14
Squaremile
During the two years in West Pluting I spent looking for work, I got to know every knot, ring and repair in that kitchen table. It was the scene of triumph and despair (mostly the latter), of hours of careful writing rewarded by a standard letter of rejection – or, frustratingly, by no response at all, which at first I considered rude, but then became resigned to. I kept a careful written record.
As I said, this was before the Internet. The post usually brought disappointment. An invitation to interview was an excuse to open a bottle of wine, but stigma usually won the day, even if I did get an interview. I never went into detail about my illness, but if the subject came up, the look in people’s eyes told me that it was all over; they hardly needed to say anything. A kind of shutter descended and I knew that was it. Sadly, the law which requires you to declare your disability is the very one which seals your fate. Discrimination has the last word when, having exhausted all possibilities for employment, you are likely to be looked down on, blamed for not working; people don’t see the connection with their own attitude: “You ought to be working. You’re just lazy. But we won’t employ you. And nor will anyone else”.
At the end of May, however, I had two phone calls, both with some good news. The first was from Lexby: a proud Jeff announced that mother and son, all 8lb 10oz of him, were doing fine, and so I decided to visit Diane again while I still had a car. But I felt as if we had all moved on, as if I had picked up a handful of sand and it had run through my fingers, with a sagging, mocking, trombone diminuendo in my head which told me I should really be aware that things had changed, that I shouldn’t have been “had”, that I ought to know better by now than to think I could simply go back and expect things to be as I left them. I didn’t tell Diane how I felt, of course, because she made me very welcome, and the baby was sweet, but I knew that this would be my last trip to Lexby.
The second phone call was from Mum.
‘Hi Mum.’
‘I’ve got the news you’ve been waiting for. Ron and I and Jim and Sophie are having a joint wedding at Christmas!’
‘That’s wonderful. I haven’t met Sophie yet. What’s she like?’
‘She’s tall and slim and she’s good for Jim – that’s all that matters really. We’re all invited to spend Christmas at Jim’s new place in Coston, so you’ll meet her then, if not before.’
I hadn’t spoken to Max for nearly a year. In fact, whole weeks had passed without my even thinking about him. I used to go to Patrick’s flat about once a fortnight after I’d left Arnold College, before he moved away, but recently, since everyone seemed to know I’d been in hospital, getting to see him meant running the risk of meeting groups of boys in the driveway. When they saw me coming, they would make noises they thought mad people made. Whoever had told them about me had obviously thought them mature enough to accept it; I just had to try and remember it wasn’t their fault. I would probably have behaved in the same way at their age. In fact I know I would. I wondered how the subject had been introduced:
“Sir, has Miss Gates had a breakdown?” Perhaps this was in the middle of a fourth form lesson where I should have been, and where they were allowed to do their geography homework while a bored young maths teacher sat with them.
“As a matter of fact … Listen, all of you.” Talking about it probably brightened up his day a bit. “You’ll find out sooner or later anyway. Miss Gates has had a breakdown.” There were sniggers I expect. “She was in hospital for a while, but I’m told she’s much better now, although she won’t be coming back. I hope I can rely on you to be sensible and not spread stupid rumours now you know the truth. It’s an illness. We don’t make fun of illnesses, now do we.” Well, the way they heard it doesn’t matter, but they weren’t being very sensible or tactful when they saw me on my way to Patrick’s.
‘Gatters, can you pop to the offy to get a bottle of Fino?’ He held out five pounds.
‘Oh, Patrick, I don’t want to go out again. Can’t we make do with that bottle of red?’
‘Oh, OK then.’ He was surprised, but didn’t ask why. And I was too embarrassed to give a reason.
When he left Arnold College, I knew I would never see him again. I felt it should have been I who was leaving first, because he was part of West Pluting and my memories of this school. Patrick moved up north to be nearer his ageing mother whom in the end he predeceased a few years later, at only fifty.
I went to his funeral, on a bleak November afternoon. It was two hundred and fifty miles from where I was now living. I sat staring at the coffin, decorated with a simple arrangement of white lilies. Strangers had gathered to say goodbye, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the dimly-lit chapel. The only man I recognised from Arnold College was the headmaster. We knelt to pray, each person wrapped in heavy coats and private memories. But I could not pray to a hostile God.
Patrick was taken back out to the hearse and tears stung my eyes. This was all there was. People filed out. I decided not to go on to the crematorium. Then I heard a voice behind me and turned round.
‘Miss … Miss Gates?’ A young woman with long dark hair was standing there, in a black coat. I hadn’t been called Miss Gates in this way for a while.
‘I’m sorry … do I know you?’
‘It’s Rachel, Miss. Rachel Mills. I was at Arnold College; you helped me.’
‘Oh!’
She hugged me. We shared a taxi to the station, not daring to talk too much about the past. We left on separate trains.
My favourite place in West Pluting had always been the Topp. From the broad, high platform of grass and tarmac, with its row of flagpoles and memorials, you can look out over a vast expanse of ocean. There is a promontory each side like the wings of a theatre; on the stage at various times can be seen frigates, liners or speedboats scarring the surface of the water. Ships on the horizon look as if they staple together the sea and sky. On bad days, these were often the same colour. But this was a good day. The sun shot moving golden threads on the water and there was a stiff breeze which set the flags proudly declaring their allegiance and the ropes clanging against the poles.
It was more like July than September, the air like champagne. On days like this I liked to sit on one of the benches and watch people walking their dogs. It had been a good place to come when I was recovering. Today I had an appointment with Lucy in an hour, but I came here to collect my thoughts. I felt as though I was on holiday; my heart was with the flags.
Holidays. I hadn’t had one for years, because it had been holiday OR car, right through my teaching career. The week before in West Pluting, things had changed. Then they’d changed again.
The first change was one to which I had given some thought and was now resigned. I’d thanked the middle-aged man and closed the door of number 79. He’d taken the documents and the car keys and driven off. Up to then, I had been concentrating on making a successful sale, deliberately ignoring how his visit and departure might affect me. Now it had come to this. I sat down and looked at the wad of £50 notes in my hand. The flat was silent. I felt suddenly deprived, grounded. I would have to get the train up to Howcester. But I knew that there was no getting round this decision: it was either car or rent this time. Nobody had told me if there was such a thing as Housing Benefit, but running a car was too expensive in any case.
Regarding the second change, I hoped it would be for the better. I was glad of Lucy’s continuing support. She was the only person to whom I could talk freely about my situation, and over the months, I had been allowed to cry, laugh, even shout and scream, and I did. I knew every book spine in her office from avoiding eye-contact. Today, I would be more likely to laugh. I caught the bus up the hill from the town centre to the clinic.
‘Come in, Vee.’ She closed the door. ‘Now, I’ve got your diary and – .’
‘– Before you go any further, I’ve got some news for you.’
‘Oh?’ She put her hands in her lap and smiled.
‘I’ve finally got a job! You know, the one I had the interview for a few days ago.’
‘Congratulations! When do you start?’
‘In three weeks’ time. It’s a place called the Squaremile Centre, for disabled people. I’m going to be a care assistant. It’s not far from where my Mum lives, too.’
‘That’ll be very different for you. So that means we’ve only got one more session after today.’
‘Actually, do you mind if this is our last meeting? Only there’s a lot to do. Lucy, I just want to say thank you. I feel as if I’ve got my confidence back and my thoughts aren’t so black any more. I remember how I used to think that I’d let the family down, because I wasn’t perfect.’
‘And what do you think now?’ Her kind hazel eyes showed her pleasure.
‘That nobody has to justify their existence by getting everything right. I also knew – in theory – that the kind of person you are is more important than what qualifications you have; that was my way of stopping myself from criticising other people. Now I’m trying really hard to put it into practice.’
‘Good. That’s important, Vee. Because accepting others and accepting yourself are actually the same thing.’
In the two years since Tor ward, I had seen the white door creak ajar once or twice, but it had closed again after a few days. In fact it blended in so well with its surroundings now, that its outline was scarcely visible on the healed surface.
Just because you know the way to your own private hell, it doesn’t mean the devil’s any less frightening. But the whole experience has a way of being dimmed by the passage of time, in the same way that you can’t recall physical pain. But while this might be a relief, allowing you a period of time to enjoy yourself, it makes the next attack no less painful. Or predictable.
Curious to see if my memory of it matched the reality, I decided to pay a final visit to the hospital on the moor. I noticed that the bus service to the small village had been reduced. It was a bright, cold Saturday. I walked up the steep slope from the bus stop, past the whitewashed houses probably built to house the original “attendants”. There was the H sign on its striped pole, bent over and green with algae.
I reached the entrance and gasped. Gone was Tor ward at the foot of the hill; in its place was a building site, an open wound, extending halfway up towards the clock tower of the old asylum, which I could just make out. It must be listed, I thought. To my left a large sign had been erected:
‘Coming Soon! Luxury Retirement Apartments. For details, contact … ’ The site resembled a familiar face whose teeth had been removed. As I turned away I felt a heavy disappointment. But why should I feel so attached to a place I had once dreaded, where I had lost control and which represented failure? And where were the cigarette men now?
When I got home, I rang Mum and told her about the hospital.
‘Never mind. They seem to be doing that now across the country, then building new clinics as part of ordinary hospitals. Still, you’re moving on now, anyway, aren’t you? Your new job awaits. Exciting, isn’t it? Ron and Jim say they’ll be free that day to load up your stuff and bring it to Squaremile, with the trailer. Aren’t you lucky – and to have got somewhere to live on site!’
‘Yes. I don’t know how I’d have managed.’
I arrived at the Squaremile Centre in October, not knowing anything at all about what my new job entailed. No details had been supplied at interview, so I naïvely thought I would just be spending time with the people there. The pay was less than I had been getting as a teacher, so there was no chance of replacing the car, but I had to seize any opportunity. I had told them I’d been depressed, but for once they didn’t seem to mind.
I looked forward to making a fresh start here. The Centre was about three miles from the village of Whyton, on the top of a hill, so it was lucky I had accommodation on site, because an early shift started at 7.30, around the time of the first bus up from the village. There were six large residential houses, three on each side of the road which ran through the Centre. I would be working on Forest House. The others were called Birch, Sycamore, Orchard, Alder and Grove. All six houses were purpose-built when Squaremile was established in the early 1900s and they were regularly modernised. Each had a distinctive appearance and atmosphere, and was home to between fifteen and twenty-five residents. It had a Manager, a Deputy, sometimes a Sub-deputy, a housekeeper and a team of staff, which included me. I was shocked to discover that we were the utter dogs’ bodies.
Every morning the residents had to be got up, which in some cases meant using a hoist. It had to be recorded whether they were bathed, washed or showered, then, in this all-male house they were shaved, dressed and taken along to the dining room for breakfast. Some had calipers. Some needed to be fed.
It was hard physical work. On Forest, we would have three staff working with seventeen residents, to a deadline. The residents had to be ready to go to the Activities Unit for nine o’clock. They all had brain injuries of one kind or another, some had epilepsy and in Forest, which I soon realised was the heaviest house to work on, nearly all had varying degrees of physical disability as well. While the residents were out, we had to make the beds, changing sheets as necessary, wash the clothes, clean the bathrooms and keep the paperwork up to date, with the occasional meeting thrown in for good measure. Sometimes a resident had to be driven to a specialist appointment. But everything had to be done in time for when they were brought back for lunch.
The Activities Unit was situated at one end of the road, with the Day Hospital and admin. block at the other, making a huge rectangle. In amongst these buildings and the houses were therapeutic gardens, a chapel, kitchens, a repair shop, the laundry, a hall for concerts and, behind each of Forest, Grove, Birch, Sycamore, Orchard and Alder, a small number of staff flats: Old Oak to the east and New Beech to the west.
Old Oak was made up of four flats, two on each floor. Each flat was shared by two or three members of staff, but it was rare for anyone to live there longer than a few months: people either left completely or found somewhere else to live away from the Centre. There was a rapid turnover of junior staff.
By the entrance to Old Oak lived a middle-aged lady whom I hardly ever saw, with a cat called Phisto. His bed, food and water were always in the porch and when he got to know me he would be waiting for me when I came home, early or late, as if he had a copy of my duties and a watch. Sometimes he would come up to my flat on the first floor and sit by the radiator while I had a bath. He was very affectionate and I was delighted to be able to take him on when the lady downstairs left.
Sharing with complete strangers was something I hadn’t done since my student days, but at least they didn’t mind feeding Phisto if I went away for a couple of days. I did have to make sure my room was locked when I left for work and I had to know exactly what was in my section of the fridge. There was also competition for the bathroom, difficult if we were all on earlies.
I think I got off to a good start though, despite the unpleasant nature of some of the work. I don’t think there is a single bodily fluid or function that I didn’t encounter – or have to clean up – during the first month. My boss, Brendan Donnelly, RMN, was a good-natured, patient man and I learned a lot from him. There were protocols in care. For example, you had to be especially aware and tactful with some of the male residents, because the enforced intimacy, part of their everyday life, could lead to misunderstandings if they had never had a proper relationship. Indeed, very few had. All this was new ground to me: I had never shaved anyone before, let alone helped someone in the toilet.
Brendan soon saw that he could put my communication skills to good use on Forest. I was always the one he turned to for help with the wording of a notice or document, or if a meeting had to be organised. It was Centre policy that each resident have a “My Life” meeting annually, to which relatives and others involved with his or her care were formally invited. The resident’s health, needs, activities, interests and fu
ture goals were examined and explored, the aim being to give him or her a sense of purpose, while at the same time reassuring visitors that we were doing our best for their family member. So I was frequently kept occupied with writing tasks in the afternoons. Brendan also trained me in giving out medication; although I was only a Second Grade, he knew I was more than capable. I was older than the other juniors, and he trusted me. If you are trusted, you feel confident.
The staff on the House were friendly enough, but here I had to make another adjustment, and get used to working alongside people who did not have the same educational history. Their common sense saw them through and they were quite content to live on the surface of life without feeling any need to look deeper. More importantly, they were happy with who they were. I knew I was a bit of a curiosity to begin with, but Brendan stamped out any hint of jealousy by saying that everybody had skills to bring to the workplace.
The trouble was, the junior staff saw writing as a soft option. If I was sitting preparing agendas or whatever, I wasn’t working; for my workmates, only physical work was real work. For the first time in my life I had been made to feel guilty about writing. But I was learning a lot and I tried hard not to rock the boat, although I had to smile one day when a Starter Grade claimed she could not see to a resident straight away because she’d “only got two pairs of hands”.
Overtime was available, on any house, but I found I could only manage two Long Days (7.30 a.m. to 9 p.m.) in a row on Forest, and that only if I had days off afterwards. Getting overtired was one factor in becoming unwell; I didn’t want to find the white door open again. But I had to admit that I missed the adrenalin of the highs – before they went out of control, of course. The lithium and the other medication I was taking gave me a flatness which seemed to take the edge off daily experience. Rather this however, than go into the blackness again.
From a Safe Distance Page 11
