The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

  She hurries in as quickly as she can and then leans her back against the closed door. Her chin falls to her chest. She takes a long breath, bites her lips together and lifts her head. She can do this.

  Her eyes scan the room and come to rest on her bookshelf. There are various heavy books on psychiatry, then a section that she often lends to patients. She reads the spines of the first five books that stand adjacent to each other on that shelf. Living, Loving and Learning; Listen to Love; Finding Each Other; The Courage to Heal; Soul Mates. She smiles. That’s her story with Ian right there. It will be fine. She just has to trust and keep going.

  She lowers her eyes and listens to her own heart beating, a cloak of sadness heavy on her shoulders. Then her eyes stray to the window and the trees swaying in the wind and she remembers a conversation she had recently with one of the nurses who was complaining about the behaviour of another.

  ‘If she were a patient, would you be complaining?’ Janet had asked.

  ‘Of course not. But they have a reason to behave like that. They’re sick.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not well either,’ Janet said. ‘Might it be worth asking her if something’s wrong, rather than just being irritated by her behaviour?’

  How she wishes that she was big enough to take her own advice and acknowledge that she, too, is a carer who is one of the walking wounded; like so many others, she doesn’t share her issues, even though on a daily basis she expects those in her care to do so. She is a hypocrite.

  The image of Ian’s tall, sad frame receding down the path all those years ago as he left their home still haunts her. She’s been so full of her own pain and patients’ pain that she hasn’t considered his pain – and how alone he must feel in it. She wonders how alone he felt even when they were together, while she had her head and heart buried in her work. A wave of love and regret floods her and she wraps her arms around herself and she sends Ian a silent apology.

  Feeling chastened, she pulls out her little lipstick compact, checks her hair, reapplies her lipstick. She must be fully prepared for this crucial session with Nora. She makes her way to the small consulting room, and there is Nora, waiting patiently as always. Even before Nora sees her, Janet can feel the sense of calm in the room. Something’s changed.

  Nora turns and smiles, her face lighting up. ‘I dreamed about music again,’ she says, ‘and I could actually hear the choir singing.’

  Janet’s heart lifts and her smile matches Nora’s in breadth and brilliance. ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘Yes, it is. I hadn’t been able to hear it for years, but that’s two lovely dreams I’ve had now. And today if I close my eyes I can almost hear it. So I’m ready to go home now.’

  Janet does her best to equal Nora’s enthusiasm, even though her heart still feels bruised from her own troubles. ‘Ah, that’s so good to hear, Nora. In that case we have to keep up our work and make sure that everything’s as good as we can make it. OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nora says, her head held high and her voice strong and steady.

  ‘Right. Then today I want us to come back to our last session, if that’s all right with you. It’s time to look at the good things in your life. You know, before all of this happened. It sounds as though you had a nice family. I know that your father was strict, but there were also lovely things happening, with church and your family, your friends and your cousin.’ Janet notices Nora’s flinch, but ploughs on. ‘And I know between now and then, all sorts of things have happened to hurt you and you’ve had terrible loss. But if we can pick up the good things and happy feelings you had as a child, we can build on that. Because, as long as you had times when you were very little when you knew you were loved by your mother, no matter what happened next, that inner security can be resurrected at any time in your life. We can help it recover. It maybe won’t ever be what it might have been had you not had all of this terrible stuff in the middle, but I’m sure that if we work hard, it will improve, and you’re going to need that when you’re living outside.’

  She pauses, watching. Any reaction from Nora would be helpful, but even though her eyes are attentive, she gives nothing away. Janet thinks sadly of all the years that Nora probably didn’t dare speak, and how hard it must be to start now. She presses on.

  ‘As we grow up, ideally we develop a part of us that we could call our “inner parent”. Its job is to always champion and take care of that vulnerable child part of us, whatever happens. Once we develop that, we’ll always be OK.’

  Nora’s eyes shift a little and there’s a tiny movement of her head and a tension in her brow. She’s engaged.

  ‘When your inner child feels scared and lost and like she can’t cope, your inner parent can kind of put her arm around her, and comfort her. That part of you – the part that can take care of you, what I’ve called your inner parent – started to develop when you were only thirteen or fourteen, long before you came into hospital, so we need to find it and help it to get strong.’

  Nora looks uncertain.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not as complicated as I may have made it sound.’ Janet smiles. ‘The thing is, if we had harsh parents or other authority figures, we tend to become critical about ourselves, and instead of our inner-parent part taking care of us, cherishing us and treating us lovingly, it can often shout at us, say awful things – like that we’re useless or no good. Are you with me?’

  Nora nods, and Janet gives her a reassuring smile.

  ‘So, what we really need to do is to take the very best of each of our parents, and mould our inner parent from that. And we can also add bits we’ve learned from other people too – people who show us a way to be kind to ourselves.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘Erm . . .’ Janet hesitates, her cheeks reddening. ‘Well, that’s not quite what I meant . . .’

  ‘But could I use bits of you?’

  ‘You could use some of the ways I am with you if you like, but really I’d like us to also have a look at your real parents, and the nice things you remember from long before any of this awful stuff happened. So, can you think of some of those nice things?’

  Nora pauses and looks out of the window to where the morning has ripened into a beautiful, blue-ceilinged day, and suddenly she’s in a different morning . . .

  Leaves are aflutter, flirting with pink cherry blossom, while the trees tell the saplings stories of what they’ve seen and what they’ve heard; of seasons gone by, of children now grown, of maypoles and cricket on the village green.

  Her father is in his whites, with that red stain on his thigh where he polishes the ball. He runs up to the wicket with that amazing Catherine wheel of an action. There are cries of ‘Howzat?’, then a polite nod to the umpire. Later, he’s tying on pads, carrying the sacred willow as he strides to the crease. Her mother is sitting on a tartan blanket spread out on the grass, her face rosy from the sunshine, watching him carefully, with such pride, as she clicks her knitting needles, teasing out the wool from its nest in her bag, hardly glancing at the ever-growing length of the jumper she’s making. She’s wearing a bright yellow wrap-around dress she made herself. It has brown buttons right to the hem of the skirt. As the sun lights up her hair, which has come a bit loose and strays gently across her cheek, Nora thinks she must be the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Little girls are having a dolls’ tea party, and Auntie Isabel is walking towards them from the pavilion, balancing a tray with cups of tea, a Victoria sponge and some scones and butter. ‘Nora, would you like to come and help me?’ she calls, and Nora skips up and runs, light-footed on tanned legs. She takes the scone plate and carries it proudly with two hands.

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ her mother says.

  Then she’s back in Janet’s room.

  Janet watches, enraptured. ‘That looked as though it was something nice,’ she says, as Nora draws back her gaze.

  ‘Yes,’ Nora says slowly. ‘It was.’

  ‘Then maybe you can store it again – in a
new file of good memories. In fact, I think it calls for a new notebook – a “nice-memory book”.’ Nora smiles. ‘None of those memories are lost, Nora, any more than the nasty ones are. Sometimes we’re so busy trying to forget the nasty stuff that we forget there was also a lot of good too. We can find those good bits again, and even now, despite all that happened between, the nice memories can heal us, and also help us learn how to be kind to ourselves as we remember how people were kind to us and each other.’

  ‘A lot of the things I remember were about music – and my cousin. We used to sing together and play the piano together. He was my best friend as well as my cousin.’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’

  ‘It was . . .’ but then a shadow crosses her face. Janet had planned to stay with the good stuff today, but this is an opening she can’t ignore, so she leaves a silence for Nora to fill with whatever is on her mind.

  ‘You know, there was something confusing about my parents.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘After my grandma – my mother’s mother – died, and when my mother was so sad and crying, my father seemed so lost, wandering from room to room with his newspaper folded and held between two fingers. He would occasionally tap a piece of furniture with it, pause, look very thoughtful, then walk on again, as though he’d forgotten where he was going or why. Sometimes my mother would be crying in the night and Dad would shush her like a baby – so gently and with so much love in his voice. They really did seem to love each other then. He wasn’t a man to hug much, though sometimes he used to touch Mum so gently. I loved that. I used to watch silently. It was so beautiful. Just the odd touch of his hand that he seemed to leave there for just an extra second . . . And she would say nothing, just be still – well, not always. Sometimes I could feel her just lean in towards him – kind of meeting his hand and touching him back with her body. I always thought it was proof that they loved each other even though they never said so. Well, maybe they did, but never in front of me.’

  Nora’s voice dances at the semi-forgotten sweetness. ‘When he was going off to work in the mornings, she would straighten his tie, even though it was already straight – she just tweaked it a bit and then smoothed down his collar and brushed imaginary hairs from the shoulders of his suit with her hand. I wanted them to kiss each other, but they never did, apart from a tiny peck on the cheek. But one night there was a huge row. I must have been about fifteen. My mother was so angry. She was screaming at Dad. I ran into the parlour to see if I could help but my mother stopped mid-scream and Dad looked sad and tired. She told me to go to my room and that she’d come up in a while, but as I was going back upstairs, I heard her tell my dad that she’d never forgive him. He was begging her to understand something . . . said something about only having supplied what was needed, without contact . . . I didn’t understand it at all – still don’t. She was shouting again that he should have asked her. It doesn’t make any sense because then she said if he had done, she would have said no, that it was disgusting. Then there was something about her being less important than doing it – whatever “it” was. Then Dad shouted something about Robert, but I couldn’t hear it all because Mummy ran into the hall crying and saw me on the stairs and I tried to run up to my room pretending that I hadn’t heard anything.

  ‘I did hear, but I’ve never understood what it was all about, and I’ve always been puzzled by it. Then, one night – it must have been weeks after that – I left a book downstairs that I needed for my homework and I tiptoed into the sitting room so I wouldn’t disturb anyone. My father was sitting in his chair by the fireplace, leaning forward with an elbow on each knee. I couldn’t see whether his eyes were open or closed, but he obviously hadn’t seen me. I wanted to disappear without him knowing I was there because I thought he was crying. There wasn’t any sound, just he looked so sad and defeated. I didn’t know what to do. I stood stock-still in case he saw me. But he put his head in his hands then and I hardly dared breathe. I always wished I’d gone and hugged him.

  ‘It was never the same after that. Mummy didn’t bother smoothing his tie or brushing his jacket any more. One day he was ready to go and he just stood in front of her, looking sad, and he took her hand and held it on his chest. She looked up at him but she didn’t smile and then she pulled her hand away.’ Nora shakes her head in bewilderment. ‘He’d always been a bit aloof, but he became really distant after that and got angry so easily. Mummy changed too, and – well, it was all just different.’ She pauses. ‘Then, of course, I did what I did, and . . .’ She looks wistful. ‘I look back now and wonder if whatever happened between them hadn’t happened, would it have been different when I got into trouble.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I think Mummy would always have been disappointed and my father angry, but I don’t think it would have been like it was – that they never tried to see me or take me home.’

  ‘No,’ Janet agrees softly.

  ‘I know what I did was wicked.’

  Janet sighs. ‘Nora, it wasn’t wicked. You were a normal young girl falling in love. It’s what young people do.’

  ‘Did you fall in love?’ she blurts out.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ But Janet is unwilling to say more, lest her own pain should overflow and jeopardise her professionalism. ‘But this is about you, Nora, not me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nora, I’m going to ban “sorry” from your vocabulary,’ Janet says, though she smiles reassuringly to offset the exasperation she can’t keep from creeping into her voice. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t need to apologise. We all do our best, but sometimes we only realise the effects we’ve had on our loved ones years later. I’m sure that a time came when your mother and father realised what they’d done.’

  ‘But they still never came . . .’

  ‘No. They didn’t.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Janet can hardly believe that today may be the team’s final pre-discharge meeting before Nora will finally be free. She arrives early at Audrey’s office and, as usual, marvels that it’s almost as elegant as Audrey herself, with personal touches in vibrant colours that raises an ordinary NHS office to a thing of beauty. The sound of hearty laughter coming down the corridor heralds Kit, with some of the other women in tow. ‘Here they come,’ says Audrey.

  There’s a tap on the door and Kit’s huge jolly presence enters the room, Ellen in her wake. ‘Janet,’ she cries, ‘what you been doing, girl?’ And she envelops Janet in big strong arms.

  They settle down around a low table, in front of each of them their ‘NORA’ folder, so that everyone can share their part of the teamwork. Janet notes that Ellen is quiet, but she passes that off as her being tired.

  ‘Daily living assessment is in,’ says Iris. ‘She did well. I think she’ll manage – she hasn’t really needed much supervision for a long time now.’

  ‘What about money?’

  ‘Yeah. Handling money – budgeting and such. She’ll need quite a lot of support with that, but we still have some time and I’m making sure she gets out regularly and learns to spend – and save. I know they have regular community meetings at the group home and work out budgets and menus, so she’ll have quite a bit of input. Mrs Singh’s quite into that.’

  ‘Great.’ Janet smiles around the room. ‘Ellen, what about you?’

  Ellen looks uncertain. ‘She’s been pretty stable for a long time now but she’s never been on her own – ever. I just have an uncomfortable feeling.’ She shakes her head as if to clear it. ‘I know we have to take a chance. She’ll have the others and lots of support. And the home’s great. Have you seen it yet, Janet?’

  ‘No, but you have, haven’t you, Audrey?’

  ‘Yes. It’s lovely, and she’s going to have a really pretty bedroom. And Mrs Singh’s an angel. I think she’ll be OK. I’ll visit as often as I can and she’ll have her CPN too.’

  ‘Which one?’ Janet asks.

  ‘Evelyn.’

  ‘I t
ell you, these community psychiatric nurses are just amazing, and Evelyn is one of the best. She’s so grounded and funny, too. I think she and Nora will get on well. Sorry I didn’t copy her in about this meeting. Will next time.’

  ‘Which next time?’ Kit laughs. ‘This is it, girl.’

  ‘She and Nora have had a couple of meetings and it seems fine,’ Audrey says. ‘In fact, Evelyn came in and we all had a chat on the ward. I think you got feedback on that, didn’t you, Ellen?’

  ‘Yes, it sounded as though it went really well.’

  ‘But you still sound concerned.’ Janet peers into Ellen’s face.

  ‘I feel a bit better since we had our meeting yesterday. And maybe I’m always a bit anxious when people leave after such a long time. My gut still feels uncomfortable, but I really don’t think that Nora could be any better prepared than she is.’

  ‘What about meds, Janet?’ Audrey asks.

  ‘Well, she’s off pretty well everything now and seems to be coping. She might need some occasional night sedation, but maybe not. I’m keen to get her to use simple things, if she can. Not dependently, but just ad hoc. Things like Rescue Remedy would be good for her too for daytime use, just to have as a safety net in case she needs something. She could even use that at night, on occasions. What I don’t want her to have is anything containing valerian. That can give people awful nightmares, and she already has more than enough of those without any help from us. I think she’s sleeping well now though, isn’t she, Ellen?’

  ‘Still the occasional disturbed night.’

  ‘There’s always someone to chat with her here, though.’ Janet laughs suddenly. ‘We could try to clone Kumar. Who wouldn’t want him to chat with at night?’

  ‘But there’s Mrs Singh,’ says Audrey. ‘She lives there, albeit on the top floor, and though we don’t want to set up a night-time service, at least Nora will know there’s someone she can talk to, should she really need to.’