‘Well then, we should let you get back to packing. We don’t want to take up anymore of your time,’ Simon said, cutting in before Iris could ask anything else.
Iris scowled at him. She would never have got him involved if she’d known he was going to be such a pain. When he tried to manoeuvre her towards the exit, she jerked away from his touch. Edgar studied his shoes and cleared his throat, waiting for the tension to pass.
‘Those files,’ Iris said, forcing her voice to be light as she fixed Edgar with a smile and ignored Simon. ‘I would love to have a look at them, if you wouldn’t mind? My friend really wanted to find out what happened to the lady she cared for.’
‘Of course. I was only going to burn them anyway. I don’t know what else to do with them, otherwise. I wouldn’t want you going into the attic, the floorboards aren’t safe. I shall get a man to bring them down. Would you mind coming back?’
Reluctantly, she turned to Simon, swallowing down her anger and her pride. She needed him, after all; she needed his car, at least.
‘Would we?’
Simon sighed. He was uncomfortable here, Iris knew, but she also knew he would not lose his chance for another day with her. The power of that realisation sent a tiny thrill through her body.
‘I suppose not.’
14
1956
The mercury was over eighty by midday. Iris’s uniform stuck to her sweaty skin, making her cringe. The patients were languid because of the heat, grumbling that they wanted to go back to bed and lie down. Rules were rules, though, and Nurse Carmichael would not permit a change in the routine.
The smell was getting worse. The old women didn’t usually perspire, but it was impossible not to now. Their nightgowns were changed daily, their dresses and skirts and blouses all taken away to the laundry as soon as possible, but still the stench clung to the walls and mattresses.
Iris and Shirley prepared the lunch meal. Minced meat and potatoes, again, slopping out of the pans and splashing onto the plates. It was beginning to make Iris feel nauseous.
Iris had rolled up her sleeves as much as possible and unfastened the collar of her blouse, but Shirley remained buttoned up. A sheen of sweat sparkled on her forehead and top lip as she ladled out the food. She had been distant lately too. Her smiles and her snide comments had both been lacking.
‘Any news?’ Iris said.
Shirley shook her head.
‘Seeing much of the doctor?’
‘John and I are very happy.’ The side of her mouth twitched; she knew Iris’s eyes were on her. ‘It’s just this heat. I wish it would rain.’ She rubbed the back of her wrist across her forehead.
They finished the last plateful, then rolled the trolley out and served the ladies who sat at the dining tables. Most of them could eat by themselves, the spoonfuls of mash shaking as they brought it to their lips, dripping gravy onto their skirts, but some could be tricky. Shirley fed Dot, while Iris helped Flo.
Flo was too weak now to do much at all. She opened her lips for the food and did her best to swallow, but after a few mouthfuls she was beginning to droop, her eyelids falling. Iris held the side of her face.
‘Flo? Can you finish your lunch for me?’
Flo’s eyelids fluttered a little, and she squinted at Iris. She opened her mouth again.
‘That’s it, good girl. We’ve got to keep up your strength.’
Iris hovered the next spoon in front of Flo’s lips. Flo’s fingers, as skinny as a bird’s claw, wrapped around Iris’s wrist and gently tugged her hand away. No one else would have seen, so slight was the movement, but Flo shook her head a little. She was saying no to all of this, her life being strung out, kept alive on bland mince and weak tea and a stranger’s kindness.
Iris put the spoon on the plate and let Flo’s head drop in sleep. Some of the other women on the table looked over, knowing another one of their own would soon be gone. She wheeled Flo out of the day room and into the ward. Nurse Carmichael might not like it, but Iris didn’t care. A dying old woman should be allowed to go to bed at midday if she was falling asleep in her dinner.
Flo was light to lift, though her frailness made Iris careful not to hurt her. She laid the old woman on her clean bed, unhooked her shoes, and rolled off her socks. Flo’s feet were as cold as metal, the skin so thin that the blueness of her veins was startling.
Iris sat on the bed, holding Flo’s hand. It was strange being alone, just the two of them in a ward that usually held the bodies of over thirty women. With the sunlight falling across the white sheets, it looked almost nice. A few vases of flowers sat on the windowsills – after Nurses Shaw and Diya had finally taken it upon themselves to cut some bouquets from the hospital gardens – but now the roses were beginning to brown at the edges, the sun searing them dry. It was blissfully quiet, though; the usual groans and moans and shrieks safely down the corridor, so that Flo’s breath and the creaking of the curtains as they caught in the breeze were the only sounds.
Flo. Why was she in here? Iris’s notes were useless. Patients’ mental health mattered little in Ward 13; they were considered merely old and demented and unable to care for themselves. All Iris had to do was keep them clean and fed and watered and safe. It was not what she had been hoping for. She wanted to help them, learn from them, study their minds. The women here were just shells, the years of incarceration breaking them down from the inside out. What had happened to Flo? She imagined abandonment; that would explain why she tried to cling on to everybody – she was scared to be left alone.
The door burst open. Flo stirred as Shirley came crashing through, her hands to her face. She hadn’t seen Iris, who caught her arm as she ran through the ward.
‘What’s wrong?’
Shirley dropped her hands, shocked. Her face was blotchy, and tears were thick in her eyes.
‘What’s happened?’
‘I can’t do this. Look at me!’ She gestured at her uniform. Bits of brown mince and mashed potato were splattered across her body.
‘Dot?’
‘Stupid old bitch.’
‘Hush!’ Iris pulled her out of Flo’s earshot. ‘No point getting yourself so worked up, is there? We can clean it off.’
‘I hate her,’ Shirley snarled. ‘I hate this place and these stupid old hags.’
Iris pulled her close, even as she tried to squirm away. She hugged Shirley until her anger fizzled into tears. Tiredness and heat, that’s what Iris put it down to. She lifted Shirley’s face and straightened her cap, then felt Shirley’s forehead.
‘You’re too hot. Crying like this will only make it worse.’ She sat Shirley on the nearest bed. ‘Why don’t you undo your collar a bit?’
‘No!’ Shirley hit Iris’s hand away. The room stilled. Shirley tensed, as if she were going to run.
‘What is going on, Shirley?’
‘Nothing.’ Shirley sniffed and scratched the tears off her cheeks. ‘I’m fine now.’
‘Why don’t you come round to mine later? I’ll make some lemonade, and we can have a gossip.’
‘I can’t, I’m seeing John.’
‘All right. Tomorrow, then. We can have a girl’s night.’
Shirley shook her head and pushed her hair out of her face. ‘I’m busy.’ She stood up. ‘I need to change.’
There was a hush in the hospital ward. The patients were sleeping, Kath too, though the curtains had not yet been drawn and the weak sunlight was still slanting in. Iris tiptoed to Kath, placed her bag gently on the floor, and put a hand on the woman’s arm.
Kath didn’t stir. She heaved in a breath; the sound of tight airways and full lungs. Her skin was grey again, the blood drained out of her cheeks. Dark purple patches made her look as if she had two black eyes.
Something wasn’t right.
‘What’s happened? I only saw Kath on Saturday.’
Nurse Okeke ushered Iris into a quiet corner. ‘A sudden slump. We see it sometimes in older patients. They look as if they are recovering b
ut their body can’t fight it off.’
‘Is she still on antibiotics?’
The nurse nodded. ‘But the longer she is on them, the less affect they can have. We are monitoring her.’ She squeezed Iris’s arm. ‘We’re doing what we can.’
Iris tried to smile. ‘Has Albert been?’
‘Not yet.’
Iris returned to Kath, hating the way she sounded as if she were drowning.
‘I went to see it yesterday. It’s called Highfields now. It’s a good name for it.’
Iris poured herself a glass of water, spilling some as she trembled. She should be stronger than this. She had been warned: patients in Ward 13 get ill all the time, they die. But today had been hard – first Flo, then Shirley, and now Kath. And Kath had been doing so well.
‘There was a really nice man there. He said I can go back to look at the files. I can find out what happened to Mrs Leverton.’
Kath’s eyelids slid open. A shadow of a smile passed over her lips when she saw Iris beside her.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Not long. How are you?’
‘Where’s Bertie?’ She craned her neck to look for him.
‘He can’t make it, not tonight.’
‘I was dreaming about him.’
Iris rummaged in her handbag. She was sure the piece of paper she had scribbled his number onto was in there. Underneath the diary and her purse and packs of tissues and a fresh pair of stockings, she finally found the scrunched bit of paper. She asked Nurse Okeke if she could use the phone. His voice was small on the other end of the line.
‘Is everything all right, Albert? You haven’t been to see Kath for a while.’
‘No.’ The line crackled, as if he were pulling on the cord.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No.’
She imagined him bent over in the hallway, studying his shoes as he spoke, wishing he hadn’t answered.
‘I think Kath would really like to see you. She’s not as good as she was.’
‘Is she dying?’
She had been dying for years, a slow death of loneliness.
‘I think you should visit her.’
‘Yes. I will. I’ve been busy.’
‘Would you like me to call for you, and we can visit her together?’
‘No, dear, don’t worry about that, I can sort myself out. Are you still reading the diary?’
‘Yes.’
He paused. ‘I’m glad you are with her. Goodbye, Iris.’
He put the phone down.
Nurse Okeke glanced at Iris. ‘He’s not coming, is he?’
But why? It had been Albert who had started this whole thing. He had come looking for Kath. He had given Iris the diary. He had promised Kath he would come back.
Iris slumped on the hard chair. Kath had fallen asleep again, but Iris got out the diary anyway. They didn’t need Albert; she would stay with Kath and she would find out the truth.
15
1900
Wednesday, 19th December
It was my afternoon off today, and I’d sent a letter to Bertie on Monday to tell him to meet me in our usual place. I’d found Dr Basildon in the hallway where the letter bag is, and he’d asked me again how I was fairing as he eyed my letter, but he didn’t ask who Mr A. Jones was. I’d said that I was coming on well. Indeed, the pain has gone to almost nothing, although the bruises look worse than ever; they’ve turned yellow and brown, with veiny patches of red dotted amidst them. I tried to cover them with some powder, but it was useless. All I did was make myself look even paler and even more like a ghoul. Bertie was horrified when he saw me. I told him what happened, keeping my composure until I got to Marion. She is ever so cold. She barely speaks to me, and when we go to bed, she rolls onto her other side so that her back is to me.
‘Don’t you go worrying yourself over her. It isn’t fair she’s taking it out on you.’
‘But it’s not her fault. Goodness, if we cannot go to the closet in peace we might as well be patients ourselves!’
‘Don’t talk so daft.’
‘I’m not talking daft, Bertie. I’m just saying that it was one big accident, none of us could have seen it coming, and Marion’s got the rough end of it.’
‘Well, you know what to do if you don’t like it. Leave.’
He’d gone in a huff with me, I could tell by the way his one eyebrow was raised. But this was not his time to get offended; it was me who had the bruises and me who had to deal with Marion’s cold shoulder.
‘I’m not asking for your opinion, Bertie. I just want to talk to someone, don’t you understand? I wanted to tell you everything that had happened, and I wanted a cuddle. Why must we argue?’
‘I’m not arguing with you.’
His brow was still raised.
‘And how can I just leave? I’m doing this for us.’
‘You shouldn’t stay if you don’t like it.’
‘Do any of us like working?’ I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but he didn’t join in with me. ‘It’s good money too, better than at Cotton’s. I reckon another year and we’ll be there.’
He sniffed and watched the water.
‘What do you think? One year before we can get married, get our own place.’ I snuggled into his arm, trying to ease the tension that had developed. He pulled himself free to get out a pie.
‘I don’t want that,’ I said as he tried to hand it to me. I kissed his nose, then his lips.
‘We shouldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘I think it would do me good.’
‘No.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and held me away from him. He wouldn’t look at me, and I thought of that nightmare I’d had, and it was all too much.
‘Fine.’ I stood up and flung my coat about me, liking the pain that rippled down my ribs. ‘Suit yourself.’
I strode away, hoping he’d call out for me, say he was sorry, and I’d run back to him, and we’d make love. But he didn’t say anything until I was almost out of sight. Then I heard him shout my name, but it was too late, and I was already weeping, and there was no way I was going to let him see me like that.
Saturday, 22nd December
It was the Christmas Ball tonight. We’ve all been excited about it – Marion even forgot her anger for a moment as we dressed ourselves in our best gowns, but she went back to ignoring me once I’d fixed her hair. I didn’t ask her to do mine, so I left it in its usual boring bun and went to ready Mrs Leverton.
Annie ran up to me, sniffing at my legs, trying to work out why I smelt different. Mrs Leverton was in her day gown but was brushing out her hair before the looking glass. She saw me in the reflection.
‘You look beautiful, Katy.’
I could see myself better in Mrs Leverton’s mirror. It was an old dress, one of my ma’s, but the light blue colour was pretty and brought out my eyes. The next moment, Mrs Leverton got up from her seat and forced me into it instead.
‘Your hair will not do for a ball.’
We are not allowed curling irons for fear the patients will burn themselves, and my hair was as flat as a fluke, but Mrs Leverton began to brush it until it looked like liquid honey, and then she used her own pins from the locked drawer to fasten it on top of my head, curling it round into pretty patterns.
‘No one will notice your bruises now,’ she said, smiling at me in the looking glass.
She had ordered a new dress for the ball. It was black like usual, but instead of her normal taffeta or silk, this one was made of velvet. It hugged her small frame, still enviably slim even at her age, and shimmered under the light as she moved. She had also bought a new fur, which was brilliant white, and draped it elegantly over her shoulders. We both slipped on our satin gloves.
‘I think we shall be the belles of the ball,’ she said as we stood side by side in front of the mirror. Mischievousness glinted in her eye, and I couldn’t help but giggle.
We made our way to the dining room, passing through the hallway which had been hung with fir garlands, making the air stink of pine forests. Candles were everywhere, and the light was quite dazzling as we entered the room, which had been transformed: the carpets had been rolled back to reveal a polished wooden floor; at the front was a makeshift stage, where a small, hired orchestra waited to play; and just through the door, to our left beside the raging fire, was a magnificent tree, the angel at its tip touching the ceiling. Glass and painted baubles hung from its branches beside cloved oranges, cinnamon sticks, and red ribbons tied in bows.
We joined the female patients and attendants in the corner, who sat on the soft chairs and sofas that had been brought in from the day rooms.
‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ Nella said to me, for I couldn’t take my eyes off the decorations.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘They do this every year. Dr Basildon is such a marvellous man.’
‘Mulled wine?’ Marion offered me a steaming cup. She had the kink of a smile on her lips, and I took the drink gladly, hoping we were some way to making amends. She gave another glass to Mrs Leverton then sat down beside Mrs Huxley.
Mrs Huxley wore long sleeves, but a bandage bulged at her wrist. She looked terrible, her eyes red-rimmed and her skin ashen. I had heard that her sheets were being fitted in at night, to stop her wriggling and to keep her arms by her sides so that she would not pick and open the wounds. She was under constant surveillance, and Marion hardly ever took her eyes off her. Marion was twitchy because of it, and each movement from Mrs Huxley made Marion start into action.
‘Wini was cursing about missing it,’ Nella continued to talk to me.
‘Why?’
‘She has to be with Miss Beckwith, you know. What with her habit, she can’t be around alcohol like this.’
Woman on Ward 13: A haunting gothic novel of obsession and insanity (Iris Lowe Mysteries) Page 11