Walls of Silence

by Ruth Wade

  ‘None that I’m aware of, Edith; I’ve nothing to hide.’

  ‘Oh, I think you have.’

  Stephen’s hand reached up to his chin to pull at his beard. Edith wandered over to the window and looked out.

  ‘My father, Dr Gerald Potter, was an eminent neurologist – perhaps you’ve heard of him? I used to assist in the editing of his academic papers on shell-shock, so I’m not totally ignorant about all this.’

  ‘I never said you were.’

  ‘But you’re implying it in your very manner towards me.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I gave that impression; I certainly didn’t mean to.’

  ‘No you didn’t, did you?’ She turned to face him. ‘And that’s the mask you’ve got on: that of trying to be reasonable when all you really want to do is snap your fingers at me with irritation.’

  Stephen forced himself to hold her gaze. It was as if she were outmanoeuvring him with every change of her demeanour. One minute she was acting as though she was confused and disorientated, the next ... the next as if she was trying to trick him into being provoked. Who was the real Edith Potter? Not the woman he’d encountered in the asylum, certainly. That was a phase in her evolution. He wished he’d asked how she’d conducted herself in the village when he’d been there; subjective opinions had their uses, particularly in the absence of any of his own.

  ‘Will you agree to my coming to see you every Sunday to talk together as we’re doing now, and maybe exploring some ways in which I can help you? Because you’re not happy in yourself, Edith, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  A little-girl voice full of uncertainty, quite unlike the aggressive tone she’d begun to adopt.

  ‘If I refuse, will you send me back there?’

  So she did remember the asylum.

  ‘Whether you want to co-operate or not will have no bearing on where you live for the foreseeable future.’

  It was a lie, but what else could he say? She was unbending towards him a little at last.

  ‘I suppose I might as well then, as I’ve nothing better to do’

  She smiled. There wasn’t any merriment in it but it was a start.

  He stood up. ‘I’ll see you next week then. I’ll telephone Dr Hargreaves when I’ve sorted out my travel arrangements and he’ll let you know what time to expect me.’

  ‘And if I’m not here then I’ll be in a box up at the church; that’s all any of us here have to look forward to.’

  It made his heart shrink to see she wasn’t joking.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Edith woke to the smell of porridge. She was surprised to feel a lightness in her limbs. Her back wasn’t aching either. Perhaps the drugs were working; she’d eat everything they had put on the tray if they were going to make her feel this good. Besides, she was ravenous. She looked across at the pile of clothes on the chair. Where had they come from? Hadn’t she always worn long-sleeved dresses made of soft and floaty material that wouldn’t press too heavily on her skin? The blouses looked to be passable – gleaming white at least – but the matronly skirts were another matter altogether. When she’d done as she’d been told and put one on yesterday she’d felt as though she’d been auditioning for a part in amateur dramatics. He’d seemed pleased with her though. That she’d been willing to join in. Although he hadn’t demonstrated nearly as much effort and had obviously not gone to her London flat at all but picked this lot up in a tat shop. She’d put some of them on today in case he was watching her; the rest would need to be thoroughly boiled.

  After she’d had a cat-lick wash, changed, and eaten her breakfast, Edith set out on her mission to find the laundry. And whilst her mind had been on cleaning she’d decided that the poky bathroom could do with the application of a little soap and bleach. It wasn’t as if she was incapable of looking after herself, just that they hadn’t supplied her with the wherewithal. The moment she had determined how she was going to spend her day she’d known that the only trouble with her was that she was under-occupied; idle hands and all that ...

  *

  Edith walked up the path that meandered over the expanse of green towards the Hall. A blue van sat with its motor purring on the driveway near the tower; her journey from the world outside was fresh enough in her memory to make her glad she wasn’t sitting in the passenger seat. One of the frog-faced men waved at her. He was carrying a sack somewhere. She waved back. Before they’d let her move down to the cottage she’d hated to be paid any attention and had probably been quite rude. But once she’d realised her every interaction was being assessed by the Hargreaves and they would make judgements about her based on how well she socialised, she began to make an effort to be less cold.

  The rewards weren’t long in coming: Helen clearly appreciated having another woman living on the premises and began seeking her out for advice and support; they went to Firle Place to look at which upholstery fabrics the men should use on the chairs they were repairing; the next week visiting three local churches to see if it would be worthwhile offering a specialist service cleaning tapestries. Edith had no expertise to offer in either case but she had an eye for detail, and was able to calculate costs and profit margins in the time it took for Helen to finish discussing the niceties of colour-matching. A contract from Firle Place for re-springing and re-covering a half a dozen chaises longues resulted in her being invited for celebratory tea and cake in the Hargreaves’ flat. From then on she found herself thinking of Helen as an ally in the triumvirate of doctors who held her future in their hands. A flourishing of warmth which surprised her. She discovered qualities in some of the uglies as well which made them tolerable company; silence was one of the attributes she valued most. Although she’d made the mistake of allowing herself to be collared by one or two who’d talked as if delivering a wireless broadcast, but as that required her to give nothing in return she hadn’t minded so much. Besides, a modicum of social interaction would help pass the time until she was ready to pick up her old life again.

  Except would she ever get the chance to do so if someone was manoeuvring to take over her flat? It’d been the only thing that had stuck with her out of the encounter with Dr Maynard yesterday – apart from these terrible clothes – primarily because it had made her cross and the drugs didn’t allow for many fluctuations of mood. It wasn’t the biggest in the block but it did have the view across the park. Perhaps it was the flighty number who lived on the other side of the corridor, she’d always made of point of commenting on how nice it must be to look out on trees whenever she came to borrow – but never return or repay – milk, writing paper, her maroon leather belt, a cup of sugar. No doubt the brazen hussy would have made plans to throw out that beautiful rug she’d bought from the Oriental Bazaar in Theberton Street to make the place look homely. Perhaps she should manufacture a reason for Dr Maynard to go back there and whilst he was at it to have a word with the landlady about boxing up her things. She thought she had some books she’d like to rescue. And hadn’t she had a journal as a birthday present from the ginger-headed clerk so she could record her impressions of wartime London? It would be interesting to read that again.

  A gong sounded from up at the house. They’d be serving morning tea in fifteen minutes. Maybe she should stay up there after she’d finished her business with the laundry and have a cup; the cottage had been closing in on her lately with its poky rooms and dirty corners. A change is as good as a rest, so they say, and as that was what the doctor had ordered for her – why she was here convalescing – then she’d hasten her recovery by a dose of different surroundings. She increased her stride up the incline to join the cripples. The other cripples.

  *

  The house was buzzing with men’s voices. Edith stood in the hallway for a moment as she tried to remember her way to the kitchen. She’d been shown around when she’d first arrived but that seemed like years ago and her sense of direction hadn’t been particularly acute then. In fact none of her senses had. She was glad she’d left that p
hase behind; it was much more satisfying to have an awareness of time and space. To have an awareness of herself. She climbed the stairs. The lingering smell of cooked bacon led her to the large dining room on the first floor. Rows of tables were already laid for the midday meal with plates and cutlery – forks and spoons, no knives – and snowy-white napkins. She assumed they must get through an awful lot of those given the strange-shaped holes that passed for many of the men’s mouths.

  She retraced her steps and, once in the hallway, walked down to the far end. A passageway was secreted under the stairs with a short flight of stone steps leading into a semi-basement. A mangle with rollers the size of tree trunks stood in one corner, a pile of firewood in another. Sheets hung over a line rigged between two of the ceiling’s supporting pillars. A man was stirring a large copper with a sturdy pole. He was stripped to the waist, his back muscles gleaming with sweat. Edith almost wanted to stroke them; they looked as if they had enough power stored in their fibres to charge her like a battery. If she did then she’d be out of here tomorrow. But she didn’t want him to turn around and for his torn face to spoil the illusion of masculine perfection. The room was hot and steamy. On a bench under the open window sat pristine blocks of yellow soap. If she could help herself and leave then maybe the man would never notice her presence.

  She had crept halfway across the room when he reached to his side for something. He looked straight at her. Edith didn’t know which one of them was the more startled. His face was beautiful in its symmetry. She felt the heat in her cheeks intensify. Mumbling something about extra washing, she dropped the clothes on the nearest pile and darted back towards the door. But not before she’d tucked a block of soap into her skirt pocket.

  That glimpse of the unexpected had unsettled her and she sidled into the recreation room as she had done in the early days, taking her tea and crumpet from the trolley without looking at anyone. Never at ease with the thought of being caught with butter dribbling down her chin, she kept her head bent low over her lap as she ate, scrubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand when she’d finished. With the hollowness in her stomach taken care of, Edith slipped out of the armchair intending to make a start on the cleaning but a one-armed Cyclops thrust a white pawn into her hand and began pulling at her cardigan sleeve.

  It was pity rather than his insistence that made her sit at the chessboard; he rarely had anything other than an imaginary opponent because of his habit of wandering away mid-move. He would return eventually but then another eternity would have to pass before he would release his hold on the piece. Helen had told her his behaviour came from being scared to commit to anything in case he made the same mistake as he did in the trenches. A cast-iron logic Edith found impossible to fault. They’d played twice before and she’d enjoyed pitting her tactical wits against his. On this occasion, the game lasted for an hour and a half until the moment of her inevitable resignation came and she left to return to her cottage.

  The enforced concentration had exhausted her and she went upstairs for a lie down. But her mind refused to settle enough to doze off. Snippets of memories kept forcing their way in until up popped, with bright clarity, the day she’d bought her first wireless set. She saw herself fidgeting at her desk in the basement of the Ministry, rushing through the last of the files in order to be able to leave on time. Barely civil to the soldier on duty as he ticked his list of persons exiting the building, she had to run to catch the bus to Holborn. Gamages had always been her favourite department store and she knew the maze of rooms, steps, passages, and ramps well enough to take the side entrance in Leather Lane. Past the sporting goods, and camping equipment, and at last she was standing in front of a Ward & Goldstone Atlantic spark-transmitter unit. It was a month’s wages but such a thing of beauty she would’ve paid twice as much to have one. She began to tap the Morse key while she waited for the salesman to come over and show her the wireless catalogue.

  And then things warped a little. The message she remembered spelling out so precisely changed from:

  Hello. I’m writing this, Edith.

  To:

  Hello. I’m watching you. Edward.

  Perhaps this hadn’t been a memory at all but a dream. Except it couldn’t be because she could feel the tufted pattern of the bedspread under her calves, and hear the frantic buzzing of a bluebottle as it flew repeatedly up against the window. So she wasn’t awake, and she wasn’t asleep. What other states were there?

  *

  By the time her evening meal arrived, she had decided that her body was acclimatising to the drugs and the effects weren’t lasting as long. For example, her eyes had begun bothering her at about three o’clock each afternoon with everything changing shape whenever she tried to focus too hard. Drugs were the only explanation. She looked at the plate of egg and cheese salad and wondered where they were. The beetroot was the most likely in its pool of juice resembling blood. She turned her head away.

  ‘What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry? I’ll leave the cloth over it and you can eat later. Why don’t we take the chairs and sit outside for a bit? It’s a lovely evening; far too nice to waste indoors.’

  Edith watched as Helen took the two high-backed chairs and positioned them beside the front door where they would catch the last rays of the setting sun. Then Helen sat, her face raised to the sky and her eyes closed. Edith felt a spurt of annoyance at the way Dr Hargreaves, even in a moment of relaxation, couldn’t drop her profession’s habit of making you make the decision for yourself about whether or not to join in. She much preferred being ordered around as she had been by the warder in the other place because it removed so many possibilities of misjudgement. Of misreading. Of letting her guard down – always a dangerous option, and never more so than when surrounded by psychiatrists. But Helen didn’t look as if she was about to make the effort to winkle out secrets, so Edith tried to stop acting like someone in the grip of paranoia and pretend to act like someone for whom seeing out the day’s end in pleasant company came naturally.

  They sat in silence for what seemed like hours. But the slinking shadows hadn’t reached them yet so she knew it was her mind distorting reality again. She really shouldn’t be wishing her time away like that. What had happened to all those minutes, hours and days when they said she’d been insensible to the world? Were they stored up somewhere for her to spend wisely on something pleasurable? What could possibly come under that category in this life she now had to call her own? Sitting here, probably. So she had to make it count. To engage in conversation. Except she hadn’t a thought in her head worth saying. It was easy when they were talking over furnishing materials and costs per unit. But she’d never been one for idle chit-chat; being brought up in a house filled with near-silence had made her appreciate the value of not wasting words. The downside of which was not knowing how to go about talking meaningfully about nothing. If she found something to do then maybe the strain would lessen and a topic would come to her. She started tracing the patterns the closed-head daisies made in the grass.

  ‘Do you like it here, Edith?’

  A flutter of apprehension disturbed her concentration. How could she answer such a question truthfully without appearing ungrateful for the concern in Helen’s voice? It was somewhere to be ... and then somewhere to leave. The same as everywhere else. It occurred to Edith that maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was different. If the ridiculous saying, home is where the heart is, meant anything at all then perhaps this was home. Temporarily. Reluctantly. There was nowhere else she belonged any more or less, no one but the woman sitting beside her whose feelings she cared about enough not to hurt. Back to the tricky problem of choosing the right words. Except Helen wasn’t waiting for them, she was chattering away dreamily as if she’d never expected a response.

  ‘... it’s funny, isn’t it, how it always ends up being such a small world? I mean about Stephen. Him arranging for you to come here. Keeping up your treatment. I never thought to see him again, that our paths would re-cross. W
e went to medical school together – him, me, and Peter. The three of us were inseparable back then.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  This wasn’t so difficult after all. Mainly because she didn’t have to feign interest; Edith genuinely wanted to know what made the man tick. A case of know thine enemy perhaps; because Dr Maynard certainly didn’t – however often he kept saying his only aim was to help her – come into the category of friend.

  ‘Oh, God, if I met any of our younger selves now I’d want to stick our heads in a bucket of water. We were so full of ourselves. Thought we knew everything. Took the whole world so seriously because we didn’t know how to view certain aspects of life as a sick joke. That changed after the War, of course. Well, it did for us, and I’m assuming the same for Stephen. I hope so because he always found it almost physically painful to laugh at himself; it made him such an easy target to tease, and Peter was forever sharpening his wit in those days. Stephen would respond with such a bewildered puppy openness that I always took his side ... I probably shouldn’t tell you this but at one time I thought he might be the one I ended up marrying.’

  Edith looked up from her study of the daisies. Helen hadn’t moved from the languid pose she’d adopted when she’d first sat down. It was the longest Edith had ever seen her maintain an attitude of motionlessness. Normally Helen was fiddling with her hair or reaching out to touch something; she was a mass of restless energy. Edith could imagine someone as buttoned-up as Dr Maynard being attracted to her. For all her fidgety ways – which would’ve had Granny bringing her cane down hard on her knuckles – there was a calmness about her, a surety of purpose that was beguiling. But she couldn’t for the life of her see what would’ve made such an exceptional woman succumb to even a second’s temptation to settle for him. Perhaps copious amounts of alcohol had been involved.

  ‘Have you ever had too much of a good thing, Edith?’