The Other Girl

by C D Major

  Three of the whales died, including the smallest one. The tide was in now, nudging at their bodies, too late to help them, and Declan felt a desperate sadness tug at him as he returned his pail to the pile, nodding at some of the locals he’d been working alongside. There’d been talk that the local iwi would be following the Maori custom of removing the jaws of the whales. Thankfully, the patients would be gone by then.

  He hadn’t seen Doctor Malone since he’d spotted him in the long grass looking his way, but he had stayed away from Edith all afternoon, feeling eyes on him. Something in him knew he was right to be wary; he couldn’t shake off the expression on Doctor Malone’s face. He was still thinking about it as he made his way back to the bus, his boots damp and covered in a layer of sand. A firm hand placed on his shoulder made him jump.

  ‘Doctor Malone,’ Declan said, his voice higher than usual.

  ‘Harris.’

  They walked in that strange arrangement over the sand, Declan stumbling on the rutted surface, his boots sinking deeper at times, pebbles spitting out under his feet. He was waiting, aware of Malone’s hand still on him, as if it were red-hot, burning through his clothes.

  ‘I hear you’ve been getting on familiar terms with some of our female patients.’

  Declan licked his lips, tasting salt. ‘No, sir, not at all. I . . .’ He felt his skin crawl.

  Doctor Malone’s grip tightened. ‘You’re a young man, of course; I understand you have urges, but the patients are off limits, Harris. We all know that.’

  How could Doctor Malone ever imagine he would take advantage of anyone vulnerable in his care? ‘Sir, I would never . . .’

  ‘Rules are rules and we always need to behave with professionalism. I would hate to have to tell your father . . .’

  Declan’s mind was one step behind the words, listening to them as if there were a few seconds’ delay. Edith’s face flashed before him. Had he become over-familiar? The last part of the sentence overlapped that thought. His father. What would Doctor Malone tell his father? He felt an old fear drip down his back as if the seawater had sneaked under the collar of his shirt.

  ‘And a woman like that. Her recent behaviour has been erratic; I hoped perhaps her prognosis was good, but there was an incident before the fire and now these rumours, a possible arsonist in our midst . . .’

  Declan stopped on the sand. ‘You can’t really believe that she is capable of that?’

  Doctor Malone hadn’t noticed the pause, was one step ahead, turning awkwardly on the shifting sands, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘There are other reasons, surely, for the fire. It hasn’t been the first incident of its type – I understand before I arrived there had been other fires, and parts of the building do seem to suggest the foundations . . .’

  Doctor Malone took a step forward, forcing Declan to look up at him; he was always taller, but on this incline Declan felt as if he were ten years old again. His voice was low but direct. ‘You will stop this talk this instant. We have a witness at the scene who has been clear in what she saw . . .’

  ‘Martha Anderson,’ Declan burst out. ‘She wants to see her son; she’d say anything. How do you know it wasn’t her that began the fire in the first place . . .?’ His arms were wide. ‘She had a key! Did you know that?’ Declan’s voice was loud. ‘Edith told me, told me Martha and that other woman, Donna, that they’d got into her room.’

  ‘A key?’ Doctor Malone flicked at something on his cuff.

  ‘Edith told me.’

  Doctor Malone looked over his shoulder at curious passers-by. ‘Doctor Harris, I will not say it again. You will stay away from Edith Garrett. Or you will be leaving Seacliff. Do I make myself clear? She is not stable, Doctor Harris, although that will change soon, of course.’

  Declan felt his whole body go cold. ‘It’s true, then,’ he said, his words careful, desperate to not display the emotion that was building inside him like a tidal wave. ‘Edith, sir – you’re considering a leucotomy.’

  ‘She will have the operation, yes.’

  ‘But surely now that you know about the key, the fact you can’t be certain others aren’t being honest, that could change things?’

  ‘That changes nothing,’ Malone said, cutting right across his pleading. Declan felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. ‘Nothing. You should know not to trust the patients; they’re wily, Doctor Harris . . .’

  Declan threw up his hands. ‘And yet you don’t hesitate to trust Martha Anderson when she . . .’

  The older doctor’s eyes bulged. ‘Do not speak to me in this manner. We cannot take any risks, must be seen to be doing something. The police expect it. The superintendent . . . and’ – he cleared his throat – ‘she’s a prime candidate for the new procedure. I’ll be scheduling it with the neurosurgeon.’

  Declan felt a heavy weight in his stomach; he rested a hand over it.

  Doctor Malone was still talking. ‘I won’t discuss your behaviour with you again.’

  A squeeze, painful and final, on his shoulder, and Doctor Malone veered away to a motorcar parked in a bay off the road. Declan followed the patients, unseeing, to the bus, herded along, shuffling, head down. He could have been one of them.

  He stumbled up the steps; the driver said something to him but Declan didn’t catch it, sliding into one of the front seats, scooting close to the glass that was spattered with tiny droplets. It had started to rain lightly; he realised his own head was damp. He hadn’t noticed before.

  Nurse Shaw stepped on to the bus a moment later and Declan looked up at her as she paused at the top of the aisle next to the driver. Declan became aware of the space beside him. Nurse Shaw moved past, not even looking at him, ducked into a seat on the opposite side of the bus. Declan dug his nails into his thigh.

  Tom was walking up and down the aisle shouting for his medication. One of the attendants got up to deal with him, clamping his arms to his side, looking over at Declan for help. Declan did nothing, staring dumbly back. It was then he noticed Edith, towards the rear, alone, her eyes closed, her head rested back. He lurched backwards as if he’d been stung, head striking the glass window.

  As the bus bumped back along the road, the buildings and turrets of Seacliff rose up over the pine trees to his left, he knew with a sinking feeling that all his efforts were hopeless. He couldn’t stay at Seacliff, he couldn’t help Edith, couldn’t loosen the power Doctor Malone wielded at the hospital.

  Over the past few weeks he had felt flashes of real confidence that had lain dormant within him rise up, spill out of him, a belief he could make a difference. It was checked, stuffed back down: he could do nothing but watch. His fingers gripped his thighs tighter; he felt the marks forming on his skin. He remembered lines from a patient’s notes, the explanation as to why she hurt herself, slicing thin lines along her arms, the top of her thighs. Declan could understand it now, the need for release; or else he might open his mouth and never stop screaming.

  How could he help if his hands were always tied? How could he ever hope to do anything in the shadow of Doctor Malone? And if he continued to try to speak to her, he would be leaving anyway; Malone had made that abundantly clear. All these thoughts remained as they turned through the gates and headed up the driveway, sweeping past the front lawn, past a fencing gang back for the day, the attendants carrying the tools they had been using, given the damage that could be done with a shovel.

  He moved as if sleepwalking through the corridors to his office, letting himself in and pacing the room, the same thoughts on repeat. He leant against the window frame, one cheek resting on a cold pane of glass, the outside a blur of dull greens and greys, the rain a little heavier now.

  He had promised to help Edith but he found himself constantly blocked. He thought of the notes he had, confused, gaps he didn’t understand. He thought of the medication she had been given, higher doses in recent weeks; the insulin, the electric shock treatment when she was doped and under. He thought of the new operation she was
scheduled to have and couldn’t bear to imagine her on that trolley being wheeled in for that more permanent solution.

  He bent his head over his desk, shut his eyes and slammed both hands down on the surface. Then, inhaling slowly, he drew out his chair and sat down, pulling a piece of paper from the ream in front of him, seizing on the fountain pen lying on the blotter pad. He wrote quickly, to the nearby hospital, to towns further away. By the end of an hour he had written five letters enquiring as to other jobs. He couldn’t be there to see it. If he really wanted to help people he needed a new start, away from the hospital, somewhere that was just his, somewhere he could reinvent himself: do something.

  He piled the envelopes up on his desk, the addresses written in his clear, round hand. Even his handwriting made him feel a fraud: childlike.

  Chapter 36

  BEFORE

  Mother has had her baby and lots of the ladies from Dunedin have come to see her. He’s a boy baby, Peter, and I’m a big sister again. They’ve brought him presents: a wooden rattle, a blanket, a woollen cardigan, booties. I think it’s funny that some babies get lots of presents and some get none. Mary would have loved the rattle; she used to drag a kerosene tin round on a string to make it make a noise. She loved noise.

  We are sitting in our living room with the two pale-green sofas with no back, just one big curved side, and Mrs Clark has served tea and I am dressed in my best dress, the one I normally wear to watch Daddy in church on Sundays. Outside it is sunny, the sky blue with no clouds, and I want to be running in the garden around the honey pear trees. I still miss when I was the other girl and I was allowed to go and run through the plannies, shoes sinking into the thick pine needles which hid all the holes that the rabbits lived in, and dipping my feet in the creek where I saw the cat who’d cacked it in a sack.

  ‘And how is the little man behaving?’ one of the ladies asks, looking at me. She’s got curly grey hair and a grey woollen dress.

  ‘He’s not like my sister. He cries all the time,’ I say. When I think of Mary I get an ache inside still; her face is the most clear, her wispy baby hair fine, not like Peter’s dark head of hair, her wide-apart eyes following me from her spot in the basket in the scullery. Then when she was older, her too-skinny legs, poking-out stomach, her fine, light-brown hair a tangled mess. Following me around even when I felt too old to play.

  A couple of the ladies look up, eyes wide, the talk stopping.

  ‘Your sister . . . ?’ The grey lady licks her lips and looks quickly at Mother, who is holding the baby to her chest.

  ‘We haven’t . . . Edith, her imagination, you see, she is a very fantastical child . . .’ Mother isn’t looking at me now, her words all jumbled and funny.

  ‘It is confusing for children,’ another woman in a pink cardigan says, picking up a knitted hat and returning it to the small pile before smiling at me.

  I’m not confused; I know about babies. I used to hold Mary, and feed her, too. ‘You can’t have a baby unless you get your monthlies,’ I say proudly, remembering. I don’t notice all the ladies are quiet again, just remembering how my other mother had shown me how to pin pieces of bath towel back and front to my singlet when I bled and I hated it because I swore you could see them. ‘Before, when I was big, I was one of the first ones to get my monthlies.’

  ‘Edith.’ My mother’s voice is different now: short, loud. It makes me stop and look up at her, my hands moving quickly together on my lap.

  The other ladies aren’t looking at me or Mother; their eyes move around the room. One murmurs, ‘Honestly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, she picks things up, muddles things.’ Mother is looking at each of the women in turn, her voice rising.

  The lady in the pink cardigan is the first to speak. ‘You’ve chosen a lovely name,’ she says, and I can see Mother jumping on the words, wanting me to be quiet. It makes my head hurt, as sometimes I forget what I shouldn’t say and I feel the sadness that I should be somewhere else with my other mother and sister but I’m not because I’m in the cave and now I’m here and I like my new family too.

  The ladies don’t stay long and Mother and I move into the hallway as they put their coats on. One of the ladies leaves the house, clutching her bag as she walks up our pathway, head close to the other lady, her mouth opening and closing quickly. She turns her head and catches my eye and I know she is talking about me.

  I turn around and Mother is sitting on the bottom of the stairs. She has started to cry and is rocking Peter. I freeze in the hallway, the door still open, the ladies now gone through the gate.

  ‘Why do you keep saying these things?’ Mother says. She hasn’t noticed the baby has started crying again.

  ‘They’re true.’ I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘How do you know about them? Where are you hearing them? It isn’t right; it isn’t godly.’ Mother’s voice is really high now and she is jiggling the baby up and down. His little face has gone very red.

  I don’t know what she means and I don’t understand.

  ‘You can’t keep saying things. Shocking things. You can’t know about these things. It has to stop.’ She is shouting and Mother never shouts and tears prick into my eyes and I want to cry too, like Peter.

  We don’t see Father walking up the path and into the house until he is in the hallway, and Mother can’t hide the tears quickly enough.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t see you there. You just missed our visitors.’ She brushes at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Father is quiet, looking from Mother to me and back again. His fists curl and, looking at me, he asks, ‘What did she do?’

  I feel ice inside me as Mother stands up, talking over the baby’s crying. ‘Nothing, I . . . she didn’t mean to.’

  Father steps closer and bends down so he is looking at me straight in the eye. ‘This will stop, Edith. Rest assured, I will stop this.’

  My mouth is dry and I can’t move.

  He stays, unblinking, in front of me. ‘Go to your room.’

  It is a second before I can feel my feet and legs and then I squeeze past Mother and the baby, up the stairs and I run, run, run away from them all.

  Chapter 37

  NOW

  Declan felt invisible: moving from work to his room to work and back again. He ate alone, or skipped meals, losing more weight so that now when he removed his shirt he could see individual ribs, a concave stomach. He’d lost his hunger, the desire to fill himself.

  The date had been set for a few weeks from now. Edith Garrett would have the new operation.

  He avoided eye contact with the attendants and nurses he knew, not wanting to engage anyone in conversation. He stopped attending orchestra practices, made excuses to the conductor as he hurried past him. He saw his regular patients, kept the sessions timely, referred them for treatment, assessed the effects, changed their medication as if from a distance, barely registering their words.

  Audrey had just left his office: committed after a failed suicide attempt, two weeks after her mother had died. She had tried again. Was she insane? Declan had wondered. Are desperation and madness the same? That thought should have tormented him more as he’d sent her down to have electric shock treatment, administered to patients capable of violent outbursts. Instead he signed her notes with a heavy hand, ushered in the next patient.

  He was alone in his office, staring at a file in front of him. He picked at a piece of skin next to his nail, a small searing pain as it came away. A dirty cup and saucer from days before sat next to the file, a white film across the forgotten liquid. Nurse Shaw didn’t bring him coffee any more and when he did see her in the corridors he was quick to change direction, his keys clashing on the ring as he escaped through another door. He stood up, moving over to the window, placing one hand on the cold glass.

  His eye was caught by two figures crossing the lawn together. Doctor Malone, his hands interlocked behind his back, was talking to the superintendent, a grim expression on his fac
e. There was something about the way they moved that made Declan frown; the superintendent was careful to glance over his shoulder as they approached the ground where the ward had stood. They seemed to be inspecting the area, their heads bowed together as they spoke and Declan watched as Doctor Malone gestured with two hands.

  His fingers splayed on the glass, hiding the two men. What did it matter what they were discussing? He turned back to his desk, sinking into his chair, unable to get comfortable. The hands of the clock seemed to freeze on the same number as he stared, unseeing, at its face.

  If Doctor Malone was out there, that meant he wasn’t in his office.

  Thinking about Nurse Shaw had reminded him of something she had told him when he’d first asked for the files of Martha and Edith: he knew where the rest of the notes were, the answers that could help him. He was done with sitting around on his hands, waiting for the axe to fall. As if gripped by madness himself, he stood and headed straight to the doorway.

  Declan felt the beat of his pulse in his neck as he moved down the corridor towards the nurses’ station, empty; the nurse was in the dayroom with the patients. He could feel his limbs tingle as he unlocked a cabinet, reached for the large rattling hoop of keys, glanced over his shoulder.

  Everything alert, he left the room, his rapid footsteps loud on the stone.

  He was about to break into the office. He had seen them outside a moment ago but it wouldn’t take Doctor Malone long to get back here. Straining to listen for footsteps, the familiar bark of Doctor Malone’s voice, he fumbled with the keys, trying each one, cursing under his breath at every wrong turn.

  Then it happened: a sudden click and the door opened, swinging into the room. For a frightening moment Declan expected the great man to be sitting in his chair, an angry twitch of moustache, but the room was empty, only the hawk on the shelf giving him a steely gaze.

  He lingered in the doorway, a noise unmistakable: someone wheeling a trolley. They crossed the corridor, down to another ward. The sound of another door opening and closing; they hadn’t looked his way.