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‘None at all, actually,’ Constance chimed in helpfully.

‘So I might just cheer her up a little bit. And besides, for my own personal satisfaction I’d like to thank her for all she did for me years ago, even if she can’t remember me.’ I said all this in a firm, no-nonsense voice that sometimes worked for me. By then, I’d realized that Hildegarde’s senility might, in fact, run in my favour - when she failed to recognize me it would be blamed on her condition.

‘All right,’ said the woman called Rachel, irritation on her face and in her tone. ‘Dr Wisbeech is away today but, Constance, you’ll have to let him know of Mr Dismas’ visit this evening when he returns. And next time I’d like you to check with me first.’

‘Of course,’ Constance agreed meekly. ‘It was such short notice and I know how busy you are…’ She let her words trail away.

Without further comment, although disapproval was still evident in her body language, the heavy-set woman turned on her heels and marched off down the hallway, the big guy following, holding the paper he clutched towards her. ‘I need your signature and then it can be faxed through,’ we heard him say before they disappeared from sight round a corner.

‘Nice lady,’ I remarked as their footsteps faded.

‘Rachel Fletcher. She’s both senior nurse and chief administrator.’

‘I can see why she’s busy then.’

‘I hope you won’t be too disappointed if Hildegarde doesn’t remember you,’ my companion said, moving on towards the same turn in the hallway that the senior nurse and orderly had taken.

I’m counting on it, I thought to myself, although hoping her memory wouldn’t be completely wiped: I needed the ex-midwife to tell me about Shelly Ripstone’s long-lost baby. I groaned inwardly, realizing how slim the chances were.

Tell me something,’ I said. ‘With senile dementia, does the victim forget everything?’

‘Good gracious, no.’

Good gracious?
I loved it. I hadn’t heard that kind of exclamation in many a year. A curse or blasphemy usually did the job nowadays.

The victim might be unable to think clearly or understand complex ideas, and they will forget people’s names, even the names of relatives or close friends. They might also forget recent events, even what they had for breakfast, but some can remember what happened in the distant past as if it were yesterday. They could tell you what they did fifty years ago, yet be unable to tell you what they did that morning. It’s one of the mysteries of the illness.’

By now we had reached the corridor leading off from the main hallway and we turned into it. It must have run along the centre of the building, for there were doors on either side, some open, others shut. I heard the muted rumbling of a large aircraft passing overhead.

‘Isn’t it a bit noisy for your patients?’ I asked as we went on. ‘You know, with the airport so near?’

That coaxed a smile again. ‘Most of our
guests,’
she corrected, ‘are hard of hearing anyway, and the windows here are double-glazed, so the noise doesn’t bother them much. Sometimes the vibration might, especially when a plane is too low or Concorde is passing over, but it isn’t often and you soon get used to it.’

‘It’s in an odd location, though. It was pretty hard to find.’

‘Dr Wisbeech likes it that way - it’s more private for our residents. Besides, the house belonged to the Wisbeech family long before the doctor turned it into a nursing home for the elderly. He completely renovated the place to make it suitable.’

‘He must have come from a wealthy family.’

A plump, blue-uniformed figure appeared from a doorway further along the corridor and gave Constance a wave. Her hands occupied with the crutches, Constance gave a nod of her head in response. I peeked into open doorways as we passed by, catching glimpses of sparse but comfortable-looking rooms: iron-framed beds with multi-pillows, bright bedcovers, fresh flowers on small cabinets, a wardrobe here and there, small, portable televisions on sideboards, all cosy and well kept. Occasionally, an old face returned my curiosity, but mainly the residents I saw seemed preoccupied with their newspapers, their little television sets, or the empty air in front of them. Some had tubes attached to their bodies, while others lay still in their beds as if already dead. Through the windows in the rooms to my left I could see fields and sparse woodlands, distant houses dotted here and there, yet on my right, from where the views of the River Thames and beyond would have been glorious, there were only blank walls.

I had no time to ponder this, for the nurse who had waved to Constance was strolling towards us.

“Lo, there. A new friend, is it, Constance?’ There was a nice Irish lilt to the plump nurse’s voice.

‘Just someone to see Hildegarde, Theresa,’ Constance replied, showing no strain at having to repeat the familiar line.

Theresa - pronounced Theraisa - was a pleasant-faced girl, with a chubby, freckled face and an easy manner. ‘Is that right, now?’ she said. That’s a good thing. Hildegarde will enjoy that’ She seemed genuinely unfazed by my appearance and I wondered if that was because of her daily contact with Constance. ‘I’ve just left the poor old’ -
auld
- ‘thing an she’s as quiet as a mouse. Not sleeping, though, so you won’t be disturbin her.’

As the plump young nurse stepped aside to allow us by, she gave me a little wink, then grinned at Constance.

There’s a fine feller,’ she said, and you know, I think she meant it.

When I peeked a sideways look at Constance, I was amazed to see she was blushing. I almost laughed.

‘I’ll be seein youse later, Constance,’ Theresa called as she went on her way. ‘An see youse both behave yerselves, mind.’

We heard her chuckle to herself and Constance gave me a sheepish glance.

‘Don’t mind Theresa,’ she said. ‘She’s always jolly.’

Jolly?
Oh yes, I loved the words Constance used. ‘I bet she’s a good worker, too,’ I replied trying to help her out of her embarrassment.

‘She certainly is.’

‘How many medical staff or carers work here?’ I asked, waiting for the redness in her cheeks to fade.

‘Eight in this unit, five in our other section. Then there’s Rachel Fletcher, our chief administrator-supervisor/senior nurse, and her secretary, and our main lobby receptionist, of course.’

The guy with Nurse Fletcher - he’s a nurse, too?’

‘Bruce is a general orderly, but also a kind of assistant to Rachel.’

‘What is this other section you mentioned?’

For some reason she seemed almost relieved that we had reached the doorway from where Theresa had waved. Was I asking too many questions? If so, I still didn’t understand why that should make her uncomfortable. Then again, why was I asking so many questions anyway? Too many years as a professional snooper. I thought at the time it was my natural - some might say
un
natural - instinct, the one I relied on so much in my line of work, needling me, sending little vibes to pester me; little did I realize it was so much more than that.

‘If you’ll just wait a moment I’ll check on Hildegarde first,’ Constance said, ignoring my last question.

She disappeared into the room and I heard her say in a voice that was louder than normal: ‘Hildegarde, your visitor is here. Remember I told you someone was coming to see you? Are you feeling well enough?’

There was a throaty sound that might have been assent or just a cough.

Constance returned to the doorway and dropped the pitch of her voice. ‘She’ll be fine. But please don’t make your visit too long, will you? There’s a buzzer by the bed should you need any assistance.’

With that, she looked directly into my eye again, as if searching for something there. Perhaps it was the truth behind the lie.

‘Th-thank you.’ Yes, I actually stuttered and it was my turn to feel sheepish. There was a sudden warmth to her gaze, and then she was gone, moving awkwardly around me and heading back towards the main stairway. With one last look at her hunched back, I entered the room.

It was like all the others we had passed, the walls painted the same peaceful cream colour, the woodwork white. The large sash window overlooked the drive and lawns, the light from the north subdued. In one corner was a small sink, a rectangular mirror with a strip light over it. A free-standing screen stood close by, the edge of what looked like a commode just visible behind it. A picture of Christ hung on the wall opposite a narrow iron-framed bed, a deep red heart burning from His chest, golden rays bursting from it like brilliant shafts of sunlight. The compassionate eyes seemed to watch me as I crossed the room, and one of His hands was raised in benediction.

The thin, frail figure of Hildegarde Vogel, ‘Sparrow’, was raised by pillows at her back, a nebulizer and other apparatus close at hand on a bedside cabinet. Like the Christ image, she watched me as I drew near.

Her trembling, skeletal, blue-veined hands reached out to greet me.

In a voice so tearful and weary that the last word fell away in a moan, she uttered: ‘My… poor… baby…’

15

Pale and watery though those aged eyes were, they seemed to burn with an inner fever. I was dismayed at the pity and deep sadness I saw in them.

‘My… poor…’ Hildegarde repeated, but this time the last word eluded her.

I flinched at the thin, claw-like hands that reached for me, somehow afraid to let them touch, fighting the revulsion I felt for this cadaverous old lady lying there propped up by pillows, her long dry white hair, the scrawny chicken’s neck, the yellowish skin, with its deep creases and rampant liver-spots - and most of all the fetid smell that came from her, musty-sweet and tainted by the odour of degenerating flesh. I despised myself for giving in to the very emotion I reviled in others, those people who cast eyes upon my own shape for the first time and who, either because of surprise or ignorance, were unable to disguise their reactions. I quickly pulled myself together and managed to smile.

‘Sparrow,’ I said, and her expression changed as she remembered the nickname. Her mouth widened into a thin, toothless grin.

But as I drew even closer, her weak eyes narrowed and the grin shrivelled to a glower. She cocked her head to one side, eyeing me suspiciously.

‘You’re not one of my…’ Although the words she spoke were more crisp, the sentence trailed away again. Her hands dropped to the sheets covering her skinny old body and now there was consternation on her face. So cavernous were her cheeks that they were shadowed, and although she was slight, some of her flesh hung loose, as though the bone inside had shrunk. I hated to admit it, but the only bird she reminded me of was a vulture.

‘Miss Vogel… er, Sparrow, I’m a friend,’ I forced myself to say, angry at myself for giving into such prejudices. There was a hardbacked chair against the wall and I pulled it nearer to the bed. My hump pushed me forward when I sat and I rested my wrists on the edge of the narrow bed. Her head slumped back on the pillows and she watched me with distrustful eyes.

‘You are not, you are not a friend.’

The German accent was still evident in her weary voice, although it was slight, an intonation rather than a pronunciation.

‘George Wilkins told me about you.’

Her wizened face formed a thousand more wrinkles as she frowned in concentration. ‘George?’ It sounded like
Chorge.
‘I don’t know anyone…’

‘Sure, you remember. He and his wife used to run a shop opposite the hospital you worked in.’ Shit, what was the wife’s name? I’m supposed to be a pro, I should have made a note of it. The Dartford General. You were a good friend of George and his wife. You used their shop all the time.’

‘Emma. Where is Emma? Has she come to see me?’ She craned her neck to look at the open doorway as if expecting her old friend to enter. Where is…?’

Her hand gripped my wrist on the bed.

‘Yes, Emma. See, you do remember. Emma Wilkins.’

A toothless smile again. Heavy lids closed over her eyes as she recalled her friend. I hoped other memories would come back to her this afternoon.

‘I worked in many hospitals,’ she muttered and I could hear the wheezy rattle of her breath as it settled into her leaking lungs.

I had no idea that she had, but I prompted her. ‘Yes, you did. But you remember Dartford General, don’t you?’

Her breath now made a whistling sound as it left her mouth. ‘Is… is Em…’ the name almost escaped her ‘… Emma coming to see me today?’

‘No, not today.’ I didn’t want to upset her, so I lied again. ‘Emma’s not very well, but she sends her love.’

Another thin smile and she opened her eyes once more. ‘And tell me, why are you here? I’m sure… I’m sure I do not know you. Or are you just someone else I’ve forgotten? I do forget things these days. I do not mean to…’ Her hand unclasped itself from my wrist and her eyes began to close once more.

Afraid she might fall asleep, I hastened my approach. ‘Another friend sends her love, too. Shelly Teasdale. You do remember her, don’t you?’

Hildegarde gave a feeble shake of her head. ‘No, I do not…’

‘You helped deliver her baby in Dartford General. It was a long time ago, eighteen years…’

‘Baby? Oh, the poor babies.’

She lifted her head and began to look around, this way and that, searching for something. In frustration, she slumped back and turned to me. I saw a sharpness in her eyes then, a clarity that had not been there before. It was as if the wasting of brain cells had been held in check for a moment.

Where are the babies?’ she demanded to know.

I probed as gently as I could. What babies do you mean, Sparrow?’

The poor little ones. The unfortunates. He said they would always be cared for.’

Who said? Was it one of the doctors you worked with in Dartford?’

‘All over. Other places. We always worked together. The Doctor has always been… good… to… me… to…others…’ She drew in a long quivering breath. ‘Ever since…’

I was losing her and I gave her arm a gentle little shake. ‘Ever since when, Hildegarde? Tell me what happened.’

Her eyelids sprang open and I saw an excitement there, as though the memories had suddenly become clear, pleasing her, giving her back some vigour. She looked up at the ceiling as though it were a screen on which those recollections were being played out.

‘I was young then. Not like this, not old and useless.’ A wheezy sigh, and then a short struggle to regain the breath she had lost. I waited impatiently, ready to grab the nebulizer mask should it be needed.

‘Oh dear Heavenly Father, I remember that night so clearly.’ She smiled and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the visions she saw, or because of the sudden lucidity of her mind.

I leaned closer, ignoring the smell that had so stupidly offended me earlier. Tell me about it, Sparrow,’ I whispered. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to share in her reverie. Perhaps I thought she was referring to the time when she had been midwife to Shelly Ripstone
nee
Teasdale.

The hospital was in London. It was… no, I can no longer remember its name.’ Her voice was querulous, but it had an underlying strength to it now, the visions helping the telling. The hospital was in a bad part of the city, where the bombs had done so much harm.’

I guessed she was talking about London’s East End, or the docklands, which had been so badly battered by German planes during the Second World War.

‘Wilhelm was gone. Oh my darling Wilhelm… killed by the enemies who were to become my friends. Seven years after the end of the war there was nothing for me in Berlin and our conquerors were begging skilled people to come to their shores. In Germany we were trying to rebuild, but there was nothing there for me, no close relations, not many companions, not enough food, and the money paid for labour was a pittance. It was little wonder I saw England as a land of opportunity.’

Although her eyes remained open, some of the fresh lustre had faded from them.

Tell me about the hospital, Hildegarde,’ I urged quietly.

‘Ach, the hospital. So drab, so grey. Yet I thought it was wonderful, even though I was treated as an outcast. The people found it so hard to forgive and who could blame them for that? But I worked… my God, how I worked. Both night and day - it made no difference to me, I had nothing else to do…’

I was disappointed. Hildegarde was going back more than fifty years, long before the time I was interested in. Yet now, having urged her to remember, there was no diverting that train of thought.

‘I was on night duty, very tired - I’d helped deliver three little ones that afternoon. I think it was midnight. Yes, I’m sure it was… I took my break about that time. I had no one to talk to - the people were still suspicious of us Germans even after all that time, and besides, my English was still very bad.’

A silence followed and I had to prompt her again. ‘What happened that night, Hildegarde? In the hospital, it was around twelve o’clock at night…?’

Her head slowly turned so that she could look into my eyes.

‘You
do not know?’

It sounded like an accusation.

She spoke in a harsh whisper. ‘Are you not one of them? Is that not why you are here?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, Hildegarde. Why don’t you just tell me about that night?’ I was perplexed, but put her confusion down to the disease in her brain.

That night…? Oh yes, that night. I decided I would explore the hospital…
mein Gott,
what was it called…?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Hildegarde. Just tell me your story.’

‘Yes, my story. The one you already know. Are you trying to trick me, do you think I am insane? Is it that you wish to find out how much I still know, how much I have forgotten?’

‘No, Sparrow.’ I persisted in using both her Christian name and nickname in the hope it would make me sound more familiar to her. ‘I’m interested, that’s all. I’m not trying to trick you.’

‘How do I know that? The doctor tells me I should forget. But I do not
want to forget!’

Her voice had risen in pitch and I patted her hand reassuringly, afraid she might alert one of the staff. ‘It’s okay. Take your time. Don’t upset yourself.’

‘Are you a friend?’

‘Yes, I’m a friend.’

‘Like Emma?’

I nodded my head.

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. The doctor isn’t my friend any more.’

‘I’m sure he is.’ I wondered who this doctor was. Could she have meant the proprietor of the home himself, this Dr Leonard K. Wisbeech?

Her chest, which had begun to rise and fall rapidly, became calmer.

‘Nobody told me there were places in the hospital where I should not go. But I was young, and curious, and I had nothing else to do that night. I wandered through the wards and corridors, getting to know the place, introducing myself to the other duty nurses. I was a stranger and I wanted to be accepted, I wanted to know my way around. It was such a huge building, but eventually I found myself on the top floor.’

She started to cough, at first softly, but then the exertion sending spasms through her whole body. I became anxious, unsure of what I should do: help her use the nebulizer, or ‘ press the call button so that a trained nurse could deal with the situation? But even as I fretted, the spasms grew less violent, the coughing less harsh, until eventually the seizure passed. Her cheeks were damp with forced tears and spittle drooled on to her chin.

I took tissues from a box on the bedside cabinet and gently wiped her face. She appeared not to notice.

The corridors were dark up there,’ she went on as though nothing had occurred, the rise and fall of her thin little chest assuming a regular rhythm once more, ‘so very, very dark. I did not realize this was
verboten,
that I should not be there. I thought perhaps that this part of the hospital was unused and I wondered why. I found the doors to a ward that had no name, no markings or numbers, nothing at all. I was too nervous to go inside, afraid I would get into trouble.’

Her voice descended to a whisper and she leaned my way, as if to confide in me. ‘I looked though. Oh yes, I peeked inside. And that was the beginning for me, you see, that was the moment it all started. That was when I became involved.’

I tensed. I didn’t know why, but my body, my mind, became suddenly alert. I tried to control my impatience. What was in that ward, Hildegarde? What did you find?’

Those grey, watery eyes fixed on me. ‘I found the infants,’ she said. The poor little ones whose only offence was how they looked.’

A peculiar sensation ran through me, a kind of rush that heightened my senses and set my nerves on edge. I
knew
the answer even before I put the question.

‘What was wrong with them, Hildegarde?’

She spoke as if from a distance, her eyes looking ceiling-wards, its whiteness a screen once more.

They were like you,’ she said. ‘But worse. Harmless little babies born so hideous that they had to be locked away in darkness so that the world would never know its shame. Infants whose mothers did not know they were alive.’

Her eyelids closed like curtains to the ceiling’s screen, shutting out the images, bringing an end to the spectacle. But it seemed that the pictures in her mind were far stronger than those conjured on the ceiling, for now she was closed in with them, the impressions bolder and more disconcerting because they were even more intimate. She began to twist her head from side to side.

‘They… they are calling me…’

With horror, I realized that for her, the past had become the present. Her enfeebled brain had brought the memories to her, so that she was reliving the moments of many years before. I reached for her wrist and made soothing sounds in an attempt to bring her back to reality. It was no use though: her mind was in another place.

‘The older ones… they are… their poor little stunted arms … they are reaching out towards me… “Mama”, they call … “Mama”… and I take them in my arms… I comfort them… and they love me as I love them…’

She was thrashing around in the bed and I stood, my hands going to her shoulders, all the time trying to calm her, to soothe her with words I knew she could not hear.

‘And he… and he finds me there… but it is too late… I know the secret
…’

She was rambling, her words beginning to make no sense, her voice rising in pitch.

‘Who found you, Sparrow?’ I said close to her ear.

‘God, help them… please help them… I cannot… any more
…’

‘What on earth is going on here?’

The harsh, new voice came from the doorway and I turned in surprise. The senior nurse and administrator, the one whose wrath Constance had incurred in the hallway earlier, was standing there, a look of pure rage blazing from her broad face. I hardly knew what to say. Shit, I hardly knew what to
do.

Hildegarde was wriggling in the bed, the sheets becoming entangled with her stick-thin legs; she was making terrible sounds as she fought for breath, her desperate inhalations dry-raw, her wheezing alarming to hear. Her bony, blue-veined hands beat at the air and her lipless mouth was like a black hole at the centre of her face.