The Girl in the Letter

by Emily Gunnis

  Sensing someone was watching her, Sam looked up. There in the doorway was the elderly lady she had seen at Father Benjamin’s funeral the day before. And she was signalling for her to come in.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Monday 20 May 1957

  Ivy lay still in her bed in the dormitory while the bell for prayers rang out. Girls rushed back and forth around her to the bathroom, pulling their overalls over their nighties, straightening their beds and standing to attention at the end of them in anticipation of Sister Mary Francis’s entrance.

  ‘Mary, you need to get up. Sister will be in any second,’ said the girl who slept in the bed next to her, shaking her gently.

  Ivy had not slept all night, drenched in sweat with her eyes wide open. She didn’t even think she had drawn breath since she had seen, with her own eyes, a young couple taking Rose away two days before.

  It had been a particularly hard day in the laundry; she had been pulling sheets through the mangle for hours and had burnt herself badly. Elvira had vanished again, and she had no idea where to. Without her one solace, her only escape, she was in despair. She had been finding it hard to keep any food down for weeks now, and although there were no mirrors at St Margaret’s, running her hands over her collarbone and ribs in her bed at night told her everything she needed to know about her emaciated body.

  Sister Mary Francis had been watching her intently all morning, and although she wasn’t sure why, she knew something was amiss. After lunch, Sister Faith had come in and the two nuns had begun conversing, glancing at Ivy in turn as they spoke. As she tried to read their lips, the steam from the mangle had fired out and she hadn’t moved in time.

  She had cried out: she couldn’t help herself. The intense heat had landed exactly where she’d burnt herself only hours before. She looked at the sisters nervously, waiting for one of them to charge over and make a fuss about her outburst. But neither of them had even looked up, until their conversation eventually ended and Sister Faith had nodded at Sister Mary Francis, looked at Ivy one final time and left.

  On her walk past the dining room to the nursery, it had hit her. Through the cacophony of babies’ cries, Rose’s was absent. She had felt a surge of sheer panic and stopped dead at the nursery, the girls in the long line behind her bumping into her.

  ‘What on earth do you think you are doing, Mary?’ Sister Mary Francis had hissed at her.

  ‘Where is she? Where’s Rose? I can’t see her.’ Ivy was peering frantically through the glass of the nursery door.

  ‘She’s going to a much better home than you can ever provide for her. Now stop with your insolence immediately.’

  She had broken free then, and run up the stairs two at a time to the dormitory, as Sister Mary Francis’s cries for her to come back echoed below her. Terror soaring through her, she had sprinted to the dormitory window and looked out.

  A smart black car sat on the front drive, and next to its open door stood Mother Carlin, holding a baby in a pink blanket. Rose’s blanket, that Ivy had knitted herself. A woman in a cream summer dress and black shoes was lowering herself into the passenger seat, helped by a man in a grey suit.

  Ivy began hammering at the glass, screaming at the top of her lungs as Mother Carlin handed Rose to the woman. The man closed the car door and shook Mother Carlin’s hand, then looked up to the window where Ivy stood just as Sister Mary Francis pulled her away. She hadn’t been able to remember much after that, other than that she had felt she was losing her mind with grief. Patricia had told her later that with the help of Sister Mary Francis, Mother Carlin had physically dragged her down the stairs and into her office.

  ‘Get up, Mary.’ Sister Faith stood over her now as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

  She knew that if she didn’t move, she would be taken to Mother Carlin’s office again. And if whatever punishment she was given didn’t bring her to her senses, she had been told that Mother Carlin wouldn’t hesitate in sending her to the Lunatic Asylum.

  ‘Get out of bed this moment, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.’

  As Sister Faith’s shoes tapped to the door and her voice called for help, Ivy closed her eyes and thought about the letter she had written to her love the night before.

  Alistair,

  Rose is gone.

  I saw her leave with her adoptive parents and I feel sadness to the depths of my soul.

  I cannot stop crying, despite my fears of being sent to an asylum if I do not pull myself together. I cannot eat, so I have no strength in my limbs and burn myself often on the machinery in the laundry. I am almost glad of the physical pain, because it is a momentary relief from my mental anguish.

  Before now I have always thought of myself as strong. Nothing got the better of me, and even after Father died, I would find a way to dig myself out of my sadness – because I had my freedom. I could take a walk, or gaze at the stars and imagine him looking down on me. But I haven’t been allowed out of these walls since I arrived, and every day I feel the air here is suffocating me a little bit more.

  Since that night in Mother Carlin’s office, I have fits of being unable to breathe and have to curl up in a ball until it passes. Sleep is impossible. I lie awake all night, my mind racing with thoughts of Rose and where she is now, where they have taken her and whether she is safe and happy. I can still smell her skin, I can still remember her moving around inside me. I feel an emptiness where she used to be, like a black hole sucking the life out of me one day at a time.

  If I fall asleep momentarily, I dream of you and of Rose. Of you carrying Rose on your shoulders while she eats ice cream and we walk along the pier. I can feel the salty air on my face, the pure happiness in my stomach. Then I wake and realise where I am and lose my mind all over again. I can no longer conjure any feelings of joy, as though there is an invisible wall between the me I am now and the me I knew before. Every day I tell myself I am Ivy, I had long red hair, I was loved, but every day the voice inside my head becomes fainter and fainter. I miss school, I miss my friends and my life. I miss you, Alistair; why do you not come for me? Soon there will be nothing left of the Ivy you used to know. They have my baby; why must they take everything else – my future, my dreams, my love? Why do they not let me go? Have I not suffered enough?

  The other girls watch me crying and do nothing to try and comfort me, because talk is forbidden and they will be punished mercilessly. Sometimes I look at the faces of the nuns, twisted with hate as they beat a skinny, broken girl, and I think how desperately unhappy they must be to behave this way. But really I feel sorry for them. They are the victims as much as us; what misery they must tolerate. The nuns are the faces of this institution, but they are not the people who have put us here. It is our lovers, parents, doctors, vicars, everyone who is supposed to care for us, who have abandoned us. Had they not turned their backs on us, the beds in St Margaret’s would be empty.

  I no longer care if I am sent to a madhouse. What could be worse than this living hell? Working in the laundry from the moment they rip me from my sleep until I am dead on my feet. I have years of this yet to endure to pay off my debt.

  I dream of running away, but everywhere we go we are watched. The only time they are not watching us is in our dormitory at night, but the window is forty feet off the ground. If it were not for Rose, for the thought that one day we will be reunited, I would break it open and jump.

  I cannot die without telling her that I loved her and wanted desperately to keep her. Please, if you ever meet her one day, show her these letters. I want her to know how much I loved her, that every minute I craved to hold her. Tell her I had no choice to give her up. Tell her I fought for her.

  I know now that you do not love me. How can you when you have read these letters and still leave me here to rot? I hate you for what you have done to us. One day you will live to regret it.

  Ivy

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Monday 6 February 2017

  Sam calmed her breath
ing, and made her way down the cobbled pathway of Rose Cottage for the second time. She tried to relax and focus on making the elderly lady feel at ease. Sam had not taken her in properly when she’d first laid eyes on her in the rain two days before. Now in the harsh light of day she could clearly tell her age; it showed in her skin, her frame and the way she held herself, hunched over, clinging to her frame, as if terrified to fall. Sam had done the calculations in her head, if Ivy had given birth to Rose in 1957, then Ivy’s mother must be nearly a hundred.

  ‘Hello, you got my note?’ Sam said smiling.

  ‘Yes,’ said the woman, a faint smile forming at the corners of her mouth. ‘You must be Samantha.’

  ‘I am,’ said Sam brightly. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’

  The woman was resting her thin arms on her Zimmer frame, and a pair of glasses dangled on a chain round her neck. ‘I’m Mrs Jenkins. Would you like to come in?’

  ‘Very much, yes please,’ said Sam.

  Mrs Jenkins shuffled her frame to make room for Sam to come inside. Sam reached out to help. ‘I can manage,’ the old lady said. ‘Could you close the door, please, dear? And if you wouldn’t mind taking off your shoes I’d be grateful. I struggle to keep the place clean.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Sam, sliding her heels off and putting them by the front door.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Mrs Jenkins, leading the way down the hall.

  ‘Yes please.’ Sam looked around at the fairy lights strung between paintings of the Downs, black-and-white photographs and a driftwood mirror in which she caught her reflection and baulked.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ said Mrs Jenkins as they walked into a cosy country kitchen with a wooden table at its centre.

  Sam pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jenkins. Everyone calls me Sam.’

  ‘Then you must call me Maude.’ The old lady switched on the kettle. ‘So, you’re a reporter?’

  ‘Yes, for my sins,’ said Sam, reassured to see that when she looked over at Maude, her smile was returned.

  ‘I got your note,’ said Maude. ‘Do you have the letters with you?’

  Sam took them from her bag. ‘If these are anything to go by, Ivy sounds like she was an extremely special person.’

  Maude eased herself into a chair next to her. ‘She was. Not one day goes by when I don’t think about her.’ She looked down at the letters and slowly turned the pages. ‘I miss her so much.’ She reached out and stroked Sam’s hair. Sam startled slightly, but managed a smile.

  ‘So Ivy was your daughter?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Of course,’ said Maude.

  ‘Maude, can I ask you something? Obviously the letters touch on it, but from your point of view, can I ask how Ivy came to be at St Margaret’s?’

  Maude let out a sigh. ‘She got pregnant by a local boy, whom she loved very much. Ivy’s father died in the war and I think he would have let her keep the baby with us, but I had married his brother, Ivy’s Uncle Frank, and he was a very strict man. Dr Jacobson, our local doctor, suggested St Margaret’s as a safe place for her to have the baby, and for it to be adopted, which the father of Ivy’s baby saw as an agreeable solution.’

  ‘And this was Alistair Henderson?’ said Sam, referring to her notebook.

  ‘That was his name. Eventually they wore me down. I’ll never forgive myself for not fighting harder; it destroyed our lives.’ Maude’s eyes drifted to the window. ‘Soon after she had the baby, I think Ivy got terribly depressed. Father Benjamin persuaded me that she needed to stay and be treated at St Margaret’s. I used to write to her and take the letters to the gates, but however much I begged, the sisters would never let me see her and in the end I had to accept it.’

  ‘Treated at St Margaret’s? For what?’ asked Sam, scribbling in her notebook.

  ‘They told us that Ivy was suffering from psychotic episodes. I went back week after week asking if I could see her, but Mother Carlin said she didn’t feel it would be appropriate and that it might upset Ivy more. I felt like it was my fault, you see, that she was there in the first place.’

  Maude paused for a moment, then looked up at Sam. ‘You can’t imagine it now, but the Catholic Church still had quite a hold over the community then. I was a grown woman and it didn’t occur to me to argue with a nun. I think if my husband had encouraged me, I would have gone down there and forced my way in, but for Frank . . .’ Her voice wobbled. ‘From the start he found the whole episode extremely tiresome. It was all very unsettling and St Margaret’s seemed a good option at the time, and one we had no reason to distrust.’

  Sam looked up from her notes. ‘Why would you? I don’t see what more you could have done.’

  Maude shook her head at the memory. ‘Ivy was at St Margaret’s for over two years. I always hated myself for it. In the end, I had a terrible bout of depression and the situation with Ivy seemed to be at the heart of it. I told Frank that I was going to seek legal advice about getting her back, and that if he wouldn’t help me, I would leave him. He was coming round to the idea when we got the letter.’

  ‘The letter?’ Maude looked so tired, thought Sam, like every movement was a huge effort that required all of her strength.

  ‘Look in the bottom of the cupboard over there, child. Save me getting up. There’s a box inside.’ Sam looked to where the old lady was pointing. She opened the cupboard door and took out a shoebox, putting it down on the table in front of Maude, who started to root through its contents.

  ‘Ah, here it is.’ She passed Sam an envelope. It had faded to a dark cream in the fifty years since the date on the postmark. Sam carefully pulled out a typed letter on St Margaret’s headed paper and started to read.

  20 February 1959

  Dear Mr and Mrs Jenkins,

  I am writing on behalf of all at St Margaret’s Mother-and-Baby Home, Preston. We are sorry to notify you that your daughter, Ivy Jenkins, took her own life on Friday 13 February. As you are aware, Miss Jenkins had been suffering for some time from psychotic episodes, and in an effort to help her, we had recommended her for referral to Brighton Psychiatric Hospital. Unfortunately she died before we were able to have her admitted.

  We will make arrangements for Ivy to be buried here at St Margaret’s on Friday. If you wish to pay your last respects, you will be allowed admission to the cemetery on that day.

  With deepest sympathy,

  Mother Carlin

  Mother Superior, St Margaret’s

  ‘I tried so hard to see her,’ said Maude, her pink-rimmed eyes filling with tears. ‘She was my only child, Samantha. I was supposed to protect her, and I let strangers stop me from doing that. Why? Where are all those strangers now? They lived happy lives while my baby died.’

  Sam looked down at the list in her notebook. She wanted to tell Maude that she was wrong, that the reason she was here was that far from living happy lives, they had all died horrible, premature deaths.

  Maude took another letter out of the box with shaking hands and handed it to Sam. It looked to Sam as if it had been torn up for some reason and then taped back together. Sam began to read; it had been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter and was addressed to the admissions department at Brighton Psychiatric Hospital.

  I am writing to refer Miss Ivy Jenkins for immediate admission under the Mental Health Act. I met with Miss Jenkins on the recommendation of Mother Carlin and Father Benjamin at St Margaret’s on 12 February 1959, as they were concerned for her safety and the safety of the other girls at St Margaret’s.

  Miss Jenkins’ appearance was ungroomed and she is very underweight, as she has been refusing to eat. She has also been encouraging the other girls to do the same. She presented as manic and was experiencing self-abusive and suicidal behaviours. Her thought patterns were psychotic, and severe psychopathology was observed. Miss Jenkins admitted to some anxiety and depression, which may have been triggered by the adoption of her baby but has since become much more serious.

  It
is my opinion that Miss Jenkins should be referred to Brighton Psychiatric Hospital within forty-eight hours, where she should remain for the foreseeable future so she can rest and recuperate, so as not to be of harm to herself or others.

  Yours sincerely,

  Richard Stone

  Maude picked up a Bible from the box and toyed with it in her hands. ‘I asked if it would be possible to know where Ivy’s baby was, and Mother Carlin just smiled at me. I’ll never forget it. She said Ivy had signed a contract saying she would never try to trace the baby, and gave me this.’

  She handed Sam a piece of paper, Sam took it and scanned it, reading one of the lines aloud: ‘I hereby relinquish full claim for ever to my said child, Rose Jenkins.’ Ivy’s signature was at the bottom, and next to it Helena Cannon’s, of St Margaret’s Adoption Society.

  Sam’s eyes fell on a ballpoint pen with a faded logo lying in the box.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said, pulling it out. ‘Mercer Pharmaceuticals.’

  ‘It was in the spine of Ivy’s Bible,’ explained Maude.

  Sam picked up her phone. ‘Could I use your bathroom, please, Maude?’

  ‘Of course, dear, it’s along the hall on the left.’

  She locked the loo door and immediately typed Mercer Pharmaceuticals into Google. Nothing obvious came up, so she continued to dig, traipsing through lists in Wikipedia until she came to a reference to Mercer. It had been taken over in the seventies and was now called Cranium. When she typed that in, a webpage came up: Cranium Pharmaceuticals, seeking solutions in the pharmaceutical industry for nearly 100 years.

  It was hard for her to make any sense of the medical blurb. Unsure what she was looking for, she scrolled through the various sections. Just as she was about to give up, the ‘Founders’ tab caught her eye. She clicked on it.

  Cranium, formerly known as Mercer Pharmaceuticals, was founded by cousins Charles James and Philip Stone in 1919. Their purpose: to find a medical solution to the widespread problem of post-traumatic stress disorder – then known as shell shock – for hundreds of thousands of soldiers returning from World War I. Their advances in the world of psychological medicines were industry-changing. Most notably James and Stone discovered trimethaline, a sedative that helped to relieve many of the debilitating symptoms experienced by those in the trenches.