. There was nothing for it, she had to run because soon the house would awake
and realise Daphne was missing. Without a backward glance, Sandy took off, climbing back over the wooden picket fence that bordered the property, racing back towards the public footpath.

  Sandy’s eyes were beginning to close and hopefully she would nod off before her brain could dredge up more disturbing images. The gin would aid a deep and untroubled sleep, it always did. Oblivion kept the nightmares at bay. It was her day off and she deserved a break from being tormented by the past.

  By the time only a third of the bottle remained, Sandy had fallen into a deep pool of intoxication, but on this occasion, no matter how much gin swam through her veins, her brain allowed no respite. Instead it insisted on going back, reliving it all, the most painful time in her life. The day they took her baby.

  The word ‘institution’ would forever strike fear into Ivy’s heart. It was the word used by the matron, however, the sign outside, just by the iron gates, announced to passers-by it was a nursing home. Whenever one of the young mothers-to-be committed a sin, other than having sexual intercourse, Matron would remind them of the rules and what the institution expected.

  It took exactly nine days for Ivy to realise the dreadful truth of her situation. She was not residing in a cosy nursing home where she would learn the skill of mothercraft. This was an institution for fallen women who were best removed from society until their baby could be removed from them. And there were further shocking and brutal truths to be learned, like when the first of the girls in her dormitory gave birth. The screams of agony which echoed down the grey corridors and bounced off the concrete floors froze Ivy’s heart, her head returning to that familiar state of being afraid of something she did not yet understand.

  In truth, Ivy did not fret as some did about the separation from their family, she was glad to be away and at first, despite the unfamiliar surroundings, accepted the mundane regime, clean sheets and even the three bland and unimaginative meals a day and for the most part, the company of the other girls. They were all in exactly the same boat yet some more worldly wise than others, and it was from these that Ivy discovered her true fate, and that of her baby.

  When her mother announced she would have to go away and for why, Ivy accepted that it would be for the best because she had no desire to live under the same roof as him. What she hadn’t fully comprehended at the time was that her mother had no intention whatsoever of assisting Ivy financially or otherwise, therefore the dream of keeping her baby was merely a fantasy. The letters she received from Betty confirming this came as more of a shock than anything else she had suffered, childbirth included.

  The birth, on the 22nd November 1963, coincided with the assassination of JFK and due to the furore and the night staff being glued to the television screen, Ivy found childbirth agonising and prolonged, and at times terrifying and solitary. The deliverance of an eight-pound thirteen-ounce bundle of screeching joy was no mean feat for a slip of a girl but she survived. As Ivy held her baby for the first time, she felt not a shred of bitterness or regret for the pain she had endured during conception or birth. Instead she felt an all-consuming love, along with the urge to nurture, care for and protect her auburn-haired, rosebud pink baby girl.

  Ivy made the most of every second with her daughter, still convinced that she would get an eleventh hour reprieve, unable to comprehend that she would only spend one Christmas with her baby. Cruelty comes in many forms, none more so than being encouraged to knit an outfit for your child, bathe and dress her and then kiss them goodbye. Despite her previous and desperate attempts to convince the unhearing social worker that somehow she would be able to fend for herself and her baby, nobody listened. The nurses and whatever official she begged to give her a chance were well practiced in their techniques, committed in their belief that they knew best and were acting in the interests of both mother and child.

  The day she handed over her precious daughter, a rainy February morning in 1964, Ivy’s body was a quivering wreck of despair and disbelief. Her brain somehow transmitted messages to external body parts and allowed them to function as the horror of her situation finally sunk in. The stoical social worker took away the sleeping bundle, moving swiftly through the door held open by a stern-faced nurse, who then slammed it firmly shut. In that moment Ivy’s heart froze and anything of any virtue that rested within simply withered and died.

  The nurse, after taking Ivy brusquely by the arm, led her through an adjoining door and into another room where she was told to sit at the table and wait. Unable to speak, Ivy watched the nurse leave and heard the click of the lock behind her, blocking the way to her stolen baby. There was another door directly in front and on the other side she could hear footsteps, voices of the other girls, life carrying on, whilst for Ivy, hers had just ended.

  Panic and bile rose in her chest, the acid forcing its way upwards, burning her throat before it was unleashed, splattering the carpet and her shoes. When the door opposite opened and a different nurse walked in, noticing instantly the mess, her nose twitched in disgust before ordering Ivy from the room and straight back to her dormitory. Hearing the words but unwilling to follow the instructions, once out of view, Ivy carried on walking. She had to get away from the chatter of voices and the stench of food as they prepared lunch in the canteen.

  Ivy couldn’t breathe. The panic she felt earlier was building to hysteria as invisible hands gripped her neck, squeezing tightly, restricting the flow of air. The walls were closing in and the ceiling pressed down above her head. Ivy’s swirling tunnel of vision began to diminish and consciousness ebbed but she managed to focus on two words, ‘Fire Exit’, as she staggered towards the steel bar that straddled the doors. With her last remaining ounce of strength she gripped them, as much for support than anything, and then pushed hard. The second they flung open, Ivy ran into the fresh air and driving rain, moving as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.

  There were two entrances to the nursing home, one at the front, accessed from the main road. The reception was hidden from view by high brick walls, a private place in which you deposit your shame. At the rear, an even more discreet single-car track led to a secluded by-road, perfect for new mummies and daddies to make their getaway. Bordered by trees and a hedge of coarse privets, the track was out of bounds to those persons institutionalised and was precisely where Ivy headed once she got her breath and her bearings.

  Reaching the row of privets, drenched to the bone and missing a shoe, Ivy scrambled along the edge desperately searching for an opening, a way through and onto the track. Her immediate intention was to escape, she had no idea where to or how, all she knew was that she had to get away. It was as she frantically pushed and parted the foliage, sobbing and begging someone, anyone, to help her find a way through, Ivy heard the sound of an engine. In that fragmented second, as the noise pinged back and forth from ear to brain, the message was decoded and understood.

  Through the hail and tears, Ivy stood frozen, watching as the car came into view, dark green, moving swiftly but with care, gliding smoothly over the tarmac and only feet away. They came close enough to see inside. A man was driving, wearing a trilby, with a woman seated in the back; her hair in a chignon, head bent downwards gazing at something in her arms, Ivy’s baby girl. It had to be.

  The occupants of the car didn’t hear the anguished screams of the young woman as they drove through the gates, or see her valiant but failed attempt to scale the hedge, ignoring the pain as pruned branches tore her arms and legs, ripping through her tights and skin. It was nothing compared to the damage done to her heart, despair the sharpest knife in the box. In the second before the car vanished from sight, as she felt rough hands grip her ankles and the full force of being pulled backwards, and while angry voices ordered her to stop, Ivy took a photograph of the mind. Its title was Loss. The image remained with her always, a piteously poignant moment captured in time and ingrained upon what remained of her soul, forever.

  Georgie

  Georgie firmly believed there was a first time for every
thing although in her experience, some were more pleasurable than others. This ‘first’ was one she would rather have passed on. Being chased along the Kings Road by an unusually attentive shop assistant who had challenged her as she left the swanky boutique, a pair of gorgeous pink silk pumps hidden inside her shiny Harrods holdall, was no fun at all. Nevertheless, Georgie was far more spritely and wily, darting between bemused afternoon shoppers who might presume the smashing-looking blonde was merely running late, the males amongst them admiring her long legs and a flash of bottom cheek from beneath her mini skirt.

  After scooting down a narrow alleyway that led to the back of Sloane Square, Georgie emerged into the crowd, somewhat perspiring and tousled but still at liberty and in possession of her darling pumps. Confident that her pursuer had given up the chase, Georgie made her way towards the tube and after descending into the depths of the underground, became lost amongst the other commuters.

  More disgruntled at the thought of having to ‘shop’ elsewhere for her bits and bobs than the rather hair-raising chase, Georgie cheered herself by peeping into her various bags and admired her hoard of goodies. After treating herself to a new dress from Peter Jones, one of her favourite Kings Road department stores, and a matching purse, obviously, Georgie had set off in search of footwear and here, she’d unfortunately met her match. Still, all was well so she turned her attention to even more exciting things.