Lisette’s, where they had had their anniversary meal, was his favourite restaurant. Set back from the road and about twenty minutes away by car, it had a well-known chef, so whatever you chose was sure to be top quality, both visually and on the palate. Sue, a fellow consultant, and her husband Chris, a clinical psychologist, both from Porteblanche, picked them up at seven. The car was filled with perfume, smart jackets and sparkles on the ladies. Helen always felt a little left out on such occasions, and today she had to make a special effort for Max as well. Aware of this, Max told her how lovely she looked and didn’t make any demands while they talked shop, the easiest option nevertheless.
‘So, Max: how’s retirement?’ Chris turned slightly in the passenger seat and smiled.
‘D’you want the psychological version?’
Chris laughed. ‘Any version you like.’
‘Well – Helen will back me on this – I’ve been a bit lazy so far.’ he glanced in her direction and saw her raise her eyebrows briefly, then turn away. From the driving seat Sue chipped in.
‘I think you probably deserve a rest. This job can really take it out of you. Helen told me you had a heart attack. Are you OK now?’
‘Fine.’ Max noticed that Helen was still staring out of the window into the night, so he squeezed her hand. They pulled up in the restaurant car park. When they had ordered, Sue said she had some news.
‘Did you know, Max, that the Porteblanche wing is set to close in six months’ time?’
‘No, I didn’t. Where will everybody go?’
‘It was announced last week and should be in the local rag by now. They’ll have to go to Okebury, which is where I’m off to, or Marmston.’
‘But Marmston’s miles away, the other end of the county!’ Max could foresee all kinds of problems. ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be any more beds available either. When will they realise that closing a place down doesn’t take away the need for it!’ Helen rubbed his knee under the tablecloth. ‘Do they imagine that if they go round closing hospitals – and it’s not just psych wards – there won’t be any more sick people? Where will it end? Hospitals seem to be going the way of post offices!’
The news about Porteblanche put Max in a bad mood and he did not enjoy the evening as much as he might have done after that. From Sue’s expression, she realised she’d made a faux pas; it was Max’s special evening, after all. Meanwhile he recalled something Vee had written: she thought that every time she grew attached to a place, or it had some significance for her, someone would come along and tear it down. He knew what she meant. The worst part though is not just being powerless, but being powerless when those who do have the power don’t know what they’re doing.
Helen’s behaviour concerned him too; she had slipped out to the ladies to take some more tablets and she had nearly fallen over when she stood up from the table. She hadn’t drunk anything. Sue and Chris came back home with them after the meal and didn’t leave until about midnight, by which time it was too late to embark on any major discussion. Helen was distant, disconnected from him, but at least he thought he knew why.
Tuesday morning came round again, and his weekly session at Squaremile. He did not see Helen at work. As usual, he borrowed one of the offices in the Day Hospital, and care assistants brought residents over for their appointments. He was glad there were no new cases today; the work was straightforward, checking how people were doing on their medication etc. In the evening Helen seemed a bit better; she was tidying the bedroom.
‘Darling … Tell me about Sandra Wheatley.’ He sat on the bed.
‘Why do you want to talk about her?’
‘Because I think that if prejudice can only be tackled on an individual level, she’s got to be that individual.’
‘Shall I tell you something you really don’t want to hear?’ She sat next to him.
‘Since you put it like that, how can I refuse?’
‘Sandra’s got her promotion. She’s now Health and Safety Officer, in place of Tim Clark. Everyone’s wondering whose bed – .’
‘– D’you really think she’d do that? It’s bad enough hearing she’s been promoted. SHIT!’ He thumped the mattress.
Helen went on, ‘When we worked together, that is, on opposite shifts, on Grove for a little while before I went to Birch, it didn’t take me long to work out that she’d cut corners wherever she could and that she had favourites on the staff. She could take an instant dislike to people and once you were in her bad books, that was it.’ Helen sighed. ‘You know, I should really have reported her when I was there then. I was sure she wasn’t doing her job properly. But getting evidence is always the tricky part.’ Helen stood up, wanting to finish tidying while she felt able to.
‘D’you think anyone will ever see through her?’ Max asked.
‘Well, I think that’s where you and I come in.’ Helen began plumping up the pillows. ‘I’m thinking back over several House Managers’ meetings. She doesn’t contribute a thing in the way of new ideas, just finds fault with what other people say. Then she pretends it doesn’t matter to her what’s decided. It wouldn’t be so bad if she could come up with something herself to … ’ Helen shrugged, ‘ … solve a problem, or … but she’s so negative, she puts a damper on the whole meeting. Frankly, people are quite glad if she can’t come. And another thing: I was over in Grove one lunchtime and saw her picking up a sausage from the floor and putting it back on a resident’s plate.’
‘Hmm. Shows how much respect she has for them.’
‘It’s what we don’t see we should worry about. Oh, and she still gets her month off!’
His writing desk was piled high with papers and folders, some of which belonged to Grace. Unfortunately, the back numbers of Shrink had not obeyed their own imperative either, but he hated throwing them out. He moved the old patterned rug which they’d given up on downstairs because it always “walked” to where it was most inconvenient. Then he sat in the creaky chair at the other desk where the computer waited and switched on the lamp. He found Vee’s diary again, tucked behind the monitor, and opened it near the end.
‘I can feel it starting again. A shadow that is inside me, not outside. It tightens my fists and I see two long thin tubes from them to the world, with papery leaves fluttering at intervals. They are very sensitive to what’s going on. If anything disturbs the calm here they become agitated and start to entwine. They must not do that. Then I realise they are the ivy pulling me towards the white door. I don’t want the anger it brings. I must stay indoors because everyone looks at me when I go out. I am ugly and I hate myself. I ought to know better. They’re laughing at me now … ’
There were only two more entries after this, but they were barely legible. This showed Vee descending into psychosis. She must have experienced fluctuations in mood and awareness, because when they met in August – for the last time – he had not detected any psychosis. Anxiety was the predominant symptom then. Her mission was to deliver her manuscript. Naturally, he was concerned about her, but he could not have predicted what was to follow a month later.
Bella had, however, warned him that things were not going too well, so perhaps they should have had Vee back in. It’s never easy, and as Simon had once pointed out, psychiatry is an inexact science, but these are human lives. He recalled what Bella said:-
“She’s definitely having a depressive mood swing. Trouble is, she never realises how bad it’s getting until it’s too late and there’s only one option left.”
He asked if she thought Vee should come in, and Bella sighed. She said she was seeing her more often at the moment – the next day in fact – so she would keep him up to date. Three weeks later, Vee was dead. Filled once again with remorse at his delay, Max began reading the last chapter of Doors Closing.
22
Anne
Mum came over the next day, and I appreciated her continuing efforts to brighten up my flat. The trouble is, I can’t seem to shake off the echoes of Squaremile, of black thoughts and bad experien
ce. I went on writing about feelings like this in my diary.
Towards the end of my time at Squaremile, I got in touch with one of my former teachers, Mrs Sharp, who still lives in Howcester. Anne was very kind, and didn’t judge me. Very soon she allowed me to put aside the outdated teacher-student relationship and we got together now and then for meals or walks. She visited me the last time I was in hospital. Today I wanted to put forward some ideas, think aloud with her before I finalised certain things in Doors Closing.
Anne is not very tall and has short, iron-grey hair. She welcomed me into her home made large by those absent. She is a widow, whose son and daughter are both married with families. In all the rooms downstairs, up the staircase, along the landing, in every bedroom, even in the cloakroom are books, so that each sound is muffled into a solidity of learning, a quiet dignity normally exclusive to second-hand bookshops. I am reminded also of my feelings when in France, the almost tangible breadth of the country, the heavy vastness. There is something about collections of books though that always makes me feel the august presence of knowledge, like a visit to an Oxford college. At Anne’s house there is also a huge leafy plant in each main room. We sat in the living room with our coffee.
‘I want to write something about how things have changed,’ I began. ‘I don’t mean the obvious lack of a job. I mean, well, changes in my life brought about by how other people see me.’
‘Does it matter to you what other people think?’
I needed to convey the importance and permanence of the changes. Anne was doing her best to understand, but her reply did rather suggest that for a moment, she saw me as a teenager in crisis. On the other hand, I could regard it as a simple acceptance of my situation, so I could not afford to sound hostile. I explained what I meant: until I got ill, people had taken my abilities for granted. So had I. Now, it seemed that having a breakdown meant I was weak through and through in their eyes. It is regarded as a terrible flaw in your very soul; even your moral standing is called into question. I hadn’t understood this to start with, because I couldn’t see anything wrong with my mind when I was well. Anne remembered how I’d been top of my year at ‘A’ Level, and could see that nobody would expect anything less.
‘It must be difficult,’ she said. ‘I can see that things are very different now.’
‘Yes, but it’s not just that. It’s to do with work, and people’s attitudes. When I noticed the difference in the way people saw me, I was surprised at first, because in my head, nothing had changed. To me, I was the same person I’d always been – putting aside changes in my attitude, of course. Then I became frustrated at being treated differently. Now I’m resigned to a future without a job because other people have all the power.’
Anne came over and opened a window near me. It was a hot day and she didn’t have a fan. ‘I’m listening,’ she said.
‘That’s a summary. Apart from my family, whose increased worry is the only change, I think I can identify two distinct attitudes towards me. I have to add that it’s not really me any more that people are seeing, but a kind of walking illness with my face on it.’
‘That’s good!’ Anne laughed.
I attempted to describe the two attitudes. The first type made no allowances whatsoever. People would turn their backs on me, scorning my weakness. They were the “pull yourself together” brigade. I felt the weight of their censure. With the second attitude, I went on, people expected too little of me, all the time, were too indulgent, even when I was well between episodes. In the past, when it was taken for granted that I was “normal”, expectations of me had always been high, and I usually delivered. But now the jury was out, I said. Anybody could be in either of these two camps: old friends, new friends, nurses – and even doctors.
‘I’d never really thought of it in that way,’ said Anne, who had been clutching her coffee mug while she listened. ‘Then again, I have been lucky enough not to have to formulate my relationships quite so clearly. So, which group do I belong to?’
‘Oh, Anne! I count you as part of my family!’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. But Vee, there is something I know for certain: you have a mother who hasn’t given up on you, and a good step-dad and brother.’
She was right, of course. I mustn’t forget that I was lucky in that way. I’d also had a good CPN who’d made sure I got somewhere to live and sorted out my benefits. My family had made sure I’d got off to a good start in the new flat. But with these physical needs met, I had to think about where my life was going.
‘More coffee?’
‘Not just now, thanks.’
‘Let’s go back to the Two Attitudes you were on about. Can you give me some examples. Only, I can’t undo your summaries without a bit of help.’
‘Well, the “pull yourself together” brigade, the PYTB, are usually, but not always, people you don’t know very well. They are dismissive; they might be employers. The soft ones, the people who expect too little, the wet “I understand” group, are generally viewing your future with so little hope that you become insignificant – just another sick person whose opinions can be ignored.’
‘Forgive me for saying this, Vee, but these two attitudes sound like two sides of the same coin. If you’re not expected to be able to do anything, then surely you’re being dismissed, or have I overlooked something?’
I thought for a moment. ‘You see! This is why I needed to talk to someone with an unbiased brain! I think you’re right.’
Anne smiled.
‘But I went to see Mrs Finn too, around the time I got in touch with you. I was trying to gather allies.’
‘Oh, yes, she taught English.’
‘I told her all about being bipolar and the problems at work. I had not been ill for a while. D’you know what she said?’
‘Go on.’
I tried to copy Leila Finn’s note of weary cynicism: ‘“Oh, Vee! Don’t you think it’s high time you put all this behind you, for God’s sake!” That wasn’t all, but by the end of the conversation, I knew that Mrs Finn would never understand. She seemed to regard my eight bouts of illness as nothing more than an adolescent phase.’
‘But it is difficult to understand, Vee, if you’ve never had any problems of your own, or known somebody.’
‘Fine, true, but that’s surely a first class reason not to be dismissive! I’ve never had appendicitis, but I still acknowledge that it occurs and that it’s painful!’
Anne laughed.
‘There’s one other important thing about the PYTB, which concerns work. They despise me for not having a job. I’m just lazy. But would they employ me? They see it as my fault I’m out of work, but they’ve got me labelled up.’
‘That’s hypocrisy.’ Anne stood up and took our mugs from the low table. ‘Would you like to stay for lunch?’
‘That would be nice. Thanks, Anne. Sorry to bang on, but – .’
‘– It’s fine, it’s fine. Don’t worry! You obviously needed it! Come out and sit in the kitchen while I make a start.’
I followed her along the hallway, its pale green walls lit from behind us by the glass front door and then after a dark corner, by the huge kitchen window, adorned with a row of herbs on the sill including basil and thyme. I noticed a tray of seedlings whose tiny pairs of leaves resembled tilted green chairs. Rows of small but mature trees, some with apples forming, stood on each side of the back garden, which was mostly lawn.
‘Shall we eat outside, Vee, as it’s so warm?’ Anne gave me various jobs to do as we went on with our discussion.
‘So, Vee,’ said Anne, cutting up a tomato. ‘Why do you have to tell them at interview about your illness? Surely it would make more sense not to.’
‘Jim always says that I shouldn’t tell, because I might never be ill again. But if I don’t say anything, they’re going to wonder about the gaps in my employment history – besides which, I have been ill eight times, so there’s every chance of a ninth – and in the end, when I was applying for jobs, I
had to declare it by law. At least that’s changed now. Then quite often there used to be a medical questionnaire. And in those days, if an employer found out after I’d got the job, I could be sacked with no redress.’
‘Oh, Vee. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. It’s diabolical!’
I told her that there were other things about employers and their practices which would make her hair curl, but the most important thing about my life now was that, denied a job, I had to succumb to the world’s attitude and judgement a second time. What I meant was that, in order to get money to live on, I had to claim that I was “incapacitated”. The world had won again; everything has to be on their terms. There seemed to be no room for my free will.
We carried our salads and French bread out to the garden table. A blackbird flew away and sat in a tree at the far end, plinking his rapid alarm. Anne said she often had a green woodpecker on the lawn, eating ants. Then she said she felt sorry for me. She hoped talking to her had helped.
‘It is an illness which provokes so many reactions and emotions and causes untold problems. Do you think you can sort out your writing now?’
‘I think so. Thank you.’ I breathed in the fresh, perfumed air. ‘You know, Anne, I spent years of my life trying to fit in. Now, once again, I don’t fit in. Somehow, the way I’m seen has become more important than who I am. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life applying for jobs, though. To be rejected non-stop for years would destroy my soul, as would getting a job and then having it taken away again, like Arnold College and then Squaremile. But, you know, one thing I find vaguely amusing – definitely inconsistent – is that I’m still allowed to vote. And another thing: when you get an ordinary doctor’s appointment, you’re expected to ring if you can’t make it. But if you have a psychiatric appointment, you’re asked to ring if you can make it!’
We laughed together.
‘So what are you going to do with yourself now?’
‘I’ll do what I have to do.’ I thought I’d better be more specific. ‘Write.’
From a Safe Distance Page 18
