The Other Girl

by C D Major

  Doctor Malone allowed him to speak, and as the seconds passed Declan could hear strength returning to his voice. It was as if he was a different somebody, feeling his shoulders loosen, his hand movements more exaggerated as he laid down the points he wanted to make. For the first time in his life he felt that he could be the doctor others saw; he wasn’t the student or the scared teenager any more. He had qualifications, expertise. He finished his appeal with a flourish. ‘I know you have been working with this patient for a number of years and I would love to see if my fresh perspective could now add something. I understand we have very little time if she is to have the operation.’

  Doctor Malone waited, hands dropped to his sides, the patient still now, unconscious between them, his head lolling, the wad of cloth half in and half out of his mouth.

  ‘You’ve really got the bull by the horns, Harris,’ Doctor Malone began.

  Was that a small smile of respect Declan detected in his older colleague? ‘I have, sir.’ Declan nodded, his own mouth lifting. ‘I am a bit of an evangelical when it comes to psychoanalysis.’

  ‘Psychoanalysis,’ Doctor Malone repeated.

  ‘That’s right, sir. I had an excellent professor at the university, Professor Bates. I’m sure you would know of his work in that field; he was very convincing.’

  ‘Was he now?’

  ‘Yes, and I saw from Edith’s notes that she . . .’

  ‘Her notes,’ Doctor Malone said, eyebrows lifting. ‘You have been busy.’

  Declan nodded once, waiting for the doctor to continue. In that moment he looked down to see the patient leaking urine.

  Doctor Malone seemed to see it at the same moment, the small yellow pool forming on the white sheet. ‘You didn’t insert the catheter,’ he commented.

  ‘I . . .’ Declan didn’t want to break this moment, desperately hoping Doctor Malone was about to agree. He held his breath, watching the senior doctor snap off gloves, throw them in a bin in the corner.

  The older man pointed to the puddle. ‘You’ll be wanting to clear that up.’

  And with those words he stalked past Declan, the door slamming shut behind him.

  Chapter 11

  BEFORE

  The doctor has come to see Mother. I’m playing with the cat downstairs, running a cotton reel along the floor and watching her follow it with her eyes, snatch at it with a paw. She has soft, grey fur and when she lies near me her whole body quivers. I like it when she lies next to me: it makes me not think about Mother so much. I don’t want her to die like I did.

  I remember then his silhouette, black against the bright blue of the sea: so black I can’t see his face or his combed-down black hair that he wore in the style all the boys wore then. He had walked slowly towards me, forcing me back, forcing me to scrabble back on to the flat, wet stone, the sand immediately sticking to my fingers.

  The doctor is ages and when he leaves I run through to Mrs Clark and she tells me I can go and see Mother now. I run up the stairs and Mother is sitting up on the bed with the four posts and pillows all around her. She pats the bed and I take off my shoes to climb up and sit next to her. I like being in her bedroom with the roses in a vase that make her smell nice, the long peach curtains that go right up to the ceiling and the glass bottles all lined up on the dresser. It smells sweet: flowers and sunshine. Mother doesn’t look like she is about to die.

  ‘Are you going to die?’ I ask quickly.

  ‘Edith.’ Mother’s eyes open so I can see all the whites around the blue bit. Then she rests her hand over mine. ‘I’m going to have a baby,’ she says. She takes her hand away and puts it on her stomach.

  I feel all my air whoosh out that she won’t die, so I’m not thinking when I ask, ‘Will it be a sister like I had last time?’ I feel my body grow warm and excited. I think of a laugh: chubby legs, a tiny hand in mine. I’d loved my sister.

  Mother doesn’t reply straight away but her hand turns all white as she makes a fist on the duvet. ‘Not again, Edith.’ Her voice is low.

  I don’t know what she means, ‘again’; she has only just told me about the baby.

  ‘Will it be a little baby girl?’ I don’t want her to be cross, but my head is all muddled.

  ‘You mean like you?’

  ‘Yes, and Mary, my sister.’

  ‘You don’t have a sister,’ Mother says, looking away from me and out of the window.

  ‘I know, but I did before.’

  ‘Don’t, Edith.’

  ‘I always tried to keep her safe, away from him, so he wouldn’t hurt her instead . . .’

  ‘Edith.’ Mother’s voice is different: short, sharp. ‘Don’t.’

  I stay next to her on the bed, biting my lip to stop more words falling out. I can see Mother isn’t happy; she won’t look at me and she starts pleating the sheet in her fingers.

  The door opens and Father walks in, and Mother sits up straight and drops the sheet and says in a too-loud voice, ‘I was just telling Edith about the baby. And Mrs Clark is making a lamb casserole for dinner,’ she adds.

  Father looks confused, as she told him about the lamb casserole earlier, at breakfast.

  Mother tells me to get down off the bed now, shooing me with one hand. I leave the bedroom in my stockings, past Father, lots of thoughts in my head now, more questions. I don’t want to ask them though, I don’t want Mother to be angry with me; I know I need to keep them inside.

  Chapter 12

  NOW

  The days passed, and it was as if she was now everywhere when before he hadn’t seen her face. Declan saw her first thing that morning, waiting on a chair outside Doctor Malone’s office, her face lighting as he approached, falling as he moved past her quickly, heading towards his office. He paused, back to his own door. What kind of man was he? He shut his eyes, banged his head lightly against the wood before collecting himself, moving across to his desk and fetching the file for his next patient.

  All that morning Declan kept returning to the sight of Edith waiting to see Doctor Malone, her curled hair tied back, her face pinched, fingers worrying at her skirt.

  Another patient left and a knock came; Declan was far away once more before calling, ‘Come in.’

  Nurse Shaw appeared, a small cup and saucer rattling lightly as she moved.

  ‘I noticed you hadn’t stopped, Doctor,’ she said, lowering the tray on to the desk.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Nurse Shaw said quickly as she motioned to the small tray in front of him.

  ‘Oh,’ Declan said, removing the pen he’d been chewing. ‘Thank you, that’s kind.’

  She stood in front of his desk as if waiting for something, so Declan reached out and took a sip from the cup, the coffee tepid and weak. She smiled at him and he managed one in return.

  ‘Well, busy as ever,’ he said, needlessly picking up some notes from his desk.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, stepping backwards. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

  She had almost reached the door when Declan had a thought. ‘Nurse,’ he called.

  She spun round to face him, two pink spots high on her cheeks.

  ‘You might be able to help me understand something.’ Declan cleared his throat, tapping his pencil on the desk. ‘You seem rather fond of Edith Garrett . . .’ he began, his words slow, carefully selected.

  ‘Oh, I am,’ Nurse Shaw said. Then her eyes rounded. ‘That is, I know I shouldn’t get too close to the patients but sometimes you can’t help it when, well, sometimes some of them seem almost . . .’ She tailed away.

  ‘Oh, let me be clear, Nurse, I am certainly not criticising,’ Declan said, leaning over his desk. ‘In fact it sounds as if it is highly beneficial for the patients to form such positive relationships with the people who care for them.’

  The pink spots deepened as Nurse Shaw bit her lip.

  ‘I was curious to hear your opinion, Nurse. Would you describe her as a volatile patient? Violent?’ Declan asked, unable to forget the r
ecent terms.

  A line appeared in the centre of Nurse Shaw’s eyebrows. ‘Edie?’

  ‘Edith, yes,’ Declan confirmed, lifting his chin, momentarily concerned she might think it strange he was enquiring again after a patient who was not his. ‘She had treatment after attacking a fellow patient. Somebody called Donna Iver?’

  Nurse Shaw fell silent, her eyes slipping from Declan’s face.

  ‘Nurse?’ Declan could feel the hint of a secret, something the nurse was battling to disguise.

  ‘Yes, she did.’ It was Nurse Shaw’s turn to tread carefully as she spoke; Declan wondered why. ‘Edith hadn’t had any electric shock treatment since she was a child. She was very distressed to be sent for it, but I wasn’t sure . . .’

  ‘Sure of the treatment?’ Declan clarified.

  Nurse Shaw’s head snapped up. ‘No, Doctor, no, I would never go against the doctor’s recommendations. No, I wasn’t sure if Edie deserved it. I wondered whether Donna hadn’t . . .’ Nurse Shaw fiddled with the collar of her uniform. ‘I’m not sure it’s my place, Doctor. I don’t want Matron to feel that I am questioning her decisions.’

  ‘Nurse Shaw,’ Declan said, his voice softer, ‘anything you say to me in this room is just between us, I promise you that.’

  Nurse Shaw swallowed and nodded. ‘Well, Doctor, Edie was having some trouble with her, you see; with Donna. Donna went everywhere with Shirley and Martha and . . .’

  Declan felt a lurch of surprise, confused that there was more than the fire that connected the two women. ‘Martha?’

  Nurse Shaw nodded. ‘Martha was very tight with Donna. The three of them were a pack of sorts, I suppose.’

  ‘You make them sound like animals,’ Declan said, with a hollow laugh.

  She didn’t reply for a moment and Declan wondered what the women had done.

  He had to strain to hear her voice when she next spoke. ‘I wasn’t sure if Edie started it, if she wasn’t set upon. But the other patients all repeated the same story, that she attacked Donna, so there was very little I could say . . .’ Her voice moved up a register. ‘Sometimes I know I should say something . . .’ She started to tug at her collar again. ‘But when I do it doesn’t always help.’

  ‘It isn’t always that straightforward,’ Declan said, his own voice soft, thinking then of all the things he had wanted to say to people in his own life. ‘Well, Nurse.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, that’s been very useful.’

  ‘I’m not used to being asked for my opinion. It’s very flattering.’

  ‘We are all here to help the patients, are we not?’

  ‘We are.’ Nurse Shaw beamed at him, her shoulders dropping.

  ‘And thank you for the coffee,’ Declan said, wanting a moment alone to think about what she’d told him.

  ‘My pleasure, Doctor,’ she said, the smile widening. She waited another second and when it was clear there was nothing more to discuss, she turned around. ‘You’ll be wanting to get on, Doctor.’

  The door clicked shut and Declan flopped back in his chair. The coffee grew colder, a thin white film forming on the surface as he ran through much of the exchange, the pencil back in his mouth, a habit from his schooldays. Were his instincts correct? Nurse Shaw seemed a sensible sort of woman; she didn’t recognise the traits he had mentioned, either. A knock on the door; Declan removed the pencil and sat straighter in his chair as another patient appeared.

  The day darkened and the gardens outside looked a ghostly blue as he left his office for the evening, the stone buildings in every direction lost in shadows. Stopping to lock and unlock the doors, the keys jangling on their ring, echoing in the stone corridors, he proceeded all the way up to his small, single room with the sloped ceiling and the bare floorboards. Sliding the case from under his bed he headed back out, glad to be busy that evening.

  Then, as if he’d conjured her again, he saw her, moving along the corridor ahead of him, headed into the music room too. Declan hurried in behind her, his trumpet case banging painfully against his leg.

  The music room gradually filled, people sitting in chairs in a semicircle in front of an empty wooden stage, faded velvet curtains lost in the wings, dust collecting in the corners. The sound of voices grew louder, cases being opened, music stands being righted. One of his patients, Cecil, middle-aged, a rounded stomach, gave him a small, shy wave. Declan was used to seeing him in his office, soothing him as he wept over a second daughter who had drowned, a wife who had refused to discuss it, his attempt to end his own life. Now he was carrying a thin music case, a small smile on his face as he weaved his way to the back row of chairs. This was when Declan was reminded that Seacliff could be a place of genuine rehabilitation; in this room, recovery seemed possible.

  He had never noticed that she was a member of the orchestra, too and now he wondered how he had ever missed her. He side-stepped to his usual seat, eyes not moving from her. She held a flute in her hands, resting her chin on the tip of the instrument as others tuned up around her, seemingly oblivious to the intermittent screeches and squeals of violins, cellos, woodwind. His trumpet lay in his lap as he watched her: the expression on her face.

  Her eyes weren’t really focused on the room, but somewhere else. Declan considered getting up, moving across the room to talk to her; she seemed to be alone, her small frame curled into the chair as if she might disappear in it, the buoyant, brunette head of curls the only thing that prevented it. He thought then of the nurse’s words earlier, wondered what had happened between her and the three other patients. He found he couldn’t look away, watching as she fiddled with her earlobe, waiting for the conductor to arrive. She studied the sheet music on the stand in front of her, readjusted her flute, head cocked to one side as if she was already listening to the music in her head.

  A cough, and the conductor was up in front of them, baton raised: a small, thin man with a shock of black hair, the air of the dramatic as if he were conducting the national orchestra and not the rag-tag jumble of Seacliff residents. They were rehearsing for the annual Seacliff show: patients, staff and relatives invited to this therapeutic evening of entertainment. Declan lifted the trumpet, the mouthpiece, pistons, feeling foreign, as if he were a boy again, learning for the first time.

  She was absorbed, eyes half-closed as she blew into the flute. Declan watched her face, travelling down to see her foot move up, down, up, down, her ankle slim. He missed his cue. The notes danced and jumbled in front of him, the correct order just out of reach, nothing making sense that evening.

  He finished the last bars and lowered his trumpet, went to close the sheet music. His eyes were drawn back to the same spot. She looked up, catching his gaze, her face glowing from the bracketed light behind her; his trumpet slipped in his grip. He nodded at her, rolled his eyes as someone pushed past him. Her smile grew wider. For that moment it was as if they were in a different place completely, another world: a bar at university or a library or a hundred other places young people meet. Declan felt his cheeks grow hot with the thought, his hands dampening. He reminded himself who she was and his position in the institution. They were worlds apart, but for that moment, in that look, it felt that they were exactly the same.

  He found himself sliding along the row towards her, embarrassed as he stumbled over the leg of a music stand, feeling clumsy as she giggled at him in the seat next door.

  ‘Hello, Doctor.’

  ‘Edith, I didn’t know you played?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, the flute in her lap now, the lights overhead reflecting on its surface. ‘They taught me here. Malcolm bought me this flute, he is such a kind man.’

  Declan wasn’t sure who Malcolm was but felt an embarrassed swell of emotion when she spoke about him.

  ‘Music takes me away from here,’ Edith said, twisting her body towards him. He swallowed, smelling an exotic fruit, feeling an urge to lean further forward, inhale. ‘It is all I have.’

  She said the last sentence quietly, her eyes drawn dow
n. Declan felt a renewed sense of failure that he hadn’t been able to persuade Doctor Malone to let him see her. He could just make out the telltale patch on her temple, hairs burnt to a stub by the recent treatment. Did she know what was going to happen to her? The procedure he seemed powerless to stop?

  ‘I am sorry, Edith, I have been speaking to Doctor Malone but I haven’t been able to persuade him as yet . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve tried, Doctor,’ Edith said, her gaze direct now, making him shift on the flimsy chair. Someone dropped a drumstick nearby and Declan started. ‘No one can help me,’ she said in a small, sad voice. ‘I thought, perhaps, after the fire . . .’

  ‘It was a terrible thing, to lose your friends in that way,’ Declan said, his voice low, wanting to draw her into a private circle, then aware of the conductor loitering near the door, an enquiring tilt. Declan drew back, cleared his throat. ‘I hope you can talk about it with Doctor Malone, or one of the nurses, perhaps . . .’

  Edith was nodding slowly, her eyes dimming. Could she feel him pulling away? He got up, looking down at her for a last time. ‘And we can talk again, of course,’ he added. ‘Here. Members of the orchestra,’ he said, a strange laugh leaving his mouth.

  She looked up at him, a small light back in her eyes. ‘I would like that a great deal, Doctor. A great deal.’

  Chapter 13

  NOW

  ‘Doctor Malone has asked for you.’ Nurse Shaw pushed her head around the door, her voice soft in the room. ‘I said I’d come and tell you.’

  Declan was at his desk, a file in front of him, his pen poised, midway through his notes. ‘Asked for me?’

  Doctor Malone hadn’t consulted with him before. Declan felt a tiny buzz. Was he requesting a second opinion?