by Anna Hope
HIS WORK HAD changed. With no warning, he and Dan had been moved. No longer digging graves, they were out in the fields instead.
The weather had softened; it still rained, but the cold had lessened now and the earth smelt damp, of stirring things. Daffodils were blooming in great clusters in the beds. He tried not to look at them as he passed. There was something about them, the way they pushed up from the earth, reaching out to the light. The blind hope of them. It made him uneasy, that was all.
To reach the farms, the men walked a path that ran from the chronic blocks between paddocks and a belt of woodland, where trees were coming into bud, their branches covered with a light furring of green. A large old oak marked the corner of this wood, and each time they passed it Dan would salute, as though it were a general or priest. The land was more open here, at the west of the grounds; with the wood behind, you could see the crop fields stretching ahead, giving way to pasture and then the low tussocky rise of the moor. The fields had been ploughed and harrowed and spread with dung, and the dung had been dug in, and now the men walked in lines for the planting, each with their share of seed to spread.
As a child in Ireland at this time of year, John had watched his parents sow, an apron tied around each of their waists, held and heavy with seed. He would watch each dip into the apron, each toss of the wrist, and pray the harvest would be good, that they would have enough. He did not pray to the Virgin, or to God, but to the earth, since it was clear the dark earth itself was the thing to wrangle with. But the earth was fickle, and though some years she was generous, often she was not, and did not respond to his mother’s cajolings, or his father’s hours bent in ministration to her sod.
Now, standing in a line with the other men, casting his seed to the ground, he prayed for nothing. Between digging holes for death and sowing life, he did not know to which he belonged.
He was called in to see Dr Fuller: a visit that was not in the ordinary way of things, since they were only seen every three months or so in the chronic wards.
‘Mr Mulligan!’ The man’s arms were open and he was smiling. ‘Do sit down.’ The doctor looked over to the window, where the rain had begun a fresh, battering assault. ‘I expect you’re used to it.’ He gave a brief grimace. ‘Coming from Ireland and all that. How are the natives this morning? Restless?’
‘Restless enough,’ said John, taking his seat.
‘You’ve finished the planting now?’
‘Aye.’
‘And you’re … enjoying your work in the fields?’ The man looked eager. He had the big book open in front of him, the one they wrote everything in, and John could see his own photograph, upside down. He remembered when that picture was taken: the first day he arrived. They had held him on a chair while a light exploded in his face, and it had felt like the end of the world.
‘Now, ah, Mr Mulligan.’ Fuller tapped his pencil on the dark wood of the desk. ‘There has been some … disquiet … about the incident with James Brandt.’ He put the pencil down flat. He seemed nervous. It made the air strange. ‘Would you like to smoke? I’m going to smoke. You’re welcome to join me if you like.’
John pulled a twist of shag and paper from his pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. Fuller lit a match and the smell of sulphur filled the room.
‘Here.’
John leant to his flame. The doctor’s fingernails were clipped and clean. A sharp smell of soap hung about his hands. Fuller shook out the match and it fell with a clatter into the ashtray. He sat back, puffing on his pipe, and pulled a single sheet of paper towards him.
‘According to Mr Brandt,’ he read, ‘If he had not been stopped in the act, John Mulligan would have strangled me.’ The doctor looked up, an eyebrow raised. ‘Is this so?’
John felt it again – the twist of the shirt, the man’s face changing – as though his own darkness might swallow him.
He had wanted to do it.
Fuller frowned. ‘I’m sure you realize this is a very serious allegation?’ He put down the paper and leant forward. ‘Mr Mulligan, between you, me and these four walls, James Brandt is as nasty a piece of work as we have here, and I’m sure whatever occurred was not unprovoked. But when anyone makes a complaint, we must take it seriously.’ He opened his hands. ‘So here I am. Taking it seriously.’ He hooked his pipe between his teeth and smiled.
Something in that smile made John think of the music. The doctor’s face when he had opened his eyes. As though they had shared something. As though he had been seen. He wanted to share nothing with this man.
‘Mr Mulligan, I would like to help you, but I cannot do so unless you also want to help yourself. Do you see? And to that end, I really cannot stress enough how important it is that you try to talk.’
When John stayed silent Fuller brought his hands to the table and looked at them, frowning now, as though the answers to his questions might lie in his knuckles or his wrists. Then he looked up, saying in a softer voice, ‘I read your notes recently, Mr Mulligan. I was interested to learn more about your case. I read about your … tragedy.’ His eyes were wide and slightly watery.
John took a long, slow drag of his cigarette.
‘But to speak the truth, Mr Mulligan, I was a little surprised.’ Fuller smoothed his moustache. ‘I understand that life can … mark us. But you are a fine, strong man. Tell me, how did you let yourself be so cast down? Hmm? Don’t you think the world needs fine strong men in it?’
Smoke hazed the air between them.
‘All right, Mr Mulligan.’ Fuller sighed. ‘Since you’re here, I might as well give you your examination now. It’ll save time later in the wards.’ He stood and crossed around his desk, so he was leaning against it and John’s eyes were level with his waist, where the doctor’s stomach bulged slightly over his belt and seemed to pulse with the beating of his heart. ‘Tongue.’
John put out his tongue. Fuller nodded, then leant forward and placed his fingers either side of his neck, pushing slightly into the skin, before, ‘Take off your shirt, Mr Mulligan,’ he said, his voice low, as though he did not want to be overheard.
John shrugged off his jacket, then unbuttoned his waistcoat and overshirt and pulled them off until he was sitting in his vest.
‘You might as well take that off too.’ Fuller gestured to the vest. ‘I’ll need to listen to your lungs.’
John did so. There was a short silence in which he caught Fuller’s gaze – saw a look there, the same he had seen on farmers back home when the cattle were brought into the ring, before the doctor turned and fiddled with his stethoscope, looping it over his ears and sliding the cold metal round on to John’s flesh. The man was close now. John could see the hairs on his skin, a thin pasting of sweat over the bridge of his nose, the nostrils of which flared with his breath. A faint trace of yellow stained the edges of his moustache. Outside, the weather had changed. The rain had stopped and a bright sun shone through the clouds.
‘Good,’ Fuller murmured. ‘Very good. You really are in perfect health.’ He straightened up and moved behind. John closed his eyes, feeling the sun on his lids, the beating of his heart against the skin-warmed disc that Fuller held to his back. ‘I should like to see you at one of our dances, Mr Mulligan,’ came the doctor’s voice.
A clenching in him. John opened his eyes. ‘No.’
‘Excuse me?’ The stethoscope was jerked away.
‘I won’t go there. No.’
There was a small, incredulous laugh from the doctor as he moved back to face him. ‘You seem a little unsure of your status here, Mr Mulligan. You are a patient. I am a doctor. I am inviting you to attend the dance for your own good. The invitation could easily be an order. Would you prefer that? Besides.’ He frowned, moving back to his side of the desk and packing his instrument away. ‘I wouldn’t want to revoke any of your privileges. I certainly wouldn’t want to see you confined to the day room for the duration of the summer.’ He snapped shut his case. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like that much, would you,
Mr Mulligan?’
John was silent. What could he say? That this not going was the only choice he had left?
‘Mr Mulligan?’
‘No.’ He pushed his cigarette out in the ashtray with his thumb.
‘No. Good. Well, I’m glad we can agree on that at least.’
Fuller bowed his head, began writing in his book. ‘Thank you, Mr Mulligan.’ He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘That will be all.’
But when John stood, Fuller was looking up at him again – the sort of look people have when they think they’ve done you a favour. The sort of look Annie would have towards the end, if she condescended to look at you at all.
He knew what was required. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Fuller’s face softened. He was eager again now. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Mulligan. Quite all right. Do you know, I think, perhaps, you might surprise yourself. Who knows, you might even enjoy it.’ The doctor grinned. ‘I only hope our little band will not disappoint.’
He stared at his face in the speckled washroom mirror.
Another dance then.
There was a time when dancing had been easy enough: on summer Friday evenings, when the cows had been brought back into their byres, when he would drag an old bucket from the stream and wash at the back. Change his shirt and walk the few miles to Claremorris with his friends, elbowing and pushing each other along the road, faces eager and smooth and awkward, their shadows long behind them in the evening light.
There was a hall there, plenty of fine musicians, and they would dance polkas and lancers and reels until they were footsore, and all the talk was of America, and who was going, who had gone, and who was coming back. There were plenty of women too, younger women, those that had not gone yet to America, or were too shy to go, and some of them lovely enough.
Plenty of times he stood outside with one or other of them and felt the low, leaping pull of desire. And when they yielded and pressed themselves against him he knew he might easily do more. But he did not. Because to do more was to be caught. And he was good, in those days, at not being caught. Good at leaving. Good at walking far.
But here he was, on Friday night, getting ready with the rest of the poor eejits in the washing shed.
He cast up his eyes to meet his reflection.
It had been a long while since he had looked in a glass.
It was a wary face he had on him. As though its owner might punch you if you looked at him the wrong way.
Ella
IN THE WASHROOM, Ella scrubbed her face in the sink and wet her hair so it would stay in place. She avoided her gaze in the mirror though. Didn’t do anything to don herself up.
It had happened that morning: in amongst the rattle of the other names the Irish nurse read out, there it was, ‘Ella Fay’. She had spent the day framelled and clumsy, her mind far away from her work.
At half past six, all the women were made to line up, two by two like in recreation. Ella stood beside Clem, and Clem’s cheeks were red, and there was excitement in her eyes. ‘Ready to dance then?’ she said.
‘Does everyone have to dance?’ She hadn’t thought of that.
They walked in a long line through the corridors, and this time there was no locking and unlocking of doors; they had all been flung open one after the other, all the way along, so you could see right through to the end.
The noise grew as they walked, as more women came out from their wards and joined the march, till it seemed to crest ahead of them and curve back again, a great rolling wave of sound.
‘Keep to the side,’ the Irish nurse screeched, stalking up and down the line. ‘Keep to the side! I don’t want anyone out of the line.’
They were held waiting in the corridor while the women before them went inside. And when it was their turn, Ella’s breath caught as she passed through the double doors. The room was the size of two of the spinning floors at the mill at least – there were windows, but they were high and set with coloured glass like you might find in a church. There would be no way of reaching them. Arching above their heads, the ceiling was painted brown and gold.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Clem touched her arm. ‘Have you seen the stage?’ She pointed to the other end of the room, where a group of musicians sat. The doctor was up there in the middle of them all, a violin tucked under his arm. As they watched, he lifted it and placed it beneath his chin, drawing his bow over the strings. The crowds cleared, and on the other side of the room the men were revealed. Hundreds of them. At first they were just a black, gawping, smoking mass, until one in the front row, a small man with red hair, stood up and shouted something across at the women, then put his hand inside his trousers and started jiggling away. An attendant came and smacked him on the arm, then carted him off. There were howls and jeers from some of the other men.
Clem rolled her eyes. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we can sit over here,’ and she began making her way over to the benches at the front.
‘No. I … I think I’ll just … go further back.’
Ella slipped away through the crowd until she found a seat close to the very back of the room, near where a fire was lit in a huge fireplace. Odd snatches of melody floated down from the stage. Close to the front, Old Germany was already up, clapping her hands like a girl.
The nurses were dragging people to their feet now. Ella saw Clem making her way towards the middle of the floor. She was easy to spot, so much taller and straighter-backed than anyone else. Men were bunching, jostling, hustling to be picked to dance with her, but Clem seemed unaware; she kept throwing glances up at the stage. She seemed to be looking at the doctor, but the doctor wasn’t looking back; instead his eyes raked the crowd, he seemed to be searching for someone in particular – until his gaze landed on a man sitting almost opposite to Ella in the back corner of the room.
Ella leant forward. It was dark over where he sat, but she felt a jolt pass through her at the sight of him: it was the man who had been there when she ran; the one who came towards her, who had tried to help her. The one she spat at. This man had not seen her though; he was sitting, smoking, staring at the ground.
A strange sound started up, a low drumming. At first, she couldn’t light on what it was, until it grew faster, and louder, and she understood: it was the men, beating with their boots on the floor. Something stirred in the pit of her stomach. It was wild in here. Dangerous. Anything might occur.
The nurses clapped their hands for quiet, as up on the stage the doctor and the other musicians lifted their instruments to play. The music began, a slow melody, and the couples began to move, forward and back, bumping into each other, most of them mazzled by the music and the steps. Some people were moving well though: Old Germany for one, dancing with a man in a blue tie. She had her eyes closed as she moved, the lilt of the music was in her, and from this distance her body could have been that of a girl.
Ella searched for the dark man again, craning to see him through the forest of dancers. He was still there, sitting in the corner, smoking his cigarette in slow, deliberate drags.
As the music came to an end, there was a tap on her shoulder. ‘Your turn.’ She turned to see one of the nurses speaking, a young, pleasant-faced woman, someone she had not seen before. ‘Everyone must take their turn on the floor.’
‘But I … can’t dance. I don’t know how.’
‘Go on,’ the woman said with a smile. ‘Go and find yourself a partner. It’s not so bad as all that. I promise.’
And so she stood, threading her way out towards the dance floor. The first person she came to was a pale, fluthering boy.
‘Do you dance?’ he stuttered.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I don’t know how to either,’ he said, and, stricken, stared down at the floor.
The music started up, and the two of them were pushed and jostled towards each other.
‘Here.’ She reached out and took his trembling hands in hers. ‘It can’t be so hard, can it?’
But it was ha
rd enough. Shoving each other round, trying not to bump into anyone else. As soon as the music was done, Ella pulled herself away from the lad’s clammy grip and began making her way back to the women’s seats when someone caught her wrist.
‘My dona! My Spanish queen!’
The man’s face was brown and creased, and his hair stuck up all around his head. ‘Done much running lately?’
She remembered then. He had been there too.
He pulled her hands up into his. ‘I loved to watch you run,’ he said, as his smell enveloped her: sweat and meat and earth.
‘Don’t worry, lass,’ he said in her ear. ‘This is a fast one, but you can just follow me.’
And when the music started, a rapid, kicking rhythm, he threw back his throat and hollered, half pulling, half dragging her around the floor.
By the time the music had finished she was breathless, limbs pulled and feet sore, but the big man didn’t let go of her hands. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Come and meet mio Capitane.’
The man’s grip was strong, and she had no choice but to follow in his wake, back across the hall, away from the musicians, over to the far corner of the room, where the big man put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, and the man sitting in the corner looked up.
She twisted against the big man’s arm. She didn’t want to have to dance with this other man. Didn’t want this man thinking it was she who wished to disturb him, or that she had asked for this. She wanted to go back to her seat and count the doors and think of slipping through them, down those corridors and away.
The big man loosened his grip, and she shifted but he caught her, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. ‘Now, now, my queen,’ he said, in a low, coaxing voice. ‘I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want, but we all have to dance. Even my old chavo over there.’
The dark man was on his feet now, making his slow way out through the lines. She saw him properly then: he was older than her but still young. A beard shadowed his chin. As he came close, his eyes searched hers and she looked away. His face. The way he had come to help her, hand outstretched. The way she had shouted at him, spat at his feet.