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 dis
may 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.
Next came scrambled egg with tiny cubes of fried bread. Rosie had to assume it was cut like that to eat with spoons. But many of them ignored the spoons and ate it with their fingers, cramming it into their mouths so fast she thought they couldn’t possibly be chewing.
As Rosie spread slices of bread and marge with a thin layer of marmalade, she found herself thinking back to Mrs Bentley and her continual carping about ‘table manners’ and wondering what she’d make of this lot. Donald was the only one who ate with some dignity, and Rosie wondered why that was. Had he only recently been admitted, or was it because he was a bit brighter than the others and so retained things he’d been taught as a child?
Mary came down from the second floor at nine to join them, complaining bitterly that one of the patients had eaten her breakfast, then vomited it up all over her, forcing her to change her entire uniform and even her stockings too. She flopped down in a chair and said she was already exhausted. It seemed that Linda was staying on the second floor today.
Matron had informed Rosie that as part of her duties as a chargehand she was to mop over the day room, dormitories and corridor floors with disinfectant, make the beds and scrub out the bathrooms. She’d said that Rosie was to look at the rota and see what jobs she’d been allocated. Maureen, however, didn’t seem to care what was on the rota; she said that Simmonds was already making a start on one of the dormitories and that she and Mary would tackle the day room. Rosie could join Simmonds and do the rest.
Rosie agreed willingly. She suspected from Mary’s raised eyebrows that this wasn’t exactly a fair allocation of work, but to her it was preferable to being locked in the day room with the patients. The feeling of revulsion hadn’t diminished. It made her flesh crawl to watch them shuffling about aimlessly, scratching at themselves, picking their noses. She wondered if she’d ever be able to talk to them. They didn’t even appear to communicate with one another.
‘You could take Donald to help you,’ Mary suggested. ‘He’s good at cleaning and it gives him something to do. He always helps me.’
Rosie shuddered. She had visions of Donald grabbing her again as he had last night, and no one being around to stop him.
‘He’s quite safe,’ Mary said quietly. ‘Just look at him!’
Rosie turned to see Donald standing by the door. His face was anxious; he was smoothing down his blond hair as if trying to make himself look more attractive to her. Something clicked inside Rosie. She’d seen that very same expression on Alan’s face so many times in his older brothers’ presence. Wanting to be liked, ready to do anything.
‘Okay, Donald, you’ll be my helper,’ Rosie said with some reluctance, but she was rewarded with a wide, merry smile.
*
Within half an hour of being alone with Donald in the first dormitory, Rosie found that she was not only very glad of his help, but she saw that Maureen was probably correct in saying he didn’t really need to be here at all.
He knew exactly what to do. He had the clean sheets and pillowcases out of a cupboard and on to a trolley before she could even think where to start. Then he led her down to the end of the row of beds, quickly threw the blankets and pillow on to the next one, then spread out the clean bottom sheet.
‘L-l-like this,’ he stammered, showing her a special way of doing neat corners. ‘Hospital c-c-corners. S-s-sister showed me.’
He said very little as they worked, but Rosie found herself smiling at the pride he took in his work. The top sheet had to be turned down just so, and the pillow plumped up and positioned carefully. He was quicker and more efficient than many of the nurses she’d observed during her stay in hospital. When they’d finished the women’s dormitory they joined Simmonds in the men’s to help her, and Donald showed Rosie which was his bed, the only dry one, down by the window.
‘I l-l-like to look at the g-g-garden in the morning,’ he stuttered. ‘I w-w-wish I could g-g-go out there, wh-wh-when I like.’
This wistful remark put Donald’s and the other patients’ predicament into perspective. Already just a few hours into the day, Rosie was hankering to go outside and breathe in the fresh air. Her entire life there had been wide open spaces just beyond the back door. But she could go out this evening, sniff flowers in gardens, walk in streets and fields if she chose, yet poor Donald, through no fault of his own, was destined to spend all day, every day trapped in here, viewing the outside world through a window.
Later Donald showed her where the buckets, mops and cleaning materials were kept, and sped off into the sluice room to fill the buckets with hot water. Simmonds took one bucket from him and began to mop down the corridor, and Rosie and Donald worked side by side along each of the dormitories. Again he was thorough, taking care to wring out the mop properly. Rosie felt his silence was probably because he was very aware of his stutter, yet he was agreeable company, and she found his way of taking the bucket from her to empty and refill it rather touching.
Simmonds had left the ward to help down in the kitchen when they moved on to clean the lavatories and bathrooms. To Rosie’s horror someone had defecated on the floor just inside one of them.
Rosie retched, and Donald grabbed her arm pulling her back. ‘I’ll d-d-do it,’ he said.
She almost let him, but a glance at his face proved he was as squeamish as she was about such things. ‘No, Donald,’ she said, and smiled reassuringly at him. ‘It’s my job. You just get some more hot water.’
By the time he came back
to the lavatory, Rosie had managed to scoop up the offending mess with some toilet paper and flushed it away. Donald looked relieved. ‘It’s S-s-sister’s fault,’ he stammered. ‘She d-d-doesn’t always unlock us in t-time, not even wh-wh-when we shout that w-w-we want to go.’
Rosie couldn’t imagine that was the reason for this mess; if a patient had got as far as the lavatory, to her mind he or she could manage to sit over the bowl. But all the same Donald’s remark stuck in her mind and when they got back into the day room just after eleven having finished all the cleaning, she thought she’d ask the other girls if what he’d said about Sister Welbred was true.
Maureen and Mary were busy repositioning the armchairs after the floor had been washed. But when Rosie put her question to them, to her amazement Mary, who was bending over, jerked upright, her face tightened, then said, as if she hadn’t heard the question, that it was time she made the ‘elevenses’.
As Rosie watched Mary’s unduly rapid departure from the day room, Maureen moved nearer to her. ‘You’ll make a lot of enemies if you start asking too many questions,’ she said crisply.
Rosie frowned, she didn’t understand what Maureen meant. ‘But surely if we have to keep cleaning up messes that aren’t necessary, we should do something about it?’
Maureen just looked at her for a moment, sighed and then sat down in an easy chair, beckoning for Rosie to join her. ‘Look,’ she said wearily. ‘It’s true that some of the patients are a bit scared of Sister so they don’t call out at night or first thing in the morning when they want to go. If you want my opinion, I’d say we’d get no more than two wet beds a night and hardly ever a messed one if there was a lav the patients could get into on their own.
‘But on the other hand, we find messes like the one you found quite often, at all times of the day. I reckon it’s Archie, he’s got some disgusting habits as you’ll soon find out. So don’t go giving your opinions about anything until you know how it really is here, not unless you want to find yourself very unpopular.’