Two Women

by Martina Cole

  She couldn’t even kill herself properly.

  A nurse, a pretty Irish girl with big blue eyes and shocking red hair, popped her head around the door.

  ‘A cup of tea, my little love? Or a drink of water perhaps?’

  Wendy smiled wanly, her face so sad the nurse felt depressed just looking at her. She came into the room and sat on the bed. She smiled widely and professionally.

  ‘Come on, give me a bit of chat, I’m mad to talk to someone nearer me own age. Jesus knows but the English are reticent and the ward sister’s a bitch in a dress.’

  Wendy did smile now, a sad smile.

  ‘Will they send me back to the home soon?’

  The nurse shrugged.

  ‘Sure, how would I know? They tell me nothing while I’m training.’

  She pushed Wendy’s long thick dark hair from her brow.

  ‘Would you look at that hair? Jesus, I’d give all me wages for hair like that. It’s gorgeous. I bet it attracts the fellas, eh?’

  She realised she’d said the wrong thing by the look of utter contempt on the young girl’s face. Wendy pulled away from her and said heavily, ‘I don’t want to attract fellas, thank you. I just want to be left in peace.’

  ‘Come away out of that, would you? That’s why we’re all here. You’ll feel differently soon, believe me. Is that what made you . . . you know?’

  She was genuinely interested and Wendy saw a young girl like herself, trying to fit into the grown-up world and at a loss as to how to do it. She didn’t answer her and they sat in silence together.

  ‘We all get experience one day, I suppose. You have to. Have to learn it all.’

  The girl’s voice was low, she was trying so hard to be friendly.

  ‘I know too much already and I don’t want to fit in. Not any more.’

  Wendy’s voice was so desolate the young nurse felt saddened to the core.

  ‘Ah, don’t be letting yourself get depressed again. Life’s a big present from God but what you do with it is up to you. You get one crack at it, it’s not a dress rehearsal as me mother used to say. Six months from now you’ll be wondering what the feck you were so worried about.’

  Wendy smiled at her jovial voice. If only she could be like this little person with her starched uniform and sensible shoes.

  ‘Six months from now all my problems will still be there, and they’ll be worse not better. Believe me, I know.’

  Rosie would be gone for ever by then.

  Little Rosie, everyone’s pride and joy.

  ‘You can’t say that for definite. Everything changes. Everything has to change. Sure, that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Making things happen, making things change.’

  Wendy looked into the girl’s pretty freckled face and sighed heavily.

  ‘I think I will have a cup of tea now.’

  The nurse jumped from the bed and grinned.

  ‘I’m Orla by the way. Orla O’Halloran.’

  Wendy smiled. ‘I’m Wendy Dalston.’

  Orla laughed loudly.

  ‘Sure, don’t I already know your name, child? It’s above the bed.’

  She skipped merrily from the room and Wendy lay back against the cool pillows and was half sorry and half pleased the exuberant girl had gone.

  Happy people, she decided, wore you out.

  And she felt worn out inside and out, as if she had lived a hundred years already.

  Geraldine was in her office going through Susan Dalston’s case file and the reading was heavy. As she looked through the witness statements and police reports she was growing angry. She could see all too clearly that the police had accepted Susan’s story without once questioning it. It was full of contradictions, had enough holes in it to make it practically inadmissible. But she also knew that these men who had visited the woman’s house on numerous occasions, who knew the treatment she had suffered at the victim’s hands, were just out for an easy conviction. Short and sweet. Barry had battered Susan five days before and she had decided to kill him after a night out in a local pub where she had, quote, ‘had a great night’. If she was in such a good mood, why did she decide that night of all nights to hammer her husband’s head until it was gone? Until there was nothing left but bone and brain.

  The coroner’s report stated he had been hit viciously and repeatedly. The first few blows had killed him, it decreed in its wisdom. So why did she carry on with the attack which they estimated must have taken at least fifteen minutes?

  Now Geraldine knew about the daughter she understood a lot more than they had, obviously. But at the same time it still seemed so extreme. Even knowing what he had done to Wendy, it seemed extreme. It was as if Susan Dalston had wanted to obliterate every trace of Barry Dalston. Wanted to take his face away.

  She pulled out the psychiatrists’ reports. Each one stated that Susan was sane and of sound mind during the event.

  Susan herself claimed she was sane and of sound mind when she did it. In fact, she went on to say, ‘I would do it again if I had the chance.’

  Why had she never tried to defend her actions?

  The girl was raped by her own father. In fact he had given her herpes which could easily be established before a court. Susan’s not wanting people to know about the rape was understandable. No woman would want their child to have to live with the stigma of that. But the girl should have had treatment, surely Susan should have seen that much? That Wendy needed counselling. Help to cope with a rape and her mother’s actions after that rape. Surely Susan Dalston didn’t think the girl was going to get better by herself? On top of all that the father had given the girl a disease she would keep all her life. Susan Dalston, as the girl’s mother, should have realised that at some point all that trauma would eventually tell on Wendy in some way.

  Did she really believe it was better for the girl to pretend it had never happened? That she would cope without her mother. That her other children would cope without her. A woman who was, by all accounts, a good and caring mother who worshipped her children and had brought them up as fine individuals even though she’d lived with a man who treated her like a dog.

  None of it added up.

  There had to be something else going on, a deeper reason, and until Geraldine found out what that reason was she knew Susan Dalston would rot in jail.

  In court it had been made to sound as if Barry Dalston, albeit a wife beater and one-time thug, had got drunk and while lying innocently in bed had been murdered in cold blood by his own wife.

  A woman who was overweight, unattractive, and looked like a murderess. Looked the sort who would kill her husband on a whim.

  And Susan Dalston had done all in her power to perpetuate that myth. The newspaper photos showed a hard-faced woman sneering at the camera. In court she had laughed out loud as they’d talked about her husband’s life. How he was a likeable rogue. A basically decent man who was dragged down by his lifestyle. His lack of education. Who came home to his family and was murdered viciously by a monster.

  Susan had never once tried in her own defence to argue that he was any different. That he had systematically abused her, beaten babies from her belly and tortured her with his fists and words. A man who’d left her short of everything from affection to money. A man who slept around and even had a long-running affair with an ex-prostitute who miraculously became his wife’s friend and mentor.

  Roselle had told Geraldine this yet she could have guessed as much from the police reports and the witness statements.

  Even Susan’s family had betrayed her for money offered by the gutter press. What kind of people were they to turn her distress into pounds, shillings and pence? That said it all about Susan’s lifestyle and upbringing really. Her own parents would sell their daughter’s soul for money.

  Now Geraldine had the unenviable task of trying to talk Susan Dalston into coming clean. And that, she decided, was going to be a very hard task indeed. But she was determined to get Susan out.

  This was perso
nal now.

  This was Geraldine O’Hara’s crusade.

  Barry, Alana and Rosie were all together in the bright room reserved at the home for quiet times. This room was used when children had to be told bad news or to be calmed in some way. Miss Beacham, who had forfeited her day off to be with them, looked at the Dalstons with pity tinged with anger.

  So far as she was concerned Susan Dalston should be at home with her kids and that was that. She frequently saw children abused by their fathers who were sent here then sent back home to face exactly the same treatment. But these children no longer faced danger at home, not with their mother alone. Only Susan was locked up, unable to care for them, and it was wrong. The whole system was wrong.

  Sometimes the power she wielded frightened Miss Beacham. The power of social services frightened her. They were expected to make decisions on a daily basis about real people living real lives.

  Barry and Alana were holding hands. Even little Rosie sensed something was wrong and was quiet, playing with a few building bricks and half-heartedly making a tower. Miss Beacham knew the Simpsons had not wanted to bring her in today but had guessed that her presence would comfort the other two children. She had been right. These children had bonded and that was thanks to their mother.

  There was no rivalry between them which was often the case with children in care. So many parents made one child a god and the other children had to strive all their lives to get the same attention. To be accepted. She saw it every day of her working life. These four kids adored one another, applauded each other’s achievements and looked out for one another. If one child did well the others were happy for them. There was none of the usual putting down or trivialising of achievement that was common with other kids in care.

  She opened her bag and took out two Twixes, Barry’s favourite. He smiled his thanks and put them on the table in front of him.

  ‘I’ll save mine for Wendy, for when she comes back.’

  Alana opened hers and gave him half.

  Miss Beacham watched the generosity with tears in her eyes. She saw Barry break a small piece off and pop it into Rosie’s open mouth without a second’s thought. It was natural to him. Rosie was like the Dalston family mascot. It was as if so long as she was safe and with them they would be all right.

  Miss Beacham stood up and clapped her hands, making the three kids jump.

  ‘Come on, I think it’s time we all went to the hospital, don’t you?’

  Alana and Barry grinned.

  ‘Really? Mrs Eappen said we couldn’t go.’

  ‘I know what she said, but I think you lot would be better off seeing your sister for yourselves. And I have a feeling Wendy will be all the better for seeing you too.’

  Alana picked up Rosie and they walked quickly from the room. Mrs Eappen saw them all getting into Miss Beacham’s car and hurried out on to the gravel driveway of the home.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Miss Beacham shut the door and walked the irate woman away from the car and the children’s earshot.

  ‘I’m taking them to the hospital, this is doing them no good at all.’

  Mrs Eappen sighed.

  ‘I’ve strictly forbidden you to take them to the hospital, Miss Beacham, and you know that.’

  Miss Beacham smiled. It was a lazy, tired smile.

  ‘You like forbidding people, don’t you, Mrs Eappen? Well, today I don’t give a toss. I am taking these children to see their sister and if you don’t like that, then tough shit.’

  Mrs Eappen’s face was a picture of shock and anger. She could not speak. Miss Beacham walked back to the car. Opening the driver’s door, she smiled over her shoulder.

  ‘By the way, it’s my day off. I don’t have to pretend anything then. Remember that in future.’

  Mrs Eappen watched as the best social worker she had ever come across wheel-spun off the gravel drive and headed for the local hospital. She glanced around to see if their exchange had been overheard. Satisfied it had not, she walked sedately back through the large double doors of the pristine and depressing children’s home.

  Susan was handcuffed to Miss Henning, a loud and good-natured PO from A wing who always did the escorts. As she walked into Southend General Hospital she saw people staring at her openly and made a conscious effort to ignore them. She herself would stare at anyone handcuffed. It was human nature, nothing personal.

  As they took the lift up to the ward her daughter was on she felt the hammering of her heart.

  They walked from the lift and a pretty young Irish nurse was waiting for them.

  ‘Ah, you must be Wendy’s mother. She doesn’t know you’re coming, we thought it would be a grand surprise for her. She’s a gorgeous girl.’

  Susan smiled and followed her eagerly through the doorway and down a long ward into a side room. The curtains at the bed had been closed to keep out prying eyes. Her daughter’s joyful face as she finally saw Susan was worth more than all the gold bullion in the world.

  ‘Mum?’ She said the word over and over. It grew louder and louder until it was a scream of delight.

  The PO handcuffed to Susan was also dragged on to the bed with the force of the girl’s embrace.

  ‘Oh, Mum, what happened? How come they let you see me?’

  She was grasping her mother’s hand tightly, afraid to let it go.

  ‘I got a compassionate because of you. Oh, Wendy, promise me you’ll never do anything like that again. I nearly went out of me mind with worry when they told me. Promise me, Wend? Promise me!’

  Susan looked down at her beautiful daughter, so young and with all her life ahead of her, and felt the tears come again.

  ‘If anything happened to you I would die, love. I’d die inside. I’m always thinking of you. I like to think you’re outside, making a life for yourself. Please don’t ever think anything’s so bad to have to kill yourself. Nothing is that bad. Nothing.’

  The PO stood up awkwardly and unlocked the handcuffs.

  ‘I’ll give you ten minutes, Dalston. I’ll be outside the door watching you.’

  Susan smiled at her gratefully.

  ‘I ain’t going nowhere. I hardly see me kids as it is. I wouldn’t jeopardise anything by going on the trot, I swear.’

  The woman believed her.

  ‘You have a few minutes in private, okay?’

  Her voice was gruff with emotion. She liked Susan Dalston, knew she was all right.

  Alone, mother and daughter clasped one another once more, their tight embrace a testimonial to the love they bore one another.

  ‘Why did you do it, my love?’

  Wendy sighed and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

  ‘You have to tell the truth, Mum. I can’t keep it inside any more. I just can’t.’

  Susan heard the defeat in the girl’s voice. The deep grief she was feeling seemed to seep into Susan’s bones and become part of her.

  ‘You’re wrong, love. You have to keep it quiet. Otherwise all this was for nothing. You didn’t cause any of it, remember that. I chose to do what I did. I chose to. So if you tell everyone what happened, it’ll just be a waste. Anyway, no one would believe you now. It’s too late.’

  ‘But what about Rosie and the Simpsons? We can’t let that happen. I even thought of running away with her. I thought of everything I could do and nothing would work. Not for any length of time anyway. If they take Rosie then the family will break up, I know it will.’

  Susan grabbed the distressed girl and held her tightly.

  ‘Let me worry about it. I’m still working on it all. Believe me when I say I will sort it out. I promise, I’ll sort it all out.’

  ‘But if you’d just tell them, Mum . . . I can’t keep it inside much longer. It’s eating at me because it’s all my fault. I caused it all and you know that. You should never have got involved, Mum. I should never have let you do what you did. I was so frightened, I did what you told me without thinking. Now I know what I did was wrong. I sh
ould have stayed that night and faced the music.’

  Susan looked into her daughter’s face, a beautiful, young face that looked as if it had the cares of the world already etched on to it.

  ‘Listen to me, Wend, and listen good. I’ll sort out Rosie, I swear. I’ll get an appeal somehow. I’m seeing a new brief soon that Roselle got me. I’ll do everything I can to get sorted. You just keep it all to yourself. Forget about it. I know that’s hard but it’s for the best.’

  She kissed her daughter’s face gently, little heartfelt kisses.

  ‘Let me do this one thing for you, heartcake. Please, let me take care of you the only way I can.’

  Wendy was crying softly now. Susan held her to her bosom and stroked the girl’s hair and murmured endearments into her ears.

  ‘Let Mummy do this for you, love. If you don’t then my whole life will have been a sham. A meaningless existence. Because you lot were the best thing to happen to me. And you were my first girl, my little heartcake, remember?’

  Wendy nodded, too choked to speak.

  ‘I still think you should tell the truth. It will come out one day, Mum.’

  Susan stroked her face and grinned.

  ‘Who says it will? Only you and I know what really happened that night and I’ll deny everything, I mean it. So if you ever think of telling the truth, remember that. And remember that I love you so much I’d give my life for yours. So that you can have a chance. One little chance. You’d do the same for your own daughter, Wend, I know you would. Let me do this one thing for you, eh? It’s what mums are for.’

  The door opened then and Susan turned to see her other children bowling into the room with Miss Beacham. She grabbed them all into her arms.

  She knew she had just blackmailed her eldest daughter into keeping quiet about that night, but it was all she could do. As little Rosie planted a big kiss on her cheek she felt the rightness of what she had done for Wendy.

  Your children were given to you and you had to protect them as best you could. It was as simple as that.