From a Safe Distance

by Bishop, Julia

  Max recalled how distressed Vee was when she saw him for an extra appointment at the beginning of July.

  ‘How are you?’ This was his professional question to see if his own perception matched that of the patient.

  ‘Oh, Max.’ She clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘They’ve kicked me out. But it’s not as simple as that. We had this meeting.’

  ‘Bella mentioned that. Go on.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was going to happen and I didn’t know what it was about until I got in the room and saw that piece of paper. Sandra wouldn’t tell me.’

  Vee described the meeting, showing how it was a “putup job”. The words she used to describe her boss were not in the least complimentary. He was glad he had not contributed any fuel to this fire; he had made sure the answers to those questions had been positive. If they thought he was protecting his patient, so be it.

  ‘Vee, I’m sorry to hear about this. But surely it’s illegal to subject someone to such an ordeal. Is there no way you can claim unfair – or constructive – dismissal?’

  She explained that she’d signed an agreement; they’d paid her to keep quiet. They’d actually said that’s what the money was for. He was shocked and pointed out that this was an admission of guilt. She should take some kind of action against them. Vee was silent for a moment. Then she said she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t strong enough. It was too much for her.

  ‘That’s what they want! They’re counting on that.’

  But Vee was defeated. ‘I was suffocated in that room by their combined will. Who’s going to believe me? Oh, it must be my fault. Nobody else seems to find life so difficult to deal with!’

  Max knew that Helen would have played no part in this outrageous episode. She probably didn’t even know what was going on, so tied up was she with reorganising Birch. He couldn’t interfere either.

  Max found out that Vee was allowed to stay in her tied accommodation until 31st July, so that when they’d met at the start of the month, she was waiting to hear where and when she would be rehoused, thanks to Bella’s foresight. Vee had expressed anger, grief and anxiety while in Max’s office, but these emotions were entirely appropriate; he had seen nothing more sinister on the horizon. Bella saw her twice before she moved, as Max had advised her of the extra support she would need. On 1st August, Bella told him, Vee moved into a flat in Cressington, a district of Howcester at the opposite end of the town from the hospital. Max read more entries in the diary:

  ‘This flat is a quarter of what looks like a 60s semi, on the ground floor, so no stairs for Phisto to worry about. Seems like a quiet area, good for writing. Ron, Jim & friends helped move. Place completely bare: no carpets, curtains, cooker or fridge. Can use some of payoff money, but Mum said she’d buy carpets & wardrobe. Bella will help with getting benefits, but warns they’re not instant, so will have to live off rest of Sq [sic] money. Have gone down in the world, not up! But will start again looking for job.’

  In spite of everything, Vee seemed optimistic at this stage. Perhaps it was a kind of rebound from the pressure she’d been under. Or it could have been her innate courage, her need to keep going. Max wrote:-

  “It appears that there are businesses where those in charge seem to have convinced themselves that company policy meets all the conceivable needs of their present and future employees (a situation reminiscent of Orwell’s 1984), so that this policy is implemented automatically, without further thought, yet with a silent, perhaps even unconscious gratitude on the part of the management at being allowed to discriminate behind the scenes, possibly with such frequency that their actions become regarded as normal, acceptable, in any event certainly unquestioned.

  “In such an environment, people like Vee are doomed to failure. The seeds of prejudice can flourish behind closed doors when job applicants are required by law to declare their disabilities. Such legislation merely fortifies business policy which excludes people. And in the end, neither proof of discrimination nor weapon against it are readily available to those interviewed, or indeed those already employed. More silent victories pass unnoticed.

  “Vee was not only disappointed in the workplace. She realised too that, as in the case of her brother, people she knew well couldn’t understand why ultimately she was not working. This often happens; relatives and close friends cannot believe that someone they know and love can be so very ill, or so very stigmatised. Then, of course, what they say and do is unhelpful to the patient.”

  Max returned to the diary.

  ‘It’s no good. Whatever I try for, even stacking shelves, I cannot break through into work. I’m going to have to find other ways of occupying my time.[ … ] Why should I, for the sake of appearing to be brave, keep subjecting myself to a series of rejections? Life should hold more than this. It’s no fun. If you go part-time, you lose out too.

  ‘I keep going back to the things that led up to that meeting. Stupid, I know, but I was chatting to Nat [ … ] in the office and trying to describe what it felt like to want to kill yourself & how I could just take all the drugs in the medication trolley. Of course I wasn’t serious – why would I do that with loads of people about? But Nat hid her anxiety. Then, as I found out later, she rang for Jack Marshall to come to the house. I remember him dropping in, but thought nothing of it at the time; it was not that unusual, especially when Sandra was on. This was during the lead-up period, the quiet weeks when (as I now know) the staff were busy making notes about me for her ladyship.

  ‘Squaremile employed me knowing about my illness. That didn’t stop the disciplinary hearings, warnings – and then the meeting. Too much significance was attached to my every word and action in the lead-up. [ … ] Job hunting is now a nightmare. And as for the courses designed to help you back to work, why do they always assume that if you’re unemployed you are illiterate, uneducated and unskilled? Someone like me is assumed to be stupid or dangerous – or both. What I need is a fair employer [ … ]

  ‘I know Jim means well. He’s always been anxious to help when I’m ill, but then he expects me to carry on afterwards as if nothing’s happened! We can never discuss it properly. There’s always this charged atmosphere, as if he thinks I’m a fraud because I’ve stopped trying for jobs. Bella knows how difficult it is. Of course I would work if I could, but there comes a time when you’ve tried everything in your power and you have to say, Enough is enough. At least nowadays I’m not being judged and monitored all the time.’

  Keeping a diary was obviously cathartic for Vee. Max remembered when he first met her, at Jeff’s party in Lexby. She was an attractive, ambitious career woman. They had watched the sunset together, drinking champagne. They thought their separate futures were decided and secure, at the same time wishing the future could have been shared.

  20

  New Home

  From my front door here in Cressington I can watch people walking their dogs in the field which slopes upwards from our lawn. Bella had been right to make sure I was on the Housing Association’s waiting list for a flat; she must have known others who had been stranded by employment disasters. These used to be council houses, built in a hurry in 1960. They look like semis, but they’re actually blocks of four flats. At the back, a row of tall hornbeams separates the garden from a building site. They remind me of the dignified trees outside Tor ward. I sometimes think about that place and wonder if the ghosts of long-dead inmates haunt the new occupants of the luxury flats.

  I like it here because I don’t have to share, except with Phisto. I like it here because the danger of spring is over. I like it here because I don’t need to think about Squaremile all the time. They tried to kick open the white door. Just because they’ve stopped kicking doesn’t mean there’s no pain, but at least they’re not here to see it or to judge me. They are miles away. Mum and Bella have seen it. And Squaremile’s money doesn’t stop me remembering: forgetting what ha
ppened is impossible.

  I know that everyone, every person who ends up in this street, has had some kind of major upheaval in their life. I have not spoken to many neighbours yet though, because there is scarcely room in me for anyone else at the moment. Even when Jim arrives, with Matthew – who’s grown a lot – with a bunch of flowers, the edges of me bristle with anxiety, which can feel more like terror. There is just enough room to skim the top of his news. He does not really see into me because I keep the outside clear of signs, things which might make him ask difficult questions.

  We wander about in the garden for a few minutes. It is sad that Matthew is growing up without a mother, but Jim seems calmer these days. Sophie’s death is quite a long time ago now, and Matthew is at secondary school. Jim has aged; he probably thinks the same of me, but each of us knows why.

  Still, Jim has not lost interest in women; he comments on the figure of the eighteen-year-old neighbour who is sunbathing. When we’ve gone indoors, I tell him I think she’s called Danielle. Jim raises his voice above the noise of the kettle.

  ‘It’s not a bad place, really, is it? From what I’ve seen on my travels, you could have done a lot worse.’

  His travels, in his line of work, must have included some pretty rough areas. But every time I have a visitor, I see the flat as if through their eyes, as a disappointing place to end up. Yes, I was washed up here, or rather thrown here after the blast: I didn’t choose this flat. They just said, “here’s your flat” and left. I supposed I would just have to get used to it, because there was nothing else. I had lost the right to choose … And I would have to go without, and I would have to decorate it, and I would have to …

  ‘Jim, I’m not feeling too good. Sorry. Think I need a sleep.’

  ‘Well, we’ll go and see Granny and Ron, shall we Matthew? But we can’t stay too long … ’

  Nobody has been aware of the weather until there is a loud clap of thunder: Matthew runs to the window to spot the next lightning strike. As the rain begins to fall more fiercely, there is a shriek from outside and Danielle knocks on the door. I have to let her in, but I am stretched to my limit of being with other people. I cannot prolong my endurance much more.

  ‘Oh, sorry! Didn’t fink it was goin’ to rain that quick! Couldn’t get home in time!’

  ‘Come in.’

  She clutches her towel, covered in bits of grass, as someone turns up the rain volume even higher and a flash fills the living room with light. Dogs are barking, people running. Nobody realises I am beginning to drown. I take a breath and introduce Jim. Matthew tries to smile at Danielle, but then jumps as another thunderclap rumbles about overhead. Danielle, sitting on the sofa, is a little uneasy in her bikini and spreads her towel over her knees.

  ‘I’ll go when it eases off a bit,’ she says, then her mobile rings, a pop song I’ve never heard. ‘Yep. I know! Bit sudden, wasn’t it!’ She slips off her sandals, makes herself at home. Phisto goes over to her and sniffs her outstretched hand as she talks on the phone. The thunder doesn’t bother him as much as it used to, now he is a bit deaf. He used to hide under the bed … ‘I’ll see ya later then. Bye!’ Danielle shuts her phone with a click and there is another bright flash. The lamp flickers. Jim counts aloud to Matthew: the storm is three miles away. The rain hammers on the window and my own storm still rages. It needs all my strength not to show it. Now Danielle pulls the towel round her shoulders and looks at me.

  ‘So, what do you do with yourself all day, Vee? I mean, you don’t go out to work, do you?’ They had been watching. I thought so.

  ‘Oh, I keep myself busy. I’m writing a book at the moment. What about you? What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a care assistant, down the road at the old people’s home. But why haven’t you got a job then? Her pale eyes, smooth skin and long fair hair are the picture of innocent youth, though I suspect she is far from innocent. If I didn’t colour my hair nowadays I would be white, like Ron.

  ‘I mean, you’re an intelligent woman,’ Danielle goes on, drilling my head, ‘I’d have thought it’d be easy for you to get a job.’

  ‘It’s a long story, but I’ve been ill,’ is the only scrap I can throw her.

  Danielle turns. ‘Jim, isn’t it?’

  He nods.

  ‘D’you mind me askin’ what you do for a living?’

  I could tell this was all being filed away for the benefit of others.

  ‘It’s kind of similar to what you do.’ He smiles politely, closing ranks with me.

  ‘Oh.’ Danielle lacks the maturity to pursue either of these two mysteries, and we know that she doesn’t want to appear too nosy. Nor is she keen to stay any longer than necessary.

  A short while later she jumps up. ‘Look, it’s practically stopped raining. I’d better be going. Said I’d meet my boyfriend. Better get changed too!’ She giggles. ‘Can’t go into town like this, can I? The mad bikini woman from Cressington. Still, we’re not that far from the nut-house, are we?’ She laughs, pushes her feet into her sandals and pulls the towel off her shoulders, leaving grass on the sofa which she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Nice talking to you.’

  I collect the cups and put Jim’s flowers in water. Matthew finishes the drink I gave him. I haven’t felt strong enough to have a proper conversation with him today, but there’ll be other times.

  ‘She could’ve made it to her own flat,’ I say. ‘I think she wanted an excuse to find out about me, so she could report back.’

  ‘Quite likely,’ Jim replies. ‘But don’t take her too seriously, Vee. She’s very young.’

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t bother me.’ I try to pick up some of the grass, then sit in one of the second-hand chairs. Its rounded wooden arm-rest bears the scars of its previous life: two heat rings from ancient cups of tea at an unknown address.

  ‘Are you OK, Vee? You seem … tense.’

  ‘I am. Look, I’m not being horrible, but I really need a bit of time on my own. Take Matthew to Mum’s and say I’ll ring her in the morning. Sorry, Jim.’

  He gives me a significant look. ‘OK.’

  ‘Oh, before you go – here. I ran off a draft of the book for you to read. Would you like it?’

  ‘Thanks, Vee. Should be interesting.’

  I kiss Jim, but Matthew doesn’t want my kiss. My baby – Max’s baby, would have grown up by now. I had to stop myself wondering about what might have been. I don’t intend to be around when Max reads about it.

  I slept. It must have been about seven o’clock that evening when the phone woke me. It was just one of those annoying cold calls, so I hung up. The tension in me seemed to have unravelled itself, but the background feeling was still there. I tried to analyse it. I suppose I had trained myself to do that since the psychology sessions with Lucy. There was grief and helplessness. There was fear. There were the taints of everything that had happened which should have been different, better, marking me like the scars of a whip.

  I expect Mum will pop in again tomorrow, now I’m only ten minutes’ drive away. She loves to help me make this my home, because she senses I don’t care about it yet. We go shopping, we go out for lunch – something we never used to do when I was younger, until the time she stayed with me in West Pluting. She wants to help in practical ways. She says Ron will help me decorate, but in the end I have to say I’m not ready. Why? She asks. It’s a difficult question to answer without dragging the past back on to the scene and risking tears.

  Perhaps I will be ready in a few months.

  21

  Helen

  Simon’s son Jackson had been stealing money from Helen’s purse, to buy alcohol. When she found out, she had a row with him and his father while Max was in hospital; she’d kept this from him so as not to worry him when he was ill. But they were both glad when Simon announced that he’d found somewhere else to live. He wouldn’t say where, but he was very apologetic and assured them he would repay the money as soon as he could.

  Max knew Simon was finding things diffi
cult; he hadn’t even charged him any rent. But he couldn’t help feeling disappointed and taken advantage of. Max tried to find Simon, who had not been in to work as expected for several days. However, despite his efforts to track him down, Max never saw or heard again from his former colleague, or Jackson. In fact they were on file as missing.

  Helen was sitting in the reclining armchair the next morning, looking pale.

  ‘Are you alright, darling?’

  ‘I’ve got a terrible headache,’ she said in a hoarse voice of suffering. He offered to get her some painkillers, but she said she’d just taken some. ‘Besides which, we’re nearly out.’

  ‘You’ve got to be OK for tonight, my love.’

  ‘What’s tonight? Oh, yes. Your farewell dinner at Lisette’s. I’ll try. Max? Could you pop to the chemist’s for me?’ She closed her eyes and he didn’t feel he could broach the subject of Vee’s book. They only had one more chapter to read. He wanted to know more about what happened with Sandra; in particular, he wanted Vee’s description of how things were between Sandra and Helen, followed by what Helen herself felt, of course.

  He felt that writing about Vee had eased his guilt. It was probably just the act of expressing himself on paper that created this illusion. This led to the recognition that he hadn’t really started work. It would have been too easy, in his profession, to become inured to individual suffering, to diagnose, treat and send people on their way without feeling their pain. Of course a degree of detachment is necessary. But in focusing on Vee, he had rediscovered why he became a doctor in the first place.

  He didn’t know if Simon had ever had that experience. An unexpected sense of relief, at the departure of their guests, was overshadowed by a new concern however: Helen’s health. But they were both tired; he hoped that with quiet nights and good rest, she would soon be back to her old self. He began to wonder if he hadn’t taken her for granted, for years.