Killjoy

The bonfire’s growing by the day. It must be twelve feet in diameter. More than ten feet high.

Bruno admires his handiwork. A placard. Three foot high and six foot wide.

BRING BACK BONFIRE NIGHT

It says SITE TRAFFIC ONLY on the back. He’s tried painting it over but you can still make out the words.

Bruno’s misjudged the spacing. He’s had to squeeze the final letters in. The B at the beginning is almost twice the size of the final T of Night.

I say ‘You didn’t think to write it out in pencil first?’

Lester gives me a scornful look. ‘It’s not meant to be designed. We don’t want it to look corporate. It’s a community campaign.’

‘A campaign for us to save the cost of moving waste off site.’

‘A campaign to reinstate a much-loved community tradition.’

‘We’re listening to local people.’ Bruno says on cue. Dutifully. Mechanically. As though he’s reading from a script.

I’ve learnt my lines as well.

‘Reflecting the aspirations and ambitions of the people of St Anselm’s.’

It says so in Helvetica beside our corporate logo. It must be true.

‘Apart from Elsie Tanner.’ I add, veering off the party line.

We’ve had a letter from Elsie Tanner. Complaining that the bonfire is unsightly. An eyesore. Almost certainly a nesting ground for rats.

Lester snorts dismissively. ‘Tell her most local residents can’t wait. There’s a community campaign to bring the bonfire back.’

I say ‘I haven’t seen any evidence the campaign’s gained momentum.’

Lester gives an exaggerated sigh.

‘You were meant to get them all on board. Start a grass roots campaign.’

‘I had a couple of conversations.’ I make a show of looking through my notes.

‘Mr McGinty’s precise words were “Let Bygones be Bygones”. Irene Grover said “There’s nothing to be gained from bringing back the past.”’

‘Killjoys.’ Says Lester scornfully. ‘Some people don’t like fun.’

Shadow Puppet

It’s late. Too late. I ought to be at home. Not in the bungalow with Bruno. Cross checking drawings against reports. I must improve my life work balance. Bruno ought to work on his.

Bruno says. ‘Come here, quickly.’

I look up from my desk.

He says ‘They’re back.’

‘Who’s back?’

‘The ghost in the Infirmary.’

I join him at the window. Look out across the field. At the arches and the doorways and the turrets and the towers.

I say ‘Christ, it’s eerie in the twilight.’

Bruno says ‘Look at the window by the doorway to the tower. I swear there’s some sort of light.’

I say ‘Isn’t that where we saw it last time?’

‘The same ghost back again.’

I say ‘Last time it was Billy Kirkby with his torch.’

‘It looks like he’s come back.’

‘There’s no way Billy Kirkby would go back down there again. He can’t walk past it without trembling.’

‘Well if it isn’t Billy Kirkby it must be someone else.’

We look out across the darkness. Lost in thought.

I say ‘Do you think we should go over there and find out what’s going on?’

‘Do you think it’s even safe?’

‘It must be the Surveyors.’ I say half-heartedly. I don’t believe it for a moment. I’m trying to reassure myself.

‘They’re not going to turn up at half past eight at night. And even if they did, they’d clock in with us before they started.’

‘Do you think we ought to call the police?’

‘I think we should wait and see what happens. Find out who it is.’

I’ve lost my nerve. I’m tired.

I say ‘I think we should pretend that we’ve gone home.’

We start to whisper. As if there’s a real risk we could be heard across the field.

We are standing in the darkness, side by side. I can hear Bruno breathing. I’m suddenly self-conscious in his company. Embarrassed by the darkness; the proximity; the silence. By the heightened sense of fear.

We both tense up.

The torchlight’s visible again. Flickering, uncertain. My heart is thumping with anticipation, fear, adrenaline. I swear I can hear his heart beating too.

Bruno says ‘Look, they’ve come back up the stairs. You can see the torchlight by the door.’

A figure emerges from the doorway. A shadow in the darkness. Tall and straight and regal. A stately silhouette.

Gold Italics

Linda struggles with her bounty. It’s heavier than it looks.

A sturdy metal cabinet. Six metal draws. Taped around the edges. Protected from the ravages of dust and damp and time.

Three engraved initials. Illuminated by two competing beams. The white light from her mobile and the temperamental flicker from the wind-up torch that never works. Bombastic gold italics. Disproportionately grand. I. V. G. Irene Violet Grover. Self-important. Over-dressed. Clinging to a grandeur from another place, another world. Designed to grace mahogany or leather, not a modest filing cabinet in sturdy stainless steel.

It didn’t take her long to find it. To pick up on the comment that her Grandmother let slip. To recall that Irene had a War Room. A headquarters. A place to direct manoeuvres, despatch orders. To plot, to plan, to strategise. To stow the spoils of war.

It’s not like her grandmother to give away her secrets. She’s not as clever as she used to be. She has begun to lose her grip.

Sex Game

Bruno says ‘So what has Linda Kirkby been doing in the basement?’

I say ‘Do you think she’s got her husband hidden down there?’

‘Maybe it’s some sort of over-complicated sex game. She keeps him underground and takes him food. But only if he’s good. Perhaps he’s on the run. Perhaps she’s covering for him. It would explain why Billy got such a shock when he went down there. If he ran into his Dad.’

‘On the run from what? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Perhaps he is dead after all. Perhaps she’s got his body in there and she’s been down to destroy it.’

Bruno taps his fingers on the desk; the agitated rhythm of the theories that are racing through his mind.

He says ‘I like the sex game theory better.’

‘Well yes,’ I say ‘you would.’

‘Do you think we should just go over there and ask her what she’s up to?’

I’m suddenly exhausted. I should have been home hours ago. I’ve had enough of Linda Kirkby and her grandmother. I should be with my kids.

I say ‘She’s trespassing for starters. We ought to call the police.’

Jackpot

Linda goes upstairs to Billy’s bedroom. Tiptoes past his bed. Pauses for a moment to look at Billy sleeping. The Star Trek pyjamas are half way to his elbows. She’ll buy a new pair at the weekend. She wonders for a minute or two just what it is she’s feeling. Is this maternal instinct? It isn’t nearly as intense as other people make it sound.

She fumbles for the box that Billy keeps beneath his bedside table. Searches through his treasures. A ticket from a football match, certificates from school. A piggy bank, his wallet and three American dollars. A miniature Chewbacca and a clutch of foreign stamps. It takes a minute or two before she finds his penknife. He’s put it in some sort of case. Not the box it came in. An aluminium tin with his name stamped on the top.

She glances at the gap between the curtains. Across the field to Macey’s Lodge. She knows they’re out there. Dee and Bruno. Standing with the lights out. Looking out across the darkness like a pair of star-crossed lovers. She resists the urge to wave.

Linda slices through the masking tape. A straight clean cut around each edge of every drawer. She opens the top drawer first. Six manila files. Stocks and shares and property deeds. She turns to the next drawer down. She’s hit the jackpot. Exactly as predicted. Lilac Basildon Bond. The Last Will and Testament of Irene Violet Grover. Hand-written in purple ink.

She pauses for a second before she tears it open. She is tempted, for a moment, to tear the whole thing up. To throw it on the fire. Not to look at it at all. She has already determined that she will pay it no attention. Unless, of course, Irene has done the decent thing and left her everything.

A single line of text.

Look behind the symbol of a reason for a war.

For goodness sake, thinks Linda. What’s the symbol of a reason? What’s a reason for a war?

Another bloody riddle. When will her grandmother grow up?

Heavy Breathing

‘You owe me one.’ Says Bruno.

I say ‘We’re both in this together.’

He groans.

I say ‘Remember? We’re a team.’

We don’t talk for a while. It takes all our concentration to navigate the staircase. It’s tricky in the darkness. There’s a banister of sorts, but it’s broken off in places. Bruno’s brought a torch. The headlamp from his bike. It gives off a decent light. But it’s difficult to hold.

We make it to the bottom. Bruno holds the headlamp out in front of us. A long, low passageway. A maze of copper pipes on either side. A doorway at the end.

Bruno says ‘Are you OK?’ Which makes me think he isn’t. It’s worse for him. He doesn’t have the headroom. He stands at an odd angle. A forced lop-sided slouch.

He says ‘You decide. Onwards. Or back out.’

‘We’ve come this far. We’re going in.’

Bruno’s breathing seems too loud, too slow, too heavy. It echoes all around us. Bounces off the pipework As though there’s somebody behind us.

He says ‘Can you stop doing that?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Heavy breathing.’

‘I’m just breathing, I can’t help it.’

He says ‘It’s giving me the creeps.’

I say ‘Do you think there’s enough air down here? Proper ventilation?’

‘Not if someone shuts the door behind us.’

‘If someone shuts the door behind us I’m not sure we’d get out.’

‘We could be trapped in here forever. Entombed in our own project.’

‘What if Linda Kirkby’s set a trap? Lured us here deliberately so she could lock us in.’

‘Perhaps she’s going to make us join her sex slaves in the dungeon.’

I say ‘In your dreams.’

War Room

We’ve made it to the far end of the passageway. Twitchy, nervy, short of breath.

There’s a steel plaque on the door.

Bruno says ‘What’s a War Room?’

I say ‘I guess we’re going to find out.’

Dark corners, nooks and crannies. Boxes, drawers and files. A row of metal cabinets. A pair of metal trunks. Six drawers high. Stainless Steel. Initials on the top. There’s a gap where one’s gone missing. It’s a lot to go through with the headlamp from a bike.

There’s a large map on the wall. A street map of St Anselm’s. Quaint, compact, contained. Before the shopping centre and the Argos and the residential sprawl. A 1940s street map peppered with paper flags on pins.

I take the torch from Bruno. Pick out the writing on each flag. May McGinty; Peggy Tanner; Betty Bletchley; Nora Blake. Familiar local surnames. Christian names from years gone by.

There’s a legend in the corner. To explain the colour-coded flags. Red for Ruby; green for Gala; cream for Coty; blue for Blaze.

Ruby, Gala, Coty, Blaze.

I think of Irene as a young woman, a teenager. Mapping out her conquests. Masterminding her manoeuvres.

I say ‘It’s a map of Irene’s customers. Irene’s delivery round.’

There’s another map beside it. A different set of flags. A different set of names. Ernie Bradstock; Stanley Stamford; Leonard Hardy; Malcolm Hodge.

I say ‘So what was she delivering to the men?’

Bruno says ‘What’s that behind the map?’

The lamp picks out the outline of an opening, a doorway. A sign above the map that says NO ENTRY. There’s a No Entry symbol too. To reinforce the point.

Cinema Projector

Bruno’s hand is shaking. The headlamp beam is flickering, flailing, failing. Everything seems stilted, in slow motion. Captured through the lens of a cinema projector. Like footage from the wartime. Vintage film in black and white.

I say ‘I like the special effects, but I’m not sure I can take it.’

I’m disorientated, dizzy. What with the cramped space, the confinement. The lack of space and light and air.

‘Can you put the headlamp down before I have some sort of seizure?’

Bruno finds a shelf. A stable surface. Puts the headlamp in position. Its beam is strong and still and clear. There is a moment of composure, of gratitude, of calm. The room comes into sharp relief. Illuminated.

The headlamp isn’t sitting on a shelf. It’s sitting on an altar. Flanked by burnished silver candlesticks. Wreathed in waxen drips and droplets. A crystallised cascade.

It’s not a room at all. It’s a vault, an arch, a shrine. A tomb, a mausoleum.

Bruno says ‘Is that a stretcher?’

I say ‘I think it might be some sort of pushchair.’

A children’s stretcher. So now I know what Billy Kirkby spotted in the hospital. What made him freeze with fear.

Bruno says ‘What’s that lying on it?’

I say ‘It looks like some sort of coffin.’

He can see it just as well as I can. He just doesn’t want to say the word out loud.

He says ‘Do you think it’s Alan Kirkby?’

‘It’s a bit too small for that.’

Public Art

I say ‘I think we ought to call the police.’

Lester gives a long tired sigh. ‘It’s an infirmary, a hospital. There were people dying every day.’

‘He can’t be more than six months old.’

‘It was a children’s ward.’

‘They were meant to nurse them back to health, not leave their skeletons in the basement.’

‘It was the Infectious Diseases Unit. It wasn’t a bloody holiday camp. There’s an industrial incinerator. They would have been burning bodies every day.’

‘So why didn’t they burn this one? Why would they have kept it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Says Lester. ‘And you know what? I don’t care.’

‘It’s part of the story of St Anselm’s. We have a moral obligation to understand its history before we pull it down.’

‘We’re upsetting enough people as it is.’

‘I think we ought to speak to Irene Grover. She spent half her childhood as a patient and worked there as an adult. We should be capturing her insights as a matter of routine.’

‘For Christ’s sake. She’s in hospital. There’s a difference between building a rapport with local residents and harassing pensioners in their beds.’

‘There’s a baby’s skeleton in the basement. We can’t just pretend it isn’t there.’

‘It’s a hospital. It’s hospital waste.’

‘So what do you suggest we do? Bury it in the groundworks? Chuck it out with the demolition spoil?’

‘Get shot of it as quickly as we can. Before the archeologists get wind of it and cordon off the site. The last thing this project needs is any sort of inquest. It could hold us up for years. One way or another, it’s got to disappear.’

‘Isn’t disposing of a body a criminal offense?’

‘We’re house-builders, not murderers. It’s demolition waste.’

‘It’s a human being, a child. It deserves more respect than that.’

‘So what do you suggest. A funeral? A burial? A tombstone to the unknown baby?’

‘Some sort of recognition. A gesture of respect.’

‘Brilliant.’ Says Lester. ‘We could use our public art budget. Think of the marketing collateral. “Bright new homes. Built on the bodies of countless sickly children.” Any other bright ideas you want to throw into the pot?’

‘I’m suggesting that we at least make some sort of effort to find out who it was.’

‘I’m not sure what you think you’re going to achieve. Any investigation is going to hold up work. If they dig up any kind of dirt, it could impact on sales, and if there’s nothing to be found you’ll have sabotaged the project for no reason at all.’

‘Aren’t we meant to be the good guys? Developers with a conscience?’

‘We’re building homes for living breathing people in desperate need of housing.’ Says Lester. ‘There’s a world of difference between a social conscience and a misplaced sense of obligation to a long-forgotten child.’

Brute Force

Linda is back at Irene’s bedside. She can’t decide on tactics. Perhaps she should come right out with it. Confront her grandmother. Insist that she explains herself. Explains the riddle of the meaning behind the symbol of the reason. Just tell her in plain English exactly where she’s put her will.

It isn’t quite that simple. She knows her grandmother too well. Irene will love the chase, the game. She’ll string the whole thing out forever.

She’s tempted by brute force. She’s quite enjoying the novelty of Irene frail and helpless. Lying there in bed. It shouldn’t be that hard to put her hands around her neck. To throttle her. To squeeze. Until Irene’s forced to speak.

Awkward if someone spots her. Tricky to explain.

She tries another tack. Dutiful granddaughter. She decides to make an effort to be nice.

She says ‘Is there anything you need? Biscuits? Magazines? Fruit?’

Irene says ‘I need my make-up and a mirror.’

‘Of course.’ Says Linda sweetly. ‘I’ll make sure Billy comes up next time. I know he’d love to see you. I’m not sure what came over him last week.’

Irene doesn’t answer.

Linda tries again. Raises her voice a little. ‘I said Next Time I’ll Bring Billy.’

Irene says. ‘Make sure you bring my vanity case.’

Hot Potato

‘The bonfire’s going ahead.’ Says Linda. ‘They’re clearing all the rubbish from the hospital. All the files and shelves. The whole lot’s going on the fire. If there’s anything you want to save you better tell me now.’

Irene doesn’t answer.

‘Anything important.’ Linda says with emphasis. ‘Important documents.’

‘It’s good to have a proper clear-out.’ says Irene. ‘Dusting down the cobwebs, making a fresh start.’

‘Right’ says Linda. ‘So there’s nothing in that building that you might want to keep.’

Irene has that look again. As though she’s seeing right through Linda, to another time, another world.

She’s thinking of the things they used to burn. Wobbly tables, rickety chairs. Mattresses riddled with rot. Handy, for sitting round the fire. For gorging on potatoes speared on toasting forks.

‘At the end,’ she says to Linda, ‘once the flames were really hot, you’d pick up whatever you’d been sitting on and hurl it in the fire.’

Linda’s not in the mood for this. Another trip down Memory Lane.

‘The thing is,’ Irene says conspiratorially, as she lowers her voice to a hiss. ‘We all got carried away.’

‘Carried away?’ says Linda.

‘The flames, the fire, the wastefulness. All we did all year was scrimp and save. Patch things up. Make do and mend.’

Irene struggles to explain it; to find the words her granddaughter will understand. The heady thrill of throwing out possessions, the extravagance, the excess. The adrenaline, the hedonistic madness. Irene can hear the fireworks, feel the heat. The chanting gets more vicious, more ferocious. The crowd works itself into a frenzy. Fuelled by cinder toffee, alcohol, the intoxicating cocktail of flames and smoke and heat.

Chanting, jeering, baying for blood.

A penny loaf to feed the pope
A farthing o’cheeses to choke him
A pint of beer to rinse it down
A faggot of sticks to burn him

Irene is choking too. Her throat is thick with soot. Her mouth and tongue are burning from the hottest hot potato. She can’t see through the smoke.

Bedside Manner

Irene is misty-eyed and mumbling.

‘I think she’s hallucinating.’ Says Linda. ‘One minute we were having a conversation, the next minute she was talking to herself.’

Doctor Tanner is a good listener. Professional. Understanding. Wears a sympathetic smile as Linda prattles on.

He says. ‘We can’t be absolutely certain that she’s going to pull through.’

Thank. You. God. Thinks Linda. And thank you Dr Tanner.

She wants to give him something in return.

Something to look forward to. A ray of hope.

She leans towards him, lowers her voice. Proffers her own advice.

‘I hope I didn’t upset you. What I said about your wife. It’s just, you seem to be so different. As though you’ve grown apart. You don’t have to be that person. That person married to Elsie Tanner. You can be anyone you want to be.’

Dr Tanner looks a little startled. There is a glimmer in his eye. Excitement? Anticipation?

‘What I’m trying to say,’ says Linda, ‘is it’s never too late to walk away and start your life again.’

Catnap

Irene wakes up with a start. Linda is looking at her thoughtfully. As though she’s weighing something up.

Irene is irritated. She doesn’t like being caught out like this. Caught napping. Just a catnap. It’s undignified, unseemly.

She says ‘Haven’t you got things to do?’

Her granddaughter ignores her. At least, ignores the question.

‘Bruno Brown just called. They’ve found a skeleton.’ Says Linda. ‘In your cupboard. In your office. A child. They say he wasn’t more than six months old.’

Her tone is casual, conversational. But there’s an odd look in her eye. Confrontational. Accusing. Not like her at all. Or perhaps it is. Perhaps she’s changing. There’s some hope for her after all.

‘It was a hospital.’ Says Irene. ‘People were always dying. Especially the little ones. Babies, toddlers, children. They didn’t stand a chance. We were burning bodies every day. The incinerator never stopped All day long. And through the night as well.’

‘So why would you keep his body in the basement? Why not burn him with the others?’

‘It was the doctor’s fault. He insisted on a proper burial. But it wasn’t so straightforward. You couldn’t get the gravediggers. They’d been called up to fight. In any case, you saved the tombstones for the adults. Made the wardies disappear.’

‘The wardies?’

‘The babies born inside.’

Linda says ‘Inside?’ She’s doing it again. Parroting her grandmother. One step behind.

‘On the ward. The children’s ward.’

Irene leans in towards her. Adopts a confidential tone.

‘They had no business having babies. They were only girls themselves.’

Irene closes her eyes. ‘So many illnesses.’ She says.

She starts to sing. Or rather chant. Some sort of playground ditty.

Tuberculosis, septicaemia,
Measles and pneumonia,
Abscesses, convulsions and
Sludge green diarrhoe-a!

Linda struggles to keep calm. To maintain her composure. She wants to slap her, shut her up. Bludgeon home the message that life isn’t one big ditty, one big game. She struggles to ward off the hot frustration that has plagued her since her childhood. The stuttering, spluttering fury of a tongue-tied adolescent. Tortured by her inability to speak, to find the words.

Linda says ‘I’ve seen the things you do. I know you killed the cat.’

She didn’t mean to say it. She has surprised herself. A long-forgotten memory. A half-remembered outrage. She hasn’t given it a second thought in years.

Irene says ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Now Linda sees it clearly. Looking from the landing window. The mix of outrage, horror, fear. The knowledge that she would pretend she hadn’t seen it. Pretend to Irene. To herself.

She says ‘I saw you put its body in the dustbin.’ She is calmer now. Matter-of-fact.

Irene sighs. She’s not sure she can summon up the energy to explain. Not after all these years. The cat was aggravating everything. Linda’s allergies; her asthma. Hairs all over everything. It was an ugly little thing as well. One leg shorter than the others. A stump instead of a tail.

That’s the problem with the younger generation. Too accepting of imperfection. So sentimental about life.

She didn’t want to do it. God knows, she didn’t enjoy it. It’s harder than you think to throttle a cat with your bare hands.

She was thinking about Linda. And the furniture as well.

Professional Conduct

Dr Tanner lingers by the bedside. Like he always bloody does.

Linda says ‘Was there something you wanted?’

He stiffens slightly. Stung by the coldness in her voice.

He says ‘I did what you suggested.’

Linda looks straight through him.

‘I left her. I left Elsie. Just now. Over lunch.’

Good for you, thinks Linda. What do you want? A prize?

Dr Tanner can’t understand it. He has rehearsed this conversation. It isn’t going to plan. He pulls himself together. Linda has a lot to deal with. She must be worried sick. He is the professional. He can help her. See her through this. He can take control.

‘Your grandmother is increasingly delirious. In and out of consciousness. Her moments of lucidity are few and far between. If there’s anything you feel you want to say to her, I suggest you say it now.’

Linda crouches down by Irene’s bed.

She says. ‘I’m trying to make my mind up.’

‘Oh.’ Says Irene. ‘About what?’

‘I’m trying to decide whether you’re evil or just senile.’

Linda is half way out the door before Irene replies.

‘Just make sure you bring my vanity case.’

‘We’ll see.’ Says Linda airily. ‘I might. And I might not.’

Tall Stories

I say ‘We’re doing a project with the Oral History Society. Talking to local residents about the St Anselm’s Bonfire. Capturing people’s memories on tape.’

‘You’re interfering.’ Says Irene. ‘Sticking your noses into other people’s business. Snooping about in places where you’ve got no right to be.’

Dr Tanner puts his head around the door. He says ‘She’s very tired. And quite confused. I suggest you keep it short and to the point.’

OK Dr Tanner. Have it your way.

‘Linda says you burnt the babies that were born on Macey’s Ward.’

Bruno kicks me in the shins.

Irene says ‘If you choose to put it that way, that’s entirely up to you.’

I can think of other ways to put it. Inhumane, barbaric.

‘You threw them in the incinerator. Like so much rubbish. You didn’t even keep a record of their names.’

Irene folds her arms. She doesn’t see why she should answer. Why Dee Delaney thinks she has the right to hold her to account. Then again, she’s nothing to be ashamed of. She’d like to set the record straight.

‘Men were dying in the trenches. We were struggling everyday to tend the living. I don’t apologise for skimping on the niceties of death.’

She’s rattled now. She’s on a roll.

‘Young girls have it easy nowadays. Abortion, contraception. It wasn’t so easy then. To spirit away a pregnancy, gloss over a mistake. These were illegitimate babies born to young girls who were ill. It was in everyone’s best interests that we didn’t make a fuss.’

People are so very sentimental. About mothers, about children. Irene has always found it rather silly. She was never big on family. The pressure to be intimate, informal. She thrived on institutions, regulations, order, structure, rules. She found home life oppressive. She was constantly in trouble for one crime or another. Teasing other children. Telling her tall stories. Torturing the cat.

She worked out her escape plan in the end. She ate carbolic soap and started foaming at the mouth. Said she’d been struck down with Scarlet Fever. A self-fulfilling prophesy. Once she was inside the Infirmary she’d catch it soon enough.

‘The girls were very grateful.’ She says haughtily. ‘Well, apart from May McGinty. The poor thing went quite demented. She used to wrap a pillow in a blanket and sing to it at night. She’s still here in St Anselm’s. Still pushing her pram.’

‘I’ve seen her.’ I say dully. ‘At the seafront. On the pier.’

Guinea Pigs

‘We had limited resources.’ Says Irene. ‘It simply wasn’t possible to keep everyone alive.’

‘So you let the weak ones die.’

Irene is hyper-ventilating. Really Dee Delaney is infuriating. Who does she think she is?

Bruno steps in calmly. Takes her hand. ‘It’s OK he says. Breathe slowly. In and out.’

Irene settles down. Breathes in, breathes out, breathes in again. She feels safe with Bruno Brown. She like his bedside manner. He has the look of Dr Sam.

‘That’s better.’ He says. ‘Don’t worry. You were only doing your job.’

Only. She thinks. Only. As though she was some kind of minion. A follower of orders, not a pioneer of science.

‘Young man,’ she intones grandly in her most imperious voice. ‘Please don’t minimise the significance of our enterprise. We were at war. With a leader on a mission to create a super race. Culling was essential. We couldn’t let the British gene pool go to pot. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’

Irene is lost in thought. Back in the Infirmary. So many things to test. It started with the beauty products. Hidden amidst the pills and potions. A new formula for face cream, a different kind of lipstick. Unknown side effects. You might be dizzy, drowsy, nauseous. Plagued with blisters, sores or blotchy skin. A small price for the quest for physical perfection. Half the women in St Anselm’s were on Irene’s distribution list.

The men were ready customers as well. Especially in the later years. Struggling to navigate the shifting sands of life without the war. They queued in line to trial new drugs. Anti-depressants. Antibiotics. At first they did it for the money. But there were other upsides too. Drowsiness, delirium. Out-and-out hallucination. Escape from the tedium of the present and the horrors of the past. It didn’t take too long before her guinea pigs where paying her instead.

She built up a decent business. It seemed she owned St. Anselm’s. Birth control was Irene’s biggest earner. Sterilisation for the feeble-minded and infirm. Auctioning abortions to the highest bidder. It was easy to arrange. Despatch carbolic soap. Take them in as patients when they were foaming at the mouth. There was infinite demand for illegal contraceptives. No-one cared about the side effects. Irene could name her price.

The girls were happy to oblige. To be the guinea pigs. Soldiers in the fight against depravity and frailty. How dare Dee Delaney look so indignant, so appalled? Passing judgement on those who put their heads above the parapet, their careers on the line. Imposed some sort of order on the rich mess of humanity. Battled for the improvement – the purification – of the human race.

Bruno coughs. Reminds Irene that we’re still here.

‘The fact is’ says Irene coolly ‘some of us were never meant to breed.’

Jumping Jack

Bruno says ‘So why did this one get a coffin?’

‘It was the Doctor. Doctor Sam. He was always sentimental.’

I say ‘Sentimental?’

‘Very caring, very warm. He couldn’t afford to be standoffish. He was grateful for the job. He was an African, you see. The English doctors wouldn’t work there. They knew they’d end up ill themselves.’

Now she comes to think of it, she owes it all to Dr Sam. The ability to see an opportunity where others see a threat. The mantra that has guided her through life.

Irene smiles a wistful smile before she carries on.

‘He was like a doll. A great big doll. We all had black cloth dolls.’

‘Golliwogs.’ I say flatly. I feel uncomfortable just saying it.

Irene looks lost in thought.

It’s really quite ironic. She scoffed when Linda asked for a black Barbie doll for Christmas. Still, you made do with what you had. And what they had back then was blackout fabric from the blinds.

‘It broke his heart. Even for a Doctor, it’s hard to watch your own child die.’

I say ‘It was a bit late to feel sorry. He abused his position. Those girls were in his care.’ My voice echoes round the ward. Sanctimonious. Disapproving.

‘Oh the girls were very willing. There wasn’t much to do.’

‘So how did the Doctor’s baby die?’ asks Bruno.

‘He was half-dead already.’ Irene says blithely. ‘Born with an infection. Premature. He’d never have survived.’

‘So you speeded things along?’

‘It was just a bit of fun. It all got out of hand.’

Irene’s eyes have misted over. She speaks as though she’s in a trance.

‘We let the children take him out. They had him in a pushchair. Wheeled him round from house to house. Put a sign around his neck that said ‘A Penny for the Guy’. He had the colour for it. The swarthy skin. Just the thing for Bonfire Night.’

Irene sees our confusion.

‘Guising. Blacking up. We’d smear soot on our faces and go off knocking at doors. Mind you, we were all of us so filthy you couldn’t always tell. Still,’ says Irene laughing, ‘you could tell it was the Doctor’s baby. There wasn’t any doubt.’

‘How?’ I say uneasily.

‘We put a stethoscope round its neck.’

Neither of us speak. We are hypnotized. Transfixed.

‘Oh for goodness sake.’ Says Irene. ‘It was a game. He was tiny, hardly breathing. He didn’t know what was going on.’

‘You put a sick child in a pushchair and used him as a toy.’

‘They were children. They played with what they had to hand.’

I say ‘A baby died.’

‘Oh no.’ She says. ‘Not then. It was later. At the bonfire. When the fireworks started. Penny Bangers; Catherine Wheels; Rockets; Sparklers; Golden Rain. The boys were swarming through the crowd. Throwing Jumping Jacks at people’s feet. Picking up the rag dolls and the scarecrows. Throwing them on the fire. They weren’t to know. How could they? It was just like all the others. So small, so frail, so limp. We tried to tell them. Make them stop. But what with the screaming and the chanting and the crackling of the fire…’

Irene tails off.

‘…We did our best to save him. Found a stick to hook him out.’

Her voice drops to a whisper.

‘But he’d already burnt before our eyes.’

She shakes her head. As though she’s shaking off the horror. Her voice is matter-of-fact again.

‘We took him back to the Infirmary and made him a proper coffin. Dr. Sam insisted. He said it didn’t seem quite right to burn his body after that.’

All three of us fall silent. Bruno holds my hand.

Irene looks at me and flinches. As though she’s just remembered who I am.

‘That was the last St Anselm’s Bonfire. You might want to think again before you try to bring it back.’

Blue Plaque

I say ‘We should give him a proper burial. A gravestone.’

‘Who?’

‘The Doctor’s Baby’

Bruno says ‘I’m not sure what that would achieve.’

‘A mark of respect. An expression of regret. A reminder of man’s inhumanity to man.’

‘It wouldn’t be though, would it? It would be just another gravestone in a graveyard.’

‘We’re meant to draw on local history. We should say something somewhere. About the Infirmary, its history. The role it played in wartime Britain. We should mention Irene.’

‘Mention what?’ Says Bruno. ‘That she encouraged drug dependency and illegal abortion? Or that she killed unwanted babies as a matter of routine. Either way I wouldn’t want to put it in the marketing material.’

‘We could just put up a plaque.’

‘A plaque? What would it say?’

I say ‘The Doctor’s Baby.’ but it doesn’t sound right.

‘He deserves his own identity. We should give him a name.’

Bruno says ‘Dee, do me a favour. Don’t mention any of this to Lester. To anyone at all. The best thing we can do for this community is look towards the future. We won’t be helping anyone by dredging up the past.’

‘He had a name.’ says Irene. ‘We called him Sam. After his father.’

We both look at her in surprise. We’d forgotten she was there

‘Short for Sambo. Little Black Sambo.’

Bruno snorts. ‘You couldn’t make it up.’

War Paint

The silence is oppressive, over-powering. Everybody’s talking in hushed tones. As though illness is sacred. She longs for the clatter of the Infirmary. Chattering nurses, spluttering pipes. She’s not sure how much longer she can bare it. The silence and the cold. The two go hand and hand. She likes to hear the heat. She keeps trying to tell the nurses. To stop their infernal whispering. To crank the heating up.

But no one listens to her now. Another pale old woman. She is nothing without make-up; her armoury; her weapons. That was Irene’s battle. To pit English polish and perfection against Hitler’s skewed ideas. His belief that women should be ‘natural’: lumpen, pallid, plain. She’ll feel better once she has her war paint. Maybe then she’ll find her voice.

Linda is standing in the doorway. Eyeing her grandmother in bed.

Irene says ‘Where’s my vanity case?’

Linda says ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

Smokescreen

‘We’ve had a complaint.’ Says Lester.

I say ‘We always get complaints.’

‘From Doctor Tanner. About upsetting his patient. There’s a note from Irene too. She says you didn’t strike her as particularly professional.’

‘No.’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose we did.’

‘The Oral History Society is pretty pissed off as well.’

‘I thought they’d be delighted.’

‘They want nostalgia. Local colour. Apple bobbing. Maypole dancing. Knees Up Mother Brown. Funnily enough they’re not so keen on….’

Lester taps his keyboard. Finds the email. He wants to get this right.

‘Door-to-door narcotics distribution during wartime and early experiments in abortion within the NHS.’

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘it’s not quite that straightforward…’

I’m trying to choose my words.

I needn’t bother. Lester has his hands over his ears. His words come out like bullets.

‘I. don’t. want. to. HEAR. IT.’

Here we go…

‘What ever it fucking is, it’s a smokescreen, a distraction. A waste of fucking time. We’ve got a project that doesn’t stack up. Objections on all sides. The last thing I need is more excuses to hold the whole thing up. Do your fucking day job. Stop fucking about with stuff that’s irrelevant. Academic. If you want to write a fucking dissertation go back to fucking college and do a fucking Phd.’

Kitchenette

Linda Kirkby’s wandered in. As though she has a right to be here. As though she works here too. She sits down on her sofa. Makes herself at home.

I say ‘So how’s the patient?’

She says ‘Rambling. About the silence and the cold. And how Dr Sam and Bruno are the exact same shade of brown.’

We all turn to look at Bruno. As if we’ve never looked at him before. As though we’re not entirely clear about the colour of his skin.

Linda stands up and walks towards him. As though she needs a closer look.

‘It’s funny’ she says archly, ‘to think how times have changed. To think we used to frown on inter-racial breeding.’

If I didn’t know any better I’d swear she’d just brushed Bruno’s thigh.

She says ‘I’d say it should be positively encouraged.’

Bruno and I stare after her as she slams the kitchen door.

I can hear her pottering the kitchen. In the kitchenette. I think she’s tidying up.

I say ‘Is that her idea of flirting?’

Bruno says ‘I think it’s her idea of a joke.’

‘You must admit she’s odd.’

‘She’s certainly unusual.’

I say ‘I think she’s barking mad.’

Puffed Up

Elsie Tanner strides into the bungalow. Puffed up. Self-important. Buoyed by the unequivocal support of sixty-seven residents. She has a petition. Against the plans to bring back Bonfire Night. The community is behind her. She has the signatures to prove it.

She’s not sure who to give it to. Lester, me, or Bruno. And why is Linda Kirkby here? Fraternising with the enemy. It’s unsettling, disconcerting. Elsie likes things to be black and white. Good and bad. Them and us. She doesn’t like her boundaries to be blurred.

Lester says ‘Can we help you?’

Elsie looks confused.

He says ‘Is that for us?’

A gentle prompt. He really wants to help.

She doesn’t want to hand it over. Not with Linda Kirkby here. She doesn’t like the way she’s looking at her. Enquiring. As though Elsie has no right to be here. As though she should state her business; justify her presence. Haughty. Like her grandmother. She really is just like her. It’s strange she’s never noticed it before.

Bruno says ‘Why don’t you let me have a look?’

I read it over Bruno’s shoulder. There is a long list of concerns. The threat to wildlife and ecology. The risk of drunk and disorderly behaviour. Possible pressures on the local police force. The implications for the public purse.

There’s a paragraph on fireworks. About the psychological impact of loud noises. Especially with regard to household pets.

‘You’ve given this a lot of thought.’ Says Bruno. ‘We really do appreciate the time you’ve spent to think the issues through.’

He hands Elsie her petition.

He says ‘Perhaps we’ll hold a barbecue instead.’

Elsie looks deflated. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She was going to brandish it triumphantly. Thrust it in their faces. Take the wind out of their sails.

She can’t help feeling she’s been tricked.

Respite

Irene longs for oblivion. Respite from recollections; nightmares; dreams. The insistent spiteful chanting; the stench of burning flesh.

Burn him in a tub of tar
Burn him like a blazing star
Burn his body from his head
Then we’ll say the Pope is dead

Tongue Tied

Linda says ‘I think I know your husband.’

Elsie Tanner looks surprised.

‘It’s Dr Tanner isn’t it? My grandmother’s in hospital. She says he’s very kind. Professional. She likes his Bedside Manner.’

Elsie Tanner doesn’t answer.

‘She speaks very highly of him. She wasn’t sure at first. He just seemed down, a bit depressed.’

No one speaks.

Linda carries on, as though she’s talking to herself.

‘He’s completely different now. Always smiling. A changed man.’

Elsie Tanner makes a sound I can’t decipher. Despondency? Dismay? Despair?

‘Irene says he’s got a real spring in his step.’

Elsie Tanner has found her tongue.

‘Irene Grover is a silly woman who talks too much.’

Linda smiles serenely. Bruno looks a little startled. I am fiddling with my laptop.

Linda’s phone is ringing. Thank God for the distraction.

She says. ‘It’s Doctor Tanner. I have to take this call.’

Everyone falls silent. Linda is listening intently. She says ‘It’s probably a blessing. Thanks for letting me know.’

Linda turns to Elsie Tanner. She pauses for a moment. Before delivering her punch line. Before she has the final word.

‘Well,’ she says angelically ‘she won’t be talking now.’