Til Morning Comes

by Lisa Ann Harper

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  Nurse Tracy Scott was rostered on D Ward today and had read the entry on Faith’s chart suggesting art therapy. When Mallory approached her, she too, was enthusiastic. The only time Mallory could squeeze in had been four o’clock Wednesday, immediately after her tutorial when nothing else was scheduled. It would not be off to the library this week.

  She brought a wheelchair to Faith’s bedside. She could stand and walk with help, but was still shaky. She parked herself on the edge of the recliner, next to the bed and proceeded to explain what was going on. Sunlight filtered through the thin net curtains which fluttered at the small window, filling the room with a hazy glow and just enough light. Here was her first chance, really to look hard at Faith, up close. There was no denying the face was careworn, definitely older. She could see signs of the youthful Nigella; if the hair was allowed to grow back, if colour returned to the cheeks. Her heartbeat quickened with possibilities. Could this woman really be her?

  There was no response to her words, not even an acknowledgment that she had heard a voice, but she kept up the patter while she made the transfer to the wheelchair. Out in the corridor she lapsed into silence until they entered the craft room where others were busily engaged in their various activities. Sheena was the therapist on duty, she had helped Mallory set everything up, fascinated by what was being attempted.

  “Hi,” she greeted then turned to the woman: “Hello, you must be Faith.” She walked over with them to their corner and helped transfer her to the stool. It had been placed in front of the easel which supported a large board against which lay a sheet of artist’s paper. The box was placed on a side table just the right height for the stool. Mallory was relieved to see her back held up without difficulty and she had no problem with balance. She had especially wanted the woman to feel the stool beneath her and not the softness of constant padding. The next step was the tricky one. How would she get her started? She could not paint herself, so it would be no good to have her watch; she must ‘do’. Well, she could begin by getting the bits and pieces together as if she were going to paint and just let her observe the process.

  At first Faith’s eyes stared to the middle distance, but her attention was eventually caught and held by what was happening. Her eyes began to follow the movement of the busy hands; she had not been interested in the fetch and carry part. The dipping of the brush in the water, the swish in the colour; the sweep across the page, these were triggers. She stopped after an initial, light grey wash, as if not knowing what to do next then spoke, as if musing to herself and turned to the woman to ask if she could help. Faith made no move, but she did focus on the artist. She looked at the easel and the paints. It seemed there was some understanding.

  “Well, perhaps this is enough for today,” Mallory declared. “Shall we do this again another time?” She did not want to use the name the staff had given her and so far had been able to avoid it. When the time was right and she was reasonably sure this woman was whom she suspected, then she would use her diminutive. Faith gave no indication one way or the other.

  They left everything as it was and returned to the ward. Mallory checked with Nurse Scott regarding Faith’s availability and it seemed so long as she was not away when the doctor was due she was free, any time. This was good. It had become obvious these should be daily sessions if possible. Mallory’s schedule was tight and they would not let her neglect her other cases, nor did she want to. Before, she had been trying to fill her day, leaving nothing spare, now there were not enough hours. She retraced her steps to pack up the gear and have a word with Mrs. Lewis. It was so important to clear everything first. She knew people in a position of authority did not appreciate surprises.

  At Grand Rounds on Friday when they reached Faith’s bed, Dr. Stubbs inquired if Miss Mason had made a start.

  “Only one session Sir, but I do expect to access time on the weekend.” She hoped she sounded sufficiently confident that he would feel the matter to be well in hand. They moved on and once finished Mallory did not follow the others back to the department, but collected Faith and took her down to Crafts. She went through the motions again this time pinning a small water colour print to the corner of the board – a view of an open field with a hedge and broken-down, five-barred gate. In the middle distance, disappearing into a hollow was an old farm house, a curl of smoke rising to grey, cloudy skies from its stocky chimney. She handed her the brush. She held it diffidently, testing its feel between her fingers. It almost dropped, but her reflexes cut in and she saved it. Mallory was pleased with this reaction, giving her more cause for optimism. She asked what tint she would like to add and directed her to the palette of colours. Her excitement was intense when Faith made a selection for herself, first dipping the brush in the pot, then choosing the light green. She brushed it across the page with tentative strokes. It was not long before they became more confident. Mallory sat back and let the woman become absorbed in her task. She had feared that once she had the brush in her hand, it could set in motion some sort of manic behaviour, the action releasing pent up emotions in the form of jerky, staccato jabs, or wild sweeps of blotchy paint. She did none of this, only sitting quietly concentrating, checking with the print from time to time. It was a peaceful interlude, reminiscent for Mallory, of that day in the country so long ago. Would it provoke such memories for this woman? Forbearance Mal, you do have two more weeks.

  Best of all would be a real scene outdoors. Will they let me take her out? Probably not! This could be considered too risky, putting in jeopardy the patient’s safety. Now was a perfect recess however, allowing her time to observe, without causing alarm and the more she saw, the more she recognised small, familiar gestures: how she drew her brows together when she was concentrating, how she licked the tip of the brush as she moved on to finer work. She began to tire however, so Mallory suggested it would be nice if they could continue the painting tomorrow. Faith looked at her, but said nothing.

  “Shall we do this again after lunch?” This time she nodded.

  “Would you like me to bring you some slices of fresh baked bread and some nice, crumbly Stilton, all white and fluffy?” This brought a smile to her lips. Yes, Mallory knew what hospital lunches could be like. “I’ll try to find some Cox’s Orange Pippins for after.” She would get up early and go to the markets. With a bit of luck someone might have one of the old-style apples.

  She was right, Matron drew the line at an outdoor excursion, but in its place she obtained approval for music appreciation. She would be permitted to bring in a portable CD player. She wanted this to be a quiet evening session with dim lights and they could sit without interruption. It would mean another weekend given up to searching for the right music, but she did not mind. These days she felt so good. Sleep was no longer drug-induced. She could fall into bed tired in mind and body without haunting visions resurrected before her eyes, to leave her sweating and shaking. No, she was happy in her pursuit.

  As for lunch, what she brought into the hospital could not constitute a main meal, but treats were allowed. They did acknowledge that Faith needed her appetite stimulated and anything that could do that would be looked upon favourably.

  “You know Mallory you’re the first person to resemble any form of visitor for Faith.” She was back on D Ward talking to Tracy as she completed her paper work.

  “Really?” she thought she should act surprised.

  “Yes. The notes from Lychette’s make no mention of relatives or friends. Poor thing, it seems she has no-one of her own.”

  “Yes. I think she is all alone in this world,” she agreed sadly.

  “Well, good for her that you’ve taken an interest. I’ve noticed just this last day or two that she looks up when we enter her room. That’s something isn’t it? After being passive for so long … although I believe her violent outbursts in the beginning needed two, sometimes three people to restrain her.” Tracy reflected for a moment: “I guess she wasn’t so frail in those days.”

&
nbsp; “Probably, if she had felt her integrity violated, then it was no wonder she showed signs of hostility. Custodial care without compassion can so easily lead to feelings of paranoia.” Whether this woman was Nigella or not, Mallory did not like the thought of anyone undergoing compulsory treatment. She grimaced inwardly; what a contradiction in terms. “We don’t know her reasons, but none of us likes to be deemed incapable of making decisions for ourselves and unfortunately, this is especially the lot of those diagnosed as mentally ill.”

  “So true,” Tracy agreed. “We must always try to remember to recognise the patient’s agency.”

  There was something else Mallory would like to move onto: Physical Fitness. Sitting in the recliner all day did nothing for her muscles and bones. It certainly would not help preserve her balance and co-ordination. She needs so much!

  Saturday’s lunch went down very well. Faith left the ham with soggy lettuce wrapped in its plastic and really enjoyed the fresh, crusty slices of Italian bread and the cheese. Mallory had found a mild Roquefort which Faith also appreciated. She had lucked out on the apples, just too long ago, but had found some perfectly ripe, large Bartlett pears with yellow, juicy flesh. While she ate she thought too, how much better this was than the hospital cafeteria. She resolved to have a word with the nutritionist. If she explained Faith really preferred fresh to processed foods, they could have better success.

  Since they were not allowed to go outside, Mallory had brought the outside in, in the form of an arrangement of pale, orange and white Marguerite daisies. She had cut sprigs of Cedar from the hedge surrounding the residence, to provide greenery and had found the vase in the ward’s storeroom. It was a glazed, black pot, its curves catching the light which brought out its shape. The flowers made for an attractive, balanced setting in front of a draped, hospital towel. Pale blue was not ideal, but was the only colour she could find to avoid a white backdrop on white paper.

  Faith’s eyes lit up when she saw the still-life and immediately she took up the charcoal stick and began to sketch. Again Mallory sat quietly observing. She thought Faith did not want to paint today, but after sketching for a while, she made to reach for the wooden box. Mallory got up and then realised the woman also wanted to stand. She helped her up and she walked with her assistance to a different vantage point from which to view the arrangement. She wanted to paint the flowers, but from the side where the light slanted across, accentuating the shadows. Finally she spoke. “I think here would be right.”

  Mallory was not sure she had heard, hardly daring to believe her ears.

  “Did you say you wanted the easel over here?” She pointed to the spot then thought to add: “my Lady.”

  “Yes thank you.” Faith nodded her approval. Mallory was confident at this stage to let go of her briefly, to fetch the things. Faith sat on the stool, then proceeded to busy herself with the sketching pencil. Mallory went to fill the pots with water and on her return the first quick strokes to place the items had been completed. Then it was straight to the colours. She blended and mixed the pigments achieving a persuasive depth to the petals and foliage. The vase stood out, solid and shiny. Mallory was amazed at the talent thus revealed. She was also amazed by the turn of events, leaving her mind in a whirl. Not many words had been spoken, but she knew that voice. There was no mistaking the strained, somewhat drawn-out vowels of the English aristocracy, exactly typical of the period. Today there was more moderation, but not so in this young woman. Again, she had accepted the title as her due, not the least surprised. The clincher – she was behaving just as Nigella would.

  Mallory could not contain her grin. She wanted to shout, jump up; do a jig, anything to release her joy. She continued to sit quietly, just smiling and nodding and smiling again. To think after all this time, she had Nigella back. They had both been so alone in the world, now they had each other. Once more she looked across and her face blossomed into a radiant smile. Nigella! She would get her fit; nurse her back to robust health and make her life complete. This would be her mission.

  In contemplative mood, she surveyed her charge as she painted, absorbed in this new task. Instead of the towel backdrop she was choosing to paint a vague, cloud-like setting in soft blues and greys – so imaginative. Gazing on intrigued, she let her mind explore all the possibilities that lay ahead. All the things they could share. They would be together at last, just as they had planned on that madcap, reckless night.

  Abruptly a dark, ominous thought insinuated itself. This was the twenty-first century. Everything in it would be alien to Nigella. The shock of this realisation, on top of everything else – how would she cope? How would she deal with the knowledge that all her family, everyone she cherished, was dead? Learning that the whole world she had grown up in was gone?

  It had been hard for her and even now she experienced unsettling echoes. She was a stronger person, more mature; had not suffered two years of institutionalisation. That in itself was enough to rob anyone of their coping strategies. But she would have to learn the truth. She could not protect her from the real world. Anyway, should she be shielded? No wall would be high enough. As a person in her own right was she not entitled to that respect for her autonomy and ‘personhood’ Professor Stubbs had lectured them on? Happy revelation – unhappy repercussions! How would she handle all this?

  After about twenty more minutes, the basic painting was complete and Nigella was beginning to fade. Mallory thought she would risk it again and asked, keeping her voice slightly deferential: “Would my Lady be ready to return to her room?”

  “Yes, thank you Baldwin, I think I’ve done enough for today.”

  No more words were spoken, but when she was handed over to a nursing assistant, she actually looked up and smiled. Mallory’s elation escalated and soared. She left the ward winging her way into town, bent on a new quest: Music. Her emergent worries would have to go on hold. For now she must try to regain the past. She resolved to weave together from the tatters of Nigella’s fragmented memories, a reinvigorated self-awareness. There would be time enough in the future, when she had returned to normal, to introduce the present.

  She considered Chapman’s would have the biggest choice of Classics. Again, just as with the art supplies, it was imperative to find the right composers. They had to be immediately recognisable; ones to which Nigella would readily respond. She wanted to provoke significant memories that would act as precepts to initiate more words and if possible, unfold broader, verbal exchanges. Am I asking too much too soon?

  At the moment, she thought of her as the butler. Would it be best to let her continue under this misapprehension? It was a positive connection with her former life and as such, should be fostered. But this was just the beginning of their journey of re-discovery – what of later? She would definitely want her to know her for herself. Would this come as another shock? Her brain could not turn off and she was making herself sick. It was no good there were no answers for her yet. When she got off the bus and walked the short distance to the music outlet it was to discover she was too late, their doors were shut. Oh well, tomorrow is good.

  Soon after her return to the residence, Kylie dropped by. Her timing was so quick Mallory wondered if she had been lying in wait. She invited her in expecting a short visit.

  “Have you plans for tonight Mal?”

  “Have to admit … haven’t thought that far.” She did not want to discuss her plans, any plans, with Kylie.

  “We’ve not seen much of you this week. You always seem to be shooting through…” Her voice had an edge of petulance: “… and it’s not to the library ’cos I’ve looked.” She gave an arch smile knowing how incredible it sounded, for her to have placed her body in such an establishment.

  “Really, and what were you doing there?” She was not ready to let her off the hook.

  “I have the right to go there as much as you, Miss Clever Pants.” She laughed it off and perched herself on the edge of the coffee table, watching closely. “Well, where have you be
en?” Now she looked serious, wanting an answer. As Mallory plugged in the kettle she supposed she should give her something. There was no need to be a sullen dag, especially after her previous outburst.

  “I’ve been working on that case I said I would look into for Stubbo. Since it’s in addition to my regular list there’s little time left over.” She brought the cups to the table with the tea bags inside and Kylie moved off to the couch. She went back to collect the carton of milk from the bar fridge. Neither took sugar. A change of tack: “What’ve you been doing Ky?” The whistle blew.

  “Actually, I was researching in the library.” She sat forward resting her elbows on her knees. “You remember our stint in Human Rights and Social Issues …?” Mallory nodded as she brought over the hot water. “… Well, I have to tell you, although I plan to finish this year, I’m not sure I want to be a social worker.” She looked up from pouring, taken by surprise. “So bearing this in mind, I thought I’d check into the legal issues again. I think I’m more the type to deal with the abstract.” She added the milk and sat back.