Rosie (20 page)

The very first day he came into her ward, she saw that light in his eye that said he hadn’t yet been worn down by the hopelessness of mental institutions. She listened to him telling a belligerent nurse that the mentally incompetent were still people and that they must be treated with compassion, and she knew he was the one to help her.

She dogged his footsteps every time he did his rounds. Offering him assistance with difficult patients, volunteering information about them. Then finally the day came when he asked her to tell him about herself.

That was how she got the job here at Carrington Hall. She could barely read or write, which ruled out almost every other job, and she’d grown used to looking after the mentally ill. So she was sent here on a month’s trial, and now she’d been here for almost three years.

She looked across the narrow divide between her bed and the new girl’s and felt so very envious of her. She had everything: she was pretty, she had nice clothes and even the photograph on her bedside table showed that she had loving parents. She wouldn’t stick it here for long.

Watching the girl sleep with one arm curled around her head, Maureen felt a little guilty that she’d agreed to tell Matron every last thing about her. Rosemary seemed nice and it didn’t seem fair to spy on her and pass back information. But then Matron had insisted there was no other way, not unless she wanted to end up in another place like Luckmore Grange.

Rosie awoke with a start as a bell rang.

‘Time to get up,’ Maureen said, leaping out of bed. ‘Put something plain on for now. You’ll get your uniform after breakfast.’

Rosie rubbed her eyes and got out of bed. She picked up her washbag and towel and went next door to the bathroom. By the time she got back, Maureen was already fully dressed.

‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to be downstairs in five minutes.’

Rosie wondered where the girl had washed and brushed her teeth. There didn’t appear to be another bathroom anywhere. She hastily pulled on her navy skirt and a white blouse, then brushed her hair and secured it at the back of her neck with a rubber band.

Everywhere was silent as they walked down the three flights of stairs, presumably all the patients were still asleep. But Rosie could smell that distinctive odour of ammonia wafting out from under the locked doors and it was an unpleasant reminder not only of what this job would entail, but also of her brother Seth.

At the foot of the stairs they turned left into the single-storey part of the building where Maureen had taken her last night to show her the staff rooms and laundry.

Breakfast was laid in a small dark room just off the kitchen. The clock on the wall said it was only six-thirty and the small strip of sky she could see beyond a thick bush outside the barred window was dark grey. Rosie and Maureen were the first to arrive, and took seats at a table laid with eight places, but they were joined a few minutes later by two girls in their twenties, both in the chargehands’ maroon uniform.

Maureen introduced them as Mary Connor and Linda Bell, the girls who she’d mentioned last night. She explained to them that Rosie had arrived while they were out and she’d shown her round.

They appeared to be entirely disinterested, merely nodding at her. Rosie wasn’t sure if this was hostility or just because they were barely awake.

Linda Bell looked the eldest, a buxom girl with short dark hair and bad skin. She sat down opposite Rosie and began pouring herself a giant portion of cornflakes.

Mary Connor hesitated before grabbing the cornflakes box, and, perhaps aware that they were being rude, she looked at Rosie and passed it to her first. ‘You’d better tuck in too. You want to eat everything on offer at breakfast, it always seems for ever till dinner time,’ she said.

Her accent was a soft and melodious Irish one. She looked a couple of years younger than Linda – small and dumpy, but pretty, with fluffy blonde hair and grey-blue eyes. Rosie liked the look of her.

She was too nervous to be hungry, and poured only a tiny amount of cereal. But when a much older woman wearing a white overall brought in plates of bacon, eggs and fried bread and silently plonked one down in front of her, just as she finished the cornflakes, it smelled and looked so appetizing that she began to eat it.

‘That’s Pat Clack,’ Mary Connor said as soon as the older woman had disappeared back into the kitchen. ‘She was a patient here at one time, but now she does the cooking. She’s a funny old bird. She hardly speaks, sometimes she doesn’t seem to hear either, but she’s a good cook.’

‘All the domestic staff are a bit –’ Bell put her finger to her head implying they were simple. ‘Matron finds them. She likes to have people she can control.’

As Rosie ate in silence, wishing someone would speak again, she became aware of the noisy way in which Maureen was eating. A glance sideways at the girl made her feel nauseous – she was chewing with her mouth wide open, smacking her lips and barely swallowing one mouthful before stuffing in the next one. It was a disgusting sight and a sixth sense told her that Linda and Mary hated it too. Maybe that was why they weren’t too friendly?

Over a second cup of tea and a third piece of toast, Rosie felt brave enough to speak and ask where Mary and Linda came from, and if they liked working here.

Mary smiled, her eyes holding enough warmth to banish any idea that Rosie might not be welcome here. ‘Linda’s from London. I’m Irish as I’m sure you guessed, from Cork. Do we like it here? Do we hell! You’d have to be mad to
like
it. What about you? Your accent sounds like West Country. What makes you want to work in a nuthouse?’

Rosie grinned at this string of explanations and questions. ‘I want to be a nurse, so I thought this would fill in till I’m eighteen.’

‘Gravedigging would fill in just as well,’ Linda said darkly, her cockney accent reminding Rosie sharply of Heather. ‘You won’t last ‘ere till you’re eighteen.’

The arrival of Matron in the doorway halted any further conversation.

‘Jackson, Bell, upstairs!’ she said curtly, her expression saying
now, not when it suits you.
‘Connor, help with the breakfast trolley. Smith, come with me.’

Rosie looked back before meekly following Matron. Linda Bell was pulling a face at the woman’s back, and she winked at Rosie as if to say they were all united in their dislike of their superior.

Matron led Rosie along the narrow passage, past the staff sitting-room and the laundry. Two older women in dark green overalls were in there, one stirring a giant steaming copper, the other feeding dripping wads of clothing through a big wringer. They looked round as Rosie passed. The one stirring waved.

Matron did not speak until she’d unlocked a door some ten feet from the laundry. Then she turned to Rosie, looking her up and down. Last night Rosie had been more concerned with this woman’s formidable presence than her physical appearance, but now she noticed too that her looks were as unattractive as her sour manner. Dark beady eyes were set too close together and a lifetime of scowling had furrowed her forehead and puckered her mouth. Her skin had an unhealthy grey tinge, and a dark moustache seemed to emphasize her large yellow protruding teeth.

She wasn’t evenly fat all over, but lumpy; indeed she had a roll of fat around her hips which jutted out like a shelf. More fat squished over her lace-up shoes, and from beneath the white starched cuffs of her uniform on her upper arms, another roll squelched out. Yet more worrying than the woman’s appearance was a sense of antagonism which wafted out of her like the unpleasant smells everywhere in this place, and worse still it appeared to be directed right at Rosie.

‘All the uniforms will be too big for you,’ Matron said in a tone which implied this was Rosie’s fault. ‘Are you any good with a needle?’

Rosie could darn socks, sew on buttons and she’d made a blouse in needlework at school, but she wasn’t sure she could take in a uniform. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Well, either you are or you aren’t,’ Matron snapped. ‘I can’t stand indecisive people.’

‘I can sew. I meant I wasn’t sure I could take in a uniform,’ Rosie retorted. Then, remembering what Maureen had said about ‘keeping in with her’, she added, ‘I could try.’

Matron opened the door she’d unlocked, snapped on a light and went in, leaving Rosie in the passageway. It was a vast cupboard, the walls lined with wide shelves. On one side were neat piles of staff uniforms in all the different colours Maureen had described. On the other side were more assorted clothes – skirts, grey trousers, jumpers, underwear, nightdresses and pyjamas. Rosie thought that these must be for the patients.

Matron rummaged through the maroon pile and pulled out two dresses, holding one up to Rosie. ‘That’s near enough,’ she said, even though it was several sizes too large and almost to Rosie’s feet. Three of everything came next – white starched aprons and caps, thick knickers, black lisle stockings – then one maroon cardigan and a black elastic belt. ‘Has Jackson explained about the laundry?’ she barked.

Rosie nodded. She was staggering under the pile of clothes. ‘It has to be in on Mondays. And aprons each day.’

‘You must sew a name tag in each item tonight.’ Matron handed her some tape and a marker pen. ‘Give me that back tomorrow morning.’

She was ordered then to go upstairs and to change into her uniform. She was to take no longer than fifteen minutes and then report back to Matron in Mrs Trow’s office in the hall, with her insurance card.

As they went back along past the dining-room Matron stopped by a small cupboard and unlocked it. It was full of keys and she took down one bunch and jingled them at Rosie. ‘These are yours now,’ she said. ‘If you lose them the cost will be deducted from your wages. The colour tag on each signifies which floor they are for. Red for down here, green for the first floor, blue for the staff wing. The number corresponds to the numbers on each door. You are only entrusted with keys to the rooms you need to go into.’

There was no time for Rosie to do anything more than dump the stuff on her bed and quickly change. The knickers were the large fleece-lined type she’d worn at school, and she looked at them in horror wondering who had worn them before her. As a compromise she pulled them on over the nice white cotton ones Miss Pemberton had bought her.

She had no suspender belt to hold up the stockings, so she couldn’t put those on. As for the dress, as she had expected, it reached almost to her ankles and it was several inches too wide.

She managed to hitch up the dress a little once she’d got the apron on and the belt round her middle, but when she looked in the mirror she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She looked ridiculous, like a small child dressed in adult clothes. And the maroon colour clashed with her hair. As she anchored the white cap to her hair she wondered if Maureen knew anything about altering clothes.

Matron was waiting for her in Mrs Trow’s office.

‘Where are your stockings?’ she asked, looking down at Rosie’s ankle socks with distaste.

‘I’m sorry but I haven’t got a suspender belt,’ Rosie stammered.

‘Garters are good enough. Make some tonight.’

Matron sat at the desk but didn’t offer Rosie a seat, or even look at her directly as she barked out all the ‘never’s: never to leave the day room unattended (two staff must be there at all times); never to bring in anything for a patient from outside, however innocent the request might seem; never to smoke in the day room and never to give the patients cigarettes or matches; never to discuss Carrington Hall with anyone and she must behave in a dignified manner at all times.

Rosie had fully expected the matron to be like Miss Pemberton, a bit brusque maybe, but interested enough in her staff to ask some personal questions, and how she was settling in. But to her dismay Matron seemed incapable of even the most lukewarm welcome.

‘You will have Tuesdays as your day off for the time being,’ she said eventually, giving her a look that suggested she hoped Rosie wouldn’t still be here in a week’s time. ‘You may go out on evenings when you aren’t working, but you must be back here by ten-thirty. Don’t think for one moment that your connection with Mr Brace-Coombes will give you any privileges. If you are late coming in or you break any of the rules, you will be sacked immediately. Now it’s time you got to work.’

The remark about Mr Brace-Coombes made Rosie wonder whether this could be the reason why Matron appeared to resent her. She opened her mouth to protest that she had no real connection with the owner of the home, but shut it again, aware that such a statement might make her position even more precarious. Instead she thanked the woman, although she hadn’t the slightest idea what she was thanking her for.

By the time she got up to the first floor to start work, many of the beds in the two dormitories had been stripped, but the pungent smell of ammonia still lingered despite wide open windows. Rosie was very glad she’d missed the first part of the day. She wasn’t sure she could cope with reminders of Seth’s wet beds on top of everything else.

All the patients she’d seen the night before, except for Aggie, were already dressed and sitting at the table in the day room waiting silently for their breakfast. Like last night they all stared vacantly at her. Aggie was dressed, but sitting on the floor in exactly the same place she’d been last night, rocking to and fro, cackling to herself.

Maureen was pouring out mugs of tea from an urn on a trolley, while an older woman called Simmonds, wearing a green overall, dished out bowls of porridge. Rosie couldn’t see Linda anywhere.

‘Pass the porridge round,’ Maureen ordered her, then looking sharply at Aggie she yelled, ‘Get up now, Aggie, otherwise you won’t get any.’

Aggie made some unintelligible reply, turned over till she was on all fours and crawled towards the table. Rosie thought this must be her normal way of getting about as no one appeared to see anything odd in it. As Rosie put a bowl and spoon in front of each of the patients they just fell on it as if they hadn’t eaten for a week.

Aggie eventually hauled herself up on to a chair, but there was obviously something badly wrong with her legs; she didn’t appear to be able to stand on them and there were several nasty-looking weeping lesions on them. She put her mouth right down to the bowl and virtually sucked in the porridge. It turned Rosie’s stomach.