They both stand. Dr Stilworth feels a sudden, unprecedented desire to shake Dr Mason’s hand, but he stifles the impulse. He turns to leave, but Dr Mason’s voice arrests him. ‘How is Sir Peter?’
‘My father is well, thank you.’
Dr Mason nods. Dr Stilworth hopes that the exchange between them was prompted by something other than the older man having discovered his aristocratic ancestry. His hand is on the door handle when Dr Mason speaks once more. ‘Tom . . . Did Miss Jennings eat, once she was allowed back to her room?’
‘Yes, sir. She managed almost a slice of buttered toast and two cups of sweet tea.’
Dr Stilworth allows himself a triumphant smile as he limps back down the corridor to make his last check on Nora for the day. He pauses on the threshold of the day room and scans the patients for Nora. He sees her and is about to approach her when he notices Peggy walking over to her from across the room. He leans against the door frame to watch.
As Peggy shuffles closer to Nora, her face contorts occasionally, thick saliva trailing down her chin and finally dripping in a slimy glob on the floor. As usual, her stockings are slipping down her legs and the faint smell of soiled underwear follows her. Her smock is caught under her belly and pulled up at the back to reveal more leg than is appropriate. In her hand, she holds a biscuit. When she reaches Nora, she bends forward slowly and places the biscuit on the arm of Nora’s chair, then hobbles away.
Tom looks on, transfixed, barely daring to hope.
Nora sits perfectly still, though her eyes come to rest on the biscuit. She stares at it for a long time. Then a sudden, heaving sob forces itself to the surface and exits her mouth like projectile vomit. Nora’s body folds forward until her head is between her knees as she wails, fighting to draw breath between the spasms of her escaping pain and sorrow.
Tom’s breath catches and his eyes moisten.
Without a word, Stan exits the nurses’ station and makes his way towards Nora. Gladys leaves the ward and returns with a cup of tea, then stands beside Stan. They take up their places as silent witnesses, forming a protective tableau around the grieving mother. Neither of them touches her nor attempts to stem this torrent of grief as Nora bathes both her soul and her broken heart with her tears.
When the waves of grief finally abate, Gladys touches Nora’s arm, soft as a butterfly. She picks up the now cool cup of tea and hands it to Nora. ‘Nora,’ she whispers. ‘You can start to get better now.’
The cup of tea remains untouched. Every now and then a new wave of grief emerges and finds its way to the shore of Nora’s consciousness as, at last, her soul expunges the pain. Sister Cummings watches from afar, her face an unreadable mask.
When Nora finally raises her gaze, her eyes are swollen and red, but clearer. She looks at Gladys for a long moment. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers. Finally, Nora searches for Peggy, who is rocking back and forth in her chair by the window, weeping silently. Slowly, Nora lifts herself from her chair, picks up the biscuit and hobbles towards Peggy, who watches her in confusion until Nora breaks the biscuit in half and puts one piece on Peggy’s smock, keeping the other in her hand. They look at each other and, without a word, a friendship is forged that will last for the rest of Peggy’s life and, for Nora, much longer.
Tom turns and leaves. He’s superfluous here, for now.
Chapter Eleven
1942
Three years
With a rushing sensation in her ears, her head swimming and her heart pounding, Nora hovers with her foot in mid-air, on the threshold, hardly daring to move. She steadies herself with her hand on the door jamb, a sense of unreality numbing her as she stares beyond the doorway into a world that’s been out of her reach for so long. Beyond those dreadful gates, she can see the countryside landscape that lies beyond, proud and beautiful: copse and woodland, garden and grove clothed in clusters of blossoms. Time and loss have taken their toll and the Nora who now prepares to step out is not the same person who was brought here against her will that long time ago.
Descending this small step into the black-tarred yard feels like a great leap, and once again she withdraws her foot into the comparative safety of this building which, like it or not, has become the only reality she now knows.
The soft summer air stirs and gently caresses her face, cajoling her, teasing her, daring her to come out. She closes her tired eyes and inhales the warm, sweet air, drinking it in as though it were wine – honeysuckle with rose undertones, and a hint of lavender not quite fully in flower. The scent enters every cell and stirs buried memories, hauling them into unwilling focus. Roses, chosen for their perfume, in the back garden of her home in Fenshaw. Lavender in their untidy spriggy clumps with their deep purple spikes. Her mother, trug over one arm, cutting flowers on her weekly redecoration of every table, windowsill and level surface that could hold a vase. Robert and herself playing in the garden in bathing costumes while her mother, laughing, sprays them with the garden hose; making daisy chains, searching for ladybirds; jars of honeysuckle by her bed, sometimes with a sweet little note from her mother . . .
She looks down at the drab uniform of anonymous shared clothing that is dumped on her bed each morning, and remembers swirly floral skirts. Her heart clenches. No, she mustn’t go there – too painful. She opens her eyes and blinks at the bright sunlight. Nora doesn’t want to ruin today with sad memories, for today is special. For the first time since arriving at Hillinghurst, Nora is to be allowed to walk outside with Gladys.
‘Go on, then,’ Gladys chivvies from behind her. ‘Look lively or your time will be up before you get started.’ And Nora responds to the motherly hand in the middle of her back, almost tripping into the yard.
She closes her eyes, her face raised to the heavens, and thanks whoever might be up there for allowing her this bit of freedom. With just a few more steps, she is beyond the shadow cast by the building, standing on the lawn, wishing she had sandals instead of her heavy clogs. How she longs to feel the grass between her toes! She stares in wonder at the earth around her as though she has never seen it before, then up through the gently waving trees to the jacaranda sky. Unconsciously, her head mirrors the movement of a sparrow as it picks its way from yard to grass, and she turns to see Gladys watching her with a smile growing on her lips. ‘Which way can I go?’ Nora asks, trying to keep any eagerness out of her voice, just in case.
‘Which way do you want to go?’
She glances around and sees a series of arches covered with pink roses that tumble over each other as they vie for the best view from the top of the trellis. ‘That way?’ Nora queries, still unsure about whether she really does have a choice in the matter.
‘OK.’ Gladys smiles. ‘Come on then.’
The walk that begins with Nora’s hands buried into her pockets in an attempt to restrain herself, soon finds her trailing them over tendrils of sweet peas and pricking her fingers on a briar sucker she clutches as she passes. Now she’s twelve and walking with her grandfather as he prods here and there with his walking stick, clapping with glee as a tiny green frog hops away. She’s there again, walking in patches of wild garlic, kicking up its pungent odour with her wellington boots.
‘Nora.’ Gladys’s soft voice interrupts her reverie. ‘Let me show you something.’
She points at a little wooden peg by the side of the path. ‘This is a marker. When you’re allowed to walk by yourself, you’ll be able to walk to one of these markers then turn and walk back. The nurses will be able to see you, so don’t go past it or you’ll be stopped from coming out on your own again. The next time we come out I’ll show you the next one, though you might only be able to come to this one for a while.’ Nora peers intently at this little piece of wood that curtails the freedom she’s so recently been granted. ‘So, for today, it’s time to walk back.’
Nora stands still for a moment, and then, much to Gladys’s astonishment, kicks off her clogs, spreads her arms and spins round and round, twirling like a little girl. She c
an almost feel herself at eight with her white ballet dress fluttering out around her.
Gladys watches, mesmerised. But she is not the only one.
Joe McConachie is also having his ‘walk’, though from the direction of the men’s block and from the confines of his wheelchair. He watches, charmed and amused, but then Gladys notices him and he cringes with embarrassment that he, ugly and disabled, should be caught admiring the pretty girl. He wishes he had never ventured out. ‘Hello, Joe.’ Gladys’s voice is familiar and kind.
Nora stiffens as her eyes follow Gladys’s gaze. The man parked in the middle of the path is dishevelled, his shabby tweed jacket covering a blue plaid shirt minus its collar button. Over his lap is a khaki blanket that hangs down a way and is then tucked up under him. The footrests are vacant. Nora quickly drops her head and steps behind Gladys, hiding like a shy child behind her mother, though she wonders who he is and what happened to his legs. Then she feels guilty when, as if he heard her thoughts, he looks down at his lap and sadly turns his head away.
The atmosphere is suddenly charged and the first flutters of alarm begin to stir in Gladys’s mind. She knows that this will all have been observed and interpreted and she has a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that there will be consequences for Nora.
‘Carry on, Joe,’ she says. ‘Nora, it’s time for us to get back.’
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Sister Cummings sits at her desk ready for handover, crisp from head to foot in her blue starched uniform, white stockings, perfectly pressed cap and burnished shoes. Her belt buckle is buffed to a fine patina. She’s already checked the bath book, bowel book, teeth book and medication charts to acquaint herself with details of every patient on her ward. The night shift is ending and the day staff should be arriving any minute now. Already, the patients line the walls, bent and cramped into closely packed chairs. The usual suspects are straitjacketed to prevent them hurting themselves or others. Some wear helmets to protect them from harm; others are bibbed to catch the steady stream of spittle that will soak their clothing within half an hour. Most are fairly quiet. It is 6.59 precisely.
The ward – down which her staff will walk any second now – is broad, with a dark, shining oak floor that is polished every morning and mopped with a soft cloth several times a day. Woe betide any dust that dares to settle upon it. The high, vaulted ceiling with iron arches betrays both the age and expectations for the hospital. Built to house two hundred patients, it is now severely overcrowded with about six hundred, and more are still being admitted while staff numbers remain static. The only choice, as far as Sister Cummings sees it, is to run it like a military operation, and the staff need to either respect that, or leave. In her opinion, these patients need to be controlled and treated like the badly behaved children they are, by giving them the discipline they should have had when they were younger. She has no truck with namby-pamby therapies. A good slap is what they understand, and if that’s not enough to get the results she expects, then the punishment obviously needs to be more severe. It’s very simple and she wishes that people would just get out of her way and let her get on with her work.
She knows what it’s like to suffer, having looked after her much-loved mother whose screams of pain while she dressed the open, stinking, cancerous crater where her breast used to be could only be quelled with opium. Many a night she could hardly sleep because of the fear that would rise up at the thought of having to do the dressings again the next day. The only thing she could do to survive was to harden herself to other people’s pain. Eventually she cut her own feelings off so that she could bear to do what needed to be done and, by default, she became an untrained, unpaid, excellent, if granite-hearted nurse. In Sister Cummings’s opinion, the patients here have nothing to complain about and should feel lucky that they’re looked after at all. Life isn’t fair and that’s all there is to it. You just have to get on with it.
She pulls herself out of her reverie and looks at her watch again: 7.01. The day staff are late. They’ll get the sharp edge of her tongue when they do arrive. And, as if they’d heard her thoughts, Gladys and Stan enter through the tall, ornately carved door, chatting happily, until Stan sees that Sister Cummings is on deck. His expression changes and he nudges Gladys, who is oblivious and carries on talking animatedly. Sister Cummings’s face is blotchy with rage, her hands clenched by her sides.
‘How dare you wander in as though tomorrow would do?’ she booms. ‘You’re late. Let’s get the handover done and you’ll all stay over at the end of your shift.’
Fifteen excruciating minutes later, and the handover is complete. The night staff are off to their beds and the day staff now scuttle to their posts so as not to ruffle Sister any further. But Gladys is not off the hook yet.
‘I want to talk to you about Jennings,’ says Sister Cummings.
Gladys pales. She’s been dreading this since yesterday. She knows that whatever she says can and will be twisted in order to support whatever decision Sister Cummings has already made.
‘What’s been happening out there?’
‘Sorry, Sister?’ Gladys says, trying to inject her voice with confusion, her heart sinking all the while.
‘Feigning stupidity doesn’t suit you,’ Sister Cummings snarls. ‘With Jennings and McConachie.’
‘Nothing’s been happening, Sister.’
‘Don’t give me that. She’s been lazing around like a dying wallflower for months and now, one walk out and she’s pirouetting about and fawning over a man.’
‘I think she was just thrilled to be out in the fresh air and Joe was out and stopped, that’s all.’
‘I’m watching her. If I see any evidence that she’s returning to her old behaviour, I’ll have her for breakfast.’
Gladys sets her chin and gathers her courage. ‘What old behaviour?’
‘Don’t pull that with me. You know exactly what I mean. She got herself pregnant and it’s our job to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Yet I give her one bit of freedom and what does she do with it? She’s flirting.’
Gladys feels warmth creeping up her neck. She should just let go, back off and say nothing, but she just can’t. ‘There’s been no flirting, Sister. They met briefly by chance and Nora actually seemed frightened and shy.’
Cummings narrows her eyes, surprised that this nurse, who has never once contradicted her, is choosing this moment to fight back. ‘I don’t think so. It’s all a ruse. She knows the moves. She’s done it before.’
‘Maybe she just had a little slip,’ Gladys says, her voice firm.
‘A slip? And do you think she was that lucky? To get pregnant on one slip?’
‘Some do,’ Gladys retorts, shrugging. But something in Sister Cummings’s eyes tells her that there’s a painful story there.
‘Well, I don’t believe it. Any more of that and you know what I’ll be recommending.’
Gladys’s blood runs cold and her breath hitches in her throat. She knows how Sister Cummings works. It would give her great pleasure to set Nora up as the example to remind Dr Stilworth to mind his own business. ‘Would you prefer we suspend her walks?’ Gladys offers, hoping to avoid future issues. She knows how the trap is set.
‘Not on your life. Give her plenty of rope.’
Gladys shudders. There’s something new afoot and a gust of icy wind seems to follow Sister Cummings as she moves. No one is sure about what’s going on, though there has been plenty of gossip. Whatever it is, it isn’t pretty. This has been building for years, and everyone has heard her say she’d make Tom Stilworth pay for humiliating her. That was even before last week, when he shouted at her after finding her towering over Nora who was sprawled face down on the floor in a pool of Lysol. It’s been war since then – silent and cold as ice, but always lurking in the background. What he wrote in Nora’s notes for everyone to see didn’t help, either. That was tantamount to a declaration of war, probably with Nora Jennings being the main casualty.
&
nbsp; Fall at entrance to sluice. Circumstances of fall unknown. Fully conscious. No apparent injuries. Reports having slipped on wet floor. Witnessed by Sister Cummings. Observe. Tom Stilworth.
‘What was that Tom Stilworth was preaching about?’ Sister Cummings mocks, and Gladys forces herself to concentrate. ‘ “Give them freedom, dignity and responsibility?” Fine – let’s do that.’
‘Maybe she’s not ready for that,’ Gladys counters carefully, desperately trying to damp down the storm Cummings is whipping up.
‘But didn’t he say we should unlock the doors and give them the key to health and freedom?’ Her voice drips with sarcasm and her cruel mouth forms a hard, ugly line.
‘I think it’s confusing for them to go from one extreme to the other. I can take it more slowly with her if you wish, Sister. Maybe I didn’t set the boundaries clearly enough. I could—’
‘Stop drivelling. Get her ready for her walk and show her the grounds. From today, she’ll go alone.’
Chapter Thirteen
1943
Four years
Nora sits by the window, staring out at the sixteenth season she’s observed at Hillinghurst. She can hardly believe she’s been here for so long. The cold, grey winters, snow scattered on distant hills and drifted into hedgerows. Beauteous yellow springs with daffodils and primroses and a plethora of wild flowers. Fruit-filled summers when she longed for the beach and her mother’s laughter and playfulness.
In the autumn she was allowed to walk prescribed distances alone, yet always under the watchful eyes of the staff. During these all-too-short outings, she often felt giddy with a long-forgotten sense of freedom. The reds and golds of the leaves swirling like flamenco dancers delighted her, and she searched for acorns and pine cones as she’d done as a girl, remembering how she would collect things for the harvest festival and practise new hymns with the choir. And now another winter is approaching and the leaves have lost their crispness and are becoming a squelching mulch, and the grass has already started to lift up its coat. Nora wonders what the next year has in store for her.
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