The day after I saw Max, I was alone on duty with Sandra and I would rather have been anywhere else on earth. After the medication round, during which she treated me like a Starter Grade, I heard a heavy thump and a cry in the passage near the office. It was Florence, one of our larger ladies, who had fallen out of her wheelchair.
‘I’ll go and get the hoist, then, shall I?’ I knew Grove shared one with Birch, and I had used one every day in Forest.
‘No, don’t bother. We can lift her.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. On the Moving and Handling course I had attended, they said that to avoid the risk of back injury, lifting someone manually should only ever be attempted in an emergency, such as a fire. I knew all about that. And House Managers were supposed to set a good example, weren’t they? Not for the first time, I was in a difficult position: if I fetched the hoist I would be going against Sandra’s instructions, and if I helped her lift Florence, I would be going against good practice. I had to go against my better judgement in the end and we hauled the poor lady back into her chair in a most undignified way.
The important thing about this episode is that we were alone. This meant that Sandra could report that I couldn’t be bothered to get the hoist because it was raining, or some other excuse. Alternatively, she could say that it had been my idea to lift the resident. I had no witness to the incident, nobody to back me up, so once again, I had to keep quiet. If nobody has any faith in you and your judgement isn’t trusted, life is hardly worth living. The irony is that Squaremile wanted to be in the vanguard of good practice, with its recently granted “Investor in People” status. In that connection, I couldn’t help thinking that once every organisation had achieved this award, it would become meaningless.
I travelled to the boarding school for my interview by bus and train, trying to clear my thoughts of the Sandra clutter. Whatever she decided to say or do was out of my hands. The world would keep on turning if I was sacked, wouldn’t it? What could she do that was any worse than sacking me? At the same time, though, I knew that my confidence had suffered, and that was relevant right now.
March did go out like a lamb, as Mum had predicted. The sun was warm on my arm in the train. The interview went very well. It was refreshing to be back in a school environment: the old buildings, the spacious grounds and the trees, now coming into leaf, reminded me of Castlebrough. The Head of Boarding, Lesley Wallace, was a pleasant woman of about my age. To my surprise, she offered me the job then and there.
I was also invited to spend the following weekend at the school, to see how the house worked and meet the girls. I decided to wait until after that visit before I made any kind of announcement to my family, but I did tell Sandra that it was “likely” I’d got the job. Meanwhile, I was walking on air, feeling that Sandra could do no more harm. I felt protected by thoughts of a better future. For a while, in fact, she didn’t have much to say to me at all; she probably didn’t want to waste any more time on someone who was leaving.
But then my mood changed as it dawned on me that I had not mentioned a certain “little problem” at the interview. I knew I had to. So during the weekend visit, I asked for a private word with Lesley Wallace.
‘The thing is … I get depressed sometimes.’
‘I see,’ she said, an almost imperceptible cloud passing over her face. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow. I’ve got your work number.’
I had seen that cloud before, at the infrequent interviews in those two years in West Pluting, and I remembered the trials of the kitchen table. I was pretty sure I knew what was coming. On Monday, the phone rang in Grove office.
‘Hello, is that Miss Gates?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, it’s Lesley Wallace here.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. We cannot offer you the post of housemistress after all, in the light of what you told me.’
Although I had feared the worst, I still felt as if I’d been kicked in the head. I was trapped at Squaremile; my momentary elation had evaporated, my hopes of a triumphant escape were dashed. I felt as if I had swallowed a cold stone. Sandra asked me what was wrong; I told her.
‘Pha! You must be used to bloody disappointments by now! And there’ll be some more coming if I have anything to do with it!’
19
Trial
Max was feeling much stronger after two weeks’ rest with Helen as his nurse. She, on the other hand, was looking very tired. She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow these days, regardless of any noise from Jackson. Simon was keeping out of the way, burying himself in work or, at least Helen hoped, busy searching for alternative accommodation.
Meanwhile, Max had been allowed to go back to his once a week job at Squaremile. He could not help wondering if some of the problems the residents presented with had been caused by the conditions in which they lived. For the moment, he wanted to have a proper look at Vee’s diary, rather than read on in the book; he hoped he might gain a more gritty image of the atmosphere at the Centre. The diary was still where he’d hidden it, behind the monitor. But first he felt like going for his favourite walk to clear his mind.
The cul-de-sac was a peaceful place: most of the children did their growing up at one private school or another. Today he was glad of his anniversary jacket. A robin landed on the gatepost at the back, its wistful song cutting through the cold air. As he approached, it bobbed, then flew away. The latch was almost frozen to the wood; he soon put his hands in his pockets, missing his gloves. The lane skirted two fields in a dip to his left. The animals he had seen here were now in their winter quarters. To the right was a row of hawthorns, the boundary of his neighbour’s garden. A few lumps of old snow lingered in places. He breathed in the fresh air, not daring to think about the condition of his heart, but there was no pain. He got to the second field; behind both fields was woodland, which swept in a great arc round the far end and swallowed up the footpath. He walked about a mile, nearly to the edge of the wood, as far as the blackthorn bushes.
Back home he made a coffee (Helen had insisted they buy decaffeinated from now on) and headed up to the attic. He rubbed his hands and held the cup to warm them, then immersed himself in the diary. A short while later, he wrote:
“Evidence of Vee’s fragility towards the end of her life could be found in her writing and was always linked with her treatment at work. She stopped work on her novel in June or July, but the diary went on until the beginning of September. Following her stay in Porteblanche from March to May of the previous year, she had been coping quite well for some time. As the months went by and the stress increased, however, she knew she would have to get out of Squaremile. I gave her a reference, but she experienced a series of rejections. Her diary goes into detail:
‘This place is hell on earth. Nobody trusts me to do this bloody job which I could do standing on my head. They think I’m ill all the time! I don’t stand a chance here. But nobody else wants to employ me either! God knows I’ve tried. I get all dressed up to go to some poky, tatty office in the back of beyond only to get the usual cloud pass over their faces and a rejection, either on the spot or through the post. [ … ] The latest thing on their minds, here, is whether I’m a danger to the residents!! You’d really think I’d invented mental illness. Sandra’s got to be the worst manager on the planet. [ … ] I do the same work as everybody else. And how am I supposed to escape, if I can’t get another job? What is there left for me?’
“Vee’s frustration is clear. She had waited so long to get her promotion, only to end up with one bullying manager after another who saw her as nothing more than an unstable burden. I have the distinct impression that people wanted to see her become suddenly and violently unwell while on duty, justifying their concerns and meaning that what amounted to persecution could be overlooked in the way so typical of group cruelty.
“The pressures they exerted on Vee had but one goal: getting rid of her, by fair means or foul – no
t that fair means ever seemed to figure in the equation. Any legislation passed from now on to protect the employee against this type of treatment will come too late for Vee. The Union rep on site was blind to Vee’s difficulties and it was plain that Squaremile did not know what to do with her. In the end, because the management could find no real fault with her work, they decided to engineer situations and invent faults.”
Max had been given a good opportunity to step in and support Vee. When he’d seen her in March last year, her employer had just sent him the list of questions concerning her fitness for work. Suspicion, ignorance and fear on the part of Squaremile seems to have prompted this course of action: was Vee putting it on? Or if she wasn’t, how were they supposed to cope? Just what was this “illness”, anyway? (As if no information was available!) Max had sent Vee the questions, as promised, with his responses, before submitting them to the Personnel Officer.
Vee let him know that she was quite happy with what Max had written. Perhaps the most damaging aspect of all this, Max could see, was that Squaremile didn’t seem to acknowledge that Vee had the same range of ordinary emotions as other people. The way the questions were worded was insulting. It made Max angry to think she could be dealt with and spoken about as if she were a dog, without human comprehension. And he regretted the likelihood that, since no amount of good work on Vee’s part seemed to shift Squaremile’s position, his responses would make any difference in this respect.
Since he no longer had a copy of the questions, shredded with a load of other papers recently, he wrote down what he remembered. They covered two sides of A4, with spaces for his answers, and they went something like this:
Vee Gates has a diagnosis of manic depression. How does this affect her?
Does manic depression have an impact on Vee’s work? If so, what?
Does manic depression make Vee a danger to herself or others, especially the residents in her care?
What are the effects of the medication Vee takes for manic depression?
Vee is taking increasing amounts of medication. What effect is this likely to have?
The questions had angered him, not only because they showed total misunderstanding, but also because it was transparent that they were based on a set of assumptions, which took no account of Vee as an individual. No effort had been made, no research done into illness or drugs, presumably because they thought it was a waste of time. If the questions had been worded in this way, his replies would have been along these lines:
Miss Gates has a diagnosis of manic depression, now known as bipolar disorder. She has spent time in hospital as a result, but was well on discharge. Bipolar disorder does not affect her otherwise.
Bipolar disorder has no adverse effects on Vee’s work.
Vee is not dangerous. The residents are perfectly safe with her.
The effects of the medication for bipolar disorder are to allow the person to function normally and prolong the period between episodes of illness.
Vee is not taking increasing doses of any medication. She has remained on the same dose for several months. Her medication is reviewed on a regular basis and is carefully monitored.
There was so much more he’d felt he wanted to say, especially in reply to questions 3 and 5. He realised that nobody at work had actually sat down with Vee and expressed to her face any concerns they might have. Perhaps they didn’t think they would get a sensible answer. He’d found question 5 particularly offensive too on a personal level, implying as it did that he was not doing his job properly. None of Vee’s drugs was addictive. He wondered what the “students” might have said on that subject.
The words of Vee’s last two chapters, concerning Squaremile, spoke for themselves. Max remembered Vee as someone who knew the value of love, but who could never trust others to have the same feelings, which of course affected her relationships with men. She had written that she was meant to be alone. But he was not going to challenge Squaremile alone.
Now he read on in the book, as he suddenly remembered the importance of what was due to happen very soon.
I had just started my shift, the day after losing my chance to escape to a boarding school from Squaremile. Sandra stood in the doorway of the office in Grove. She wanted me to come to a meeting with her. I was puzzled. She told me I would find out what it was about when I got there. She ignored all my questions from then on, and I followed her down the corridor to what was known as the teaching room, speaking less and less as I realised it was pointless, growing silent and anxious, like an animal being led somewhere. A dog on a lead …
The first person I saw was Mr Montgomery, the Chief Executive. He stood to greet Sandra with raised eyebrows and a nod, then sniffed as he sat back down and adjusted his reading glasses, papers in hand. Jack Marshall and Tim Clark were there, on either side of the CEO. They wore dark suits and were also studying their mysterious, rustling sheets of paper. It was as if I didn’t exist until I had taken my seat in front of them. Sandra thrust a copy of what they were looking at into my hands, tutting as if I had forgotten one given previously, then sat by the door.
It suddenly became clear to me why I had not been challenged quite as much as usual over the last few weeks on Grove. It had nothing to do with my job prospects or with any kind of relaxation of “prison rules”. The fact was, they had been watching me and making notes. My heart sank.
‘This meeting has been called,’ Jack Marshall announced, ‘to examine certain irregularities in your work, Miss Gates, over the past few months. Please read the first item on the list.’
Jack Marshall put on his reading glasses. His Birmingham accent rang in my ears and I could hear my pulse alongside it. My blood pressure made me a bit deaf. I began to tremble.
‘According to this item, you have been making dangerous errors in the administration of medication. Have you anything to say?’
For a second it felt as though everyone in the room was far away, like a remembered nightmare. But then someone moved impatiently and I knew I had to say something. But what? I was condemned before I’d entered the room.
‘That’s not true,’ I managed, trying to control my trembling.
Jack went on: ‘If it’s not true, why has it been brought to our attention? Are you saying that your boss has made up these … difficulties you’re having?’
I couldn’t answer. One by one the other items on the list were read out and I made a feeble attempt at defending myself. Had I been given the sheet beforehand and time to prepare, I might have done a better job. But then, they knew that.
‘Number eight on the list.’ With every new allegation, Jack was distancing himself from me like a prison officer from those he regards as worthless. ‘This concerns the fire at Alder House. You were responsible that day. Sandra had trusted you by leaving you in charge, and yet through your negligence, one resident died and another was seriously injured. What have you got to say about that?’
‘I … did what I could.’ It was pointless. Everything was rigged in Sandra’s favour.
There was a long silence, during which glances were exchanged that weren’t hard to read.
‘The last item relates to an incident on Grove where you refused to fetch a hoist from Birch House next door, in order to help lift a lady who had fallen over. Now, you attended the course on Moving and Handling, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you are aware of the importance of using the correct equipment?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why did you insist that the lady could be lifted manually? Sandra had to go and fetch the hoist herself!’
‘It’s not true!’
Jack Marshall was standing up now, agitated.
‘According to you, none of this is true! Who are we to believe? A trusted House Manager with years of experience or you, with your mental health problems?’
I knew there would be a reference to that at some point. Again, I could not answer. I hoped my memory lapses were not responsible if I had been maki
ng mistakes. It was spring …
Sandra spoke for the first time: ‘This list was compiled from reports by staff on Alder and Grove, and my own experience of Miss Gates’s behaviour at work. I am, however, willing to give Vee one more chance. Do you agree?’
Mr Montgomery and the senior managers looked at each other and held a brief, whispered conversation. I knew precisely what Sandra was doing. She was on the verge of victory, of getting what she’d been working towards for months. I wondered how long ago the managers had been given the document. She had no doubt pretended to be at her wits’ end because of me. Now, in these moments, her apparent magnanimity would shift the responsibility for this meeting and its consequences neatly on to the three men, while creating a firm belief in her decency and humanity.
‘I try to help my staff as much as possible.’ Sandra was gloating almost uncontrollably, trying oh so carefully to channel the fire of anticipation into making absolutely certain that the roots of this belief she was planting were sound; her voice was soft and her tone obsequious. ‘And Vee has had a lot to cope with, poor thing. There must be more we can do.’
Tim Clark stood up. ‘We are satisfied that you have done everything in your power to help Miss Gates. Unfortunately, given what we have heard today, we believe it is in everyone’s interest to terminate Miss Gates’s employment with immediate effect. The warnings she has received over the years have obviously done nothing to improve her performance and so we have reached the end of the line.’
‘Oh, Vee! I’m so sorry!’ Sandra sighed. Then she smiled at me. It was an empty, cold smile; in her eyes was no care or concern, only cold triumph and contempt. She had won.
From a Safe Distance Page 16
