A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘Since he was sixteen,’ Jenny put in.

  ‘Ah. Heavily?’

  ‘Well, at first, no … It was more in secret defiance of my father ‒ we were very strictly brought up.’

  Lucy gave a shaky laugh. ‘All that churchgoing and praying from the old man, and all the time Ned was ‒’

  ‘The point is, your husband is in a very serious state, Mrs Corvill. He’ll kill himself if he’s allowed to go on like this.’

  She began to cry. ‘Let him! I don’t care! He’s mad and horrible and I want nothing more to do with him!’ She wrenched the door open and fled to the safety of her own room.

  Dr Laggan started after her, then changed his mind and once again closed the door. He wanted to discuss his patient in decent privacy and calm. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘when Mrs Corvill asked me to speak to her husband I refused. She said he was being “difficult”, I thought it was the usual marital quarrels … husbands don’t understand women’s moods when they’re pregnant. If she had explained properly …’

  ‘What’s to be done, doctor?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Just tell them to get rid of the spiders,’ Ned implored. ‘I’ll be all right if only you’ll take away the spiders.’

  Laggan cast him a glance of pity. ‘He really thinks they’re there,’ he said. He patted Ned on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, my friend, I can’t get rid of the spiders. You’re the only one who can do that.’

  ‘But I can’t, I daren’t go near them.’

  ‘Now, be a good man and take this.’ He had opened his bag and now shook a pill out of a dark phial. ‘Come on now, it’ll quiet you down.’

  Jenny fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, where the servants ceased talking on her entrance and watched her silently until she left. Ned took the pill without protest. He seemed dazed.

  ‘What is the pill, doctor?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘It’s laudanum, a very good depressant, but it’s only a temporary measure. Your brother needs long-term treatment, Miss Corvill.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Jenny said, standing behind Ned’s chair with a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘How should it be done?’

  ‘You don’t live here with the young couple?’

  ‘No, in Galashiels with my mother.’

  ‘No men in the family?’

  ‘No, my father is dead.’

  ‘Uncles?’

  ‘My mother’s brother ‒ but he lives in Dornoch. They keep in touch only by letter.’

  ‘I see.’ Dr Laggan played with the watch-chain stretched across his rather dusty black waistcoat. ‘The situation is this. Alcohol is poison to your brother’s system. He must give it up ‒ utterly, completely. Someone must keep watch on him at all times to see he doesn’t get hold of it and that is quite difficult because, I have to tell you, victims of this disease can be very cunning in deceiving their nurse. He would need to have attendants, male attendants, one for night and one for day ‒ can you manage this in his home in Galashiels?’

  Jenny had been picturing it even as he spoke. She imagined her mother’s grief and horror when she saw her darling son in this state. The shock would overset her completely. And then the quiet house turned into a prison, two strangers as warders. The town talking, her mother avoided and ostracised as it became known that Ned Corvill was mad.

  ‘It’s hardly possible,’ she said. ‘We could do it, but at the cost of great distress to my mother. She has no idea that Ned …’

  ‘I understand. This is only too common. Parents are often the last to know.’

  ‘I can’t understand it!’ Jenny cried. ‘Other men drink more than Ned, I’ve seen them ‒’

  ‘It’s one of the mysteries. Spirits are a great restorative, I like a drop of brandy myself at night after a hard day’s work. And as you say, some people can swallow it and go on without harm, or at least without noticeable harm. Your brother’s constitution somehow makes him vulnerable to alcohol. In this case, the harm is not only noticeable, it is dangerous ‒ he can have other attacks such as you’ve seen today, he can develop extreme neuritis, or apoplexy. He must really stop while there is a chance to make a decent life. How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘He mustn’t throw his life away,’ Dr Laggan said gravely. ‘You must see that he gets treatment.’

  ‘How is it to be done? I could speak to my mother and we could perhaps arrange ‒’

  ‘I don’t think your household sounds a suitable one for home treatment. In any case, it is better done in an institution with medical supervision by a specialist.’

  ‘An institution!’

  ‘Believe me, Miss Corvill, it’s best. It sounds harsh, but I know of a nursing home run by a medical missionary ‒’

  ‘I don’t understand you ‒ a missionary?’

  ‘Dr Murdo. He served in Africa for ten years but on coming home on leave he saw so much that needed doing here in Glasgow, he decided to stay and work in his home town. He runs a private sanatorium for nervous diseases, mostly cases of chronic alcoholism. His regime is strict but considerate. I do assure you, Miss Corvill, it is the best thing for your brother.’

  ‘I don’t know … I don’t know …’

  Ned had let his head fall back against her as the laudanum took effect. He roused himself to look up at her. ‘Is that you, Jenny? What are you doing here? Did Lucy send for you?’

  ‘Hush, dear, go to sleep. Everything is all right.’

  Ned smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Jenny. I haven’t been well, I think.’

  ‘We’ll make you better.’

  ‘Yes, I know you will. I know you’ll help me, Jenny.’

  ‘The best help he could have,’ the doctor said across Ned’s head to Jenny, ‘is complete absence of alcohol, chloral or bromide in measured doses, and complete rest.’

  ‘But it’s so awful … to put him in a kind of prison.’

  ‘It’s for his own good, Miss Corvill.’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘It’s too cruel.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’ Dr Laggan said. He gestured at the wrecked room. Gilt chairs were overturned, the veneer on the loo table had been scratched, a handsome palm had been dragged out of its pot and lay broken.

  ‘I could take some small place, look after him ‒’

  ‘Give up your life to him, you mean?’ He studied her. ‘Didn’t Mrs Corvill tell me at one time, you are the great Miss Corvill of the cloth firm? You run the family business?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Who would do that if you focused your entire attention on your brother?’

  ‘I could find someone to take over ‒’

  ‘Immediately? I think not. And, meanwhile, your brother is not receiving proper care, and your sister-in-law … You must think of the coming baby, too. She could be in danger when he is violent, you know.’

  ‘Ned would never hurt anyone ‒’

  ‘No?’ He came to her, touched the split lip. ‘So who did this to you?’

  ‘It was an accident ‒’

  ‘Exactly. You want to do all you can for your brother, I quite see that, but your sister-in-law’s safety must be considered. Moreover, she has a right to take part in this discussion ‒ we can’t settle anything without her agreement.’

  Jenny looked down at Ned. He had dropped asleep, his head drooping on the tapestry cover of the chair back. He looked so peaceful, so much himself, compared with the madman who had devastated the room.

  ‘We could leave him now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, he’ll sleep an hour or two. Perhaps we could have a talk with his wife now.’

  She led the way to the room where Lucy lay on her chaise-longue. Fordyce was tending her but, on a sharp command from Lucy, left them.

  ‘Where is he?’ she demanded.

  ‘Asleep in the sitting-room. Have no fear, dear lady, the attack is over for the time being.’

  ‘For the time being. It can happen again, though!’

  ‘Quite so.’ Th
e doctor went through the argument he had just had with Jenny. ‘It’s my opinion that your husband would be much better off with Dr Murdo in his sanatorium ‒’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, I agree! Anything to get him away from here!’

  ‘Lucy!’ Jenny cried in protest.

  ‘Oh, it’s all very well for you! You haven’t lived here with him these last few weeks! I can’t go on like that. He’s got to go somewhere where he’ll do no damage.’

  ‘Lucy, the first aim is to get him a cure.’

  ‘You can’t cure a drunkard, everyone knows that! And I don’t care, anyway, so long as he’s safely locked up!’

  ‘My dear young lady, you’re overwrought,’ Laggan said with kindness. ‘You don’t mean quite that. All the same, you are right in saying that your husband would be better under lock and key. It is possible to cure alcoholism and his best chance is in an institution.’

  ‘Very well, I agree.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that. There are papers that have to be signed.’

  ‘Bring them, I’ll sign them.’

  ‘Lucy, you can’t!’ Jenny begged. ‘I forbid it ‒’

  ‘Who are you to forbid it? I’m his wife.’

  Dr Laggan was nodding. ‘Mrs Corvill is correct, Miss Corvill. You have no status in law in this matter. If Mrs Corvill agrees to commit her husband to a medical institution on the advice of his doctor that is her prerogative.’

  From the moment Dr Laggan mentioned Lucy’s prerogative, Jenny knew the battle was lost.

  The doctor left, to return in two hours’ time with Dr Murdo. He proved to be an old giant of a man who looked as if he might burst out of his formal frock coat and checked trousers. He had weathered skin and a fringe of white whiskers. His manner was amiable and brisk.

  He was greeted by Lucy with a fervent plea for help. He and Dr Laggan went to have a talk in her boudoir. Jenny was excluded. She sat with her drowsing brother in the sitting-room, wondering what his wife was saying about him.

  She had set the room somewhat to rights but the signs of disturbance were still there ‒ soil from the plant pot incompletely brushed away, the scratch on the table, and her own cut lip. How she regretted that cut ‒ her lip was swollen and noticeable.

  The two doctors came into the sitting-room. Ned roused himself, sat erect. He rubbed his face. ‘I feel rotten,’ he said. Then he noticed his sister. ‘Oh, hello, Jenny. Oh, yes, you were here this morning … What’s been going on?’

  ‘My dear young man, you have had a very severe attack of delirium tremens,’ Dr Laggan said in a formal, forthright manner. ‘My colleague Dr Murdo has come with me to persuade you to go voluntarily for treatment.’

  ‘What? Treatment?’ Ned looked vague. ‘Delirium …?’

  ‘You’ve heard of it, I’m sure, Mr Corvill. It’s the result of addiction to alcohol.’

  ‘I’m not addicted ‒’

  ‘You are, my dear sir,’ Murdo said, speaking for the first time. ‘You have all the signs. Look at the tremor in your hands.’

  ‘That’s only because … because …’

  ‘Because you have had an attack of alcoholic mania.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. You attacked your sister.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  Murdo nodded towards Jenny. Ned staggered out of his chair to stare at her in the cold afternoon light. ‘I … cut your face?’

  ‘It was an accident, Ned ‒’

  ‘I quite allow that it was an accident. But think of the damage you might do next time,’ Murdo said.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean! Next time?’

  ‘You’ve had two attacks.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. Remember the spiders?’

  Ned went very pale. ‘Don’t,’ he gasped.

  ‘Both times, you’ve seen the spiders.’

  ‘No. Yes. Don’t talk about it.’

  ‘It will happen again unless you stop drinking.’

  Ned glanced from one to the other. The two men were impassive, Jenny was looking at him pleadingly. If he had to have treatment, and she saw he must, then she wanted him to go voluntarily, not signed away like some chattel by his wife.

  ‘I don’t feel well,’ he said, trying to put off a decision.

  ‘No, of course you don’t, and you’ll go on feeling like this after every attack and you’ll have other attacks, believe me. You must have treatment,’ said Dr Laggan. ‘My colleague Dr Murdo can provide that treatment, under excellent conditions for a complete cure.’

  ‘Think of it, man,’ Murdo said with hope and encouragement in his hearty voice. ‘No more spiders.’

  Ned turned to his sister. ‘Jenny?’

  ‘I think you must, Ned. You need help and I don’t know how else … how else …’ Her voice broke.

  He came uncertainly towards her, put his arm round her. Much though she loved him, she had to steel herself not to wince, for he smelt of stale drink and some odour to do with illness.

  ‘Don’t cry, Jenny. I’ll go if you think I ought to.’

  ‘Ned, I can’t tell you what to do. It’s your decision.’

  He looked at Laggan. ‘What does my wife say?’

  ‘She’s strongly of the opinion you should go into Dr Murdo’s sanatorium.’

  ‘How long …?’

  ‘Two months? Three? We must wait and see, Mr Corvill. But give me your cooperation and you can be a new man.’ He paused. ‘I’m told you had a religious upbringing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then with God’s help we will conquer your affliction.’

  ‘I don’t think God is there any more,’ Ned murmured.

  ‘God never leaves us,’ Murdo said, in the tone of full belief. ‘It’s we who leave him. I’ll help you find him again, Mr Corvill.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll come to me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First you must sign these papers.’

  He took from his breast pocket some printed forms. Ned looked at them, squinting, but in the confidence inspired by Murdo’s presence he was ready to accept anything. The forms were laid on the scratched table. With trembling hand he took the pen Murdo offered, and signed.

  ‘I will give you a draught to take,’ Murdo said. ‘Then I have to go and arrange for your admission to the home. I’ll send a conveyance for you. Please pack a few things ‒ clothes for leisure and comfort, and night attire.’

  ‘I’ll see it’s done,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Perhaps, young lady, you could ring for a tumbler with some water in it, about half full.’

  She did so. Maggie came, was instructed. ‘Bring it to the bedroom,’ Murdo interjected.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It will be better if you take this and lie down, Mr Corvill. It is a sedative; you won’t sleep but you will feel lethargic.’

  ‘All right.’

  They went along the passage. Dr Murdo made for the door of the master bedroom, which stood half-open.

  ‘No,’ said Ned, ‘this one.’ He led the way into what was clearly a dressing-room, where a narrow bed was neatly made.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Murdo, and entered, almost filling the space with his old muscular frame.

  The water was brought, and Murdo produced from his bag a bottle from which he measured liquid. The water turned milky. He handed it to Ned, who drank it obediently.

  ‘Lie down now. Let yourself relax. My assistant will come for you in about an hour. You and I will do good work together, Mr Corvill.’

  Jenny saw the two men to the door. ‘May I go with him to the home, Dr Murdo?’

  ‘Of course. And you and Mrs Corvill may visit him when you like for the first day or so when he will feel ill at ease in new surroundings, and restless for lack of a drink. But then we must get down to serious work, Miss Corvill, and his time will be taken up with tasks that I shall give him ‒ he will work in the garden, row on the Clyde, take up some hobby, carpentry perhaps, who knows. There will be p
rayer and meditation. His time must be completely occupied and he must have as little reminder as possible of the outside world until he is strong enough to go out in it without wanting whisky.’

  ‘It sounds … strict.’

  ‘Strict, but humane. It’s the only way, dear lady.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Dr Laggan glanced behind Jenny, as if expecting someone, but Lucy made no appearance to bid farewell. ‘Say good afternoon to Mrs Corvill for us,’ Laggan said, with a look of faint perplexity.

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  She set about packing for Ned. Night things were in the drawer of the lowboy, and toilet articles on the shelf, but the selection of clothes in the press wasn’t right for the kind of life Murdo had sketched. She went to the master bedroom.

  She was looking on the shelves of the mahogany wardrobe for woollen jerseys when the connecting door opened and Lucy appeared from the boudoir. ‘What are you doing in my bedroom?’ she challenged.

  ‘Packing for Ned.’

  ‘Oh.’ Taken aback at the reasonable answer, Lucy paused.

  ‘Perhaps you’d rather do it?’ Jenny suggested.

  ‘He can’t need much. I’m told he’s going to be locked in for at least six weeks.’

  ‘And you can think of it without regret?’

  ‘Regret? He’s the one who should be feeling regret. He absolutely ruined our chances of being accepted in polite circles in Glasgow.’

  Jenny found what she was looking for, and turned to go through the opposite door.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Lying down. Dr Murdo gave him a draught.’

  ‘When’s he going?’

  ‘Any moment now, I should imagine. Dr Murdo said he would send someone.’

  ‘The sooner the better.’

  Ned appeared from the dressing-room, roused by their voices. ‘Lucy …’

  ‘Go back and lie down,’ Lucy said.

  ‘Lucy, I’m going to a sanatorium.’

  ‘I know. Go and lie down till they come for you.’

  ‘I don’t know where this place is … Do you know, Lucy?’

  ‘No, but it will be all right, you’ll like it.’

  ‘Shall I? I don’t know … I feel funny. Everything seems to be happening behind a pane of glass.’

  Lucy looked irritated, began to turn away. Ned said desperately, ‘Lucy, don’t go. Stay with me. I need you.’