Rosie

  ‘I find it inconceivable that the Matron could leave that floor without someone on duty at night,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘She should be horse-whipped. One of those patients could have a seizure, a fire could break out, anything.’

  Thomas agreed wholeheartedly but pointed out that such a callous disregard for the patients’ well-being might make it far easier for them to make all their other allegations stick. ‘Mr Cook, Donald’s father, called in there without any prior warning on Saturday afternoon,’ he went on. ‘He rang me later to report on what happened. As usual at that time, Matron was out and he spoke to Mrs Trow, who was very reluctant to let him see his son without Matron’s permission. Whilst in her office he managed to get a quick look at a staff rota. According to that, Staff Nurse Wilkinson is on night duty with a chargehand by the name of Giles. Rosie tells me she has never heard of or seen anyone with either of those names.’

  ‘You mean Matron is pocketing the wages of two nonexistent employees?’ Violet’s eyes nearly popped out of her head with shock.

  ‘Well, it looks that way,’ Thomas nodded. ‘And Rosie is convinced that most of the staff taken on by Matron are probably in her debt in some way. It would be very interesting to check out their records. I can bet we’ll find some rattling skeletons.’

  ‘One of the reasons I came up so quickly was because yesterday I contacted an old colleague of mine, Molly Ramsden,’ Violet said. ‘Molly was the first Matron at Carrington Hall: I recommended her to Lionel when he was setting up the home. Regretfully she had to leave to care for her sick mother in 1940, and Freda Barnes, who was a staff nurse then, took over as Matron. Molly told me that she went back to visit in 1942, and was surprised to find all the original staff had left. She asked for one or two addresses from Barnes, but she was given the brush-off, and when she asked to see some of the old patients, Barnes virtually showed her the door.’

  ‘Really?’ Thomas exclaimed, sitting down to pour the tea.

  ‘Suspicious, I thought,’ Violet sniffed. ‘I understand that Molly never liked Barnes, and it could be that this incident was merely a case of professional jealousy. But now with what we’ve learned from Rosie it looks very much as if Barnes was covering up something even then.’

  ‘Does your friend have any contact with any old employees?’ Thomas asked, handing her a cup of tea and offering the sugar.

  ‘Only one, Lucy Whitwell, who was employed as cook, again right from the opening of Carrington Hall.’ Violet refused the sugar and sipped her tea. ‘Whitwell wrote to Molly in 1943, appealing to her to give her a reference as she’d been sacked by Barnes, supposedly for stealing provisions. In the long and bitter letter she claimed that if any provisions had gone missing Barnes was almost certainly responsible, as she held the store room keys. Molly was inclined to take Whitwell’s part, as in her time at the home she had found the woman an excellent cook and a very honest woman. So she provided a reference and Whitwell was taken on at a nursing home in Bexhill. She is still there; in fact, they exchange Christmas cards each year. Molly believes she would be very glad to give evidence about her experiences with Barnes should the need arise.’

  Thomas thought for a moment as he drank his tea.

  ‘Have you had any further thoughts on why Brace-Coombes allows Barnes to have so much freedom in running his home?’ he said at length. ‘Or why the doctor there hasn’t made any complaints?’

  ‘I’ve done some checking on him. It seems Dr Freed is well over sixty-five and semi-retired. He has been the Carrington House doctor for some six or seven years and calls a couple of mornings a week. As he has spent his entire working life in mental asylums, he’s probably too hardened to notice anything more dramatic than an epidemic or a spate of sudden deaths.’ Violet pursed her lips. ‘But to be fair to the man, it’s quite easy for day staff to have everything shipshape when a doctor always calls at the same time. The patients are hardly capable of making coherent complaints, and if the staff don’t bring anything to his notice there wouldn’t be any reason for him to be alarmed.’

  ‘And Brace-Coombes?’

  Violet shrugged. ‘He is only a businessman, not a doctor. I’m sure Rosie has told you he founded the asylum to keep his wife there, and the place was a credit to him. I know that he was devastated when Ayleen died and felt it had to be kept open in her memory. But he found it painful to visit afterwards. I dare say that Barnes found it very easy to bamboozle poor old Lionel into giving her complete authority. It seems she has a talent for manipulating people.’

  ‘That doesn’t excuse him.’

  Violet’s eyes were sad. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  Along with finding Thomas rather attractive, Violet found him somewhat intriguing. If she hadn’t known what his background was, she would have placed him as a grammar-school boy from a lower-middle-class home. Certainly not from an east London slum. But being something of a snoop – she had to be as a social worker – she had made it her business to find out a good bit more about him. A first-class soldier, well liked by his peers and respected by his senior officers. Before the loss of his leg he had been a keen sportsman and was earmarked for promotion. She thought it sad he had ended up as a watch repairer. He deserved better.

  ‘Tell me, Thomas,’ she said. ‘Before all this cropped up, did you ever doubt a doctor’s or a nurse’s opinion?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Thomas half smiled. ‘Because they are trained and I’m not.’

  ‘Quite,’ she said crisply. ‘In fact, for all you know your leg may never have needed to come off. But you wouldn’t have argued with the surgeon’s decision would you? We all put our faith in professionals at some time, be it doctors, lawyers, priests or dentists, believing them to be honourable. But in fact I’ve seen surgeons operate that I wouldn’t trust to carve a joint of meat. I know nurses who’ve been drunk on duty and lawyers who chose to defend their client badly because one of their chums was acting for the prosecution.’

  Thomas looked alarmed. ‘Well, who can we trust then?’

  ‘A great many people,’ she smiled. ‘Fortunately the rotten apples are in the minority. I was only making a point about Lionel, because that poor devil is the one who is likely to take the real flak once all this is exposed. We may be able to make certain Barnes never nurses again, with luck she might end up on criminal charges. Dr Freed might get a reprimand, but Lionel is very likely to have his name dragged through the mire.’

  ‘He won’t if he instigates the inquiries.’

  ‘And I believe he will, once I’ve talked to him,’ she said. ‘I’m staying tonight with an old friend in Highgate. Tomorrow I’m driving out to his home for lunch. I got Rosie into this terrible situation and the sooner I can rescue her from it, the happier I’ll feel.’

  As Thomas went down the stairs to let Miss Pemberton out of the shop at seven-twenty, Rosie was waiting just beyond the gates of Carrington Hall for Gareth.

  Anyone walking down Ridge Lane on a warm summer evening would find it hard to believe that the old house half-hidden by stately trees was the site of so much human misery. The sign on the iron gates gave no indication it was an asylum, it could have been a hostel, or a school. Ivy and clematis scrambling up the walls hid most of the peeling stucco, and two huge peony bushes in full flower distracted the eye from the rest of the somewhat neglected front garden. Earlier on in the day there might be pale, sad faces pressed up against those barred first-floor windows, but at this time in the evening the patients had all been moved on to their dormitories at the back of the house.

  The sweet smell of newly cut grass in the gardens of the two bungalows opposite, the sound of children’s laughter, mingling with the soft pat of ball on racquet from somewhere unseen and a tinkling of a piano would give any walker a feeling that this was a good place to live, not quite countryside, but not suburbia either. They might spot the pretty girl standing beneath the overhanging sycamore tree and smile, guessing by her nervous stance, her pretty pink and white summer dress and carefully arran
ged hair, that she was eagerly awaiting her boyfriend. No one would guess that in the past week someone so young could have been subjected to such terrible experiences.

  Rosie had been on tenterhooks all day, one moment so nervous she felt she’d have to stand Gareth up, the next counting the minutes till she saw him. All week her mind had been firmly on Carrington Hall, but for the past few hours her mind had been concentrating purely on this date tonight and her own appearance.

  Was the pink lipstick she’d bought in Woolworth’s too bright? Should she have worn a cardigan? The heels of her shoes were a little worn down, would he notice? Suppose she got a ladder in her new nylons? Would he try to kiss her? And if he did should she let him, or would that make him think she was easy?

  The sound of a motorbike coming down the road made Rosie turn. If the rider hadn’t waved she wouldn’t have realized it was Gareth; she hadn’t expected him to arrive on a motorbike.

  He wore grey flannel slacks, an open-necked white shirt and a tweed jacket. He stopped a few feet from her, the engine still ticking over. He grinned and ran one hand over his tousled brown curls to smooth them down.

  ‘I half expected to call at the house and be fobbed off with some excuse,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d be waiting for me.’

  Rosie was struck dumb for a moment. Not only was the bike a surprise, but he looked even better than the picture she’d held in her mind. The week’s sunshine had tanned his face, it made his eyes look like periwinkles and his teeth very white.

  ‘I waited here because Matron doesn’t like boys calling at Carrington Hall,’ she managed to blurt out. ‘I didn’t think to tell you that last week.’

  He cut the engine but remained seated on the bike, his face crinkled up into an engaging grin. ‘I’m not sure how to take that,’ he said. ‘Do you mean you’re waiting here to tell me to get lost? Or have we still got a date?’

  Rosie hesitated. In situations like this in films, girls always came back with something saucy which made them seem cute and desirable. But she couldn’t think of anything smart to say. ‘I meant I’d like to get away from here quickly so Matron doesn’t see me.’

  ‘Are you brave enough to hop on the back?’ he asked. ‘Or shall I park it here and we’ll walk somewhere?’

  Motorbikes to Rosie brought back only good memories of her brothers and her father; she had ridden pillion with them from when she was a small girl. ‘I love motorbikes,’ she said and without considering whether it would mess up her hair which she’d spent so long arranging, she leapt on behind him.

  ‘Hold tight!’ he said as he kick-started it, and before she had time to grasp his waist, they were roaring off down the road.

  Rosie’s knowledge of the geography of north London was limited to the bus route into the city, but Gareth went another way. Within a few minutes they were on a quiet country lane, speeding along with the wind sweeping Rosie’s hair into a tangle.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘I should have told you I was on a bike, and you could have brought a jacket or a jumper.’

  Rosie was a little cold, but it felt wonderful after being trapped inside all day. ‘I’m fine,’ she yelled back. ‘It’s so nice to be in the fresh air.’

  She was exhilarated by the speed. Pretty cottages, views across fields and woodlands flashed by and the nastier events of the day blew away like dandelion clocks. As she leaned into the bends, her hands on his waist, a cheek against his back, her nervousness of him vanished.

  Some twenty minutes later they drove into a small village centred round a green with a duck pond. A few people were sitting on benches outside a pub. Gareth slowed right down. ‘Shall we stop here for a drink?’ he asked, turning his head to her. ‘Riding around is nice, but I can’t talk to you.’

  Rosie agreed and Gareth parked the bike. ‘My hair must look like a haystack,’ she laughed as she hopped off, trying to smooth it down with her hands. She hoped she hadn’t got mascara running down her cheeks too.

  He looked appraisingly at her, and smiled. ‘It’s windswept but it looks very pretty. Your hair is the first thing I noticed about you, it’s such a lovely colour.’

  Gareth had a pint of beer and Rosie had lemonade. She expected he would try to persuade her to have something stronger as other boys had, but he didn’t. They sat on one of the benches in a patch of warm sunshine, watching the ducks on the pond, and Gareth asked her about Donald.

  Rosie had read in advice columns in magazines that a girl on her first date should ask the boy about his work and hobbies and never talk about herself. But as he had asked about Donald she had no alternative but to explain a little of what had happened since Coronation day. She did her best to make the story if not funny, at least flippant and entertaining, omitting the horror. ‘So I haven’t seen him,’ she finished up. ‘I know his father called to see him and I’m sure he explained a bit about where I was, but just the same Donald must be so confused.’

  ‘Your Matron sounds like a right Tartar,’ Gareth said sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you write to your mum and dad and ask them to do something?’

  ‘I haven’t got a mum and dad,’ she blurted out. ‘My mother died when I was six and my dad last year. That’s why I came here to work.’

  To her surprise Gareth looked deeply troubled, and after the terrible week she’d had, such unexpected concern was very comforting.

  ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m so sorry, Rosemary. That’s really tough.’

  Rosie shrugged and smiled at him. ‘There’s lots worse off than me. But don’t let’s talk about sad stuff. Tell me about you? Did you find your friends after the Coronation? What are your digs like? Were you born in Wales? You haven’t got a Welsh accent.’

  ‘Yes, I found my mates. The digs are pretty dingy. I left Wales when I was two and that’s why I don’t have the accent,’ he said, grinning as he answered all her questions in the order she fired them. ‘But my parents are still as Welsh as leeks. We come from the Rhondda Valley, my father, grandfather and great-grandfather were all miners, but in 1933 Dad made the break and came to London to look for work. Walked all the way he did, picked berries at the side of the roads, never touched the shilling he had in his pocket for emergencies. It was three years later when he sent for Mum, Owen and me, and by then he had a little coal business.’

  Rosie loved to hear stories, especially family ones, and she encouraged Gareth to tell her everything, starting when he got to London.

  ‘I can remember being shocked that London was rows and rows of small dark houses with no green hills beyond,’ he laughed. ‘The other kids sneered at me and Owen because we talked odd. Owen’s two years older than me and he was always getting into fights over it. But the main thing that bewildered me was that Dad kept saying how much better off we were. To me the little two-up, two-down house in Kentish Town wasn’t any better than the one we’d left in Wales. What’s more, instead of the coal being down the pit, here it was right outside the kitchen door, great shiny piles of it.’

  Rosie smiled. His description made her think of May Cottage and the junk outside the door.

  ‘I asked Mum why Dad kept saying we were better off once,’ Gareth said reflectively. ‘She said the difference was that there was a sign on the front of our house saying “Davy Jones Coal and Coke Merchant”, and that meant the coal belonged to us, as did the horse and cart Dad delivered it on, and we had a flushing lavatory too. But that didn’t mean much to me then.’

  From a very early age Gareth had it drummed into him that it was a man’s duty to better himself, and his father was held up as a shining example. Now that he was an adult he could appreciate how courageous his father was to leave the valleys in the middle of the Depression, and try his hand in London. He knew too that there was no luck in what Davy Jones accomplished, only hard work and gritty determination.

  ‘So why didn’t you become a coal man too?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Because I love trains,’ he said simply. ‘I lef
t school just as the war ended. Owen had already been working with Dad for two years, there wasn’t really enough work for me too at that time, and besides, I loathed humping coal around. Mum wanted me to be an engineer or an electrician but I stuck out for an apprenticeship with the railways. By the time I was eighteen and got called up for National Service, Dad had made enough money to buy the house in Mill Hill. The house in Kentish Town became the yard office and I was even more hell-bent on being a train driver.’

  ‘Where do you drive trains to?’ Rosie asked, imagining him with a soot-blackened face leaning out of the engine wreathed in steam.

  ‘I shunt them up and down in the yard at Clapham Junction,’ he said with a rueful smirk. ‘Sometimes if I’m lucky I get to be fireman on a local run. But it will be some time I expect before they let me loose as a driver on a passenger train. The old blokes guard their jobs closely, they don’t like us keen young ones.’

  Gareth’s favourite day-dream for almost as long as he could remember had been to drive the Flying Scotsman. As a small child he had spent all his spare time at King’s Cross and Euston stations looking at the big steam engines with the kind of adoration other kids gave to sportsmen and film stars. He collected pictures of them, read every book he could lay his hands on about them. It was an all-consuming passion that until a week ago had never been ousted by anything else other than his motorbike.

  ‘I like trains too,’ Rosie said, remembering the advice in the magazines that you had to show enthusiasm for a boy’s work and interests. ‘Not that I’ve been on many. In fact, when I came up to London that was the first time. But I’d love to travel more and see the rest of England.’

  Gareth grinned. He thought it would be good to show her a few of his favourite engines. ‘What on earth made you want to work in a loony-bin?’