From a Safe Distance

by Bishop, Julia

  ‘Hello, Newman.’ Roy had come in just behind me. I realised how much taller I was than him.

  ‘Oh, hello, Roy.’ We shook hands. ‘Cold, isn’t – ’

  ‘– Hey, it’s you, fuckin’ Goodfield. I’m in ’ere again ‘cos of you, you bastard!’ The loud voice which had interrupted me belonged to a young man who was now walking towards us in determined fashion. He was unshaven, with long greasy hair and a hole in his green sweater.

  There was a sound of vacated chairs as the other people, anxious, gathered by the opposite wall. I noticed that the receptionist was making a call. The young man was standing quite close to us now, breathing heavily and trembling. Moments later, two large male nursing assistants burst through the double doors to the left of reception and came over to escort the patient back to his ward. He did not resist. In fact he began to weep, and walked quietly away with the nurses.

  Roy seemed unperturbed, keeping his dignity, in his neat black cashmere overcoat, all the while clutching a fat brown folder under his arm. He had a quiet word with the receptionist, then we made our way through the same double doors, Roy using his key card, down to his office.

  ‘Good journey?’ Roy asked.

  ‘Fine thanks.’ Our voices echoed and the heavy fire doors creaked. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

  ‘Not at all. I just had to go out to the car for something. Been here all day, but I couldn’t expect you to find my office, so we timed it perfectly.’ He smiled.

  A smell of disinfectant mixed with tobacco pervaded the top corridor, full of sunlight. After two more sets of doors, the sound of our footsteps was suddenly muffled as we reached the carpeted area. As Roy opened his office door, I saw a young woman sitting reading a document. She stood up, and Roy introduced us.

  ‘This is Sonya, Abbie’s CPN. Newman, Abbie’s brother.’ We shook hands and a silver bracelet slid down her arm. She had thick black hair and large, thin loop earrings. Her dark eyes showed compassion for the loss of my sister.

  Roy wanted to explain his behaviour in reception.

  ‘That business back there – it might have looked callous’, he said, placing the brown folder next to his rather scruffy briefcase on the end of the desk and taking off his coat, ‘but my policy is never to engage with a patient when they first come in, until they have been assessed by the nursing staff – and given some meds if necessary.’

  ‘I see. Sounds fair enough. I mean, not callous at all.’

  I took off my coat and scarf, draped them over a spare chair and we sat down.

  ‘I’m not stopping’, Sonya said. ‘I just had to pop in to give Roy some notes after he’d seen his last patient. Then he said you were coming, so I thought I’d stay and meet you.’

  It was a functional, plain room. There was no couch, as people imagine; just reasonably comfortable chairs, magnolia walls, a computer desk with swivel chair tucked away, shelving above the main desk with drawers, and a small low table in the middle where Carol, Roy’s secretary, placed a tray of coffee and biscuits. This was a welcome sight. The door clicked shut behind her.

  ‘So,’ Sonya asked, ‘what do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m a social worker’, I replied, ‘over in Oxford.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Abbie did say, but I’d forgotten. So you must be used to hospitals and care homes.’

  ‘Well, yes, but each has its own character.’

  ‘Have you ever been to the residential centre called Squaremile?’ Sonya glanced at Roy, who sat quietly in front of the main desk, then looked earnestly at me, leaning forward slightly, both hands in her lap.

  ‘Only once, for work.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’ She leant forward to pick up her cup.

  I chose my words carefully. ‘Well, I didn’t know what to make of it. Have you got any connection with the place?’

  ‘No, it’s just a coincidence that Abbie worked there, so I visited quite regularly.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I suddenly felt guilty.

  ‘And I know what a hard time she had. They were really rough on her. Huge place, though, isn’t it? Roy works there one day a week, don’t you?’

  Roy nodded.

  Then, with a short gasp, Sonya realised the time. ‘Oh, but look, I must get going now, and let you both talk. Bye for now.’ She picked up her belongings and left.

  ‘So how can I help?’ asked Roy.

  ‘There are two things I just can’t get my head round.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first one is obvious: why did Abbie kill herself?’

  ‘It has to do with being bipolar – or as they used to call it, manic depressive. You know I can’t discuss Abbie specifically, but she is typical. Some people reach a point where they feel they simply can’t bear it any longer. That’s it in a nutshell. Of course I can’t begin to imagine what that feels like but it’s a fact.’

  Roy stood up and walked over to the window. Neither of us spoke for a few moments. Then he returned to his seat opposite me, his clear blue eyes and silver hair catching the low afternoon sunlight. He cleared his throat. A subtle change had occurred in his expression, which I couldn’t account for, unless what Abbie had written was true? His voice was slightly hoarse too. ‘What was the second thing on your mind?’

  ‘It was … well, it doesn’t really matter, now she’s gone, but I could never understand why she gave up looking for work.’

  ‘Before I answer that, can I ask you a question?’ Roy appeared to have recovered now.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Was it important for you that she had a job?’

  ‘Um, only for her well-being and sense of worth. I would feel happy if she was happy.’

  ‘I see. No other reason?’

  ‘Not that I can think of, no.’

  Roy smiled an enigmatic smile which was slightly unnerving. He crossed his legs. ‘Sorry. Old habits and all that. Anyway, as for why Abbie, and many others, stop looking for work, there are two main reasons. Firstly, there is the dragon called stigma. At the time when Abbie was applying for jobs, she knew she had to declare her illness – .’

  ‘ – What d’you mean, had to? How would they know, if Abbie was OK most of the time?’ I could feel my indignation rising.

  ‘Because, Newman, if she didn’t declare it and got the job, she could’ve been sacked on the spot if they found out or when she got ill again! Notice I say when, not if!’ Roy was quite agitated. He uncrossed his legs and placed a hand on each thigh. ‘That’s one way in which stigma operates. It was a case of “catch 22”, because if she declared it, and they interviewed her – because of the so-called anti-discrimination laws – all the employer had to do was find a different, bogus reason for not offering her the job, while everybody knew full well what the real reason was. Nowadays, at least people are not obliged to declare their disability in advance. Mind you, it used to be even worse: until a few years ago, a medical questionnaire with the application form often made sure there was no interview at all. “Weeding them out” was a phrase

  I heard my patients use more than once.’

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘I wasn’t properly aware of all this’, I ventured. ‘You must have known quite a few people who had these difficulties with work.’

  Roy smiled his answer. More a grimace really. He was calmer, showing only the last traces of indignation. ‘No, people aren’t aware, unless they’re faced with it themselves’, he went on, ‘like a lot of things in life. For some people, only their own pain is real.’ He paused, and sighed. ‘Another point I wanted to make follows on from this: the situation I’ve described is not designed to inspire confidence. So no matter what your qualifications or suitability, if you knew this is what you were up against, you just wouldn’t see any point in applying. It’s a perfectly sensible, logical reaction – a means of self-preservation. Rejection hurts; once bitten, as the saying goes. Add to that the uncertainty of the illness itself, the competition for jobs which exists for everybody,
and the passing years giving you a history, with progressively less and less chance of employment, and there’s your answer. And in the end, whatever the current rules, you see, you are still going to be asked, “Why did you leave your last job?” and “What have you been doing for the last umpteen years?”’

  ‘Well, I kind of worked that bit out, but … ’ I looked down at the empty cups and remaining biscuits, remembering with some pain how I had kept on at Abbie to apply for jobs. Then: ‘Roy, you said when she was ill again. Why not if ?’

  ‘Because it’s in the very nature of bipolar disorder. People can be in remission for years, but in nine cases out of ten there will always be another episode. That’s one cause of suicide, I’m sorry to say. A lethal combination of uncertainty and terror.’

  ‘My last question is, why did Abbie have to take medication when she was well?’

  ‘It’s to lessen the severity of future attacks, or lengthen the time between.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’ Roy called. It was Carol, to collect the tray. When she had left, Roy changed the subject, to my relief. ‘Well, I mentioned at the funeral that I had something to give you.’ He turned and picked up the thick brown folder with both hands, placing it on his lap. ‘It’s Abbie’s book. Did you know about it?’

  ‘Yes. I have a copy and I’ve read it.’

  Roy looked a little sheepish, a little disconcerted at what I might have read. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t – yet. I’ve been in two minds. I was going to give it back to you, but –’

  ‘– Roy, I think you should read it, because whether it’s all true or not, I believe you play a very important part in it.’

  My introduction to Abbie’s – or should I say Vee’s – book is nearly complete. I might still change a few more names in her story, but for the moment I have little more to say.

  I plan to include my introduction in the version for publication. Now it is time for Abbie (Vee) to tell her story, Doors Closing. You will notice that her imagined funeral bears an uncanny resemblance to my description of the event. She begins by exploring what might have happened when “Max” has to make a decision.

  2

  A Toe in the Water

  “Why are they being so nice to me? I am angry because I am failing, so why aren’t they angry with me too? Then I see it. The white door is swinging open, the padlock hanging by a curved metal finger, and a black tunnel appears; I can hear the echo of rows of black doors closing sharply along it, like an old train about to leave. A voice repeats that I am useless. The white door, the whole building, seems to be moving slightly, up and down, and getting larger, filling the world …

  “Someone is asking me questions in a quiet place with soft chairs. I try to answer, but my voice is slow and old … An arm points to a bed in a small room. I am a grey slab floating on a dark sea”.

  Max switched off his bedside light. He had brought Vee’s book home, but he had not opened it until now.

  Helen murmured softly beside him as he made himself comfortable.

  ‘Max?’ she said quietly in the dark.

  ‘Darling?’

  ‘What’s that you were reading?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just … work.’

  The black cars made their dignified approach along the drive which led to the crematorium. A handful of people waited outside as the afternoon sun began to wane. It makes sense that as you grow older, you go to more funerals. But this one was too soon; Vee was too young. For Max, she had been the one; it was the first time he had ever fallen in love, many years ago. Now he would never see her again. Why, he wondered, do the most profound thoughts often sound so stupid and trite?

  At the moment the important thing was to stay calm; Helen knew nothing of the part Vee had played in her husband’s life, so his grief had to be appropriate, moderate – above all, under control. As far as Helen was concerned, he had only ever been Vee’s doctor, for the last year or so.

  People emerged from vehicles, straightening their clothing. An elderly couple got out of one car and made their way towards Max.

  ‘Dr Greenwood?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yes. You must be Vee’s mother.’

  ‘That’s right. Thank you for coming. It’s a bit late for Vee though. ‘Here, take it.’ She thrust a large envelope into his hands. ‘It’s addressed to you, so you might as well have it.’ She turned away quickly.

  He was not surprised at her behaviour: it reawakened the guilt he was trying to ignore. The great bolus of guilt which lay on his chest like a ball of lead. Helen’s arm tightened in his and she gave him a worried look. Mrs Gates and her tall thin husband were talking to another couple now, his arm round her shoulder. Max hadn’t wanted to come here today, because of the private fear of an excess of grief. But Helen had persuaded him. He’d tried every excuse that morning: he didn’t feel up to it; they were going to a party in the evening; a funeral was not his idea of a day out, and so on. She had been concerned by his behaviour, but decided not to say anything; she knew her husband. But Max, thinking that saying goodbye would probably be the last thing he could do for Vee, gave in to Helen; she needed him. The fact was that she was there not just as his wife, but as the only representative from Squaremile, who seemed to have turned their collective back on recent events.

  While they waited outside, he thought about grief. People grieve in different ways; a pattern is not always evident, despite the neat stages identified by psychologists. Grief can be unpredictable, making people behave out of character. In a case like Vee’s, however, he knew that close family often start by looking for someone to blame. Mrs Gates only saw in him the doctor who hadn’t prevented her daughter from killing herself.

  How would he feel if he lost one of his children? Impossible to say. But he did know that most parents want to hold their children, protect them from the world. At the same time, they recognise that this isn’t possible either – not for ever, anyway. He remembered when Grace had meningitis. He didn’t know if it was God he had to thank when she recovered, just as he didn’t know if there were such things as souls that lived on after death, except perhaps in people’s memories, where they would eventually die in turn. Old graves have no visitors in grief.

  There was a movement towards the chapel, so they filed in and took their places, standing while Mrs Gates and her companion passed to the front, with a younger man whom he thought must be Jim. Finally, in silence, the coffin was brought in.

  After the single hymn, there were sombre prayers, then the younger man at the front was invited to stand at the lectern.

  ‘I am Jim Gates, Vee’s brother.’ His deep voice faltered a little. He coughed, the edge of his trembling paper just visible. He managed to get to the end of his notes, finishing with one of Vee’s poems, which Max recognised, with a lurch of his stomach. It was about him. It made him feel uncomfortable, as if it was too private. He flexed his fingers deep in his gloves and Helen glanced at him. At least it was short.

  Jim returned to his seat. Max noticed a late butterfly, trying to escape at a high window. He did not pay attention to what the priest said next, but then Vee’s coffin began to move away from them, the curtain closed and he felt a sudden and terrible stab of sorrow which fixed him to the spot for a few moments. Max and Helen didn’t wait around long after that. They were not family.

  On the last day of the year Max was spending time in his attic office at home while Helen clattered about downstairs. He had a feeling she was making him a birthday cake. He didn’t really want to celebrate though, to be honest. He desperately wanted to talk about Vee and let out all his grief, but he recognised at the same time how dangerous this could be, so he wouldn’t have a drink if Helen offered him one, birthday or no birthday. Sadly, avoiding the subject could easily turn into avoiding Helen. The guilt and pain would not go away and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  Finding a time to open the envelope given to him by Mrs Gates at th
e funeral had been tricky too, and Helen knew he was keeping something from her – which he was, of course. It was natural that she should be curious about the contents of this envelope and why Mrs Gates had given it to him. He dreaded the possibility of a confrontation, and was preoccupied with finding a way out. Of course, he didn’t want to cause Helen unnecessary pain either.

  The envelope contained a letter and Vee’s last diary. The letter asked him to read her book, if he hadn’t already done so. He’d had Doors Closing since their last appointment, but had told himself he didn’t have time. And then there was that strange remark … The diary was written in a blunter style than the book and was quite disturbing; he would keep it hidden behind the computer monitor.

  He was trying to keep a record of events, in case there were any tricky questions to answer: there would definitely be an inquest into her death. Even without this motive, he found the act of writing helpful. When he’d seen Vee for the last time back in August, he’d judged her to be euthymic, with no formal thought disorder. In other words, she gave no cause for concern, despite having lost her job in June. There was no indication of what was to happen so soon afterwards. It proves how quickly this illness can take hold. He had half expected some kind of outburst from Vee, as he had instructed Bella, Vee’s Community Psychiatric Nurse, to let her know he was retiring. Bella did mention that Vee had been upset, but at her appointment with him, she appeared to have only one thing on her mind: handing over the book.

  ‘Max?’ Helen was on the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  He tried to imagine the final scene at Vee’s flat. According to Bella, Vee’s CPN for several years, she arrives in Cressington expecting to meet Vee as usual. Getting no answer, Bella decides to ask the neighbours if they have seen Vee or spoken to her recently. The only person she can find is a young girl, who shrugs and pulls a face to start with, but then jumps when she remembers Vee gave her a key, as she says, “for cat-feeding and emergencies”. She runs upstairs to get it. Then, with some trepidation, and the girl standing big-eyed behind her, Bella unlocks the front door. She finds Vee lying on the bed with the cat curled up beside her. She had timed it for Bella to find her.