But now the rules were gone. No more locked doors, no bells ringing to tell her to get up, no permission needed to go outside, no uniform. Rosie wasn’t going to be entirely free, she would still be answerable to Mr and Mrs Cook, and because she would be living in their home she would be bound by their code of proper behaviour. But it would be quite different for Donald. He was the prodigal son returning home.
It was this which made her apprehensive. Too much freedom, too soon, could well be disastrous for him. Locked away since he was fifteen, he knew nothing of the outside world. What if he ran out of the house and gave some old lady one of his bear hugs? Or if he took something from a shop not realizing everything had to be paid for, or even wandered into someone else’s home? There would be no alarm bell to ring for help in Mayfield. No other staff to commiserate with if things went badly. Of course his parents would be there, but somehow she didn’t think Mrs Cook would be very strong in a crisis. She still thought of Donald as a young boy, and so he was in many ways. But his body had grown into a man’s while he’d been away from her, he’d picked up habits that might appal her. Rosie wondered if she was aware of all this.
But as they drove into Mayfield and Rosie got her first glimpse of the village that was to become her home, she put aside her anxiety and became as excited as Donald.
There had been so many pretty villages on the way down from London. But there was something about this one that left the others in the shade. The houses and shops in the main street were all joined together in a terrace, yet no two of them were the same. Some had red hung tiles down to the ground-floor windows, some had white painted weatherboard. Some had front gardens and picket fencing, some had front doors opening right on to the pavement. Here a shop with bow windows and a roof so low it looked as if it had been lifted only slightly to slide in an upstairs window. There a three-storey house with majestic pointed eaves. There was absolutely no uniformity, unless you counted the tubs and window boxes of bright flowers. Here a white painted lattice porch, next a few red-tiled steps up to a cottage with roses round the door, and then an open stable-type door with a canary in a cage swinging above it.
Rosie felt that if she couldn’t make her new job work here in such a heavenly place, then she wouldn’t have a hope anywhere else in the world. Then Donald clutched at her arm. ‘Look!’ he squeaked with excitement. ‘Home.’
Mrs Cook turned to look at her son, her eyes brimming with tears of joy because she had feared he wouldn’t remember his home. Rosie couldn’t speak either. That first glimpse of The Grange as Mr Cook turned into the drive took her breath away.
Old trees formed an archway over the gateway and the weathered, soft grey stone house beyond looked like a mansion to her. It had the sort of Gothic windows she associated with churches, and they were framed by long tassels of purple wisteria. Jasmine scrambled up around the arch of the front door, and a fat fluffy grey cat sat on the doorstep as if to welcome them. But better than the splendour of the house was the garden. Even in magazines she had never seen one so lovely. A lush smooth lawn, dotted with rhododendron bushes, swept around the house; there were shrubs and trees such as she’d never witnessed before and, without seeing it, she knew the area at the back of the house would be better still.
‘It’s huge,’ she gasped, and Mr Cook laughed.
‘Not so big as it looks from the outside,’ he said. ‘It’s probably the best example of wasted space you’re ever likely to see, Rosemary. I think the man who built it two hundred years ago just made it up as he went along without a real plan. Just look at that long sloping roof towards the back! If he’d put on a conventional one, there could be two more bedrooms upstairs. But we love it, warts and all.’
Once inside, Donald’s memories came tumbling out over themselves as he joined in the tour of the house. ‘This was my room,’ he shouted out gleefully as they entered one with a low steeply sloping ceiling. ‘I m-m-made a house in the c-c-corner.’
‘He did too,’ Mr Cook said with a smile. ‘He dragged up a big laundry basket and used to curl up in it sometimes and go to sleep.’
Rosie thought the sitting-room which even had a television was the most delightful room of all. It was all pinks and greens with great fat armchairs and dozens of photographs of the entire Cook family, and french windows opening up on to the garden.
It was a large house, but still cosy, full of sunshine and character. ‘Lived-in’ was the expression which sprung to Rosie’s mind. Although there were flowers in every room on polished tables, there were books, knitting, and magazines strewn about too. Odd stains on the carpets proved that children still romped here. Some of the furniture was shabby and old, but some was valuable and old like pieces she’d seen in Hampstead antique shops. She loved it.
As for the garden, her eyes filled with tears as she explored it. There was the pond Donald had spoken of, its surface smothered in waterlilies, fat goldfish lurking in its depths. A white painted summer house, a pretty rock garden, a vegetable patch tucked away behind a rose-covered trellis and a herbaceous border that made her fingers itch to weed it. Donald leapt on to the swing hung from a large chestnut tree and shouted for her to push him. Rosie had never seen such blissful happiness in anyone’s face, and she knew then that whatever problems might crop up with Donald she was going to make sure he was never sent back to another asylum.
After a meal of chicken casserole in the kitchen, which had apparently been prepared by a lady called Josie who came in a couple of mornings a week, Donald went into the sitting-room with his father and Rosie helped Mrs Cook with the washing-up.
‘Donald is very thin,’ Mrs Cook said thoughtfully as she rinsed the plates. ‘We must build him up again with good food and plenty of exercise. His table manners are a disgrace. I shall have to take that in hand, and of course he must have a decent haircut immediately before we can take him out anywhere.’
Rosie knew Mrs Cook was only being motherly and wanting to make her son look as normal as possible, but the bit about his table manners reminded her sharply of Mrs Bentley.
‘He didn’t get to use a knife and fork at Carrington Hall, only a spoon,’ Rosie said pointedly. ‘But he’ll soon learn to use them again, just by watching us.’
‘I do hope so, dear.’ Mrs Cook’s blue eyes looked anxious and a trifle disbelieving. ‘I noticed he wipes his nose on his sleeve. We’ll have to break that habit too. I suppose it can’t all be done in a day though.’
‘He learns fast,’ Rosie said quickly. ‘Speaking of that, have you made any plans yet about what you want me to do with Donald each day?’
Mrs Cook looked askance at Rosie. ‘He’ll just be here with us! There’ll be walks, a bit of shopping, that sort of thing. Later on, when he’s had a bit of a holiday, maybe we can plan a little further ahead.’
Rosie’s heart plummeted. Mrs Cook was very kindly, but she was clearly intending to indulge her son and make up for all the lost years. She wasn’t being practical, or doing Donald any favours. He was used to strict discipline, and if it disappeared overnight he was likely to behave like a greedy child let loose in a sweetshop.
She took a deep breath. ‘I hope you won’t think I’m speaking out of turn,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘But I think we must give him some kind of routine right from the start. He’s bound to feel very disorientated until he gets used to being here. So I think we ought to try and keep things as much like being at Carrington Hall as possible for a while.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ Mrs Cook’s voice rose to a surprised squeak. ‘I would think you of all people would welcome sweeping away such memories.’
Rosie blushed, but she was determined to get her point across. She explained how Donald had always helped the chargehands and how much he’d enjoyed doing it. Mrs Cook sat down at the table to listen properly and Rosie went on to tell her the worries she’d had on the way down here.
‘He needs firm guidelines,’ she insisted. ‘He was the smartest person on his ward and because of tha
t he got little privileges that the other patients didn’t get. If you just let him wander about aimlessly, he’ll lose that feeling of his importance. I thought that perhaps after breakfast we could do some little jobs together. Maybe making beds, cleaning shoes, sweeping up the terrace, easy things at first until he gets the hang of it. Then later I could have some quiet time with him, looking at books or doing a jigsaw puzzle.’
Mrs Cook smiled at last. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound too onerous. And what had you thought of for the afternoons? I’m pretty certain you’ve got that worked out too.’
That last remark had a touch of sarcasm, but Rosie had to stand her ground. ‘Working in the garden, or going for a walk. But I think we should keep him right away from people and the shops in the High Street until he’s had time to get used to us and the house.’
Rosie squirmed a little as Mrs Cook looked thoughtfully at her for a moment. Although she was a small woman and her nice clothes and well-manicured nails all suggested she had a fairly idle life, Rosie had already discovered in the couple of hours she’d been here that this wasn’t so. Apart from Josie coming in to do some of the heavy work, she was very much a housewife. She cooked, cleaned, made clothes for her grandchildren, and the pantry was stuffed with her home-made preserves, jams and pickles. She had also been a very good mother and Rosie felt that she must seem very impudent telling Mrs Cook how to treat her own son.
‘Fair enough,’ Mrs Cook said at last, nodding her head. ‘I believe he went to bed early at Carrington Hall, so maybe we’d better stick to that too for the time being.’
Rosie breathed a sigh of relief. It was said now, the air was cleared. She just hoped Donald wouldn’t sense that his mother wasn’t entirely in agreement with her and play them one against the other. He was perfectly capable of that. ‘I’m a bit worried about him at night though,’ she admitted. ‘He’s been so used to the other men in the dormitory, he might not like being alone in a room.’
She had seen the rooms both she and Donald were to have. Donald’s was the one he’d had as a child, newly decorated in blue and white stripes, and hers was across the landing, at the back, a small but very pretty pink and white room with a similar sloping ceiling to Donald’s. She wasn’t sure if she’d hear him call out from there.
‘Maybe I could sleep outside his door for a few nights?’ Rosie suggested. ‘Just to make sure he doesn’t get up and go wandering.’
Mrs Cook looked aghast at that idea. ‘My dear,’ she said, raising her dainty eyebrows, ‘we didn’t bring you here to be some sort of guard-dog.’
Rosie giggled. ‘I didn’t mean lying on a mat – perhaps a camp-bed tucked up by the banisters. You see, after all the locked doors in Carrington Hall he’s going to want to explore everywhere. He’ll be like your little grandson Robin for a while, wanting to touch and look at everything. But he won’t see the dangers in ordinary things like matches, sharp knives and suchlike. He might be clumsy too, and break things.’
Rosie’s point was proved only a few moments later as Donald knocked over a vase of flowers on a low table in the sitting-room. The glass vase smashed, the water spilled all over the table, and when Donald went to pick up the glass he cut his finger. He began to cry when he saw the blood.
Mrs Cook put an Elastoplast on the cut. Rosie mopped up the water and she noticed that Mr Cook was looking fearfully around the room as if wondering what else they ought to move.
Rosie did sleep on a camp-bed. It was just as well because Donald came lumbering out of his room three times during the night. The first couple of times Rosie escorted him to the lavatory, then took him back to his room and tucked him back into bed. The third time it was dawn and she took him down to the kitchen to make him a drink.
‘You must stay in your room at night, Donald,’ she said firmly as she filled the kettle. ‘I need my sleep even if you don’t.’
He looked so very young and boyish sitting there at the kitchen table in his striped pyjamas.
‘It’s t-t-too quiet,’ he said.
‘Quiet at night-time is good,’ she said, putting one hand on his shoulder and squeezing it affectionately. ‘It means all the birds and other creatures are tucked up fast asleep just like you. There’s nothing to be afraid of; your mother and father are close by, and so am I.’
Rosie was more worried now than she had been when she spoke to Mrs Cook. Between the evening meal and Donald going to bed, some of the problems she’d anticipated had already reared their heads.
Mrs Cook just couldn’t imagine the difference between the bleak day room with nothing to look at, and her treasure-filled sitting-room. Even Rosie had a strong desire to pick things up and look at them. But each time Donald touched something, his mother stiffened, afraid he was going to drop it. When she did reprimand him, her ladylike manner and soft voice didn’t cut any ice. When his father saw this, he roared at him, and that frightened Donald half to death.
Rosie was afraid he might fly into a tantrum before long, if they kept saying no. With so many easily accessible things to hurl around, she didn’t like to dwell on the mayhem he might cause. Another problem was that none of them could possibly guess what he might want to investigate next. They had left him alone in the sitting-room watching the television for a few moments, and when they came back he had raided the coal scuttle and lined up the lumps on the carpet like a row of soldiers. She was scared his parents might lose patience with him. They were middle-class people with a beautiful home, and at their age it would be very difficult to adjust to having their comfortable life disturbed. She was also worried they might come to blame her for suggesting that Donald was capable of living at home in the first place, and then for not being vigilant enough.
Before Rosie took Donald back upstairs she opened the curtains over the doors which led on to the terrace so he could see the garden and the first rays of sun lighting up the sky. As they stood for a moment watching and listening to the birds sing, Rosie stole a look at him. His face was a picture of wonder. A lump came to her throat. She felt that if he was sensitive enough to be moved by the beauty of a sunrise, he was sensitive enough to learn to look at delicate things without touching, to obey his mother even if she didn’t shout at him, to learn to eat with a knife and fork again.
Rosie could see a strong parallel between how she had felt on her arrival at Mrs Bentley’s in Bristol and how Donald must feel now: both uprooted, thrust into an alien world, then bombarded with new experiences. Her heart filled with sympathy for him.
‘It’s time for the birds to get up and look for their breakfast,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘But too soon for us just yet. So it’s back to bed, and this time you’ll stay there until I call you.’
After taking Donald upstairs, Rosie sat on his bed for a while and gently stroked his forehead. The anxious expression in his eyes made her think of Alan and it also reminded her again that Donald was to all intents and purposes a small boy. Perhaps they had all made a mistake in thinking he understood what coming home for good meant. Maybe he felt he had to snatch everything at once, just in case it was all gone the next day.
‘This is where you are going to stay for ever, Donald,’ she said slowly and clearly. ‘You aren’t ever going back to Carrington Hall, not tomorrow, next week, or even next year. This is your home now, and I’m going to stay with you and look after you.’ She bent down and kissed his cheek. ‘Now go back to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.’
On her fourth night at The Grange, Rosie woke with a start on hearing a noise from downstairs. It was still dark, but as she looked across the landing at Donald’s room she could just make out his window, which meant his door was wide open and he’d crept out without her hearing him.
Sighing, she got out of bed and reached for her dressing-gown. She hadn’t had more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep since she arrived here. But this was the first time he hadn’t woken her. He was growing crafty now, as well as disobedient.
‘You naughty boy,’ sh
e exclaimed as she walked into the kitchen and found him scoffing food in the larder. He had a large slice of meat pie in one hand and a huge lump of cheese in the other. His cheeks were stuffed with food, puffed up like a hamster’s. ‘How many times have I told you not to come down here?’
He tried to reply but couldn’t manage it. Rosie caught hold of the back of his pyjama jacket, pulled him out of the larder, then snatched the food from his hands.
You get more than enough to eat during the day. You’re just being greedy,’ she snapped at him and felt like slapping him too. ‘You must stop being naughty, Donald. Now wash your hands and back to bed.’
She forced his hands under the kitchen tap and washed them for him.
‘I’m s-s-sorry,’ Donald finally managed to say as he chewed the food still in his mouth. ‘Don’t be cross with me.’
‘I will be cross with you until you stop this,’ she said fiercely. ‘And I won’t be your friend any more.’
She frog-marched him back up the stairs, tucked him into bed and then went back to her bed.
Rosie was in despair, tired, anxious and so very afraid she’d been mistaken in thinking Donald could cope at home. Mr Cook had threatened to put a lock on his bedroom door yesterday, but Rosie had talked him out of it, saying it defeated the object of bringing him home. Now she wanted a good night’s sleep so much she was tempted to ask Mr Cook to do it.
It was tough enough during the day. Donald didn’t sit still even for a minute, examining this, poking into that, knocking things over. He’d even wet himself several times because he was too afraid of missing something while he was in the lavatory. Rosie felt he would calm down eventually, but his parents were at the end of their tether.
It seemed like only moments later that Rosie awoke to another noise. It was light again, she guessed about six in the morning, and the sound was Donald retching. Wearily she got up and went into him. He was lying in a heap of vomit – it was in his hair, all over his pyjamas and bedding, cascading down on to the floor – and judging by the sheer quantity of it, he’d eaten half the contents of the larder before she’d caught him.