God! She doesn’t need to paint a more graphic picture. Too many times when I was training in A&E had I heard these terrible, soul-destroying stories of abuse. It explains why Ronnie’s face is clawed with sorrow.
Her long lashes sweep open and closed. Anguish pulls the veins in her neck. ‘I told so many people what was happening to me at home. No one wanted to know—’
‘Not even your teachers?’ Silently, I’m enraged on her behalf.
I have an urge to wrap my steady arms around her and squeeze away the pain. Tuck her head just below my collarbone and allow her to cry. Or let her shout. Scream. Bawl. Provide the support she didn’t have as a young girl and woman. The support she silently provided for me without me having to ask.
‘I don’t need your pity,’ she stabs out as if reading my thoughts.
‘Kindness and pity are not the same,’ I gently correct. ‘I once told a colleague that I was adopted. The expression in her eyes turned me into something less than human. That’s pity. After that she was forever baking me cupcakes with the iced message, “You are loved”。 What a mercy it was when she moved to another hospital.’
Ronnie’s lips twitch, desperately trying not to laugh, but I wish she would. It would pull down yet another barrier between us.
She tells me, ‘Some of my teachers, their hearts were in the right places, but I think I went to the bottom of their lists after their paperwork and they forgot to report it. I don’t know why no one acted but they didn’t.’ Ronnie swallows a deep breath. ‘Word on the street was there was this place where teenage girls – young women – felt safe. It had plenty of social stuff going on and practical courses as well to train you up with different skills.’
The yearning from her youth weaves across the table like a refreshing menthol breeze.
Working in the hospital I learned that the best way to treat certain patients who are both physically and mentally wounded is with soothing and gentle care. Give them space to speak. I’m desperate to ask Ronnie why she’s living with Sugar, what my adoptive father is doing, but I suspect she needs space too. So, I reign in my natural instinct to bombard her with questions and wait.
After a time, my patience pays off when Ronnie says, ‘I put my head down at Suzi and took as many courses as were available. Word processing. Catering. There was even one on learning how to waltz.’ Ronnie laughs. I’ve never heard any sounds of joy coming out of this woman. It’s strained and low, with a sharp hiccupping gurgle at the end. ‘I did that course. No idea why. Maybe I thought I was going to find Prince Charming and live with him in his golden palace.’
The laughter seeps away; only blatant, naked pain remains. ‘Girls like me never find bliss.’
Her eyes hold mine. It’s me who has to look away because the children’s home taught Little Eva that she didn’t deserve any happiness either. I swallow the hard, bitter lump of some terrible emotion I can’t identify.
‘Did you know Hope, Amina or Sheryl?’ I quietly ask.
Her careless shrug reaches her ears. ‘Like I told you before, I don’t remember anyone by those names. It was decades ago. Then again, rubbing out names from the past is sometimes the best thing to do.’
Her denial of knowing the other women doesn’t stop my thirst for information. ‘But you were in the photo with them. Your palm hiding your face.’
Ronnie’s hand opens, her fingers flutter against the table. ‘I was in a lot of photos with a lot of people back then. I wasn’t there to make friends. I don’t have any idea who worked in the office—’
‘I never mentioned anyone working in the office.’ I lean forward. ‘Did Hope, Amina or Sheryl work in the office at the Suzi Lake Centre?’ My desperation is palpable. ‘Don’t you understand that whichever one it is owned the Good Knight that is on the desk—’ Which I can’t currently find.
I lay my phone on the table to show her the photo. And the Good Knight. ‘My mother gave it to me.’
I point to the Good Knight in the picture. My chest expands with too much air. Ronnie remains silent, but her finger reaches out to caress the image of the Good Knight. Then her finger hovers over the image of her young self. Veronica.
Suddenly her hand snatches away and she gruffly tells me, ‘I can’t say any more.’
‘Why not?’ Her lips stubbornly tighten at my persistence. ‘Are you helping Sugar with his investigation? What evidence has he got now that he didn’t have all those years ago?’