The Girl Behind the Gates

by Brenda Davies

Genres: Historical Fiction; World War II

Synopsis

A raw, heart-breaking yet ultimately uplifting novel about a young woman cut down in her prime, and of the woman who brings her back to life.

***TOP TEN KINDLE BESTSELLER***

'Compelling. Poignant. Haunting. Heart wrenching. Just beautiful. Everyone needs to read this wonderful book.' - Renita D'Silva, bestselling author of The Forgotten Daughter

1939. Seventeen-year-old Nora Jennings has spent her life secure in the certainty of a bright, happy future - until one night of passion has more catastrophic consequences than she ever could have anticipated. Labelled a moral defective and sectioned under the Mental Deficiency Act, she is forced to endure years of unspeakable cruelty at the hands of those who are supposed to care for her.

1981. When psychiatrist Janet Humphreys comes across Nora, heavily institutionalised and still living in the hospital more than forty years after her incarceration, she knows that she must be the one to help Nora rediscover what it is to live. But as she works to help Nora overcome her past, Janet realises she must finally face her own.

Based on a true story, The Girl Behind the Gates is the raw, heart-breaking yet ultimately uplifting tale of a young woman cut down in her prime, and of the woman who finally brings her back to life, perfect for fans of The Girl in the Letter and Philomena.

(P) 2021 Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Release date: May 28, 2020

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 346

Sample

Acknowledgements

So many people have helped me on my journey that it’s impossible to mention each of them individually. However, first of all, I’d like to thank my beloved Les who has been the wind beneath my wings for over sixty years and whose love and support I always cherish. Then my beautiful daughter, Lesda, who has encouraged, supported, listened, cried and laughed with me over Nora’s story, as well as typing, formatting, sorting out my technical issues and helping me hone my computer skills. Thank you, Angel. And the beautiful Tilly who has supplied me with enough playfulness, hugs, amusement and laughter to leaven any sombre moment.

Thank you to my wonderful friend and soul sister, Claire Gilman, who read the first draft and encouraged me to submit it. At Hodder, Rowena Web, who was my non-fiction editor in the 1990s, read it and promptly sent it on to fiction where Thorne Ryan took over as my editor and has worked unceasingly to help me fashion a raw manuscript into the book you find here. Thank you, Thorne – you’ve been amazing – and thanks also to the copy editor, Penny Isaac, the proofreader, Sharona Selby, and the whole Hodder team.

The Arvon Foundation has also been an inspiring presence over many years, and I’d like to thank the tutors and fellow writers and others who have been part of my journey while writing the novel and also adapting it to a screenplay. What amazing people I have met through Arvon – I thank all of you for being in my life and I love the way we cheer each other on.

My other soul sister, Annie Lionnet, has been a beautiful presence in my life for more years than either of us might care to remember and has been a championing voice throughout. Thank you, Annie. Scott Hunt is one of the kindest, funniest people I know and an amazing psychiatric nurse and an old friend. Thank you, Scott, for always being only an arm’s length away. I’d also like to thank Silvio Andrade, Emma Craig, Margaret Martin and Tara Hawes who have held the fort for me while I’ve been busy writing, and Melanie Blanksby, who is also a supportive voice in my ear. Then there is my dear friend, Linda Miller, who I just love. Thank you for always being there, Linda. And Lisa in Texas. So many friends, students, patients and colleagues – too many to mention individually – have graced my life over the years and over continents. Each one has taught me much on the journey to all of us becoming better versions of ourselves. One of my mentors from the dim and distant past was Dr Robin Farqueharson, an amazing psychiatrist, a wonderful, caring man and an inspiring teacher who showed me what a scientific art psychiatry could be and modelled a deep respect for patients that I have tried to emulate. Thank you, Robin. I have never forgotten.

To all who have accompanied me on my journey in whatever capacity – I thank you for all you taught me, for all we shared, for however brief a moment. And most of all, thank you, Nora. What an amazing woman you were. Thank you for entrusting your story to me and nagging me to tell it. This is for you.

Chapter Eight

A searing pain takes Nora’s breath away and she gasps for air. ‘What’s happening to me?’ she says, her voice strangled.

‘You’re having a baby, that’s all,’ the aide says dismissively. ‘Stop making such a fuss.’

Another pain assaults Nora and a sound emerges from her throat that she hardly recognises as her own. She wants her mother, Mrs Lampeter, anyone. But the aide looks ahead while Nora’s eyes fix on the dreaded stark white sign jutting into the corridor: TREATMENT ROOM. She shivers. Though she’s never been to this room, she hasn’t escaped the stories and screams that come from within, nor the sight of people being wheeled out after shock treatment with red marks on their foreheads and rubber gags still between their teeth. Her heart fills with terror as she is pushed over the threshold. No natural light and a four-lamped contraption that is a perverse caricature of a chandelier. Brown leather straps, complete with buckles, emerge from the sides and corners at the foot of the iron-framed bed. A wheeled trolley holds an array of instruments and bottles. Two shiny kidney bowls. A metal pail on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Sister Beatrice Cummings is checking a pile of towels and sheets. She glances at Nora, who shivers at the idea that this woman – who, ever since the incident with Nurse Hatton and the baby clothes, has gone out of her way to make her life miserable – will be presiding over the birth of her child.

‘Let’s have a look at you and see what’s happening,’ says Sister Cummings, not bothering to meet Nora’s eyes. She motions to the young probationer, Nurse Jamison, to help get Nora onto the bed. ‘Get her a gown. This baby might not be far away.’ She turns her back and puts on a face mask and then dons surgical gloves.

Nurse Donaldson does likewise. ‘Take off your knickers and open your legs.’ Nora’s eyes move from one to the other of these three women, mortified by her sodden underwear, but she does as she’s told. Hands move roughly about her belly and then grip above her pelvis. ‘Head’s engaged,’ Sister Cummings announces to no one in particular. Rough fingers enter Nora and move quickly. She gulps and grasps handfuls of the sheet, but fights against herself to hold still and feels immeasurably relieved as the hand is removed. Sister Cummings takes off her gloves. ‘Shave and OBE and be quick about it.’

Another spike of pain wracks Nora’s body. Her eyes search the room for any relief but there is none to be had. Sister Cummings places her hand on Nora’s belly and checks her watch. The women are busy around her and Nora looks on, watching as much as she can from her disadvantaged position. She daren’t ask questions, having learned by now to say no more than absolutely necessary.

Her body is moved, her knees bent and a razor pulls at her pubic hair. It scratches her delicate skin, the numerous nicks leaving her stinging and making her wince. Fingers open her, stretch her and scrape away at places that have only twice before been touched by hands other than hers – once with loving tenderness and once in mortifying examination. Embarrassment seems as pointless as complaint and Nora lies there, numb. A small glass of warm castor oil is shoved towards her and a hand helps lift her shoulder so she can manage a drink. The smell of the oil immediately raises bile in her throat and Nora turns her head away.

‘Take it all in one gulp,’ says Nurse Jamison gently, with a surreptitious glance at Sister Cummings’s back. ‘That’s the best way.’ Nora complies but retches, her eyes streaming. ‘Well done,’ whispers the nurse, though her eyes shift immediately to Sister Cummings, who thankfully seems occupied with Nora’s notes and has neither seen nor heard this lapse of protocol.

Another contraction wracks Nora’s body and she whimpers, clutching the sides of the bed. Sister Cummings, her hand again on Nora’s swollen abdomen, checks her watch. A flurry of activity involving a metal basin, a funnel, a large jug and red rubber tubing comes to a sudden halt and a wobbly trolley arrives at the bottom of the bed. Nurse Jamison squeezes Nora’s arm.

‘Nora, this won’t hurt, I promise,’ she says, and a second later Nora gasps as something is pushed into her anus. One of the nurses holds the funnel on high and starts to pour in warm, soapy water. The following minutes fill her with more disgust and embarrassment than she thought possible. As the smell of faeces fills the air, she wishes for the first time that she were dead.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she says and closes her eyes, just as the next contraction starts its swell to an inconceivable climax of pain. She screams and places her hand on her belly, urging her baby to be patient, to be healthy and whole. She tries to think of her mother but memories of that beloved face refuse to surface. She closes her eyes, turns her head and prays to become invisible.

Someone lifts her to the sitting position as another contraction comes, and Sister Cummings issues abrupt instructions to her team to let her examine Nora again before they move her to the bath.

‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Nora pants.

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I do,’ says Nora, squirming on the bed. ‘Please let me go to the toilet.’

‘Lie down.’ Sister Cummings’s hand presses Nora back down onto the bed and once again forces her legs open to examine her. ‘Get her next door to the bath, quickly,’ she says, ‘or this baby will be born there.’

Though there’s comfort in the warm, soapy water, Nora’s nails cut into Nurse Jamison’s arm as she grabs for support, while the next contraction appears to change direction and grasp the top of her womb, then drag its way down her belly. She screams. Nurse Jamison hands her a towel. ‘Let’s get you out quickly, Nora.’ She helps Nora dry herself and gives her a clean gown.

‘Now you’ll regret what you did,’ a voice whispers in her ear. ‘Was it worth it, you little slut?’ Nora starts and looks around to see Sister Cummings staring down at her with loathing on her face. Even through the pain, a shiver of horror makes its way down her spine at the cruelty of this so-called nurse. Why does she hate me so?

Sister Cummings pulls Nora’s hands down to her sides and forces her wrists into the leather restraints. She straps her ankles with her feet up on plates on metal rods that have been screwed to the bed. Nora’s back arches in frenzied frustration.

‘I need to move,’ she gasps.

‘Well, you can’t.’ Sister Cummings is between her legs again. ‘Lie still.’ But the next pain is too much to bear and Nora screams and lifts her buttocks off the bed, bucking away from Sister Cummings’s hands. The slap on her inner thigh is swift and hard but is lost in the next scream, charged and looped, careening into the walls, slicing the air. Then breathless moments, before the next seismic crescendo of pain, her whole being trembling, the visceral torture exacerbated by being tethered to the bed. She suddenly feels a white-hot wave of rage towards Robert. Why didn’t you tell them? Why didn’t you come for us? Why? You said you loved me. You should be here. She will use this surge of energy to birth this baby that will be hers and hers alone, no matter how they were abandoned.

‘Lie still,’ someone snaps. But the next pain is already coming and Nora screams out again, pulling on the restraints and shaking her head from side to side. Nurse Jamison clutches Nora’s hand in warning, but not quickly enough, and another blow from Sister Cummings fills Nora with fury.

‘Get off me,’ she screams, and the next slap strikes across her face and makes her freeze.

‘Control yourself.’ Cummings’s voice is cold and harsh. ‘You got yourself into this situation and now you have to deal with it. Shut up and do as you’re told.’ Tears of impotent rage stream down from Nora’s eyes and pool in her ears as she clenches her teeth and the urge to push comes with the next contraction.

‘Don’t push yet!’

Nora imagines her baby making its way out into the world and wonders whether it’s a boy or a girl, though what does it matter as long as it gets here safely? She mustn’t do anything that will impede its progress. She must do as she’s told and so, with the next contraction, she steels herself to be still and quiet and to breathe rather than push.

Oh, my goodness. How can I not push? And right on cue comes the command and the permission. ‘Push!’ She bears down, a groan escaping through her clenched teeth. ‘Now, one more big one.’

‘You can do it, Nora,’ Nurse Jamison urges, seemingly having forgotten Sister Cummings’s presence. And, as the next wave of pain comes, Nora pushes with all her might. She feels herself rip, but she no longer matters. Just let my baby be safe.

‘The head’s out.’ Someone thrusts a cloth into Sister Cummings’s bloody glove. She places her hand on Nora’s belly and waits a second or two and, feeling the next contraction start to gather, she says, ‘Last push, Jennings. Now!’ There’s a squelching sound and a sudden rush and then silence. No one seems to be breathing. No one says a word and the seconds tick by. Nora’s eyes dart around, her neck aching as she cranes to see.

‘Is my baby all right?’ she gasps.

‘Yes,’ Sister Cummings says tersely and, after what seems an age, the baby’s cries fill the room. Nora breathes and tries to lift her arms, but they are still restrained. ‘Can I hold it? Is it a boy or a girl?’ There’s no response and anxiety rises in her throat. She pulls again against the restraints. ‘Is something the matter?’ she whimpers, but again no one answers. She cranes her neck and sees Nurse Jamison carrying a bundle towards the door. ‘Can I hold my baby? Please let me hold my baby?’ She pulls against the restraints, but is distracted by another hand on her belly and a softness emerging between her legs as the placenta delivers. Ah, that’s what they were waiting for. She sighs with relief. Now they’ll let me have my baby. She breathes and waits. ‘Please, someone, give me my baby.’

 

Two hours later, Nora sleeps fitfully in the dormitory, exhausted both from the birth and begging to see her child.

Nurse Jamison slips quietly into the sluice. How cold it feels. The baby lies uncovered on the cold slab. Nurse Jamison tiptoes towards her. She knows she’ll be in big trouble if anyone sees her here. She can hardly breathe with the horror of it. The baby is perfect, beautiful, but, as her thin little chest rises and falls, her abdomen sucks in. She is in respiratory distress. Tears spout from Nurse Jamison’s eyes and she puts a hand to her mouth, then reaches out to touch the baby. What can she do? Who should she tell? Is it a mistake that it is here, cold and alone? But she knows absolutely that it is not. The child has been left here to die.

‘Nurse. What are you doing there?’ Sister Cummings’s harsh voice comes from the doorway.

‘I-I thought it would be adopted,’ she stammers.

‘The children of moral defectives are likely to be defective themselves,’ Sister Cummings says coldly. ‘This is none of your business. I’ll see you in my office in fifteen minutes.’

‘But, the mother—’

‘The mother has no rights here. I will see you in my office in fifteen minutes. Now go.’

‘But—’

‘Jamison! Go and blow your nose and pull yourself together. Fifteen minutes.’ She holds the door open pointedly.

Nurse Jamison stares into Cummings’s eyes and for just a moment imagines standing up to this monster. But the chill of the cruelty she sees there kills this fantasy, just as surely as Sister Cummings is killing Nora’s baby. Nurse Jamison lowers her eyes and, ashamed, walks away. Sister Cummings follows, closing the door behind her.

Chapter Eighteen

1961
Twenty-two years

Gladys enters the day room with her usual cheery smile. ‘Are you ready?’ she says. Nora, who has been ready and waiting for the last couple of hours, smiles. She enjoys her walks with Gladys, who is kind and yet keeps her in line if necessary – like the day when Nora and Joe were chatting and she was quite impatient with them both. But in the main, she behaves rather like a benevolent grandmother. ‘Come on, then,’ says Gladys. ‘Are you going to be warm enough without your cardigan?’ Nora loves it when Gladys says things like that. It’s so long since anyone seemed to care one jot about how she is or who she is, but she knows Gladys does.

They walk together, chatting with ease about how Nora feels and about this new television programme, Coronation Street. Lost in conversation, Gladys takes them on a different route. The dog violets and wild honeysuckle are just starting to share their scent and Nora, as always, touches the flowers as they stroll along, remembering walks with her grandfather.

They come to a place where the branches are low, tenderly reaching out to each other until they almost touch. Some of the new leaves are starting to adopt a livelier spring green; the light filtering through them has a soft, golden glow. Nora pauses to take in the beauty of it, her mother’s voice in her head – Fill your memory banks . . .

But the afternoon sun glints on something in the sparse undergrowth. She shifts her gaze and sees that there are dozens of small objects in the grass. She stares, transfixed. ‘What are all those little things?’ she asks, glancing at Gladys.

Gladys’s face changes instantly. Her smile disappears and she looks distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Come away, Nora,’ Gladys says, pulling on Nora’s sleeve. ‘This isn’t a nice place to walk.’

She attempts to steer Nora away with an urgency that only serves to increase Nora’s curiosity. ‘But what are they?’ she persists. ‘There’s so many of them.’

‘They’re nothing. Now, come away or we’ll be late back.’

But Nora stubbornly hangs back. She’s not so easily put off at thirty-nine as she was at seventeen. ‘They can’t be nothing,’ she scoffs.

For the first time in all Nora’s years of knowing her, Gladys looks irritated. ‘For goodness’ sake, Nora. If you must know, they’re grave markers. This is the cemetery. It’s where people who once lived here are buried.’

‘Here in the institution?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, yes. Joe said his mother was buried here in the cemetery.’ Nora’s eyes linger a few moments longer, then wander to an area where the little markers are huddled together as though for comfort. Then, a tug on her sleeve brings her back to herself. ‘Nora, come away.’

For once, Nora disobeys, staying rooted to the spot. ‘Why are those ones over there different?’ she asks, pointing.

Gladys doesn’t meet her eye. ‘Nora. We have to go. I shouldn’t have brought you here. It’s an awful place. We’ll be late and there’ll be hell to pay.’

Though she finally walks after Gladys and away from the graves, Nora can’t help but look back at them. ‘But Gladys, why are they here?’

There’s a long pause and then, her voice heavy with reluctance, Gladys responds. ‘They’re children’s graves. Now, do as you’re told. Hurry up.’

Nora stops still, her brow puckering in confusion. ‘But there aren’t any children here.’

Gladys looks flustered, something else Nora hasn’t seen before, which only makes her even more curious. ‘Nora, we’re going right now,’ she snaps. ‘If we’re not back before the bell sounds for supper, we’ll both be for it.’ She walks on and Nora finally does as she’s bidden, allowing herself to be guided along the path. But part of her still lingers in that place with its shifting light. Suddenly, a cold shiver creeps up her spine, enveloping her neck and causing beads of cold sweat to form on her brow. She stops abruptly and is left behind until Gladys realises she’s not following.

As Gladys turns, Nora finds her voice again, tremulous and breathy. ‘Gladys, who adopted my little girl?’ she demands. She watches as Gladys blanches then blushes, avoiding Nora’s eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ she manages as she turns and walks ahead, her shoulders looking more hunched, as though her neck is trying to disappear between them. Nora watches as if from down a long tunnel, and eventually trudges in Gladys’s footsteps.

 

Sitting in the day room, questions assault Nora’s mind, tapping their impatient toes, begging answers, seeking resolution. The little metal markers have resurrected a long-forgotten memory of the time when her grandmother died. She was only six or seven at the time but, as if it were only yesterday, she can see her mother lifting the black net veil over her face to mop away the tears while her father’s hand cups her elbow in support. She pictured that evidence of his love for her mother for years afterwards, remembering it every Sunday when the family visited the grave after mass.

The speckled grey granite headstone said so much in just a few words.

 

In loving memory of Beth Anderson.

Faithful wife, beloved mother and grandmother.

6 June 1868–27 November 1927

Rest in peace in the loving arms of the Lord.

 

Her grandmother was loved and remembered. She was an early summer baby who had an early winter passing and had lived for fifty-nine years. She was faithful to her husband and had raised her children to bear their own. She was wished rest and peace now that she had completed her task, and was with Jesus, who loved her and would hold her for ever.

Nora can’t stop thinking about the difference between her grandmother’s beautiful, well-tended grave and those tiny afterthoughts in the dirt outside. Does anyone come here and cry about these people? Will anyone come and cry over her when she dies? She wonders if the amount that people cry is dependent upon how much they loved the person who died. How can Nora have cried so long and so much – and still – for the baby she never met, even though she’s alive but living somewhere else? She wonders if she’s still with her adoptive mother, or if maybe she’s a mother now in her own right. ‘I might be a grandmother,’ she whispers to herself.

But as she sees again the afternoon sun slanting through the trees and the light dancing on the grave markers, her heart clenches and her blood seems to freeze in her veins. She looks straight ahead with a strange mixture of confusion and clarity. Surely not . . . But the graveyard reels her in as if she’s been harpooned. Her heart starts to race and her hands claw at the arms of her chair. No . . . it can’t be . . .

She has to know. She glances around furtively, then stands up. Most people are watching television. She is almost at the door when Gladys’s voice surprises her, making her jump. ‘Where are you going, Nora?’

Nora turns and manages to look directly at Gladys. ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ she mutters, and turns away before Gladys can question her further. She waits for a few seconds outside the day room, gathering all her courage, then sets off as casually as she can. Out in the corridor, she ignores the left turn that would take her towards the toilets.

She keeps close to the wall, trembling but resolute, never looking back. She can hardly breathe. The back door is in sight. Quietly, she opens it and exits into the yard.

Then she breaks into a run.

The trees are silhouetted eerily against the dying sun. It’s so cold, and she realises too late that she isn’t dressed for the weather, but her body surges forward, spurred on by a will and urgency of its own. Branches clatter together as the wind gathers, making a noise like toothless, chattering old women. She presses on through the wooden gate, then hurries along the path. An owl, disturbed by her passing, screeches as it flaps out of its resting place on silent wings.

Under the trees the light is dim, and she shivers as the damp air enshrouds her. She stumbles along between silver birch and elm and willowy saplings that grab at her as she rushes past them. Then, all of a sudden, she is in the clearing, where she can see the first of the markers claimed by ivy creepers and the remains of last summer’s periwinkle and bluebells. As her eyes adjust to the falling dusk, she can see, stretching out into the distance, within the wood and beyond, hundreds of them, some in rows and some haphazardly placed, soldiers fallen in battle. She stands stock-still, her frozen hand gripping her throat, her other arm across her chest, clutching her side, as if to prevent herself from falling apart.

Something half remembered from all those years ago rushes unbidden into her mind, and her hand covers her mouth as a yelp escapes. She can see Nurse Jamison dashing from the sluice at the back of the treatment room, avoiding Nora still lying on the bed, her birth wounds being stitched. The fear and shock on the nurse’s face as she ran out, her hand half covering her tears.

Nora starts to run again. Gone is her concern about the noise she is making or who might catch her. Twigs catch in her hair, scratch at her face and tear holes in her stockings. She realises that she has lost the path, but something instinctual pulls her forward. Her foot catches in a tree root, sending her sprawling in the dirt as her hand jars against one of the markers, its little central spike puncturing her palm. Instantly she is on her feet again, unaware of the bleeding from her hand or the blood mingled with tears that streaks her face. Her chest burns as her breath comes in jagged gasps. And suddenly she is there. She stops, gulping deep breaths. It’s been years since she has run like that.

The markers are huddled together, defending the tiny corpses they guard. She falls to her knees. Could it be? Please God, not . . . She can’t even bear to finish the thought. She claws away rotting vegetation, searching, brushing her hair off her face with her sleeve; creeping forward, her knees bleeding as she frantically examines every marker, clearing them of their layers of grime.

Each bears a series of numbers.

1939 8.7.1922

1910 6.4.1918

Did these babies die in 1939 and 1910 respectively?

2038 23.9.1937

2249 11.12.1942

Or are the last numbers the date?

2197 18.6.1939

And the first a hospital number?

2361 16.1.1940

2410 19.3.1940

Hospital numbers and dates, then. Nothing to say who had lived and who had died or anything about the life that had passed between.

And then she freezes.

She stares, hardly daring to move. Her heart races and her breath comes in painful rasps. She has found a cluster of graves of babies who died in 1940. Her hands tremble as she slows down, hardly daring to look, yet knowing she would search for ever if need be. One by one, peering through the falling twilight, she examines every date and number, feeling a stab of guilt every time she passes over one, glad that it is not the one she is so desperate and terrified to find.

Her breathing ceases as she sees 1529 – her own patient number. She closes her eyes, staving off the moment of truth.

For what seems like an eternity she hangs suspended out of her body in a safe, numb place far above. She sees her body resting back on its heels, motionless, its eyes staring. Then its hand reaches out, clearing dirt from the numbers.

1529 30.4.1940

It must be some cruel joke. A nightmare? Please. Her bleeding hands trace the contours of the earth slowly, lovingly – not even a swelling, a ridge, a hint of a disturbance. She caresses it. But then she digs, forcing her nails into the hardened soil, skinning her knuckles, filling her recent wounds with filth, glorying in the pain. Mixing her blood with this earth that has contained her flesh without her knowledge for all these years.

She is not aware of her wailing, nor of the sudden commotion around her. Or the arms that lift her, dragging her away. Neither Stan’s tenderness nor Gladys’s motherly tones can reach her.

‘Come, Nora,’ Gladys coaxes. ‘It’s all right. Come.’

But nothing is all right, nor will it ever be again.

‘Poor little bugger,’ Stan mutters, his voice thick with anger and sadness.

They carry her screaming, struggling body back to Rowan, where Gladys undresses her and gently lowers her into a warm bath where, after a while, her body seems to almost melt into the warmth, limp and silent as the light fades out of her eyes. Gladys bathes Nora’s cuts, cleans her nails, washes her hair and finally wraps her in a blanket and demands a wheelchair to take her to the dormitory. Stan pushes the chair in silence, and the grim cloud of purpose emanating from both him and Gladys demands a clear way, and respect for this grieving mother.

Chapter Eighteen

Janet is devastated. Last evening Miles Little threw himself in front of a train. Again and again, she has imagined him in those minutes between him absconding from hospital and making it to the station. Those crucial minutes when his mind was made up and possibly finally at peace. Nearly over. No more shame. No more pain. It would be finished; granting his parents a peaceful retirement at last. But it’s the loneliness of it that tortures her. Before she left last night, she told all the acute patients about the situation in the presence of Dale and the other nurses, who could then support anyone in need. Extra observation was made available to anyone who themselves may be suicidal – a string of copycat attempts would not be a good thing. Today there needs to be a second round of support, since feelings will have changed overnight. Janet will have to present herself for scrutiny as well. It would happen when Dr Pauling is away for a few days – what a thing to return to.

She arrives at work and only discovers when she visits the Ladies’ before her meeting that she’s forgotten to apply her makeup. She scrutinises her face – pale and drawn with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. She sighs and splashes water on her face and pinches her cheeks. She really would prefer to see no one today.

Back in her room after the gruelling enquiry with three senior consultants, Janet closes her door, but no sooner has she sat down than one of the nurses taps upon it and opens it a crack.

‘Janet, are you OK?’

‘Not bad.’

The door opens wider. ‘These came for you.’

‘Flowers?’

The card reads:

 

Thank you for all you did for Miles. We always knew that this was inevitable, though of course we will miss our beautiful son for ever.

Albert and Annie Little

 

And once