Rosie was so taken aback by the serene beauty and simplicity of the scenes that her pressing problems were temporarily forgotten. ‘Did you paint them, Thomas?’ she asked.
He nodded but looked embarrassed and even when she moved nearer to examine them in more detail, he didn’t make any comment. Close up Rosie could see by the delicacy of the strokes and the careful shading of the colours that they weren’t the daubings of a novice, but an artist of some talent. She wondered why he’d never mentioned before that he could paint, and indeed why he was so unforthcoming now. ‘Did you do them when you were in hospital?’ she asked over her shoulder.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked in a defensive tone.
‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘There’s something dreamy about them, as if you painted the scene from a memory.’
‘You are very perceptive,’ he said, then cleared his throat as if he’d decided he would speak about it after all. ‘In fact I was trapped in a ward of men who cried out in pain night and day. I used to get the nurse to wheel me out on to the veranda to paint. It was my only way of escaping. Both these two pictures were images of England I kept in my head all the time out in Burma.’
‘Why haven’t you ever told me before that you can paint?’ she asked quietly.
‘It never came up.’ He turned away from her. ‘Besides, I don’t do it any more, so it isn’t relevant.’
Rosie had good reason to know that it was often the things which people tried to hide about themselves which were the most important.
‘I think it is relevant,’ she said, looking back at the picture of the cottage. She knew nothing about art, but she knew that what she was seeing was something special. She could look at this picture every day and never grow tired of it. ‘If you have such a talent you should use it.’
Thomas laughed, but there was a hollow ring to it. ‘Talent? It’s just a daub!’
‘That’s rubbish, and you know it,’ she snorted. ‘If you really thought that, you wouldn’t have had it framed and hung it on your wall. My guess is your real reason for not doing it any more is because it reminds you of life before you lost your leg.’
Thomas just looked at her. She knew then that she was right.
‘Well, Miss Bossy Boots,’ he said eventually. ‘If you’re through with the amateur psychiatrist bit, perhaps you’d like to tell me what brings you here tonight?’
Over a cup of tea Rosie told him what had happened, both seeing the Coronation and today’s events. Thomas let her get it all out without interrupting or making any comment. Even though she managed to describe the vile scenes she’d witnessed quite calmly, it was obvious she was stunned and appalled.
Thomas felt rage welling up inside him as he listened. He could scarcely believe that professional nursing staff were not only cruel enough to inflict such misery on helpless patients but also to allow an innocent sixteen-year-old to watch their atrocities.
He looked at Rosie and saw she was as fresh and pretty as always in a white short-sleeved blouse, her short hairstyle gleaming in the evening sun, but yet as he looked closer he saw that her blue eyes looked haunted.
His initial reaction was just to protect her, to keep her here tonight, try and make her forget what she’d seen and help her find a new job as fast as possible. But as Rosie went on speaking he realized she was far more incensed by the suffering of the patients than finding herself forced into such a loathsome job.
‘The thought of going back into that ward tomorrow makes me sick to the stomach,’ she said finally. ‘But I can’t just run away, can I?’
Her humanity touched him deeply. He had learned the art of looking the other way while atrocities were committed back in the camp. The word for it there was survival. But Thomas felt sure that each and every man who like him had been in that position found it difficult later on to live with their cowardice.
He thought it might be the same for Rosie. If he encouraged her to leave now without attempting to do something to help those patients it might very well become another burden of guilt for her to carry with her.
‘There’s a bolthole here if you need it,’ he said. ‘But I think you want to do something more positive than just run away, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know, Thomas.’ She ran her hand distractedly through her hair. ‘I’d like to do something, anything, to help those poor people, but I’m the most junior charge-hand. What experience do I have? I haven’t even been inside another asylum to see what they are like. How can I do anything?’
Thomas thought for a moment. ‘You could do a great deal,’ he said at length. ‘Not by tackling anyone head-on yourself, but by gathering information and giving it to someone who is better-placed to deal with it.’
‘But who is better-placed?’ she asked bitterly. ‘After what I’ve seen today I’ll never believe in doctors or nurses again. In fact I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust anyone.’
‘Well, there’s Miss Pemberton for a start,’ he said.
Rosie opened her mouth to make an angry retort.
‘She couldn’t know such terrible things were going on at Carrington Hall,’ Thomas said quickly, ‘or she wouldn’t have sent you there. I guarantee that she’ll move heaven and earth to get things changed just as soon as I tell her. Then there’s Mr and Mrs Cook too. I can’t see them refusing to help when their own son might be at risk.’
‘Should I ring them and tell them?’ Rosie’s voice rose in panic as if she felt unable to alarm them in such a way.
‘Let me speak to Miss Pemberton first,’ Thomas said gently. ‘She’ll know the best way to tackle it. I’ll ring her later tonight if you like and talk to her about it.’
Rosie fell silent for a moment or two.
‘What is it?’ Thomas asked.
‘What if Linda was right and Matron does know all about me,’ she blurted out, her eyes turning almost navy blue with anxiety. ‘She’s bound to tell everyone, especially if she realizes I’m responsible for making trouble.’
From what Rosie had said, Thomas felt that Matron Barnes was not only an affront to the nursing profession, but an evil, conniving woman who was lining her own nest at the expense of the patients.
‘I think you’ll have to prepare yourself for that, Rosie,’ he said bluntly. ‘You know what they say about “you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs”. But awful though that may seem, you must hold on to the fact that you have done nothing personally to be ashamed of, whereas she has a great deal. Either myself or Miss Pemberton can remind her of that!’
Rosie half smiled at Thomas’s hint at blackmail, but she was still a little uncertain. She wanted to do as Thomas suggested, and she knew she was perfectly capable of being as sneaky as Maureen if she put her mind to it. But could she actually go back there, and stand by and watch terrible things happening day after day without breaking down?
Thomas watched her face and, guessing what she was thinking, he felt deeply for her. She was in for a rough ride, that much was certain. But yet it might be the making of her, a chance to do something she could be proud of.
‘Do you care enough to speak out for those patients on your ward?’
He watched her face and saw a flame of courage light up in her eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
‘And are you tough enough to clean up and feed those patients for a little longer, and brave enough to risk being exposed as a murderer’s daughter?’
Rosie gulped. She thought of people sneering at her, whispering behind her back, but then she made herself remember Aylwood with that brush, and Monica’s screams, and Saunders leering at Angela. ‘Yes, I think I am.’
‘Good girl,’ he said, leaning forward in his seat and clapping one strong hand over her smaller one. ‘Now, as from tomorrow you must keep a day-by-day report. Everything you see which seems wrong or cruel you must jot down; the time, the patient concerned, and who did it. Listen at doors, keep your eyes open.’
‘I’l
l feel like Mata Hari,’ she giggled nervously.
‘It won’t be for very long. I’ll get you help somehow and you can come here any evening if it helps. Post me the daily reports for safety if you aren’t coming over and ring me at the shop if there’s any emergency. You’d better run along back there now and behave normally, but I’ll get things moving my end. Have you got the Cooks’ telephone number on you? Miss Pemberton might need it.’
Rosie felt very much better as she rode home on the bus. She had a goal now, and although she dreaded tomorrow morning, at least she could think that every moment spent in the ward served a clear purpose. Perhaps too she could find a more humane way of washing the patients tomorrow, or other small things to alleviate their misery. She must stop dreading the job and think of it as a challenge.
It was half past ten when Thomas hobbled back up the stairs from the shop telephone. But for once he didn’t feel like a cripple, but a soldier going into battle.
Violet Pemberton sounded almost faint with shock when Thomas told her the story, and like himself her first reaction was to get Rosie out of there. But after a few minutes of discussion she came round to his way of thinking. She said she was certain that Lionel Brace-Coombes was unaware of what was going on, but she would speak to other contacts who knew the home to find their views on this. It was her suggestion that they leave Rosie for about a week to compile her diary, then she would call on Lionel and ask him if he could make an unexpected visit to the home because she suspected something was badly wrong. As she pointed out, it would be very wrong of them not to give the man a chance to prove he hadn’t condoned brutality and neglect at the home. And only a guilty man would refuse to do as she suggested. She intended to speak to the Cooks too and enlist their help.
As Thomas limped into his living-room he glanced across and saw his painting of the cottage, and half smiled as he remembered Rosie’s questions about it earlier in the evening.
She was a smart girl. Not quite right about why he didn’t paint or draw any more, but close. Once he’d never been without a sketch pad, seizing the odd free moment while working at Smithfield market, Sundays down by the docks with Heather beside him. He’d had a dream of becoming an artist, though in those days he couldn’t afford decent paper or anything more than water colours.
Later in the camp it had become his lifeline, drawing on anything he could find, bits of old planking and bark once the precious supplies of paper ran out. Some men drew their mates, or the guards, but not him; he drew scenes from home, flowers and birds, anything to keep up his optimism and take his mind off hunger.
These two paintings had been the only ones out of dozens he’d done in hospital which he could bear to keep and look at. He’d been trying to preserve his sanity by painting the images which came into his mind, but all except these two were ugly, dark scenes, of emaciated men carrying bamboo coffins, queuing for a bowl of rice, staggering under heavy baskets of stones, of a man tied spread-eagled to poles, while a grinning Japanese guard whipped him almost to the point of death. He’d destroyed those pictures and put the paints away, vowing he’d never touch them again.
If Rosie could march back to Carrington Hall so bravely, and risk exposing all her old demons, to help a handful of forgotten people who would never even know it was she who saved them, then perhaps it was time he found the courage to face his own demons too.
Rosie discovered the next day that although finding a faeces-daubed room was no less disgusting the second time around, there were indeed ways of making the patients’ bathing less horrific. There was no choice but to don the big rubber apron, or to grab Monica firmly by the arms and drag her to the shower, but by smiling and batting her eyelashes at Saunders she managed to persuade him that warm water washed better and quicker than cold. He shouted at her loudly when she refused to use the long-handled brush and instead took a cloth and soap to Monica. His argument was that she’d be soaked, or that Monica would claw at her, but while holding the patient there was little he could do about it, and Monica stopped screaming almost immediately.
Rosie didn’t know enough about any of the patients to ascertain whether they’d all been a bit calmer today than they were yesterday, or if her gentler approach was what lessened the struggling and screaming. It could of course have been merely that she was a new face, or even that she was becoming immune to the screaming herself.
Fortunately Saunders wasn’t as vigilant as Aylwood. He lost interest when she was drying the patients. He moved back to look out of the window which gave her an opportunity to examine more closely some of the scars on their bodies which he claimed were self-inflicted. Rosie knew they weren’t; she’d seen too many lacerations in the past from canes and belts to be fooled, and the sort of bruises she was seeing on buttocks, thighs and shins could only come from a heavy boot. She glanced at Saunders’ stout brown brogues and shuddered.
When all the patients were clean again and back in their rooms, Rosie felt almost euphoric. She knew of course that tomorrow Aylwood would be back and that almost certainly Saunders would follow her lead and revert back to the old bathing methods, but she was optimistic that the staff nurse might be lazy enough to relinquish the chore to her. As soon as Simmonds arrived with the breakfast trolley though, Rosie saw that if Saunders was deprived of one sadistic act, he had to find another.
Mabel was the first victim of his spite. Like the previous day she was lying on the bed board, wailing as Saunders unlocked her door. Rosie was just behind him carrying the feeding cup of very runny porridge Simmonds had handed to her. Saunders grabbed hold of the old lady by one arm, yanked her up into a sitting position, and without waiting a moment or two for her to catch her breath, he just tipped her head back and began to pour the contents into her mouth.
Rosie could not credit what she was seeing. He poured the porridge so fast Mabel couldn’t possibly swallow it quickly enough and it began to run out of her nose.
‘Don’t,’ Rosie yelled, rushing forward to try and stop him. ‘You’ll choke her.’
He stopped just long enough to grin maniacally at Rosie. ‘I haven’t got all day to pander to her,’ he said. ‘Besides she’s used to it this way.’
Rosie shook with anger and nausea as he continued. To be forced to watch that poor deformed little woman, bravely trying to gulp it down, her hands fluttering uselessly in a vain protest, was one of the most distressing sights she’d ever seen. Rosie had an overwhelming desire to pick up the entire porridge pot from the trolley, tip it over his head, then kick him in the genitals.
She could do so little to make amends afterwards. She wiped Mabel’s mouth and nose and gently helped her back down on to the bed board, but Saunders was waiting to lock Mabel in and move on to the next patient.
Fortunately Saunders obviously found feeding patients beneath him, and after Mabel he ordered Rosie to see to all the ones who couldn’t do it themselves, as he stood by the door with his arms crossed, tutting at how long she took. Monica hadn’t eaten more than a couple of mouthfuls yesterday when the spoon was in one of Aylwood’s hands, while the other gripped the back of Monica’s neck. Rosie didn’t copy this cruel method; she held Monica firmly; but gently around the shoulders, at times encouraging her by stroking her, and talking softly as she would have done to a child. To her delight Monica’s mouth opened of its own volition, the food wasn’t spat back and she didn’t fight her.
Later on in the morning, as Coates was cleaning the corridor floor and Saunders sitting reading in the rest room, Rosie went into the office and stole a look at the patients’ notes lying in a heap on the desk. She had hoped to discover if there was a good reason why some of the patients like Mabel were given so little to eat. A bowl of runny porridge didn’t seem enough; even though she had no teeth she could have managed scrambled egg. But she was disappointed, there was nothing in the notes that she understood aside from a temperature chart. Dr Freed’s handwriting was illegible and Aylwood hadn’t added anything further. She came to the conclusion
that the only ones who got a decent meal were those still able to feed themselves.
There was a filing cabinet tucked into a corner and a quick try of the drawers proved it unlocked. She didn’t dare investigate it now, not until she’d discovered what Saunders was doing and his plans for the rest of the morning. So she decided to go and find him and see what she could find out. He was still in the rest room, reading the newspaper. Rosie plonked herself down beside him.
‘Have you seen this about Edmund Hillary conquering Everest?’ he asked, waving the paper excitedly at her. ‘The first man to reach the summit,’ he said as if she didn’t know, and began to read her some extracts.
Under any other circumstances Rosie would have been anxious to read all this herself and discuss it with almost anyone as she thought it was a wonderful, brave achievement. But she had much more important things on her mind today than mountaineering, and too much disgust for this man to hold an unnecessary conversation with him.
‘What’s up?’ he asked as she began fidgeting.
‘Bored,’ she said. ‘What on earth do you do up here all day to pass the time?’
‘This,’ he said, rustling the paper. ‘I read them all, every word.’
Rosie looked sideways at him. He was such an awful-looking man, and now she knew how sadistic he was she could hardly bear to breathe the same air as him. She wondered what prompted him to work with the mentally handicapped. Was it because he was always a bully, or had the job brought that out in him?