‘I’ve often wondered how I got here – really. I know I did something that people considered dreadful and that I was an embarrassment to my family, but . . .’ And her eyes wander to some far-off place to which Janet has no access, then back again. ‘You know how you say that I can choose what I want to do now?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘Is there anything you would like to do with your life? Maybe . . .’ and though she is about to make some suggestions, she watches Nora gather breath and courage and Janet stops short, leaving space for her to speak.
‘I know what I want . . . but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘I’m frightened. So many times in the past, what I really wanted has been used against me. I used to sometimes try to play the piano, but when it was seen that I liked it, I was forbidden to touch it.’
‘That isn’t going to happen this time, Nora. Take a chance on me.’
‘I’d love to sing.’ Nora’s words come out in a rush.
‘Sing?’ Janet is taken aback, but feels the hope and yearning in those few words.
‘Yes. I want to see if I still can. Do you think that’s stupid?’
‘No, Nora. I think it’s wonderful. Tell me more.’ Janet leans forward in her chair, like a fellow conspirator in a child’s game.
‘I used to sing all the time. I was in the church choir. I used to give little concerts at home when I was very small. I used to sing when I was just doing ordinary things, like washing up. It made me feel wonderful. I used to play the piano, too.’ Her eyes take on a new, dewy softness.
Janet lets out the breath she’s been holding. ‘Go on . . .’
‘On Sunday evenings we would all sing together. Sometimes I’d sing for people who came to visit my parents. And Robert – my cousin – and I would sing and play the piano together.’
She steals a glance at Janet, but seems to find eye contact too difficult to manage. ‘I wanted to sing and teach music when I was a girl until . . .’ Her eyes fall towards her lap and she fidgets, her two forefingers wrapping round each other, twisting a piece of her cardigan between them.
The pain drops into the silence and Janet gives it time and space. She knows what it is to have young hopes dashed. But she clears her mind of anything that’s hers. She needs to be a clean slate upon which Nora can write her own story. At last, Nora draws breath and looks about to speak. Janet’s heart lifts, but when Nora begins, her tone has changed.
‘I mustn’t even think about those things. I can’t do anything now. My life’s nearly over.’
Janet feels a pang of dismay. ‘It isn’t, Nora. I think you still have lots of life yet.’
‘No.’ She puts up her hand. ‘I’m too old.’
‘No, Nora, you’re not. I know it’s been awful. I doubt that I’d have coped this far if I’d had your life. But you have. You’re still here. You still have time. Don’t throw it away. Much of your life’s been stolen, I know. And that’s dreadful, and we can’t change that. But now you can do something with what you have left. Or choose to let all of those who abused you over the years win. Stand up, Nora. You can. I know you can. You’re not dead yet. Use what life you have left. I’ll help you, but I can’t do it for you. The next move has to be yours.’ Janet, take a step back. She’ll only find herself if she stands up on her own.
But she can’t just yet.
‘I have a favourite quotation, though I don’t know where it came from,’ Janet says. ‘It goes like this: “the measure of our greatness is in how we stand up after we fall”.’ Janet reaches towards Nora and places a finger under her chin and lifts it gently. ‘Nora, you have to stand up – to get out of this on your own. You have to make the decision. No one can make it for you.’
And now Nora’s eyes lift to meet Janet’s. She mumbles something in a very low voice, then looks away.
‘I can’t hear you, Nora. What did you say?’
Nora looks back, with a tinge of defiance. ‘I said, I want to sing.’
‘Good,’ says Janet with relief. ‘Then sing, you shall.’
When Nora leaves, Janet sits back and takes a deep, shaky breath. She knows what she needs to do. She lifts the phone and dials. ‘Hello. It’s Janet . . . Great . . . Susan, are you still giving singing lessons?’
A few minutes later, Janet puts down the phone and calls the bank.
Chapter Thirteen
1985
Forty-six years
Janet pops to Ellen’s office on her way to her session with Nora and finds Ellen doing a training session with a couple of young nurses. Ellen greets her with a broad smile.
‘Ah Janet, I was just telling them about Nora and how excited we all are.’
Janet smiles. ‘Yes, she’s doing so well. A good reminder to us all never to give up hope.’
She looks at these raw young recruits and hopes that they can start with a positive attitude to mental illness. ‘It’s amazing, after so many years here and almost being written off as hopeless and helpless, that change is still possible. It’s a bit like tending for a plant that hasn’t been watered, and as soon as you give it what it needs, it blossoms again.’ Then she focuses on Ellen. ‘Just popped in to see that everything’s OK. My plan is to start to talk about the option of discharge today. Are you all right with that?’
Ellen looks surprised and Janet realises that she’s thoughtlessly cornered her. She continues quickly. ‘Sorry, Ellen, I should come and chat with you about that again later. Maybe we could find a bit of time, especially bearing in mind this morning’s news.’
Ellen gives her one of those looks and Janet steps back. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pop across again later.’ Then she smiles at the young nurses who look bright and enthusiastic and all agog. ‘Listen to every word of wisdom Sister utters. And have fun.’
Janet retreats and heads for the small consulting room, where Nora is waiting patiently for her, as always. Once they are settled, Janet takes a deep breath to start, but Nora gets in first.
‘I’ve been thinking about everything, and I think I should just stay as I am.’
Janet holds her breath. ‘Why?’ she says eventually.
‘Well, I used to let myself dream about all sorts of things, but it just hurts in the end. So, it’s just safer not to want anything.’ She looks down. ‘Sorry, Janet.’
‘Nora, I don’t think we should ever give up hope, but then I haven’t suffered like you. I think you can still do all sorts of things if you really want to. But if you choose not, that’s fine, and you don’t have to apologise to me. I know we talked about the fact that the hospital will eventually close down, and maybe that will be sooner than we’d thought, so I’ve been thinking too. Can I share it with you?’
Janet knows she must go slowly. Nora’s life has been endlessly precarious, and she must remember that at every stage.
‘I think that if we work hard, there really can be a time when you can go home if you want to, rather than maybe going to live in another hospital when Hillinghurst closes.’
‘But I don’t have a home,’ Nora says, baffled.
‘No . . . Sorry. It would mean you’d have to have a new one.’
‘How?’
‘Well, we’d help find you one – probably with some other women to start with. And Audrey and I and the rest of the team would support you.’
‘No.’ Nora shakes her head. ‘I’m too old.’ There go the fingers fidgeting in her lap. Janet reaches out and puts a finger on her arm.
‘Well . . . I don’t know about that, Nora.’
Nora looks directly at Janet, hope and doubt in equal parts in her eyes. ‘Do you really think I could?’
‘I do.’
‘Leave here? And maybe sing?’
‘Yes. I know that, sadly, it isn’t the right environment for you to sing here – but when you leave, I don’t see any reason why not.’
She pauses, but only for a moment. ‘Then that’s what I want – to find a new hom
e and sing.’
Janet’s heart leaps. ‘Wonderful, Nora. Now we start to plan!’ She rubs her palms together.
The clinic out of the way, Janet calls in on Ellen before they both head off for home. Ellen looks grave. ‘I see that we’re on the list for closure.’
‘We knew it might be coming at some point, but yes, this is earlier than we’d expected. So it means we’ve got to get a move on. But I guess it’s really hard for you, Ellen, and the rest of the staff who’ve been here for years.’
Ellen looks sad and older than she did this morning. ‘I’ll retire. I’m like Nora – too old to transplant.’
Janet gives her a compassionate smile, though her heart sinks. ‘Ellen. You’ve given years of service here, and if retirement feels like the way to go, then I wish you every happiness with that. You’ve earned the rest and I hope you’ll enjoy it. But I don’t think Nora’s too old to transplant, nor you either. I did talk to her about it today and she was very positive in the end, so it’s up to us to help her keep that attitude. That will make the difference between her succeeding or ending up as many others who were institutionalised did in the past. So I’m going to get all the team together and let’s really give her the best shot.’
Ellen tries to smile, but obviously isn’t convinced.
Nora lies awake in her shared room, and though her eyes remain closed, she’s alert as she explores the morning with her other senses. Something has changed. Her heart feels lighter. A weight has lifted from her chest. She places a gentle hand over it, feeling her ribcage rise and fall, rise and fall, then her eyes spring open and dart their way around the room, unable to settle on anything.
Could it be true? Did I dream that conversation? Could I really go home?
The light peeping in around the edges of the curtains has the quality of sunshine. She wonders what time it is – these summer mornings, it’s difficult to tell. It feels very early – maybe four o’clock? Her mind is confused yet oddly clear. It doesn’t make sense. She blinks. Then again, and listens.
Apart from the dawn chorus as birds start the business of their morning, there are the usual breathing noises, plus some snoring and grunting as someone turns over, surfacing from a dream, perhaps. Four women sharing a room – especially in these circumstances – must develop tolerance of each other’s jabbers, mewls, and eructations. But above all the usual background noise, Nora can hear something else. She looks straight up to the ceiling and cocks her head on the pillow.
She could have sworn she heard music. She blinks again, wondering if she is just dreaming. But even if it is a dream, it’s amazing. She can’t remember the last time she had a dream accompanied by such sweet music. Years. She closes her eyes again to try to capture it. It was there. She knows it was there. Please let it come again.
But it doesn’t. It’s gone. Tears swell and collect until they could burst both her head and her heart with the force of their grief. She squeezes her lids shut, balls her hands into fists under the blanket and prays. How long since she’s done that . . . ? Please let me have the music back.
But there’s silence. Nevertheless, she knows that something has changed. Maybe it will come again.
She tries to relax. Breathe. Let your body go. Breathe.
It was so precious to her that she could always hear music when she was a child. She could hear a song and sing it; hear a tune and play it. But many a time, after she came to Hillinghurst, it would taunt her until she cried in frustration and begged it to go away and leave her alone. And it did. But, oh, how she then grieved it, searched for it, yearned for it. She relaxes the muscles of her face, unfurls her fists and stares up towards the ceiling, and lets the tears come, pooling in her ears. Please . . .
And there it is. She opens her eyes wide and shifts her head, tears spilling onto her pillow. She listens.
Yes. It’s there. I can hear it.
She hardly dares breathe. She hears the swell of the organ, the very breath of the choir, the hush before the first note. She can hear the movement of the choir master, even as he lifts his baton and places the forefinger of his left hand on his lips, signalling to the singers. Wait. Prepare. Put your weight squarely on your feet. Lift your heads. Let it come. Ready . . .
His finger leaves his mouth and his forefinger and thumb come together, his other fingers elegantly fanned. Then, as if his baton were a magic wand, he parts the air with it, silently calling to them. Lift . . . And . . . NOW. The whole choir exhales that first perfect, crystal-clear note into the body of the church and it ascends in praise.
And there it is – she can hear her own voice blending into the matrix of concordant sound, part of the whole and yet individual. She can hear it in her chest, in her head, all around her, and the emotion in her heart lifts her further. She’s at one with the music, and she listens as tears now soak the pillow at each side of her head and she frees her body to cry, her throat to allow the sound of her sobbing to be heard, her chest to feel its breathing, her back to feel itself on the bed, and her legs to feel straight and strong.
I’m alive!
She wants to tell someone. To shout. But she doesn’t want anyone to snatch it away from her. She whispers very quietly to herself, ‘I’m alive.’
What was it the choir master used to say? ‘Once you can feel that you become the music, then – only then – can you truly sing. When nothing else exists but the music coursing through you and lifting you out of your body, leaving it to do whatever it needs to do, while you – the music – are simply being.’
She sighs and breathes as her tears eventually subside and she knows – truly knows – that the music will never leave her again. She can hardly wait to tell Janet. She’s the only person who will understand.
Chapter Fourteen
1986
Forty-seven years
Ellen glances around the room at the case-study team of professional, compassionate women, all with Nora’s welfare in mind.
‘So, it looks like we’ve at least got a sketch of a plan,’ Janet says.
‘I think so.’ Audrey closes the notepad in front of her.
‘Does anyone have anything to add?’
Ellen shifts in her chair and twiddles with a pen on her desk. Janet glances at her, eyes questioning. ‘Ellen. What about you?’
Ellen hesitates, not quite meeting Janet’s eyes. ‘I do have some reservations, as I’ve already said. I just don’t want to see one more patient get into difficulties and do something . . . well, unfortunate.’
‘I know how you feel.’ Audrey nods at her. ‘I was just starting off in social work when there was all that hurried discharge without proper preparation. And the suicides! For weeks we seemed to be expecting at least one person to be either readmitted or found dead on a park bench or hanging in some hostel bedroom. I remember wondering if I really wanted to be doing this work at all.’
Janet glances at Ellen who is playing with her pen again, her brow creased and her teeth worrying at her bottom lip while the rest of the team falls into silence.
‘I know I wasn’t here then,’ she says, ‘and I feel for everyone who was. It must have been dreadful. But hopefully everyone has learned from that experience and that’s why we’re having meetings like this and preparing her as well as we possibly can.’
Ellen looks at Janet, clearly unconvinced.
‘I know she’s been here for years,’ Janet continues, ‘and I’m not underestimating how hard it will be for her. But let’s look at the options. A while ago it just so happened that the SHO was sick and I had to do the death certificate for Sarah Golson. She’d been here pretty well all her life, just like Nora. In fact, it could have been Nora. It was heartbreaking.’
It could have been me, too . . .
Janet is flung back again to that moment when she read Nora’s notes and was faced with the fact that the legislation that held Nora captive all these years was still in place just a few years before she herself became pregnant out of wedlock. Though it hadn’t b
een used to condemn unmarried mothers for some years, it was still legally possible until 1959. The ‘crime’ hadn’t changed. If Nora was guilty, then so was she, and a wave of indignation surges up from her belly to her throat. A new fire burns behind her eyes as she looks around the table. Ellen has stopped playing with the pen and her eyes finally meet Janet’s.
‘It’s a travesty that she has been kept here so long with her rights denied and without hope of reprieve, and I for one will do everything I can for Nora and anyone else who actually still wants a chance to try to live independently. As I said, I’m not underestimating the risks, Ellen. But we’ll prepare her well and supervise her every step of the way. Let’s at least give her a chance.’
After a few tense seconds, Ellen nods and the atmosphere lifts.
‘We’ll watch her carefully, Ellen,’ Audrey says gently. ‘I don’t think anyone wants to see her pushed, but we need to be realistically optimistic and keep moving forward, if we can.’
‘It would be crazy to expect it to be all plain sailing,’ Janet concedes. ‘It won’t be. But she’s an amazing woman and I think she can make it.’
The meeting over, and everyone seeming to be clear as to what needs to happen going forward, Audrey leaves while Kit hangs back waiting for Janet, those beautiful West Indian eyes full of wisdom. As they leave the room together, she puts a warm arm round Janet’s shoulders. ‘You all right?’ she says.
Moved, but also disarmed, Janet tries to smile, the wound opening to bleed now it’s touched. ‘So-so.’
‘You give me a call if you need anything, right?’
Janet nods, but tears are welling in her eyes and she knows she has to be on her own. ‘I’ll be OK.’
‘I know you will. But you don’t have to do it all on your own, you know.’
They’re at the end of the corridor now and need to part ways. Kit’s round, fat arm grips a bit more tightly for a moment, and then she lets go. Janet smiles but is glad to be not far from her own office where she can hide. It’s still all too raw to deal with here.
The Girl Behind the Gates Page 24