Walls of Silence

by Ruth Wade

  ‘If you won’t take my word for it then I’ll read you a little from the notes I asked the orderlies to keep – behaviour, state of mind, noteworthy mood swings; things like that.’

  Stephen surreptitiously slid up the cuff of his jacket and glanced at his watch. If this didn’t take too long then he could catch the 1.15 back to Victoria. Maybe reach the clinic in time to catch Maggie and ask her out for that drink. But Dr Johns was saying something so far outside what he’d expected he found himself leaning forward in his seat, straining to make sense of it.

  ‘... and then on the first Thursday of last month was when she had a row about the quality of the food and ended up throwing a bowl of rice pudding at the orderly. After that it seems she became increasingly belligerent with everyone. I’ll find you a direct quotation: She was in the corridor doing her nut screaming blue murder at one of the shell-shockers. Accusing him of all sorts. Half-inching her clothes so she couldn’t leave being the least of it.’

  He looked across and shrugged.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive the informal language, I’m afraid; I’m having to interpret some of the spelling as it is. And she’s taken to wandering the grounds at all hours. It’s not down here,’ he tapped the file, ‘but I was leaving one evening just as it was getting dark and came across her pulling up the flowers; she said they were in danger of strangling the roses. Odd behaviour, granted, but not that of someone experiencing profound catatonia, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  Stephen didn’t know what to say. His bluff had been called. Why hadn’t he just popped his head around the office door to say his farewells as he’d intended? He pulled at his beard.

  ‘I feel as though you’re showing me a picture of a cat and swearing blind it’s a dog.’

  ‘Are you implying the staff in this asylum are liars or that I am fabricating for my own amusement?’ The smile was long gone.

  ‘No, of course not. But I can’t understand how it’s possible that Edith Potter could’ve gone from a person of such volatility to the half-dead woman I saw just now.’

  He really didn’t want to continue this conversation but his professional integrity was being called into question.

  ‘When did you say the most recent incident was?’

  ‘The last recorded one?’ Dr Johns ran his finger down the page. ‘Monday morning. We had a new orderly starting and he was late with her tea.’

  Stephen wanted to hit his head against the wall for being so stupid. Drugs. They were lacing her intake with drugs.

  ‘What exactly have you started giving her, Dr Johns?’ His tone was icy. He abhorred the routine stupefying of those in the grip of psychosis; it confused any attempts at reaching a meaningful diagnosis. It certainly seemed to have fooled him on this occasion.

  ‘Oh, the usual; croton oil to act as a purgative – ’

  ‘Good God, man, the woman’s constitution will never take that.’

  ‘– and daily doses of bromide.’

  ‘To keep her docile.’

  ‘To help her to sleep, and to dampen any disquiet or distress she might be feeling. I seem to recall telling you when we first met that this is a place of containment, not a hospital and, as such, it is our duty under the law to ensure that the inmates cause no harm to themselves or others. Edith Potter has, left to her own devices, exhibited signs of possessing the capacity to do both. I really have no choice. Had she remained in the catatonic stupor in which she arrived, then, as she posed no danger, these steps wouldn’t have been necessary. As it is ...’

  He held out his hands, palms upwards. Stephen got the message.

  ‘So it’s all my fault, is it? I’m the one ramming that stuff down her throat night and morning?’

  ‘I can assure you there’s no coercion involved and she takes her medication of her own volition.’

  ‘How on earth can she be exercising any free will at all when she has no earthly idea of who she is and what she wants? If she truly is in some way in touch with her conscious self again …’

  ‘Why do you persist in maintaining your disbelief? If I didn’t know any better then I’d say that you have some reason for wanting her to be catatonic again; it’s what you lot call projection isn’t it?’

  Stephen felt the heat of a flush stealing up his neck. He stood up and leaned forward with his knuckles on the edge of Dr Johns’ desk.

  ‘By dint of my research paper I drew attention to this appallingly archaic, barbaric, Victorian-valued medical institution – ’

  ‘Lunatic asylum, Dr Maynard. This is a lunatic asylum.’

  ‘– and in the process brought you an increase in funds which I now realise you will probably only use to buy enough bromide to dose up every patient to the eyeballs the minute they set foot through the door.’

  ‘The fame and fortune you seem to think you’ve bestowed on us wouldn’t even go to buying everyone here a fresh egg for breakfast. Have you any idea how truly thinly the money stretches between two hundred inmates? Most of them requiring even more care and attention than Edith Potter.’

  ‘Care? You call this bloody care?’ He was shouting directly into his face but Dr Johns hardly blinked.

  ‘We contain. Alleviate as many of the symptoms of distress as we can. At the very least we protect them from a world where many people have medieval minds and would burn someone as odd as Edith Potter for being a witch if they thought they could get away with it.’

  ‘Now you’re treating me like one of your imbeciles. Do you think I’m not aware of the facts of life as they affect those teetering on the edge of sanity? Except in my clinic we attempt to entice them back to normality, not poison their bodies into the same state as their minds.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that your methods unfailingly result in success?’

  ‘Of course not, that would be presumptuous and arrogant.’

  ‘And far be it from me to accuse you of that.’

  ‘Why is it that everyone seems to have it in for psychoanalysts?’

  ‘Who said I was making a generalisation?’

  ‘At least we try.’

  ‘Not in this case. All you did was regard her as a condition, pick over a diseased mind for what it might profit.’

  ‘For the benefit of scientific research. I could hardly embark on anything else; the woman was bloody catatonic, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘You used her for the glorification of your career, and you’re even more self-delusional than our Napoleonic lunatics if you refuse to admit otherwise.’

  ‘So, I’m a selfish bastard and you’re ... what? A lickspittle to the Asylum Board of Governors who want a tidy ship full of zombies incapable of disgracing themselves when the inspectors come calling?’

  ‘It’s a good job we’re here in my office where personal insults are an everyday occurrence; in any other circumstances you wouldn’t find me nearly as tolerant.’

  Stephen rocked back on his heels as Dr Johns thrust the file at his chest.

  ‘As it’s patently obvious that you think you could do better, be my guest. Prove the brave new world of psychoanalysis has all the answers and can work miracles. Come on, take it ...’

  Stephen did so to prevent the papers falling to the floor. Dr Johns made a show of washing his hands.

  ‘I’ll arrange for the forms to be sent. You need only get them signed and witnessed to assume full legal custody for her ongoing treatment in some much more conducive environment of your choosing. I’ll wager that in no time at all you’ll be able to effect a magnificent recovery with only the aid of a shiny black couch, and, I may add, without the need for a white coat to protect yourself from getting covered in blood or vomit. God, how the other half lives.’

  ‘That is a ridiculously childish suggestion and you know it; she’s not some parcel of neuroses to be bundled up and passed on for a bet.’

  ‘Go on, I dare you. What are you afraid of? The worst that can happen is that you fail as spectacularly with her as you seem to think I’m doing.’


  Stephen took a few deep breaths. ‘Of course I’ll fail. There is no cure for that woman.’

  ‘Alleviation of symptoms, remember, that’s all I’ve ever set out to do here. You could accomplish that at least, surely?’

  ‘The lowest possible denominator in psychiatry? Of course I could achieve that but what real good would it do?’

  ‘Edith Potter would be happier.’

  ‘She’d still be torturing herself.’

  ‘She’d get more personal attention that I can give her here.’

  ‘To what end? What is wrong with her won’t ever go away, I tell you. The best she can hope for is to make an adjustment to accommodate the root of her psychosis.’

  ‘Well, do that for her then.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘And neither can I. So what are we to do, leave her here to rot out her days full of larger and larger doses of sedatives until her body can’t take it any longer? Or would you have me be cruel and cease the doses so that she can become reacquainted with whatever misery it was that brought her to our doors in the first place? Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t: welcome to the world of an asylum director.’

  Dr Johns crumpled into his chair. He sat with his head bowed for a moment and then began drawing patterns in the ash on the blotter. ‘Please tell me how I can possibly do anything better than contain? This institution is everything you say it is but, for my sins, I’m the one in charge. I’m the one who has to try to do something with these poor souls the rest of society doesn’t want. The men and women going about their business on the streets of Lewes right now would be more than content if I just set some explosives and blew this whole bloody place up.’

  Stephen felt as if he’d been picking on the runt in school – the skinny one with the broken glasses and no defences. He walked over and stood in front of the bookshelves. He stared at the battered spines with their gold lettering and obfuscatory titles. Testaments, all, to a professional vanity that he knew was at the root of his own aspirations. Dr Johns had ruthlessly exposed that with the scalpel-precision of a surgeon and there was nowhere left to sidestep. It was Stephen’s selfish ambition that had propelled Edith Potter into her present state: whatever hell she was in was of his making. She was his responsibility. And his alone.

  But what was he to do with her? Maudsley Hospital wouldn’t have her as a patient on a long-term basis; besides, it would damage his career irreparably if anyone got a sight of the case notes and thought to ask why he’d taken an interest in her again after letting her languish in the asylum. What he needed was a residential institution where no one was going to pump her full of drugs the moment the going got rough. Because, given what doctor and patient both knew, there was no doubt that it would.

  He returned to stand in front of the desk. Dr Johns was lighting another cigarette. Stephen smiled at him with even more compassion than he felt for Edith Potter.

  ‘Forgive me, please? My friends tell me I can be an insensitive prick at times.’

  He received a firm handshake in reply – which was more than he would’ve been able to muster if the boot had been on the other foot.

  ‘You don’t know how sorry I am that there’s nothing I can do to make anything easier for you here, except maybe to tell you that I think you’re a very altruistic man, Dr Johns. And just to show you that everything you’ve said hasn’t simply gone in one ear and out the other; I’ll lighten your load a little so that you only have 199 charges to worry about from now on. God help me if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life, but I’ll take on Edith Potter. Only I’ll need to square a few things before I can make it official. Can I use your telephone?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Do you have the number for Beddingham Hall?’

  ‘The Hear no Evil, Speak no Evil place?’

  Stephen couldn’t help pulling a face. Victor Johns laughed.

  ‘That’s what we all call it around here. Don’t tell me you didn’t know there’s a hierarchy even amongst the institutions for the permanently maladjusted? Saints alive, you’ve got a lot to learn.’

  He grabbed a bundle of files from his desk and walked towards the door. ‘It’s in the book. Let me know when you have everything organised and I’ll set the wheels in motion. And give my kind regards to Edith Potter when she’s back to her old self again.’

  Stephen felt a cat walk down his spine as he wondered exactly when that would be – and quite what they would both have to endure in their unlikely partnership before then.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  From his perch on the seat of the cart, Stephen could just see Beddingham Hall’s chimneys in a distant dip of the South Downs. He’d been lucky in managing to hitch a lift with a local farmer because he’d have had a devil of a job finding the place unaided.

  It had been almost three weeks since Edith Potter had been transferred but Peter had been adamant she’d need all that time to acclimatise and adjust before being subjected to any reminders of her past life. And that, of course, had included his presence. He’d received the royal summons yesterday and so this morning had gone to her Fletching cottage and, with the help of an old Gypsy he’d found cleaning the place, got together the things he’d been instructed to collect.

  The journey was turning out to be a pleasant one. The sun was low in the sky, a gentle breeze licking the skin of his face and carrying with it the smell of baking chalk. His companion was not given much to talking and Stephen was left to admire the countryside. The high hawthorn and hazel hedgerows of the lane were broken at irregular intervals by five-bar gates affording views of meadows dotted with fat sheep and yellow flowers. He wished it were a bottle of beer and a packet of sandwiches in the basket at his feet; it was the perfect day for a picnic. Maybe, when he felt he’d made enough headway with Edith for him to be able to spend his free time on more leisurely pursuits, he’d provide himself with just that and come out here again with nothing more on his mind than indulging in a lazy Sunday. But there could be snow on the ground by then for all he knew.

  *

  Half an hour later and the farmer left Stephen at the edge of the fringe of trees with directions of how to continue on foot. He gave his thanks and started hiking across the grass. The clopping of the horse was soon replaced by nothing but the soft rustle of leaves. A fence snaked down into the dip on his left. Beyond it were some grazing cows clinging to the slope, the perspective making them look as if they had no legs. He tracked beside the fence until he came to a gate. He guessed he was approaching the Hall from the back – through a farm by the look of it. He wondered if this was something Peter had instituted as a means of occupational therapy.

  Past a cow-byre, an open-sided barn, and a well-tended allotment, and Stephen was at the house at last. The building was large but unimpressive. A wing on either side embraced a flagstone semi-courtyard but the architecture was flat and had something of the back elevation of St Bart’s about it. He hoped the façade was more inspiring. If only for the sake of the men who lived here; a sweeping marble staircase or some crenellations would at least make them feel as if it wasn’t a sanatorium. The terrace around the east wing was fringed with low box hedges.

  When he reached the limit of the stone paving, he could see a handful of scattered cottages linked by narrow tracks cut into the chalk. Wider paths meandered up to the main house. The ground in front of him sloped away and he walked down it for a dozen or so yards before turning to get his first proper look at the place. He set the basket at his feet and let out a low whistle. He was glad now for his trek across the fields; this way the surprise had remained intact until the very last minute.

  There was no flight of marble steps but the front door was enveloped by a Norman arch of proportions that wouldn’t disgrace a cathedral. And there was a turret with thin latticed windows graduating to larger squarer ones near the top; it was capped by the sort of roof normally seen on a dovecote – except with lichen-dappled tiles instead of wooden shingles. The cast
ellations were there, with tiny dormer windows peeking over them like small children trying to hide behind a wall. The whole building was in a warm red Sussex brick and it glowed proudly in the clear autumn sunlight.

  The contrast with Lewes Lunatic Asylum couldn’t have been starker and, as he picked up the basket and strolled towards the front door, Stephen hoped that Edith Potter was able to take some comfort in the fact. Peter had told him on the telephone that one of the evening delivery vans would take him back to Lewes; that gave him the perfect amount of time to get reacquainted with her, and then to join Peter and Helen for a drink or two. There was no reason why his Sunday should have to be entirely devoted to duty.

  The hallway was panelled in the mock-Tudor manner, a vaulted ceiling high above evidently once painted with crests or flags now scabby and flaking. A wide wooden staircase led to a landing where two narrower staircases branched off to feed the wings. It exuded an air of shabby neglect only partially lifted by the scent of lavender polish. No one had come when he’d rung the bell but he could hear a buzz of conversation from somewhere above. Unwilling to intrude on what was probably the highlight of the day – toast, crumpets, and cocoa; the standard teatime fare of any well-run institution – he opened the door of the room on his immediate left and walked inside. It was almost clinically bright from the large window and white-painted walls. A chess set was laid out on a low table, magazines and books strewn over the chairs and couch, a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the hearthrug, a billiards table at the far end with a green glass lampshade hanging low over the centre. The room smelt of stale cigarettes and over-boiled coffee.

  Someone grunted from the doorway. He turned to introduce himself but the words he was going to say transformed into a gasp. He dropped the basket. It creaked obscenely as it hit the floor, listing onto one side like a sinking ship. There, standing in front of him, was a thin man in a white collarless shirt, and dark serge trousers belted tightly around a girlish waist. Stephen barely glanced at the flapping sleeve where the man’s lower arm should’ve been. He screamed. He screamed long and loud. The horror had a mouth gaping where his throat should’ve been, and an eye – one skin-stretched eye – in the middle of a soft and boneless forehead. Stephen shuddered and sweated. Then there were more. Filling the doorway. Men with no faces. Or too much face spread over heads like a squashed toad. One of the creatures was coming towards him. A snake’s hiss escaped from Stephen’s lips as he staggered backwards.