Dr Jackson
St Helier, October 1944
The tragic expression on Milly Deveraux’s face that terrible morning was so deeply imprinted on my mind that for days afterwards I saw her before me, waving that pathetic little handkerchief as she pressed her face against the window for one final look at her sweetheart.
I must say I felt pleased that I’d played a part in saving her life; I believe it was as a result of my visit that the Bailiff had interceded with the Germans on her behalf.
Several weeks after the young German soldier’s execution, I was sitting in my surgery after the last of my patients had gone, flipping through Mr Arundel’s file. I was deep in thought, wondering whether to continue treating his angina at home or to have him admitted to hospital, when a peremptory knock on the door made me put the file aside and look up.
It was Milly Deveraux’s mother. Assuming she had come to thank me, I started to say I was delighted to have played a small part in saving her daughter’s life, when the look on her face stopped me in my tracks.
It was not an expression of gratitude. If a human could breathe fire and smoke, she came close to it. Her lips were tightly pressed together and her eyes were shooting thunderbolts in an intimidating mixture of agitation and rage. As there was no reason to assume I was the target, I asked her to sit down and tell me what was on her mind.
While waiting for her to speak, I noticed that she looked rather haggard, and her clothes hung loosely on her large frame, which isn’t surprising given our desperate food shortage. The last time I saw her, she was plainly but neatly dressed, but this time I noticed that the buttons of her beige blouse were fastened in a lopsided fashion, the collar of her knitted brown cardigan was turned under, and her paisley scarf was crookedly tied under her chin. She had obviously dressed in great haste.
‘It’s Milly! She’s up the duff!’ she burst out.
At this point, I wondered if I’d misread Mrs Deveraux’s expression. Perhaps she was upset rather than angry, but her next words dispelled that notion.
‘Of course it’s what they always say, isn’t it, an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
Being a doctor, I’m used to remaining impassive while hearing startling confessions from my patients. Very little surprises me anymore, but on this occasion I found it difficult to conceal my perplexity. Only a few weeks ago she had sat in this same chair, distraught as any mother would be when her daughter had a death sentence hanging over her head, but this scathing comment was mystifying to say the least.
Uncertain how to react, I decided to approach her news in a matter-of-fact way, as I would any other confinement.
‘Do you know how far gone she is?’
Mrs Deveraux gave me a look I can only describe as pitying. Rifling inside her large handbag she took out a pale blue handkerchief, took off her large spectacles, and polished them with such vigour that I thought the glass might spring out of the frames. After putting them back on, she continued looking at me without replying to my question.
I wondered how long we would continue looking at each other when she leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘You do understand that the situation is extremely delicate, doctor, don’t you?’
Of course I did. I started to explain the options for unmarried mothers, but her derisive snort cut me short. It was accompanied by a look that spoke volumes about her opinion of me, and it wasn’t flattering.
‘The baby’s father was German.’ She said it slowly and loudly, the way many people speak to foreigners. ‘Now do you see the problem, Dr Jackson?’
‘I rather thought that might be the case,’ I replied. The baby’s paternity was so obvious that I couldn’t for the life of me see why she was beating about the bush.
At this point, I think Mrs Deveraux decided that I was hopelessly dim, and she would have to spell it out for me. Tightening her lips, she said, ‘You don’t have children, Dr Jackson, so it’s probably difficult for you to understand the pain that they can cause.’
As she spoke, her eyes darted around the room. When they rested on the framed photograph of Jamie on my desk, she looked stricken.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Jackson,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t realise …’
I waved away her apology but her remark stung me. It reminded me of my own painful situation, of having a child and being childless at the same time.
Losing concentration, I missed part of her next sentence, which I think was about Milly’s ill-fated sweetheart.
‘I curse the moment I let her bring that bloody Kraut into our home.’ She spoke with such vehemence that I half expected to see sparks flying from her mouth.
‘As for Milly,’ she continued, ‘I’m utterly disgusted. I always trusted her, I never expected her to behave like one of those floozies the Krauts brought over here from France. But what’s done is done. I have to think of the future. Her reputation. You know how people talk about the women who consort with the Germans. Jerrybags, they call them, and there’s talk of revenge when the war’s over.’
Fuelled by indignation, the words tumbled from her mouth so fast that she ran out of breath and had to pause. She shook her head from side to side as if engaged in a silent argument, and her scarf slipped off her head, revealing brown hair streaked with grey.
With a long sigh she added, ‘I suppose they’ll regard Milly as a collaborator. I can’t bear to think about it. I just didn’t know where to turn. I need your help, Dr Jackson.’
At this point, she held my gaze with an expression of utter desperation. She stretched out her hand as if about to grip my arm, and for an instant I recalled the poem about the ancient mariner who grabbed his listener with a bony hand and hypnotised him with his tale of woe.
I felt as if a wave of emotion had spilled into my surgery and threatened to overwhelm us both. In an effort to extricate myself and calm her down, I said, ‘This really is a very difficult situation, and I understand how you feel, but our worst fears are rarely realised, and things will probably work out much better than you expect. And you’re bound to enjoy having a grandchild.’
At that, she winced and waved aside my weak attempt to induce her to accept this unfortunate situation. ‘That’s all very well for you to say, but just imagine what it will be like to have a German baby here, after the war. And what about that baby? How do you think people will react? It will be shunned. You must see that it’s impossible.’
So that’s what she was getting at.
‘Are you suggesting that this pregnancy should be terminated?’
For the first time I saw gratitude on her face. The relief of finally being understood almost smoothed out the tense lines. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’ she asked.
This placed me in a very awkward position and it took a few moments to decide how to respond. ‘How does Milly feel about all this?’ I asked. ‘Is she as pessimistic about the future as you are?’
‘I can’t talk sense into her. She won’t listen. Whenever I mention it, she bursts into tears and says they’ve taken Konrad away from her but they’re not going to take his baby. But she’s got her whole life ahead of her, Dr Jackson, and she’s going to ruin it.’
‘It is her life, though, isn’t it?’ I ventured, as gently as I could.
‘Not just hers,’ Mrs Deveraux retorted. ‘Won’t you talk to her?’ she pleaded.
‘I’m happy to talk to her any time, but you must realise all I can do is listen. Abortion is out of the question in this situation. It would be different in a case of life-threatening illness, rape or incest, which this clearly is not.’
Mrs Deveraux spread her large hands in a helpless gesture and sighed loudly. ‘But she’s just a child herself. She’s only eighteen and she’s quite naïve. She has no idea how cruel people can be. How can she possibly make the right decision?’
‘The only alternative is to have the baby adopted, but from what you’ve told me, I doubt Milly would agree to that.’
‘But if you could explain the problems she’ll face, she might listen to you. Please talk to her.’
We were going round in circles. In the end, I agreed to talk to Milly, though I doubted if that would achieve anything. It was clear to me the young lady had already made up her mind, and I admired her for her devotion to her sweetheart and her determination to keep her child, although I agreed with her mother that she had no idea of all the problems she would face trying to bring up a child alone, especially in these circumstances.
Mrs Deveraux picked up her handbag and rose heavily to her feet, but just as she turned to leave, I remembered the enigmatic comment she made when she arrived.
‘Would you mind telling me what you meant when you said the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?’
Red-faced, Mrs Deveraux started adjusting her scarf, which was sliding off her head again. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I got all worked up.’
The quizzical look on my face probably made her sit down again. She shifted in her chair and studied her wedding ring before speaking. ‘My late husband and I couldn’t have children of our own. That was a bitter blow, but after a few years, we decided to adopt. We adopted Milly when she was a newborn baby.’
Her eyes filled with tears at the memory of the happy times past and her hopes for a future which now appeared so bleak.
‘So when you made that comment,’ I said slowly, ‘were you referring to her natural parents?’
She was still looking down and twisting her wedding ring. ‘To her mother. The almoner at the hospital told me that she gave the baby away because she was single, and I always thought of her as a woman with loose morals. So I meant like mother, like daughter, you know, both having a baby out of wedlock. It was a nasty thing to say and I am ashamed of saying it.’
She dabbed her eyes, and we sat in silence until she said, ‘I suppose it’s what they call poetic justice, isn’t it, me thinking badly of the mother, and then Milly doing the same thing. But if Milly’s mother hadn’t got herself into trouble and given her up, then Herbert and I wouldn’t have got Milly.’
I continued to sit there for a long time after she left, staring at Jamie’s photo and contemplating the endless ways our choices turn our hopes and dreams upside down. It seemed we often met our fate on the road we’d taken to avoid it.
Although Mrs Deveraux was not a particularly likeable woman, I felt sorry for her. I felt even more sorry for Milly, who would have to endure not only the lifelong consequences of her illicit love affair, and the future sneers and gossip of the neighbours, but her mother’s outspoken disapproval, at a time when she most needed her love and support.
I don’t know how long I sat there, flipping the notes in Mr Arundel’s file without taking in their contents. I was also thinking about Jamie and Mrs Deveraux’s assumption that I didn’t have any children.
For some time I had entertained the fantasy that Aoife and I might have children, but I doubt if that will ever happen now. Ever since she told me her secret, she has been withdrawn, as if it has created a barrier between us.
According to the Viennese psychiatrists, unless we confront past traumas, we have no chance of resolving the psychological damage they have caused, but to be honest, I wish she hadn’t stirred this up because we were so happy before. But since then, she has been distant and distracted, and sometimes it feels as if she can hardly remember how close we used to be.
An unresolved situation always makes me restless and I’ll have to confront her about it. I’ve been holding back to give her time to sort things out but I can’t wait any longer. I have to find out whether we have a future together.
Having decided to bite the bullet, a few days later I invited her over for dinner. Initially she made an excuse, as I suspected she would. She claimed she was exhausted and overworked, which I didn’t doubt for a moment.
Our situation here has deteriorated over the past month to such an extent that we wonder what will become of us unless urgent food supplies arrive. The Germans are stealing most of our rations, and supplies from France have dwindled.
I’m still comparatively well off but my pantry is almost bare. I still have several jars of preserved fruit, about a dozen bottles of Armagnac, four bottles of sherry, some dried rusks and a few precious jars of bottled chickens, but they won’t keep me going for very long, especially with winter approaching.
The news on BBC radio in June that the Allies had invaded the north coast of France had made my spirits soar. It sounded as if the war would soon end. And then shortly after that, we heard that Paris had been liberated. Wonderful news, of course, and I don’t want to sound like sour grapes, but it did seem rather unfair that a nation that had caved in without a fight should already have been liberated while we in the UK are still fighting and struggling to feed ourselves.
Anyway, to get back to Aoife, I think she sensed the urgency in my tone and agreed to come over.
No teenage lad on his first date was more nervous than I was as I waited for her to arrive. I wore the only pair of casual slacks that hadn’t become threadbare, grey ones with turn-ups, but first I had to punch two extra holes in my leather belt, because like everything else in my wardrobe, the slacks had become loose. Over my white shirt I wore the Fair Isle sleeveless pullover she always admired.
Downstairs, to create a festive atmosphere, I covered the table with a fine lace tablecloth my mother had bought in Venice. Margaret had never used it because she was nervous of damaging it. I cut tea roses from my garden, lit a romantic candle, and, for a special treat, I opened one of my last jars of preserved chicken.
Everything was ready and I kept checking the time and paced around, unable to sit still. Finally I heard the bell and rushed to the door. I was about to embrace her, but instead of melting into my arms as she usually did, she seemed to shrink into herself, and I stepped back.
I poured us a sherry before dinner to help us relax.
‘The table looks lovely,’ she commented as I pulled out her chair. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Hugh.’
The words, like her tone, were perfunctory. It was what any guest would say, and her formal manner hurt me. It was as if she had forgotten who I was, that I loved her, and knew every inch of her body intimately. To settle my nerves, I poured myself another sherry but the presentiment was still there, like an ugly spider hovering over our heads.
Now that we were sitting at the table, I wasn’t sure how to begin, without sounding petulant or demanding.
‘Aoife, I want to ask you about something that’s has been on my mind for quite some time,’ I began, wishing I didn’t sound so nervous.
She looked at me for a moment with those beautiful eyes, which that evening were the colour of twilight. Then she looked down and fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth, and I realised that she was as nervous as I was.
She let me finish without interrupting. Then she said quietly, ‘You’re quite right. I know I’ve changed but it’s nothing you’ve said or done. It’s me. I’ve been trying to sort out what to do.’
‘Do you mean, like seeing a psychologist?’
She shook her head. ‘Like going back to Ireland.’
I was floored. So many thoughts were crashing around in my head that I hardly knew how to reply.
‘After all this time?’ I asked. ‘Who do you want to see there? What do you expect will happen?’
‘He committed a crime and he can’t get away with it,’ she said. ‘As far as I know, there isn’t a statute of limitations on the sex abuse of children.’
I detected a dangerous splash of acid in her tone.
‘But the priest who abused you mightn’t be alive anymore. Or he might have been moved to another parish.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Wherever he is, he has to answer for what he did to me. And if not Father O’Halloran himself, then his bishop.’
I didn’t mean to sound so negative, but I felt panic-stricken. I wanted to spare her the anguish I was certain she would suffer. I’d never heard of any woman accusing a priest of sex abuse, especially so long after the event, and I was convinced she was embarking on a hopeless mission. No-one would be brought to justice and she would be the only person to suffer in the process.
I reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Aoife, I’m worried for you,’ I said. ‘I understand why you want to do this, and you have every right to try and make the church answer for what the priest did. But this happened so long ago. You’ll be alone, fighting such a powerful organisation, and who will believe you? Who will back you up? It will be your word against his. And from what you told me, everyone loved and respected him.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Well, I thought you’d be more supportive,’ she said. ‘Did you forget what you said the night I told you? That you’d stand by me no matter what?’
I poured some water into her glass from my Waterford decanter, and she sipped it slowly, perhaps to give herself time to calm down.
Then she said, ‘I don’t know who will believe me, if they will believe me, or if anyone will back me up. But I have to do this. If I don’t, I won’t be able to live with myself. I can’t be the only girl he abused. There must be others who have been too embarrassed or scared to come forward. Perhaps if I accuse him, they’ll find the courage to speak up too. And if they don’t, maybe in the future other girls will stand on my shoulders.’
I looked at her in dismay. She was about to embark on a painful journey that was bound to end in failure and despair. They would accuse her of trying to blacken the name of a respected priest, and no-one in that little town would have the courage to come forward.
I could see all this so clearly, and yet I was full of admiration for her, that she refused to be swayed by the price she might pay. I think if at that point she had agreed with me and given up, I would have been disappointed.
‘As soon as the war is over, I’m going to resign my job at the hospital, and go to Ireland,’ she said. ‘I don’t think it will be long now, do you? Even the Germans who come into the hospital look thin and depressed. In spite of the propaganda, they can see the writing on the wall.’
I envied her resolve. As for me, I had no idea what I would do when the war was finally over. As long as we were occupied, I didn’t have any choice. But what would I do when we were free to leave and resume normal life? And what would I do without her?
As soon as dinner was over, we went upstairs and made love for the first time in over a month. Our lovemaking was slow, gentle, almost valedictory, as if the sadness we felt had permeated every fibre of our bodies, inhibiting the usual wildness of our passion.
It took me a very long time to fall asleep that night. The images in my head succeeded each other like photographs spilled from an album and lying disordered and disconnected on the floor.
Aoife, Milly, Konrad, Mrs Deveraux. I sensed that there was a link somewhere that might make sense of it all if only I could find it.
I must have fallen asleep because in my dream I was running frantically in a misty landscape, searching for something that kept slipping away from me and vanishing in the mist as soon as I was about to close my hand on it. Suddenly I was sitting bolt upright, my eyes wide open. My heart was pounding and every nerve in my body was tingling as if I’d received an electric shock.
There it was, the connection that had eluded me.
Milly and Aoife.
Could it possibly be true? I had to find out.