The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  She's so thin and small. Where the gown falls open I can see her heart beating, through her ribs. She wasn't this small when I left her, I'm thinking, then I remember I've grown.

  I take her hand and rub it. ‘I've come back to you, Annie,’ I say. ‘Come back to me.’ But there's only the rise and fall of her ribs.

  What'll I do if she won't come back? I can't stand the thought of leaving her in hospital. For a moment I think of trying to smuggle her out, but I can't see how. And what would I do with her when I'd got her away? Where would we go?

  ‘Annie,’ I say, ‘don't you want to come away with me?’

  My tears are still falling, splashing on to her gown. I lick one off the back of my hand. Never tasted tears before.

  ‘I wanted my freedom, Annie,’ I tell her. ‘But I never found it. It wasn't freedom, leaving you.’ Then I lean forward over her, listening. Her hair gets in my eyes and mouth. ‘Where've you gone to, Annie?’ I say, and just for a moment I can hear the silence in her head, like the silence on the empty moor.

  How long we stay like this I don't know. Seems like forever, and no time at all.

  Then the nurse comes back. ‘Time to try her with some food,’ she says. I watch fascinated, as she tilts Annie's head back and pours a little gruel into her open mouth. Annie's throat moves all on its own, but her mouth stays open. When the nurse moves her back again, gruel runs out of the corner of it and down her chin, and the nurse scoops it up with a spoon.

  ‘Just a bit at a time – keeps her strength up,’ she says to me.

  I stare at her, hollow-eyed.

  ‘Doctors'll be round soon,’ she says. ‘So you'll have to go. But you can come back again, tomorrow.’

  ‘I'm not leaving her,’ I say.

  ‘You'll have to, dearie,’ she says very kind. ‘You shouldn't be here at all by rights. Not without the doctor's say-so. But I'm sure Mr Sanderson'll have a word, and they'll sign a visitor's pass.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I'm not going.’

  Nurse Agnes looks at me like she's about to say something, then changes her mind. ‘I'll just have a word with your friends,’ she says, and hurries off.

  She can have a word with the king if she likes, I'm thinking. I'm not leaving Annie again.

  A minute later Abel appears.

  ‘I'm not leaving,’ I say, before he starts.

  He squats down beside the bed and touches Annie's hand. ‘You can't stay here, lad.’

  ‘I can then.’

  ‘Joe,’ he says more sternly. ‘John Sanderson let us in here in good faith. But he's got to ask the doctor for a proper pass. Now, if you don't behave he'll have us slung out and you won't get that pass.’

  I stare at him and my breath quivers in my throat.

  ‘You've got to do what's best for her,’ he says gently, standing up.

  ‘He's right,’ Nurse Agnes says behind him. ‘A bit at a time – like with her food. You don't want to overwhelm her, poor lass.’

  ‘Come back home, with me and Nell,’ Abel says.

  I stare at them both, hating them. Home? I'm thinking. Where's that then? The only place I want to be is with Annie. If she won't come back to me, maybe I can join her, wherever she is, in the silent, empty places in her skull.

  But they're both staring at me and I realize I've no choice.

  Just for a change.

  I turn back to Annie. Panic rises in my throat at the thought of leaving her there, so frail and still. ‘Annie, I have to go now,’ I tell her, my voice breaking. ‘But I'm not leaving you. I'll never leave you again, Annie, you've got to believe me.’ And I crush her to me again, burying my face in her neck. ‘I'll be back tomorrow, you'll see.’

  I put her down then, smoothing her hair, folding her hands and, somehow, though it feels like it's tearing me apart, I stand up. Abel doesn't speak but he nods and squeezes my shoulder, and I follow him out of that room feeling like my heart's being wrenched out of me with every step.

  We go back to the office, where the locked cupboards are. Governor John's there with Nell, and she's all red-eyed from crying.

  What's she crying for? I think, then I remember that she'd hoped to speak to Annie, to learn about her lost children.

  The governor shuffles some papers about. ‘I'm sure the doctor will be more than happy to sign a pass,’ he says. ‘I'm sure he'll see it as fortuitous, you coming here. An aid to Annie's recovery.’

  I say nothing, but Abel says, ‘They do recover, then?’

  ‘Oh, almost certainly,’ says the governor. ‘According to the evidence we have. Which isn't much, as I say. But there are definite indications that patients do recover. It's just that we can't say how, or when.’

  Abel and Nell look at me but I don't say anything. Somewhere inside me, though, I do feel just a little bit better. Hope, I'm thinking. There's got to be hope.

  Abel and the governor exchange a few more words and then we're off.

  ‘Come back any time tomorrow,’ the governor says. ‘You can stay and see the doctor then.’

  He's kind enough – they all are. I suppose I've got to be glad that she isn't in the other kind of madhouse, with chains and whips. Or the workhouse.

  Things could definitely be worse, I tell myself, trailing after Abel and Nell, but it doesn't stop me feeling terrible. Deserted somehow – the way I felt when our mother left us in the workhouse. I know it's mad but that's the way I feel. Seems like I always expected Annie to be there, where I left her, waiting for me to return.

  When we get to the shop Travis is there, with Matt's mother and a panful of stew. He comes towards us, wiping his hands on his coat. ‘Did you find her?’ he asks.

  I fling myself down on the pile of sacks in the corner.

  ‘We did,’ says Abel, and he explains in a few words what's happened. ‘But the doctor says there's every chance she'll recover.’

  Travis looks very serious. ‘That's good,’ he says uncertainly.

  ‘It's not good!’ I say. ‘She's lying there like a corpse – she doesn't move; her eyes don't even blink when you look at them. She's gone somewhere and I can't get her back!’ Then I stop talking because I don't want to start crying again.

  ‘But she's having the best care,’ Abel says, and he squeezes Nell's hand. ‘We have to hope.’

  ‘I saw people like that in the workhouse,’ Travis says. ‘Just turned their faces to the wall…’ He trails off.

  ‘You must all be starving,’ Matt's mother says into the silence. ‘Look – I brought some stew.’

  Supper's short and silent. The stew's good but I can hardly eat it, despite everyone telling me I have to keep my strength up. Nell hardly eats either, and afterwards Abel says he'll walk her home.

  ‘It's a working day tomorrow,’ he says. ‘But we'll come to the hospital later, and see the doctor with you.’

  Matt's mother goes too. ‘I'll leave the pot,’ she says, ‘in case you're hungry later.’

  Then it's just me and Travis. He doesn't say anything, just starts shifting the dishes.

  ‘She's gone, Travis,’ I say very low.

  ‘I know, lad.’

  ‘It's my fault.’

  ‘Don't start that again. Here.’ He sits down in front of me. ‘Finish this bread off.’

  I turn my face away. Feels like the first time in my life I've not been hungry.

  Travis sighs. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I know she's gone somewhere and you don't know where she is. But she might come back. That's what you've got to keep thinking.’

  I don't say anything. But I'm remembering the silence in Annie's head. ‘I do know where she is,’ I say.

  Travis looks at me.

  ‘She's on the moor – that time when we were with you. I… I heard it – I think.’

  Travis sits back, pulling his stumpy leg from under him. ‘Then you have to talk to her about it.’

  I stare at him. ‘And say what?’

  ‘Talk to her about the moor, if that's where she is. About the sun rising
and the birds calling. The hills changing colour. Why do you think she's there?’

  I remember it vividly. All the sounds of the earth waking up, but beyond that, beyond everything, a massive silence. ‘I think,’ I say slowly, ‘I think it was the last time she felt safe.’

  Travis nods. ‘That's what they do, lad. They go to a safe place in their mind. Where no one can get at them. Because the place they're in is too hard. It's a pity we can't get her out of that building,’ he says.

  I think of taking her out. Back to the moors with Travis. Or the forest, even, to Dog-woman. Then I think of how hard it'd be, getting her out of the hospital. I'm just taking my sister out, I could say. There's a wild woman in the forest who might bite her…

  Yes, that'd work, I think bitterly.

  ‘But if you can't get her out,’ Travis is saying, ‘you have to go there with her. Show her you haven't left.’

  He's right, I'm thinking, and the small knot in my stomach tightens again. I shouldn't be here – I should be talking to Annie. ‘She always hated the town,’ I say.

  ‘I hate it myself,’ says Travis, then he gets up clumsily and starts whistling an old tune. ‘Best get some sleep, lad,' he says, breaking off. ‘Morning'll be here before you know it.’

  I lie down on the sacking, thinking of all the things I can say to Annie, thinking, I'll can reach her somehow, if it takes me all day. And I roll over, but it's hard to sleep.

  In the morning, first thing, I'm back at the hospital. The governor shows me in, but Nurse Agnes isn't there. There's a little dark nurse in the cells, making beds.

  ‘Susan, this is Joe,’ he tells her. ‘He's come to visit our little ward in the end cell.’

  Nurse Susan stares at me and nods, before turning back to the beds. She's got bent legs, I notice, like Annie.

  Annie's lying just as she was before. Shadows from the window flicker over her face, and it seems like she's staring at them but her eyes don't move, or blink.

  I go to sit on the bed, but this time I don't burst into tears.

  ‘I'll just leave you with her,’ says Governor John. ‘Stay as long as you like – the doctor seems to think it may be a good thing.’

  I hear his footsteps retreating but I don't look round. I take Annie's hand. ‘I'm back, Annie,’ I tell her. ‘I told you I'd come back.’

  It's hard talking to that empty stare. But talking's what I'm good at, so I close my eyes and begin. I tell her everything that's happened since I left her, and I don't miss out a thing – about Queenie and the gang, and Mr M, and Abel and Nell. Annie's the only person who knows everything that's ever happened to me.

  ‘Seems like you were right,’ I tell her, ‘about that boy and girl following us. They're Nell's children, Annie. She's hoping you'll tell her about them. She really wants you to, Annie – her heart's breaking. You were right, Annie,’ I tell her. ‘And I never believed you. I'm sorry.’

  I talk to her for hours and I'm concentrating so hard on what I'm saying that I nearly jump out of my skin when there's a small cough behind me. It's the little, dark, bandy-legged nurse in the doorway.

  ‘Are you really her brother?’ she asks, and I nod at her, thinking, Go away.

  But she only steps forward. ‘Are you on your own?’ she says.

  I look around the room. ‘Looks like it,’ I say, and she steps forward again.

  ‘Is your name Joe Sowerby?’ she says.

  I stare at her. ‘Who wants to know?’ I say.

  Then she reaches into the pocket of her apron and brings out the wooden beads. ‘Do you recognize this necklace?’ she says.

  I glance at it then back to Annie. ‘It's Annie's,’ I tell her.

  ‘No,’ she says. Then as I look back at her she reaches into her other pocket, and brings out another necklace that looks exactly the same. Only on the end of it is the other half of the coin.

  4

  Nurse

  I stare at her as she brings the necklaces together. ‘They fit, you see,’ she says, nodding.

  I hold out my hand. ‘Where did you get it?’ I ask, in a strangled voice. I take the necklaces off her and stare at them.

  She pulls up a stool and sits down. ‘I work in the hospital part as well,’ she says. ‘And a little while ago we had a patient come in wearing this round her neck. She was terribly ill, poor dear – consumption – but she wouldn't let us take it off her. And she kept talking all the time about her children – Joe and Annie, Annie and Joe – all the time. Then when she knew she was dying, she took the necklace off herself and gave it to me. “Look after it,” she said, and I promised I'd keep it for her. She was afraid they'd just throw it away, you see. I think she thought that if someone had it, there was still a chance that its twin might be found, and that her children would learn what had happened to her and how she never gave up.’

  There's a huge jumble of voices in my head, like I've gone mad now, with Annie. I clench my fist round the necklaces. ‘She's dead then,’ I manage to say.

  The little nurse looks terribly sad, like it's her very own tragedy. ‘I'm sorry to have to tell you,’ she says, and her lip's actually quivering. But I feel like laughing. Because it's all some big mad joke.

  ‘When was this?’ I ask her, and she says, ‘Well, that's the worst of it. It's not long ago. Three months maybe.’

  Three months, I'm thinking. We've been on the road longer than that. I've been in Manchester longer…

  When we set off from Bent Edge Farm, our mother was still alive. When we met Travis and went through the forest, she was alive then. And I remember saying to Dog-woman that she was probably dead and Annie saying no, very definitely, and all of a sudden I know where Annie is.

  Nurse Susan's talking again. ‘She was on her way to you,’ she says, and I do laugh then, short and loud, so that she blinks very quickly and looks worried. ‘She'd been all over the country doing labouring work – sent from one farm to another. She worked on those gangs where the women are all roped together and they go through the fields on their knees, picking taters. Each parish she came to she had to work for her keep, or go to the workhouse, so she couldn't get back to you. But that was all she wanted. “If I could only see them again,” she said to me, “I wouldn't mind dying.” She was on her way back to the workhouse where she'd left you.’

  And if she'd got there, we'd have gone, I'm thinking, Just like Nell. And I don't feel like laughing any more. Feels like there's a funeral inside my head, and a great bell clanging.

  ‘I felt that sorry for her,’ says the nurse. ‘I took the beads like she asked, and didn't give them up like I was supposed to. And I didn't tell anyone about it. I wasn't here the night they brought your sister in, and I only saw the beads a few days ago. It gave me a terrible turn. I didn't know what to do. “Susan,” I says, “you've got to tell the governor right away.” But I couldn't be sure, you see. Because none of us knew her name. Then you came,’ she says, ‘and the name was the right one. And besides,’ she adds, ‘you look just like your mother.’

  That face, the face I could never see in my dreams, comes to me then, and it's my own. I shut my eyes and see it plain. I can hardly trust myself to speak, but I move my lips.

  ‘Will you leave us alone now, please?’ I say, and she looks sadder than ever.

  She stops at the door. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks, but I shake my head and she goes.

  I lay my head on Annie's chest. ‘Annie,’ I whisper, but my head's full of my mother. ‘She died looking for us, Annie,’ I say, and I can't believe how sad I feel. I wasn't even looking for her. But maybe somewhere inside me, I was.

  ‘It's just you and me now, Annie,’ I say. ‘It always was, just you and me.’

  After a while the little nurse comes back, bringing a jug of water and a mug. I don't say anything but I sit up, holding the necklaces out. ‘Look, Annie,’ I say. ‘The necklaces. They fit.’ And I press them to her heart. And a long quiver runs through Annie's body.

  I jump back, startled.
‘Did you see that?’ I ask the nurse.

  ‘They do that sometimes,’ she says. ‘Move, without knowing it. It doesn't mean anything,’ she says, as if she's sorry to disappoint me. I look at Annie but her face hasn't changed.

  But she moved when I gave her the necklaces.

  I move Annie's hand so that her fingers curl round them. When the nurse goes again I lean forward, over Annie. ‘Mother,’ I whisper into her ear.

  There it is again, the slightest tremor.

  I sit up and cup Annie's face in my hands. ‘Mother,’ I say very low. ‘It's me, Joe.’

  I think I can see something in Annie's eyes, but maybe it's only a shadow.

  ‘Mother,’ I say uncertainly. ‘I promised I'd take care of Annie, and I left her. I'm sorry I left her. But I've come back now and I'll never leave her again. So if you've got her, you have to let her go.’

  And the fingers holding the necklaces twitch.

  ‘Mam,’ I say. My eyes are wet, but I'm not crying. ‘I know you had to leave us – you didn't have a choice. I know you must've broke your heart when you couldn't come back. I know I said you'd forgotten us and I'm sorry. I know you loved us, more than anything. But if you've got Annie, you've got to let her come back to me. She doesn't belong with you – she isn't dead. She belongs with me.’

  Silence. There's only the sound of Annie breathing and my heart thudding.

  I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand. ‘Give her back to me, Mam,’ I say miserably.

  Then I remember the story I used to tell Annie when I needed her to listen. Our story. I put my hand over Annie's, and the necklaces, and take a long, quivering breath.

  ‘It was cold,’ I say. ‘Colder than I've ever known. And you were tiny, you still couldn't walk properly. So our mam carried you, through the snow. She fell over twice but still she got up, carrying you, until we came to the workhouse on the hill. And she knocked at the door…’

  I tell Annie the whole story, clasping her hand. And with my eyes shut I can see the whole thing. I can see my mother's face, crying. And when I get to the part where she says, I'lI have to leave thee now, but I'll come back for thee, I swear I can hear her voice in the room, speaking with me… She took the beads from her neck and put them round Annie's, who was clinging to her for all she was worth. Look after your sister, Joe, she said, just as the door slammed to.