The Gamekeeper's Wife

by Clare Flynn

  ‘And was it Captain Shipley who discovered that your daughter was alive?’

  Martha blushed again. ‘It was Mrs Shipley.’

  ‘Ah, he’s married then? I didn’t realise that.’

  ‘No.’ Her denial came out faster than she intended. ‘Mrs Shipley is his mother.’ She paused, reaching for Jane’s hand. ‘But if you don’t mind, Doctor, I’d really rather not talk about what happened. I’m grateful to have been reunited with my daughter.’

  The man nodded. ‘As is she. Of that I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so. Jane has improved to a remarkable degree since you began to spend time with her.’ He seemed about to say something else, but must have thought better of it.

  Sensing his concern, Martha said, ‘I’ll not be parted from her again. You can count on that. Not ever.’

  ‘I understand from Matron you are working here as a cleaner? Working during the night?’

  Martha nodded.

  ‘You must be exhausted. Spending the days with Jane and then working all night.’

  ‘There’s time to sleep when she has her nap in the afternoons. And it’s not all night. I only work from midnight ’til six – so I try to sleep as soon as Jane goes off at night. I mostly get in a couple of hours and then one or two more in the morning.’

  Dr Henderson shook his head and stared towards the building. Martha felt uncomfortable, wondering what he wanted and why he had chosen to sit with them.

  After several minutes of silence, he spoke again. ‘What do you think of St Crispin’s, Mrs Walters?’

  Taken aback, she replied, ‘It’s not such a bad place.’

  ‘Better than most of its kind. Mainly because such a high proportion of the patients are privately funded. At this end of the wing anyway. It’s overcrowded on the public wards.’

  ‘I know. I’d hate for Jane to be in them.’

  He drew on his cigarette. ‘The superintendent here is more enlightened than most. He’s the only reason I agreed to stay on after the war ended. He is a progressive. Open to new ideas. New ways of doing things. Thanks to him we now have clinical examination rooms for all the wards. Before, the doctors had to examine patients out on the wards in view of everyone – including new admissions. Not very discreet or respectful. Most men in his position would have taken the view that privacy was not something worth affording to the mentally ill.’

  ‘That’s good, sir.’ She wondered why he was telling her all this.

  ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a nurse, Mrs Walters?’

  ‘A nurse? Me, sir?’

  ‘St Crispin’s would benefit greatly from having someone like you as an auxiliary.’

  ‘Auxiliary? I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘Someone who has not been formally trained. Someone who assists the other nurses. I don’t imagine you would wish to leave Jane in order to attend a nursing school?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But you could become an auxiliary without having to go to nursing school. It’s an exciting time to be involved in the care of the mentally ill.’ He leaned forward, hands on his knees. ‘The war has given us the chance to learn about many aspects of madness. It convinced me that severe trauma can be a trigger for mental illness. Even grief.’

  Martha listened, uncertain how to respond.

  ‘The United States is much ahead of us in many aspects of treating lunacy. New drugs. New treatments. ’ He lit another cigarette.

  Martha turned to Jane, anxious that her daughter might be feeling excluded, but Jane was smiling and as her mother acknowledged the smile, the young woman rested her head against Martha’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m thinking of giving talks in the afternoons to some of the nurses. You could participate.’

  ‘Me? But I know nothing of medical matters.’

  ‘That’s the point. It’s a chance to learn. Even trained nurses know little about mental illness. It’s why I’m instituting the classes.’

  He turned sideways on the bench so he was looking straight at her.

  ‘I believe our attitudes towards the mentally ill need to change. The men who gave the money to build places like this one did so in the belief that it would be a means to helping these unfortunates get better. Instead, we have used them as places to hide people away, out of sight and out of mind. Our mental asylums are often more like prisons than hospitals.’ He was excited now, moved by his passion for his work.

  He paused, smiled at her. ‘Will you think about it, Mrs Walters?’

  ‘About what? I’m not sure I really understand.’

  ‘About becoming an auxiliary nurse. You would wear a uniform. You’ll need to come to the training lectures. And you would take instructions from the ward sister and the official nursing staff. But if you learn quickly – who knows? You may eventually become a trained nurse.’

  ‘But, Jane? I want to be near her.’

  ‘We’ll assign you to this ward. You will be within sight of her all the time. In fact you’ll be able to do more for her. Be more directly involved in her care. And in the care of others on the ward. Have a think about it. That’s all I ask.’ He got up from the bench, gave her a nod and moved away across the lawns, back to Sycamore Ward.

  * * *

  Over the following weeks, Dr Henderson was relentless in his encouragement of Martha to become a nursing auxiliary.

  ‘I see in you the qualities I’m looking for in the mental nurses of the future. Kindness and compassion. Patience. Diligence. Attention to detail. Some of the nurses are too set in their ways to change. People like you and me will eventually swing the ship around and set a new course. One day it will be accepted that doctors study the causes and cures for insanity, as now they do for medical conditions. We need to get past the stigma of lunacy. Please, Mrs Walters. Will you help me? Will you at least give it a try?’

  ‘You promise I can still spend time with Jane?’ Her tone was hesitant.

  ‘Of course. Eventually I am hoping we will build a nurses’ home for all our nursing staff to have accommodation on the premises. Meanwhile I see no reason to stop the arrangements you already made with Matron for the care of your daughter. I understand your own lodgings are close to the gates?’

  She nodded.

  It was agreed that she would become an auxiliary. Martha was grateful – cleaning the day rooms, refectory and kitchens every night had been hard work, no easier for being done during the night hours. Being able to work near to Jane was all she asked for, but she soon found that the care of these patients was rewarding in a broader sense.

  Each patient was different. Sycamore Ward housed a wide range of patients of different ages, conditions and behaviours. None were considered dangerous, but the causes for their incarceration ranged from depression and disturbances brought on by grief at the loss of a husband or a child, to women sent here long ago, and since forgotten, as a result of what was described as ‘immoral behaviour’. There was a small cadre of elderly ladies with senile dementia, who slept most of the time.

  Most of the cases on Sycamore had become institutionalised over the years and were in a state of passivity, worn down, broken, bereft of the capacity to look after themselves. Martha saw how easily she herself might have ended up in a place like St Crispin’s. Perhaps it was better that her father had settled on marrying her off to Walters after she’d been raped by George Shipley, if the alternative would have been permanent incarceration. Anything to protect Shipley from prosecution for violating a minor.

  Martha found the twice-weekly afternoon lectures from Dr Henderson enlightening. They included explanations for the various classifications of mental illness, illustrated by examples as well as detailed explanations of the anatomy of the brain and the nervous system. As the weeks passed, Martha became increasingly fascinated by what she was learning. She was grateful for the doctor’s kindness in offering her this opportunity. Nothing could assuage her pain over separation from Kit, but at least this work
filled her days and offered her some consolation, as did the camaraderie and support of the other nurses and the presence of her daughter in her life.

  * * *

  Martha had been so absorbed in her care of Jane, her growing interest in her nursing duties and her grief over the absence of Kit, that she failed to register the cessation of her monthly periods. But her thickening waistline and constant fatigue eventually caused her to register what was happening within her body.

  With mounting panic, she had to acknowledge that she was with child. This was a calamity. She would be dismissed from her work as an auxiliary nurse, even prevented from working as a cleaner.

  One evening, at the end of her shift, after holding Jane’s hand as her daughter went to sleep, she remained at her bedside, trying to run through the alternatives open to her. What alternatives? She had to admit there were none. The most likely outcome, once her condition became known, was dismissal, forcing her to seek shelter in the workhouse. Where else would open their doors to a widowed woman, who had presumably committed adultery with the father of her unborn child?

  For a moment she thought of seeking Kit’s help. But how could she? Mrs Shipley had threatened to stop Jane’s maintenance if she made any contact with her son. Jane would be moved to the public wards, amid the noise, dirt and overcrowding. She’d never survive the shock and upheaval. Martha couldn’t let that happen.

  Could she appeal to Mrs Shipley for help? But as soon as the thought formed in her head, she knew it was impossible.

  Watching the innocent and calm expression on Jane’s face was too much for Martha. Once the tears formed they wouldn’t stop. She sat there beside her sleeping daughter’s bed, eyes swimming, vision blurred, oblivious to Dr Henderson, who had appeared at the other side of the bed.

  ‘Nurse Walters? Will you come to my office please?’

  Heart thumping in fear, she followed him across the ward. He must have noticed her condition. He was going to dismiss her. It was happening already. What was she to do? She put her hands over her swelling belly.

  Martha followed Dr Henderson into the room and was about to stand in front of his desk, but to her surprise he waved her towards a seat. He came around the front of his desk and perched on the edge, watching her intently.

  She squirmed, waiting for him to deliver the blow, to tell her that she must pack her bags and go immediately, that she had let him down after the trust he had placed in her.

  But he looked at her with kindness and compassion. Reaching into his jacket pocket he brought out a box of matches, took a cigarette from the wooden box on the desk, lit it and smiled.

  ‘You’re expecting a baby, aren’t you?’

  She jumped in fright. He did know. Terrified at what lay in prospect, her mouth was unable to form words, so she nodded, mutely.

  ‘Is it Captain Shipley’s?’

  Martha gasped. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what I say. I’m asking if Captain Shipley is responsible for your condition. I know your husband was killed in the war. I was puzzled by Captain Shipley’s interest in your daughter. And then on the last occasion he visited here, I chanced to see you driving with him in his car towards the town. Then, when I suspected you were with child, I put two and two together. Was I wrong to do so?’

  Martha sobbed. ‘Oh please, Dr Henderson. Please let me stay a little longer. I don’t know what I shall do. I need a little time.’

  ‘I suppose marrying Captain Shipley is out of the question?’

  She nodded.

  The doctor frowned and Martha guessed he was assuming Kit had slept with her then abandoned her.

  ‘It’s not his choice. He wants to marry me. He wants nothing more. It’s his mother. She’s threatened to cut him off without a penny and cut off Jane’s maintenance here. I couldn’t let that happen, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray. He raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘Then you had better marry me.’

  Martha was stunned. He had to be making a joke. She bristled that he was trivialising her plight.

  Dr Henderson got up from the desk and went to stand by the window.

  ‘I can’t replace what Captain Shipley meant to you. But perhaps I can understand what you are feeling. I lost my wife to the influenza during the war. My world fell apart. I lost all desire to go on. So I threw myself into my work. It has given me great consolation, but never removed the sadness. The loneliness.’

  He stared out at the darkening garden. ‘When I met you, I recognised a kindred spirit. Someone who has also known sadness. Someone who might assist me in my life’s work.’

  Turning to look at her, he said, ‘I think we would make a good team. You would, of course, need to stop nursing once we were married, but you could continue to care for Jane. And the baby when it comes.’

  Martha sat, rigid in her chair, unable to believe what she was hearing, her hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘You’ve said nothing.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. Why? Why would you want to marry me? I’m a nobody. I’ve no money. I’m carrying another man’s child.’

  He smiled at her and came around to sit on the edge of the desk again. He leaned forward and took her hands in his. ‘I know you don’t love me, Mrs Walters. How could you? We barely know each other. But maybe with time?’

  ‘But you? You’re a doctor. A man of importance. You could marry anyone.’

  He laughed. It was a dry laugh, a bitter laugh. ‘Who would want to marry me? A man past forty with one eye missing.’

  She said nothing for a moment then said, ‘But if you marry me, people will think it’s your child. They’ll think you… That won’t be good for you.’

  He smiled. ‘There’s something else you need to know. I can never be a proper husband to you. The war… I was injured… All the moving parts are there…’ He gave a little chuckle, devoid of any humour. ‘They just don’t function any more. That’s why I can’t expect a woman to agree to marry me. You are my only hope, Mrs Walters.’ He laughed. ‘We are each other’s only hope. I don’t care if people think I am the father of your child. I want to be a father to him or her.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then say yes.’

  ‘But why? Why do you even want a wife?’

  He got up from the desk and walked towards the window. ‘It sounds cynical, but people have greater trust in a man who is married.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘No. It’s more than that. I’m lonely. I want to come home at the end of the day and have someone waiting for me. Someone to talk to. Eat a meal with. Yes, and cook for me, care for me. Someone I can care for too. I think you are that person, Mrs Walters. Please, marry me.’

  He bent his head over her hand and kissed it lightly. ‘I realise that I will never be able to be everything to you that a husband should be, but I hope that with time, you might come to feel some affection and fondness for me as I already do for you.’

  Her eyes were wet with tears. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Yes, I will marry you, Doctor.’

  Chapter 18

  The pain of being apart from Martha cut deep. Working in the sunken garden held no pleasure for Christopher when she wasn’t there beside him. At night, he rolled around his bed, dreaming that she was there with him, only to wake with a start to find she was not. He closed his eyes and saw her sad eyes and her smile – a smile that transformed her face from impassivity and inscrutability into a joyful animation that made her beautiful. He saw her slender ankles, long legs, strong lean body, which responded to the slightest touch from him. Lying alone in bed, he longed to nestle against her, cup his hands around her breasts, breathe in the scent of her, lose himself with her.

  Day after day, he rode over to the gamekeeper’s cottage in the woods, hoping that she might have returned, but knowing that it was an impossible hope.

  He sat on the doorstep, leaning against the door, remembering how he had come upon her there, she
lling peas. He wandered around the outbuildings: the empty kennels, the deserted sitting house, scene of her rape by his own father. He forced himself to do this, trying to take her pain upon himself, hoping that somehow she would know he was here, keeping a lonely vigil for her.

  Hooker cropped the grass, patient, as his master prowled around the house. Occasionally Kit went inside, lay down on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, where already a damp patch had formed. Replacing missing roof tiles was yet another task on the long list of neglected duties. He didn’t want to do it. Why do something to make the place more habitable and appealing to a prospective tenant when the only tenant he wanted would never return? Better to let the place decay, a monument to the futility of their love.

  After several months apart from Martha – months of mounting pressure from his increasingly impatient mother to marry Lavinia – Christopher decided he could stand it no longer. He had mooned around the estate and Martha’s cottage for long enough. It was time he pulled himself together. He wasn’t going to listen to his mother’s threats to cut off Jane’s payments and cut his own allowance. Money would not be used as weapon against him. He cared too little for it. Instead, he could seek legal help – the threat of a legal action and the associated scandal would be guaranteed to make Edwina Shipley back off. Why had this not occurred to him before?

  But first he would go to St Crispin’s and talk again with Martha, tell her his plan. Together they would find a way around the problem, so that they could marry and care for Jane.

  It was a warm September day when he drove up the long driveway, lined with lime trees, that led to St Crispin’s. The sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue and the trees had not yet started to lose their foliage. On a day like this nothing could be amiss. He was a fool to have waited so long, to have allowed Martha’s caution to hold him back, to have let his mother’s iron will subjugate his own. Not any more. From now on he would be his own man. Making his own decisions. Living his own life. Dreaming his own dreams.