CHAPTER ONE
TWO YEARS LATER

Kylie took off to Ward six and Mallory returned to the nurses’ station. Right now they had to familiarise themselves with the home situations, family and work histories and any other relevant information. Armed with these details they would be ready to assess, from the plethora of existing programs, those which could be of most benefit and value in follow up. They would meet again in the cafeteria for lunch and review their cases.

There were seven of them including two young men, remaining in her year and of them all, Mallory was on good terms with Kylie Beasley. She seemed willing to share their workload and assignments, without needing to go into personal details. This suited her very well and she saw no further….

Life, for Mallory, had been difficult since picking up the threads of her studies. She had only been one month late in returning to campus and fortunately, since they had not heard differently, her room had not been re-allocated to someone else. It had been close though and the Faculty had been quite severe in its reprimands. No matter, she had ridden the storm and here she was in her final year. She was doing her thirteen weeks in the Field Ed. II Module. This comprised of practical rotations in a social work agency, a compliance role in a government ministerial research department and a community or hospital mental health service. This last was where one put it all together with real clients.

When she graduated, hopefully this year, she would have her Bachelor of Social Work and Community Welfare Degree. She had not opted for the Honours program, content to be one of the troopers in the field rather than go into research. Then she would be free to return to Australia, but was not sure of returning to Cairns; there would be more choice in Sydney. Whichever way it went, she knew she would not stay in the UK. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.

There had been quite a fuss over the loss of the car. In the end the insurance had stepped in. She had never replaced it and just rode her bike. The weather was still mild for October, but when winter’s chill set in, in earnest, she could be of a different frame of mind.

Mallory’s final clinical attachment was in the mental health department of the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, on the Psych. Ward, sharing the patients with the nursing students who intended to specialise in mental health. The Psychology rotation was interesting, but Mallory thought she would still opt for the family practice specialty; providing counselling and support services to a wider range of clients. She was unsure of her ability to handle drug dependency cases and the prison inmates were some of the worst – a real challenge. She would prefer to work where burn-out was less of a risk. During these past two years she had thrown herself into her studies, a saving occupation which had helped maintain her sanity. They had kept her focused, her mind geared to the future not the past. Even after all this time however, she could not totally exclude flashes of those brief encounters. Reverberations from these experiences could impact on her as destructively as a tsunami. Sometimes it was more than mere flesh could contain. There had been times when she had wanted to pass through the glass door, to pass beyond into the relief of the numbing void and lose herself in black-death.

It was a wonder she had kept herself together as well as she had, but it was at great cost. She was a private person, almost to the point of being a recluse. She could no longer relate to other people on a social level, finding it impossible to open up to easy camaraderie. Her past was too bizarre to tell anyone. She could not make sense of it herself for that matter. She would enter a phase where she could believe it was all a bad dream. Then the fear would gnaw at her insides that it was indeed true. What she did know for sure, were the tormenting night visions of a raven beauty, with flashing green eyes and a beguiling laugh to die for. She would awake and lament her loss.

The Lady Nigella must have died in that accident, but she would never know. The tyranny of time not distance slotted the event into what would be classified as a ‘cold case’. She had toyed with the possibility of following up leads, of making contact. So many times she had returned to Guilfoyle Park in her reveries, wondering what had happened to the Patchford family, especially Lady Glencora. When they found Nigella’s body for sure she must have realised her worst fears. Whoever it was who had been out to get her dearly beloved daughter had finally succeeded. She would never think it was she who had been the agent, responsible for her loss.

Would they have gone through with Lady Ramona’s engagement? There should have been the celebrations for Lady Nigella’s birthday soon after that. Oh, what a heavy heart she had. How she wished she could take back that foolish dash into that calamitous night … and what of the Guilfoyle retainers and servants? Little Miss Beevis, Fiona? Could she still be alive? Impossible! Too many years had passed for one allotted span; not to mention two world wars.

No – she had to move on. Now she was leading another life, forsaken again. Who could believe her? She had nobody with whom to share her experiences. On her ‘return’ she had contacted her parents. Their surprise at the call was soon overwhelmed by their pleasure on hearing her voice and knowing that everything was good. For herself, it was all she could do to stem the tears. She had wanted to blurt out everything, but common sense had prevailed. How could they possibly understand? In the end she had revelled in their news. Gavin had found a serious girl-friend. He had called them just last week, to see if it would be all right for him to bring her to visit this Christmas.

Now she was in another existence, but she would get through this. She must give it time. Just let her new life work its healing magic. She held onto words she had read somewhere, a quote that sustained her: ‘In my end I find my beginning’.

The plate glass doors slid aside at her approach and as she passed through she saw Kylie in the line up, her tray already laden with a steaming, hot lunch. Mallory waved and she pointed across to an empty table. She nodded. Her lunch consisted of salad and a tub of yoghurt. She was comfortable with her access to normal food, but she had never gone back to Coke. These days she chose apple juice.

Kylie waited for Mallory to join her before she started eating. She eyed the tray opposite, but refrained from comment. Whereas before her friend had been so robust, so athletic, now she epitomised the phrase ‘shadow of her former self’. Not to the point of anorexia, Kylie assessed, but if she were not careful she could come close to it … and she did worry.

Mallory wore her hair tied back now. She had liked it when it was short and more wayward, but Mallory said she had no time for a hairdresser. Like this it was out of the way. She really admired Mallory, in fact she liked her a lot and that was why she was careful not to do anything that would push her away. She had to be watchful, not too forward, which was not really her nature. What she hoped was that one day Mal would let her in, but she was so quick to clam up over anything personal. She envied the dedication she gave to her studies and the thoroughness she brought to her work. She found all this highly laudable, but she did wish she would take some time off. Lighten up and they could have some fun.

When trying to decide what to do with her life, Kylie knew she wanted to ‘make a difference’. “Not just make money; you know, help people.” She had come this far, but was not convinced this was it. She had been forced to see the seamier side of life, unable to sidestep some of the more serious hardship cases; not so sure she liked dealing with them, even if she could help, but often she felt she could not. Still, she would see this through to the end. At least a degree could give her entré to other fields of endeavour.

“How did it go?” They were just finishing their drinks.

“Good. My guy will do well with home care. We just need to see if we can source sufficient funds. It will be a case of slotting him into the right category, yours?” Mallory asked then looked at her watch. “Ky, we’ve got to move it. Grand Rounds starts in ten and we have to get over to E Block. Stubbo will give us a drubbing if we’re late.” She piled their plates and Kylie went for the lift.

They made it – just. Dr. Stubbs was preparing to move off, his usual entourage of eager medicos, nurses and hangers on like herself, in tow. They all wore white lab coats, but the medical students set themselves apart with a stethoscope draped round their neck, or sticking out of the coat pocket.

Stubbo knew his stuff all right, but Mallory thought his rapport with the patients was on the ‘tubular’ side. He was the senior consultant registrar and clinical lecturer in residence at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Psychiatric Practice. Being a professor could distance you from the real world, she supposed. Pity the poor patients when this mob turns up to gawk, she sympathised. At least they’re saved the poking and prodding that goes on at medical and surgical rounds.

They had been moving steadily from room to room and bed to bed and shortly Grand Rounds would be finished for the day. Staff Nurse was reviewing this last patient, a young woman – referring to her chart – transferred from the chronic care facility. She had recently emerged from an amnesic state and begun to verbalise, but was not comprehensible. The referring doctor had requested a second opinion, a more in depth neurological psychiatric assessment. Several options were open to this patient: Hydro-bath immersion, albeit an old therapy, but in this case one that could yield positive results, the more drastic emergency procedure of ECT and finally, the more modern, but less tried, mild direct current stimulation of the brain. This latter, although less intrusive, had sometimes resulted in short term memory loss which could constitute a contra-indication. What had produced so much excitement over this particular patient had been the discovery that when someone had placed a pen in her hand, in the hope that although verbally inadequate, the stimulus could result in her writing down her thoughts. It had been known before … and she did. They had not made sense, but just the act of writing had been indicative of a positive progression. Dr. Stubbs was looking over the clinical notes, nodding as he turned the pages of a slim folder: two years in an intermittent, insentient state; lucid for short periods followed by total withdrawal. He turned to his students, seeking suggestions as to possible causes and prognosis.

Mallory’s attention drifted from the sounds around her and concentrated on the young woman. She sat immobile in the big recliner, her feet in blue crocheted socks, propped up on the extended foot rest. She was dressed in a white, terry towelling robe over a pale blue, hospital gown like all the others. However, her attention was caught by the dishevelled, blue-black hair, cut very short sticking out all over the place and the almond eyes staring vacantly toward the window. She felt a chilling familiarity about the features: wide cheek bones, gaunt and prominent; lack lustre eyes and full red lips above a small, pointed chin. This woman was no girl, for sure, but the ravages of illness could have resulted in this haggard, drawn appearance.

But she’s so like to the teenager I knew!

Shocked to her core, she stood rooted to the spot as the knife’s edge on which she had been teetering these past two years, turned inward. Mercilessly, it incised deep through her protective layers to expose that dreaded suspicion which had tormented and haunted her. She needed to move closer; ask her name, make sure, but she could not do so here. Was it possible?

The scene materialized before her eyes as clear as flashing headlights in the black of night. Could Nigella have survived that crash? Had she not seen her, herself, flying through the air, heard the thud of impact? No, it was not possible she could suffer all that and live … and yet … and yet…. Again she scrutinised, trying to read the signs. Could it be?

The woman did not register their presence, did not speak; only continued to gaze out the window. When Mallory had seen her eyes follow the flight of a blackbird, her ears alerted by its carolling notes, it was then she had seen how arresting was their colour and appreciated the intense shade of green. In that moment she determined to find out more about this mysterious young woman.

Rounds completed everyone scattered, but she went back to the nurses’ station. There was little on the chart, the patient being so newly admitted. She would have to go to her previous location in the chronic care home. The chart recorded an address on the Bourneville Estate. She guessed it would be one of those old residences around which the workers’ houses had been erected.

It was not until after four o’clock that she was freed up to get away to Lychette St. Agnes House. She rode her bicycle over to the Estate, sweeping through the curving roads and up not a few dead ends. Bourneville was one of the ‘garden cities’ Mr. Pogue had described to her that night, at dinner. It was a genteel suburb, quiet and leafy. What had been the name he’d said: Brodsworth Main? Now she appreciated the historical significance of Bourneville. It was of low density compared with the industrial villages, where every street consisted of the same row of parallel, red-brick, two–up and two-down houses. They had no internal bath as he had envisaged, just a yard out back containing the stand pipes for water and where the outside earth lavatories were located. Houghton’s concept had been bold and inventive for his time. At the desk Mallory made sure her I.D. was prominently displayed on her lanyard. They did not know her here and could refuse entry. To be blocked at this stage, what an intolerable thought. Now she had embarked on the project – quest, she felt as one driven.

As it happened, there was no problem. When she explained what she was after, she was not the first student needing to pursue more information. So long as she did not take the case file from the nurses’ station she could stay as long as she liked. The ward secretary went down to search the archives. Unfortunately, there was not much to be gleaned. The referring physician estimated the new patient to be in her early twenties: previous good health, strong teeth and healthy gums, straight bones and therefore well-nourished. Mm…m, what else? Found not far from Earlswood Lakes on one of the remote tracks not much used these days, by a boy riding his bike on a short-cut between home and school. He had reported his find to the Principal who had then taken over. They had not moved her, but called for an ambulance which had transported her to the Emergency Department of the Birmingham General. She was skipping more of these details when her eye was caught by the Ambo’s description of the woman at the scene. She had been wearing some kind of fancy dress. Oh, my God! An old fashioned blouse and long skirt: feet encased in button boots, could not have been there above a few hours. Quickly she read on. A severe gash on the victim’s head had bled profusely, matting the hair which had also stemmed the flow: several facial lacerations, fortunately quite superficial. Speed had been imperative and the paramedics had prepped her for an immediate repair of a skull fracture.

No documentation had been found with the patient. The staff decided to call her Faith. It had been a miracle that after whatever accident had befallen her, she had not been so badly injured that later she died; or had been outright killed at the scene.

Following the procedural examination:- No attempts at murder. No evidence of sexual assault. The woman was a virgin. Already she was forming her own opinions on this case, but the age was not right, she was too old. Well, it was getting late and she had much to do. There was little more this file could tell her, so she thanked the night nurse who had come on duty whilst she had been so totally engrossed and headed for the university reference library.

Since her return, Mallory had staked out a corner for herself by the medical stacks and often would spend another two or three hours at the books. Now she googled for references on amnesia, which led her to two dense tomes, both containing fairly hefty chapters on brain trauma and its various consequences. Time sped by as she absorbed what she could from the reported case histories, medical experiments and specialists’ reports. When the words on the page began to jumble and her writing slithered away, it was time to quit.

Back at the residence she heated a packet of noodles and took the bowl, with a banana, to her room. At the coffee table, which did service for many functions, she looked over her notes again. Her heart raced as it had not done in a long time. She took herself back to that weird episode in her life – her life as a man which, after so long she had begun to believe was all in her head. She had attempted to block out these thoughts, had avoided the term ‘memories’, and now here she was, trying to retrieve them. Searching for dates, she realised she had previously ignored this information, but she needed to know the exact day and year of their discovery. The time line would make or break. She grimaced at the impact of this significance.

* * *

Mallory had to wait until the week-end to allocate time for her personal pursuits. First she returned to Lychette St. Agnes, explaining to another supervisor that she had been there earlier. The waiting stretched out. It looked like this next hurdle was going to be too high. Stonewalled so soon! After verification she was allowed to continue. Relief flowed liberally as she let out her breath and moved on.

Today turned out to be positive all the way. The month and day put Faith in the right place at the right time. Just those two facts raised her spirits. Hold on … don’t get carried away Blockhead, one step at a time. There’s still her age.

Saturday was a better day to return to the QEH. The routines were less pressured with the teaching side of things on hold. She wanted some uninterrupted time with Faith’s new chart and was able to sequester herself in the Residents’ study room from where, one hour later, she emerged with a fairly detailed construct of how this woman’s life had unfolded over the past two years. It was not a pretty story.

i.   Inflammation between the Dura Mater and Arachnoid Mater has resulted in excessive pressure on sensitive brain tissue. Until this subsides, the patient will be subject to sudden and violent episodes.

ii.  Recommended experimentation with different drugs to control irrational outbursts.

iii.  Over the two years, there has been a steady progression towards deep melancholia, interspersed with transient, episodic bouts of delusional behaviour.

iv.  There has been no way of assessing the degree of internal scarring that could have taken place.

v.   Final result:- Total withdrawal of all activity.

“Until now,” Mallory exclaimed. It appeared Faith was living a closed life, lost inside herself. Decreasing interaction with people had resulted in an escalating alienation, followed by a progressive detachment from reality. She was no longer violent, but this degree of passivity had gone to the other extreme. She needed more detail on the patient’s so called delusions. The consulting psychiatrist would have this information in his own clinical notes. It would be tricky.

She was sitting in the cafeteria with a coffee, trying to work out a plan. It was quiet, between meal-times and although there were some post-grads she knew she did not go over, just waved. She needed to think.

How could she access private reports? Perhaps go through her own department, if she explained she had to conduct a feasibility assessment or a ‘follow up’ with mental health services. No, that would not work. There would be a check with the Department and they would discover there had been no such request.

Wait! She sat back. There was already a legitimate case. Desmond was on her list and he and Faith had the same specialist. At his Rooms, engaged in researching Desmond’s background, could she casually ask for Faith’s file? Worth a try. If she could not pull it off, she would just have to think of some other strategy. One way or another she had to get to the root of it all. It was beginning to feel like her whole future depended on the outcome of this scheme. Was she becoming compulsive? She did know she was beginning to feel like her old self, before – before – before what? Don’t go there Mal. You’ve got more urgent matters. Anyway, it was the weekend so no good trying for more today, but Monday she would ’phone Doctor Jamieson’s receptionist and set it up.

She finished off her coffee and thought about what else she had to do. There was the seminar in her third module coming up next week: Social Work in a Global Environment. She had better move on to what she was supposed to be studying. If there was one thing she hated, it was not being sufficiently prepared. Checking the big clock she saw it was still early and on the spur of the moment, changed her mind and decided there was time to pop into the gym. The trainers were pleased to see her and asked where she had been hiding. Her replies were non-committal and eventually they dispersed. She went through a warm up on the bike feeling exhilarated. Enthusiasm was back in her life. She had taken the first, tentative steps on the winding path of hope. It felt good.

The weight had dropped off considerably since being in regular attendance, but her conviction was positive, it would not take long to regain her former fitness. All she needed was to apply herself reasonably diligently, on a consistent basis. She had done it before, she could do it again. For the first time in a long time she felt ‘body-alive’ and fired with genuine commitment. Moving round the circuit, she re-acquainted herself with the Bench Press: Lat. Pull: the Pec. Deck: and some of her other old friends. By the end she was ready to get back to the pressing assignments.

* * *

Bettina, Dr. Jamieson’s receptionist saw no problem with Mallory’s request. She worked ’til six o’clock. Surgery finished at four on Mondays, so any time in there was fine. Kylie had hoped they could get together that afternoon and was crestfallen. She had to be content with tomorrow. Mallory promised.

Obtaining Faith’s file was easy. She slipped it inside Desmond’s folder, then sat in full view of Bettina’s desk and quickly began to flip the pages. Her note pad filled rapidly and soon she had everything she needed. Elated, she dutifully returned the files with appreciative thanks.

That evening, supper out of the way, she sorted the information she had gathered and was preparing to see how the pieces would fit when there was a light tap at her door. Opening it she saw Kylie on the threshold a case of stubbies in one hand, briefcase in the other. She held up the beers: “Thought we could mix business with pleasure,” and smiled as she entered. Not pleased, Mallory put on a good face as she gathered up her private notes before Kylie could become curious. “OK Ky, you didn’t want to wait ’til tomorrow? Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem.” She sat herself down on the floor and proceeded to pop the tops. “I felt like company and since we’ve got to get Mrs. Thompson done up and out of the way, I thought we could do it together.” She looked up brightly as she handed the bottle across the table. Mallory accepted it, resigned to putting her own interests on hold and prepared to get stuck in.

“In a moment Mal, let’s get a bit lubricated first,” Kylie insisted. She looked conspiratorial. “A little bird told me you were back at the gym Saturday. That makes a change from the library, eh?”

Mallory laughed as she began searching through her stuff for Mrs. Thompson’s particulars. “Bloody Nora, news travels fast around here. Who was it?” She sat on the couch and picked up the Services Manual for the West Midlands Region.

“No matter, it’s true then?” She cocked an eyebrow. “What brought this on?”

“Nothing special, it was about time I guess.” She began to check the index.

“Wait Mal,” she stretched out her hand: “Have you met someone?” She looked hard into the other woman’s eyes and Mallory discerned the intensity behind the scrutiny.

Crikey! What is this?

She laughed again in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come on Kylie, there doesn’t have to be another person just because I go back to something. Anyway, where do I go where I’d meet anybody? Everyone I see is already busy studying, just like us.” She chuckled. “Well, like me anyway,” she amended. “I don’t know how you fit in all those parties, you hoping to meet a nice doctor?” She tipped her hand.

Kylie watched the exposed neck muscles as the liquid was swallowed: When Mal gets her physique back … she’ll be irresistible. “No. All work and no play … you know about Jane?”

“Well, I think it’s time we got started. I don’t like late nights even if you do.”

She let it go and they worked on Mrs. Thompson until they were satisfied they could do no more for her. Nonetheless, their supervising liaison officer could probably come up with something they had overlooked. When Kylie left it was too late for Mallory to take on anything else, especially as she had determined to go to the gym before her workday started. She felt this would be the best way to maintain a routine.

* * *

The week she put in flew with hardly any time left over, but before Grand Rounds on Friday, she had been able to positively collate her data on Faith. Deep inside she felt a well-spring of conviction that Faith would turn out to be Nigella. Everything seemed to be coming together. They had only estimated her age, but all she needed was some personal contact for proof conclusive. She could not claim to be a relative, so what to do?

Waiting for Dr. Stubbs with eager anticipation, she observed everyone’s arrival, laughing and chatting; some were complaining, but she was impatient to get on.

“We missed you at lunch,” Kylie admitted.

“I wanted to check a patient’s file before we got started.”

There were some new admissions since last week so Rounds took even longer. Dr. Stubbs fired off his usual barrage of questions and it seemed the usual students responded. This week his theme was addressing the moral issues involved in the practice of Psychiatry: the four main principles which should concern the therapist, whatever his respective discipline. After a rather protracted question period, he finally got what he wanted.

1. Respect Autonomy – the brain state could result in incapacity.

2. Beneficence – do good.

3. Non-beneficence – do no harm.

4. Justice – the virtuous position of the practitioner.

This last proved to be more knotty than at first appeared and the topic of virtuous ethics stumbled to a halt. The professor declared they would return to this discussion at a later date.

When they reached Faith’s bedside it was not possible to detect any change, she was just as lethargic as before. Again Dr. Stubbs requested suggestions. He was not in favour of shock therapy. They went through her drug program. Obviously this was having minimal impact. Mallory thought back to their analysis of Autonomy and Justice and saw her chance.

“Dr. Stubbs, may I make a suggestion?”

All eyes turned to this tall, slim woman in the rear and Dr. Stubbs nodded his approval.

“I was thinking along the lines of possibly CBT. If we could find some form of occupation or entertaining diversion, perhaps her mind could be stimulated to interact? This could provide her with a means of involvement and in turn accommodate the need to show respect.”

Staff Nurse checked her board and reported that the occupational therapist had been in, but no activity had prompted a response.

Dr. Stubbs looked back at Mallory enquiringly, “Miss …?”

“Mason Sir,” Mallory supplied.

“Yes Miss Mason. Have you any specific ideas?” His thing was the appropriate application of pharmacology, not cognitive behaviour therapy which may never evolve from the level of airy-fairy nonsense. However, this brought into question the ethics of prescription which must be observed.

“Perhaps some form of art therapy? I have read it can be a powerful tool in helping to uncover the workings of a disturbed mind.” She stopped and now everyone turned to look at the Prof. His response was measured.

“There have been numerous studies into the efficacy of self-expression through art, as a disturbed diagnostic accessory: A conduit of emotional expression from the head to the brush. It can be a liberating experience for the patient, releasing them from the constraints of rationality. It has been used as an aid to understanding what the patient finds difficult to express.” Dr. Stubbs looked around, having delivered himself of these pedagogic principles and appreciated the agreement of the nodding heads.

Quickly, Mallory interjected that she would be interested in taking on this case. “It could provide me with a clinical aspect to my thesis,” she explained: “‘Art as a persuasive agent in opening up a dialogue in the non-verbal situation’. I’m interested in observing if there could be acceptable outcomes from this trial.” Again everyone regarded her curiously, but said nothing.

“I too, would be interested to see if there would be any merit in this form of visionary lens. Set it up Miss Mason and report your results to me. I expect nothing less than full academic rigour to this trial. Shall we allow, say … three weeks?” Although he regarded her critically, it was with a new interest. Mm…m not just a follower!

Grand Rounds completed, the fourth year Social Sciences students returned to the pokey room assigned to their use in the welfare agency section of the hospital. The space was cramped with all of them, but usually it was only one or two at a time. Jason wanted to know what Mallory was up to: “Where did this ‘art therapy’ bizzo come from Mal? You never mentioned it before.”

Why do they have to be such sticky beaks? Jackass!

“You know our Mal, always going off on her tangents,” Kylie supplied. She too was intrigued, but she wanted to get Mallory on her own. In front of everyone she would only make up some story.

“I have many interests Jason that you don’t know about.” Mallory’s response was terse and impatient: “And Kylie, get back in your box. You don’t know me.” This was delivered through gritted teeth, a veiled, obscure light glimmering in the cold, blue eyes that turned fiercely on the unsuspecting young woman. She nailed her with a penetrating stare. “You know nothing about me.” With this last shot she collected her backpack of books and made for the door, leaving a circle of astounded and bemused stares in her wake. They looked wordlessly at each other as the door slammed.

Why can’t they mind their own business? On reflection, perhaps she had been too unsparing, but now she had a plan and only weeks to show results. She had no time for their probing curiosity. The Occupational Therapy Department was located on the ground floor to provide easy access to out-patients. Cynthia Lewis was the supervising therapist, an amazingly tall, thin woman of mature years. No lab coats here – multi coloured shirts matched with a plain grey skirt gave just the right impression of friendly efficiency. Having listened to her request Mrs. Lewis saw no impediments to the proposal.

“We have a corner in the crafts’ room. Patients have access to pots of bright poster paints; large boards for spray-can expression and of course oil paints for those who are more vivacious.”

“Thank you Mrs. Lewis. I’ll set up a time with the ward staff and bring the patient down myself and let you know when we’ll begin.”

“That’s good. There should be no problem with availability of materials. We don’t have much demand on our supplies at the moment.”

“Oh, as to materials, the paints will have to be water colours,” Mallory hastened to clarify: “And possibly charcoal for sketching.”

“Water colours, we don’t use them for therapy or craft.” Mrs. Lewis shook her head. “That technique’s no longer popular,” she declared, wondering if this smart young student was really as smart as she looked. “We may have some charcoal sticks lying around though.”

“They have to be water colours Mrs. Lewis or the medium won’t work.” She was adamant.

“In that case you’ll have to supply the materials yourself.” The supervisor looked dubiously over the top of her glasses.

“No worries. I’ll get everything together and set up a time as soon as I can.” Mallory knew exactly what she wanted and was determined to find it. “Thank you again Mrs. Lewis. I’ll see you next week.”

Although her student’s stipend was not large, during the past two years she had not indulged herself and still had funds in the bank. She would afford whatever was needed. She tried the artist supply shops, but there was nothing. Next it was the second-hand outlets, but still no success. Saturday afternoon she began to comb the antique stores not far from the jewellery precinct, on the northern side of the city. Two hours later and almost resigned to giving up, she was explaining once again what she was after and not expecting any help. Surprisingly, the elderly gentleman who was about to close up directed her to a ‘collectables’ shop, down the road. He thought old Arthur might have what she wanted. Arthur did indeed. He had to wade across, through and under a mountain of bric-a-brac, but buried deep beneath the most unlikely assortment of what Mallory classified as junk, he found it; a rectangular, wooden box, very worn, but obviously of good quality. She reckoned with a little French polish, some Linseed oil and enough elbow grease, she could bring it back to its previous life. Opened up, inside were spaces for two glass pots for clean and dirty water: pots missing. There was the tray for the various bristle brushes, also gone. What pleased her most were the paints themselves, dried-out cakes, but not too much used. The closed lid must have maintained an airtight seal. Careful re-hydration should bring back the re-colouration. From her diligent searches, she knew which artist suppliers had what she required in the way of brushes and paper. Fish paste pots, when cleaned up, would be just the right size for the water. Tomorrow she would buy the easel and folding stool. Everything must be just like before. Hurrying back to the bus stop with her purchase tucked under her arm she repeated to herself, over and over like a mantra: “Please let this work. Oh please, let it be right.”

* * *

Nurse Tracy Scott was rostered on D Ward today and had read the entry on Faith’s chart suggesting art therapy. When Mallory approached her, she too, was enthusiastic. The only time Mallory could squeeze in had been four o’clock Wednesday, immediately after her tutorial when nothing else was scheduled. It would not be off to the library this week.

She brought a wheelchair to Faith’s bedside. She could stand and walk with help, but was still shaky. She parked herself on the edge of the recliner, next to the bed and proceeded to explain what was going on. Sunlight filtered through the thin net curtains which fluttered at the small window, filling the room with a hazy glow and just enough light. Here was her first chance, really to look hard at Faith, up close. There was no denying the face was careworn, definitely older. She could see signs of the youthful Nigella; if the hair was allowed to grow back, if colour returned to the cheeks. Her heartbeat quickened with possibilities. Could this woman really be her?

There was no response to her words, not even an acknowledgment that she had heard a voice, but she kept up the patter while she made the transfer to the wheelchair. Out in the corridor she lapsed into silence until they entered the craft room where others were busily engaged in their various activities. Sheena was the therapist on duty, she had helped Mallory set everything up, fascinated by what was being attempted.

“Hi,” she greeted then turned to the woman: “Hello, you must be Faith.” She walked over with them to their corner and helped transfer her to the stool. It had been placed in front of the easel which supported a large board against which lay a sheet of artist’s paper. The box was placed on a side table just the right height for the stool. Mallory was relieved to see her back held up without difficulty and she had no problem with balance. She had especially wanted the woman to feel the stool beneath her and not the softness of constant padding. The next step was the tricky one. How would she get her started? She could not paint herself, so it would be no good to have her watch; she must ‘do’. Well, she could begin by getting the bits and pieces together as if she were going to paint and just let her observe the process.

At first Faith’s eyes stared to the middle distance, but her attention was eventually caught and held by what was happening. Her eyes began to follow the movement of the busy hands; she had not been interested in the fetch and carry part. The dipping of the brush in the water, the swish in the colour; the sweep across the page, these were triggers. She stopped after an initial, light grey wash, as if not knowing what to do next then spoke, as if musing to herself and turned to the woman to ask if she could help. Faith made no move, but she did focus on the artist. She looked at the easel and the paints. It seemed there was some understanding.

“Well, perhaps this is enough for today,” Mallory declared. “Shall we do this again another time?” She did not want to use the name the staff had given her and so far had been able to avoid it. When the time was right and she was reasonably sure this woman was whom she suspected, then she would use her diminutive. Faith gave no indication one way or the other.

They left everything as it was and returned to the ward. Mallory checked with Nurse Scott regarding Faith’s availability and it seemed so long as she was not away when the doctor was due she was free, any time. This was good. It had become obvious these should be daily sessions if possible. Mallory’s schedule was tight and they would not let her neglect her other cases, nor did she want to. Before, she had been trying to fill her day, leaving nothing spare, now there were not enough hours. She retraced her steps to pack up the gear and have a word with Mrs. Lewis. It was so important to clear everything first. She knew people in a position of authority did not appreciate surprises.

At Grand Rounds on Friday when they reached Faith’s bed, Dr. Stubbs inquired if Miss Mason had made a start.

“Only one session Sir, but I do expect to access time on the weekend.” She hoped she sounded sufficiently confident that he would feel the matter to be well in hand. They moved on and once finished Mallory did not follow the others back to the department, but collected Faith and took her down to Crafts. She went through the motions again this time pinning a small water colour print to the corner of the board – a view of an open field with a hedge and broken-down, five-barred gate. In the middle distance, disappearing into a hollow was an old farm house, a curl of smoke rising to grey, cloudy skies from its stocky chimney. She handed her the brush. She held it diffidently, testing its feel between her fingers. It almost dropped, but her reflexes cut in and she saved it. Mallory was pleased with this reaction, giving her more cause for optimism. She asked what tint she would like to add and directed her to the palette of colours. Her excitement was intense when Faith made a selection for herself, first dipping the brush in the pot, then choosing the light green. She brushed it across the page with tentative strokes. It was not long before they became more confident. Mallory sat back and let the woman become absorbed in her task. She had feared that once she had the brush in her hand, it could set in motion some sort of manic behaviour, the action releasing pent up emotions in the form of jerky, staccato jabs, or wild sweeps of blotchy paint. She did none of this, only sitting quietly concentrating, checking with the print from time to time. It was a peaceful interlude, reminiscent for Mallory, of that day in the country so long ago. Would it provoke such memories for this woman? Forbearance Mal, you do have two more weeks.

Best of all would be a real scene outdoors. Will they let me take her out? Probably not! This could be considered too risky, putting in jeopardy the patient’s safety. Now was a perfect recess however, allowing her time to observe, without causing alarm and the more she saw, the more she recognised small, familiar gestures: how she drew her brows together when she was concentrating, how she licked the tip of the brush as she moved on to finer work. She began to tire however, so Mallory suggested it would be nice if they could continue the painting tomorrow. Faith looked at her, but said nothing.

“Shall we do this again after lunch?” This time she nodded.

“Would you like me to bring you some slices of fresh baked bread and some nice, crumbly Stilton, all white and fluffy?” This brought a smile to her lips. Yes, Mallory knew what hospital lunches could be like. “I’ll try to find some Cox’s Orange Pippins for after.” She would get up early and go to the markets. With a bit of luck someone might have one of the old-style apples.

She was right, Matron drew the line at an outdoor excursion, but in its place she obtained approval for music appreciation. She would be permitted to bring in a portable CD player. She wanted this to be a quiet evening session with dim lights and they could sit without interruption. It would mean another weekend given up to searching for the right music, but she did not mind. These days she felt so good. Sleep was no longer drug-induced. She could fall into bed tired in mind and body without haunting visions resurrected before her eyes, to leave her sweating and shaking. No, she was happy in her pursuit.

As for lunch, what she brought into the hospital could not constitute a main meal, but treats were allowed. They did acknowledge that Faith needed her appetite stimulated and anything that could do that would be looked upon favourably.

“You know Mallory you’re the first person to resemble any form of visitor for Faith.” She was back on D Ward talking to Tracy as she completed her paper work.

“Really?” she thought she should act surprised.

“Yes. The notes from Lychette’s make no mention of relatives or friends. Poor thing, it seems she has no-one of her own.”

“Yes. I think she is all alone in this world,” she agreed sadly.

“Well, good for her that you’ve taken an interest. I’ve noticed just this last day or two that she looks up when we enter her room. That’s something isn’t it? After being passive for so long … although I believe her violent outbursts in the beginning needed two, sometimes three people to restrain her.” Tracy reflected for a moment: “I guess she wasn’t so frail in those days.”

“Probably, if she had felt her integrity violated, then it was no wonder she showed signs of hostility. Custodial care without compassion can so easily lead to feelings of paranoia.” Whether this woman was Nigella or not, Mallory did not like the thought of anyone undergoing compulsory treatment. She grimaced inwardly; what a contradiction in terms. “We don’t know her reasons, but none of us likes to be deemed incapable of making decisions for ourselves and unfortunately, this is especially the lot of those diagnosed as mentally ill.”

“So true,” Tracy agreed. “We must always try to remember to recognise the patient’s agency.”

There was something else Mallory would like to move onto: Physical Fitness. Sitting in the recliner all day did nothing for her muscles and bones. It certainly would not help preserve her balance and co-ordination. She needs so much!

Saturday’s lunch went down very well. Faith left the ham with soggy lettuce wrapped in its plastic and really enjoyed the fresh, crusty slices of Italian bread and the cheese. Mallory had found a mild Roquefort which Faith also appreciated. She had lucked out on the apples, just too long ago, but had found some perfectly ripe, large Bartlett pears with yellow, juicy flesh. While she ate she thought too, how much better this was than the hospital cafeteria. She resolved to have a word with the nutritionist. If she explained Faith really preferred fresh to processed foods, they could have better success.

Since they were not allowed to go outside, Mallory had brought the outside in, in the form of an arrangement of pale, orange and white Marguerite daisies. She had cut sprigs of Cedar from the hedge surrounding the residence, to provide greenery and had found the vase in the ward’s storeroom. It was a glazed, black pot, its curves catching the light which brought out its shape. The flowers made for an attractive, balanced setting in front of a draped, hospital towel. Pale blue was not ideal, but was the only colour she could find to avoid a white backdrop on white paper.

Faith’s eyes lit up when she saw the still-life and immediately she took up the charcoal stick and began to sketch. Again Mallory sat quietly observing. She thought Faith did not want to paint today, but after sketching for a while, she made to reach for the wooden box. Mallory got up and then realised the woman also wanted to stand. She helped her up and she walked with her assistance to a different vantage point from which to view the arrangement. She wanted to paint the flowers, but from the side where the light slanted across, accentuating the shadows. Finally she spoke. “I think here would be right.”

Mallory was not sure she had heard, hardly daring to believe her ears.

“Did you say you wanted the easel over here?” She pointed to the spot then thought to add: “my Lady.”

“Yes thank you.” Faith nodded her approval. Mallory was confident at this stage to let go of her briefly, to fetch the things. Faith sat on the stool, then proceeded to busy herself with the sketching pencil. Mallory went to fill the pots with water and on her return the first quick strokes to place the items had been completed. Then it was straight to the colours. She blended and mixed the pigments achieving a persuasive depth to the petals and foliage. The vase stood out, solid and shiny. Mallory was amazed at the talent thus revealed. She was also amazed by the turn of events, leaving her mind in a whirl. Not many words had been spoken, but she knew that voice. There was no mistaking the strained, somewhat drawn-out vowels of the English aristocracy, exactly typical of the period. Today there was more moderation, but not so in this young woman. Again, she had accepted the title as her due, not the least surprised. The clincher – she was behaving just as Nigella would.

Mallory could not contain her grin. She wanted to shout, jump up; do a jig, anything to release her joy. She continued to sit quietly, just smiling and nodding and smiling again. To think after all this time, she had Nigella back. They had both been so alone in the world, now they had each other. Once more she looked across and her face blossomed into a radiant smile. Nigella! She would get her fit; nurse her back to robust health and make her life complete. This would be her mission.

In contemplative mood, she surveyed her charge as she painted, absorbed in this new task. Instead of the towel backdrop she was choosing to paint a vague, cloud-like setting in soft blues and greys – so imaginative. Gazing on intrigued, she let her mind explore all the possibilities that lay ahead. All the things they could share. They would be together at last, just as they had planned on that madcap, reckless night.

Abruptly a dark, ominous thought insinuated itself. This was the twenty-first century. Everything in it would be alien to Nigella. The shock of this realisation, on top of everything else – how would she cope? How would she deal with the knowledge that all her family, everyone she cherished, was dead? Learning that the whole world she had grown up in was gone?

It had been hard for her and even now she experienced unsettling echoes. She was a stronger person, more mature; had not suffered two years of institutionalisation. That in itself was enough to rob anyone of their coping strategies. But she would have to learn the truth. She could not protect her from the real world. Anyway, should she be shielded? No wall would be high enough. As a person in her own right was she not entitled to that respect for her autonomy and ‘personhood’ Professor Stubbs had lectured them on? Happy revelation – unhappy repercussions! How would she handle all this?

After about twenty more minutes, the basic painting was complete and Nigella was beginning to fade. Mallory thought she would risk it again and asked, keeping her voice slightly deferential: “Would my Lady be ready to return to her room?”

“Yes, thank you Baldwin, I think I’ve done enough for today.”

No more words were spoken, but when she was handed over to a nursing assistant, she actually looked up and smiled. Mallory’s elation escalated and soared. She left the ward winging her way into town, bent on a new quest: Music. Her emergent worries would have to go on hold. For now she must try to regain the past. She resolved to weave together from the tatters of Nigella’s fragmented memories, a reinvigorated self-awareness. There would be time enough in the future, when she had returned to normal, to introduce the present.

She considered Chapman’s would have the biggest choice of Classics. Again, just as with the art supplies, it was imperative to find the right composers. They had to be immediately recognisable; ones to which Nigella would readily respond. She wanted to provoke significant memories that would act as precepts to initiate more words and if possible, unfold broader, verbal exchanges. Am I asking too much too soon?

At the moment, she thought of her as the butler. Would it be best to let her continue under this misapprehension? It was a positive connection with her former life and as such, should be fostered. But this was just the beginning of their journey of re-discovery – what of later? She would definitely want her to know her for herself. Would this come as another shock? Her brain could not turn off and she was making herself sick. It was no good there were no answers for her yet. When she got off the bus and walked the short distance to the music outlet it was to discover she was too late, their doors were shut. Oh well, tomorrow is good.

Soon after her return to the residence, Kylie dropped by. Her timing was so quick Mallory wondered if she had been lying in wait. She invited her in expecting a short visit.

“Have you plans for tonight Mal?”

“Have to admit … haven’t thought that far.” She did not want to discuss her plans, any plans, with Kylie.

“We’ve not seen much of you this week. You always seem to be shooting through…” Her voice had an edge of petulance: “… and it’s not to the library ’cos I’ve looked.” She gave an arch smile knowing how incredible it sounded, for her to have placed her body in such an establishment.

“Really, and what were you doing there?” She was not ready to let her off the hook.

“I have the right to go there as much as you, Miss Clever Pants.” She laughed it off and perched herself on the edge of the coffee table, watching closely. “Well, where have you been?” Now she looked serious, wanting an answer. As Mallory plugged in the kettle she supposed she should give her something. There was no need to be a sullen dag, especially after her previous outburst.

“I’ve been working on that case I said I would look into for Stubbo. Since it’s in addition to my regular list there’s little time left over.” She brought the cups to the table with the tea bags inside and Kylie moved off to the couch. She went back to collect the carton of milk from the bar fridge. Neither took sugar. A change of tack: “What’ve you been doing Ky?” The whistle blew.

“Actually, I was researching in the library.” She sat forward resting her elbows on her knees. “You remember our stint in Human Rights and Social Issues …?” Mallory nodded as she brought over the hot water. “… Well, I have to tell you, although I plan to finish this year, I’m not sure I want to be a social worker.” She looked up from pouring, taken by surprise. “So bearing this in mind, I thought I’d check into the legal issues again. I think I’m more the type to deal with the abstract.” She added the milk and sat back.

“Yes I see,” she said looking across. “One step removed as it were from the nitty-gritty of human nature. Mm…m, I can see how the law could attract you.” Mallory’s surprise was replaced by insight. Kylie was a highly intelligent woman who certainly had enough smarts to cope with judicial issues. Not that she lacked sensitivity, but interactions could be rough, out from behind the office desk. “Makes sense Ky.” She took a slow, thoughtful swallow.

Revelations over Kylie moved on as she set down her cup. “That’s next week. How about tonight? Come and join us for Mexican. We’ve not been round to Montezuma’s for an age.”

She thought it over. It would be good to take time out. Lots of laughs; let off some steam and just hang out with the gang. “Great idea, what time were you thinking?”

Kylie had been preparing herself for a refusal and was elated by the decision. At last an evening together which would not involve work. “We’ll meet you there, about seven okay? I volunteered to get the wine; save everybody traipsing over to the Off-License.

“Fair enough,” she already felt like having a good time.

Kylie stood to leave knowing only Jenna would be there and after she left – she would have Mallory all to herself.