Chapter 13
Awkward.
Awkward and hard work.
These were a couple of the words to describe the last week at Wentworth.
They'd hardly spoken apart from to discuss work matters, no glances at each other during briefings in the governor's office or anywhere else for that matter.
No brushing touches against hands, no soft and knowing smiles.
Cool.
Cool and flat.
That's what Vera sensed from her boss.
The dark eyes had lost the sparkle they'd housed for the past few weeks, being replaced by tired and dare Vera say it sad ones, Joan didn't look herself, she looked like she'd not slept in a few nights, a bit like Vera hadn't.
No texts were exchanged, no communication, no plans for dinners or nights out.
Nothing.
All this had probably been the cause of Vera now being sat on her sofa on a Friday night, glass of wine in hand, laptop on her lap, fingers of her spare hand hovering over the keyboard, the little black line flashing in the search box of the open internet page, willing her to type her chosen subject in.
Putting her glass down on the floor, this now free hand then joining the other and tapping on the keyboard.
If you'd have told me I'd be searching for and trying to work out my boss's behaviour and what could be the matter with her because I've fallen for her and want to help and be with her, I'd have called a psychiatrist for you myself.
"What has become of my life" she muttered out loud, her eyes scanning the screen, deleting her previous search and typing again, taking the loading time to take another sip from her glass and replacing it, the cold liquid a nice feeling at the end of a tough week, one of the toughest she'd had if she was honest.
Tough because the woman she wanted seemed so far away in her own thoughts and world.
A world that Vera wasn't in, couldn't reach.
Didn't know how.
The question that constantly ran through her mind was why.
Why was Joan like this?
What had caused the behaviour she'd experienced on Saturday night.
Pulled Joan away.
Pulled Joan away from her and kept her at that distance.
Behaviour that had resulted in them now barely talking, Joan not looking at her.
Joan going back to being just her boss, straight and blunt answers, her heart being pulled back into its prison, the walls going back up around it, protecting it.
All week the dark haired governor had been vacant from her deputy, but then briefly sprung to life and barked at the smallest thing, slotting prisoners left, right and centre, showing no mercy, losing her cool with guards, unwilling to listen to their protests, shooing them away.
The laptop screen lit up with the results from the search Vera had asked it, eyes darting to the list, frowning and then clicking on one of them from the top of the lists, eagerly reading the contents.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
As she read her eyes widened, similarities coming from all angles, the words matching how a certain governor had and was behaving, it was like reading a book on Joan, the inner behaviour of Joan Ferguson.
For quite a time now she'd been wanting to learn more about the other woman, trying to fathom her out, wanting to know what went on in that head and mind of her, what she thought and felt. If she did feel it deep down, down into the depths of her soul, did she operate and feel that deep down. What did she feel for Vera if anything, what did she think about when they were together, apart, at work, in bed at night.
Staring back at her she read the three words again.
Borderline Personality Disorder.
Causes.
Genetics.
Childhood trauma.
Verbal abuse.
High reactivity.
Peers.
Wait what....childhood trauma, verbal abuse.
Scrolling to these two headings she read on, her blue eyes taking in the sentences on the screen at an increasing pace, taking the information in, once she read the two paragraphs and then again, then a third time.
The first dinner they'd shared at Joan's house she'd seen a picture of Joan and her dad, they were wearing fencing suits, his arm around a young Joan's shoulders, again she read the heading... childhood trauma.
She'd seen no pictures of the governor's mum in her house, just her dad, maybe she'd left, maybe she'd died.
That just left Joan with her dad and in the picture he was smiling but she wasn't.
Just Joan and her dad from what age, a baby, toddler, preschool, then all the way through into adulthood.
The two of them.
No one else.
Suddenly an awful feeling and thought washed over her as the two headings got stuck in her brain.
Childhood trauma, verbal abuse.
In the paragraphs it said about emotional, physical and sexual abuse, about being exposed to chronic fear or distress as a child, being neglected by one or both parents.
Bloody hell.
God almighty.
The stories of Joan's so called unproven physical attacks on the prisoners, her rough handling of them.
Is this due to the fact she thought this is how you behaved to get people to do what you want, to punish them, that this is what she'd been taught, this is what she'd had done to her.
That she herself had been subjected to this kind of treatment.
This kind of abuse.
Emotional and physical abuse.
Abuse from her dad from being a little child.
Little Joan.
Defenceless Joan.
Joan who grew up taking this abuse.
Not knowing anything else.
Not dissimilar to Vera, she'd endured more than enough of this kind of crap from her mother, the endless put downs, verbal and then physical abuse until she'd ended the misery herself, but still it affected her in certain ways, not half as much as it used to but now and again it did, a lull in self confidence, the odd wobbly day and or night where self doubt creeps in, most people get this so it wasn't such an big deal, but to have endured this and more from being a small child.
If you're left on your own as a little girl and then on the return of the parent you think looks after you or is meant to look after you, they don't bother with you or pay you any attention, tell you to be quiet when you babble at them, or go out again, you don't know when or even if they'll be back for you, then what, you're alone, totally alone.
Imagine if this is what Joan endured as a little girl.
The thought alone enough to make Vera gasp, her hand going over her mouth to silence it, thinking about Joan all alone as a little girl, crying for her dad, frightened and not knowing why he'd left her, where he'd gone or if he'd be back for her.
If this is the kind of thing that her boss had had to endured, teamed with other physical and emotional abuse, maybe being told horrible things about herself, then no wonder she didn't trust easily now and couldn't show any emotion easily either.
The incident in the bar on Saturday, what had actually happened during that incident, Vera had been stood next to a man at the bar, Joan had been sat at the table.
The pieces slowly started to fall into place, did Joan panic, get scared, had the appearance of the man been a trigger for her, a trigger for the outburst.
Joan had gotten scared.
Scared of being forgotten as she sat at the table.
Scared.
Had she been scared.
Scared so much so that she'd lashed out.
Lashed out because that's how she'd learned to react.
That's the only way she knew how to react.
To release how she was feeling.
The feelings she had, so many she didn't know what to do with them.
Feelings she'd not been taught about dealing with.
Feelings that hadn't been recognised or validated from being a child.
The more Vera read the more she recognised, recognised as Joan, her Joan, frightened and alone from such a young age, then came the outbursts at work, the difficulty expressing herself, finding the words that connected internal feelings to actually saying the words out loud and telling another human how you were feeling.
This sounded like Joan Ferguson.
Made the governor's character make some kind of sense.
Now the big question.
How to try to help and get through to her.
Because that's what Vera wanted more than anything.
She wanted Joan Ferguson, and she had the inkling that maybe, just maybe underneath all them facets Joan wanted her too.