Fairytales Don't Come True: Volume 1 of the Criminal Conversation trilogy

Book 1: CRIMINAL CONVERSATION

by Laura Lyndhurst

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

When middle-aged nurse Dora Stuart-Frazer is assigned to provide end-of-life care to ex-prostitute Magdalena, she suffers a failure of sympathy linked to the woman's former career and her own mid-life marital issues.

Attempting to overcome her prejudices, not only against her patient but other members of the all-female household in which Mags lives, Dora finds herself an initially unwilling listener to the life-story which her patient wishes to recount in the course of her last few weeks of life.

However, as she listens each night to the unfolding story which Mags has to tell, Dora finds herself an increasingly-willing listener as she compares the life of the story-teller to her own and gradually forces herself to confront her own mid-life crisis.

Release date: May 15, 2020

Publisher: Independent

Print pages: 338

Content advisory: Some scenes of a sexual nature

Sample

1: AN ODD HOUSEHOLD 

Just because nursing is a respectable profession, mused Dora Stuart-Frazer, doesn’t mean that all the clients you treat are necessarily respectable. Take the case she was on her way to now, for example; a good area, leafy and suburban, on the outskirts of a Cathedral city in the South, and a bizarrely-mismatched household consisting of one female university lecturer, the householder, Dora gathered, one rather common middle-aged Irish woman who appeared to be her cleaner, the latter’s daughter, a nursing student at the lecturer’s university, a little girl, of about three to four years old, presumably the student’s child, and a relatively young ex-prostitute.

           She wouldn’t have known that her patient had been a prostitute, because it was she for whom Dora was providing care, except that the woman hadn’t tried to hide the fact when passing the time talking to her nurse while Dora attended to her needs. And not just a prostitute, but one who’d been in prison, released early on compassionate grounds because she didn’t have long to live. Thereafter Dora had been slightly distant in manner, her disapproval obvious, although she herself was unaware of the fact until the young woman had issued a gentle reproof. I can ask them to send someone else if you like; I’m afraid it’s clear you’re not happy having to deal with me. Dora had denied the charge, blustering something about feeling a little off-colour, and then reproached herself rather more harshly when on her way home. For heaven’s sake, Dora, try to get a hold on yourself; you’re supposed to be a nurse, and a Christian, where’s your compassion? She’d never had any such issues before, so why now?

            Perhaps it was because the girl, for to be fair she was a girl, she must be under thirty even with the ravages the cervical cancer had made on her, didn’t fit the profile of a prostitute which Dora had firmly fixed in her mind. She was gentle, polite and self-effacing to a fault; almost humble, in fact, as though she was sorry to be such a bother as to need Dora’s very-much-in-demand nursing skills. Not common either, not like the Irish woman, the cleaner, who had a rather raucous way with her; well-spoken, cultured, even. In sum, she troubled Dora because she wasn’t the hard-faced, brassy tart (to use the harsh and unsympathetic words which went through Dora’s mind) that their respectable social sisters like Dora usually pictured prostitutes to be; and Dora was nothing if not respectable.

            In truth it wasn’t totally her fault, her disapproval; she’d been raised by a strict mother, a midwife and an upstanding member of the Church, who always reminded her daughter that it was necessary to try even harder and to be ultra-respectable, because they were black in a majority-white country. There would always be some of the native population to hold their skin colour against them, even more so if they showed just the least divergence from what was expected in this society. Therefore it was necessary to work hard, uphold and obey the law, show a clean house exterior to those who passed by and observe clean behaviour both outside and inside of that house.

            It wasn’t quite what I was expecting when I came over here from Jamaica, she told her daughter; some of these people who throw casual racist comments around would do well to remember that it may have been these black hands, or others like them (extending her work-worn and still very capable arms before her) which brought them into the world. It amused her, she said, to think of this at times when she felt under racial pressure, but she lived by the doctrine of necessity she’d expounded to her daughter, and Dora in her turn had followed suit.

            Dora was proud of what she’d achieved in her forty-eight years. A successful career in nursing, currently for a charity which provided care for the terminally-ill; although she found it oddly noteworthy that while her mother had given her skills to bringing new lives into the world, Dora now used hers to help suffering lives out of it with as little pain and as much dignity as possible. Her husband, Desmond, was expecting another promotion at any time now for his hard work in management. She had met him through the Church; he was from a family similar to her own, immigrants from Jamaica, Baptists with the same beliefs and values, so it seemed meant to be when they hit it off at a church youth club gathering one weekend.

            Dora had been rather shocked by the event; some of the young people present, including Desmond, had turned on a portable radio to a music channel, and begun to dance. Dora couldn’t conceal her thoughts; We’re Baptists, she exclaimed, we don’t dance! We’re black, countered a smiling Des, as he danced up to her and took her by the hand, we’ve got rhythm in our blood; white Baptists don’t dance, but we sure do. And he whirled her out onto the floor where, captivated by his wide smile and laughing eyes, Dora had given up on her apparently misplaced principles and allowed him to show her how to do it.

            She hadn’t needed much coaching, as it happened, she had rhythm in her blood, the same as the others, it seemed, and she enjoyed dancing; with Des that is. They made a good couple, and when he asked her to make it a permanent arrangement off the dance floor, she hadn’t hesitated to say Yes; they’d even hyphenated their surnames, Dora Stuart and Desmond Frazer. It had been a good life with him, they’d had fun when young and yes, even a good sex life; within the bounds of respectability, of course, nothing weird or kinky going on here, healthy missionary-position sexual activity with children born as a result. Two children, a son and a daughter, successfully supported through university by Des and Dora to the point that they were now working as a doctor and a dentist respectively.

            Now, of course, the parents being middle-aged, the sexual side of things was on the decline, for Dora, at least; an early hysterectomy due to endometriosis had lessened her sex drive, although that had been rather low in the first place. Des was still keen, but he was a man of course and they had naturally-higher sex drives, Dora thought. She usually put off his requests with humour, A man of your age, We ought to be past that sort of thing by now, We both have an early start tomorrow, and so forth; and he usually desisted with a good grace, if rather ruefully. And now Dora disapproved of prostitutes even more than she had before, if that were possible, because just by existing they were a reminder of the constant temptation available through women, any women, to men; not her man, though, not her Des, of course there was no latent worry in her mind that he just might be tempted to go that route, one of these days.

            Or was there? Des was used to getting home first in the evening, Dora’s working day frequently going on well into the evening, or even taking the form of a night shift, due to the varying needs of her patients; but recently he’d taken to going out drinking with a few work colleagues on the occasional evening. Nothing heavy, he assured her, just a couple of drinks and wind-down-from-work talk in a relaxed social setting; nevertheless, it had set Dora wondering. Why now, after all these years of coming straight home? Who were these colleagues? Male only? Male and female? If some of the latter were of the party, Dora wasn’t sure she wanted her Des talking and laughing with them in a pub; work was work, but this was something else. Colleagues saw each other differently outside the workplace, after a few drinks; look how notorious office Christmas parties had become.

            She knew she was being ridiculously old-fashioned but she couldn’t help it; Des was only human, and what if he took a fancy to one of these women, what if he had an affair? Not that he would, of course, she was sure, but just supposing, for argument’s sake? It would have to be divorce, of course, there was no other option; and Dora didn’t believe in divorce, didn’t want a divorce, she liked her life the way it was, orderly and wholesome and respectable.

            So her current patient, Ms Magdalena Mystry, was an unwelcome reminder of the very existence of illicit sex, just waiting to pounce on Dora’s husband, in the persons of prostitutes or other women no better than these; the result being that the compassion which Dora was supposed to feel for her patients, and had never had any problem in feeling previously, was sadly lacking in this case. But, Come on, she told herself, you’re better than this. By her very name this girl should remind you of Mary Madgalen, who was supposed to be a reformed prostitute, even if there’s a lot of doubt about that now. Christ forgave, and so should you. So she made a great effort to be not just civil but even friendly to the woman; outwardly, at least, and although that was all that was required really, Dora told herself, she still felt awkward and in the wrong.

            One evening, as she bent over the patient, the gold cross which she always wore around her neck slipped beyond the bounds of her uniform neckline and dangled before the face of the girl, who commented; You’re a Christian? Thank you, then, for working on a Saturday, when Dora nodded an affirmative to the question. The nurse brushed her thanks aside as misplaced, ignorant, even; because although the majority of people these days didn’t seem to care in the slightest about respecting the Lord’s day, most of them knew it to be Sunday, not Saturday, for Christians. And Dora would work on the Sabbath, because people who needed nurses couldn’t be conveniently ill from Monday to Saturday only. She’d known that when she trained to nurse, and as she was doing the Lord’s work, he’d understand, she was sure.

            The girl apologised; I’m sorry, I presumed you to be a Seventh Day Adventist, I understand that to be one of the major sects in Jamaica; and their Sabbath, I was told, happens on Saturday. Not so ignorant, then, conceded Dora to herself, rather better-informed than most, in fact; but outwardly she corrected the girl. Oh no, I’m a Baptist; and, curious despite herself, asked, You seem to know something about it. Did you have a religious upbringing yourself? And, as she tucked her cross back inside her neckline, she glanced automatically at the girl’s neck; no cross there though, but a gold chain with a letter ‘H’ pendant upon it. Strange, she thought, as the patient’s name was Magdalena; but it was none of her business, the girl would tell her if she wanted to. Which she was now doing, replying to Dora’s question; Oh yes, I was raised as a Christian; my parents lived for their faith, and were very strict in passing it on to me.

            Dora was perturbed; How then could the girl have landed in such a profession? In her opinion, anyone raised correctly in the path of righteousness shouldn’t end up as this one had. But she seemed to understand Dora’s line of thought, and to want to explain herself. I’m afraid the religion didn’t have a good effect on me, and I lost belief quite early on. It was a very restricted life with my parents; they didn’t give me the type of upbringing other children had. I didn’t go to school, because they didn’t approve of much that was taught in the state system. They held very straight-laced religious views and rather narrow views of the world in general, it seemed to me, as I got older. My father had been a teacher, before he went into the Church full-time, so he taught me at home; the basics, reading, writing, English and maths, plus whatever else he considered safe.

            But I wanted to break free, to go out and experience the wider world, and go to university, to begin with. They didn’t want that, though, they opposed it; they wanted me to stay at home and marry a young man they approved of within the church community. I had to fight them, and eventually they agreed, although reluctantly, to let me attend university; but they stopped their financial support after the first year and I had to find a way to support myself.

            Dora was disturbed by this; she thought of her own mother, Rose, working extra hours to finance her daughter’s nursing training, her father Les doing likewise on the London underground. There hadn’t been exorbitant fees to pay back then, of course, but her wise parents had known that even with a grant from the government their daughter would need more support from them. Then she thought of her own Ruth and Matthew, who’d been subject to fees and taken part-time work to help pay their way; and how she and Des had gladly helped, so that the children wouldn’t compromise their studies through too much time away from them. There had been much extra work for both Dora and Des, plus a good deal of scrimping and scraping on household costs, but the children had made their way through university to emerge debt-free, with a solid understanding of the value of money, to take up their respective careers. How would we all have managed without that parental support, both moral and financial? She didn’t approve of the road Magdalena had taken, and surely the situation she’d found herself in wasn’t so bad as to have sent her down it so soon in life.

            She found herself wanting to understand further; hearing the girl’s story might help to awaken in Dora the sympathy which had so far been lacking. So, How did you manage to get to university? It must have been difficult, given that you were taught at home. Magdalena nodded; I was helped by a librarian, but it’s a bit complicated and I don’t want to bore you. Oh no, Dora insisted, I wouldn’t be bored; I’d like to hear, and I have the time. Well then, the girl continued, when Dora had helped prop her up on pillows for comfort, My father included literature in what he taught me, although only those books he thought suitable, which weren’t many; and on condition that I accepted his warning that it was all fiction and not get carried away by it. I agreed, because I enjoyed study, and not just because I’d got little else to occupy me. I wanted to find out as much about the world as I could; and a greater experience of this when I was grown and away from my parents would either prove or disprove his ideas, I thought.

            As I wasn’t allowed to watch TV or use a computer, and as we didn’t possess these, anyway, in line with my parents’ views, books were about all that was available to me. My parents accepted that I needed to get out sometimes, and the public library they felt to be relatively safe; so I was taken to the library on weekdays, while other children were in school. It was quieter then, and the librarians agreed to keep an eye on me, as long as I was no trouble; and of course, they soon found that I wasn’t.

            I was allowed to stay and read for a couple of hours before one of my parents collected me, and I read as many books as I could, after my father had vetted them first. I say that, but the fact was that I read much of which he wouldn’t approve. Being a child and inquisitive, and left alone, I found other books and, having glanced through them, started to read them. But as I couldn’t take them home to read, I began hiding them behind or on top of the bookshelves, where others couldn’t find them and borrow them, so I could continue with them the next time.

            Of course, a librarian discovered me one day; Why are you doing this? after she’d ascertained that I was hiding a book. Because I’m not allowed to take it home; my parents don’t approve of many of the books in here. She examined the text in her hand with surprise, presumably thinking it harmless for a child of my age; then looked at me and the plea in my eyes before apparently deciding that I needed to be encouraged. Here’s what we’ll do; you give me the book you’re reading when you finish each day, and I’ll keep it under the desk for you. You can ask me for it the next time you’re in; as long as you don’t take too long to read the books, I can’t keep them for you indefinitely, you know.

            I assured her I wouldn’t, which was true; I devoured books, and the knowledge contained within them which seemed a window onto the wider world for me. Magdalena sighed then, looking back; I must’ve been an odd sight, perched at the library table and reading avidly, the child with the very short white-blonde hair, and only the dress I wore to identify me as female. In an attempt to discourage the sin of vanity in me, you see, my hair, which had been considered beautiful, had been shorn by my mother, with the proverbial basin over my head. It had the opposite effect, though, because since the day she allowed it to grow again (when I was around eleven or twelve years old, and judged on the verge of puberty, the time to attract a potential husband) I never had it cut, apart from a trim occasionally to keep it neat; and look at me now!

            She smiled ruefully, and Dora made sympathetic noises over the brutal loss of hair brought about by the chemoradiation therapy the girl had undergone. Magdalena shrugged, and returned to the main story. Over time, like my hair, my arrangement with the librarian Mrs Cardinal (that was her name) grew to include her colleagues, so I was always assured of continuing where I’d left off in my reading. That’s how she came to be my accomplice in my getting to university. I showed so much promise in my studies, as well as discrimination in what I read (as he thought) that my father allowed me to study as a private candidate for GCSEs and A levels; in subjects of which he approved, of course. I realised later that it was only meant to keep me busy, because I couldn’t spend all day doing housework with my mother, until such time as they found me a husband.

            I sat the exams at a college approved by the examination board; my grades were good, easily enough to get me into university, but my parents refused to let me apply. When I told Mrs Cardinal she obtained the correct UCAS forms, and helped me to complete and submit them; I was no longer a child, she said, and it was my right to choose my own future. Well, I received more than one offer of a place to study English and European Literature, but then I had to fight for the right to take one of them up, because my parents weren’t happy that I’d applied behind their backs and more opposed than ever to the idea.

            Her face contracted with some pain then, and Could you please? she indicated a need to Dora, who realised with shame that in listening to the story she’d been neglecting her duties to the patient telling it. She hastened to provide what was needed and, when the girl was more comfortable, said goodbye for the night; she was off home to Des, and a late supper, and didn’t want to keep him waiting. Magdalena smiled, in a light-headed way brought on by the administration of morphine; Of course, you mustn’t be late; thank you for everything, and for listening. It’s been interesting, looking back. Well, you don’t have much to look forward to, Dora thought inadvertently as she let herself out, and then reproached herself; Of course the girl did, her sins would be forgiven, if she was repentant, which Dora was sure she was; but of what, exactly? The nurse resolved to find out.

  

2: BEGINNING

 

Arriving at her usual early-evening time the next day, she found her patient sitting with the cleaner, named Celia, apparently, and laughing over a joke the latter was just finishing telling. Dora took silent umbrage, having heard enough to gather that the thing included bad language and was told at the expense of nuns; and in her opinion religion was not suitable material for coarse humour.

            Celia left the room then, and Dora smiled tightly through partly-pursed lips as she passed, receiving in return a knowing grin which she interpreted as the woman reading her thoughts and mocking them. All this was noticed by Magdalena, who hastened to appease her nurse. Please don’t be offended, Celia was raised as a Catholic but had a rough time when she was young and lost her belief because the Church didn’t help her. She’s bitter about that, so it makes her feel better to poke fun at it. I understand, because I lost my faith too.

            How did that happen? Dora wanted to know; and as she went about making her comfortable the girl told her. I suppose my relationship with religion was on the wane before I arrived at university, but I suppose the thing that really finished it happened not long after I got there. I was feeling a bit lonely when a girl in one of my seminar groups was asking all of us if we’d like to go to a special Sunday evening service at her church, about three miles from campus.

            Well, some old habits die hard, and she’d a car and offered to take me there and bring me back again, as I was the only one to take her up on the offer. So I went with her, but it turned out that she’d got a boyfriend there, and he’d other ideas for the evening; so she disappeared with him and so did the lift back she’d promised me. I’d insufficient money for bus fare, even had there been any buses at that time on a Sunday night, and no other members of the congregation would go out of their way to give me a lift and see that I got back safely, despite being made aware of my problem by the minister. So, with an ironic comment to the effect that I supposed Jesus was walking me home (which they found very witty) I set off to walk in the dark and the rain. And maybe he did walk with me, because I got back safely; but I’d learned that there’s a difference between a Christian and a Churchgoer, and the knowledge put paid to my already damaged faith.

            Dora had to concede that the girl had a point; there were some people who attended church but didn’t seem to apply its teachings to their life outside the building. But it clearly hadn’t been this incident alone which had caused her to lose faith, so, How had it become damaged already? she enquired. Part of the problem, Magdalena told her, was what my parents and their beliefs deemed suitable for a girl. A rather Victorian angel-in-the-house doctrine it was, housekeeping and making a safe haven from the world without for the menfolk within; or one man, a husband, more precisely. I wasn’t necessarily opposed to the idea of marriage, I just thought I ought to have the greater say about who I married, and when; and I felt I wanted to experience more of the world before I settled to it, if I did at all; it should be my choice. University I believed would help me in this, although my parents weren’t inclined to agree; and just as we reached an impasse the issue became critical, because a young man came to my parents’ notice.

            He was the son of other members of their church, about the same age as me, and on those grounds deemed a suitable potential husband for me. He and I used to see each other at the church anyway, and at the youth group gatherings, but now we were given an extra degree of freedom to get to know each other. We did get on well, there was some attraction on both sides, and things got physical, unbeknown to both sets of parents. Now, of course, I realise that what went on between us was perfectly normal for inquisitive teenagers, but I knew little if anything at the time about sexual matters. My parents had fudged the issue, teaching me that ‘intimate behaviour’ (she put little quotation marks around the words with her fingers) was to be avoided until I was married, but they hadn’t told me what that was, exactly.

            Anyway, the boy and I apparently went too far, as he told me, further observing that I could be pregnant already; guilt-fuelled panic set in, but fortunately my period started a few days later. I was confused by it all, especially by the sex, which had been disappointing and seemed very little, given the fuss that’s made about it; and paranoia set in after another incident seemed to prove to me that I’d sinned gravely.

            Dora cast her mind back to times she’d spent with Des at the church youth group, and afterwards, when he’d walked her home in the dark and kissed her, suggesting other things they could do if she cared to go somewhere more private with him. She did care, and was sorely tempted, but she’d resisted with all her strength; only because she’d been fully informed about the facts of life by her midwife-mother though, and exactly what she ought not to do before marriage. This girl, it appeared, had been left ignorant of those things, and also lacked school friends to bring her up to speed, children having a way of finding things out before they were supposed to know them. What else then was to be expected? And apparently what happened had left Magdalena cold, where even Dora of the low libido had experienced almost irresistible sensations when Des had kissed and caressed her.

            We had a social day for young people at the church community centre, Magdalena continued, smiling ruefully at the memory, and at one point we played a sort of ‘piggy in the middle’ game. We all sat in a circle, one person blindfolded in the centre, and were given a card each with the name of a railway station on it. The youth leader would call out, for example ‘Derby change with Exeter’, and those two would have to run across the circle to change places and ‘It’ would try to catch one of them. If caught, that person would become the new ‘It’ and give his or her card to the old one, to play as that station. Simple enough, but the trouble began for me when I was issued my station name; Maidenhead. I panicked internally, while trying to remain cool externally; I knew God was on to me, pointing the finger of irony at me, and that I was a ‘fallen woman’. Guilty, guilty, guilty, unless I married the boy responsible; who I knew was very willing.

            But my rebellious and independent streak asserted itself; I didn’t want to get married yet, maybe never, to him or anyone else. My parents, not knowing of our foray into the arena of sex, nevertheless tried to force the issue; and I suppose I do resent them, because if they’d told me the facts of life and I’d known what to expect I would’ve realised that nothing very much had happened and wouldn’t have worried about it so. And maybe I wouldn’t then have thought of myself as ‘fallen’ and got into the situation which shaped my life and took me down the path I’ve followed since.

            But that’ll have to wait for next time, she concluded, as a knock at the door announced the arrival of Laura, the lecturer-householder, with a cup of tea and a request to know whether Mags could manage anything to eat? At which Dora realised she’d almost exceeded her time and needed to get moving. She carried out the necessary tasks for her patient and left the two women together, wondering about their relationship as she drove slowly through the late-evening traffic. She’d noted the affectionate diminutive version of the girl’s name which the older woman had used; Mags, she called her, it seemed. Mother and daughter, perhaps? Laura was certainly old enough for that to be feasible, she had to be in her late fifties at least, or even her sixties.

            But No, Dora dismissed the idea, she didn’t fit the picture of the old-fashioned and strictly religious mother which Mags had painted and, if she’d been that person, would she have had her ‘fallen’ daughter back to live with her? Not that Mags had said a great deal about her mother, whose life appeared to have been dedicated to serving the father; which wasn’t the impression Laura gave, even had the father been around, which he wasn’t. So they weren’t linked by blood, unless Mags had other relations whom she hadn’t mentioned, but Dora didn’t think so. What, then? It was the oddest household, all-female, comprised of four, maybe five, generations. She resolved to find out what linked them all, as tactfully as possible.

3: ARRIVING

She got the opportunity the following evening, when Laura let her in and ushered her into the kitchen for a quick word, she said, before Dora went in to Mags. She’s been a bit low this afternoon, Laura volunteered as, having offered tea and Dora having accepted, she busied herself with kettle and cups. Old memories, you know? I don’t know exactly what’s getting her down, some things she’s told me but a lot she hasn’t; so I’ve just been trying to talk about positive things and maybe you could do the same? She smiled weakly as she took two mugs herself and indicated the third to Dora, Could you please? as she went to precede the nurse to the girl’s room.

            Dora couldn’t resist fishing; I know how difficult it must be, believe me, for a mother to have to see her child suffering like this. But Laura shook her head and smiled again; Oh, no, I’m not her mother, I never had children; my ex-partner wanted to have one, but I was so busy looking after my own mother, when I wasn’t working, that I didn’t think it would be fair to the child. And by the time my mother passed away Yvonne had long-since become tired of waiting, and she’d left me. And with a regretful sigh she passed down the hallway, Dora following her.

            So her attempt to establish the relationship between Mags and Laura had disclosed another piece of information which left her mentally reeling; a lesbian! She hadn’t been ready for that, and she didn’t approve, before even considering the other issue which now raised its head; Were they lovers then, these two? Her thoughts were apparently confirmed as she followed Laura into the room where Mags, dozing, opened her eyes and then her arms, into which Laura went, after depositing the tea mugs on the bedside table, for a deeply affectionate hug which had the effect of softening even Dora’s disapproval. I’m sorry I’ve been such a misery all day, the girl was saying, I’m feeling a bit better now, I’ll try to be happier. No, don’t apologise, from Laura, we all have down-days and you’ve every right; and then more affectionate talk in the same vein passed between the two.

            Dora excused herself to visit the bathroom while Laura was with Mags; she’d been stuck in traffic for longer than was ideal. As she washed her hands she considered the notion of these two as a lesbian couple. She’d heard somewhere, some gossip in a staff room once, of the notion of prostitutes turning to other women, presumably in disgust at what they experienced from men on a daily, or nightly, basis. Only natural, when you think about it, the person giving the information had said; but there was little less natural, as far as Dora was concerned. The affection between these two was touching, but anything more … her thoughts were happily prevented from going down that route as she re-entered the bedroom; She’s all yours, she was told by Laura, who took her her mug of tea and left nurse and patient together.

            Dora couldn’t resist the urge to continue probing, as she went about her duties of attending to her patient’s needs and making her as comfortable as possible. She’s clearly devoted to you, she observed, not looking at Mags directly but focussing on the task in hand; Have you been together for long? The girl answered immediately; Oh, no, I’ve only been living here since I was released because, you know … Dora did know this part of her patient’s history; she’d been in prison, released early on compassionate grounds for her last few months of life. I didn’t know her that well before, Mags went on, I hadn’t seen her for some years, then she came to visit me in prison and offered me a home here until … She trailed off again, and Dora nodded; then, as though to round things off, Mags continued. She was one of my university lecturers, and my personal tutor, originally; she felt responsible for the way my life went off the rails, which was silly of her, really, it was all my own fault.

            Dora felt relief; fortunately the girl hadn’t taken her meaning, and it seemed that the relationship between tutor and former student wasn’t an intimate one. To move things on, in case Mags realised belatedly what her nurse had been getting at, she said the first thing that came into her head; So how was university, once you got there? You had a bit of a fight with your parents over it, I think you said yesterday? The girl nodded; They’d have had to let me go when I was eighteen anyway, so I pointed this out to them and stood my ground. I can be very stubborn when I want to be; unfortunately I haven’t wanted to be often enough for my own good.

            Enough of that, though; she put the melancholy thoughts aside and made an effort to focus on the positive, as Dora sat down to listen. I loved university; I enjoyed my studies, but also adored being free of the restraints of my parents’ home and lifestyle. There were so many people, so many new experiences; music groups, sports, there was even a small theatre on the campus, where local amateur groups performed, and professionals on tour, not to mention the university drama students putting on productions to practice their intended profession. I even enjoyed the jobs I took, waiting tables at campus cafés and bars, working in shops, because I got to talk to people of my own age, which’d been mostly lacking in my life before.

            I avoided close relationships though, mainly because I’d been used to being alone and found I preferred it like that; I suppose I was still rather shy, I needed to get used to people slowly, in manageable chunks, you might say. I was able to socialise with other girls in general, but the kind of close relationships where clothes and secrets about boyfriends are shared, weren’t yet for me. I couldn’t have spoken about boyfriends in any case, because my experience with the young man before university had put me off, frightened me; so despite the relationships of young people I observed all around me, boyfriends and girlfriends, I couldn’t face the idea of doing anything like that again. There were young men who tried, some quite pleasant, but not enough to tempt me to go there again.

            Dora felt sympathy for this; she’d been lucky, finding the right man straight off, not having to go through all the teenage angst other girls less fortunate suffered. She’d comforted Ruth through enough instances of heartbreak, and her daughter still hadn’t found the right one. Dora felt guilt also because, having found her Des so soon, she had a feeling that she didn’t fully appreciate him; but she pushed that thought aside, and concentrated on Mags. We have a good life, better than many, and that ought to be enough, she told herself.

            It was halfway through my second year when things got difficult, the girl was saying. My parents had helped me out in the first, and through living as cheaply as possible I’d managed not to get into debt. But in the second year they made it clear it was up to me to pay my own way; hoping, I was sure, that I wouldn’t be able to and return to their home and the marriage awaiting me, as they thought. I was determined to do no such thing, but it wasn’t going to be easy. For one thing, I’d had to move out of campus accommodation, which was limited and reserved for first-year students who needed to get used to living away from home gradually. So I incurred the higher costs involved in living in a local house, even though I shared it with five other students.

            I found not one but two jobs, with more hours available than I was able to work, but I needed time to study and sleep, not to mention my social life, which was becoming largely non-existent. I needed some advice and I had an interview arranged with my tutor-mentor, Laura Hogarth; Laura, whose house we’re in now, she clarified for Dora. She was a user-friendly lecturer; her manner invited you to confide in her if you wanted to, but equally she respected your privacy. It was a routine progress check I had with her, how I was getting on both academically, socially and so forth, so I decided to ask for her help.

            When I knocked at her office door she invited me in, then offered me a coffee, as she was making, and we got down to the nitty-gritty of how she could help me. I told her finance was becoming an issue, because my parents wouldn’t help me any more, and so costs were mounting. I don’t want to leave here buried under a mountain of debt, I told her, so I’m working as much as I can. I’ve a weekend shop job and an evening shift in an on-campus café, but I’ve obviously got less time for study because of this.

            I remember how she seemed exasperated about the whole fees-for-study thing, and the fact that the majority of young people are encouraged to go to university now, whether they have academic ability or not. She thought that most students leave university drowning in debt, or compromise their studies because they want to avoid that by working to pay their way as they go along. So too many were leaving with degrees at low grades, either because they couldn’t study enough due to working in a shop or bar or whatever, or because it’s not really what they’re cut out to do; and they’re all in debt to some extent anyway.

            Well, I certainly wanted to avoid that, so and I asked her please to give me an extension on my essay deadline to take some of the pressure off. I didn’t get the answer I wanted, though. I’m so sorry, Mags, she told me, I can’t do it; not on those grounds, and even if you were the first, rather than the fourth, who’s been in here asking me for exactly the same thing today. Look around you, it’s as I just said, the place is full of students burning the midnight oil studying because they’re working their backsides off for money so they don’t leave here with a debt which outweighs the value of their degree. They’re working in shops, bars, waiting tables, and I don’t even want to think what some of them are doing in the sex industry.

            I didn’t know what she was talking about then and said so; she told me that there was apparently a significant proportion of students doing strip-a-grams, topless modelling and who knows what else to get by. Her point was that if she gave me an extension because my work and study conflicted, she’d have to give one to all her students, and they’d tell others, so other lecturers would have to do the same, and the whole thing would just snowball and marking deadlines would get pushed back across the board, and so on and so forth; basically, it was impossible. She was very apologetic, but I was going to have to find another way to make it work.

            I remember feeling really disappointed as I left her office; I had a shift in the café due to begin in about an hour, so there was no point in trying to study. I went straight to the café instead to see if anyone I knew was there. I saw Simon and Anna, who I knew from one of my seminar groups, but they were busy preparing for a presentation they had to give in half an hour so weren’t available to talk. There was also an older girl I knew to a certain extent, and I ended up speaking to her about the learning-versus-earning problem. Liz Needham; she was a Business Studies student so she wasn’t doing any of my courses, but she shared a house with someone who was, and we’d met sometimes via our mutual acquaintance. She was in her final year, and she’d managed to keep her debt level relatively low; at some cost to her study, true, but she was doing better than I was, from what I’d heard her say previously, so any advice would be gratefully received.

            The trick is, she told me, to get the maximum money for the least amount of work; which sounds obvious, but where to find these high-paying jobs? Well, I’ve worked at darts tournaments, and at lower-level motor racing circuits, you know, scantily-clad nymphet holding a placard? I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway because I thought she wouldn’t help me get the work if she didn’t think I was experienced enough for it. But there’s nothing doing in those at the moment, she continued, although there’s one annual gig I’ve been doing for the last couple of years, and it’s coming up again soon. All of £150 in your pocket for about six hours’ work, plus taxi fare both ways, but it’s not everybody’s thing; you need a strong stomach and nerves of iron. I was excited; about £25 an hour! I thought of my minimum wage jobs, which netted me not much more than that for six hours all told; so, Give me an idea and I’ll see, I told her.

            It was a charity dinner, apparently, to be held at a swish hotel, men-only, those rich and influential types who’re patrons of various charities and other worthy causes. Hostesses were required to look after them, escort them to their designated tables and sit at the tables with them, two or three girls to each table. They were to talk to the men, encourage them to drink and get the drinks when required, help them to relax and have a good time. It gets a bad press from those who’ve worked it and disliked it, Liz said, on the grounds of supposedly getting pestered, sexually-harassed, call it what you like; but if they’d checked it out properly they could’ve seen going in that it wasn’t going to be easy.

            But if you can do it the money’s good, plus, who knows? You could meet a well-off guy who might do a lot for you. There was a girl, Angie, in the year above me here; it was she who first put me onto it. She’d been working it for a couple of years and in the third she found a man, a bit older than she might’ve liked, true, but loaded, absolutely loaded; he paid her fees here for the rest of her time, and her living costs, and the debts she’d already run up. Obviously she had to sleep with him, regularly, while she was still here, but it seems it worked and she left uni debt-free.

            I thought about what Liz was saying; What happened with the man when she finished here? She shrugged; I don’t know, maybe they carried on, maybe not; but it was all worked out legally, she got a contract and everything, so maybe that was covered in the details. The point is, if you’re going to meet anyone who could do you some good that’s where you’ll do it; how many rich guys are we going to meet in this place? She swept her arm around the café, full of students and staff, all none-too-well-off, and they looked it.

            The disapproval on Dora’s face was obvious to Mags; she shrugged apologetically. I know, it doesn’t sound good, and maybe it was wrong to do it. I hadn’t considered looking for a rich man to fund me until Liz mentioned it, and it didn’t seem like such a bad idea, the way she put it. I mean, I’d be using him, wouldn’t I? I’d be an in-control woman, a modern woman, in charge of my own life and using what I’d got to get what I wanted and serve my own requirements. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love, like the heroine of a cheap novel. I took bad advice from Liz because I was naïve, and I’m not making any excuses. But I can’t regret it, because it was how I met Teddy, and I loved him so much, even if it did go disastrously wrong; and I’d still be with him if I’d the chance to do it again.

            Her hands were playing with the ‘H’ at her throat now, Dora noticed, and she trailed off, dreamily, looking off into the distant past with a gentle smile on her face; which could of course have been the morphine, but Dora didn’t think so this time. Who was Teddy? she wanted to know. We’ll get to him; the girl dragged herself back into the present; If you’ve time, that is? Dora did, and she wasn’t going anywhere, she said, until they had gotten to Teddy.

            So I considered what Liz had said, Mags continued, and asked her to talk me through the negative side of the thing, because I thought I might as well go prepared, if I went at all. For the record, she told me, I personally don’t have a problem because I knew going in what it could be like. ‘Men only’ tells its own story, if you know what the male of the species can be like, left to himself; men behaving badly, adolescent boys in supposedly adult bodies, lads at what’s basically a high-class stag do, let’s be honest. So I’m always in control, and anyone who goes in there and comes out shocked is naïve to say the least; they need to wise-up on life or they’re going to get themselves in deep trouble. Sexual harassment? Maybe; but it’s pretty clear from the outset, the signs are there for anyone to see, if only they’d think it through.

            Firstly; the agency in charge of hiring advertises for ‘hostesses’ who are to be ‘slim and pretty’ young women; no young men, you notice, plus they’re requested to wear black underclothes. Now, apart from when talking about air hostesses (glorified waitresses, if you ask me) the word ‘hostess’ has been known to have sleazy overtones for a very long time. Think nightclub hostesses, one example of which would be the Hugh Hefner empire, Bunny girls; Google it, she said, when I looked blank and shook my head. Back in the nineteen-sixties and seventies, the Playboy Club, the name tells the story; the girls wore very little, bunny ears and fluffy tails on skimpy satin body suits. They served drinks, ran gambling tables and went to parties for club members at Hefner’s home, the Playboy Mansion, with an implication that they might in certain circumstances serve more than drinks.

            So anyone considering applying for this dinner ought to have been hearing alarm bells. ‘Slim and pretty’ says very clearly they’re being hired for their looks; cue alarm bell number two, and it shouldn’t take a genius to work out that the request for underclothes to be black says fairly clearly that they’ll be on show. As in, worn under skimpy, revealing clothing, which in the event is what’s been and will continue to be provided for us to wear. Cue the third alarm bell, and anyone who didn’t like this ought never to have applied.

            Liz was well into her stride now, Mags commented, and I was in awe of her by this time; she was so worldly-wise and knowing for her age, and I felt like a baby beside her as she continued. Next, she said, those girls who were hired were asked to sign a contract, a non-disclosure agreement which we weren’t allowed to read or take a copy of. Well, I’ll admit an important rule of self-preservation is never to put your name to anything you haven’t read. Did I tell you that Laura Hogarth called in a girl I know in one of her modules for plagiarism? The idiot had signed the cover sheet to say she’d referenced all her sources, but she hadn’t, actually, she’d used loads from one particular secondary text without footnoting or adding it to her bibliography, so that it looked like her own ideas; and it was her bad luck that Laura knew that particular text inside out and backwards. The silly bitch was in tears, claimed she didn’t know it was that important; well, why do they attach a page for you to sign if it’s not that important? But, to get back to the point, it was her own fault and she needs to wise up.

            Having said that, though, Liz conceded, I’ll put my hands up to having signed without reading for this dinner; but if I’d insisted on reading and copying they’d never have let me through the door, and I needed the money. I figured I’d been in enough situations while working the darts tournaments, the racetracks, and the car shows to be able to look after myself here. The doors weren’t locked and there had to be fire exits, legally; and this was a five-star hotel, not some dive with non-existent health and safety, after all. So a rapid departure in a worse-case scenario was possible; which incidentally was what anyone who wasn’t happy about this was perfectly free to do at this point.

            Mags paused for breath; she was beginning to tire, but apparently determined to initiate Dora into the mystery of Teddy before the nurse left for the night. We were warned, Liz continued, that the men might be ‘irritating’; well they’re going to be drinking the whole evening and you’re scantily-clad, so you shouldn’t to be shocked at the form the ‘irritation’ takes and you ought to be able to handle yourself when it happens; not ‘if’, because it’s bound to. Once at work in the room we were allowed supervised comfort breaks of a limited amount of time and refused these if they became too frequent.

            Supervised comfort breaks? I queried; The Handmaid’s Tale? ‘Jezebel’s’? Liz prompted me. I remembered then; I had, I’d done it on one of my English modules. D’you know it? she asked Dora here and the latter shook her head. Well, Mags informed her, suffice to say there’s a scene in an exclusive brothel where the girls aren’t there willingly; and if they try to avoid working by going to the loo too much they’re in trouble. There’s no doubt what those women were there for, and this dinner was similar; we were being paid to be out there talking to the men, not hiding in the loo. Dora got the point, and Mags returned to Liz and her advice.

            Ditch any illusions you might have and go for it, Liz told me, that’s if you’ve a strong enough stomach. Those are my words of wisdom on the subject, she concluded; think it over, but don’t take too long because you need to apply pronto. So I said I’d sleep on it and let her know in the morning; then I went to work my shift and return to my digs afterwards in deep thought and apparently ever-deepening debt unless I could find some other sources of cash, and fast.

            The worst outcome, I decided, was that I could work the dinner, get some hassle from the men present, meet no-one to help me out in the longer term, but get paid £150 and taxi fare. First prize, however, was that I find someone as Liz’s friend Angie had; and the unknowns were any range of things that could happen in between these two. The most important thing now was, could I handle it, whatever happened? As to any harassment, the thing took place in a hall full of other people, so as long as I stayed close to the crowd I ought to be alright; oughtn’t I? As to meeting someone, for one night or a longer relationship? My one experience of sex had left me cold, but not traumatized; it didn’t seem the worst thing in the world, and if I were to meet someone bearable it might be possible.

            Having considered the Could I? of the situation, I considered the moral part, the Should I? As far as whoever-up-there it may’ve been who’d taunted me with the Maidenhead thing was concerned, I was already a fallen woman anyway. Not that this was a problem any more, because I’d got rid of the religious viewpoint on my ‘lost virtue’, as my parents would call it; so I decided I might as well give the dinner thing a go because I couldn’t see that I’d anything left to lose. I tried to rationalize my decision with my mother’s idea of the only thing a woman need do is to ‘get a man’, and that would be what in effect I was doing were I to find Mr Right. Not as permanent fix, though, not a husband, although the old-fashioned issue of having no virginity to bring to him no longer applied; but an arrangement with a man who’d be prepared to sponsor me financially in return for my companionship, as it were, as the next best thing. That way I could get my debts and remaining fees paid, then get out into the world, get a career and take control of my life as an independent woman; or so I thought, naïve as I was.

            The next morning, in the cold light of day, I woke up in more than the literal sense. Did I really expect to find this mythical sponsor who’d take away all my financial worries? That’d be too much like one of the fairy-tales I’d been studying; goose girl gets prince, or whatever. But the rent was due, and I liked to eat at least once a day, so £150 in my hand sounded good, and I decided to risk it for that. I was straight onto Liz as soon as I decently could be, made the application before I lost my nerve, and was accepted to work as a hostess at the dinner. I was nervous for the next few weeks, until the appointed day arrived, but managed to immerse myself in my various types of work and not think about it any more than I could help.

            I’m sorry, she said at this point, but I’m afraid that Teddy’s going to have to wait after all; I’m feeling very tired now and I’d like to sleep. This was no problem for Dora, time was getting on anyway and, although she was interested in hearing the girl’s story, getting home and spending what was left of the evening with Des was more important to her. She did all she could to make Mags comfortable, then made her way home and thought on the way about what she’d heard.

            It was no understatement to say that the girl had been given bad advice; if it had been her Ruth, Dora would have locked her in the house rather than let her take part in any such affair. But of course, Ruth would have been at university, and Dora would have had no way of knowing what she was up to; she could have taken work at this dinner, or another like it, given that she hadn’t studied near home, for all her mother knew. But Dora dismissed the idea out of hand; Ruth would never have given the time of day to such an idea, she knew what was right and what was wrong, she’d been brought up properly, in a good, God-fearing household. But then so had Mags, she told herself.

            She put the problem out of her mind as she arrived home, and frowned at the sight of the darkened windows; Des wasn’t there, apparently. A note on the kitchen table informed her that he’d made dinner, put hers in the oven to keep warm, then eaten his own and gone for a drink with his work colleagues. Dora was perturbed; going for a drink on the way home was one thing, but coming home and then going out again was something else. Had he gone to see someone? Some other woman, perhaps? Of course not, she told herself harshly, then made the best of things, spending a lonely couple of hours before taking herself along to bed. She hadn’t been hungry, despite not having eaten since lunchtime, but had forced herself to eat, her sensible nature telling her that she needed food, hungry or not.

            She couldn’t sleep, and heard Des when he came in; it was the right side of midnight, the clock on the bedside table told her, and he didn’t try to sneak in unheard, which Dora took for a good sign. But she feigned sleep when he came to bed, because she couldn’t face an inquest into where he’d been, and with whom; and Des, finding her apparently asleep, didn’t try to wake her but turned his back to her and was asleep very quickly. Dora, however, lay still in her misery and felt the tears come to her eyes and roll off her cheeks onto the sheets before she eventually fell into a fitful sleep in the small hours.

4: KEEPING I

She felt better the next morning, although only slightly so, not having slept soundly until it was getting light; she’d then been awoken too soon by Des, showered and dressed and bearing a cup of tea. He was apologetic about not having been there on the previous evening; he’d initially turned down the invitation to go to the pub, apparently, but once he’d eaten he was restless, with no Dora for company, and there was nothing on TV, so he’d thought Why not? and gone. Dora accepted his version of events because it was easier to do so and she didn’t feel up to discussing the matter in any more depth than he was offering.

            When he’d gone to work, she dawdled over her breakfast, most unlike her usual efficient self, and pondered the situation. She had time, having few appointments today, or so she thought; because the situation then got worse, courtesy of a phone call from Ms Mystry’s district nurse. Mags had requested a change to her visits; she found that she was sleeping more during the day, and lying awake for most of the night. It made sense therefore for Laura, Celia and Vivie to see to her in the evening, and for Dora to come in for the night shift.

            Dora was taken aback; she’d been working night shifts up until last week, with Mrs Briggs, who’d slipped away one evening. The poor woman had been in constant pain, and it was a mercy for her to be out of it, but Dora had been looking forward to spending her nights at home, and not just for the sleep. What of Des? It had already occurred to her that he’d be able to be out all night also. If he wanted to be, that was, and Dora thought that he didn’t want, really, but she couldn’t be sure; her confidence on that score was at a low ebb. In terms of work, she seemed to be building up a relationship with Mags in a strange sort of way, and didn’t want to let her down. It was unusual for the same nurse to attend to the same patient all the time, but demand wasn’t too high at present, which was why Dora had been with Mrs Briggs regularly for a month. But it made it difficult for her to find a reason not to work through the night, leaving Des continuing to be alone and to his own, possibly questionable, devices. So with a heavy heart she let her correct side take charge and accepted the request to provide through-the-night care for Mags.   

            Des was surprised; Dora had said herself that she’d like some time before taking on another patient to fill the slot Mrs Briggs had vacated, so she could be home at night for a while. But now she seemed keen to dive straight back in, without any break at all. If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were having an affair, he joked; and, although she laughed with him, Dora wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It was good to be respectable, yes, but to be so predictable, so … boring? Or was Des just saying that to distract her from any idea that he was in fact the one having an affair? She was depressed by the thought.

            Her new shift pattern commenced that evening at nine pm, meaning she had time to prepare dinner and eat with Des if he came home at a reasonable time and didn’t go to the pub on the way. This was the good part of her new working pattern, but the bad was that there was nothing to stop him going out again once Dora had gone to work. He arrived at a reasonable time, though, no pub visit tonight, and settled down in front of the TV with a cup of tea as Dora prepared herself and left for work. Would he stay there? She put the question aside as best she could and concentrated on driving.

            When she arrived, Mags had the little girl, Katie, on her lap, telling her a bed-time story; not quite what Dora had expected, but Mags was surprisingly good at story-telling, putting on different voices and roaring so convincingly that Katie appeared convinced that she was the monster. The little girl seemed to like it, though, and was reluctant to leave when Vivie came to take her and put her to bed. Too late for a child that young, in Dora’s view, but the loving hug that passed between her and Mags before she left the room made it clear that Katie was not lacking in love; just some sleep, perhaps.

            When they were left alone together, Mags thanked Dora for changing her shift pattern at such short notice; I suppose I’m used to sleeping during the day and working nights, she explained, apologetically, and Dora, for some reason which she didn’t understand, felt the need to lessen the impact of the blatantly-obvious reason for this. I work nights frequently too, she offered with a smile; It feels a bit exciting, somehow, sleeping when most other people are awake and then spending the night awake while they sleep. She didn’t add that it had also been a good method of fending off sexual requests by Des, at least until recently, before he started socialising and Dora had started worrying about what other form than going to the pub that might take.

            Mags nodded; I thought, too, that it’d be a good time for me to talk, to tell you things about my life, as I’ve been doing; that’s if you’re interested, of course. Oh, yes, Dora assured her, and she meant it; maybe hearing the life-story of this girl would help the nurse to understand, and feel some sympathy for her and others like her. Because she already felt something, the ice was starting to break, as she experienced the person rather than the profession. So, having ascertained that her patient was comfortable, and OK with being on her own for five minutes, Dora went and made them both a cup of tea. Are you sitting comfortably? Mags joked, when she returned; Then I’ll begin.

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