The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  Another spike of pain wracks Nora’s body. Her eyes search the room for any relief but there is none to be had. Sister Cummings places her hand on Nora’s belly and checks her watch. The women are busy around her and Nora looks on, watching as much as she can from her disadvantaged position. She daren’t ask questions, having learned by now to say no more than absolutely necessary.

  Her body is moved, her knees bent and a razor pulls at her pubic hair. It scratches her delicate skin, the numerous nicks leaving her stinging and making her wince. Fingers open her, stretch her and scrape away at places that have only twice before been touched by hands other than hers – once with loving tenderness and once in mortifying examination. Embarrassment seems as pointless as complaint and Nora lies there, numb. A small glass of warm castor oil is shoved towards her and a hand helps lift her shoulder so she can manage a drink. The smell of the oil immediately raises bile in her throat and Nora turns her head away.

  ‘Take it all in one gulp,’ says Nurse Jamison gently, with a surreptitious glance at Sister Cummings’s back. ‘That’s the best way.’ Nora complies but retches, her eyes streaming. ‘Well done,’ whispers the nurse, though her eyes shift immediately to Sister Cummings, who thankfully seems occupied with Nora’s notes and has neither seen nor heard this lapse of protocol.

  Another contraction wracks Nora’s body and she whimpers, clutching the sides of the bed. Sister Cummings, her hand again on Nora’s swollen abdomen, checks her watch. A flurry of activity involving a metal basin, a funnel, a large jug and red rubber tubing comes to a sudden halt and a wobbly trolley arrives at the bottom of the bed. Nurse Jamison squeezes Nora’s arm.

  ‘Nora, this won’t hurt, I promise,’ she says, and a second later Nora gasps as something is pushed into her anus. One of the nurses holds the funnel on high and starts to pour in warm, soapy water. The following minutes fill her with more disgust and embarrassment than she thought possible. As the smell of faeces fills the air, she wishes for the first time that she were dead.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says and closes her eyes, just as the next contraction starts its swell to an inconceivable climax of pain. She screams and places her hand on her belly, urging her baby to be patient, to be healthy and whole. She tries to think of her mother but memories of that beloved face refuse to surface. She closes her eyes, turns her head and prays to become invisible.

  Someone lifts her to the sitting position as another contraction comes, and Sister Cummings issues abrupt instructions to her team to let her examine Nora again before they move her to the bath.

  ‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Nora pants.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘I do,’ says Nora, squirming on the bed. ‘Please let me go to the toilet.’

  ‘Lie down.’ Sister Cummings’s hand presses Nora back down onto the bed and once again forces her legs open to examine her. ‘Get her next door to the bath, quickly,’ she says, ‘or this baby will be born there.’

  Though there’s comfort in the warm, soapy water, Nora’s nails cut into Nurse Jamison’s arm as she grabs for support, while the next contraction appears to change direction and grasp the top of her womb, then drag its way down her belly. She screams. Nurse Jamison hands her a towel. ‘Let’s get you out quickly, Nora.’ She helps Nora dry herself and gives her a clean gown.

  ‘Now you’ll regret what you did,’ a voice whispers in her ear. ‘Was it worth it, you little slut?’ Nora starts and looks around to see Sister Cummings staring down at her with loathing on her face. Even through the pain, a shiver of horror makes its way down her spine at the cruelty of this so-called nurse. Why does she hate me so?

  Sister Cummings pulls Nora’s hands down to her sides and forces her wrists into the leather restraints. She straps her ankles with her feet up on plates on metal rods that have been screwed to the bed. Nora’s back arches in frenzied frustration.

  ‘I need to move,’ she gasps.

  ‘Well, you can’t.’ Sister Cummings is between her legs again. ‘Lie still.’ But the next pain is too much to bear and Nora screams and lifts her buttocks off the bed, bucking away from Sister Cummings’s hands. The slap on her inner thigh is swift and hard but is lost in the next scream, charged and looped, careening into the walls, slicing the air. Then breathless moments, before the next seismic crescendo of pain, her whole being trembling, the visceral torture exacerbated by being tethered to the bed. She suddenly feels a white-hot wave of rage towards Robert. Why didn’t you tell them? Why didn’t you come for us? Why? You said you loved me. You should be here. She will use this surge of energy to birth this baby that will be hers and hers alone, no matter how they were abandoned.

  ‘Lie still,’ someone snaps. But the next pain is already coming and Nora screams out again, pulling on the restraints and shaking her head from side to side. Nurse Jamison clutches Nora’s hand in warning, but not quickly enough, and another blow from Sister Cummings fills Nora with fury.

  ‘Get off me,’ she screams, and the next slap strikes across her face and makes her freeze.

  ‘Control yourself.’ Cummings’s voice is cold and harsh. ‘You got yourself into this situation and now you have to deal with it. Shut up and do as you’re told.’ Tears of impotent rage stream down from Nora’s eyes and pool in her ears as she clenches her teeth and the urge to push comes with the next contraction.

  ‘Don’t push yet!’

  Nora imagines her baby making its way out into the world and wonders whether it’s a boy or a girl, though what does it matter as long as it gets here safely? She mustn’t do anything that will impede its progress. She must do as she’s told and so, with the next contraction, she steels herself to be still and quiet and to breathe rather than push.

  Oh, my goodness. How can I not push? And right on cue comes the command and the permission. ‘Push!’ She bears down, a groan escaping through her clenched teeth. ‘Now, one more big one.’

  ‘You can do it, Nora,’ Nurse Jamison urges, seemingly having forgotten Sister Cummings’s presence. And, as the next wave of pain comes, Nora pushes with all her might. She feels herself rip, but she no longer matters. Just let my baby be safe.

  ‘The head’s out.’ Someone thrusts a cloth into Sister Cummings’s bloody glove. She places her hand on Nora’s belly and waits a second or two and, feeling the next contraction start to gather, she says, ‘Last push, Jennings. Now!’ There’s a squelching sound and a sudden rush and then silence. No one seems to be breathing. No one says a word and the seconds tick by. Nora’s eyes dart around, her neck aching as she cranes to see.

  ‘Is my baby all right?’ she gasps.

  ‘Yes,’ Sister Cummings says tersely and, after what seems an age, the baby’s cries fill the room. Nora breathes and tries to lift her arms, but they are still restrained. ‘Can I hold it? Is it a boy or a girl?’ There’s no response and anxiety rises in her throat. She pulls again against the restraints. ‘Is something the matter?’ she whimpers, but again no one answers. She cranes her neck and sees Nurse Jamison carrying a bundle towards the door. ‘Can I hold my baby? Please let me hold my baby?’ She pulls against the restraints, but is distracted by another hand on her belly and a softness emerging between her legs as the placenta delivers. Ah, that’s what they were waiting for. She sighs with relief. Now they’ll let me have my baby. She breathes and waits. ‘Please, someone, give me my baby.’

  Two hours later, Nora sleeps fitfully in the dormitory, exhausted both from the birth and begging to see her child.

  Nurse Jamison slips quietly into the sluice. How cold it feels. The baby lies uncovered on the cold slab. Nurse Jamison tiptoes towards her. She knows she’ll be in big trouble if anyone sees her here. She can hardly breathe with the horror of it. The baby is perfect, beautiful, but, as her thin little chest rises and falls, her abdomen sucks in. She is in respiratory distress. Tears spout from Nurse Jamison’s eyes and she puts a hand to her mouth, then reaches out to touch the baby. What can she do? Who should she tell? Is it a mistak
e that it is here, cold and alone? But she knows absolutely that it is not. The child has been left here to die.

  ‘Nurse. What are you doing there?’ Sister Cummings’s harsh voice comes from the doorway.

  ‘I-I thought it would be adopted,’ she stammers.

  ‘The children of moral defectives are likely to be defective themselves,’ Sister Cummings says coldly. ‘This is none of your business. I’ll see you in my office in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘But, the mother—’

  ‘The mother has no rights here. I will see you in my office in fifteen minutes. Now go.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Jamison! Go and blow your nose and pull yourself together. Fifteen minutes.’ She holds the door open pointedly.

  Nurse Jamison stares into Cummings’s eyes and for just a moment imagines standing up to this monster. But the chill of the cruelty she sees there kills this fantasy, just as surely as Sister Cummings is killing Nora’s baby. Nurse Jamison lowers her eyes and, ashamed, walks away. Sister Cummings follows, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Nine

  The sharpness of the knock on the door surprises Dr Mason. Only one person would dare to knock like that. This young doctor is hard work. He sighs. ‘Come in,’ he calls, his exasperation at yet another interruption creeping into his voice, while his attention remains with the piles of patient notes, overdue reports and letters to colleagues scattered on his desk.

  ‘Dr Mason.’ Dr Stilworth’s tone is urgent, his breathing rasping with anger as he limps in and supports himself by resting his hands on the desk.

  ‘Yes, Dr Stilworth. What is it? It had better be worth interrupting me for.’ Dr Mason’s mouth is set and he deliberately focuses his attention on screwing the cap on his fountain pen, though he cannot ignore his junior’s distress or the effort it appears to be taking to control his anger.

  ‘Dr Mason, I need to talk to you about Miss Jennings’s baby.’

  ‘What about it?’ He watches the heat rise up Dr Stilworth’s neck, leaving a tell-tale sheen of sweat. ‘Sit down, man.’

  But Dr Stilworth remains standing, clinging not only to the desk but also to his anger and his dignity. ‘I understand that, at Sister Cummings’s order, the child was left uncovered on the slab in the sluice and died there. I’ve heard of such things happening, of course, but for it to be one of my patients . . . It amounts to infanticide.’

  Dr Mason lifts his eyes. ‘That’s a harsh term, doctor. Please, sit down. You have much to learn.’

  Dr Stilworth trembles with fury. ‘Is there another term that could be used for this barbaric act?’

  ‘Doctor, sit down,’ Dr Mason repeats, shaking out a handkerchief and beginning to clean his spectacles with slow, circular movements, still avoiding his junior’s gaze. He places them on his nose and finally looks directly at Dr Stilworth. ‘I’m sure you’ve read Mr Darwin, and also Mr Churchill, D.H. Lawrence and the many other eminent scholars who have written on the subject of the hereditability of the gene that causes morally defective behaviour?’

  Dr Stilworth bristles but says nothing.

  ‘I am in agreement with Mr Churchill and his goal to improve the British race, and prevent delinquent behaviour from affecting society at large. And though indeed it’s very sad, we must do our best to contain the situation. Those who may already be infected – like this child – well, for the sake of her, who may have suffered dreadfully in life, for the mother and for all of us, this is the best route.’

  Unable to hold himself back any longer, Dr Stilworth explodes. ‘To be murdered?’

  ‘Dr Stilworth! Take control of yourself. What would have been gained by allowing this creature to live?’

  Dr Stilworth stares, incredulous. ‘A creature?’ His voice descends to a whisper and he swallows loudly. ‘It was a perfectly formed little—’

  ‘Doctor!’ The imperious voice stops Dr Stilworth in his tracks. ‘Remember your position and maintain some decorum. The child was not murdered. Nature was simply allowed to take its course.’

  ‘The baby died of neglect – and hypothermia,’ Dr Stilworth storms, then pauses to collect himself. ‘This tiny newborn . . . on a cold marble slab in an unheated sluice on a cold spring evening, gasping until it could gasp no more. You surely cannot condone that?’

  Dr Mason, his face now almost puce, hammers his fist on the desk. ‘Doctor, let us not forget that the mother had already attempted to abort this child – that is, to kill it! Who knows what serious damage such a large dose of quinine may have caused to the foetus?’

  Dr Stilworth’s mouth is dry and his heart pounds in his chest. ‘That’s right. We don’t know, but we seem to have assumed—’

  ‘Doctor!’ Dr Mason thunders. This young man’s behaviour is insupportable, and Dr Mason is shocked that even now he will not be silenced.

  ‘We made an oath – to do no harm,’ Dr Stilworth continues relentlessly. ‘How can this ever be acceptable? She was only hours old but she still had rights, for God’s sake. I really must protest in the strongest terms.’

  Dr Stilworth finally stops, breathing hard. Dr Mason watches as the fight slowly drains out of his opponent, and he feels a flash of compassion. He remembers that kind of passion from his own youth. However, he must win this battle or else risk anarchy. ‘Dr Stilworth, protest away to your heart’s content. But close the door as you leave.’ He retrieves his pen, briskly unscrews the gold cap and begins to write.

  Chapter Ten

  In the Hillinghurst grounds, blossoms nod prettily and birds share their song beneath a bright clear sky, but Rowan ward reflects none of the beauty of May. Nora sits amidst the moans and mutterings, outbursts and blasphemies, and the smell of urine that permeates everything, weeping as she has these last three weeks since she gave birth. She has shrunk into herself, her neck buried between her shoulders that hunch forward to form a cocoon of protection for her broken heart. Her head droops to her chest, her hair matted with fragments of her last meal – and maybe also the one before that – and food spatters her green smock. Tight binding flattens her breasts, smothering their natural desire to produce milk for the baby who no longer requires it. Her knees are spread, her feet folding inward until her toes touch as if she, herself, were a foetus.

  In the beginning her wailing would be tolerated for a short while before she was yelled at or slapped into silence. Now she’s quiet much of the time, though now and then heart-rending grief bursts into the ward, disturbing patients and staff alike. ‘It’s like the racket on the night they take calves away from their mothers,’ someone grumbles.

  Peggy Hart watches from her seat by the window, her saggy face sad, her mouth set in a down-turned line that extends into the jowls hanging from her jaw. Her eyes are fogged with cataracts and her mind clouded by age, but Nora’s pain takes her back to her own monumental struggle just to breathe after her own baby was taken. Day after day trying merely to survive so that some day she’d find him. Of course, she never did. And now, most of the time, she manages to cope by being numb. But this girl . . . this poor girl . . .

  Peggy has looked on as various members of staff have demanded that Nora shut up, get up, clean up, wash up. At first the girl’s food was taken away untouched, but now they’re forcing her and Peggy can’t stand having to see it – to have to watch this girl being humiliated and abused. She wishes she could help.

  So, just as she did yesterday, and may well do again tomorrow, and the next day and the next, Peggy levers herself out of the chair and pauses, a comma of humanity. She yanks up her lisle stockings, keeping her eyes on the girl. She shuffles across the ward until she stands directly in front of the unseeing Nora, and watches, occasionally shifting her weight from one leg to the other. After fifteen minutes or so, she shuffles back to her usual place by the window and eases herself back into her chair.

  Today Peggy has been watching since breakfast time and Nora hasn’t moved a muscle for over an hour. Peggy limps painfully across to stand before her.
She’s breathing – that’s good. Maybe she’s asleep. Peggy holds out a hand to check, but then withdraws it. If she’s asleep, she doesn’t want to wake her. At least she’s not making any fuss today, so she’ll likely be safe.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ Peggy whispers, but there’s no response and, after a few minutes of shuffling foot to foot, she makes her way back to her chair.

  Next day, Peggy once again stands before Nora, shuffling her feet, pulling at her hair, her mouth chewing. ‘Nora . . . ?’ Peggy has found out her name from Mr Warwick. ‘I’m Peggy.’ The silence hangs between them for a moment, then, furtively looking around in case anyone is listening in, Peggy asks, ‘What happened to your baby?’

  Nora flinches and Peggy waits. A slick of saliva makes its way from the corner of her mouth, down her chin and finally onto her smock. ‘Where’s your baby?’

  Nothing.

  Nora’s body remains very still, then, just as Peggy starts to turn away, Nora opens her eyes though her head remains sagged between her shoulders. ‘They took it away,’ she whispers, and a tear rolls down her cheek and drips off her chin.

  ‘Where did they take it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nora rasps, and tears now run silently down her face to pool on the floor between her feet.

  Peggy sways back and forth then shuffles away, leaving Nora to her grief.

  It’s almost lunchtime the next day when Peggy makes it across to Nora, who weeps silently in her chair. She stands for a while just watching, head cocked on one side and her brow furrowed.