The Other Girl

by C D Major

  ‘Very pretty.’ He righted himself, wondering whether it was her unpredictability that had first piqued his interest in her. He moved behind his desk and sat down as she perched on the chair opposite him, ready to talk. He was determined to start this session afresh, gauge how he could help her moving forward.

  ‘I love the warmer weather,’ she said, her voice light, conversational as she tucked the small flower back in her pocket. ‘The flower garden always looks best in the sunlight.’

  He found himself struggling to reply. This was a different Edith from the raving, nervous Edith of the day before: relaxed, confident, sane; the Edith that made him wonder whether Doctor Malone had got it completely wrong.

  ‘You enjoy your work in the gardening gang?’ he asked.

  Her face darkened, as if the sun outside had ducked behind a cloud. She half whispered the next words. ‘I did. I am now in the kitchen gang, since what happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised,’ Declan said. He thought back to the notes on Edith’s recent behaviour. There had been an episode in her dormitory, a violent attack on another woman – a woman called Donna whom he’d never known but who had perished in the fire. The electric shock treatment had started again after that day, and various privileges had been removed.

  He quickly moved the subject on. ‘What other things do you like to do?’

  ‘I like my flute,’ she said, ‘and I like being part of the orchestra. Music can just carry you off and out of things, can’t it?’

  He found he was nodding, enjoying her reflections, remembering how she had sat, her instrument resting in her lap. He stopped, tugged on his tie before hastily jotting down a few notes.

  ‘And I love being part of something bigger, making something together. Do you like being part of the orchestra, Doctor Harris?’

  He stopped writing and looked up, a little startled, not used to patients turning the tables on him. ‘Oh, yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I do.’

  ‘The trumpet wouldn’t suit me at all, far too bold,’ she said. ‘I would hate for everyone to hear my wrong notes.’

  Declan laughed at that. ‘Oh dear, is it that obvious?’

  She looked horrified, a hand flying to her chest. ‘Oh no, Doctor, I wasn’t meaning you. I just meant, how loud it is and . . .’

  He stopped her with a smile. ‘Don’t worry, Edith, I’m not offended. I was teasing.’

  ‘Oh.’ She let out a relieved exclamation and laughed. A soft sound, quick and light.

  Declan wanted to keep her talking; he wanted her to laugh again. ‘Tell me about some of your best times, Edith. What makes you feel happy?’

  Edith bit her lip and then, as if he’d granted her permission, she began to talk quickly. She told him about Patricia, about the fun they’d had when they were little, creeping into the kitchens, sneaking tit-bits from Clive, who always saved them buns with extra raisins.

  ‘And we’d have to hide them or Matron would be told, so Patricia would stuff them in her shirtsleeves. She could be so naughty, but so fun.’

  She told him about the dances they made up down in the pavilion in summer, and Malcolm finding them dissolved in giggles on the lawn. She told him about their outings down to the village to the pictures. She loved the smooth-faced movie stars, the flickering black-and-white show.

  She was quiet again for a time and Declan watched her face change, her eyes become dull as she looked to the side, not meeting his eye. ‘Going to the pictures was always Bernie’s favourite thing. Apart from playing with Misty.’

  ‘Who was Misty?’ Declan encouraged.

  Edith worried at her sleeve, her eyes fixed over his shoulder. ‘Bernie’s cat.’

  Declan assumed the slightly strange reaction was down to Edith remembering her friend.

  ‘Bernie loved Misty,’ Edith added.

  ‘Bernadette,’ Declan added softly. ‘Yes, she spoke about her once. She was a patient of mine, before . . .’

  ‘I know.’ Edith looked back at him now. ‘She loved meeting with you, Doctor, she would tell me that.’

  Declan cupped a hand round his neck, rubbing. ‘That is very nice to hear.’

  ‘She knew you would be able to help her. And you did, Doctor. She said you were different from the other doctors. I understand now.’ Edith looked at him with such an open face he found himself growing hot with delighted embarrassment.

  ‘And what’ – Declan cleared his throat again – ‘what do you most miss about Bernie?’

  Edith pursed her mouth together, her eyes unfocused. ‘I miss lots of things. She would ask me to do her hair. She told me I was like an older sister.’

  He watched her face closely, her expression softening as she spoke, her lips parted as she paused. He found he was staring at them, waiting for more words.

  ‘You sound like you were very close,’ he commented.

  Edith opened her mouth to say something else, and then closed it again. Tears swam in her eyes and Declan found himself pushing back his chair, moving around his desk to offer her a handkerchief. As he leaned towards her he smelt her familiar fragrance – citrus, reminding him of sunshine, freshly cut grass. He found his head swimming in it; Edith’s words, when they emerged, blurred as he was brought back to the room.

  ‘I miss her holding me. You never touch anyone here.’

  Declan felt his proximity to her, swallowing as he struggled for something to say. He could feel her breath on his neck and he straightened quickly.

  He felt a small relief when he heard distant whistles, footsteps slapping on stone, a door slammed hard. Declan wondered if another patient had escaped.

  Edith fell quiet, seeming to listen to the noises too.

  ‘It’s always loud, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘There’s always something happening.’

  He nodded, thinking of the whispers that morning at breakfast amongst the staff. He didn’t tell Edith about the discovery in the toilet block next to the boiler house. That one of the male patients had hanged himself with a towel. The whistles again, manic laughter: she was right, there was always something happening.

  Declan walked over to the window, wanting to move on from his own dark thoughts. ‘Where would you go, Edith, if you wanted to be calm?’ he asked, looking across the lawn and down towards the sea. The grass had been mown, stripes in different shades of green. He turned to see Edith, head tipped to one side, face bathed in sunshine. The light from the window was turning strands of her hair a warm chestnut.

  ‘To the summerhouse, I think. I like it down there. Or the orchard, the trees filled with different fruit. When I am allowed to walk around the grounds again, that’s where I’ll go.’

  ‘What about outside Seacliff?’ Declan asked, moving round to sit behind his desk.

  ‘Outside?’ She repeated the word as if it were an impossible thing.

  ‘If you could travel somewhere,’ he asked.

  He didn’t think she was going to answer him. Then she looked up, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’d want to sit by a lake surrounded by mountains. I saw a picture once in an encyclopedia, of Lake Tekapo . . .’

  ‘I’ve been there,’ Declan said excitedly, forgetting for a moment where he was. ‘We pitched a tent next to the water. I saw so many shooting stars from there, it was extraordinary.’

  Edith was looking at him with rounded eyes as he imagined a child might look at a magician. ‘Shooting stars,’ she breathed.

  ‘Have you ever seen one?’

  Edith shook her head and Declan cursed himself for his stupidity. Edith slept in a room with locked shutters; the high windows in the dormitories were often barred. There was no chance of them star-gazing from there.

  ‘I’m sorry, Edith, that was crass of me.’

  She smiled at him, shrugging a shoulder. ‘That’s quite all right, Doctor, I like to hear your stories. They sound exciting.’

  ‘You might be the first person to ever call me that.’ He laughed. She shared his mirth and in that moment he knew he must
help her. Although Edith was most likely sick, he did know that she was not a volatile, violent patient: of that he was certain. He must persuade Doctor Malone that Edith did not warrant an operation.

  He hadn’t heard the knock or noticed the door opening, and suddenly Nurse Shaw appeared in the space. The noise they were making must have drowned it out and he found himself straightening in his chair, rearranging his expression. Edith was still giggling as the nurse announced herself.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m obviously interrupting, Doctor.’

  ‘Oh,’ Edith said, looking round. ‘Nurse Shaw, Doctor Harris has been making me feel so much better. Did you know he’s been to Lake Tekapo?’

  Declan felt a swell of pride flood through him, gratified to hear the lift in Edith’s voice.

  Nurse Shaw raised a neatly pencilled eyebrow. ‘That sounds very nice, Edith,’ she said in a tone that Declan hadn’t heard her use before, as if she were talking to a dog or child. ‘Now, shall we get along back to the ward? You’ll be wanting to join your kitchen gang to prepare dinner, won’t you? Doctor Harris is a very busy man, so we must let him get on.’

  Edith stood up, her previous confidence already slipping as she walked over to the doorway, meek in the face of authority. ‘Of course. Thank you, Doctor Harris,’ she said, facing away from him, the words mumbled.

  Declan felt a flash of annoyance at the nurse. He had made progress with Edith in this short session, and now it all seemed to be ebbing away. He stood up behind his desk. ‘Not at all, Edith, it was very good to talk you today, and we’ll continue in our next session.’

  Edith turned then, looking directly at him. ‘I’d like that,’ she said, her voice strong.

  Nurse Shaw took her elbow. ‘Let’s get along now.’ She turned to Declan. ‘Doctor,’ she said, nodding.

  Declan tried to smile at her as she walked Edith out of his office, a hand still on the young woman’s arm as they moved into the corridor.

  He sat down slowly at his desk, tapping a pencil on the blotting pad in front of him. He looked down to see he had etched a large, cursive ‘E’ on to the top page of his notes, and quickly scrunched up the paper in his fist.

  Chapter 24

  THEN

  They had unlocked the doors but Edith just lay there. It was one of those days when she wanted to stay in her small, square room, on her bed, stare at the marks on the bare ceiling, the damp streaks, the too-familiar patterns in the grain. The room was stuffy; she imagined the building surrounded by the heavy sea fogs that could settle over the place, turn the horizon into a milky soup. She could hear shouts coming down through the wooden floorboards from the dormitory, feet pounding: sometimes she imagined hell was above her.

  Her lids wanted to close; she craved sleep but she couldn’t relax, wondering all the time if this was when they were going to get her, searching her room for things they might have left there. She checked every drawer, wondering if her comb had been left at that angle, if her flute had been taken out of its case, if the wooden chair in the corner was a little nearer the bed than before.

  Donna and Martha had been back last night. She had heard noises on the stairs, the smell of cigarettes like a vapour, and their voices, softly, softly. ‘Not long now,’ they whispered, before a note was pushed under her door, a crude pencil drawing of her naked that had made her retch into her chamber pot. They would use the key to her room. It was only a matter of time. She knew she couldn’t tell anyone again, could only make things worse for herself. The days and the nights were muddling now, and she’d had the dream again last night when she had finally fallen asleep. She hadn’t had it for years, not since she had first arrived at the building.

  Her room was filling up with sea water, more lapping through the door. She had stepped out of bed, shocked at the cold, scooping pointlessly with her chamber pot as the water just kept coming. She was screaming, pounding the walls, the shutters, rattling the door until her fists bled, calling out. The water kept coming. She couldn’t stop it. It inched its way towards her, soaked her feet, made her gasp in shock as it slowly climbed her legs, submerged her bed, her whole body shivering as she thrashed across the room in it, her nightclothes sticking to her body.

  She couldn’t swim; she was going to drown.

  She felt the water cover her chest, lifted her head, tried to keep her face out of it, tasted salt on her lips. She screamed again and again, felt her whole body lift, the floor leave her, legs moving in water, not able to stand, her body pushed against the wall, the water choking her, running into her mouth, nose, eyes. She had woken then and hadn’t been able to sleep since. She felt like she did after the treatment, not quite there in the room, groggy and slow. She wasn’t sure she could get up if she wanted to. And if she did, what would be the point?

  A sound outside the door and Edith struggled up on to two elbows: wide awake, tense.

  ‘Edie,’ Bernie said as she appeared in the door, pink back in her cheeks now she’d finally shaken off her cold, her eyes sparkling with news, her mouth spilling out words so quickly Edith struggled to keep up, collapsing back down with the effort.

  ‘It’s Visitors’ Day. Everyone’s getting ready. Do you think they’ll come?’ Bernie asked, not stopping for a reply, moving across to sit at the foot of the bed. ‘They must this time, it’s been ages and I’ve been so much better. I told them what Doctor Harris said, that he thinks I am making excellent progress . . .’

  Bernie often talked about the new doctor; she saw him almost every week, and when she told him things he just listened and talked back and didn’t send her anywhere for treatment. ‘When I’m in there I feel like I’ll get better,’ she’d told her. Edith had felt herself freeze when Bernie had said it, knowing if Bernie got better she would leave her at Seacliff alone, but then she realised that was a good thing for Bernie, so she smiled back.

  Edith still saw Doctor Malone once a month; he told her to keep taking the red pills and she tried not to talk at all.

  ‘. . . in their letters they promised they’d come.’ Bernie had never stopped writing letters to her parents, sitting at the table in the dayroom, leaning over the page. Edith didn’t know what she put in them; even if she could write like Bernie she didn’t know what she would say. She knew she would have to be careful not to write anything much; someone was always listening and probably reading, too, and then you’d get treatment if you wrote the wrong thing. Edith didn’t get letters anyway. When she’d first started delivering the mail, she’d needed help with some of the names on the envelopes and telegrams, but the letters never turned into her own name.

  ‘I hope they bring me my treasure box. They know I miss it and I keep asking. It’s my birthday soon, so maybe they’ll bring me a present too.’ Bernie hugged herself as she spoke and Edith sat up slowly, moved her mouth into a smile. Of course she wanted her to have visitors, wanted her parents to come.

  ‘They were at a wedding last time so they couldn’t come, and the time before that Father wasn’t well and couldn’t face the train journey. And I won’t talk about the baby like last time. So maybe . . .’ Bernie tailed off, pulling a comb from her pocket and holding it out to Edith. ‘Will you make me look pretty for them, Edith? Pretty like you.’

  Edith licked her dry lips and croaked a reply, reaching for her comb. ‘Of course,’ she said, beckoning Bernie to sit.

  The visitors came in a rush, a few in motorcars, trucks, many more walking up from the train station below in a large clump. Edith could see them if she peeked through the window of her room where the latch had broken and she could push it out just an inch. She could see all the tops of their heads; hats, shoulders, hands clutching handbags, heads bowed towards each other as if they were talking, moving in the same direction like the birds she sometimes saw in the sky. It seemed like that now, no one breaking away, all disappearing around the corner, heading for the heavy door to the main building.

  Normally she stayed in her room on Visitors’ Day, knowing no one would come
for her. She knew what had happened to her parents; Doctor Malone had told her more than ten years ago.

  She’d been eight years old. Bernie hadn’t been there then, or Shirley, Martha and Donna. Patricia and Edith would play together. Patricia had a teddy bear that she let Edith hold and they would take the bear everywhere with them; Teddy was his name and they made Teddy dinners and gave him treatment and made him better, although he was still a loony like them.

  They’d been sitting on the stone bench out in the garden when one of the nurses came to get her. The nurse, she couldn’t remember her name now, had worn tortoiseshell clips in her hair, the edges peeking out below her hat, and had so many lines on her face. That nurse left years ago after a special tea in the dayroom where Matron made a speech and they all clapped because she was going to retire to a house in the village, and they all ate rock cakes. She came and got Edith that day and she took her to the superintendent’s office.

  Edith felt goosebumps spring up on her arms as she followed, the questions already banging around inside her head. Why was she going to the superintendent’s office? What had she done now? What had she said? She hadn’t mentioned being the other girl.

  They stopped outside the office and Edith felt popping and bubbling inside her stomach. The nurse reached for her hand; it had been all dry, and Edith remembered she’d called her dearie and kissed her hair before leaving her there. Edith touched her head where she had felt the kiss.

  The kiss filled her with hope: a memory of being touched. She remembered praying she’d see her mother on the other side of the door; that she’d be allowed to go home again, that she was better, and she wouldn’t have to have treatment and could go to a proper school. She opened the door quickly, rearranging her face for her mother, and then wondered why the room was empty apart from Doctor Malone, who was standing next to a bookshelf filled with leather books on her right, and a man sitting behind the most enormous dark-brown wooden desk.