The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  Whether working in the laundry, having a precious walk or lying on her bed exhausted but unable to sleep, Nora is haunted by thoughts of her baby. Grief can still overwhelm her. She replays the memory of that slushy rush when, after all the labouring and tearing of flesh, her child just slid out. It’s all she has. She longs to be able to say ‘him’ or ‘her’, but no one will give her even that much information and she tortures herself with questions. Where is he or she? Does he know there’s a mother who loves him? Does she have new parents who love her? Is he strong and sturdy? If only she could have held her, mapped her face with her finger, she’d have a picture she could hold in her heart.

  So, whether scrubbing the floor or washing the clothes, she attacks her work with gusto, wishing she were just as able to remove the stain of illegitimacy from both the child and herself, while the pain in her sore, chapped hands at least distracts her from her constant inner turbulence. It’s her penance for the sin of unmarried motherhood and the shame that she tried to abort her child – she knows that. The wounds will never heal. And on top of all that, she also grieves that her own selfishness caused her mother also to lose her only child, and for this, she can’t forgive herself.

  At least she has found a friend in Peggy, though. Sometimes it frightens her to think that, at sixty-five, Peggy has been here for forty years. She had her baby in the poorhouse, then when her baby was taken for adoption, she tried to commit suicide and was sent here. Without family or anyone to support her, she’s never been able to leave. I don’t want ever to accept that this place is my home. I can’t stay here all my life.

  Thoughts of suicide wax and wane, and in the last few months Nora has made plans. Loosely – but plans nevertheless. She could hang herself in the woods. She could steal someone’s tablets – lots of people seem to hoard their medicine rather than taking it. She could maybe poison herself. When she was a little girl her grandmother used to teach her about the poisonous berries in the forest in case she’d pick them by mistake. Deadly nightshade or foxglove would work. These thoughts of suicide soothe her because no one can take them away from her, and if she really wants to do it no one could stop her either. But then she thinks of her child and knows she must stay alive to find it.

  Nora often ponders on what it is to love and whether or not love really exists. The quivering strand of love that she’d perceived as strong seems to have been easy for Robert to break. Does he still love me? Will he come for me? Why hasn’t he already? And did her parents ever really love her? If they did, how could they abandon her like this?

  Then, one day, it occurs to her to ask. She can’t believe she’s never thought of that before. She waits until she and Gladys are walking outside together, then asks baldly, ‘Gladys, who adopted my baby?’ Gladys looks away. ‘I won’t tell anyone you told me. I promise.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Nora feels a prick of guilt for placing Gladys in this position, but not enough to stop her now. ‘Can you at least tell me if it was a boy or a girl?’

  There’s a silent moment, and when Gladys returns eye contact, Nora sees the compassion and sorrow written on her face. She holds her breath.

  ‘A girl,’ she says simply.

  Nora sighs, a rare smile suffusing her face. ‘I knew,’ she whispers, nodding, and she reaches out to touch the older woman’s arm with her fingertips. ‘Thank you, Gladys.’

  Gladys opens her mouth as if to say more, then quickly turns away.

  One day Nora will find her daughter. This is the only thing that keeps her alive.

  The next day, out for her walk alone, Nora kicks a stack of leaves that lies on the path and, lost in her thoughts, realises just in time that she’s almost at the little peg that indicates this is as far as she’s allowed to walk. She pauses, then defiantly steps one foot past it before she turns back. Eyes to the ground, she hears a familiar sound and glances up. Coming along the path towards her is Joe in his squeaky chair. She no longer puts her head down to avoid him, though Gladys has urged her to be very careful. She said there’d be hell to pay should Sister Cummings catch wind of any developing friendship.

  Nora’s thoughts flick to Sister Cummings. She who deliberately walks across the bit of clean floor that Nora has just scrubbed, then shouts at her to start all over and ‘wash it properly this time’. Who screams her name from the ablution block, where she has ‘accidentally’ spilled the contents of a bedpan and then wants Nora to clean it up, and who hits and pulls hair in the privacy of the sluice, knowing that Nora has no means of redress.

  ‘Hello,’ Joe says, pulling on his lap blanket nervously. ‘By yourself today.’

  Nora smiles shyly and stops, gazing at the ground, but then her eyes creep up towards his face almost of their own accord, though they stop short of meeting his eyes. He must be mid-twenties and is quite handsome, really. She’s aware that she’s crushing the campion she picked a little while ago, and with an embarrassed flick of her fingers she lets it fall to the ground.

  ‘I’ve heard the nurse call you Nora, so I know your name. I’m Joe. How long have you been here?’ Joe asks, his hands balanced on the rims of his wheels.

  ‘Four years. You?’

  ‘Nine,’ he says.

  Nora’s eyes widen and her heart feels as though it might stop. Nine years. Could they make me stay that long? ‘Why?’ The question slips out of her mouth before she can stop it.

  ‘I tried to kill myself,’ he says without emotion. ‘As you see, I botched it. I fell when I was trying to get onto the railway line and the train came and all it did was cut off my right leg and my left foot.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Nora says, shocked and flustered.

  ‘Don’t be. My own fault.’ Then, to Nora’s astonishment, he laughs. ‘When I came round two days later, it was almost dark, and I thought I’d made it and was in heaven because there was an angel in my room.’

  Nora’s eyes widen. ‘An angel?’

  ‘It turned out to be a nurse in one of those fancy contraptions they wear on their heads.’ He chortles, but then his face changes again and he gives the blanket another nervous tug. ‘It’s a crime to try to kill yourself so I could have gone to prison, but they wouldn’t have been able to look after my legs so they sent me here instead. To be “cared for”. Can you imagine? I’d have been out by now if I’d gone inside.’

  Me too, Nora thinks.

  ‘What about your family?’ Nora asks, painfully aware of how hers simply abandoned her.

  ‘They never really wanted me anyway. I was only a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage and I couldn’t even do that properly. My father eventually left with some blonde and my mother ended up here a couple of years after I did. She’s buried in the cemetery.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Nora wrings her hands and feels the urge to escape.

  ‘Look at me, talking about myself. Tell me about you?’ Joe asks. But Nora freezes. She has not been asked to talk about herself in such a long time. And she doesn’t want this man, who has suffered so much, to be burdened with her problems. A blush edges its way up her neck. ‘I-I have to go,’ she stutters.

  ‘Wait! We could just . . . chat?’ Joe says in a pleading voice and Nora’s eyes finally meet his. He’s lonely, she realises with a lurch. But then her attention darts back to the main hospital building as she remembers Gladys’s warnings. Sure enough, there, in one of the windows, is a shadow. Her heart races. ‘I have to go,’ she says and turns away. Then, feeling Joe’s crushed gaze on her back, she turns back again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles.

  ‘Don’t worry. It was nice to meet you,’ he says, smiling bravely. ‘Go on. It’s OK.’ And he makes a little shooing gesture with his hand.

  Nora pauses. ‘Maybe next time, we can talk more. I don’t have any real friends here . . .’ They share a small smile, and she hurries off down the path.

  Back on the ward, the nurses have been summoned and Sister Cummings looks around, daring anyone to speak.

  ‘Enough evid
ence for everyone now, is there?’ She pauses for effect, a prosecutor delivering her closing speech. ‘Is everyone satisfied that the course is clear? Or are there even now some among you so soft-headed that you still quibble about what needs to be done?’ She glances around, ready to crush any dissent. ‘Not that it matters, really, what you think,’ she adds, shrugging. Let them not have any illusion that they have any real power in the matter – nor even an opinion that’s of any consequence. Any such idea needs to be squashed like a bug. She closes the file and stands up, scraping her chair on the polished floor.

  Stan gathers together the notes and squares the pile, packing them down with a sharp bang on the desk. He turns them ninety degrees and does the same thing again, all the while avoiding Sister Cummings’s eyes, though he knows that she’ll be watching him. This is the biggest protest he dares to make without risking the loss of his job. It’s silent insolence and he knows it, but someone has to register something.

  ‘Did you have something to say, Stan?’

  He continues to fidget with the notes. He looks up directly into her eyes, wondering who he hates most in this moment: her or himself. ‘No, Sister. Nothing at all.’ He lowers his eyes again in shame.

  Matron straightens her pristine headdress and pushes her hair securely under it. Her uniform is perfectly pressed, the newly starched collar and cuffs striking a sharp contrast to the maroon serge. Her years in this work have taken their toll, and it’s a relief to think that retirement isn’t far away. A whole life given to the service of the insane, from probationer nurse to the highest rank. And for what? A life deprived of marriage and children, and with a social life as barren as her womb within her. She sighs.

  ‘Sister Cummings.’ She lifts her face and looks at the woman standing in her doorway, who she knows is just waiting for the opportunity to depose her. But if she has her way, this woman will never have the ultimate power over her nurses. Cummings makes her uneasy. Yes, she’s clever, cunning enough not to get caught so far, but Miss Endsleigh’s antennae twitch whenever she appears. Were she not protected by the medical director, Matron would have disposed of her long ago. But, instead, she smiles. ‘Please sit down. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to talk about Nora Jennings, Matron,’ Sister Cummings says with a sweet smile.

  The discussion is not altogether unexpected. People may think that she’s in her ivory tower and not paying much attention to daily life on the ward, but she has her ear to the ground and she’s also picked up concern about Nora Jennings from other quarters. That young man, Dr Stilworth, hasn’t helped as much as he might have, either. There’s no smoke without fire, and his concern for this young woman hasn’t gone unnoticed. Those who step across the very narrow border between what’s considered proper and what is not in the doctor–patient relationship are not easily forgiven. She’s not saying that there is anything untoward, but she knows there’s been talk.

  ‘There’s gathering evidence that the moral defective gene is beginning to show itself in her behaviour, particularly around one of the patients from Elder – Joe McConachie.’

  Now, that does surprise her. Miss Endsleigh was the sister on the ward when Joe was admitted all those years ago, and his plight as a double amputee taxed even her own hardened sympathies at the time. A handsome, bright, young man in his prime . . . She pulls her wandering thoughts back to Sister Cummings. ‘Tell me more.’ She listens and, as Cummings outlines her argument, Matron realises she has no option but to acknowledge that Cummings has made sure all the criteria are met.

  ‘This is a very serious step, Sister. You’re sure of your information?’

  ‘Yes, Matron. We feel that, for her own sake and also for that of Joe and any of the other men in the hospital, this really is the only course of action.’

  Matron wonders who the ‘we’ is in that sentence, but lets it pass. She suddenly feels weary. All these young women. How many more? And she’s grateful that the final decision will not be hers.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ she says, hoping that the dismissal implied in her tone is not lost. And it isn’t. Sister Cummings is already on her feet.

  ‘Thank you, Matron, for your time and trouble.’

  As she closes the door, Matron reflects on those words – time and trouble – and she gives an involuntary shudder.

  In the next few days, plans are underway before Dr Stilworth is made aware of them. When he finally overhears a conversation between Stan and Gladys – one that in retrospect he feels was contrived to let him know – his mind reels. He pulls at his collar, his tie suddenly tight and suffocating. With his lab coat flapping behind him, he hurries as best he can, cursing his leg. This cannot be allowed to happen.

  The invitation to enter can’t come fast enough and Dr Stilworth is through the door as soon as courtesy will allow, his anger spilling over into his balled-up fists, which he swiftly stuffs into his pockets. Dr Mason betrays no surprise, and it’s clear he’s been expecting this visit.

  ‘Tom, I think you’d better sit down. And tidy yourself up a bit, man, you look a state.’

  ‘I’d rather stand, thank you,’ says Tom, smoothing his hair and straightening his tie.

  The older man puts down his pen. ‘Doctor, sit down, for heaven’s sake!’ Tom reluctantly does so, perching on the edge of the chair. Only then does he become aware that Matron is also in the room. Ah, they were expecting him. Matron looks serene, her headdress a beacon of white in this dingy room. Her knees are pinched together, her shining, laced shoes exactly parallel to each other.

  ‘Good morning, Matron,’ he manages stiffly. ‘I apologise, I didn’t see you there.’

  She bows her head slightly. ‘Good morning, Dr Stilworth.’ But Tom’s eyes are already on his boss.

  ‘I imagine this is about Miss Jennings,’ says Dr Mason.

  ‘I cannot believe that you would sanction this barbarous act,’ Tom explodes, then immediately regrets his tone. This attitude will get him nowhere and he knows it. He draws in a deep, calming breath. ‘Sir, though this may have been allowed under the 1913 Mental Deficiency Act, there is nothing in the 1930 Mental Treatment Act that would indicate that this could still be condoned. Nor is there anything in Miss Jennings’s behaviour that would indicate that this is a necessary course of action.’ He’s trying his best to be professional and make a good case rather than doing what he wants to do, which is scream and shout against the injustice of the plan.

  ‘It may not be compulsory, but it is a matter of clinical judgement. My clinical judgement.’ Dr Mason’s voice is so calm and reasonable that Tom has to fight the urge to reach across and shake the man.

  ‘She’s so young – just twenty-one.’ Even he can feel the frailty of this pathetic plea.

  ‘Dr Stilworth – Tom – Miss Jennings will soon come into her sexual prime. And we know that she already disregarded the teaching of the Church and her parents and got herself into this situation. Our job now is to ensure that this will not happen again and that the gene for moral defectiveness is not spread further. In any case, the decision is made.’ He pulls at his waistcoat and then snaps the pocket watch open.

  ‘Might you consider that a few years from now she will have matured and this will not be an issue?’

  ‘Dr Stilworth, I will not allow her to transmit the defective gene to another generation.’

  ‘But this is abhorrent. It’s eugenics. And nothing has been proven about a defective gene.’ Tom’s voice has risen despite his desperate attempt to keep calm.

  ‘Greater minds than ours have thrashed this out. Winston Churchill stated, in its favour, that his aim in life was to improve the British breed and protect British society from the threat of the feeble-minded and insane. Nora Jennings is a moral defective and it’s our duty to do what is best for her – and for society at large.’

  Tom is incensed. ‘And you truly believe that this is what is best for her?’ He shakes his head. ‘I cannot agree. I’m appalled at the senselessness and horro
r of this. Dr Mason—’

  ‘Dr Stilworth! I don’t need you to agree. Please remember who you are and where you are. You will respect me in this matter.’ Dr Mason’s face is a blotchy puce. ‘You have tested my patience for too long, and I have borne with it. But now you have gone too far.’

  ‘I apologise if I appear disrespectful, Dr Mason. I do know that you are acting with your highest integrity in this matter. But the history of eugenics is not pretty, and we are seeing the dreadful, far-reaching consequences of this abomination of a philosophy worldwide. Look what has just happened in Nazi Germany. Unless we stand against such beliefs, we’ll find ourselves in the gutter of humanity.’

  Matron’s hand trembles as she mops her forehead with her handkerchief. ‘Dr Stilworth,’ Dr Mason says stoutly. ‘Let us try to remain professional.’ Tom bristles at the patronising tone. ‘Look at this logically. If she were not in our care and protection, we have no idea what she would be doing.’

  ‘Probably what she was on course to spend her life doing before – going to church, singing, meeting boys, falling in love, getting married, having children.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Mason exclaims, ‘that would be fine if it were in that order, but Miss Jennings has already shown that she has disregarded such a moral path. That is the whole point! And we’ve been over it countless times.’ He takes a shaky breath. ‘The Royal Commission recommended this course of action with regards to the “unfit” so that it would be impossible for them to have children and thus perpetuate their unfortunate inherited characteristics. And controlling them by detention for life is the price they felt we must pay for the health and well-being of our wider society.’