by Ros Franey
Beatrice doesn’t answer. She gets out her compact and powders her nose. I look around for the waitress. I was eight when Mother shut me in the cellar, so Millie Blessing was fifteen. And Beatrice had seen them when Millie would have been a year younger. My head is pounding. We need to get out of here.
We’re walking arm in arm along Oxford Street, without even a glance at the shops and sights around us. I’ve never known Beatrice like this. My sister always knows what to do; is always what Auntie Vera calls poised. Not today.
Suddenly she says, ‘You see, that’s why I can’t be a missionary, Annie.’
I’m thrown by this. ‘I thought you said God hadn’t called you yet?’
She sighs. ‘No, and He won’t call me. Because I’m not fit.’
‘What d’you mean, you’re not fit?’ I stop in the middle of Oxford Street and force her to look at me. A lifetime of having to fish around for arguments from all over the Bible sometimes comes in useful and Beatrice and I are old hands at it. ‘Deuteronomy,’ I say.
‘Exodus!’ She flashes back.
Of course I knew she’d come out with that ‘third and fourth generation’ business, but I’m not having it, because it’s barmy. Wasn’t it to stop the Children of Israel worshipping idols in the wilderness? I tell her she needs to forget it, because otherwise it will blight her whole life. Besides, I remind her, in the next breath God says He will love those who love Him. And as quickly as it flared up, the row is over because she knows I’m right: The fathers shall not be put to death for the children, neither shall the children be put to death for the fathers: every man shall be put to death for his own sin. Deuteronomy got it right … I hope.
As we walk on, I’m wondering what Deuteronomy would have to say about the fact that thanks to creepy Mr Wilkinson and all those other men at the Mission, our father would never be brought to justice for his own sin, while my dearest sister Bea might well pay a lifetime’s penance for it.
‘Our father …’ It has become more difficult since the revelations of Iris Bagshaw to call him Daddy, and I’m at a loss as to what I can possibly say about him.
Beatrice squeezes my arm. ‘Poor Annie. I’m sorry you had to find out about it at all. You didn’t need to know. I’m cross with Millie Blessing for ever telling you there was a baby.’
I start to explain that it wasn’t Millie who said whose baby it was. I want to tell Beatrice how Miss Blessing is a prisoner, and how the only way we can make up for some of what our father has done is to get her out. But this is not yet the moment.
Then Beatrice says, ‘I wonder if Mother knows?’
I take a deep breath. ‘It was Mother who asked Iris Bagshaw to tell us.’
‘What?’ Beatrice is as nonplussed as I had been.
I nod, breathlessly. ‘She must have known for years, Bea. And now she wants us to know.’
‘You mean – she knew what Daddy was up to? And she stood by him – with this major sin!’
‘Not just a huge appalling sin,’ I burst out. ‘It was a crime, Bea, too! But like those others at the Mission, she knew and they knew and none of them did anything to stop it. They just let it happen!’
‘You said they spoke to Daddy about it?’
‘Iris said some of the men did. But she reckoned they hadn’t taken it seriously.’
‘Mother must have taken it seriously,’ says Beatrice.
‘Shouldn’t she have gone to the police, then?’ Far from feeling sorry for Mother, I’m just angry. ‘Here’s you feeling guilty, aged fourteen, for not doing something to stop it, but none of these grown-ups lifted a finger. And – oh my goodness!’ I stop stock-still and tug at Beatrice’s arm. ‘I’ve just realised even our own grandfather did nothing: he was the founder, the pastor, the head of it, wasn’t he? How could he not go to the police?’
Beatrice says, a little too quickly, ‘He can’t possibly have known. Well, he must have known she was pregnant, of course, but they probably kept the rest of it from him.’
‘He knew enough to throw Miss Blessing out of the Mission!’ The possibility that the saintly Pastor Eames, our own flesh and blood, had allowed such a crime to go unpunished is deeply chilling, and we wander on towards Bloomsbury in silence, each sunk in our own grim thoughts. I’m thinking how remote our grandfather has been all our lives, and how little we know of him; while we thought we did know our father, when in fact we knew nothing at all.
Eventually Beatrice says she supposes Mother would have felt she couldn’t be disloyal to her husband. She explains that’s what it means to be married. Then she’d see it also as a betrayal of the Mission – so to tell would destroy the two most important things in her life. ‘She must have felt completely trapped,’ says Beatrice.
‘Iris seems to think Mother’s a victim too,’ I tell her morosely.
Beatrice nods. ‘Well, she is in a way.’
‘Not as much as Millie Blessing,’ I retort. ‘Or that poor little boy.’
‘What little boy?’
‘Millie Blessing’s baby. He must have started school by now.’
‘I’ve no idea,’ says Beatrice. Like Fred, she clearly doesn’t want to think about him.
‘Our brother!’
‘No, Annie. Don’t say that.’
I stop and look at her. ‘D’you suppose his new parents go to the Mission? Perhaps we might even know them?’ I haven’t considered this possibility before. I try and remember who in the Mission congregation has a six-year-old boy.
‘No,’ says Beatrice firmly.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘He will have seen to that.’
Back at Beatrice’s digs, we spend the rest of the evening talking and talking. It’s a relief for us both to speak about our father and what he has done. Beatrice tells me more – and small mysteries from our childhood begin to fall into place. She reveals, for one thing, that she overheard a conversation between Mother and Maisie that made her strongly suspect there was something bad with poor Elsie, the maid. Elsie left so suddenly: I think back to that day at the tea table when I asked about it. From what she overheard, Beatrice believes that the reason was not of Elsie’s making, whatever Mother and Daddy said at the time. (Maybe this is why I get the feeling Maisie knows more about our household than she would ever say.)
Then I tell Beatrice about Dr Squires, his connection to our father and his mysterious attitude to Millie. ‘Fancy telling her she’ll never get better!’ I explode. ‘When he must know she’s not very ill, because he lets her play for the choir.’
Beatrice sees no contradiction in this. ‘Just because she’s well enough to play her music, it doesn’t necessarily follow she’s fit to leave the hospital,’ she points out.
‘Yet they keep her on a locked ward? With poor women who are in a completely different state of mind from her? And he tells her she’ll never get better, so she’s come to believe it!’
Beatrice shrugs. ‘Annie, that doctor has done years of training. Don’t you think he might know a little bit more than you do about how well or unwell Miss Blessing is? She’s on that ward for her own protection. It sounds as if she was awfully mad after the baby.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she was – six years ago.’ I look at her fiercely, wondering if I can test out the theory that’s been nagging at me ever since I discovered all this. Well, knowing me, I’m going to tell Beatrice anyway. ‘Listen,’ I begin, ‘Fred thinks that when someone does something like Miss Blessing has done – you know, become an unmarried mother – she has sort of burned her boats in life. She’s an embarrassment to her family. No one wants her around.’
Beatrice says, ‘Do Mrs Blessing and her sister think that of her?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I truly hope not – but they’re on the other side of the world. They can’t see what’s going on. They’ve been told she’s too sick to leave the hospital and of course they have to take the doctor’s word for that. But …’ I hesitate. I don’t quite know how to say the next bit b
ecause it sounds so far-fetched. ‘There are others for whom it’s more than just an embarrassment: it’s a – a threat.’
‘You mean the Mission?’
I nod. ‘And particularly for Daddy himself, because of the … way of it.’
‘Yes,’ says Beatrice softly. I know she is thinking of what she saw.
‘So isn’t it kind of … useful if Miss Blessing is thought to be mad because, if she should ever tell, no one will believe her?’ I look at her steadily to see how she takes it.
She doesn’t hesitate: ‘Honestly, Annie, I don’t know how you can even suggest that!’ She thinks for a moment. ‘For a start, it’s not just down to him, is it? He’d need her doctor to agree. And anyway, Daddy would never dream of such a thing!’
‘But Bea, look at what he has done. Our father might do … anything now.’
‘It’s not our job to judge,’ Beatrice says. ‘We just don’t know all the facts.’
‘We know enough, don’t we?’ I explain that I believe Mother asked Iris to tell us because of that strange conversation a couple of nights earlier. I think he must have fobbed her off quite a while ago with some story about Dr Squires leaving the hospital, and Millie no longer being there. So it would have come as a shock to Mother when he let slip that his friend Squires was still at Mapperley. ‘I was there,’ I finish. ‘She reacted really oddly, and he was furious with her. I didn’t understand why – but now I think I do. She knows Millie Blessing shouldn’t be locked up. That’s why she went and told Iris to tell us, isn’t it?’
Beatrice is frowning. ‘I’ve no idea, Annie. You can’t just jump to conclusions like that!’
But I’m sure I’m right. ‘It all makes sense, Bea. And now it’s our job to help Millie get out of that place. We have to! It isn’t just saving her life, you know. You said yourself it’s made you feel you can’t be a missionary. I don’t know if Fred knows everything Iris told me; but even as much as he does know is enough, I shouldn’t wonder, to have sent him off the rails in the first place. This is something to help us save our lives, too – yours and Fred’s and mine!’
By the time we fall asleep in the small hours of the morning, Beatrice and I have the outline of a scheme to get Millie Blessing out of the hospital and away to a new life.
TWENTY-THREE
Monday, August 22
There are four enormous holes in our plan, to which I need to find a solution. First, and most importantly, I must persuade Millie to come away with us. Secondly, even if she agrees, our scheme depends on her being at the concert and I have no guarantee at all that she will be allowed to attend.
With barely three weeks to go, I take my courage in both hands at tonight’s rehearsal and approach Sister Jones as soon as she walks into the chapel. ‘Sister,’ I say, squatting by her chair as she unpacks her music, ‘please may I ask you a favour?’
Sister Jones looks at me, expectantly. I know she likes me because I’ve done a good thing for the choir, but I think she also likes me for myself, and I her. ‘I wanted to ask …’ I falter. Supposing she just says no?
‘Spit it out, Annie! I won’t eat you!’
So I ask that Miss Blessing be given permission to come to the concert – that is, listen from the vestry. When Sister doesn’t immediately answer, I rush on, ‘No one would know she was there. It just seems such a shame—’
‘Yes. Yes, I understand.’ Sister Jones is frowning. ‘The trouble is that it’s a Saturday night and Doris and most of the other assistants are off duty. We can’t spare the ones that are left on the ward.’
I take a deep breath and make my all-important suggestion: that my brother Fred could do it; Fred who, as a voluntary patient, is nearing the end of his stay; who knows the ropes and knows Miss Blessing, ‘And you know yourself that Miss Blessing is – is not a patient who is likely to give any trouble,’ I finish. I believe that if Sister Jones is as humane as I feel her to be, she must surely agree, deep down, that Millie Blessing shouldn’t be on a locked ward at all.
What I’m saying seems to be hitting some kind of nerve. Her face contorts as she tries to work out whether to allow this unorthodox thing. ‘Your concern for her is touching, Annie,’ she replies carefully. ‘But I don’t know if Blessing even wants to come to the concert. She might find it distressing to be surrounded by the general public.’
‘Oh, I think she would like it very much!’ I say. I so badly need her to agree that I’m almost imploring her. ‘And it won’t be as demanding as when she plays the harmonium for the service on Sunday mornings, will it, Sister?’
Sister Jones seems very uneasy about this. She twists her fingers in her cape and considers it. ‘No, the two occasions are not comparable,’ she insists at last. ‘The chapel service is strictly for staff and patients, not for people from outside. I can see it would probably not be a security risk …’ She sighs. ‘But it’s not a judgement I can make, I’m afraid. I will have to ask her psychiatrist who, as you may know, is our very own Dr Squires.’
‘Oh, Sister!’ My heart sinks to my boots, but I try and maintain an optimistic tone of voice. ‘If you would be so kind? I do hope he agrees.’
*
The third unknown in our plan is whether Millie’s sister Edwina will make the long and costly journey to take Millie back to Canada. I have already asked Millie to bring Edwina’s address to this rehearsal so I can write to her, but I haven’t yet said why: it’s too dangerous to put in a note. However, she may guess well enough, and there is more of a spring in her step than usual when she enters the chapel tonight. For this rehearsal, I am to play for the first time; she is only here for the a capella pieces. As we take our places at the piano, she produces from her pocket a folded page torn from a notebook and pushes it into my hand: Edwina’s address in Canada. Then she looks around carefully before bringing out a second, larger sheet, folded in four and closely covered in handwriting. She whispers that she’s taken the opportunity to send a separate letter for me to enclose with mine: the chance to write without the fear of being censored has allowed her to tell them for the first time what life in the hospital is really like. She adds, not meeting my eye, ‘And also to say things they didn’t know before.’
Encouraged by this spirit of rebellion, I draw her away from the piano and launch into our plan as soon as Dr Squires breaks for the interval. But Millie is incredulous. ‘I can’t possibly leave!’ she whispers rapidly. ‘I could not survive it, Annie. You don’t understand!’
I’m thrown by this, having almost convinced myself she is ready to go. I start to tell her as gently as I can that I want to write to her sister and suggest she takes Millie to Canada.
‘Then I must ask Dr Squires,’ she says at once. ‘He will know what to do.’
‘No!’ I burst out, rather more sharply than I intended. A couple of the nurses sipping coffee nearby stop their conversation and look at us. I smile at them nervously. ‘No,’ I repeat, turning back to Millie and keeping my voice low. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’ I’ve rehearsed this many times in my head. I take a deep breath, but somehow in this place, and with the urgency, it doesn’t come out as it’s meant to. ‘Millie: Dr Squires and my father know each other.’
She looks at me, puzzled.
‘Listen,’ I press on, ‘I know my father did you a great evil.’
She recoils in horror – it’s the first time I’ve revealed that I’ve discovered what my father did. She starts to ask a question, but we haven’t time to discuss this now and I raise my hand to stop her. ‘I’m sorry. Never mind how I know. But you would be justified in taking steps against him for that.’
Millie is clearly in shock. ‘I – I don’t understand. What steps, Annie? What do you mean?’
‘You could go to the police, for a start!’
She looks at me in disbelief. ‘How could you possibly think I would do such a thing? After all this time? How could you think it of me?’
‘Listen, Millie!’ She has misunderstood completely.
‘Please. That’s not what I meant at all!’ I can hear my voice tight with alarm.
‘I would never hurt your family! Anyway, who would believe me?’
‘No, I … that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you would be justified in accusing him.’
She gives a little cry and pulls away from me.
‘Millie, please, let me explain …’
Sister Jones is moving in our direction. ‘Is everything all right, you two?’ I can hear a note of concern in her voice. This display of fright on Millie’s part is not going to play well with my request to let her come to the concert.
But Millie, used to years of dissembling to authority, pulls herself together and withdraws behind her mask. ‘It’s nothing, Sister. Annie was just telling me a – something rather surprising!’
Sister Jones is frowning. ‘Annie,’ she says after a moment. ‘Will you step this way, please.’
I follow her to a place in the shadowy nave of the chapel, wanting to kick myself for making such a mess of this delicate conversation and conscious that the short coffee break is ticking away, my only chance to say to Millie what needs to be said. Sister doesn’t read me the riot act; she merely tells me she hopes I now understand that Millie Blessing is not ‘normal’, as she terms it, and cannot be treated as such. ‘I expect,’ she goes on, ‘that you were telling her something quite harmless, were you not?’
I don’t know how to answer this. If I say yes, it will confirm the fact that Miss Blessing is ‘sick’ and cannot stomach even harmless things. I say, ‘It was something more … unexpected for her, really, Sister,’ adding that I am terribly sorry for my thoughtlessness.
She looks at me critically. ‘I could ask what it was you actually said, but I won’t intrude. Just remember, Annie, that poor Blessing isn’t as used to being shocked by things as the rest of us. I hope you now fully understand that her mind is very fragile.’