Months in the hospital had opened Grace’s eyes. She had been brought face to face with the things she had been raised to believe were sins. Things that a nice girl from a good family should never even have heard of. There were syphilitics and unwed mothers, unwanted pregnancies that had ended in botched attempts at abortion with disastrous consequences for both mother and babe. There were men who’d been fighting and men who’d been caught in the machinery at the button factory. There were children who slept ten to a bed in their home and who came in with limbs deformed by rickets, the bowed stomachs and empty eyes of malnutrition. There was the baby who died of pneumonia because the parents couldn’t afford the fare to take him to hospital in time, and the pale, doomed tuberculosis sufferers who lay in their beds on the terraces outside the general wards. So much suffering. So many deaths. As Grace strapped poultices to chests and washed out wounds, she’d begun to feel the tiniest shift.
Everything and everyone had told her that her misfortune was her fault, brought about by her own sluttish ways or the fact that she’d been over-friendly and, however inadvertently, ‘given him the wrong idea’. The terrible thing that had happened was a result of her error, and the chastisement her father had imposed – while painful – had been for her own good. The only thing, really, he could do in the face of such a bad daughter.
Now, Grace wasn’t so sure. When she nursed a woman who had clearly been punched several times in the head by her stocky and mean-looking husband, she felt that perhaps the fault didn’t – couldn’t – lie entirely at her feet.
Instead of going home to see her parents, she borrowed Evie’s bicycle and a tent from Barnes’s brother and spent the days riding along the coast and out into the countryside. She was strong from long days spent on her feet, and as her legs pumped the pedals and the air rushed through her hair, she felt the wings of happiness beating.
She found a nice spot to pitch her tent and lay quiet and perfectly alone, listening to the night creatures and the wind. She cried a little, but not as much as she had expected, and she didn’t let herself think about going back to the wards, or worry about whether Dr Palmer would be there when she got back. Matron had said she would take care of things and Grace’s belief in her power was absolute. If Matron said something would be so, then so it would be.
Best of all, Grace used a mirror in a public bathroom and gathered the courage to look at her back. The shadow had gone. She twisted from side to side, checking and rechecking, but it was true. There was no mark. It was as if the shadow had never been there in the first place.
Barnes and Evie welcomed Grace back as if she’d been gone a month. Evie kissing her extravagantly on each cheek and Barnes, for her part, shuffling forwards to press a bar of chocolate into Grace’s hand.
‘He’s gone,’ Barnes said. ‘A hospital up York way, I think.’
‘Good riddance,’ Evie said.
‘Poor York,’ Grace said. She pictured the nurses there, girls like herself and Evie and Barnes, and Palmer stalking the corridors, his long fingers reaching out to touch them. But what could she do?
As if reading her mind, Evie patted her hand. ‘You can’t save everyone, Gracie. We can only look after our own hospital. York will have to look after themselves.’
‘I suppose,’ Grace said.
‘If it makes you feel better, you’re a good nurse,’ Evie said.
‘Thank you,’ Grace said, snapping the bar and sharing it around.
‘I never liked him,’ Barnes said, her mouth full of chocolate.
Evie caught Grace’s eye, and raised a brow.
Grace felt herself smiling and knew that the smile went right through her like lettering on a rock. Evie was right, she was only one nurse. She could look after her own hospital, her own patients, her own girls.
Before she went back on shift, Grace opened the book from Thomas. There was a piece of paper with his telephone number tucked at the back; something she had ignored, but hadn’t quite felt able to throw away. She took the paper and went to the red telephone box at the end of the road. Her heart was hammering as she waited for him to answer and she almost lost her nerve.
‘Hullo,’ Thomas said, after what had felt like an age. ‘I’m awfully glad you rang.’ She could hear the smile in his voice.
‘I wanted to thank you for the book.’
‘I’ve got another one you might enjoy,’ he said. ‘The new Wodehouse. It’s not a nice edition like the other, but—’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Grace said. There was a pause and she wasn’t sure what to say next. She willed Thomas to fill in the silence, but the pause stretched on.
There was the sound of him clearing his throat and Grace wondered whether he was as nervous as she was.
‘Um,’ he managed. ‘Are you well?’
Be Evie, Grace thought. What would Evie do? ‘You can take me for tea, if you like. I finish at lunchtime on Saturday.’
‘Splendid.’ The relief in his voice was clear. ‘I’ll even throw in a cream cake . . . not literally throw, of course. I mean . . .’
‘That sounds lovely,’ Grace said. She walked back to the hospital in a dream.
The following night, tidying their little room before one of the assistant matron’s routine inspections, Grace realised that she thought of it as home. She pulled the blankets straight on her bed and tucked her hairbrush and comb into a drawer. Evie was humming a Cole Porter tune under her breath and, although humming usually drove Grace to distraction, she found she didn’t mind in the least. ‘I never asked,’ Grace realised. ‘Your big night out with Robert. How did it go?’
Evie’s mouth turned down. ‘Oh, that.’ She waved a hand airily. ‘Nothing to report.’
Grace stepped in front of her; she felt daring enough these days. A new confidence boosted her so that she felt more of an equal to Evie, even though she’d never be as elegant or as clever. ‘It’s me,’ she said, looking into her friend’s eyes. ‘What happened?’
Evie turned away, picked up an earring from the dressing table and fiddled with it. ‘He says he won’t marry me. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Why not yet? Money trouble?’
Evie gave a short laugh. ‘Sort of. He says there’s going to be a war.’
‘Oh, he’s not on about those blackshirts again, is he? They’ve been banned, haven’t they?’
‘At least he isn’t one of them, I was starting to worry—’ Evie broke off. She shook her head. ‘Vile people. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
Grace was amazed. She’d never thought of Evie as worrying about anything.
‘But he has a mother, you see,’ her friend said. ‘No father. And if Robert marries then she won’t get his RAF pension.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘If he is killed.’
‘Oh.’
‘Indeed,’ Evie said. ‘If he’s killed while serving then as things stand his pension goes to his mother; if he’s married it would go to his wife. And Robert says he can’t let that happen. He wouldn’t leave her in penury. It’s very noble of him, really.’
‘But wouldn’t you look after his mother? I mean, in those circumstances.’
‘I don’t think he sees me as the caring type. Not when it comes to a mother-in-law.’
‘Well, more fool him,’ Grace said. ‘You’re splendid.’
‘Thank you, darling,’ Evie said. ‘But he’s right. I’m not much for family.’
‘Well, there won’t be a war and then he can marry you, it’s simple enough.’
‘Perhaps,’ Evie said. ‘But he might’ve missed his chance.’ She smiled. ‘I shall go out tonight and dance with whomever I please.’
‘I might come, too,’ Grace said. Perhaps Thomas would be there. She pictured his smile and imagined his hand on her waist.
Evie mimed a fainting fit. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, violently fanning her face with one hand, ‘I thought you said you were going to the dance?’
‘I shall,’ Grace said. ‘There’s no n
eed to make such a fuss.’
‘Well, this is a very queer day. Robert didn’t present me with an enormous diamond ring and you’re volunteering to have some fun.’
Grace shoved Evie in the arm and Evie pushed her in return and they both fell on the bed, tickling one another and laughing. Grace had a coughing fit and Evie pounded her on the back until she could breathe, and then they looked at each other’s tear-stained faces and began laughing all over again.
MINA
Mark was chatting as we locked up and got back into the car, but he fell silent as we drove. There was tension between us. A history of intimacy and a strange distance.
We were taking the wide road that ran along the seafront and I was staring hungrily at the blue-grey expanse, so I didn’t notice the street until we’d turned into it, away from the water. The house looked even more beautiful than it had done in the photos. I realised that my cynical brain had filled in all kinds of extra details – broken-down houses to either side, a drug-addicts’ hostel across the road, a rubbish-filled garden that had been cunningly cut off by the estate agent when he took the snaps. There was none of that. Just beautiful houses with neat front gardens and freshly painted black railings. Clean steps led up from the pavement to front doors with polished brass fittings.
Mark was shifting from foot to foot, impatient to get inside, but I stood on the pavement and looked up and down the street. It didn’t disappear, so I took the steps, leaning on him a little and trying not to feel like an invalid in a Victorian melodrama.
The entrance hall was wide, with white walls and a wooden floor. The light from the window above the door cast patterns on to the oak and the stairs were covered in beige wool carpeting. Everything was tasteful and expensive-looking.
‘That’s the old dining room, I thought I’d use it as a study,’ Mark said, pointing to the right, ‘and this is the living room.’
I didn’t walk through the door he was pointing to. I knew the room beyond it would be perfect and that I’d want it, the same way that I wanted the green-blue front door and the beautifully restored sash windows.
‘Wait until you see this . . .’ Mark was still talking. I walked with him down the hallway and into a big kitchen. It had a table and chairs at one end and French doors through which I could see green lawn and a thick hedge. ‘I think I need to sit down,’ I said.
‘Of course.’ He was instantly attentive, pulling out a chair from the table.
‘May I have a glass of water?’ I said. Then: ‘Do we have glasses?’
Mark’s smile burst out again. ‘Look.’ He began opening cabinet doors, displaying glassware, plates, mugs, bowls.
‘It’s all white,’ I said, wildly grateful that something wasn’t perfect. ‘Like a rental property.’
He shrugged. ‘You can choose whatever you like. Once you’re well again.’
I didn’t say anything. Just concentrated on feeling something appropriate. My partner was showing me a beautiful house. It was my new home. I should be grateful. Excited.
‘There are four bedrooms. The fourth is tiny, really, but it’ll do as a study. Or a nursery.’
I looked up. ‘A what?’
‘Oh, come on, Mina,’ Mark said. ‘We don’t need a house this size for the two of us. You were looking for a family home. I found us a family home.’ He looked suddenly angry. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that, too.’
‘Show me the garden,’ I said, hoping to avoid an argument. The fear was back again. The edge in his raised voice had felt like a slap. When had I become so delicate?
Mark’s face cleared and he unlocked the French doors.
I walked into the sunshine, feeling its warmth and willing it to banish the cold that ran through me. I wished I’d answered the phone to Parveen, that I’d accepted her offer to take me home. The lawn was overgrown but there were borders that had obviously been well tended and a conifer at the end, which shielded them from the house behind. I tilted my face to the sun and closed my eyes. Without thinking, I slipped a hand into the pocket of my hoodie. My fingers wrapped around something squishy but textured. I ran my thumb over it, feeling the napped surface of the fabric until the pieces clicked into place and realised that it was Rabbity.
Mark took my other hand and was squeezing my fingers; his thumb stroked my palm and I wanted to pull away. I opened my eyes and looked around. ‘It’s lovely. Shall we look upstairs?’
Mark looked pleased. Like I’d suggested we should shag. Which, I realised with a horrible sinking feeling, he could well be thinking. We had bought a house. He had bought a house. For us. I wasn’t in hospital any more. I was, medically speaking, well enough for sex.
He led the way and, as soon as his back was turned, I pulled Rabbity out of my pocket. I didn’t remember putting the toy there. Mark had packed my stuff while I dressed. I regarded Rabbity. He lay in my hand, a remnant from my distant past.
Inside I gripped the rabbit in one hand and the banister with the other. The bedrooms were light and bright and spacious. The fourth room was tiny, as I’d been warned, but I could see a little desk in there with my laptop or a comfy armchair and a pile of books. The narrow window looked out on to the garden.
I didn’t want to go into the master bedroom, after my recent realisation. I didn’t want to confront the way I felt. I didn’t want to be near Mark, much less naked with him.
I stood in the doorway to the room, looking at the bed that seemed to be growing in size and importance as Mark walked around the room pointing out features.
Rabbity felt both soft and rough against my fingertips. I was gripping him so hard that my hand had begun to hurt.
‘There’s lots of space in the triple wardrobe,’ Mark said. ‘But we can always get a double, too, if we need one. There’s plenty of room.’
I held Rabbity up to my face and inhaled, trying to shake the feeling that my old soft toy was here to tell me something. I had to stop expecting things to be looking out for me. Geraint had looked out for me but he was dead. The ghost-birds seemed to have gone and the ghost-nurse in the hospital was a figment of my imagination, brought on by my reading too much local history and suffering a head injury. I had to accept that I was alone. Completely and utterly alone.
Rabbity’s right ear was folded down, producing a quizzical appearance. His remaining eye bored into me with an intensity that was surprising in a soft toy. I knew that Mark had been with me when I’d crashed the car. I knew that I had been driving, though. Not only had the emergency services cut me out of the driver’s side, but I remembered it. I could feel the steering wheel in my hands, see the rain-soaked windscreen, feel the vibrations of the engine.
‘Meen?’ Mark was still waiting.
‘Don’t call me that,’ I said, playing for time. The words made something catch hold. Another click. A cog turned in my mind, locked into place and, suddenly, I knew. ‘We broke up.’
Mark looked serious. ‘Once. Ages ago.’
‘No,’ I said, the feeling of certainty already slipping away. ‘Before the accident. That day. We argued and—’
‘We argued.’ Mark nodded. ‘One of our humdingers, but we didn’t break up. That’s crazy.’
I frowned, trying to hold on to the memory. It had been so bright and clear a moment ago. ‘But we did. We argued and we broke up. You left. You went drinking and then—’ I faltered. I could see Mark as a white blurry shape, standing in the garden of my flat outside the French doors. The French doors that were like an older, scabbier version of the ones in this new and shiny house.
Mark plucked Rabbity out of my grasp and took hold of my hands. He stared deep into my eyes. ‘Try to hold on to reality, Mina. Stay with me.’
‘What?’
‘You know what Dr Kanthe said. You are going to struggle to adjust. Your memories are still very scrambled and then there’s false memory syndrome, post-traumatic stress disorder, cognitive impairment—’
I couldn’t stand to meet his eyes, focused on his forehea
d instead. On the lines that crossed his skin, on the place where his hairline met his face.
‘I love you,’ Mark was saying. ‘We’re finally in a good place. We can put the past behind us.’ He was pulling on my hand, gently leading me into the room and towards the bed.
I walked with him while my mind whirled. ‘But we broke up. I finished things, I . . .’ I stopped talking. I had been going to say ‘I was relieved’ but that was cruel.
‘We didn’t,’ he said, fierce now. ‘You have to stop saying these things. You’ll ruin everything.’
There was a siskin on his shoulder and I felt a rush of joy at the sight. I felt like something I had lost had come back to me and, as I focused on the little yellow bird, the memory came back, sharp and clear. I remembered that I saw a siskin on the morning of the accident, the first ghost-bird I’d seen since Geraint’s suicide. I remembered the argument. I remembered that I broke up with Mark then. I knew that I didn’t love him before the accident either. That I had never actually loved him. I knew it in every part of me, in every cell. The strange feelings of detachment and irritation weren’t symptoms at all.
I moved back and his grip tightened. Suddenly I was afraid. I knew that something bad had happened in the car. The feel of his hand gripping my arm brought it back. It was as if Mark remembered it, too, at the same moment. Our eyes locked.
After a pause in which my relief at remembering something so completely was replaced by both sadness and panic, Mark’s eyes widened slightly. His expression softened and his grip relaxed enough for me to step away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, apparently determined to close the door on our discussion. ‘Did I hurt you?’
In the Light of What We See Page 26