From the Ashes

by Deborah Challinor

  The corridor itself was fairly grim. The walls were painted a bilious green colour, though the paint was scratched and scuffed, and the lighting was harsh, emphasising every defect in the flooring and on the walls. The air smelt vaguely unpleasant, disinfectant not quite masking odours of boiled green vegetables, urine and the faint whiff of shit. In fact, Ana thought, the place seemed the very embodiment of everything that had worried them about sending Jack to an institution.

  Finally they arrived at the ward where Jack would in all likelihood spend the rest of his life, a thought which submerged Ana in a fresh tidal wave of guilt. It was as bleak as the corridor. The floor was covered with faded grey-and-blue patterned linoleum, the beds — all sixteen — were metal-framed and separated only by flimsy curtains on rails, currently tied back, and the bedside tables were scuffed wooden affairs each accompanied by a tall, narrow cupboard. But at least there were several big windows that let in plenty of light, and a vase of fresh flowers on the nurse’s desk just inside the door.

  ‘New patient for you,’ their guide boomed to the young nurse sitting there. ‘Mr John Leonard.’

  ‘Jack Leonard,’ David corrected.

  ‘That’s right,’ Nurse Big Backside agreed, and lumbered off.

  ‘Where the fuck are we?’ Jack said, a look of panic beginning to cross his face.

  ‘It’s all right, Jack,’ Ana said, patting his arm.

  ‘Good morning, I’m Sister Simpson,’ the girl said, apparently ignoring Jack’s language. ‘Do you have Mr Leonard’s medical notes?’

  ‘Er, no,’ David said. ‘What notes?’

  ‘We have a letter from a doctor.’ Ana retrieved it from her handbag. ‘Dr Jarvis? We saw him ten days ago? He said he’d be getting in touch with the hospital. He told us to bring Jack in today.’

  Sister Simpson read the letter. ‘And you’re Ana and David Leonard?’

  David nodded. ‘He’s my father. Ana’s my wife.’

  ‘Hang on a tick.’ Looking vaguely cross, Nurse Simpson ferreted around on her desk, moving piles of brown folders and pieces of paper, then said, ‘Here it is. Sorry. Yes, he’s been referred with senile dementia, is that right?’

  ‘Well, that’s what the doctor said,’ David replied.

  ‘And you can’t manage him at home?’

  Ana said, ‘We’ve had him at home for over two years and—’

  ‘He’s hitting the kids,’ David interrupted. ‘We can’t have him there any more.’

  Sister Simpson’s hand came up. ‘I understand completely. It’s quite a common problem. More common than you’d think.’ She gave Jack a big smile. ‘Well, let’s get you settled, shall we, Mr Leonard?’

  Ana wondered how on earth a girl — though Sister Simpson was probably in her mid-twenties — who was only five feet two and slight to go with it managed to boss around grown men. What if they turned violent? She’d barely been able to manage Jack and she was fit and no wisp of a thing. But Sister Simpson must be capable, if she was in charge of a ward.

  As the nurse led Jack to a vacant bed, Ana said, ‘Do you mind if I ask, what do you do if they get aggressive?’

  ‘Well, we have medication to settle them. And if things get out of hand I can call for assistance,’ Sister Simpson replied, then she frowned slightly. ‘Someone usually turns up to help.’

  ‘Um, I should tell you,’ Ana added, her voice low now, ‘sometimes he wets his pants. And soils them.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not a problem here,’ Sister Simpson said cheerfully. ‘We put them in nappies.’

  David looked appalled.

  Astounded, Ana asked, ‘Do they make nappies that big?’ Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  ‘We have them made ’specially. Would you like to get into your pyjamas, Mr Leonard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll be more comfortable.’

  Jack was getting that look on his face. Ana could see trouble coming.

  ‘It’s not bedtime,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Is that all he’ll do here, lie in bed?’ David asked.

  ‘Oh, no. Well, it depends on his behaviour, really. He’ll have a few days in bed while he’s assessed and his medications are sorted out, then after that he’ll be able to visit the lounge and the recreation room, and maybe even walk in the gardens. Supervised, of course.’

  David waved a hand at the half-dozen or so other patients lying in bed. ‘Good. I don’t want him ending up like these sad sacks.’

  ‘David!’ Ana was mortified.

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘Come on, Mr Leonard, let’s get you into your pyjamas, shall we?’ Sister Simpson said, removing Jack’s hat.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ he barked, swatting at her.

  Deftly dodging him, she said, ‘Now, now, that’s enough of that. You want to behave for your family, don’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t got any family.’

  ‘Well, then, who’s this?’ Sister Simpson asked.

  ‘Fucked if I know.’

  Sister Simpson pulled the curtains around the bed. ‘I think it might be best if you left for today, if you don’t mind. He seems a little confused at the moment. He probably just needs time to settle.’

  ‘We’ll see you soon, Dad,’ David said. His voice sounded tight.

  Ana could barely speak herself. ‘Goodbye, Jack. We love you.’

  Jack didn’t even look at them.

  *

  Robert Sullivan had taken Donna out to just about every venue in Auckland a girl could want to try. They’d been to the Hi Diddle Griddle twice more, where she’d finally been brave enough to order the lobster tails, the California, La Corvette, and the Gourmet, which was extremely snooty. They went to the pictures (the cinema, as Robert insisted on calling it), and dancing at the Oriental Ballroom on Symonds Street, the Orange on Newton Road, Saint Septs on Khyber Pass, and the Peter Pan on Queen Street. She’d been bursting to go to the Jive Centre at the Trades Hall in Hobson Street where everyone was doing rock and roll, but Robert refused, preferring the other venues where that was banned and there was no chance of ‘mature’ dancers cutting a more sedate rug getting bumped or rammed by boisterous youngsters, which was a pity. She thought ramming and bumping and swinging each other about sounded like fun. Pauline went to the Maori Community Centre with her new boy all the time and said rock and roll was a real hoot. But Robert was a doctor and couldn’t be seen letting his hair down in public, she supposed.

  And they went on picnics and for walks in parks and to the beach, but mostly they had sex — in Robert’s car, in the bushes, and once in the cloakroom at the Orange. It had been an exhilarating and somewhat fervid romance, and the talk of the nurses’ home, even though Robert had asked her to keep their affair under her hat. Well, her hat hadn’t been big enough and while she hadn’t shared the most intimate details with Helen and Barbara, she’d told them everything else and somehow, after a few weeks, everyone knew.

  And now, three months into their liaison, her monthlies were late. She’d missed twice. The first month she hadn’t bled she’d attributed to being so busy rushing round like a blue-arsed fly between ward work and lectures and going out with Robert, but now that she’d missed two periods she was worried.

  Flopping down on Helen’s bed one evening she asked, ‘Do you know any girls who’ve had babies?’

  Helen gave her a funny look. ‘Only about a thousand.’

  ‘No, I mean personally, right from when they, you know, fell pregnant.’

  ‘My sister’s had two. Why?’

  ‘How did she find out for sure?’

  Helen put aside her magazine. ‘Oh, Donna, you’re not, are you?’

  There was such dismay and sympathy in Helen’s voice that Donna felt insulted. ‘Don’t say it like that,’ she snapped. ‘And I don’t know, not for sure. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘You’ll have to go to the doctor and have a frog test.’

  Donna nodded knowingly, though she was utterly baffled
. After a moment she said, ‘Helen?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s a frog test?’

  Helen rolled her eyes. ‘God, Donna. It’s the test for pregnancy. You give the doctor some wee, he injects a frog with it and if the frog lays eggs or makes sperm, then you’re officially expecting.’

  Donna had never heard of it. ‘Well, I can’t go to our family doctor.’

  ‘See if someone at the hospital will do it.’

  ‘And then what? Resign from nurse training when Matron finds out? I can’t risk that.’

  ‘Then go to a doctor in town. Have you told Robert?’

  ‘Not yet. I thought I’d find out for sure first.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Helen said. ‘No point scaring the life out of him before you have to.’

  Donna frowned. ‘Why would it scare the life out of him?’

  ‘It’s him who’s got you pregnant, isn’t it? The least he can do is offer to marry you.’

  ‘It won’t be the least he can do. I expect he’ll probably want to. If I really am expecting, that is.’

  Helen said nothing.

  ‘Don’t you think?’ Donna prompted.

  ‘I think you deserve a really decent husband, that’s what I think.’

  Donna thought that was a bit of an odd thing to say, but let it go. She was too tired to make sense of it. And anyway, Helen was always saying mystifying things like that.

  The next day, after lectures at the Market Road Preliminary School, she ducked into a doctor’s surgery for a casual appointment during which she nervously gave a urine specimen, and her name as Mrs Donna Roberts.

  ‘I didn’t know they were letting married women train as nurses these days,’ the practice nurse said, staring Donna right in the eye as she handed back the little jar.

  ‘When can I find out the results?’ Donna asked. She felt so strange, as though some other person were doing this and she were just watching. Even her voice sounded odd.

  ‘Drop in or telephone in three days. Will you be making this your regular doctors’ surgery, Mrs Roberts?’

  ‘I don’t know. That . . . depends.’

  The nurse seemed to relent. ‘Well, good luck.’

  *

  The frog laid eggs. Donna cried so hard on the afternoon she found out she had to tell Matron she’d received news of a bereavement, and was sent off Ward Five where she was working to recuperate in her room. On the way she saw Robert exiting Ward Three and tried to avoid him, but it was too late; he called out to her. Quickly wiping her eyes and nose, she reluctantly turned to face him. She wanted to see him but not looking like this.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I . . .’ Oh God, she didn’t know what to say. Should she tell him now?

  Robert put his arm around her. ‘Has someone upset you? Tell me.’

  His arm felt so nice, so comforting and reassuring. ‘I’ve had some news. I’m . . . I’m expecting.’

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ Robert blurted. The word came out really loudly and echoed along the corridor. ‘Christ almighty, how did that happen?’

  Donna stared at him dumbly.

  ‘I mean, we’ve been taking precautions,’ he went on, lowering his voice. ‘I thought you understood what to do.’

  ‘I did, I do. And I was.’

  He swept his hair back off his forehead. ‘Ah, God. Are you sure?’

  His face had gone pale and tiny beads of sweat had popped out on his top lip.

  Donna nodded. ‘I’ve had a test. Are you not happy about it?’

  ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Robert stood very still for a long moment, staring down at the floor. Then he said, ‘Then we’ll just have to make the best of it and do what we can, won’t we?’ He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Meet me tomorrow night and we’ll take it from there, all right? Don’t worry, everything will work out.’

  Her spirits buoyed somewhat, Donna nodded again. He’d taken charge and if what she thought might happen did happen, things would be all right, though some of her plans would have to change. But life never went according to plan, did it?

  *

  Donna waited for Robert at the entrance to Cornwall Park, prickling with anticipation. Tonight’s date could change the whole course of her life. She’d taken some time to get ready, much of which was spent standing sideways in front of her mirror trying to see whether her pregnancy was showing yet. It wasn’t, but by her calculations she probably wasn’t even three months along yet. Mind you, her calculations concerning her monthly cycle had turned out to be a bit unreliable. She supposed she’d need to go to a doctor soon and work out proper dates and such.

  Robert seemed unusually quiet when he picked her up. Or was he nervous?

  ‘I thought we’d just go for coffee. I hope you’ve had your dinner.’

  Donna hadn’t. She’d learnt not to have any tea on date nights and was quite hungry.

  ‘I haven’t, actually. I’d like to try the Mocambo. It’s a coffee lounge but they do dinner as well. I’ve heard the food’s good.’

  Robert looked faintly perturbed. ‘Apparently it’s a bit bohemian. You don’t want to go somewhere quieter?’

  ‘What about the White Lady, then? I like a good pie cart.’

  Donna wondered why she was being awkward and faintly pushy — she knew Robert didn’t like bossy girls. And she knew he especially wasn’t keen on girls who’d rather eat a pie than some fancy exotic dish. She’d better watch herself. She could ruin everything.

  ‘No, we’ll go to the Mocambo if that’s what you want.’

  They parked on Swanson Street, and found a table in the coffee lounge. It was bohemian, with European posters and paintings of nudes on the walls, and, at this time of night, was busy and noisy with a fug of cigarette smoke you could barely see through. Donna thought Robert didn’t look happy, but she loved it. They ordered coffee and while they waited Robert said very little, fiddling with the buttons on his sports coat, apparently getting more nervous as time passed. When their coffee pot arrived he poured them a cup each and gulped his, wincing as he burnt his mouth. Donna ordered a ham and cheese toasted sandwich from the menu.

  When he’d recovered from his first-degree burn, Robert said, ‘We need to talk.’

  Donna nodded, clasping her hands on the tabletop because they were shaking and she didn’t want him to see. Here it comes. Would she be engaged to be married by the time they left?

  ‘You’re a lovely girl, Donna, you really are, and we’ve had lots of fun, and the way I see it there’s really only one thing for it.’ He dipped his hand in his jacket pocket, took out an envelope and slid it across the table.

  It definitely wasn’t what Donna had been expecting. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Thirty pounds.’

  ‘Why do I want thirty pounds?’

  ‘For an abortion,’ Robert said. ‘I believe that’s the going rate.’

  Donna felt as though he’d punched her in the face. ‘An abortion?’

  Robert leant forwards. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but you don’t want to be a single mother, do you? I’ve no intention of getting married, especially not . . . Well, I’ve my career to think of, Donna. You do understand that, don’t you? I don’t think we should see each other any more. It was only meant to be a bit of fun.’

  Donna stared and stared at him. She knew her face had gone white because she actually felt dizzy as the blood drained from her head, then it all rushed back and her cheeks blazed scarlet. He was flicking a bit of money at her to get rid of his little mistake and telling her to bugger off! And my mistake too, she realised dimly. My stupid bloody mistake.

  He said something then, but she didn’t hear it, the blood was pounding so loudly in her ears. Then he stood, and was gone.

  She sat for a while staring down at her coffee cup, and didn’t even notice when a waitress brought her toasted sandwich. Eventually she put the envelope in her handbag, then
went outside and walked down onto Queen Street to catch a tram out to Green Lane.

  *

  Pauline and Johnny sat halfway down the tram. It was early Saturday evening and it was packed with blokes exploded out of the pubs after the six o’clock swill and the whole tram reeked of beer.

  ‘But what if they don’t like me?’ Pauline said for about the hundredth time.

  ‘They will, don’t worry,’ Johnny said patiently.

  ‘But Allie’s mother-in-law didn’t like her, not at first.’

  Johnny grinned his big, white smile. ‘We getting married, are we?’

  Pauline felt herself go red. ‘No! But you know what I mean, because I’m not Maori.’

  ‘My mum and dad don’t give a stuff about all that.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Johnny made a thinking face. ‘Actually, I dunno. I’ve never asked. But they’ve never said anything like, look, there goes Wiremu Ngata with that white girl again, we don’t approve of that.’

  Pauline let out a wobbly sigh. ‘I’m shitting myself.’

  ‘Well, don’t. You’ll be OK.’

  They sat in silence after that, holding hands and trying not to be overcome by beer fumes, until they arrived at the stop on College Hill Road closest to Johnny’s street, then walked the rest of the way.

  Pauline was a bit shocked by the state of his family’s home. Everyone knew Ponsonby wasn’t a particularly nice area, but the house looked on the verge of falling down. He led her along a cracked and uneven concrete path to the back of the property, which looked like a tip and had hardly any grass. Someone, though, had planted quite a good veggie garden. There was also an outdoor dunny, and a separate washhouse with no door, in which she could see a copper and a big concrete tub attached to the wall.

  ‘That rubbish isn’t ours, it’s the owner’s,’ Johnny said. Pauline thought he sounded embarrassed. ‘We asked but he won’t take it away. And we had to clean the path with acid, it was so mouldy and filthy. We all kept going arse over tit.’