The House On Gable Street (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Page 7

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Nightingale, with a slightly unconvincing smile. Pretty much everyone he met these days claimed to have allergies. Still, he was the one who wanted information, so it was her call.

  Muriel came back with the two cups, and Mrs Shaw added the lemon to her tea and took a sip. ‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re staying up at Peacehaven? They’re a nice family the Deadmans.’

  ‘I’m up there for a few days, not much to do, so I thought I’d try to find out something about the history of the place. I’m a bit of a history buff.’

  ‘Indeed?’ she said, putting her head on one side and gazing at him carefully with her sharp blue eyes. He had the feeling that Margaret Shaw might not be an easy person to lie to.

  ‘Well, the Deadmans have a bit of a funny feeling about the place, so I thought I might ask around, and your name was suggested by one or two people.’

  ‘Really?’ Again the searching look. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure there’s all that much to tell, Peacehaven’s a brand new building. Only goes back around four years or so. The old house had been a ruin for decades, and was completely demolished.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Nightingale. ‘But I’d still like to find out as much as possible about it. The library and the local newspaper weren’t much help.’

  ‘Well, most people of my age would have called it the old Wharton house, because Judge Wharton and Libby lived there for a while, but to be accurate, it was her house not his, so maybe it should have been the Shipman House. That was Libby’s maiden name. Her name was Elizabeth but she was called Libby ever since she was a baby.’’

  ‘So she lived in the house before they married?’

  ‘Well now, that’s not strictly accurate either. Once they married, they had work done and used it as the family home for a while before they moved into town and closed the place up. Never would sell it though. But before all that, Libby used it, for her...business interests. Though I’m pretty sure she used to live there as well, of course she gave up the business idea once she married, the Judge wasn’t about to have his wife earning a living. Attitudes were a little different back then, you understand, feminism surely hadn’t reached Little Bend.’

  Margaret Shaw seemed to enjoy talking, but Nightingale knew better than to interrupt. She’d told him something that might be important though, and he wasn’t about to let it go. He decided to take it gently though, not appear too interested.

  ‘You mentioned a business?’

  ‘Yes, Libby had run the place for quite a few years, probably ever since the war ended. Again, you have to remember that attitudes were very different back then, the shame and disgrace of it. Not like now, when it’s no more important than a dose of flu. I think she did quite well up there, they used to come from all over. Even out of state, though they never came into town.’

  Nightingale was lost, she’d left out a link somewhere.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not quite with you, who didn’t come into town, what sort of place was it?’

  ‘Oh gosh, didn’t I say? It was a home for wayward girls.’

  ‘Like a reform school?’

  ‘Well, no, not that kind of wayward. Like I said, attitudes were different back then, and they were thought to have psychiatric problems, to be in need of mental help, not allowed to make their own decisions.’

  Nightingale held up a hand.

  ‘You’ve lost me again. Exactly what sort of girls are we talking about?’

  Margaret Shaw put her cup down, leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Why, unwed mothers, of course.’

  The waitress had come and gone, leaving another coffee for Nightingale and yet more tea in front of Margaret Shaw. At last Nightingale was beginning to feel like he’d made some progress, though he wasn’t sure what it meant yet. ‘So, the girls lived there with their babies?’ he said.

  ‘I doubt that,’ she said. ‘Tell me, Mr Nightingale, did you ever hear of ‘The Baby Scoop’ at all?’

  ‘I assume it’s not something to get them out of the bath with? Joke.’

  She sniffed. ‘If you say so. No, I’m afraid it’s something much less amusing. I assume you could research it if you wanted the full facts, but I can just give you an outline, if you wish?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Well then, I guess it’s not a period of history America needs to feel proud of, though it actually happened all over the world around that time, Canada, England, Ireland, Australia. Attitudes were so different then.’

  Margaret Shaw tended to get to the point slowly, and often repeated herself, but Nightingale needed to hear what she had to say, so he let her rattle on, uninterrupted.

  ‘In essence, it was decided by the powers that be, mainly the psychiatric profession, that unwed mothers lacked the psychological balance to bring up children, since they were clearly too neurotic to control their own breeding urges. That being the case, it was thought that the best course of action was for their babies to be adopted at birth.’

  ‘And they consented to that?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘In theory, I guess, though you must remember the social pressure on them, an unwed mother was thought to be a disgrace, would have little hope of finding a husband and home. Plus, there would have been extreme pressure on them from doctors, social workers, psychiatrists, perhaps even the threat of commitment.’

  ‘And this happened regularly?’

  ‘Oh indeed. I’m no expert on the subject, but I think I remember reading that around eighty percent of white unmarried mothers gave up their new-born babies for adoption.’

  ‘And that’s what was happening at Libby Wharton’s Home?’

  ‘Now, I was never in there, all I can say is that she was running a maternity home for unwed girls at the time this thing was at its height.’

  ‘So there was money in it?’

  ‘I assume so. The parents of the girls may have paid. The families desperate to adopt almost certainly would have, and I have no idea what funding might have been available from the state. All I do know is that Libby Wharton was a wealthy woman when she married the judge.’

  Nightingale drummed his fingers on the table while he thought. It seemed incredible that attitudes could have been so different back then, but Margaret Shaw was a living link to prove it. ‘Did you ever hear of anything bad happening up there?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, mothers being separated from their babies strikes me as bad enough, but I never heard of anything criminal, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure what I mean,’ he said. ‘Feels like I’m stumbling in the dark here.’

  ‘Well, it’s a long time ago now. I suppose you’ll be talking to Janet Carpenter too?’

  Nightingale must have looked surprised, because she smiled at him and put her hand on his forearm. ‘Small town. People talk. You know, I’m guessing you’re not really a historian, are you?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘I think you’re looking for something a whole lot more serious, am I right?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know, yet.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘I hope you find your answers, young man. And I hope they’re the ones you need.’

  * * *

  Nightingale had an hour or so to kill before his appointment with Janet Carpenter, so he decided to take a very long shot indeed by driving up to the Lincoln Retirement facility. He parked outside and smoked a cigarette, being careful not to drop ash inside the immaculate interior of the MGB, or to sully the ashtray with the butt. He looked at the long, white, single-story building, set in its well-kept grounds, with neatly-trimmed lawns and well-tended flower beds. It was a warm morning, and several of the residents were taking slow painful shuffles outside, some of them leaning on walkers, others pushing wheeled oxygen trolleys in front of them. Others sat on one of the many benches, lots of which had metal plates, no doubt commemorating some departed former resident. Some of the seated old p
eople had books, one or two knitting or needlepoint work, but quite a few just stared straight ahead, lost in a world that made no sense to them any more.

  Nightingale had made quite a few visits to retirement homes over the years, and they never failed to depress him. The government’s urging to quit smoking and drinking and add years to his life seemed completely pointless, if the extra time was going to be spent in a place like this. His cigarette finished, he got out of the car and headed for the main entrance. It was unlocked, so he followed a sign for the reception area, where a dark haired woman whose name-badge identified her as Lucia Martinez gave him a professional smile and asked him how she could help.

  Nightingale tried his best winning smile on her. ‘Name’s Jack,’ he said. ‘Was wondering if I could see Mrs Elizabeth Wharton. Libby.’

  The woman’s smile disappeared instantly. Evidently strangers weren’t too welcome. ‘Your full name, please,’ she said, tapping a few buttons on the computer in front of her.

  ‘Nightingale, Jack Nightingale.’

  ‘You’re not family.’

  It wasn’t a question, and Nightingale knew it would be pointless to lie. ‘No, I was just wondering if I could talk to her about her old house, on Gable Street. Some friends of mine built on the plot, and they’re interested in its history.’

  Her face snapped shut. ‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid. Our residents only receive visits from family and close friends. I certainly couldn’t admit you to see Mrs Wharton without a written authorization from one of her sons. Sorry.’

  Nightingale tried his smile again, though he had little hope it would work. ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t bother her, maybe just a few minutes, to see if she has some memories of the place. Five, ten at the most, I wouldn’t be a nuisance.’

  ‘You already are. As I said, it’s quite impossible.’ She looked at him, and her face seemed to soften slightly. ‘Look, I’ll be honest, it would be a waste of time anyway, Mrs Wharton has advanced dementia, and very little awareness of her surroundings. She doesn’t even recognize her sons and grandchildren when they visit. I’m pretty sure there’d be nothing she could tell you.’

  Nightingale nodded, and decided to admit defeat. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks for your time, Ms. Martinez, I’ll try somewhere else.’

  ‘Good luck with that. Good morning to you, Mr Nightingale.’

  Nightingale walked back out through the main door, but didn’t head in the direction of the car. Instead he walked along the side of the building and out into the grounds, striding purposefully, as if he were headed to see someone. He looked around and saw two elderly women walking and talking together along one of the paths. He went straight up to them, and tried very hard to put on a convincing American accent. ‘Hi there, ladies, I’m looking for my great-aunt, she’s not in her room, so I wondered if she’s out here. Elizabeth Wharton, Libby.’

  The two women stared at him, exchanged a look and smiled. The one in the blue velour leisure suit spoke. ‘Oh, yes, we know Libby. Such a nice lady, so sad. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, young man.’

  ‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘I work in Dallas, don’t get down often, Have you seen her?’

  ‘Why, yes. She’s over there, that’s her favorite spot to sit when the weather’s good.’ The old woman pointed at a bench about thirty yards away, where an even older woman sat, staring straight ahead, her lips moving slowly.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nightingale, and hurried across. He doubted he’d have very much time. He sat down beside the woman and looked at her. She was possibly the oldest person he’d ever been that close to, her face a road-map of wrinkles, dotted with dark brown liver spots, her pale blue eyes watering, her white hair so sparse that her scalp showed through it clearly. She took no notice at all of his arrival, but kept muttering to herself. Nightingale strained to pick out some words.

  ‘Lost...no good...no good. Don’t need....no good...gone.’

  Nightingale put his hand gently on her arm. ‘Mrs Wharton, Libby. My name’s Jack, I live in your house now. The house in Gable Street. There’s something wrong up there. Can you tell me about it?’

  She gave no sign at all of having heard him, just kept on with her muttering. He tried again.

  ‘Please, can you tell me anything. The home. The home for girls. Unwed girls. What’s wrong up there?’

  ‘Lost...no good...no good. So sorry...sorry...no good. No, no, NO’

  The final word was delivered with force and at much higher volume. Nightingale turned round and saw the two elderly women talking to a tall black man in what looked like a nurse’s uniform. They pointed at Nightingale, and the man started walking in his direction. Nightingale got up, and jogged back to the car, turning round to see the nurse talking to Libby Wharton, checking that she wasn’t hurt. Nightingale turned the key, offered up silent thanks to Jimmy Deadman for keeping his cars fully serviced and drove off.

  Another dead end.

  * * *

  The Quinn farm was around five miles out of town, but the waitress in the café had given Nightingale good directions, so he hoped to find it easily enough, especially since the MGB predated GPS by around forty years. The road out to the farm had plenty of twists and turns, and Nightingale enjoyed the challenge of pushing the old car through them. He saw the red mailbox from about a hundred yards away, then the name Quinn painted in black as he got nearer. He slowed right down, dropped the car into second and turned off to the right, down the blacktop track for two hundred yards until it opened out in front of a two story redbrick farmhouse. A blue SUV and an old rusty pickup truck were parked in front. He stopped next to the pickup, got out and walked up to the front door. It was opened before he had chance to knock, by a plump woman in her forties, wearing an apron over a gray sweatshirt and blue jeans. She wore a headscarf, a few stray blonde curls creeping out from under it. She smiled at him.

  ‘Mr. Nightingale, isn’t it? June said you’d be here. I’m Amy Quinn, my husband’s out back, covered in tractor oil and cursing, so please excuse him for not welcoming you. June said you wanted to talk to Mom about her time at the Wharton house on Gable Street.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nightingale. ‘Friends of mine live on the site now, though they built a new house. I’m just curious about the history of the place.’

  ‘I guess Mom is one of the last links,’ she said, showing him in and leading him along a cluttered hall. ‘Well, except for old Libby Wharton herself, and I hear she’s pretty far gone.’

  Nightingale nodded, but didn’t mention seeing the old woman. Mrs Quinn opened the door into a bright and airy sitting-room, with a high ceiling, French doors and bright yellow wallpaper. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in a brown and yellow check pattern, and the walls were lined with teak display units, showing off collections of crockery and china ornaments. An older and frankly fatter version of Mrs Quinn sat on the sofa, reading a Sue Grafton novel. She looked up as they entered, put the book down, made an effort to straighten her dyed-blonde curls and gave him a warm smile.

  ‘Mom, this is Mr Nightingale,’ said Mrs Quinn. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Well, of course I remember, how often do I get visitors of my own? Janet Carpenter, Mr Nightingale. Please sit down. Coffee?’

  ‘That would be nice, thank you,’ said Nightingale, sitting in the armchair opposite. He didn’t really need more coffee, but it seemed more polite to accept.

  ‘I’ll be right back with it,’ said Mrs Quinn.

  Mrs Carpenter talked a little about his accent, her one and only visit to London with her late husband, the weather and the state of the farm, until her daughter returned with the tray, the coffee was poured and Mrs Quinn had left them to it.

  ‘Well now,’ said the old lady. ‘Fascinating as the weather is, I guess that’s not why you’re here. It’s about Birchwood isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d not heard it called that before,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘It was the name they used before she married the Ju
dge and remodeled the place. Not many of us left who remember those days. The houses on Gable Street have never had numbers, you know. After the remodeling everyone called it the Wharton House. Not that I worked there for long once she married, got married myself, then Amy and Dave came along. Dave’s a firefighter in Kansas City now.’

  ‘Important job. So you worked for her before and after her marriage?’

  ‘That’s right, I was pretty much her housekeeper once she got married, but, like I said, just for around nine months. Not long after she and the Judge married they shut the place up and moved into his mother’s old house in town. Never knew why.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Would you tell me a little about Birchwood?’

  The ready smile disappeared and she pursed her lips. ‘Well, it wasn’t really the happiest time of my life, I don’t talk about it often, but I guess it can’t hurt now. But first, you have to realize that times have changed a lot in fifty odd years. Back then, attitudes were pretty ...well, traditional, you might say. Medieval might be a better word, looking back on it.’

  ‘So I hear, apparently it was pretty much the same all over the world.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that, at that time I was just like Dorothy, never been out of Kansas.’

  Nightingale took a quick glance at the clock on the wall behind her, and realised he’d need to push things along if he was to meet Miller on time. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you were a housekeeper at Birchwood when it was being run as a mother and baby home?’

  She shook her head. ‘It was never really that, the girls came once they really started to show, maybe around five months. They worked to pay for their keep, making baskets and such, sewing baby clothes for some company. But once the baby was born, they left inside a few weeks and went back home. Or wherever. And also, I wasn’t employed as a housekeeper. I was a trained nurse, they used me to help with the births.’

  ‘They gave birth in the home?’ said Nightingale, surprised.

  ‘Certainly. There was no hospital near here back then. Like I said, I was a nurse and so was Edna Foreman. If there was a difficult birth, Libby would call Doc Perkins.’