CHAPTER FOUR
Mal had to put all her concentration into her studies. She determined there would be no hold-up to a successful graduation. In the time that remained she did all she could to fulfill the necessary final requirements. Consequently, although she spent her evenings with Nigella when she could, their exchanges were minimal.
Nigella for her part tried to be understanding. She knew this was important. However, now that awareness of her true circumstances had thoroughly registered, she was full of unanswered questions, not least about Mal’s real identity. Nevertheless, a sort of harmony developed and while Mal studied, she was able to carry out her own form of learning. She had a pile of books from the library, there being so much to catch up on. They no longer had their play readings, but she had finished it by herself and already started her study of twentieth century novelists. She had taken to John Boynton Priestly, especially his Good Companions. She was thinking to ask for his next one Angel Pavement, but feared she might have to move on faster than that; there were so many in waiting. Her other studies included high school geography and social history. She found it all fascinating, but her level of concentration fluctuated making progress laboriously slow. She was encouraged by the fact that some days were better than others.
She discovered Katrina to be a lovely lady. She was grateful for her help to fathom out the newspapers. She found the information in them dense and difficult. Sometimes she would catch her looking at her quizzically when she passed a remark on an article they were interpreting, as if she had said something uncommon. When asked about it, she would never explain. People could be so frustrating. The days went by, following a more or less predictable pattern. This suited her very well. Regularity, with its lack of surprises, helped her find structure and built her confidence.
It had been a week since Mal had finished her formal studies and was spending her time helping out in the Social Work Department. Monica McBean, the department head, appreciated her assistance and she appreciated the money. With all the seniors gone the staff felt the vacuum keenly. Caseloads in the child safety division had been increasing at an alarming rate. It was not clear why this explosion should have happened just now. Demographics had failed to come up with any clear reason. However, the South Birmingham region was finding it almost impossible to keep up with the demand for family assessments and the possible subsequent placement, into foster care. They all felt over-stretched.
Released from her former tyrannies, Mal’s evenings belonged to her again. She had time to go through Nigella’s lessons and liked having different problems to tackle. Also, being able to clarify details and solve any knotty bits expanded her mind. This new preoccupation was therapeutic. Waiting for results was nerve wracking and sometimes it became too much. They were to be published in the Social Work Gazette, but that was still a month away. Meanwhile, helping Nigella, watching her improve in leaps and bounds was very rewarding. The speed of her progress amazed her. She thought the medication must be kicking in, on the button. Sleep was not so essential and the mood swings had dropped right off.
It should not be long now before the summons from the Tribunal arrived. She had prepared thoroughly for the hearing. All the background material on the nature and degree of Nigella’s impaired capacity had been collated. To be on the safe side she had included the initial surgical procedure notes with the professional progress report from Dr. Stubbs. Tracy and Katrina had supplied references.
The Tribunal had had this material for a week already and she was impatient to get on with it. The wheels of bureaucracy could grind too slowly. She felt there should be no problems however; the subject had no family or friends to give support or make decisions. To ensure her interests were protected there really was no other way. When it came to the selection of support services, Nigella definitely could not decide who should provide them. If she were to choose, there was no guarantee her decision would not turn out to be detrimental to her welfare. Katrina had agreed to speak at the Tribunal, which would consist of the President and one Deputy President with a panel of three other members. She hoped they would not need to have Nigella present. She really did not want to put her through such an ordeal, for all her progress, she was not yet ready for the impact of the outside world.
She had shown her the papers and gone through the types of decisions she would have to make. She had signed the acceptance section of the form, allowing her to act on her behalf, although the writing was still quite shaky, the spidery signature was legible enough to be legal. Then Mal had signed it herself and Katrina had witnessed. Of course she was keen for the hearing, then she would be Nigella’s attorney and there was so much to be done. Nigella understood her decisions would have the same legal force as if she had made them herself. It all seemed to be sitting comfortably with her.
Mal was anxious to move on to the next stage – only two hurdles to go. In the meantime, she had access to all the social services data, so she drilled down to find what options were open to them, pending discharge. CACPS would come to the party if the ABI section of Headway came on board. Although Nigella could not be classified as ‘aged’ she would require low-level care. All this took time to sort out. Just as well being a health professional was her bag – any lay-person trying to penetrate through these bureaucratic stipulations would have given up by now. Her own struggle was intense enough, but persistence paid off.
* * *
As an overseas student, she could remain at the Faculty residence until the results came through, but then it was expected she would move on. To this end she had started to search the papers. Nothing had popped, but she had a lead on shared accommodation with a woman who needed help with the rent. Much would depend on what work she could find. Sometimes she felt she had too many balls in the air and was run ragged trying to keep them all in play.
Finally D-day arrived and in the grey light of morning, which she hoped was not an indication of how the day would unfold, she set off for the hairdresser’s. She had her hair cut and fluffed out, in an effort to soften the rather severe planes of her face. She wore her best pants, but teamed them with a new blouse which had long sleeves and smart, buttoned cuffs. Katrina had no difficulty in looking feminine and just right. Their appointment was for ten o’clock, on the second floor of the Department of Justice Building, room #214. It had not been so easy to find and now their nervousness grew with the waiting. The previous hearing ran overtime so what had started out as fresh and crisp was now decidedly bedraggled. Their turn!
They need not have worried. In fact, the Tribunal was very pleased to have someone take on the responsibility, especially in the absence of any known family. Also, there was no necessity to call Nigella. The only stipulation was that she must keep them apprised of all developments. No dramas there. Forty minutes later it was done and dusted.
They took themselves off to a nearby coffee shop for lunch and to celebrate. They ordered Caesar salads and rolls and Mal had time to expound in more detail what she wanted for Nigella.
“She has a funny way of expressing herself sometimes,” Katrina observed between munches.
“Yes, but I think it’s very refreshing. There seems to be no guile behind it.”
“Very true, but it’s a bit hard to get used to,” she mused, thinking back how she really had thought Nigella had lost it somewhere along the way. There were any number of underlying psychotic events that could manifest themselves, sometime after the initial medical event.
“Kat, have you any idea how soon she could be independent in her ADL’s?” Mal wanted to know.
“Just yesterday morning I checked with the Aide. She seems to have a problem with bent over positions; still prone to dizziness. Her manual dexterity is improving, but drops off if she’s getting tired. All in all though, she’s making good progress; feeding and such like. She’s very fastidious with personal hygiene, like it’s all new to her.”
“Mm…m.” Mal decided not to go there and neatly sidestepped to another tack. “The good news is, I can get funding from Disability Services for rent and living expenses. I must move her on if we’re to achieve those superior outcomes Dr. Stubbs is so keen on.” She did not want her to think she was being critical, or unappreciative of everybody’s effort and added: “You guys do a good job, but she needs stimulation 10/7. It’s so important for her not to finish up in isolation, cut off from real life.”
As it happened, Katrina was aware of a place that could be suitable. Since she now knew Nigella better, she reckoned this could be the ideal transition into the outside world. “Fulton House is a supportive, residential facility for young adults. They’re not all brain damaged so she would be interacting with normal people her own age.”
“That sounds promising. Do you know if there are any vacancies?” The eagerness in her voice was unmistakable; the searches to date had proved unproductive.
“I don’t, but I’ll look into it for you. Sometimes there’s a bit of a revolving door syndrome in this type of housing. It’s so easy to move from State-care into homelessness if not careful. Did you know the number of young people can reach as high as 40% of the total, on the street? People in crisis can be so vulnerable.” She smiled broadly. “Fulton House is a wonderful institution.”
They finished lunch and headed back immediately. Katrina had wangled a late roster, but still had some commitments before she was due on. Mal wanted to share the good news before she went back, too elated to keep it to herself until evening. Nigella accepted it as already foreseen. In the afternoon she received a text from Katrina: No vacancies. Expect some discharges. Call supervisor for chat/inspection: C U soon K. The number followed. Before leaving work Mal phoned the residence and Brendan Reeves answered. He was one of a number of health workers on staff. She explained the situation which he seemed to grasp with sweeping comprehension.
“No problem.” His voice was gruff and positive. “We’re a community shelter for teenagers and young adults; provide them with home-space. Help them get back on their feet … you know the stuff. I agree with you … much better than having to stomach the old folks.”
Mal had not quite put it like that, but the environment did sound more in line with what she had in mind. He told her she could drop in any time. “There’s always someone here and I’ll leave a note for Cory Sixsmith, our supervisor.”
* * *
“I think I’ve found the home for you Jellie.”
It was Saturday afternoon and Mal had collected Nigella for a brisk walk in the fresh air, although the October winds could find those unprotected spots. Nigella wore a lightly padded, three-quarter length jacket and the red beret now had a matching scarf. She enjoyed the crispness of the outside. It made her feel so alive. She felt more comfortable wearing knee socks with her shoes than when her legs were bare, but Mal had promised to buy her a pair of trousers. She was eagerly looking forward to this experience. She remembered the divided skirt Ramona’s friend had worn for their pedal-cycling jaunts and her own riding breeches, but this would be something quite different. So daring!
Mal was attempting to build stamina with these walks, but for now they were on a rest period by an ornamental pond, down at the back of the grounds. Mallard ducks were herding their chicks like ships of the line, to the various feeding sites, upping their tails intermittently, as they made their stately progression. Above their bench, in the low hanging branches of the Horse Chestnut trees Starlings, so attractive with the metallic sheen of their plumage were squawking unattractively, over important birdbusiness. Then a shadow, cast by the span of big wings descended menacingly, forcing them to take flight in a cannonade of sharp screeches. Silence reigned once more.
“Oh Mal I don’t know that I can move so soon. I feel I’m just settling in here,” she demurred anxiously, her brows drawing together in that nervous frown.
“This will be a good place Jellie. There will be other young people. I went this morning to have a look. The rooms are bright and colourful. You’ll have your very own. There’s a common room for socialising where the kids play games; listen to music, watch videos, that kind of stuff.”
She turned from her study of the ducks: “Watch videos?” she asked in surprise.
I’ll have to cover this, perhaps tomorrow? “I’ll explain later Jellie. For now, we have to think of all the things we can do to help you move on, OK?”
“Yes Mal, I don’t want to stay stuck in the Twentieth Century. Just sometimes, I don’t feel ready to let go of all that formed me …” there was a deep catch of her breath: “… then I feel so afraid.” She retreated to her safe place as a stabbing bolt of panic discharged through her chest. She hugged her body and folded in upon herself, rocking slightly. Those large, appealing eyes and the tone of gloomy dejection drew Mal in. She felt for her plight and circled her shoulders protectively.
“Yes I know Pumpkin,” she confirmed gently. “But think of this. The more you learn and experience, the more confidence you’ll build up and then the happier you’ll be.” She squeezed the hand resting on her other arm. She had noticed Nigella still seemed to like this contact, despite the fact that her walking was strong and steady and although they were now seated. She liked it too, she had to admit.
“There remain some steps to be completed, so first thing Monday I’ll inform the Tribunal and if Dr. Stubbs agrees, I’ll see if we can make it for next Saturday. How does that sound?”
“If you think so …” the doubt resonated in each word.
“This is a wonderful opportunity Jellie,” she reassured encouragingly. “Finding somewhere to live isn’t easy. Of course, it won’t be the Park, but we have that in our memories.” She smiled at her and added: “We can visit there in our mind whenever we want, can’t we?”
Nigella agreed. How could she not when those bright eyes rested on her and that smile pierced through her. It was like being dipped in melted chocolate. Her profile set with a new determination.
“Do you think you could paint Patchford House for me … us? I’d really like that. What do you say … once you’re settled in your new home?”
Of course, a visual reference of what we once shared. Something to hang on to that is important to us both. “Yes, I’d like that.” She needed to take out all the precious memories on a regular basis and polish them to their original clarity. She must bank them safely against decay or corruption. She would do more drawings; try to capture the spirit of what remained of those tattered fragments. She must record and preserve what had been ’til her old age. Do I have the confidence to grow old?
“Let’s stroll to the fence so you can look at the street. This is a nice neighbourhood … then we should make tracks.” She stood and indicated the path. Sometimes the sky became overcast, the dispersed sunlight then blurring the air into a haze of grimy grey that threatened rain. However, this uncertain weather had not stopped the people from coming out. They were industrious about their business; some walking back with shopping bags, two were mowing their front lawns and a whipper-snipper regularly shattered the afternoon silence with its high-pitched whine. A number of cars passed by, their motors droning or purring and at one stage Nigella’s ear caught the sigh of pneumatic brakes from the local bus as it stopped to pick up its passengers.
Standing at the tall, wrought iron gates she looked on in wonder. Mal watched her take it all in as the slight ripple of a breeze was enough to flutter the end of her scarf. Not enough to stir the branches, but it did set the late season Dahlias nodding on their slender stems. She was not voluble in her observations, too intent on missing nothing. However, Mal was sure some reference to these novel images would be made in times to come. There would be many questions to answer. Afternoon shadows began to make their appearance as yet only sliding inconspicuously across the lawns, but Mal felt it was time.
“All right, let’s see how fast we can make it back without running. I’d like to see you breathless. Let’s go.”
* * *
That evening Mal found a DVD and borrowed the nursing home’s player. She arrived after dinner and just as with the CD’s, Nigella watched with interest as she went through the set up hooking it to the TV in the corner. She told Mavis of their intensions and invited her to watch, but this was her cards night.
Mal explained about videos and DVD’s, and peoples’ obsession with recording everything, even with hand held telephones and she showed how her mobile could take pictures. This really impressed the girl, causing her to insist she try for herself. The diversion gave them almost an hour of fun, experimenting with poses then showing each other the results. It was quite late before they settled down to watch Phantom of the Opera. As Mal had guessed, she was familiar with the original novella by Gaston Leroux, so watching the musical she could readily follow what was happening. They sat side by side within the glow of the desk light, their space defined by the shadowed corners of the room. While watching Mal felt Nigella reach for her hand. The mood was relaxed and she was conscious of their closeness. With the music hovering and swirling about them this was an untroubled interlude, filled with the pleasure of each other’s company and the delight of the moment. Time flew. In fact Mavis returned and watched the ending with them.
With this arrival Mal was forced to let go of Nigella, albeit reluctantly, but she could not risk any trouble before they would be out of there. In a place like this, rumours flew and expanded with each telling. As for Nigella, she was spell-bound. She loved Lloyd-Webber’s music and watched the screen fascinated from beginning to end. This was the Michael Crawford version and it transported her. She believed she had never been as blissful as in that darkened room, holding the hand of the woman she loved. At the end she turned to Mal and exclaimed: “That was so marvellous!”
“I’ll look for the music for you,” Mal promised as she stood to disconnect everything. “This show began its life in the theatre, but when you can’t get there a DVD is the next best thing,” she observed, so pleased her selection had been a success.
“I like this Twenty-First Century,” Nigella assured her happily. “There’s so much at one’s command … and all it takes is the touch of a button. It’s truly stupendous!”
Mal laughed. “For you Jellie, here everyone takes it for granted and you will too, when you get used to it. ‘Push-button’ is around us everywhere.”
“You don’t have a telly dear?” Mavis enquired pleasantly.
Nigella looked at Mal. Telly? “I don’t have anything. Well, very little at the moment.” She smiled at Mal. She knew things were going to change … and for the better.
* * *
Next morning Mal noticed a missed call on her mobile. She was getting ready for her workout at the gym. These days she had time on a Sunday to go through a full circuit and a relaxing swim afterwards. She punched the number. It was a response to her shared accommodation enquiry. The voice was older and pleasant. She wrote down the address and promised to go that afternoon.
Working on the Peck Deck she thought how everything was falling into place. If I can just secure a good paying position. QEH would do nicely. The staff there seemed to like her and then she would not be too far from Fulton House – bike or bus, she could do either. Riding on the bus would be good experience for Nigella. There was the HACC Department itself. They were sure to need social workers for their home and domestic services. The problem here was that everyone else could be applying. Still, not many of the others were Birmingham people. Surely they would want to go back where they came from. I want to eventually … just not yet. When Jellie’s her old self again then I can take her home.
Her last station was the Abs. corner. She climbed into the rocker and after three sets went down to the mat for her forty crunches with a weight. She liked feeling fit again. Even the lung capacity had expanded with her increased stamina. She put this down to the weekly sessions at RPM. If anything, she felt better than before the accident. Certainly she had been eating more healthily. Then again, if she really thought about it, the good feelings could stem from how well things were going with Nigella.
Deszree Lanskey responded immediately to the knock on her door. Her round, fresh face, made cheerful by a scattering of freckles across the cheeks, welcomed Mal into the unit. It was a six block complex and she was on the first floor, #4. No elevators, no carports and no pool. She had judged right with the voice. The woman was in her thirties, of medium height and build with a ‘no-nonsense’ sense of dress. Not a business woman; she found out later she worked at Cadbury’s on a production line, but she felt confident she could share a bathroom and kitchen with her. She seemed down to earth, at least on first meeting; nothing weird and it was certainly more space. Two bedrooms spare, but clean. The laundry tub was in the kitchen. She guessed she could get used to that, but it seemed a strange place to put it. Anyway, it beat going to the launderette. The line was outside.
Deszree reacted positively to Mal, too. Showing off the layout of the little unit she felt she would have no reason to be fearful. After the last attempt at sharing caveat emptor were her by-words so this time she was trying to be more objective. She needed help though; rents had started to go through the roof. “I had someone-else reply to the ad., so I’ll have to get back to you. Is that OK?” She did not want to say ‘yes’ right away.
“Fine. How soon can you let me know?” Mal was disappointed. She had hoped to get herself settled before Nigella. She had enough saved for rent in advance and being a sublet, Deszree was not asking for key money. Still, perhaps ‘after’ would be better. Anyway, these things had their own time-table and what would be would be.
As it happened, she did make her move before Nigella. That weekend she settled into Deszree’s place and not until the following Wednesday could Nigella be transferred to Fulton House. However, it was just as well there was a hold up in the vacancies. A considerable amount of discussion and cajoling had been required to bring her around to accepting the translocation. At one time she would be all for it, another time, completely against. Mal had no way of knowing what to expect one day to the next. Eventually she was reconciled to the idea of people her own age being better for her. The problem stemmed not only from a fear of change, but she liked being treated as special by the old ladies. They appreciated her gentleness and liked to ‘mother’ her. She felt comfortable with them and did not want to lose their fussing. Even the nurses had a soft spot for her.
“You’ll make new friends Jellie and have lots of fun you’ll see.”
At Fulton House the rooms were compact, but her room had everything she might need including a small desk and chair, as well as a mirrored dressing table and a single door closet. By now she was used to the fact that furniture was not made out of timber and beds did not need to have a board at each end. The house dated from the mid-fifties when the mock Tudor/Elizabethan combinations were popular. Of modest dimensions, it still retained a good sized garden and the original large rooms had been successfully divided for the increase in residents. Unfortunately, kitchens in those days were not generous, but everyone managed good-naturedly in the cramped space. There was a bathroom on each floor and money had been found, at the time of conversion, to install a guest closet in the basement. The location was the leafy suburb of Edgbaston; more suitable than one of the modern subdivisions. Mal thought Nigella might even find it interesting to walk to the cricket, when it was in season.
On being introduced to Brendan, Nigella retreated into herself not knowing how to respond. Cory, being older and more fatherly was not so threatening. At the time of her arrival few people were about, so the house was quiet and after she and Mal had put way her few possessions and had explored, she was able to stretch out. Mal was now free to complete the paper-work so went down to the basement.
She had been impressed with Cory, finding him capable and understanding. He had an avuncular appearance being somewhat corpulent with thinning hair he did not try to hide. Most of all she appreciated that he had the young people’s interests at heart. He was willing to keep an extra eye out for Nigella.
“I’ll come round as often as I can Cory. I’d like to take her outside, too.”
“That’s all right. We have a book you can sign for times in and times out … and of course the name of the client. We don’t call them patients here,” he explained, smiling. She handed over the documentation naming her as official guardian and he took photocopies for the girl’s file, adding them to the Disability Services forms authorising the cheques. The business side of the settlement completed she asked for more detail regarding the other young people.
“At the moment we have almost a full house and with Nigella, an equal number of boys and girls, that’s ten all told. You haven’t met our ‘house-mother’ yet, Rachelle Sellwood. Everyone calls her Mom. I’ve passed on Dr. Stubbs’ report so she’s up to speed on Nigella’s condition and meds. Come with me, I’ll introduce you.” She followed him upstairs to a room centrally located, off the living area. A light, warm voice called them in following Cory’s knock.
To her surprise Rachelle was tall and willowy, beautiful enough to be a model. She guessed she was in her late twenties and had the most intense brown eyes, the same colour as her spiky hair, which this month had been decorated with an orange streak. When she thought about it, she could see how both the girls and boys would respond to someone like her – responsible yet trendy; not too much older. No generation gap.
“Rachelle has not long been with us, but already everyone is very comfortable with her.”
“To begin I think Nigella will want to call you Miss. Sellwood; a figure in authority you see. I don’t think she’ll be comfortable with ‘Mom’. She might get to Rachelle eventually,” Mal explained. They looked surprised. Usually their young folk could not wait to get past stuffy formalities. “Since the accident she’s become extremely reticent, you might even say old-fashioned.” She was trying to make her sound not too strange. They found this weird enough. “She can be child-like at times.” Nor did she want to put these people off before they had even met her.
“That’s all right, Mallory. We’ll take our time. Go gently,” Cory assured her. Rachelle nodded her endorsement.
“I think it might be a good idea if you meet her while I’m still here. Is that possible?” Mal addressed herself to Rachelle who readily agreed.
“Just give me five minutes to finish this and I’ll be right up.”
With that they left and Mal returned to room #9. It was the one next to the bathroom which added to its convenience. Through all the traumas and with her cocktail of pills, Nigella’s periods had not yet resumed. One less complication! She awakened her gently and prepared her for the meeting with the ‘house-mother’.
“You’ll be able to go to her for anything you want to know, or need. Her name is Miss Sellwood. Think of her as a younger Mrs. Aldred.”
Nigella nodded then asked: “Why isn’t she called Mrs. Sellwood then?” Mal was taken by surprise.
“Why would she be, she’s not married?”
“Silly! All housekeepers are called Mrs. whether they’re married or not.”
Mal thought back to her Guilfoyle days. So that’s why there wasn’t a ring on Mrs. Aldred’s finger. A smile of understanding touched her lips. “They don’t follow that convention anymore and when you get to know her, it’ll be OK to use her first name. She won’t be one to stand on ceremony like Mrs. Aldred.” A flash of recollection: the day Mrs. A. had shown her to the carriage house. What a distance had existed in their wave-lengths. A chuckle escaped her – she could afford to now.
Nigella for her part was just about to object that she would never be so rude, when a dainty knock heralded Rachelle’s arrival. She looked to Mal who nodded that she should speak.
“Come in.” The words were almost a croak and much too quiet. Mal mouthed ‘again’ raising her hand and she said it louder.
Rachelle was perfect. She took the other chair and said how pleased she was that Nigella had joined them. She explained about dinner and that everyone would be down by half-past six and that usually they went to the games room, or watched TV afterwards.
“This first night Jellie, if you want to be on your own, you can come back to your room,” Mal reassured her.
A nervous frown clouded her face. “Where will you be?”
Rachelle spoke up. “You’ll be all right here Nigella. We have some other new residents, so we’ll all be getting to know each other.”
“I’ll come visit you after work about five o’clock. I’ll see you then and you can tell me all about it.” Mal injected a hearty note to her voice, but in truth was apprehensive about this first night. Don’t be such a worrywart she’s in good hands; she tried to bolster herself. Eventually, Rachelle went off to organize dinner and left them setting up what looked like an artist’s easel.
“You have your books and music Jellie. Try not to stay up too late. They’ll probably check on you at bed-time.”
“How will I know when it’s ‘too late’?”
“Oh yes.” She looked about, but there was no clock. “I’ll tell you what, you keep my watch and I’ll bring you a desk clock tomorrow.” Mal stretched the band and slipped it off her wrist. On Nigella’s it was obviously too big. She removed it and propped it on the bedside table. “You’ll be able to tell the time in the dark, the dial’s luminous.”
“How is that Mal?” Again Nigella was intrigued, studying the watch-face fascinated. It was so unlike Papa’s fob-watch. The recollection stabbed through to the soft, vulnerable places beneath her protective shell and she had to fight against the stinging in her eyes; that memory too intense. She shook her head.
Mal misread the sign. “You’ll have to wait ’til night-time to see the glow,” she declared as she looked around one last time. “Are you all right now? I have to get back, but I’ll see you just before dinner OK?”
Nigella let her go reluctantly, but the door’s closure was final. In her mind she shored up her courage with thoughts of Mal’s return. In this new place she felt so isolated. Fearful imaginings began to prey upon her thin veneer of collected composure and judgement. Feelings of abandonment pressed down on her until she thought she would suffocate. Distraction was imperative. Closer inspection of her surroundings could help, she began to circulate.
After a short interval, sounds of bumping and banging penetrated the thin walls. High pitched voices and loud shouts made her instantly alert to new developments. Everyone sounded energetic and boisterous. Emphatic music played at the other end of the corridor. She knew it was music, but such as she had never heard before. More like rhythmic chanting to a staccato drumbeat. Listening intently, she could not say she liked it, but nor did she find it offensive – just surprisingly unusual. All her senses were attuned. There were constant sounds of the water closet in action, accompanied by what seemed incessant door banging. Sitting on the side of the bed she continued to listen, but did not dare open the door to see or be seen. Her heart had begun to pound, but at last silence returned and she lay down.
Another knock commanded her attention. Rachelle was asking if she wanted dinner. It was after six-thirty and they were ready to eat. She looked across at Mal’s watch. She had not thought to check the time; dinner had always been announced or come to her. She called out: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sellwood. I didn’t mean to be late.” She opened the door. “Please forgive me. I don’t want to cause trouble.” Her green eyes grew round with pleading and her hands twisted together nervously. Rachelle did not correct her form of address, not wanting to upset the girl anymore and tried to hearten her that there was nothing wrong.
“Come with me to my room and I’ll give you your pills before we eat. Each day I’ll give you your medications.” She took the girl’s hand and led her downstairs.
When they entered the dining-room the scene that met Nigella’s eyes pulled her up. She stopped abruptly. One large table carrying an assortment of condiments and bottles ran down the length of a sparsely furnished room. The bare boards on which it sat were covered by two old rugs so thin, they constantly caught in people’s feet. Although she had seen the room before it had not properly registered. Young people, in an amazing variety of clothing styles sat on plastic chairs, of which no two were alike. A jumble of surprised faces turned at their entrance and Rachelle called out for everyone to say ‘Hi’ to Nigella, the new girl in number nine.
“I won’t tell you all the names now …” Rachelle murmured: “… there’re too many for you to remember, but you can introduce yourself again later, on an individual basis.”
Once seated at the vacant place, Brendan called out from the kitchen hatch: “Come and get it,” and systematically each person rose and proceeded in Indian File to receive their plate.
“You go before me,” a boy’s voice whispered to her when she made no move. She felt so out of place wishing she could be anywhere but here. She knew tears would do no good and made a big effort to control her breathing. With trepidation she followed the others toward the servery and saw they collected a fork and spoon rolled in a napkin. When her turn came she discovered it was made of paper. Handed her plate she carried it back to her seat and, like the rest of them, placed it before her. It was piled high with creamy, string-like threads in a reddish-brown sauce and a soft bun sat on the side. She had no idea what this was and the odour was unusual. She was positioned between a young girl, younger than she and an older boy, the one who had spoken to her. She watched them manipulating the utensils and was amazed. What is this food?
Even holding back to observe, she was not sure she could master their technique, but it was obvious one could not use one’s fingers. The young girl, a skinny little thing, introduced herself and urged her to try it. “The Bolognese tastes good and it’s filling. If you don’t want your roll I’ll have it.”
The boy, a young man really, told her to lay off and let her eat in peace.
Nigella was trying her hardest not to be rude and stare. The girl’s appearance was like nothing she had ever seen. Very short hair, pulled back and clipped, except for a long strand which fell across her brow and down one cheek. In the other eyebrow was a silver ring with a tiny ball. Not only that, a small stud in the opposite nostril and the outline of a blue butterfly tattooed near it, held her attention. Perhaps she’s Indian? But she has no colour.
Most of all, she was fascinated by how she talked. It was all she could do not to follow the accompanying tongue-thrust, occasioned by the stud located in its tip. The boy’s voice broke into her speculations. “Don’t take any notice of Tyra. She’s always hungry. She’ll eat all this and still come down in the night to raid the fridge.”
“The fridge?”
“Yeah; there’s usually some leftovers and they don’t mind us taking them if we have an attack of the munchies.”
“An attack of the munchies?”
He was beginning to wonder about this one. But man, she was a ‘hottie’. Jason Mullins had been at Fulton House for some time and seen them come and go. His case was one of the more difficult ones and it had been a challenge to move him on. This was his second stint and at last he had landed a job. Well, an apprenticeship really. He was not that fussed over it, but best to give it a go, otherwise he could see himself ending up totally institutionalised and he had seen how that turned out.
“Worse than the Fosties,” he would claim. “You can always tell them … won’t look at you properly.” He reckoned some had an aversion to eye contact. “Creepy stuff, but that’s what happens when you get locked too long in the system.”
He watched her picking up first the fork in her left hand, then the spoon in her right. She studied the spoon, checked the mass on her plate and shook her head. It was obvious that would not work. She was about to change them over like the others, but this felt so strange, when he spoke again.
“Just use the fork. You don’t have to be a garbage-guts like Tyra and pile it on, the fork’s cool.”
“Garbage-guts?”
She’s probably not the full quid but fuck me, them green eyes … awesome! With that black hair … or are they contacts? His deep-set eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to look more closely, but twisting around and peering at her like that made her draw back. He stopped, not wanting to call attention that could raise an alarm.
“Like this.” He demonstrated.
She attempted the same, but then did not like the taste. The rest of the time was spent sliding the spaghetti around the plate until the congealed mass looked totally unappetising.
“You finished?” Tyra asked when she finally gave up. She nodded and quickly the girl swapped their plates. She continued to observe her companions. Some were animated, but a number were withdrawn just eating quietly. That course finished, they took the plate back and returned with a bowl of what looked like ice cream. She could give this a try. She picked up Tyra’s things, took them to the servery and got herself a bowl. Once seated she realised she had no spoon. She had to get up again. Brendan explained she was supposed to keep her utensils for the next course. “Have to save on washing-up, right?” He gave her the double thumbs up.
She was too overwhelmed; these unfamiliar experiences were unravelling her senses. By the time she got to desert she was totally fragmented. It did taste good though and she had no problem finishing it off. All the things went back to the hatch and when Brendan saw her again, he came round to see if everything was all right. Shyly she said it was. He spelled out how there was a roster of duties for everyone, but being new, she did not have to worry about it tonight. “Mom will fill you in on all that. Would you like to watch TV? It’s through here.”
She followed him to the room she remembered from her tour. She had not noticed the television set then, but now it was on the moving image captured her gaze. Two contestants were answering questions fired at them with staccato rapidity. They made room for her on a long, bumpy couch. It looked like she should just sink down comfortably, but even the cushions fought back. Two more girls joined her and started responding to the questions, their bodies too close she felt endangered again, but she could see they were enjoying themselves; no real threat. She was being silly harbouring such fears. It’s all in your head. You have to get used to this.
She forced herself to focus, but it was difficult keeping up. Every now and then she caught Jason watching her. When this happened he would smile then turn his head. In the end it was all too unnerving. She had to get away – retreat to her room and her music.
She dosed for a while on and off then a loud voice penetrated her mind. It was telling someone to ‘tone it down’ in a manner to brook no argument. She checked the time – twenty minutes past ten. For her this was late to be up, but her belly was making very loud, growling noises. She remembered they were allowed to look for food in the ‘fridge’ and decided to go down to the kitchen to see what she could find. Even just a slice of bread would do.
In room twelve, one of two on the attic level, Jason was feeling thirsty. He usually had soft drink on hand, but had run out. He decided to pick up a Soda from the water cooler located on the floor below. Rounding the corner, he was in time to see the new girl disappearing down the stairs. He figured she must still be hungry. He saw how she had eaten like a bird. He followed her and found her in the kitchen floundering about in the dark. “Can I help?” he asked as he flicked the light switch. She jumped, her hand flying to her throat, strangling a fearful cry.
“Oh it’s you!” she exclaimed in relief. At this late hour she had not thought to take time to put on her robe, expecting only a quick pick-up and a rapid bolt back. Now she was caught in her nightgown, a demur garment, but in front of this young man, she was acutely aware of how inappropriate it was. He was still in the same clothes she had seen him in earlier and this contrast made her even more uncomfortable.
“I … I … was hungry,” was all she could think to say by way of explanation, at the same time trying to cover her confusion. Jason pulled open the refrigerator door and peered in. Standing back he said: “Knock yourself out.”
“Knock yourself out?”
He was getting used to this echo and anyway, he did not care. Tonight she was a delicious peach and here was his chance to take a bite. “Look, I’ll help you,” he offered as she made no move. He scanned the shelves. “There’s Bolognese, but you don’t like that.” She shook her head. She was edgy and did not like being here, but she had to eat something. She approached closer. He felt the heat of her body.
“There’re some rolls left and here’s some cheese. Is that cool?” He turned and looked into those green eyes, so luminous in the light from the fridge.
“Cool?” She had heard the word before, but still didn’t understand.
“No dramas, there’s always jam in the pantry.” He stepped back and brushed into her as he made to turn.
“I would like to have the cheese,” she acknowledged hastily, as she too stepped back.
“Oh sure.” At least she had made up her mind and now he knew there was nothing else under that shift.
“Margarine all right … or you prefer mayo?”
“Margarine?”
“On your roll.”
“Oh, is there no butter?”
“No. Mom doesn’t hold with ‘full fat’,” he stated flatly. “I take it Marge is the go then?”
By now she was totally confused and willing to accept whatever she was given. She nodded and stepped back to let him collect everything together. He was good. She watched him as he moved around making a tasty sandwich. His voice came from the pantry. “There’s sun-dried tomatoes. Do you like them?”
“Sun-dried tomatoes?”
“Never mind,” he sighed. “Here’s the biscuit tin. You can have some of them. You do know about biscuits?”
“Of course I know about biscuits.” Her patience was wearing thin and her tummy was still rumbling. What is the matter with him? Oh, she knew she should not be irritable he was only trying to help, but her head was pounding again with another of these awful headaches. At last he had it all together.
“Follow me. You can’t eat here. I’ll get us cans from the machine. I’m thirsty, too”
“Cans?”
“Yeah … you know … soft drinks.” Bloody hell!
Soft drinks! She did not ask this time, but obediently did as she was told, watching with interest as he pushed the buttons and two cans rolled out After he collected them he made to turn to the stairs.
“My room is down here,” and she indicated the corridor.
Even better, he thought, Retards don’t say no. “Sure, you got it. Lead the way.” She opened the door and let him in. She took the seat by the table while Jason put out the plates and drinks. He took the bed, stretching out as he popped the top on his can. “So what brings you here, Nigella?”
Through mouthfuls of cheese she mumbled: “I was at Lychette Saint Agnes, but Mallory thought it a better idea for me to be with people my own age.” She took a big gulp from the can to help clear her mouth. Being unused to drinking like this, the lemonade spilled past her lips and down her front. Immediately Jason was there with a towel to help mop up.
“I can do it.” She grabbed the towel and between the two a tug o’ war erupted until they fell in a heap on the bed. Limbs thus engaged Jason was able to find those luscious lips and plant his own, keeping his hands busy controlling her. She fought off this impact, trying to resist his arms, his legs, his body and his power. Her strength was no match. She wanted to call out, but even to draw breath she could not raise her head. Waves of panic engulfed her. She began to hyperventilate and with this throbbing head, it felt like she would explode. Suddenly, her attention was riveted on what he was doing. His weight, oppressive and heavy enough to suffocate, was bearing down on her. Her nightgown was up around her waist – he was forcing her legs apart. Was there no-one to come and get him off? She was going to be sick. She needed to scream. She had to provoke an alarm. Her lack of fitness began to tell; exhaustion sapped her as she felt him working his way into her. This was too awful; too revolting – and humiliating. What can I do? There was nothing, no-one. Hot tears flooded her eyes, hydrous prisms that splintered her view and filled her vision with flashes of purple and silver.
Jason felt her struggles subsiding. “My little beauty,” he breathed ecstatically. “This will be awesome. Just lie back and let my dick give you a ride like you’ve never known.” Delivered of this, he began to operate his tongue inside her mouth. It was too much. Her gorge rose and the contents of her stomach emptied over his face. Now this was too much for him. His erection died and all he wanted was to get out of her and out of there.
“You bloody Slag! You lead a bloke on and then there’s this. You’re disgusting.” His eyes narrowed to malicious slits, his harsh voice became ragged. “You tell anyone … I’ll just tell how you asked for it.” He grabbed her wrist where her arm lay on the covers and squeezing hard, jerked her to sitting. Her cry of pain unheeded. “Remember, you invited me to your room.” His face, so close to hers looked evil, then viciously he threw her back, shaking and sobbing into the pillow. By now he had used the towel to clean himself off, as much as possible and with angry force had flung it to the floor. His parting words as he wrenched open the door remained with Nigella, together with the stench of vomit in her nostrils, long after he had disappeared. “No-one will believe you over me. Nutters like you never get listened to. They can only say stupid things that make no sense to anyone.”
* * *
The next day Mal rang the bell promptly at five-thirty, eager to see Nigella and reassure herself. She knew what it could be like the first night in a strange place. As the ‘new-girl’ it was only natural she could feel disconnected, no matter how much the others tried to make her welcome. Rushing her last home visit in her impatience, she had felt twinges of guilt, but the promise to check again tomorrow had gone some way to salve her conscience. Now she could not wait. Rachelle welcomed her. In response to her questions she was told she thought Nigella was in her room.
“Now I come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen her since I checked if she wanted breakfast. Brendan can probably fill you in better, but he’s on an errand at the moment … shouldn’t be long. It’s dinner in an hour. Do you want to go up or shall I bring her down?”
“No problem, I’ll pop up.” She could catch up with Brendan later. She knocked. There was no reply. Following the second she opened the door to take a peek; she might be in the common room after all. The room was in darkness, but in the gloom she was able to discern a vague shape on the bed.
“Jellie?” still no response.
“Nigella?” her call was louder. Not until she reached out to the amorphous shape was there any reaction; a slight movement, the briefest shrug.
“Jellie, it’s Mallory, I’ll turn on your lamp.” Within the band of its yellow glow, the sight that met her gaze made her gasp in disbelief. The hair was in total disarray; the eyes red raw from weeping, dark circles smudged her cheeks and the lips, bruised and swollen. Rachelle had said nothing of this.
“Jellie Baby, what’s the matter? What’s happened?” she asked in a shocked whisper. It was hard to believe in the space of twenty-four hours there could be such a transformation. She straightened out the limbs as best she could, but the joints felt locked and the muscles stiff. She stroked the matted hair from her damp cheeks. “Oh, my love … what has happened to you?” No words came from the girl, only her breath quivered the air between them. She propped herself on the bed and took her in her arms. Once settled she began to sway gently to and fro. They stayed thus, in silence, Nigella’s head resting near to hear the regular beating of her heart. The soothing rhythm finally lulled her into a calmer state and she felt the tension evaporating as the thin body relaxed. Eventually Nigella shifted for more comfort and she judged she could ask again what had happened, hopeful that talking it through would help banish this haunted expression. A shake of the head was all she got.
“You must tell me. I know this isn’t right,” she declared in bewildered concern, her eyes fastening on the tear-stained face. She took the small chin and gently tilted it.
“How is it your mouth’s so puffy?”
Nigella pulled her head away, swinging out a curtain of hair, but would not speak. Her throat had gone rigid and all the pain seemed to be gathered into a tight ball. Mal could feel something grinding and spiked, welling up inside her. At this point she did not know if it was enraged indignation or incensed fury. Nigella was in this house in the process of healing, needing supportive help. Not this! For sure, not this! Her eyes remained searching and intent. “Jellie I have to go for a brief moment, but I promise I won’t be long. Try to sleep and I’ll be back soon.”
With ire intensifying at every step she made her way swiftly to Rachelle’s room. There was no-one there. Impatiently she went on a search. By now her cheeks were flaming red her fury constricted; focused onto the point of a knife’s edge. As soon as she located the woman in the kitchen, the words tumbled over themselves.
“What has happened to Nigella? She’s in a dreadful state. Why didn’t you tell me?”
The others, rostered to help that day looked on in amazement, recognising the makings of a monumental blue. Rachelle was exceedingly annoyed at this aggressive confrontation, especially with the kids here – and in the middle of supper preparation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. She was fine when I spoke to her,” she responded with a heated indignation of her own. It was not often they got to see Mom on the back foot, so everyone made as if they had lots to do in an excuse to hang around.
Mal set her feet apart, fists planted on hips. “As I recall, that was at breakfast and not even face to face! I thought you people were supposed to be providing transitional care.” The glare in her blue eyes was now ice cold and the voice as brittle as a slashing sabre. “A fat lot of use you are, sitting in your office all day doing bugger all. Mark my words, this will not go unreported.”
As she made to exit, Rachelle hit back, swinging round on her heel as she put down the knife, although she felt like keeping it and using it too. “I already told you, Brendan’s supervising today.” Exasperation brought hot colour to her neck. “If you’d bothered to clean out your ears you would know he’s the one you should be talking to.” With that she turned her back on the woman in disdain, plainly scornful of her threats or any possible allegations. The kids rolled their eyes as if to say: “One up to Mom.”
Mal scowled at the dismissive back. “Oh, I’ll have some words to say to him. You can be sure of that,” and stormed out. Her head was spinning. Even if he could come up with some plausible explanation, could she leave Nigella in this house? If she were not here, where could she go? Not back to the nursing home. Where? Too much was over-loading her brain. As it happened she did not have to wait long and Brendan’s gangling form appeared through the stained glass panel of the front door. She stood up.
“Oh hello,” he greeted, smiling affably. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” He dropped his voluminous backpack onto the floor and his body into a chair.
“What can you tell me about Nigella Patchford?” she was towering over him.
“Nigella? Nothing … why?” He was looking up at her, innocent surprise in his eyes.
“Have you seen her today?” Her voice had a gritty edge.
“Probably, but nothing stands out. You know how the Newbies are they keep to themselves until they’ve settled in.”
“Well, in your role as carer, perhaps it would be a good idea to check on them … at least once in a while.” The sarcasm dripped. “Has it occurred to you that some people may be more fragile than others and may even be in need of more nurturing?” Her steely eyes never left his face, but she was aware of her own, rushing heartbeat.
He was beginning to feel uncomfortable, a cold sweat breaking out. This woman was coming on like an irate parent and if there was one sort of person who really pissed him off in this world, it was one of those. They came in, throwing their weight around and if they’d only paid more attention in the first place, then their kid wouldn’t be in all the shades of shit they found themselves. He braced up to her. “That’s Mom’s place. She takes care of all the sooky stuff,” he retorted in exonerated relief, ready now to put his gear away and to join the others.
“Not so fast you waste of space.” Mal held up her hand and bent over. They were eyeball to eyeball. “There’s a young girl lying alone upstairs in a devastated state. The least you can do is show some degree of concern, even if you don’t bloody feel it.” She took a step back and a deep breath, trying to control the tremor in her voice. “She was entrusted to your care. Somehow she has been violated. She has not said anything, but I can read the signs. This will be reported.” She stopped to level out her breathing. “Even if we never get to the bottom of this, Fulton House will be subjected to the consequences of an internal review. People need to open their eyes around here and stop being so fucking complacent!” Her cheeks flamed again as the wrath and indignation boiled up once more.
This time Brendan was prepared. He stood up, squared his shoulders and lifted his head. They were level now. “May I point out to you … before you go throwing out any more threats, that in this day and age it’s the right of any young person to be allowed their privacy. Their room is their private space; their castle if you like and as such, may not be intruded upon. By invitation only! Even if we knock, without an answer there’s no admittance.”
It was Mal’s turn to take stock as doubt set in. She had over-looked this aspect of the supervisory role. Yes, the rights of the child had to be very much respected. Even in her dealings with family conflicts, the voice of the juvenile could have equal sway with that of the parent. Perhaps she would have to climb down from her high horse, but that still left the problem of Nigella’s misery and where she could live, unresolved.
“I take your point Brendan, but this still leaves that young girl in a near catatonic state and no answers.” Her anger had all but gone and only fretful concern remained. The voice had moderated and he registered the change.
“I’ll come with you and have a look at her. She might tell me something.” Despite what she might think, he did not like the thought of someone innocent being alone and suffering.
“OK.” Mal’s mind was racing. What should she do? Every change of plan had to be passed by the Tribunal. If he could get something out of her, should she risk leaving her here another night? Gently she knocked and pushed open the door. The girl had remained immobile still in the same position as when she had left.
“Jellie, are you asleep?” The form on the bed stirred slightly. Mal cuddled her once more. The bruised mouth moved as if struggling to verbalise some thought, but no words came. “There Sweetness,” she soothed. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
It was in this moment, Mal felt how deep was her love. It was a heart-tearing emotion such as an animal feels for its exposed young. That strained, squeezing love born of the need to provide protective safekeeping. As clearly as if words had been written on a page, she knew that every consequence of her life had brought her to this place; to this minute. She had to be here in this very moment. Every evaluation she had ever undertaken was held in the silence of this room. All her life long, this had been her destiny! Now she dreaded the possibility that any such defilement could ever happen again to this wonderful creature. The breath she inhaled grated through her and already she hated how much she had let her down. To what extent had her recovery been set back by these unknown events? Would she ever get over this? Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She could only hope. She turned to the young man. He pulled up a chair. “Nigella it’s Brendan, can you tell me what happened?”
Nigella turned her head and stared at him trying to master her bewildered feelings, but still she would not tell. Only a shuddering breath escaped her lips. They both looked at her pitiful face, eyes swollen with tears, wishing they could help or at least do something to relieve this awful suffering. Eventually Mal laid the girl back down and they went outside.
“I see what you mean,” Brendan acknowledged. He did feel badly.
“What can I do? I’m not confident leaving her here … not after this.” Her voice was shuddery, nerves frayed to breaking point. She was at a loss and willing to accept anything constructive.
“It’ll be all right Mallory.” Compassion swept over him. “I can keep a closer eye on her. We have an intercom we turn on in each room, when in need. We use it if there’s a suspicion there’s risk of self-harm or drug abuse. A responsible adult will be monitoring.” Despite his words his misgivings deepened. Privately he thought she could be right. This might not be the place for Nigella. The other residents had their own issues. They were learning anger and stress management through counselling; often with the help of medication. With her intellectual disability, other people’s emotional problems could be too much for her. Even for him, some of their irrational outbursts or delusional fantasies he found way off the scale. But locating somewhere else would be a Herculean task.
Tomorrow was Friday, there could still be time. Mal had thought to pursue a suite of measures which could go some way to solving the supervision problem, and all the way in the need for ‘safe’ housing. She would make an appointment with the Department of Justice. Although she already had enduring power of attorney, she could still apply for a ‘carers’ allowance. This would give her sufficient funds to provide for Nigella and then she could have her live with her. Unfortunately, she had not yet received her results and work was still only on a provisional basis. So much hung in the balance, while she felt bound and gagged.
“That will be good Brendan.” She had to stay positive; keep those plates spinning. “Tomorrow I’m going to see what I can find. Promise me you’ll really look after her this time.” Her earnest eyes searched his for comfort.
“You have my word no harm will come to her.”
“Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” she apologised. The last hour had left her mentally drained and bodily exhausted. “I was so upset and at my wits’ end what to do. I didn’t mean to take it out on you … personally I mean.”
“It’s all right, Mallory. I know how fiercely emotions can take over.”
“I’ll sit with her now and collect her dinner later. She probably won’t want to eat, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Brendan nodded and Mal went back in.