From a Safe Distance

by Bishop, Julia

  ‘ … Pamela and Ronald … and James and Sophie … before these witnesses … Pamela and Ronald first, please … ’

  Mum was wearing a fitted cream dress and short-sleeved jacket (“We won’t bother with hats!”). She carried a simple mixed bouquet. Ron wore a pale grey suit, waistcoat and bright blue tie. As they stood together, from my seat in the front row I could see the edge of Mum’s jacket quivering. Her voice was thin and higher-pitched than usual, but I knew she meant every word.

  There were Christmas swags along the seats. Vows and rings were exchanged, and when the cheers and applause had died down, the registrar called Jim and Sophie forward. Jim also had on a smart light grey suit and slightly darker tie, with a very pale blue shirt. Sophie was in a frothy, low-cut white creation. Her parents were clearly moved. Outside, bouquets and confetti were thrown and a cheer went up when one of the bridesmaids caught Sophie’s flowers. All the usual stuff that happens. As for the reception, it is a complete blank apart from the amazing cake. It’s a shame, I know, and I’ve probably imagined a lot of this to compensate for what has been lost. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

  Nevertheless, that old feeling was with me throughout: weddings were not part of my life and never would be. These people, however close they were to me, were separated from me by an invisible divide. It wasn’t that I didn’t love them: I just couldn’t share their joy.

  Whether the memory was accurate or not, what I feel has no connection with ECT or illness. It was normal for me to think that I could never hope to cross into the world which real people took for granted. Something was missing in me: love was too difficult, too complicated, so how could I ever get married? It was out of the question. I knew I would always be alone.

  The feeling of alienation was compounded by a sense of not being on the same wavelength as Sophie. I couldn’t remember if we’d had a disagreement, or what it was exactly. I couldn’t pin it down, but there was definitely something not right. As for her relationship with Jim, it was none of my business, so I kept my thoughts to myself. I was hardly in a position to judge her, and if Jim was happy, which he obviously was, then I had to accept his new wife.

  I had a text from Jim a few days after the nightmare hearing, suggesting we meet up. No more “memory cakes” of the Christmas wedding had resurfaced, but I had to pretend they had. I was looking forward to seeing my nephew for the first time.

  We found a corner of the pub which wasn’t too noisy. Matthew was in a buggy, crying. He stopped briefly when I said hello, but then carried on; I laughed. Sophie got a bottle out for him and picked him up. The Lion, in Howcester, was where Jim said he came sometimes before he went to university. Sophie was quiet, appearing a little on edge.

  Jim returned with our drinks. ‘What’s it like being back at work then, Vee?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you know. Still getting used to it. But I’ve got a new ally now, a CPN.’ Jim knew what that meant of course, but spelt it out for Sophie’s benefit. ‘Her name is Bella and she came to see me for the first time yesterday. She seems nice.’

  ‘That’s good. You could do with some support, from what you’ve told me.’

  Still Sophie remained silent.

  ‘Yes. She was horrified to hear that I’d been disciplined for something I can’t help. In fact, it’s strange, but I hadn’t realised that this hearing was anything out of the ordinary. I’d just accepted it, until I saw Bella’s reaction. It reminded me of telling Mum the price of something and hearing her say, “How much?!”’

  Jim smiled. Sophie sipped her drink.

  ‘So Bella will be keeping an eye on you. But Vee – you might never be ill again!’

  ‘Maybe, but I’ve read that if you’ve had more than one episode, it’s likely it’ll happen again. Apparently it’s a combination of genetics and a severe stress which starts the illness off, after which it develops a timetable, a momentum of its own, regardless of stress. And even if you take your tablets.’

  At last Sophie spoke. ‘Isn’t it all just an attitude of mind, though?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I had forgotten the way I used to think, but now I was looking at it again, this time like a cast-off skin.

  ‘I mean, this “illness”. Pha, we all get depressed, after all. You just have to get through it. Take today, for instance. Someone scratched my car, and I was really fed up. But I didn’t let it ruin my life! You have to be a bit tougher, Vee. And as for tablets, well … ’

  I felt a hot surge of anger in my stomach. ‘Oh, really?’ was all I could manage, with false cheer and a sudden desire to walk out. Jim could tell that things were getting awkward and opted for a diversion.

  ‘Oh, look!’ he said, pointing to a noisy gathering. ‘They’re obviously having their reception here. Brings back memories.’ He kissed Sophie on the cheek.

  I composed myself. I had to concentrate on the fact that she was lucky not to understand. Her skies were a cloudless blue. Once, a long time ago, I had believed I was invincible too. There was a pause for ruffled feathers to subside and put themselves straight, but I suddenly felt as if only two or three people in the whole world could help me, and I longed to see Max again.

  I tried not to think about Sophie too often over the next few days; her comments raised my blood pressure and I would find it hard to get off to sleep.

  It was my first day back full-time. On Forest House the routine hadn’t changed, but I had to re-learn certain things eroded or erased by ECT. Sometimes memories – “cakes”– returned without any effort on my part. This might occur quite spontaneously in the course of a conversation, or while doing some ordinary task.

  But at other times, no matter how hard I tried to conceal it, there would be embarrassment. Nobody knows how many memories they have, so I had no way of telling which ones were missing. Seen another way, finding memories stolen by ECT was like blundering about in the dark and stumbling upon familiar pieces of furniture.

  ‘Is tea ready yet, Vee?’ JD asked.

  ‘No, er … can you lay the tables for me please. I think it’s your turn.’

  ‘OK. Then you get tea, yeah?’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked, smiling but wondering how I was supposed to conjure up this meal.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So’m I,’ said John, another resident. And now even those who couldn’t speak were getting agitated as well. I was beginning to panic. Where was the tea? Did I have to cook it myself, and with what? Brendan came into the kitchen. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked, his tone of voice letting me know he was worried.

  ‘Fine, except that I don’t seem to have anything for their tea.’

  Brendan looked at me with ill-concealed surprise. ‘The trolley will be here in a few minutes. I’ve just sent Mags over to collect it.’ He said this as calmly as he could. Suddenly I felt stupid as this memory cake crashed down so hard it almost broke the plate. I was so ashamed I ran off to the toilet. Of course the hot trolley would come from the kitchens! It was usually small details which came back, but this was a major disaster, a memory lapse of such magnitude that, despite Brendan’s reassurance, I did not recover my equanimity for some while. The residents were oblivious, which made things a little easier, but I couldn’t help asking myself if there might be another crash soon. And once again I was alone in this experience. Oh, Max.

  I arrived at the hospital in a thunderstorm for our next appointment. When the bus pulled up at the request stop at the far end of Howcester General, everyone on board knew you were going to Porteblanche. Oh well.

  After a short while, my name was called. The double doors buzzed as the receptionist let me through. Just before the offices, to the right, a flight of stairs plunged down and round a corner to the lower floor, where the acute wards were situated, out of sight. I had gone down those steps only months beforehand, in an altered state of mind. Painful memories had to be shut down as I passed. The smell of the place, too, a mixture of stale tobacco and cleaning fluid, brought back the feeling of be
ing “in” again, or “on the farm” as some people called it. All the doors were stiff and creaked, echoing in the corridor. I approached the row of offices, my footsteps now muffled by a carpet whose pattern I recognised from the ward, although it was a different shade and much cleaner. I had seen it when I came up to this floor for ECT. The last room bore his name. I knocked.

  ‘Come in!’ Max got to his feet. We stood for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then, resisting the urge to throw myself forward and embrace him, I sat down. ‘How are you, Vee?’ It was that quiet, gentle voice which I had tried so hard to forget. He sat in the other armchair and crossed his legs.

  ‘Fine.’ I didn’t know where to start. ‘I thought you were in Edinburgh.’ For a second, I felt deceived.

  ‘I was, but … well, a lot’s happened since then.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘When I saw your name on one of the files, I was … surprised. I mean I knew you’d been a bit down when we spoke on the phone, but – .’

  ‘– How d’you think I felt when I walked into that ward round?!’ A burst of indignation got the better of me. ‘I’d only just heard your name, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I’m really sorry about that, Vee, believe me. It wasn’t very fair. But I couldn’t see any other way. As you gathered – and I knew you would – if either of us had revealed that we knew one another, I would’ve had to pass your case on to a colleague. And I wanted to – .’

  ‘– Is that all I am now, just a “case”?’

  ‘No, Vee. That’s the point! I wanted to see you again and talk to you, and I wouldn’t have been able to if – .’

  ‘– Why didn’t I get to see you before that, though?’

  ‘Because you were too ill. I was there … I saw you, but you might have blurted something out if you’d seen me. It would have been hard to explain to others.’ He rubbed his forehead.

  ‘Supposing I’d wanted to see another doctor? Had you thought of that?’ I slammed my fist down on the arm of the chair. We sat in silence for a moment, while the rain rattled on the window.

  ‘Look, you can if you … ’ He sighed. ‘I can understand your embarrassment, Vee, but you have to believe me when I say that I don’t think any less of you. There is … one thing I should mention though. Something important.’ I could see the anxiety in his eyes. I struggled to calm down.

  ‘What is it, Max? I can still call you that, at least, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course – in here.’ He grimaced. ‘Vee, I’m … married now with two young daughters.’

  It was not as painful as I’d feared, but I had to strengthen my voice as I remembered our lost baby. I couldn’t tell him now. Something, a knot somewhere, untied itself because it needed to be free, to escape for ever.

  ‘The nearest I’ve got is becoming an aunt. Yes, Jim’s a dad now.’

  ‘Oh, pass on my congratulations, won’t you.’ Max smiled.

  ‘So, where did you meet your wife?’

  ‘In Edinburgh. She’s a nurse. I know! Corny, isn’t it, doctors and nurses!’ He was trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘And how old are your daughters?’ I smiled politely.

  ‘Grace is nine and Anna is nearly eight. Vee, I’m still here to help you, but I had to tell you that in case – .’

  ‘– It’s OK, Max. I understand. I know that this is a doctor’s appointment and nothing else. But there is one thing you haven’t told me yet, and that’s why you came back down here.’

  ‘My parents lived a few miles from here and my father became very ill. My mother couldn’t look after him. I was lucky to get this job. With consultant posts, it’s very often a case of waiting for dead men’s shoes, but Porteblanche was a new department. Then dad died and I had to make arrangements for mum to be looked after, until she died the following year.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Max. Now I want … I think we need to close off our private lives. Unless you want to ask me anything.’

  He had been leaning forward for a while. Now he sat back and crossed his ankles. ‘OK, Vee. Shall we spend a few minutes looking at how things are for you these days? Bella’s filled me in on how difficult work’s been. I think it’s outrageous that you should have been put through a disciplinary hearing. Outrageous. Anyway, how are your moods?’

  ‘OK. The memory blanks are the big thing. But I still get the occasional “up” swing. That’s when I write my best stuff.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know you wrote! How come you kept such a big secret from me? What are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘Max, I thought we’d separated off now from then. Please don’t make it more difficult than it already is for me to see you as my doctor!’

  ‘Sorry. Even trained psychiatrists get things wrong, you know.’ He uncrossed his ankles and, his elbow on the arm of his chair, rested his chin in his hand, looking at me intently. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I write mostly poetry. If I’m high, poems can burst out of me, ready made, on to the paper. I can write when I’m OK, too. It’s a good way of escaping, but it doesn’t have quite the same magical quality as when I’m high.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re not high – or low – at the moment anyway. Look, this isn’t necessarily connected with what you’ve just said, but our time is running out and I want to make some adjustments to your medication.’ He stood up for a moment and reached for my file on a shelf. Then I listened as he instructed me in the dose change of one type of tablet, the stopping of another and the introduction of a new one. ‘Anything else you want to talk about while you’re here? You seem to be coping quite well.’

  ‘I’ll be alright.’

  ‘So, shall we meet in three months’ time? No, it’ll have to be at the end of August, I think. Yes, because I’m away for part of September. Then if everything’s OK, we can make it a six-monthly appointment.’

  In the ten years that I worked at the Squaremile Centre, I had to go into hospital five times. Actually it was six, if I count the operation on my feet. Diane and Jeff got married during my third spell, as I found out too late, and Granny Wheeler died during the fourth. Something of significance to me or my family always seemed to happen when I was not able to participate.

  Concerning my feet, time off for an operation was regarded as proper sick leave, so there was no disciplinary hearing or warning. What a difference it makes when you can see something’s wrong; that must be the criterion for acceptable incapacity.

  Mr Montgomery, the Chief Executive of Squaremile for the last twenty years, was present at my fourth hearing. He admitted that “disciplinary” was probably an inappropriate label for these hearings when they related to ill-health. A bit late, I thought. Whatever the title of the meeting, though, it didn’t stop them from giving me a first and final written warning. I couldn’t understand how I was supposed to heed the warnings and improve; the whole warnings process implied that my illness was as much under my control as a conscious act.

  Monty, as he was known – though with what affection I hadn’t a clue – had scarcely looked at me directly at that last hearing. When he did, his eyes seemed clouded with boredom. It was just another rubber stamp to him. But what use were warnings now? All they did was add official disapproval to something I didn’t much like anyway. And the worst of it was, I could be out of the door if there was even the slightest suspicion I had made a mistake at work.

  Then came terrible news. Mum rang me in tears to say that Sophie had died in a car accident. I rang Jim but there was no answer at home or on his mobile. Mum told me later that she and Ron had driven to Coston to be with him and little Matthew, who couldn’t understand where Mummy had gone. I remembered Dad.

  Sophie had been expecting a baby sister for Matthew. After a few days, I spoke to Jim, but I didn’t know how to console him.

  17

  Promotion

  I had been at Forest House for seven years, and was frequently left as “senior-on”, as they called it, when there was nobody else to take charge. Although I was in Squaremile
’s bad books, with all the hearings and warnings, I was still expected to run a house when it suited them, even as a mere Second Grade. I had to be reliable when they needed me; I suppose they thought I’d be too flattered to mind that no extra money came with the responsibility.

  I began to think it was high time I tried to get the pay I’d been missing out on. Young girls with no qualifications were being promoted over me when they had been there two years or less. After a couple of attempts, my luck changed. There was a vacancy for a Sub-Deputy in Birch House. JD wheeled himself over to me.

  ‘Why goin’, Vee?’

  ‘I’ve been promoted. It’s good!’

  ‘Not good for me. Don’t go!’

  I crouched down and looked at him. There were tears in his eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder. I told him I wasn’t going far and that I’d still come and visit him, and do overtime shifts there.

  ‘Oh? When?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll try to come as often as I can.’

  ‘OK.’ JD sped off howling, in search of a tissue, nearly colliding with another resident.

  It was a relatively recent condition that you had to be a qualified nurse to run a house, so at this time there were still managers who had not done the training. Bill, the manager on Birch, was one example. When the time came for him to retire, he would be replaced by a nurse. Brendan had painted a grim picture of Bill, formerly a plumber, and it wasn’t long before I found out why I had been the only one to apply for the post on Birch.

  I wanted promotion so badly that I ignored the lack of competition for the job, just as I ignored Brendan’s warnings. I wanted to prove that I could cope with more responsibility, while proving to myself that being bipolar did not diminish my ability. I had been patient. Now I wanted some action. I soon discovered, however, that my optimism and ideas got Bill’s back up. He wanted to sail quietly into retirement, but then I came along to rock the boat. I had not set out to change his little world, just to do my best, but after two weeks of mounting tension, Bill exploded.