The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  About the Author

  Dr Brenda Davies is a Consultant Psychiatrist, author, broadcaster, spiritual teacher and Principal of the Brenda Davies International School of Healing and Spiritual Development, which has graduates in England, Ireland, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, the USA and Zambia. She travels worldwide to teach, do peace-building, conflict resolution and healing work. Having lived much of her life in Zambia, she is now happily settled in Wales. The Girl Behind the Gates is her first novel.

  The Girl Behind the Gates

  Brenda Davies

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Brenda Davies 2020

  The right of Brenda Davies to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Cover image: Becky Glibbery

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 529 37454 4

  eBook ISBN 978 1 529 37455 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To Nora and all the thousands of women who suffered similarly, some of whose stories will never be heard.

  ***

  And to all the unseen angels working, often under difficult circumstances, in psychiatric hospitals and other mental healthcare facilities around the world, as well as for all those in their care. Never give up!

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Part II

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  As a medical practitioner, I’ve always tried to be aware of and grateful for what I learn and benefit from on my journey alongside those people who trust me with their care. Nora is but one of the many who have taught me and helped me heal myself as I became a fellow traveller in their lives for a while. Their courage and effort in working on themselves, overcoming issues of the past and finding new paths forward have been a constant inspiration to me.

  Over the years I tried to encourage Nora to tell her story, but she always backed away from doing so. However, several times she asked me if I would write it for her. I always refused. Then following her death in 1995, one of her friends sent me a note and included a letter from Nora reminding me of her request. So, at long last, this is a true yet fictionalised account of Nora’s story – where all names and places have been changed to protect everyone. I’ve also added some characters who are simply a work of fiction.

  Brenda Davies

  January 2020

  Part I

  Chapter One

  1939

  With collars upturned, hats pulled down and coats firmly buttoned against the taunting November wind, the congregation of St Francis’s Church trickles steadily into the pool gathering around Father Matthews who, in white cassock and green chasuble, provides an island of hope in the ocean of gloom. For England is at war.

  Friends enquire solicitously about sons and husbands who have already been called up, unable to fully mask their relief that their own loved ones have, as yet, escaped the military’s attention. Parents smile and joke with the priest, hiding their fear with the false bonhomie that will help their sons march out with courage, while those men old enough to remember Ypres and the Somme hurry by, avoiding the gaze of fresh-faced youths whose shining eyes speak of their naïve dreams of adventure and honour.

  Nora Jennings hangs back a little, trailing behind her parents as she searches the crowd. Her often playful green eyes are uncharacteristically serious, her face pale and troubled. She tucks behind her ear a wayward strand of chestnut hair, usually so tidy but this morning done in a distracted hurry, then returns her hands to her chinchilla muff where they unconsciously fuss with the mantilla hurriedly stuffed there. She glances at the statue of Our Lady and begs for her intercession, making silent bargains she vows to keep. She’ll work for the poor; sing like an angel; praise the Lord every day; live like a nun . . .

  Mr and Mrs Jennings, unaware of Nora’s anguish, wait placidly for their turn for the final blessing from Father Matthews. Nora looks on numbly, wishing she could disappear.

  ‘Thank you, Father. Lovely sermon.’ Her mother smiles, touching her hair to ensure that none has strayed from the chignon that supports her hat, resplendent with its curved feather.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ her father intones, keen now to shepherd his family home, away from the frosty morning.

  ‘And beautiful singing,’ says Father Matthews, enveloping Nora in his beaming gaze. ‘You have a daughter with an angel’s voice.’

  Nora attempts a faltering smile and drops her eyes until her mother’s elbow reminds her of her manners. ‘Thank you, Father,’ she manages, her eyes shying away from his, desperately hoping that he hasn’t seen the secret sin she’s trying so hard to hide.

  Mrs Lampeter, the Jennings’ housekeeper, holds Nora in her gaze, all too aware of the reason that her smile and her eyes tell different stories.

  The next morning, the house wakes early but Nora has already been up for hours, kneeling by her bed, head bowed, her face testament to the earnestness of her prayer. Her trembling hands finger rosary beads as she adds an extra paternoster to each decade of Hail Marys.

  She finally opens her eyes and stands. She rubs her knees, stiff after kneeling for so long, and sweeps her eyes over her room. They settle on the teddy bear and rag doll that share t
he small wooden chair next to her chest of drawers, guarding over her as she sleeps as they have done since she was a small child. She walks over to the chest of drawers and looks at her most prized possession, a musical box with a ballerina poised ready to pirouette. She wants so much to turn the key, let the music soothe her as it has done so many times before, and she reaches out her hand.

  A tap on the door startles her, and her hand halts in mid-air. Her heart races. She stuffs her rosary into her pocket and hurries over to her bed. She sits down, lifts her head and gulps down air as nausea threatens to overwhelm her. ‘Yes?’

  Mrs Lampeter peers in, duster in hand, and steps hesitantly into the room. ‘Are you well, Miss Nora?’ Her voice is unsteady and she clears her throat.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Lampeter,’ Nora lies, holding eye contact only long enough to be polite. A long silence somehow squeezes itself into the next tiny moment.

  Mrs Lampeter stares at Nora. ‘Miss, I brought you something.’ From her apron pocket she pulls a small parcel and a note, and places them tentatively on the bed beside Nora. She turns and hurries from the room, closing the door behind her, before Nora can gather herself enough to say anything.

  The moments tick by and Nora remains motionless. Then, almost involuntarily, her right hand unclasps from its partner and moves towards the little offering. She slowly unfolds the paper and reads.

  Sorry, Miss. I’m ever so sorry if I’m wrong, but if you’re in the family way, and you don’t want to be, these might help. No more than three tablets.

  Eyes wide with fear, Nora reads the note again, then fumbles to open the little packet. A small bottle falls into her hand. She turns it over and reads the label – quinine tablets. She stares, puzzled, then understanding rushes upon her.

  Oh God.

  She closes her hand tightly around the bottle while tears run down her cheeks. Tears of shame. Tears of hope. Tears of gratitude. And now, the nausea rises again and this time she can’t quell it. Vomit surges into her mouth while she scrabbles for the chamber pot and retches. When it’s finally over, she freezes, straining her ears, terrified that someone has heard. She knows that if she doesn’t go downstairs soon she will arouse suspicion, but one look in the dressing-table mirror at her pale, tear-stained face frightens her. She licks the corner of a handkerchief and wipes her face, then nips her cheeks to pink them up a little. She feels unsteady on her feet and doesn’t fancy getting down those stairs. Come on, Nora, you have to do this.

  Holding tightly to the banister, she creeps down, then hovers outside the dining-room door where she won’t be seen while she settles her breathing. She watches for a moment as her mother fusses over the crockery and checks everything on the sideboard – it must be perfect for Daddy, though he already has his head buried in his newspaper. Nora steps forward gingerly and, as her mother turns to greet her, Nora sees the anxiety and questions that leap into her eyes.

  ‘Are you unwell, dear?’

  ‘A little,’ Nora murmurs, turning towards the sideboard, nausea rising as she looks at the huge breakfast laid out there. After a few painful mouthfuls, she mutters an excuse, grabs her schoolbag and hurries from the room. At least on the walk to school, she doesn’t have to pretend.

  Nora wishes the day would just pass. She manages to sit through mathematics, despite feeling as though everyone must be able to see her shame written across her face. The teacher drones on about revising for the end-of-term tests, but Nora barely registers any of it, focusing instead on the hope that came in the form of a little brown bottle.

  At break time, she tries to avoid her friends, saying she feels unwell – which is about the only truthful thing she has said to anybody all day. By the afternoon, concentration is almost impossible and, at the sound of the final bell, she springs from her chair like a jumping cricket, grabbing her satchel and almost knocking over one of her friends in her dash to escape.

  The smell of freshly baked teacakes tweaks at her nostrils, but rather than the usual sense of happy anticipation it brings, it makes her feel even worse. Just a few weeks ago, that smell would have meant some treasured time in the kitchen with her mother – just the two of them. But not today. Looking her mother in the eye is more than Nora can manage.

  ‘Mummy, I’m still not feeling too well,’ she says, registering the concern on her mother’s face and hating herself for being the cause of it. ‘I think I’ll just go and lie down.’

  Her mother reaches out and touches Nora’s cheek. ‘Yes, you’re pale. Mmm . . . you just rest then. I won’t disturb you, just come down to dinner if you feel better later.’

  Hours later, Nora hears her mother approaching her bedroom door, tiptoeing so as not to disturb her. She turns her back to the door and huddles under the covers, feigning sleep. After a few seconds, she feels her mother retreat, leaving a trail of her sweet floral perfume behind her.

  Nora listens as the house relaxes, preparing for sleep – odd clicks and cracks, the last crunchy nestling of the logs in the grate as they snuggle down behind the fire screen. She tiptoes across to her chest and turns the key of her music box. Liebestraum fills the air, calming and soothing as the little ballerina pirouettes. She eases open the middle drawer of her chest and searches among her underwear. Her fingers brush the little glass bottle and, heart drumming, she slides it from its hiding place. She hugs it to her chest, closing her eyes. ‘Please forgive me for what I’ve done and for what I’m going to do,’ she whispers. ‘Please, please . . .’

  She bows her head even lower and bites her bottom lip until both the pain and the metallic taste of blood become too much for her, then presses the nails of one hand into the palm of the other until it hurts. Perhaps this will somehow help persuade God of the urgency and sincerity of her prayer. ‘I’ll do anything, just please let it work. I promise, I’ll never be wicked again.’ She stands up, rubs her sore knees, then sits on her bed and once again reads the label on the bottle. She tips out three tablets into her hand. She replaces the cap, then hesitates. She opens it again and adds another tablet just to make sure.

  Chapter Two

  Nora begins to surface, as she often does, with music playing in her head. She’s singing ‘Ave Maria’ with the choir and thrills as she feels herself reaching the highest notes, her heart full of gratitude for the gift of her voice.

  Ave Maria, gratia plena

  Maria, gratia plena—

  And then, with a jolt, she’s fully awake. The horror of her reality fills her with dread, all the more acute because forgotten in the moment of waking. She slips her hand down into her pyjama bottoms and fingers herself, then carefully withdraws it, pleading silently to see her fingers tipped with red. But her hand is clean.

  It didn’t work.

  The nausea that is becoming all too familiar starts to rise again. She leaps out of bed, fumbling for the chamber pot, a rush of saliva dripping into it as her stomach contracts and the acrid taste of vomit fills her mouth. ‘Oh, God.’

  She closes her eyes but tears still escape down her face. What should she do? She tries to catch her breath, rests against the bed, but something doesn’t feel right. She wrinkles her brow and cocks her head, listening. The world feels somehow distant. She shakes her head, taps her ears. Everything seems strange and far away. She can almost hear the sound of her brain working, like the irregular ticking of a broken clock. She closes her eyes and shakes her head again. Maybe it’s a little better . . . But now there’s a strange buzz . . . as though numbness had a sound. She tries to concentrate but a wave of nausea floods through her and vomit fills her mouth once again.

  In the next exhausted pause, she looks at the little bottle. What if someone should discover it? Her blood pounds. She pushes it under her pillow for now. Mrs Lampeter will help. What day is it? Tuesday. She doesn’t come on Tuesdays. ‘Please, please, God, help me. What can I do?’ She feels ill. Her head aches, her vision is blurred and her hearing feels stranger than ever. Please, God. Don’t let me die.

>   The door to her bedroom flies open and there is her mother, a look of horror on her face, her eyes darting from the chamber pot to Nora and back again. Nora looks up but doesn’t bother to try to hide it; she is too exhausted to care any more.

  ‘When did you last have your curse?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Nora whispers.

  ‘Nora. Could you be expecting?’

  Nora looks at her mother, struggling to make out the hazy words. ‘No,’ she says with as much conviction as she can manage.

  There’s a yawning silence. Her mother looks unconvinced but finally leaves, closing the door behind her. Nora sinks to her knees, tears coursing down her cheeks. When she has cried so much that her face is sore and swollen and she has used up all her tears, she crawls back into bed and rests her head on the cool, soothing pillow. She reaches out for the only thing that will comfort her: her Bible.

  Hours later, she is still trying to read the same passage, but the words just keep slipping through her mind like water through cupped hands. She finally gives it up as a bad job and puts the Bible back down on her bedside table, just as her mother enters her room without knocking. Nora’s breath catches in her throat.

  ‘Push over,’ her mother says, in that way they always used to talk when they’d share cosy chats and little titbits of news about their days. But lately there’s been a gulf between them, which Nora knows is of her own creation.

  ‘Nora, you have to tell me the truth.’ Her mother’s tone is firm but gentle, but Nora still avoids her eyes.

  ‘I’m just not feeling well. I have a headache and I can’t hear properly,’ she says, hoping desperately that her mother can’t detect the shake in her voice.

  There’s a pause, then her mother places a hand on Nora’s arm. ‘Nora. I want the truth.’