by A J Waines
A woman in her pyjamas was standing holding one arm up in the air, next to a bird bath. From time to time she stamped her foot and let rip with an expletive at the top of her voice, ‘Bastard…gobshite…arsehole…’
The edges of my heart curled up at the thought of Miranda living in a place like this.
A nurse bustled over. ‘Come on, Nancy, how about we have another go at hunt the thimble?’
We carried on across the grass.
‘There used to be a lake here,’ Miranda said, ‘but it was too dangerous in a place like this. Now there’s just a fountain,’ she pointed to a walled garden on the far side, ‘but people still try to drown themselves.’
There was an unoccupied bench beside a sprawling cedar of Lebanon, so we sat and sipped, not speaking for a while. There was no sound except for a pair of squabbling blackbirds and a distant tractor.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said eventually. Miranda seemed to be back to her adult self; the ‘little girl’ tucked away for the time being.
‘I really wanted to.’
For a moment, I thought of Leo. There was no way now that he could ever make things right with his family, but I could still do something about mine.
She cupped her hand over mine. It felt cold. ‘How are you feeling after the doctor died?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to miss him – terribly. It’s such a dreadful waste. He had such a sharp mind – and more than a few sensible things to say about you, as it happens.’
‘About me? Like what?’
‘That I should ask questions I ought to have asked a long time ago.’
Her eyes flickered over my face before she dropped her head. ‘He’s right. But I want to ask you a question first.’ She finished her coffee, tucked the cup and saucer under the bench and turned to me. ‘What’s the worst thing you remember about Mum…when you were little?’
‘The worst thing?’ It was a strange question. I puffed out my cheeks. ‘I don’t know. Putting relentless pressure on me to get good grades? Being hard and angry when I didn’t? Being harsh and intolerant about…everything?’
‘I asked you that question when you were ten years old and when you answered in the same kind of way, I knew.’
‘Knew what? Miranda, what are you saying?’
She looked into the distance. ‘That I was the only one.’
I felt a violent juddering in my abdomen.
Miranda spat the words out. ‘It was our nasty little secret. I hated her. I hated you for escaping it. I hated myself for being chosen, for being too weak to stop it.’
I couldn’t move. I felt like I was standing on the hard shoulder of a busy motorway with a truck heading straight for me, blaring its horn.
My mother?
I tried to keep my voice smooth. ‘Are you saying she..?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you,’ she continued. ‘For a long time.’
A tiny sound escaped my lips. I must have looked lost because Miranda put her arm around me as though I was the injured party. I squashed my face into her neck, tried to hide in her chiffon scarf.
‘I was seven when it started. She told me it was the best way to control a “wayward child”.’
Without warning, the memory I’d had recently flooded into my mind, in 3D this time. The one with Miranda coming out of Mum and Dad’s bedroom in her nightdress, trailing a towel behind her. The memory I’d always felt strange about.
Then I remembered Leo’s words: Have you ever considered that Miranda might be broken inside?
My stomach jerked with a sharp convulsion and I threw my head forward. I gagged, but nothing came up. Miranda rubbed my back and I tried to swallow gulps of air.
‘My God,’ I whispered.
‘She locked us in the bathroom together – and sometimes when everyone was out, we’d be in her bedroom. She…made me do things…’ She tried to sound matter of fact. ‘That’s why I paint,’ she went on. ‘Memories too painful to remember are locked away inside – it’s the only way I can let them out safely.’
She paints, doesn’t she? That’s what Leo had said. Maybe the answer’s there.
My mother had sexually abused my older sister.
I was trying to let Miranda’s revelation soak into my mind, but my thoughts were misfiring in all directions. No wonder Miranda had gone off the rails. No wonder she’d had tantrums and manic outbursts – always worse in the school holidays. Her behaviour was the only tool she’d had at her disposal. She was trying to fight back and none of us saw it.
Your mother’s arms should be the safest place on earth.
I tugged her wrists. ‘I knew something was badly wrong. In these past few weeks, I knew you were trying to tell me something. I’m so sorry.’
She wriggled free and scooped a strand of hair away from my eye. ‘You can’t mind-read, Sam – I just couldn’t say the words.’
‘Why didn’t anyone see? Why did no one pick it up?’
‘When I was about thirteen, I told a child psychologist. It got passed on to Dr Millais, you know, our family doctor, but nothing ever happened. No one believed me.’ Her eyes were locked wide, innocent, fixed on mine. ‘You do though…don’t you?’
My voice broke. ‘Of course, I do! I’m, I’m…devastated. I don’t know what to say. How could she?’
‘You’re the only person I’ve told since then,’ she said. ‘That’s quite nice, after all this time, don’t you think?’
I was deeply shocked, crushed and humbled all in one.
‘I’ve never had sex with anyone,’ she went on in a neutral tone. I saw her hands twitch and she sat on them. ‘I’ve never been able to…do it…properly. She’s made me into a freak.’
I sat squeezing her arm, blinking frantically.
‘Dad never knew?’
‘He’s blind as a bat.’
All at once, the territory of my life didn’t look the same any more. The idyllic scene in front of me – the cows grazing passively, the breeze caressing the leaves – became surreal. It was out of focus, distorted around the edges with a jagged black smudge down the middle: my doe-eyed, devious mother. That abominable, callous woman.
Miranda had spent her life being persecuted. She’d been living with a knife in her back the whole time and none of us had seen it. I should have asked more questions, seen the signs, paid more attention to that little voice inside me that told me her illness was more than a random pathology.
I looked over at her. She was calm, taking it all in her stride, perhaps even a little apologetic for upsetting me. I stood and swept her up in my arms, held her tight and sobbed into her collar.
‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I babbled, over and over.
She guided me back down on to the bench and rocked me, soothed me, pressed a tissue tenderly under my eyes. ‘Bet you didn’t expect this when you set out,’ she said.
I laughed. Too loudly.
‘What do you want to do about it?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘What I’ve always done. Get on with it. Avoid her.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Just be there – understand.’ She met my eyes. ‘Believe me.’
‘I do believe you. Thank you for telling me.’
I pressed my open hand against hers, palm to palm and noticed the differences in size and shape – like children do. Like sisters do.
‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,’ she said.
‘Don’t apologise. For what it’s worth, I think owning up is a sign of your recovery. Attacking Mum was part of moving forward, too, although I know most people won’t see it that way.’
I could understand exactly why Miranda saw taking a chunk out of my mother’s cheek as finally asserting herself, finally saying ‘no’ after all this time. Defending herself in a way that her child-self never could.
‘She said something to you, didn’t she…at the house, before you attacked her?’
She nodded and looked away. I let the silence run its co
urse between us. She picked up a leaf and twirled the stem. ‘I moved in with Con to get back at you, you know,’ she said. ‘I was still blaming you for being the one she never touched and I was also angry that you had something special that I didn’t.’
‘Ah, is that why?’
She must have spent most of her life being secretly furious with me, wanting to punish me at every turn – hence the broken toys, the hostility, the withdrawal when she went into care. It explained a lot.
She grimaced. ‘Are you cross with me?’
‘No,’ I replied honestly. ‘I can understand why you would want to hurt me…’
‘It’s going to rain,’ she said, looking out towards the horizon where murky clouds were gathering in numbers, ready to close in on us.
I wanted to turn the conversation back to her.
‘Do you have good professional people to talk to here?’ I asked.
She shrugged.
‘Will you tell them what you’ve just told me? Explore your feelings about it, until I can see you again?’
A hardened glaze skimmed over her eyes. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘It might even help your cause for getting out of here, if you take your recovery into your own hands.’
‘I suppose so.’
Another silence. I knew there was more to come.
A buzzing insect tried to settle on her face and she batted it away with the back of her hand. ‘It wasn’t just Mum turning up, out of the blue, that freaked me out. You were right,’ she went on, meeting my eyes. ‘She said something.’
I held my breath.
‘She stroked my face and said: “Mamma make it all better, Mims?” Just like she used to…when…before she…’
She cried then for the first time; tiny little chokes. ‘I wasn’t going to take it any more,’ she spluttered. ‘She’d tormented me for long enough.’
I sat with her, holding her until the tears subsided. We both took deep breaths and looked out across the horizon. Cows nuzzled the grass, a thrush made off with a worm. Life out there seemed so ordinary.
She put her arm around me and we sat a while longer, talking in a way I realised was entirely new, before walking back arm in arm through the French windows. She went back to her painting with her head held high.
I left feeling like I’d finally found her.
Chapter 39
The phone was ringing. I got out of bed and stared at the handset, contemplating what fresh piece of information I was about to hear that would throw my life upside down once more. Just before the answerphone took over, I grabbed the receiver.
‘It’s Debbie,’ came the voice. ‘From St Luke’s.’
I was tentative in my response, fearful that the police investigation might have taken a turn for the worse.
‘It’s the shortest suspension I’ve ever heard of,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re back. If you want to be – that is. Someone very high up must have put in a good word for you,’ she said. ‘Normally this kind of thing drags on for months.’
I did a little skip across the room. ‘When?’
‘Today if you like. I can book you patients from noon if you’re ready?’
‘Yes please. I’ll be there.’
I pulled on a black pencil skirt, an ivory silk shirt and my best Karen Millen jacket, ate some underdone toast and grabbed my briefcase. I was so ecstatic, anyone watching might think I’d just won a cruise around the Caribbean.
I was going back to what I did best.
Debbie was leaning over the photocopier in her office, when I found her, poking the end of a paper clip into a slot at the side.
‘That’s not going to do it any good,’ I whispered, creeping up behind her.
She gasped and shot round.
‘Hey, you,’ she said, blowing up her fringe with her breath. ‘Glad to have you back.’
She snapped open the front of the machine and started randomly pressing buttons.
I elbowed her out of the way. ‘Woah – this has got to last us another twenty-five years,’ I said. ‘Looks like the paper’s got stuck.’ I leaned across and teased out the rogue sheet, then fanned through the remaining pile in the tray and clipped it back in. I pressed the green button and the next page came through sharp and clean.
‘I hate people like you,’ she huffed, offering me a custard cream.
I left her and spent the morning checking my emails; mostly reminders about training days and new NHS proposals, and catching up on paperwork. It didn’t take long, however, for the exhilaration of my reinstatement to slip behind a cloud. Even though I’d known Leo for such a short time, the hospital felt a different place without him; hollow and soulless.
On the way back from the canteen after lunch, I wondered how Lian was coping. I had a few minutes spare before my first appointment, so I took a diversion to the Burns and Plastic Surgery Unit to find her. There was a new name on the board for that day’s surgery: Dr Frank Benson. It said locum in brackets after his name. I tapped on Lian’s door.
‘Come in.’
Another woman was standing behind the desk – she had thin colourless hair, loose skin under her chin, and wore flat lace-up shoes.
‘Oh, sorry, I was looking for Lian Moore,’ I said. ‘Is she here today?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m her replacement, Maureen Shipman.’ Her greeting was charmless. ‘You are?’
She strode towards me holding out her hand, formality in every step. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in a girl’s public school brandishing a whistle, overseeing a hockey match. Her grip was firm and manly.
I explained who I was and backed out of the door with apologies for disturbing her.
I popped in to see Debbie again on my way back. ‘I’ve just been down to Lian’s office,’ I told her. ‘There’s some battleaxe in her place saying Lian’s gone. Is she on holiday or something?’
‘No. She’s left for good. Gone to Bradford, I think. She was so loyal to Dr Hansson, I’m not sure she wanted to stick around after what happened.’
It didn’t surprise me. I’d seen the glint in her eye and the swish of her skirt every time Leo was within flirting distance.
‘They offered her a transfer to Professor Schneider’s office, but she said no.’
That didn’t surprise me either. Bradford or Professor Schneider. No contest.
‘Anyway, the professor might not be here much longer, either.’ It was a throwaway line and she quickly clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, heck – you won’t say anything, will you?’
I shook my head. ‘Where’s he going?’
Her voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper. ‘He’s got a brain tumour. That’s the reason for his sudden absences. Apparently, he’s been frantically trying to find his own treatment for it. His wife is divorcing him but she doesn’t actually know how ill he is. I only found out because I overheard him on the phone to his solicitor. You mustn’t say anything. Promise?’
I crossed my heart. It explained a lot. Not only his disappearances, but his distractedness and changeable moods. And the EEG machine in his office.
She patted my arm. ‘Listen – it looks like your suspension was re-evaluated and the board decided it was premature. I gather that as long as the police don’t find anything untoward, you’re in the clear.’ She reached over to her desk and handed me an envelope. ‘Here’s your confirmation from the Central Board of Medicine – I wanted to give it to you in person.’ I slipped it under my arm. ‘I wish I had friends like yours,’ she added with a smile.
‘By the way, I meant to give you a copy of this ages ago.’ She put a glossy brochure on the desk in front of me. It had a photo of Leo on the front.
‘I know it’s terribly sad now, but Dr Hansson won the Remmington Award this year for contributions to surgical science. He took a keen interest in psychology too, apparently. There’s a feature about him in here. Thought you might be interested.’
‘Sure. Thank y
ou,’ I muttered, suddenly choked at the sight of Leo’s lined, craggy face. ‘I’ll give it a read, later.’ I said, tucking it under my arm. I took another custard cream and went back to my office.
My first patient was Aaqil, the Asian man stabbed after a family funeral. He was alive! I was so glad to see him. He was still in a fragile state, but keen to start sessions.
‘They offered me someone else, but I wanted to see you,’ he said.
I could have thrown my arms around him. At the end of the consultation he looked a different person; his chest was broader, plumped up with optimism. ‘I knew this was going to help,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
It was great to be behind the wheel again, as it were. Though my brain and body were aching for a holiday, I knew I was back where I truly belonged. By the time my final patient left the room that day, I was getting into my stride.
When the doorbell rang before breakfast the next morning I thought it must be Con. I’d been avoiding him; working towards telling him we needed to sit down and have a serious talk, but I couldn’t face it yet.
I stood still behind the sitting room door and thought about not answering, but Mahler was playing on the radio and I knew it would be audible from the landing. In any case, knowing Con, he’d keep his finger on the bell until I let him in.
I gave in and opened the door to the last person I expected to see.
‘Don’t just stand there with your mouth open,’ she said, a headscarf hanging loosely over her face. ‘The least you can do is invite me in.’
I stood back without acknowledging her and watched her drag an ominous overnight bag onto the rug in the hall.
‘I’ve had a hellish journey…and these stairs are so steep…I thought you could have come down for my bag, but the buzzer isn’t working.’
Already everything was someone else’s fault.
‘Is this all there is to it?’ continued my mother, walking into every room uninvited. ‘A one-bedroomed flat. Bit on the poky side.’
‘It suits me perfectly.’ I blocked her path. ‘Dad said you had a holiday with Lorna booked. What happened?’