Eventually, the door opens again. ‘Nora, I’m Nurse Hatton. You’re to see Dr Mason. Come.’ This softer voice gives Nora courage to look into the accompanying eyes. Something in their depths moves her in the middle of her chest. Tears fill her eyes and, though she wants to blink them away or dry them with her hand, her body seems unwilling to move and she feels their warmth coursing down her cheeks. She cannot take her eyes from those opposite her that seem to say they care that she is lost. ‘Nora.’ The woman reaches out and places a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Nora, it’s all right. You need to come with me.’
She stands obediently and hobbles towards the door, trying as she does to rearrange her toes in the stiff leather boots. Already, her heels are sore. The loose green smock hangs off her body, hiding its gentle curves. Despite its excessive roominess, the black cardigan feels a bit of a comfort against the cold. But the thick stockings are uncomfortable and, even though she’s tied knots at the top to try to keep them from falling down, she has to hold them up as she walks.
‘Walk up straight, Nora,’ says Nurse Hatton. Though it’s a command, it seems to have some music to it and Nora plays it again and again in her head as she follows along the corridor like an imprinted duckling. The nurse finally stops outside a tall, ornate door, taps upon it and listens. She gives Nora a reassuring smile, opens the door and gestures to Nora to go ahead into the room. ‘Nora Jennings, Dr Mason.’
The door closes behind Nora and she stops still in a room that feels like a different world. It has a window through which she can see a slice of garden. She gobbles up the feast of sensation to savour later. There’s a graceful silver birch and some willows, and though they’re bare, they look beautiful swaying in the November wind. She imagines the sound of the twigs tapping each other gently as the wind passes through them. She can almost feel the carpety softness of the grass under her feet. The world is still as it was yesterday, but between her and that world stand those dreadful gates.
She moves her gaze to Dr Mason and it strikes her that the formality of the room, with its books in glass-fronted cases, reflects the man himself. He stands behind a large mahogany desk with its brown leather blotter, a beautiful gold-capped pen and some folders and papers and photograph frames pointed away from her, painfully reminding her of her parents’ turned-away faces. And there, in the middle of all of this, her musical box, the ballerina perfectly poised, waiting patiently for the music to commence. Nora’s eyes smart and she blinks at the sight of this treasure that doesn’t belong here.
‘Sit down, Miss Jennings,’ Dr Mason commands, and Nora does as she is told. Dr Mason clears his throat. ‘Now that you are here, I want you to know precisely where we stand.’ His voice is clear, controlled, deliberate. She thinks he’s probably a tenor and wonders if he sings. ‘You know what you have done and why you’re here. This will be your home now.’
She blinks. That word could never be applied to this place. She stops the words and reframes them in her mind: ‘This will be where you will live.’ Live? Will I live? ‘This is where you will be . . .’ What, exactly? She forces herself back to the moment and tries to listen.
‘It will be best for everyone if you consider your family dead.’
Her heart feels as though it has stopped beating altogether. What? How could that be best? Did they die in the night? Did my mother’s heart break? Am I still alive or am I dead?
‘Miss Jennings! Please pay attention. Everyone adjusts and forgets in time. You’ve been a wicked, cunning girl, and here you’ll learn to live a better life with the values that I’m sure your highly respected father has tried to instil in you.’
She twitches in her chair as a jolt of shame runs through her, then spreads and burns like pepper under her skin. But it’s soon followed by hopelessness – what Father Matthews has always called the last trench before the mortal sin of despair. She cannot allow herself to succumb to yet another mortal sin, so she refocuses her eyes on the musical box, wondering if the ballerina will still be able to dance when the music starts again.
‘I know it may be hard, but these are the just deserts for your behaviour.’
Was I so wicked? Yes, I suppose so. I’m a sinner. Fire. Brimstone. Just rewards for sin.
In slow motion, Dr Mason lifts his watch from his waistcoat pocket. His thumb flicks the catch and the little gold cover springs open, catching the weak sunlight from the window. Something in Nora smiles at the beauty of the sun on the gold – but then it’s gone. Just a flash. He checks the time. ‘Nurse will take you back to the ward.’
‘But I have to—’
‘Yes?’
But the little spurt of energy that broke through the cotton wool in her head is already spent and she can’t remember what she was going to say.
‘Tomorrow.’ The one word is a door shut. She is dismissed. His hand reaches forward and alights smartly on a little brass bell, whose cheerful sound jars with its surroundings.
The door opens and Nurse Hatton enters. ‘Come, Nora,’ she says, but Nora can no longer hear any music in the voice.
The clock says ten past six. Nora sits in a large, foreign room crammed with women who look as lost as she feels. There’s a strange smell and a lot of noise, and she can’t make sense of any of it. The light has gone from outside and someone is pulling heavy curtains across the tall windows.
Despite being surrounded, there’s an emptiness around Nora that is so dense and heavy that it somehow supports her body in its position on the chair. Loneliness and fear threaten to engulf her once more. There’s no way out.
‘Nora. Nora!’ A cold, toneless voice. ‘Dinner is at half past six. Get ready.’
Did I have lunch? And tea? Was there cake? Toasted teacake would be lovely. We could toast it on the fire on the long toasting fork and then eat it dripping with butter. ‘Don’t make a mess now. Would you like strawberry jam?’
‘Go and wash your hands for dinner.’
She feels her body lift off the chair and wonders at the mechanics of that. How did her legs know what to do? And now she’s walking, following everybody else. How strange. She sits on the hard bench and more people join her. Others are already there. They’re all wearing similar clothes – drab green and black – but some of them move differently and can’t seem to sit still. The woman opposite constantly moves her head and opens and closes her mouth and Nora finds it oddly fascinating. And that girl, why is she staring like that? Then Nurse Hatton wheels someone in and sits her at the end of the table. Her twisted hands make clawing movements and she’s chewing even though no food has been served yet. Nora looks away.
Nora’s hand moves involuntarily to her head and she fingers her scalp. It’s sore and sticky in places. Did someone really put a cloth around my shoulders and cut off my hair? Hair that had only been cut maybe three times in her life, and at each, her mother had tried to hide her tears as the curls fell? Then was I really made to sweep up that last reminder of who I used to be into a newspaper? This must be some sort of nightmare. She’ll wake up soon. Her parents will come and take her home, having made their point that she’s a bad girl. They’ll be furious about her hair.
Another nurse with heavy-set legs, a weightlifter’s shoulders and hairs growing from her chin stands a way off, staring at the table and the people sitting around it. Those ruddy cheeks must bury her eyes when she smiles. The clang of a bell reverberates through the hall and, in unison, spoons clatter against metal bowls in a deafening din. Nora looks from one drooling face to another, and yet another chattering aimlessly to no one in particular. It’s bewildering. Not one person is as young as she is and it seems that every head bent over the soup is grey. Where did all of these people come from? Why are they here?
She lowers her gaze to the soup in front of her and is surprised to see that her hand is holding a spoon filled with thin brown liquid and is raising it to her mouth. She swallows and savours the spread of warmth as the soup makes its way to her stomach. Someone puts a piece of bread in h
er hand and her mouth opens, teeth bite, jaws move and part of the bread is gone.
She tries, but she cannot find the music. She searches in her head where she usually hears it, but it’s gone. Grief pours into her chest. Despite all these people around her, now she really is alone.
Chapter Five
Three weeks
So as not to offend the sensibilities of the local populace, Hillinghurst Hospital hides itself behind screens of trees that serve as protection or imprisonment, depending upon the viewer. The building has an architectural grandeur that has always seemed – to Nora – incongruous with its function, with wide sweeping steps protruding like a tongue ready to snatch up and devour unsuspecting visitors. Gothic arches simultaneously beckon and warn. The pain of hundreds of souls that Nora has always sensed hanging like a shroud over the building is, she is discovering, all too real.
Nora kneels on the marble floor, a bucket of soapy water at her side as she scrubs. Her cardigan sleeves, even though rolled up to her elbows, are wet, and the cold wool makes her shiver. She wrings out a grey cloth and mops up the dirty bubbles, then shifts her bucket and shuffles on her knees to the next patch of dirty floor. She tenses as she hears footfall, but quickly resumes her scrubbing. Three weeks here have taught her to keep her eyes down and get on with her work. Shoes and stockinged legs come into view and stop. Nora freezes, the sudden taste of fear metallic in her mouth.
‘Nora.’ She exhales. It’s Nurse Hatton. Thank God. ‘Leave your things here and come with me.’ Nora clambers to her feet and follows the nurse obediently. Nurse Hatton leads the way to the dormitory and Nora trails behind, trying to ignore her sore knees and the backache that now plagues her every minute of the day.
‘Sit down.’ Nurse Hatton indicates Nora’s bed and pulls up the one metal chair for herself. ‘Nora, it’s your birthday! A lady brought you this.’ With a smile and a flourish, she produces a little package wrapped in yellow crepe paper and tied with string. She places it on Nora’s lap. Nora holds the little parcel in both hands then hugs it tight to her breast. ‘My mother?’ she asks, and her mouth cracks into a smile. The movement feels foreign.
‘No . . .’ Nurse Hatton says hesitantly. ‘I’m sorry, I should have thought . . . No, the gift is from a Mrs Lampeter.’
‘Mrs Lampeter?’ The disappointment threatens to overwhelm her. ‘Oh . . .’ She tries her hardest to feel grateful, but her eyes brim with tears.
‘I’m sorry, Nora. She said she was your friend.’
‘Yes. She is,’ Nora says, feeling even guiltier for her reaction. She brushes her tears away and lowers her eyes to the parcel.
‘Are you going to open it?’ Nurse Hatton encourages.
Nora holds the featherweight package in her sore, chapped hands and her fingers tremble as she tugs at the bow. The sunshine-yellow crepe paper brings memories of past birthdays crashing over her. Tea and jelly and custard. Friends with party dresses. Playing pass-the-parcel, postman’s knock, musical chairs. How the girls all fawned over Robert, her cousin who, in the early years, was the only boy. Mummy’s cakes, with icing and sugar hundreds-and-thousands sprinkled on top. She and Auntie Isabel with their frilly aprons and big smiles. Rubber balloons and presents. Then, when she was fifteen, Mummy and Daddy gave her the musical box, and she danced to Liebestraum along with the ballerina. And last year, Robert gave her a silver chain.
She unfolds the paper carefully and slowly, eking out the experience of a few seconds to last as long as possible. Inside the first fold is a piece of paper with laborious handwriting. The pen has smudged and scratched here and there.
Dear Miss Nora,
Many happy returns of your birthday.
I’m sorry for what happened.
Your friend,
Eileen Lampeter
‘What was it that happened, Nora?’ asks Nurse Hatton, her voice gentle.
‘I got pregnant and now I’m here,’ Nora says mechanically.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nurse Hatton says. ‘Truly sorry. And you should be proud of yourself, still trying to smile when I know you’re disappointed. I’m very sad that this has happened to you.’
Nora cannot speak, but tries her hardest to communicate her gratitude with her eyes. Nurse Hatton places the note gently on the bed beside her as Nora lifts the last veil of paper. A tiny hand-knitted matinee jacket, smocked and exquisitely edged in crochet, lies with its matching bonnet and mitts on their yellow bed. The soft white mitts appear to be holding a little rose-scented soap. Nora can feel Nurse Hatton watching her as she fingers the mother-of-pearl buttons with their pink, blue and green lustre, her eyes shining; her skin suddenly takes on the glow of pregnancy. She looks up just in time to see the nurse brush away a silent tear.
‘How are you feeling about being pregnant?’ Nurse Hatton finally ventures.
Nora places her hand on her belly. ‘I hated it at first and I just wanted it to go away, but now I feel little flutters and know that the baby’s safe, and I’m happy that it didn’t die. I’m ashamed that I did . . . you know.’
Nurse Hatton leans forward and gently touches Nora’s arm, but Nora tenses and the nurse withdraws it and lowers her head, focusing instead on the gift. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says. ‘I should put it somewhere safe if I were you. Don’t let Sister see it or we’ll both be in trouble.’ She gives a conspiratorial wink as she slides her hand between the bed frame and the mattress. ‘Don’t be long,’ she says with a smile that doesn’t quite match her pale face and damp eyes. ‘Make sure you get back before anyone notices you’re gone.’ She briefly touches Nora’s shoulder, then leaves her with her thoughts.
Nora holds the tiny garments up to her cheek and strokes them across her face. Their softness feels impossible. She arranges them tenderly on the wrapping paper. She kisses the parcel, silently thanks Mrs Lampeter, then carefully and reverently hides it.
Later, when Nora is in the kitchen peeling vegetables, and still feeding off the pleasure of Mrs Lampeter’s thoughtfulness, not only in bringing the gift but also in spending hours making it, an aide comes thundering towards her.
‘Jennings! Dormitory. Sister Cummings wants to have a word with you.’
This is enough to put the fear of God into Nora, because from the day she arrived at Hillinghurst, Sister Cummings has seemed to delight in humiliating her at every opportunity. Even the mention of her name makes Nora tremble. She dries her hands and is almost pushed along the corridor by the aide.
Just looking at Sister Cummings’s face blotched with rage is enough to tell her that she is about to be made to pay dearly for something.
‘Get over here,’ Sister Cummings yells, her arms crossed and her eyes flashing. As Nora approaches, her eyes are drawn to her bed, which she had left perfectly made but is now in complete disarray. The mattress is on the other side of the room, and on the bed frame lies the little jacket on its yellow crepe-paper bed, and the bonnet beside it. As Nora glances around, trying to get her fuzzy mind to understand, she sees the mitts and the other bootee on the floor.
‘Where did these come from?’ Sister Cummings bellows, but before Nora can say anything, Nurse Hatton’s voice comes from behind her.
‘I put them there. Somebody brought them as a gift for her birthday and I hid them for when the baby comes.’
Nora opens her mouth. ‘No, I—’
But Nurse Hatton shoots her a silencing look. ‘I put them there,’ she says again.
Sister Cummings’s hand comes like lightning and the slap sends Nora sideways, almost knocking her off her feet.
‘Leave her alone,’ shouts Nurse Hatton, rushing to Nora’s side and taking her arm. ‘Look at her. She’s pregnant and she’s got nothing and nobody. What’s this little gift to you?’
‘How dare you? Remember your place,’ Sister Cummings hisses, her eyes steel and her face menacing. ‘You’re finished here, Hatton.’ Her voice is low but more threatening than the loudest of shouts.
Nurse Hatton yanks off her cap, rele
asing a shock of red-blonde hair that tumbles uncontrolled over her shoulders. ‘That’s fine by me. I don’t want to be part of this sadistic circus any more. But you leave her alone. This is not her fault.’
‘Jennings, get back to work. Hatton, I’ll see you in Matron’s office.’
Nora stands rooted to the spot, shaking, feeling the colour draining from every bit of her face except where the slap landed.
‘Wake yourself, Jennings. Now!’ and a finger points to the doors of the ward.
Nora totters away, hardly knowing where she is going.
The next day Nora watches through the window, tears running down her cheeks and over the angry red welt on her face, as Nurse Hatton walks away. She looks strange in normal clothes, out of uniform. Then, as though she feels Nora’s eyes on her, Nurse Hatton turns and gives a little wave, accompanied by a lovely smile and that same conspiratorial wink that warms Nora’s heart, even though it does little for her grief. The punishment of four days with just water and a bowl of porridge each day seems nothing compared with the loss of the one person in this place who seemed to care.
Chapter Six
Seven weeks
Nora cannot quite believe that it’s Christmas morning and she won’t be with her family. Her heart aches with memories of evenings of cutting strips of paper and gluing them together to make streamers, and her mother bringing them cups of cocoa with the warning not to drink it while it’s too hot. Carols around the piano; the nativity play in church. The excitement of her father bringing home the Christmas tree. Her mother would put newspapers on the floor to stop the needles getting on the carpet, then she’d hold the tree up straight until her father managed to secure it. Meanwhile Nora would wait, hardly able to contain herself until the box of decorations was opened . . . As she stares out of the window of this soulless room onto the frosty morning below, she can hardly bear the pain. Tears stream down her cheeks. No sound, no real awareness that she is crying; just liquid grief pouring from her eyes.
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 4