Eve

by Beverley Hughesdon

  The nurse was brisk. ‘Now you know that’s not fair, dear.’ Rock – rock.

  Turning to me the nurse said, ‘He’s always a most faithful visitor.’ She added brightly, ‘And sometimes I think she almost recognises him.’ She bent over the chair, ‘Now dear, it’s nearly time for your tea, isn’t that nice?’ Rock, rock.

  I stood up. ‘I think perhaps I should be leaving now. I’ll give Mr Parton a report.’

  ‘Yes do, he’ll be so pleased to hear she’s been having a good day.’ A good day – this was a good day?

  I rushed out of the hall, down the corridor and straight through the front door. Outside I took in great gulps of air. Sybella at sunset.

  I plunged off the road into the park and ran and ran until I was breathless and panting. Sybella at sunset.

  I didn’t really want to go over to the City to report, but I’d promised I would. Besides, Mrs Clark was going to give me some more questions. She handed those over first, together with my pay of 10/— and a stamped addressed envelope. Apparently Mr Parton was going to Spend a month with his aunts in the country, so wanted me to send the next batch of answers to him there. I told Mrs Clark I’d put them in Friday’s post, and she looked pleased. ‘Good, I’ll tell Mr Fred to expect them on Saturday. Now, here’s five shillings for going today. How was she?’

  I took a deep breath and admitted, ‘They let me go in, sae I delivered the parcel to her maself.’

  ‘That was kind of you, dear.’

  I rushed on guiltily, ‘They said – they said, she was having a good day. But—’

  She sighed in understanding. ‘No day is a good day, I’m afraid. Poor dear Lady Rothbury.’

  I felt as if someone had swung a sledgehammer into my stomach. If I hadn’t been groping for words I’d have lost my Scots accent. As it was, several seconds passed before I could reply, ‘Lady – Rothbury? Is she related to Lord Rothbury, as lives on the Chelsea Embankment?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course dear – she’s his wife.’

  The sledgehammer hit again, much harder. I exclaimed, ‘Ye mean – he’s got a mad wife, hidden away – like Mr Rochester in “Jane Eyre”?’

  Mrs Clark was clearly offended. ‘It’s not at all the same. There’s no question of secrecy, everyone knows.’

  ‘I didna. When I was working at Wenlock Court, nobody said a word.’

  She replied stiffly, ‘No doubt that was because everyone knows. And it’s not a subject to be dwelt on, is it?’

  ‘No, no – of course not. Only—’ I repeated limply, ‘I didna ken.’ Then, ‘Will she ever get better?’

  ‘It’s extremely unlikely – she is a severe case of dementia praecox. There was some talk of the possibility of a partial recovery at first, but now, after almost ten years—’ She shook her head. Then her manner became brisk again. ‘It’s time I went down to make Mr Fred’s gruel, Cook doesn’t quite have the knack, so—’ I was ushered to the door. ‘Now, you won’t forget to post it on Friday, will you?’

  ‘Nae, nae – I willna, I promise.’

  When I got back to the boarding house I lit a fire in my small room and huddled over it, shivering. Still shivering I washed myself all over, as I did every night – but this evening I washed in sections, because I felt so cold. I was still shivering as I lay under the thin blankets. Her eyes. She’d still looked so beautiful, with her ivory skin and delicate features – but her eyes – !

  Eventually I shivered myself to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  I woke up still shivering. I’d caught a chill but I wouldn’t admit it; after work I dragged myself to the theatre as usual. On Tuesday evening I decided to stay in and answer Mr Parton’s questions, though I was shivering so much I could hardly hold the pencil. I went to bed with them still unfinished. I would do them tomorrow, when I was better.

  But on Wednesday morning I felt worse. My body was vibrating along with the shirt and collar machine, then the floor began to vibrate too – until it tripped me up and I collapsed sprawling on to it. The foreman called a cab, but he didn’t know where I lived, so he took me to the nearest hospital.

  I spent the next five days convinced I was going mad, like Sybella.

  I was in a huge bare room, facing a row of windows. They kept shifting. Between episodes of delirium I’d try and fix the position of those windows in my mind – then I’d lose my grip and they would move, dance – the row of beds beneath began to sway too, up and down – the floor was moving now – desperately my brain tried to make sense of the senseless – I was on a ship, coming back from India – ‘Apa! Apa!’ My voice was wailing out like hers. Then the ceiling came swooping down, faster and faster, I shrieked in despair, ‘Apa! Apa!’. No use. I was crushed into oblivion.

  I would wake sane – and lie there rigid with terror that they would realise I was going mad, and shut me away, like her. Then I’d hear the screeching moan of the woman in the next bed – was it too late? Was I already a prisoner? I must pretend, pretend I was sane – until the windows began to dance and shift – and I knew I wasn’t.

  My skin burnt like fire, pain stabbed my chest at every grunting breath I drew. And whether mad or sane, I was trapped. Wrapped up in a muffling jacket of cotton wool, my body was no longer my own. At regular intervals other people interfered with it, moving arms and legs, sponging them, seizing my wrist, thrusting a damp sponge into my cracked, dry mouth, and – the final indignity – pushing something up into my backside, wedging a china rim under my behind, and waiting, watching… Even my bodily functions were controlled by others. If I tried to move, always the command came, ‘No, girlie – you must lie still.’ So I lay still, in case they guessed I was mad.

  On the fifth day, as the ceiling came swooping down I saw that the floor was rising to meet it and screamed for Apa, but they only came on faster and faster – and crushed me between them in a black and burning oblivion.

  Hours later I woke up. My body felt cool and damp, my mouth was moist again – and although my breathing was still shallow and difficult that terrible stabbing pain had gone. It was night, the ward was quiet, with only a red-shaded light at the table close by. A nurse in a white cap came padding softly over to where I lay. ‘Awake are you, girlie? That’s good. You’ve had your crisis now, so there’ll be no more of that nasty delirium.’

  Wonderingly I whispered, ‘I thought I’d gone mad.’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘Oh no, girlie – it’s just because of the fever. But your temperature’s dropped right down now – Sister will be pleased. Now, I daresay you fancy a little drinkies?’ I tried to sit up but I was so weak I could barely move – and the nurse’s hand firmly restrained me. ‘Lie still, girlie – you’re on total bed rest still for at least a week, in case of complications.’ She picked up the feeding cup on my locker and held it to my lips. I swallowed in the euphoria of relief; I hadn’t gone mad, after all.

  But over that night relief gave way to grief – as I finally accepted that I’d lost Apa. Yes, I knew he’d been dead for four years – I’d seen his body, even – so I knew he was dead. But part of me, a very tiny part of me, but there nonetheless – had still believed – no, not believed – hoped, that it wasn’t really true. And that somewhere, somehow, Apa still existed.

  But now I knew he didn’t. Because I’d been ill, and frightened – more than frightened, terrified – and I knew that if Apa had still been alive somewhere he would have come to me – even if he’d had to crawl to my bedside on his hands and knees. But he hadn’t come. So now I knew that Apa truly was dead.

  * * *

  I hated being in hospital. I hated the degrading lack of privacy, the humiliating anonymity, and most of all I hated the way in which my life was totally controlled by other people. ‘Pop the thermometer in – no, don’t bite it, girlie.’ ‘Time to take your pulse, now.’ ‘No, girlie – you’ll have to wait until the bedpan round’, and when it came…! There were only three screens in the entire ward, and those were
reserved for serious illness, so you just had to lie there and pretend you weren’t doing what you were doing. And afterwards, ‘Have you been a good girlie? Or do you need a nice enema?’ And then, halfway through that second week, ‘Oh, have your monthlies started girlie? I’ll bring a pad as soon as we’ve finished the round.’ ‘No, girlie, don’t move – I’ll put it on for you.’

  How I loathed the indignity of it all. But there was nothing I could do but lie there and put up with it. I was still so weak and helpless – besides, I was terrified of the dreaded ‘complications’ – if I acquired those they might never let me out. That was the one advantage hospital had over boarding school – they thought I was Eve Gunn, aged nineteen – that was what the foreman had told them when he’d brought me in – so when I’d recovered they would let me go. In every other respect hospital reminded me only too clearly what I’d been so determined to avoid, and I resolved that however difficult life might become I would never, ever, let myself be sent to boarding school. Or, indeed, any school – I felt far too old and weary for school, now.

  The rest of the time I simply didn’t think – especially not on Wednesday and Sunday – which were visiting days. For a whole hour on Wednesday, and one and a half hours on Sunday every other ‘girlie’, ‘ma’, or ‘gran’ became a person, with a name and family of their own. I remained anonymous, the only patient on the entire ward who had no visitors at all.

  I did get a letter, though – my dismissal from the laundry, handed in at the porter’s lodge along with 9d in coppers, all that remained of my last week’s pay after the cab fare had been deducted. So now I had no job, either.

  On the second Wednesday I was allowed to wash my own face and hands – and to sit up in bed; which made visiting day even worse, because now I could see that everyone else really did have visitors. Then, halfway through the hour, Staff Nurse came bustling up, looking pleased. ‘Are you all neat and tidy, girlie? You’ve got a visitor today – a gentleman.’ I stared in disbelief as a tall, well-dressed figure came striding up the ward. Mr Wilkins.

  Mr Wilkins? How on earth had he known I was here? And even if he did know, why was he bothering to visit me?

  The answer was the same to both questions; Horseface. In the briefest of summaries Mr Wilkins informed me that Lord Rothbury had stayed with Mr Parton at his aunts’ on his way back from some visit. Mr Parton had mentioned that the notes I had promised him were now ten days overdue, so Lord Rothbury had offered to send someone round to the steam laundry, to enquire about them. Mr Wilkins had been delegated to the task yesterday, and on learning of my collapse, had come round to the hospital to enquire about my present condition before reporting back to his lordship. Whereupon his lordship had sent Mr Wilkins to visit me today.

  ‘An’ he told me to get you some fruit on the way.’ Mr Wilkins plonked a brown paper bag down on my locker. ‘An’ his lordship says, he’ll pay for your ticket back to Scotland, when they let you out.’

  What! I exclaimed, ‘But I dinna want tae gang back!’ Mr Wilkins frowned.

  I added hastily, ‘I’ve paid ma lodgings two weeks in advance, so I can go back there for a fortnight, and I’ve got ma savings – nearly eleven pound,’ I lowered my voice, ‘Hidden under a loose floorboard by the hearth, sae nobody can find them. I’ll just have a wee rest, then I’ll look for another job. I wudna want tae go back tae the laundry, even if they’d no dismissed me.’

  Mr Wilkins made no reply to that. I knew from Wenlock Court that he was a man of few words. Obviously feeling that he’d carried out his orders he produced last month’s copy of ‘The Badminton Magazine of Sports and Pastimes’ and began to read it aloud to me in a low, droning voice: ‘The woodcock excepted, no bird is more coveted by the all-round gunner than the snipe. In every way he is a fascinating bird, but his chief charm is to be found in the extreme waywardness of his habits…’ At: ‘After having found the haunt of the snipe for the time being, the next thing, of course, is to shoot him,’ I fell asleep. I assume he folded up his magazine and crept away, because when I woke up again visiting time was over and he’d gone. I’d have believed that the whole episode was a dream, had it not been for the brown paper bag, which turned out to contain a dozen oranges.

  I ate two of them, and began to think – about Lord Rothbury, and his mad wife. I remembered the nursemaid at Wenlock Court saying to me, ‘Shame he’s no children of his own’, and now I realised why she’d said that. Because for him there never could be any children. If he’d been a real maharajah he could have married an extra wife – if a Muslim maharajah he could not only have married an extra wife, but divorced the first one, too.

  But that was India; in Britain things were very different. Divorce was rare and shocking here, and only spoken of in hushed whispers – which was why I’d studied the entry dealing with it in Randall with interest. And so I knew that a man was only allowed to divorce his wife if she’d broken her marriage vows by committing adultery. Most unfairly, a woman wasn’t even allowed to do that; her husband could be committing adultery over and over again, but she couldn’t do anything about it unless she could prove he’d treated her with cruelty as well.

  So Horseface was married to Sybella for life. Which was only fair, since he’d promised to love and cherish her in sickness as well as in health. And he was; he just wasn’t forsaking all others and keeping only unto her. But how could he? When she didn’t even recognise him. Poor old Horseface.

  And I’d spoken to him the way I had; and hadn’t even told Mr Wilkins to thank him for the oranges. But at least I could put that right.

  One of the other patients sold me a stamp, Staff Nurse gave me a sheet of paper and an envelope and lent me a pencil. And I wrote to Lord Rothbury after tea.

  It wasn’t easy, especially as I hadn’t been able to borrow a rubber, but I managed to produce some sort of letter.

  ‘Dear Lord Rothbury,

  Thank you for sending Mr Wilkins with the oranges. The Sunday before I was taken ill Mr Parton was poorly, and couldn’t visit his cousin as usual, so Mrs Clark sent me down instead, with a parcel for her. When I got back again Mrs Clark told me who Mr Parton’s cousin was. I didn’t know before. If I had known I wouldn’t have said what I did when I visited you, because I think that you are being as loyal and honest and true as you are able.’

  I read it through, and realised I still hadn’t apologised, so I added,

  ‘I’m sorry I said what I did, because I think that under the circumstances, you’re entitled to break that one of the Ten Commandments.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eve Gunn.’

  Then I added, very faintly – too faintly for him to read – ‘Courtney’, because I felt rather hypocritical talking about being honest and true, and then not signing with my true name.

  When I handed the envelope to Staff Nurse for posting she glanced at the name on it and then blinked in surprise, so I told her hastily, ‘It’s a thank you letter.’

  She beamed. ‘How thoughtful of you, girlie – I’m sure he’ll pass your thanks on to the management committee.’ I was floundering – until she added, ‘Lord Rothbury takes such an active interest in our affairs – not all hospital presidents do, you know. But then, his late father was so well-known for his charitable activities, and the present Lord Rothbury follows his example.’ She bustled off.

  By the time I’d put my jaw back together again I was asleep. I was still so weak – even writing that letter had exhausted me.

  On Saturday a letter came for me. Or rather, an envelope, with his card inside. He’d scrawled on the back of it: ‘I have received your communication. Wilkins will come on the day of your discharge and escort you back to your lodgings. Rothbury.’

  Well, what else could I have expected?

  Chapter Forty

  It was curious; I’d been desperate to escape from the hospital, but when the afternoon finally arrived I was frightened of leaving. I’d got used to other people making all the decisions for me, and now I
felt too limp to make my own. Then Staff Nurse said, ‘Now when you get home, be sure and stay indoors for a week.’ Home! That dismal, lonely little attic room. ‘Ah, here’s the gentleman come to collect you.’

  I was actually grateful for Mr Wilkins’ proferred arm. Although I’d been up and walking round the ward my legs still seemed very weak, and by the time we reached the cab they were shaking. After telling Mr Wilkins the address I just collapsed on to the seat.

  The boarding house looked even more squalid than usual as I staggered up the steps to the front door, saying ‘Thank you, Mr Wilkins – I’ll be fine now.’ I rang the bell, and the harassed maid-of-all-work appeared. ‘I’ll go straight upstairs,’ I told her.

  ‘But Mrs Porter said—’ I took no notice; the landlady could jolly well come up herself if she wanted to speak to me. I reached my landing, opened my door – and for a moment I thought I was delirious again. The room was the same – yet different – somebody else’s clothes were hanging from the hooks.

  Mrs Porter had arrived puffing behind me. ‘Your trunk’s downstairs.’

  ‘But I paid two weeks in advance!’

  ‘That was three weeks ago – the room’s re-let.’ She seized my arm; I was frozen. Then suddenly I tore away from her, dashed over to the fireplace, wrenched up the loose board, scrabbled in the space beneath, and found my Bible box. But it was too light. I opened it – empty.

  ‘My money – where’s my money?’

  ‘I tell all my guests never to leave valuables in their rooms.’ Seizing my arm again she hustled me down the stairs – I was in a complete daze. In the grimy hall she informed me, ‘May’s put your trunk and bag out on the step.’ Thrusting me through the front door, she slammed it shut behind me. I looked down – my trunk and kari had vanished.

  I sagged, in total defeat. Then a hand took my elbow. ‘Your luggage is already on board – in you get.’ And I was back in the cab with Mr Wilkins. He didn’t speak, nor did I. I was beyond speech.