He’d brought a blanket with him, and a sausage roll and a bottle of beer, so we sat on the grass beside the river and ate and drank in silence, watching the water but mainly watching each other. That’s when I told him.
‘I’m not supposed to have relations with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Dr Basildon says it’s not appropriate, that it doesn’t set the right morals for the patients to follow.’
‘Never stopped us when you were at Cotton’s.’ He smiled at me, just a small smile with a glimmer of his teeth showing. ‘Do you want to stop now?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then.’ He gulped his beer.
‘But I don’t want to get sacked again.’
‘Cotton never knew about us.’
‘Then why was I let go?’
Bertie rolled up his jacket and used it like a pillow as he lay down. ‘If he’d known about us, he’d have said. And I wouldn’t be delivering to him now.’
I lay down beside him and put my head on his chest. He wrapped his arm around me.
‘No one knows, Katy. Stop worrying.’
And I did stop worrying. Anything Bertie says, I just do.
I kissed his chin, and then his mouth, and then he rolled on top of me and kissed me some more. And then... Well, I shan’t write it down, but I shall say that it was wonderful like it always is.
By the time we’d finished, it was almost dark. We lay in the twilight, looking up into the navy sky, watching the stars begin to peep out. Bertie started whistling, just gently.
‘My little Bertie Blackbird. A song to send me to sleep.’
My eyes shut, and all I felt was the thrum of his breath and his heartbeat against my cheek. My feet had gone numb with cold, but Bertie had put his jacket over both of us, and I was snuggly warm on my top half.
When his song ended, I opened my eyes, and the sky was black. I said I needed to get back, and then I remembered I hadn’t brought a lamp. Bertie said he would walk me to the track so that I wouldn’t be alone in the dark. We held hands all the way, and I could have spat at the track when I saw it, for it had come up too fast.
We kissed again, and I clung onto him a bit too tight. He took my hands in his, kissed my fingers, told me he loved me, then disappeared into the night.
Friday, 5th October
I am dead to the world as I write this, but write it, I must.
I woke this morning like usual, had my porridge, then went to Mrs Leverton. The first thing she asked was what day it was. I told her Friday. She asked for the date. I told her the fifth.
She nodded. I took her to the closet, let her do her business, then washed her in the bathroom. I put her in a black dress, like usual – she only ever wears black – and then she said she would not be eating anything today. I told her that she must eat, and I brought her breakfast tray to her, but she would not pick anything up. I buttered a slice of toast and brought it before her lips, but she would not open them.
I had to tell Mrs Thorpe. She nodded and said Mrs Leverton does this every year on this date, that it’s all connected with her delusions. She told me to find Dr Basildon and inform him.
I went to his office and knocked, but there was no reply. I was about to make my way back to the day room when Mrs Basildon emerged from one of the doors on the first floor. She was dressed all in pink, her black hair piled on top of her head like a deflated air balloon. She is not the handsomest of women; her nose is rather long, and her cheeks are flat, and there is a dark shadow across her upper lip, but the worst thing is that she never smiles.
‘What are you doing here?’ She stopped a few feet away from me, as if I might have had the plague.
‘I was looking for Dr Basildon, ma’am.’
‘He will be examining in the male wing at this time. You shall have to wait.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘What is your name?’
I told her, and her face changed. Her previous expression had been one of boredom, at best. Now she looked at me with such disgust that I had to avert my gaze. Without another word, she flounced past me and was gone.
I waited almost ten minutes for Dr Basildon to return. As he came up the stairs, I noticed the bald patch beginning to form on his crown. He was taken aback when he saw me, and he smiled so widely that my words caught in my mouth. He’s a different man when he smiles; the lines that crinkle his face soften him, and his eyes glitter instead of pierce.
‘Miss Owen, for what do I have the pleasure?’
I told him, as best I could as I tried to cool my cheeks, what was wrong.
‘After you.’ He gestured for me to lead the way. Mrs Leverton was in her chamber, on her knees, like every other night. This time, though, she was crying as well as reciting whatever it is that she normally says to herself over and over.
‘Mrs Leverton, I hear you have not eaten today.’
I thought it rather rude to interrupt someone at prayer, but then, perhaps, it doesn’t count when they are insane. Mrs Leverton did not respond.
‘You must eat to stay healthy, Mrs Leverton.’
No response. I could feel my toes twitching, but Dr Basildon didn’t seem at all flustered.
‘Mrs Leverton, you know what will happen if you do not eat.’
Mrs Leverton stopped whispering. The doctor walked in front of her, blocking her view of the cross.
‘I must repent,’ she said to him.
He nodded very slowly. ‘You must eat.’
‘I cannot. He cannot, so I must not.’
‘Mrs Leverton, you are a reasonable woman, so I shall reason with you. You may repent for the rest of the day, but you must eat all of your meals.’
His eyes never left her as she considered her options. I don’t wish to imagine what would have happened if she had refused.
He left then, after thanking me for my diligence. Mrs Leverton ate a slice of toast without fuss before returning to her prayers. The day continued like that. I walked Annie on my own, and I even had to do some sewing so that I didn’t have to watch Mrs Leverton all the time, for I couldn’t bear to see the way she quivered, as if she might collapse from exhaustion at any minute. When it came time for dinner, she could not get to her feet herself, and I had to help her up by fixing her arm around my shoulder.
When we came back from dinner, she winced as she got to her knees once more, and I saw vast yellow-brown bruises on her kneecaps. She stayed there for another hour before she let me get her into bed. Annie came up to the pillow and burrowed against her, as if she might bear some of her mistress’s pain if it were possible to do so.
‘Thirty years,’ she said as she struggled to keep her eyes open. ‘He would be fifty-one now.’
I pulled the covers up to her chin, smoothed down her hair. ‘Who?’
‘Edward.’
I shouldn’t indulge her delusions, so I ignored her.
‘Sleep well, Mrs Leverton,’ I said, but tears were already sliding across her temples.
7
1956
Her mum was lingering outside Iris’s door, listening for gossip; Iris could feel her presence.
‘I don’t like that girl,’ she had grumbled when Iris had said Shirley was coming over. ‘Father’s a drunk, so I hear.’
‘What’s that got to do with Shirley?’ Iris had said as she’d shovelled cold fish and chips into her mouth. The fat on them had solidified into white slime.
‘They live on Brookside.’ Mum blew on her cup of cocoa. ‘Rough area. I don’t want you going around there.’
‘She’s courting a doctor.’ Iris had smirked as her mother’s jaw dropped.
Now, Shirley was in Iris’s bedroom. She had brought her own makeup bag and had sat Iris on the edge of the bed whilst she threw rouge on her cheeks. She brought out the mascara wand.
‘I really don’t want—’
‘Don’t be silly. You have lovely eyes, Iris.’ She grabbed Iris’s chin and held her tight as she poked the mascara at her. Iris bl
inked instinctively, her eyes filling with water each time she saw the black stick darting towards her. ‘Hold still, will you? We’ll be late if you carry on like this.’
Iris tried her best, but eventually Shirley jabbed the wand back in the pot, defeated. She pulled out an eyebrow pencil instead.
Shirley smelt divine, and Iris caught sight of the bottle of Chanel No. 5 in her makeup bag. She didn’t know where Shirley had got it from; it was too expensive for a nurse’s wages. But Shirley always got her hands on the latest fashions, one way or another.
She was wearing a black cocktail dress, pinched in tight at the waist, showing off her enviable figure. The black was arresting against the paleness of her skin, the sparkle of her platinum hair, the blood-red of her lipstick.
‘There you are.’ Shirley stepped away from Iris, her arms wide as if Iris was a prize worth presenting.
Iris found her own reflection in the mirror. She was nothing compared to Shirley, but she wasn’t bad. Shirley had done a good job, combing her hair into a classy chignon, forcing her into some kitten heels to show off the slenderness of her ankles. The red lipstick was a bit garish, but the pink skirt and cream top suited her, and her eyes did sparkle.
‘He’ll love you,’ Shirley said.
Iris whirled around. ‘Who will?’
‘Simon.’
‘Who on earth is Simon?’
‘John’s friend.’
Iris ripped a tissue out of her bag and rubbed off her lipstick.
‘What are you doing?’ Shirley caught her hand.
‘I’m not going on a date with a man I have never met before.’
‘Why not? It’ll be fun.’
‘It might be for you, Shirley, but it won’t be for me.’
‘Oh, come on, Iris! You’re such a bore.’
Iris chucked the tissue on her bed and faced Shirley. ‘Then why do you want me to come, anyway?’
Shirley sighed. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t get upset with me. I just think you’ll like him. He’s nice.’
‘Is he?’
‘He’s tall.’
‘And?’
‘He must be clever; he works at a bank. Him and John have been friends since school.’
‘Was this your idea or John’s?’
‘John just said that Simon was looking for a girl and asked if I had a friend. And, of course, I said you were my best friend and would be delighted to go out with us.’ She clutched Iris’s hand. ‘Come on, Iris, it’s only one night. Surely it’s better than wiping old ladies’ bottoms.’
They waited outside the picture-house next to the growing queue. Shirley kept stepping into the pavement to see if their men were coming, cigarette in hand and blowing out puffs of smoke, before slinking back to Iris’s side.
‘A smile wouldn’t hurt,’ Shirley said.
Iris glared at her. Boys in the queue were already gawping at them – at Shirley, mostly – and twisting their heads away from their sweethearts, who sent dirty looks to Iris.
‘They aren’t coming. Let’s just get in the queue and get inside.’
‘Of course they’re coming. John wouldn’t stand me up.’
‘Wouldn’t he?’ Iris said under her breath, but Shirley caught it.
‘Have a drag on this and shut up.’ She shoved the cigarette in Iris’s face, but Iris pulled away. Before Shirley had time to try again, something caught her attention. She flung the cigarette on the floor and trotted towards the pavement. ‘Told you!’
She ran straight for Dr Brown. Iris hadn’t seen John Brown before. He was dashingly handsome. His hair was slicked back in the way of the film stars, and he wore a tight white t-shirt and denim jeans. His skin, in the weakening light, appeared dusted with gold. Shirley draped her arms over his shoulders and pecked him on the cheek, and all the boys in the queue turned disappointedly back to their sweethearts.
Next to him, and almost a head taller, was the man who Iris assumed must have been Simon. He was meatier than John, his features soft behind his fleshy, pink cheeks, and his hair was dark and short. He wore a suit and tie that would not have looked out of place on her dad.
‘This is Iris,’ Shirley said as she brought the men over. John gave Iris a quick nod then got his cigarettes out of his jeans back pocket.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Simon.’ His hand jerked up, as if he would have doffed his hat, had he been wearing one.
Iris forced her lips into the best smile she could muster.
‘The Talbot, then?’ John began to walk off with Shirley still clinging to his arm.
‘I thought we were seeing a film?’
John stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Iris. ‘We’re having a drink first.’ He walked on.
Shirley didn’t even look at her, too busy whispering and giggling in John’s ear. Iris hesitated by the picture-house, cursing herself for agreeing to come out at all. She hated pubs, she hated blind dates, and she was beginning to hate John and Shirley.
She could sneak away; they probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone until she was home and safe, but there was Simon, halfway between his friend and Iris, turning between the two of them, waiting for Iris to catch up.
She chomped on her tongue and stalked to meet him.
The pub was full of old men. Their glassy eyes turned on the four of them as they entered, staring in awe and contempt as Shirley and John paraded to the bar.
Simon led Iris to a table in the corner of the room, as far away from the other customers as possible.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked.
‘Half a shandy, please.’
Once he’d gone to the bar, Iris took the opportunity to pull the neck of her top up. She had become all too aware of how the loose cotton sagged to show more of her flesh than she was comfortable with, especially in a place like this. Her skirt felt too short as well, and her nylons were far too thin. The backs of her heels were already beginning to throb from her shoes.
Shirley scuttled over to Iris and slid onto a chair.
‘So, what do you think?’ She scrunched the curls in her hair tighter and glanced down at her cleavage.
‘We were meant to be seeing a film.’
‘We will, but John doesn’t like the little one at the start, nor the news. What do you think of Simon? Handsome, isn’t he?’
Iris supposed he was handsome to some, but he was too big for her. He took up so much space at the bar, a bit like her brother, and in truth, the size of him made her uneasy.
‘For goodness’ sake, Iris, try to cheer up. You look constipated.’ There was the glint; the old Shirley that Iris knew.
‘What did we miss?’ Simon placed their glasses on the table.
‘We were just laughing about Nurse Carmichael, what a dragon she is.’
Iris shot Shirley a look – it would do them no good if rumour spread about them laughing at the charge nurse. Shirley merely rolled her eyes.
‘You work at Smedley too?’ Simon said, averting his gaze from his friend, who was moving his finger down Shirley’s arm and under the table.
‘Yes, I’m in the same ward as Shirley.’
‘I should say that’s a hard job.’
‘I like it.’
‘I couldn’t be doing with those sorts of people around me all the time.’
Iris bristled. ‘Those sorts of people need help. If we didn’t give it to them, they wouldn’t get any at all.’
Simon gulped his beer. ‘They’re thinking of letting them out now, aren’t they? They’ll be roaming our streets doing God knows what.’
‘Oh, yes, they’ll all go about murdering babies, I should imagine.’
Shirley’s shoe stabbed Iris in the shin.
‘And what do you do, Simon?’ Shirley said quickly before anyone noticed Iris’s moan of pain. ‘John tells me you work in a bank?’
‘I’m the manager at the one on Hayward Street.’
‘Manager!’ Shirley widened her eyes at Iris. ‘And how is it you�
�ve not got yourself a sweetheart, Simon? I’d imagine you’d be batting them off.’
Simon blushed as he laughed. Iris also couldn’t believe the brass of her friend.
‘He’s picky. Aren’t you?’ John slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Another pint.’
It was mercifully dark on the walk back to her house. Shirley and John had splintered off. They’d said John was going to walk Shirley home, but Iris wasn’t a fool; it would be a while before Shirley was tucked up in bed, alone.
So now, Iris had to try to make conversation with Simon. The film had been a bore; unknown actors and a terrible plot line which mainly involved murdering young girls in black alleyways. The other girls in the picture-house had seemed suitably horrified, squirming into their men’s arms and letting them shield them from the terror. Shirley had buried her face in John’s neck and kept it there for too long. Simon had glanced at Iris a few times, wondering, she’d imagined, whether she too was going to fall faint. Iris had kept her gaze locked on the screen, her face arranged in an expression of frosty scepticism.
Now, her heels clipped too loudly on the pavement. She feared she would wake the neighbours and hated the idea of old ladies peering out from behind net curtains at them.
‘Are you cold?’ Simon said, about to take off his jacket.
‘I’m fine. It makes a nice change.’
‘Heatwaves,’ he said, and she heard the smile in his voice. ‘We can never get it right in this country.’
They were one street away from Iris’s house. She picked up the pace.
‘You’re working tomorrow?’ Simon said.
‘Yes. You?’
‘Yes.’
She racked her brain for something to say, anything to fill the silence until she could shut the door on him, but nothing came.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you earlier, with what I said about your patients.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘You’re sure? It’s just that I have very little experience of anybody so... afflicted. I think of them as they are in the films. And you hear things in the newspapers, dreadful stories.’
‘The women on my ward are just old. They’ve been there most of their lives. Forgotten or turfed out by their families. It makes me angry that people could do such a thing to their own.’
Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries) Page 5