While she slept she had dreamed they were in a garret somewhere, like Mimi and Rodolfo, only she had been the artist. Had she thought they were lovers? Back in the real world this thought scared her with a force that took her totally off guard. What had she been thinking? Her colour deepened as she realised she could no longer ignore the strength of these inner passions. Is this how I feel about him? Without warning an incandescent flame of desire burned through her and she had to turn her eyes away. She had felt guilt over such inappropriate, yet intense sensations. Condemning shame overwhelmed her. Oh, Jellie you are such a bad girl.
She must come to her senses, force her way through these conflicting emotions. Suddenly, desperation filled her eyes and a surge of panic welled up. She was falling apart, about to lose so much just when she had come to realise what she had found. Everything was happening too fast, rushing out of control. Jellie, hold on. She took some deep breaths.
Like Mona, she must do the right thing, like them all really. However, the clock could not be wound in reverse. She could not take back those recent words, so vehemently expressed. She would have to live with the danger of this knowledge. Innocence had been stripped away to reveal her dark secret. She had been compelled to face truths that hurt. She felt as a woman, had a woman’s ardour and she had no right to feel this way. It was wrong. But now she had experienced that fearsome power of desire, and once unleashed, it could not be restrained as though it had never been. These cravings were real. They were for someone so different … so special. If they were not for Mallory Mason, could she ever feel this way for someone else? A quick glance was shot across to his preoccupied face. Would I want to?
With tremendous effort she turned her attention to the road. He was driving as if possessed, but she knew it was important to get back before the house awoke for the day. Unexpectedly, a jagged hole opened up ahead. He wrenched hard on the steering column, but he was travelling too fast and the swerve only served to trap the back wheel and send them veering off into a cavernous ditch. Next there was a horrible cracking as they impacted into the gnarled trunk of a very solid Elm. She flew over the bonnet, caught the side of her head a real cracker on the tree and landed with an almighty thud into the scattered debris, at its massive roots. A long sigh was forced from her lungs, deeper than the tranquil depths of an unfathomed ocean.
Mallory was jammed behind the raked column then fell sideways as the vehicle slipped and gave another violent jolt. This sent her sailing free of the Runabout and then she too, landed with another thump out on the road. The side of her foot caught the hard surface breaking her body’s impact. There would have been a broken bone but for the gaiters which prevented rotation, acting like a brace. Only the de Dion Bouton, Model Q, remained at the scene that morning the twenty-ninth day of September 1909, but then it had not been sent flying through the air – like its occupants.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER ONE
TWO YEARS LATER
Kylie took off to Ward six and Mallory returned to the nurses’ station. Right now they had to familiarise themselves with the home situations, family and work histories and any other relevant information. Armed with these details they would be ready to assess, from the plethora of existing programs, those which could be of most benefit and value in follow up. They would meet again in the cafeteria for lunch and review their cases.
There were seven of them including two young men, remaining in her year and of them all, Mallory was on good terms with Kylie Beasley. She seemed willing to share their workload and assignments, without needing to go into personal details. This suited her very well and she saw no further….
Life, for Mallory, had been difficult since picking up the threads of her studies. She had only been one month late in returning to campus and fortunately, since they had not heard differently, her room had not been re-allocated to someone else. It had been close though and the Faculty had been quite severe in its reprimands. No matter, she had ridden the storm and here she was in her final year. She was doing her thirteen weeks in the Field Ed. II Module. This comprised of practical rotations in a social work agency, a compliance role in a government ministerial research department and a community or hospital mental health service. This last was where one put it all together with real clients.
When she graduated, hopefully this year, she would have her Bachelor of Social Work and Community Welfare Degree. She had not opted for the Honours program, content to be one of the troopers in the field rather than go into research. Then she would be free to return to Australia, but was not sure of returning to Cairns; there would be more choice in Sydney. Whichever way it went, she knew she would not stay in the UK. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.
There had been quite a fuss over the loss of the car. In the end the insurance had stepped in. She had never replaced it and just rode her bike. The weather was still mild for October, but when winter’s chill set in, in earnest, she could be of a different frame of mind.
Mallory’s final clinical attachment was in the mental health department of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, on the Psych. Ward, sharing the patients with the nursing students who intended to specialise in mental health. The Psychology rotation was interesting, but Mallory thought she would still opt for the family practice specialty; providing counselling and support services to a wider range of clients. She was unsure of her ability to handle drug dependency cases and the prison inmates were some of the worst – a real challenge. She would prefer to work where burn-out was less of a risk. During these past two years she had thrown herself into her studies, a saving occupation which had helped maintain her sanity. They had kept her focused, her mind geared to the future not the past. Even after all this time however, she could not totally exclude flashes of those brief encounters. Reverberations from these experiences could impact on her as destructively as a tsunami. Sometimes it was more than mere flesh could contain. There had been times when she had wanted to pass through the glass door, to pass beyond into the relief of the numbing void and lose herself in black-death.
It was a wonder she had kept herself together as well as she had, but it was at great cost. She was a private person, almost to the point of being a recluse. She could no longer relate to other people on a social level, finding it impossible to open up to easy camaraderie. Her past was too bizarre to tell anyone. She could not make sense of it herself for that matter. She would enter a phase where she could believe it was all a bad dream. Then the fear would gnaw at her insides that it was indeed true. What she did know for sure, were the tormenting night visions of a raven beauty, with flashing green eyes and a beguiling laugh to die for. She would awake and lament her loss.
The Lady Nigella must have died in that accident, but she would never know. The tyranny of time not distance slotted the event into what would be classified as a ‘cold case’. She had toyed with the possibility of following up leads, of making contact. So many times she had returned to Guilfoyle Park in her reveries, wondering what had happened to the Patchford family, especially Lady Glencora. When they found Nigella’s body for sure she must have realised her worst fears. Whoever it was who had been out to get her dearly beloved daughter had finally succeeded. She would never think it was she who had been the agent, responsible for her loss.
Would they have gone through with Lady Ramona’s engagement? There should have been the celebrations for Lady Nigella’s birthday soon after that. Oh, what a heavy heart she had. How she wished she could take back that foolish dash into that calamitous night … and what of the Guilfoyle retainers and servants? Little Miss Beevis, Fiona? Could she still be alive? Impossible! Too many years had passed for one allotted span; not to mention two world wars.
No – she had to move on. Now she was leading another life, forsaken again. Who could believe her? She had nobody with whom to share her experiences. On her ‘return’ she had contacted her parents. Their surprise at the call was soon overwhelmed by their pleasure on hearing her voice and knowing that everyt
hing was good. For herself, it was all she could do to stem the tears. She had wanted to blurt out everything, but common sense had prevailed. How could they possibly understand? In the end she had revelled in their news. Gavin had found a serious girl-friend. He had called them just last week, to see if it would be all right for him to bring her to visit this Christmas.
Now she was in another existence, but she would get through this. She must give it time. Just let her new life work its healing magic. She held onto words she had read somewhere, a quote that sustained her: ‘In my end I find my beginning’.
The plate glass doors slid aside at her approach and as she passed through she saw Kylie in the line up, her tray already laden with a steaming, hot lunch. Mallory waved and she pointed across to an empty table. She nodded. Her lunch consisted of salad and a tub of yoghurt. She was comfortable with her access to normal food, but she had never gone back to Coke. These days she chose apple juice.
Kylie waited for Mallory to join her before she started eating. She eyed the tray opposite, but refrained from comment. Whereas before her friend had been so robust, so athletic, now she epitomised the phrase ‘shadow of her former self’. Not to the point of anorexia, Kylie assessed, but if she were not careful she could come close to it … and she did worry.
Mallory wore her hair tied back now. She had liked it when it was short and more wayward, but Mallory said she had no time for a hairdresser. Like this it was out of the way. She really admired Mallory, in fact she liked her a lot and that was why she was careful not to do anything that would push her away. She had to be watchful, not too forward, which was not really her nature. What she hoped was that one day Mal would let her in, but she was so quick to clam up over anything personal. She envied the dedication she gave to her studies and the thoroughness she brought to her work. She found all this highly laudable, but she did wish she would take some time off. Lighten up and they could have some fun.
When trying to decide what to do with her life, Kylie knew she wanted to ‘make a difference’. “Not just make money; you know, help people.” She had come this far, but was not convinced this was it. She had been forced to see the seamier side of life, unable to sidestep some of the more serious hardship cases; not so sure she liked dealing with them, even if she could help, but often she felt she could not. Still, she would see this through to the end. At least a degree could give her entré to other fields of endeavour.
“How did it go?” They were just finishing their drinks.
“Good. My guy will do well with home care. We just need to see if we can source sufficient funds. It will be a case of slotting him into the right category, yours?” Mallory asked then looked at her watch. “Ky, we’ve got to move it. Grand Rounds starts in ten and we have to get over to E Block. Stubbo will give us a drubbing if we’re late.” She piled their plates and Kylie went for the lift.
They made it – just. Dr. Stubbs was preparing to move off, his usual entourage of eager medicos, nurses and hangers on like herself, in tow. They all wore white lab coats, but the medical students set themselves apart with a stethoscope draped round their neck, or sticking out of the coat pocket.
Stubbo knew his stuff all right, but Mallory thought his rapport with the patients was on the ‘tubular’ side. He was the senior consultant registrar and clinical lecturer in residence at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Psychiatric Practice. Being a professor could distance you from the real world, she supposed. Pity the poor patients when this mob turns up to gawk, she sympathised. At least they’re saved the poking and prodding that goes on at medical and surgical rounds.
They had been moving steadily from room to room and bed to bed and shortly Grand Rounds would be finished for the day. Staff Nurse was reviewing this last patient, a young woman – referring to her chart – transferred from the chronic care facility. She had recently emerged from an amnesic state and begun to verbalise, but was not comprehensible. The referring doctor had requested a second opinion, a more in depth neurological psychiatric assessment. Several options were open to this patient: Hydro-bath immersion, albeit an old therapy, but in this case one that could yield positive results, the more drastic emergency procedure of ECT and finally, the more modern, but less tried, mild direct current stimulation of the brain. This latter, although less intrusive, had sometimes resulted in short term memory loss which could constitute a contra-indication. What had produced so much excitement over this particular patient had been the discovery that when someone had placed a pen in her hand, in the hope that although verbally inadequate, the stimulus could result in her writing down her thoughts. It had been known before … and she did. They had not made sense, but just the act of writing had been indicative of a positive progression. Dr. Stubbs was looking over the clinical notes, nodding as he turned the pages of a slim folder: two years in an intermittent, insentient state; lucid for short periods followed by total withdrawal. He turned to his students, seeking suggestions as to possible causes and prognosis.
Mallory’s attention drifted from the sounds around her and concentrated on the young woman. She sat immobile in the big recliner, her feet in blue crocheted socks, propped up on the extended foot rest. She was dressed in a white, terry towelling robe over a pale blue, hospital gown like all the others. However, her attention was caught by the dishevelled, blue-black hair, cut very short sticking out all over the place and the almond eyes staring vacantly toward the window. She felt a chilling familiarity about the features: wide cheek bones, gaunt and prominent; lack lustre eyes and full red lips above a small, pointed chin. This woman was no girl, for sure, but the ravages of illness could have resulted in this haggard, drawn appearance.
But she’s so like to the teenager I knew!
Shocked to her core, she stood rooted to the spot as the knife’s edge on which she had been teetering these past two years, turned inward. Mercilessly, it incised deep through her protective layers to expose that dreaded suspicion which had tormented and haunted her. She needed to move closer; ask her name, make sure, but she could not do so here. Was it possible?
The scene materialized before her eyes as clear as flashing headlights in the black of night. Could Nigella have survived that crash? Had she not seen her, herself, flying through the air, heard the thud of impact? No, it was not possible she could suffer all that and live … and yet … and yet…. Again she scrutinised, trying to read the signs. Could it be?
The woman did not register their presence, did not speak; only continued to gaze out the window. When Mallory had seen her eyes follow the flight of a blackbird, her ears alerted by its carolling notes, it was then she had seen how arresting was their colour and appreciated the intense shade of green. In that moment she determined to find out more about this mysterious young woman.
Rounds completed everyone scattered, but she went back to the nurses’ station. There was little on the chart, the patient being so newly admitted. She would have to go to her previous location in the chronic care home. The chart recorded an address on the Bourneville Estate. She guessed it would be one of those old residences around which the workers’ houses had been erected.
It was not until after four o’clock that she was freed up to get away to Lychette St. Agnes House. She rode her bicycle over to the Estate, sweeping through the curving roads and up not a few dead ends. Bourneville was one of the ‘garden cities’ Mr. Pogue had described to her that night, at dinner. It was a genteel suburb, quiet and leafy. What had been the name he’d said: Brodsworth Main? Now she appreciated the historical significance of Bourneville. It was of low density compared with the industrial villages, where every street consisted of the same row of parallel, red-brick, two–up and two-down houses. They had no internal bath as he had envisaged, just a yard out back containing the stand pipes for water and where the outside earth lavatories were located. Houghton’s concept had been bold and inventive for his time. At the desk Mallory made sure her I.D. was prominently displayed on her lanyard. They did not know her here and could ref
use entry. To be blocked at this stage, what an intolerable thought. Now she had embarked on the project – quest, she felt as one driven.
As it happened, there was no problem. When she explained what she was after, she was not the first student needing to pursue more information. So long as she did not take the case file from the nurses’ station she could stay as long as she liked. The ward secretary went down to search the archives. Unfortunately, there was not much to be gleaned. The referring physician estimated the new patient to be in her early twenties: previous good health, strong teeth and healthy gums, straight bones and therefore well-nourished. Mm…m, what else? Found not far from Earlswood Lakes on one of the remote tracks not much used these days, by a boy riding his bike on a short-cut between home and school. He had reported his find to the Principal who had then taken over. They had not moved her, but called for an ambulance which had transported her to the Emergency Department of the Birmingham General. She was skipping more of these details when her eye was caught by the Ambo’s description of the woman at the scene. She had been wearing some kind of fancy dress. Oh, my God! An old fashioned blouse and long skirt: feet encased in button boots, could not have been there above a few hours. Quickly she read on. A severe gash on the victim’s head had bled profusely, matting the hair which had also stemmed the flow: several facial lacerations, fortunately quite superficial. Speed had been imperative and the paramedics had prepped her for an immediate repair of a skull fracture.
No documentation had been found with the patient. The staff decided to call her Faith. It had been a miracle that after whatever accident had befallen her, she had not been so badly injured that later she died; or had been outright killed at the scene.
Til Morning Comes Page 26