‘Hello, Pearl, it’s Ben Sweetman. From the
Evening Star
, remember?’ he said, loudly. ‘I work with Julie, and she said she’d asked if I could drop by this afternoon? This is my friend Caroline.’
Confusion slowly transformed into recognition and she smiled, revealing brilliant white dentures far too large for her mouth. ‘Ah yes. Julie said you were coming.’ She turned to me. ‘Are you his girlfriend?’
‘Oh no,’ I stuttered. ‘We only met an hour ago.’
‘I won’t have to fight you for him then.’ She giggled girlishly. ‘But what are we doing here on the step? Come in, come in, you are both very welcome.’
She let us into a tiny front parlour like the stage-set for a 1940s play: flowery wallpaper, the cast-iron fireplace with an embroidered fire screen and an art deco clock on the mantelpiece. In the corner was a glass-fronted cupboard crammed with china animals. My vintage-obsessed friends would have shelled out a fortune for it.
‘Would you like tea, or I’ve got orange squash?’ She began to hobble towards the kitchen.
‘Why don’t you let me get it?’ Ben said.
‘That’s very kind. A glass of squash would do fine for me.’ She lowered herself with a grateful sigh onto an overstuffed chintz sofa, complete with lace antimacassar, and patted the seat beside her. Then she reached for a pair of dusty bifocals, put them on and peered at me as I sat down. ‘What was your name again, dear? You’ll have to speak up you know, and let me see your face. I’m a bit deaf these days.’
‘It’s Caroline, Mrs Bacon. Caroline Meadows,’ I said, enunciating as clearly as possible. ‘Ben tells me you were a nurse at Helena Hall.’
‘Call me Pearl, please,’ she said, taking off the glasses. ‘Yes, worked there for decades. Knew the place inside out. What do you want to know?’
‘I’ve inherited a patchwork quilt from my grandmother. She was a patient at Helena Hall for a short while and we think that she, or someone she knew, made the quilt while they were there.’ I handed her the photograph. ‘That’s my Granny Jean, the quilt is over the sofa, and in the background is someone we think she met at Helena Hall, called Maria.’
Pearl put her glasses on again and squinted at the photograph. ‘Sorry, dearie, don’t recognise either of them. In any case, I don’t think I remember a Jean, or a Maria, my dear. Did you know their surnames?’
‘My grandmother was Mrs Jean Meadows.’
She shook her head again. ‘Rings no bells I’m afraid. Of course there were thousands of women there in my time, I can’t remember them all.’
Ben returned, bearing a tray with glasses of livid-coloured liquid, handed them round and perched on a chair which seemed altogether too small for his frame.
Pearl peered again at the photograph. ‘You’re quite sure they were patients at Helena Hall?’
‘That’s what my mother told me. Granny suffered some kind of nervous breakdown and was only an in-patient for a few weeks, but we don’t really know why Maria was in there or for how long.’
‘Lots of them like that, stuck there for no good reason, only that their husband or their family didn’t want them any more,’ she mused, shaking her head sadly. ‘It was a convenient place to hide them away.’
I’d heard about this sort of thing in Victorian workhouses, but it was shocking to learn that it was still going on within Pearl’s lifetime, perhaps even when my granny was a patient. ‘What did they do all day?’
‘The ones who got it bad – who really
did
need to be in there – did very little apart from an hour of exercise in the airing courts each day. Drugged up to the eyebrows, of course.’ Pearl said.
‘“Airing courts”?’ Ben asked.
‘Fenced areas the patients were let out into for fresh air,’ Pearl said. ‘Like animals in a zoo, I always used to think, poor buggers. But the lucky ones got work in the laundry, on the cleaning teams or in the workshops, the sewing room, that sort of thing. Some of them said they quite enjoyed the life they had there. It was safe, you know, from whatever they had been afraid of outside, warm, regular food and they had friends. I knew a few who refused to leave when the time came.’
‘Tell me about the sewing room,’ I prompted. ‘What sort of work did they do?’
‘They made clothes, mostly, for the other patients but also for sale,’ Pearl said.
I began to fear we’d reached a dead end, when her face brightened. ‘Ah, now I remember, dearie. There was one woman who they said did exceptional needlework. What was her name? Come on, brain.’ She tapped her temple with a frail finger. ‘That’s it … Queenie! That was it.’
She took a sip of orange, scratched her head again, and muttered to herself with the effort of remembering. Finally, she said, ‘She had delusions, lots of ’em had delusions, you understand. No one believed her, of course, it was part of the illness. Some thought that they were the Virgin Mary, or Boadicea. Then there was Lady Godiva, who took her clothes off all the time. But we didn’t take any notice, ’cos talking about it only encouraged them.
‘But Queenie? Let me try and remember – that’s it, she was called that ’cos she believed she was a queen. No, that’s not right. She’d
worked
for the queen.’ She gave a wheezy giggle. ‘Or at least that’s what the voices seemed to be telling her, the funny old baggage. That’s why everyone called her Queenie.’
A shiver started at the top of my head and travelled down my spine. ‘Tell me a bit more about her,’ I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
‘She was quite a character, but no trouble. Had a couple of friends she hung around with and of course they went to the sewing room every day to earn a penny or two for fags and nylons, that sort of thing. It was a quiet kind of life, but they seemed happy enough. Of course in later years the ones like Queenie were allowed out into the grounds for walks and that.’
‘Didn’t they try to run away?’ Ben asked.
‘Where would they run to?’ Pearl said with a gentle smile. ‘They had no families, not that we could tell. No, they liked it at the Hall, it was their whole lives, for some of them.’
‘If Queenie was a nickname, do you know what her real name was?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, my dear, it’s such a long time ago.’ She shook her head and sighed quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ben gathering up his jacket.
‘One last thing,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘Did the hospital ever have any royal visitors, or any other kind of royal connection that you remember?’
She snorted. ‘Huh, not much chance of that, dearie. Out of sight, out of mind, that’s what mental health was in those days, probably still is today. We never had so much as a visit from the local mayor, let alone royalty.’ She handed back the photograph, took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘Sorry, my dear, I haven’t been much help to you, have I?’
‘It’s been fascinating.’ I leaned over to shake her hand. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Would you like a drink or something to eat before you head off?’ Ben asked, as we walked back down the road from Pearl’s house. I was hungry and had a two-hour drive ahead of me. It seemed like a good idea.
The Victorian pub at the junction of three streets of terraced houses had been ruined by a cheap gastro make-over and was now bereft of any character it might once have had. Matching mock-oak tables and chairs were tightly packed and uniformly arranged, a flame-effect gas fire spluttered ineffectively in the hearth and a blackboard offered the usual unimaginative items clumsily repackaged as local fare: Essex ham and field-grown eggs (whatever they were); Blackwater Island fisherman’s pie, steak and chips. Barely anything for a vegetarian.
Apart from an elderly couple in the corner, Ben and I were the only customers.
‘Sorry about this. I didn’t realise it was quite so grim,’ he whispered as we waited to be served by a spotty teenager engaged in a conversation of apparently international importance on his mobile phone. ‘Must have been revamped since I was here last. Shall we go somewhere else?’
‘It’s fine.’ I gave what I hoped was a reassuring smile. But it wasn’t really all that fine. This place was exactly why I’d been so determined to escape from Eastchester and never wanted to return: the dreary resignation of it all, the low expectations, the small-town pretentiousness. It just capped my low mood: Pearl’s stories of Helena Hall had saddened me, especially the thought that my granny might have had to endure such treatment, even for a short while. And I was no closer to discovering anything which might lead me to Maria. There was an uncomfortable silence as we sat down with our drinks.
‘I’m sorry Pearl wasn’t a lot of help,’ Ben said. ‘Have you got any other leads?’
‘Only Mum’s memories and the photograph.’
‘What was that you mentioned about a royal visit?’
I skirted round the question. ‘Pearl is a lovely lady, and her stories were fascinating, but I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. It’s only an old piece of patchwork, after all.’
‘That’s not what you suggested in the café, earlier.’ He smiled sweetly enough, but there was a catch of irritation in his voice. ‘You said it was a precious heirloom.’
‘It is,’ I stuttered, wrong footed. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful for your time, Ben, but I don’t think I’m going to find out any more through the hospital connection.’
‘Sorry, too many questions. It’s a bad habit of mine.’
‘Let me ask you some then,’ I said, trying to fill the awkward silence. ‘Tell me about your family. What does your wife do?’
He mumbled something about ‘not a lot to tell’ and ‘it’s a bit complicated’, then fell quiet again. After that, we struggled to make desultory conversation about the closure of the mental hospital, Victorian architecture and his passionate support for the failing local football club, until, finally, our food arrived.
The cheese in my toasted sandwich was bright orange and smelled like rubber, a pathetic few leaves on the side of the plate looked wilted and vinegary. His fish pie had clearly been microwaved, burned at the edges and glutinous-looking in the centre. I watched him poking it suspiciously with a fork and then, as I picked up my sandwich, the cheese slithered out from between the slices of soggy white toast into gloopy mess down the front of my jumper.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I cursed my clumsiness, pushing the plate away in disgust and trying to scoop the cheese out of my lap. I grabbed a bunch of paper napkins and managed to clear up most of the mess, then took myself off to the ladies’ loo to clean up.
Ben looked up with a grin as I returned to the table. ‘Not really your day?’
‘Too right. I give up,’ I laughed, finally managing to see the humour of it all.
‘Me too,’ he said, grimacing. ‘This is possibly the worst fish pie I’ve ever tried to eat. I’m so sorry this has been such a disaster. Shall we try somewhere else?’
‘Thank you, but I’ve got a long journey,’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hit the road.’
In the doorway we wavered, struggling to find the appropriate parting gesture: handshake, hug and/or cheek kiss? My face only came up to his chest, so a hug would have been embarrassing unless he stooped, and a handshake felt too formal. Eventually he resolved the dilemma by leaning forward as I stood on tiptoe and we managed an awkward single cheek kiss.
‘Keep in touch,’ he said. ‘Let me know how you get on with your quilt search.’
Cassette 2, side 2
Another cassette, Miss? I can’t imagine why you want to go to all this trouble and expense to record the ramblings of a crazy old woman.
‘Your story is important for my research, you know. To help us understand the historical context of mental health care.’
Historical context, is that what it is? I call it the story of a sad little life, but if you insist. Now, where did I get to?
‘You’d just had a night to remember with the prince.’
She laughs, with a hoarse, asthmatic chuckle.
All the years and all the drugs and treatments have so addled me brain it’s sometimes hard to recall me own name, but nothing blots out the memories of that night. Call me a silly old fool, but I believed him then, and have no reason to doubt what he told me, even all these years later.
A long pause, and then: ‘What was it you believed?’
The answer comes in a dying phrase so soft it is almost inaudible.
That he loved me, dearie, like he said.
Even the squeak of the cassette rolling in its spindles cannot conceal the profound silence that follows. Then the voice starts again, a little cracked at first but becoming stronger, more defiant.
Oh yes, I can see that look in your eyes. Just like the rest of them, the trick-cyclists and the nurses and the therapists; they all think it’s some madwoman’s crazy fantasy. I don’t blame you. If we was sat in different chairs and you was doing the telling I’d probably be thinking the same. Even Nora, who knows the truth because she was there, says I was duped by a boy whose only thoughts were for himself and his own desires. ‘Look at how he turned out,’ she would say. ‘Let down the country and sided with the enemy.’
All I can say is that perhaps for the first time in my short life I felt loved, genuinely loved, for myself. And it’s hard to let go of that feeling, even when you find out it was all a sham.
He was true to his word, at least for a while. He wrote to me a few times – the envelopes were addressed in a different hand of course: he must have asked a mate to do it for him. He talked about his sea voyage and being bored at Sandringham in Norfolk which sounded a long way away. In the spring of 1912, it must have been, there was a letter from Paris where he was learning French.
I found out from dining hall gossip that he had spent a few days at the palace in September, but there was so much going on upstairs I reasoned that he hadn’t been able to find an excuse to call for me. Then the news was that he had ‘gone up’ to Oxford – which I later found out was not a town on top of a hill, but a university – and the letters stopped. Nora had got friendly with the chambermaids and spent her time off with a different crowd which left me lonely so I just hung about between our bedroom and the sewing room, nursing my broken heart.