Aunt M and I drove the long journey north. She borrowed a little green Austin from one of her women friends and the old thing fairly rattled as we travelled the winding country roads. Some might describe it as an 'old banger'; it was ancient like most cars that are privately owned. It must be thirty years old. M drives it as if she were in a race or rally, often not even bothering to slow down, even for the corners. She said she would love to drive one of those new American cars, an Oldsmobile or a 'Chevvy'. I secretly wonder though if she has ever actually been taught to drive; it wouldn't surprise me if she didn't actually have a licence. I don't mind telling you that I spent much of the journey with my fingers gripping the stuffing coming out of the sides of the worn leather seat.
M has so much life in her despite the tragedies that have befallen us. It was almost fun despite my fear. Like an adventure. I haven't had many adventures. Apart from when we were evacuated and the odd trip to places like Brighton, it made me realise I have never really been anywhere J. Just like you I have never had a holiday. Most of my short life spent in and around dirty grey London. Just driving North sparked a feeling I did not know that I had. A sort of 'wanderlust' I suppose you could call it. There is so much of the world that I only know from books. And that little modest trip made me want to see it. To see it all with you.
M says she has plans to go to America. Wouldn't that be amazing? I would so love to see New York with its glittering skyscrapers and colour. It must be so very glamorous. M wants to meet up with the organised women there; the ones protesting openly against the war. She doesn't exactly know how she will do it, but, she says, people do escape with help, just like Phillip fantasised about when he wooed me. Apparently they go from Liverpool or Glasgow and then perhaps through Ireland. Did you know that there are Catholic Irish Nationalists campaigning against the war and that they commit terrorists acts against the Empire? M says they help smuggle people to America. Smuggled on the freighters making their return journey across the Atlantic. She is so full of hope. I take so much strength from her it is hard to describe.
It is now nearly five months since our dear D was taken from us and I know that I must continue to be strong. Especially for mother and also for you my dear J. I do not honestly think that I could have had the strength to carry on without Aunt M.
Anyway, back to our trip. It took us all of six and a half hours to reach the vicinity of Newcastle and arrive at our destination. Despite my description of Aunt M's hair-raising driving, the car itself as you can imagine, wasn't especially fast. We had made sure that we left very early because we knew we would have to make the round trip in one day, as I had to work the very next day.
Once there it took us a while to find the village and the hospital where your mother is, but when we did it soon stripped away the small sense of adventure that I had flippantly gained during the drive. The hospital was such a very grim place; all dark corridors and dampness everywhere. It is most unkempt, as if no one ever cared or looked after the place. Not exactly what I would describe as clean. You would not like it J. And strangely it seemed to be very understaffed. There were lots of women patients there, but very few nurses. The patients roam the corridors in dirty hospital gowns; the lucky few had dressing gowns and slippers, but many seemed to be cold and disorientated. I ran my fingers along several of the dusty radiators and it was obvious that the heating was clearly not working. I am sad to report this to you J, but I must be honest and tell you that it is one of the most dreadful places I have ever seen.
No one challenged us as we walked in; there was no one at the reception desk. We asked the first nurse we encountered about your mother, but she simply dismissed us with a scowl and a flick of her wrist. She was too busy anyway, restraining a patient in distress. The woman was dribbling and moaning and flailing about; dried sick on her hospital night gown and a smell I cannot even begin to describe. It is disgusting that they should be left to rot in their distress. I wanted to have words with the nurse, I was so angry; wanting to question her about how the woman could be treated so inhumanely, but M dragged me away saying that there was nothing we could do. In the past, before D went, I would have been less forthright in rocking the boat in such a situation, but now all I can feel is the injustice of it all welling up inside my chest.
So many of the women here are in such a dreadful state. Like the men you describe at the Front who are driven mad by the horror and fear, on the home-front we have a horde of women driven mad by grief and loss. There must be places like that hospital hidden away all over the country. That's what M said anyway.
It is hideous that it is something that remains unsaid. These women are another forgotten tragedy of this war. So many forgotten tragedies.
I apologise J, for ranting so. You must want to know about your mother. Eventually we found her, another nurse showed us to the ward where she is. The nurse was curt and rude, saying that strictly speaking only relatives were allowed to visit. M was simply calm and insistent and we were eventually allowed in.
Your mother was lying on a bed at the far end. Luckily this ward seemed quieter and calmer than some of the others. It was mainly older women lying still; sniffing and mumbling, as if they were simply waiting to die. So sad.
It is hard for me to describe J, but I must. Your mother was strapped to the bed with buckled leather restraints. The stern nurse stood watching as we sat and held her hands. She looked so thin and M said afterwards that she looked so much older than before. Her face has a gaunt look, as if worry itself had been drawing lines across her delicate cheeks. I could see how she must have been so beautiful when she was younger. M says she was the most vibrant person she ever met. It pains me to tell you that this is no longer the case.
For a while we simply watched her sleeping, and then, when the nurse moved off to deal with another patient, M leant in, stroked your mother's hair and whispered for her to wake up.
I had feared that she would not be fully lucid but she recognised M straight away and smiled such a smile when she opened her eyes. As if her younger self was bursting through in her smile. Her eyes are bright; full of knowing J, despite her otherwise disheartening appearance. I could see your eyes in hers.
We whispered quickly in hushed tones as the nurse was fussing at the other end of the ward. M introduced me and I explained to her about you and your letters. She was most gratified to know that you are still alive and safe for the moment. I showed her a couple of your letters. Held them for her to read. Her eyes misted over and I am not sure she could take in your words but there was recognition. As if each word of your neat inked handwriting were a connection between you. I could see the love that she has for you in her eyes.
M asked her about why she was there and what had happened. The shocking fact is that there is nothing wrong with your mother, she has no mental disorder and should most certainly not be restrained in an asylum. She is there, dear J, because she was deemed to have resisted the government, protested openly against the war. Apparently she threw eggs at the Prime Minister. A silly and unbelievably small thing. I couldn't believe it. That they would send her away for such a petty thing.
Once she had been arrested, I am sorry to say, she was beaten. Terribly I think, perhaps to try and gain information, although I don't know the details. To think, both you and your mother beaten like that, for no justifiable reason. They accused her of plotting against the government, of being a 'ringleader' of the WRA - the Women's Resistance Army. They called her a terrorist. She was instrumental, they said, in some plot to assassinate top government ministers.
But the fact is they had no real evidence of any of that. They tried to beat a confession out of her, tortured her I think. But she was strong, so unbelievably brave and strong, that she wouldn't admit to anything or put any of her friends in danger. It brings a tear to my eye that she suffered so but still had such strength of character.
I do hope you don't finding this too distressing to read about my dear J. It upsets me when I think about her getting beate
n so, and you getting beaten so, and I wonder what I would do in such a situation. Would I be strong enough to resist?
So in the end, as there was no evidence against your mother, apart from a solitary egg, all they could do was to shut her up and make sure she couldn't be a nuisance anymore. So they had her certified as insane; some cooperative doctor paid off to sign the forms. And they sent her to that travesty of a hospital, with instructions to be restrained at all times, so that she cannot escape. She is imprisoned without any fair trial. It is inhumane and barbaric. Just for having views contrary to the powers that be. Just for throwing an egg. It is almost unbelievable.
Your mother told us of what her accusers had done and what they said about her, but she refused to tell us anything of whether any of their accusations were true. She told us that it was probably best that we didn't know.
M and I, though, do believe it to be true. I think she is a leader of the resistance to this war. I believe your mother to be a truly heroic woman. Perhaps she is the bravest person I have ever met.
I asked her why she had thrown the egg; such an obvious act of defiance, one that was bound to get