by Tara Heavey
‘Chen isn’t at all what I expected,’ Mum confided as we stacked the dishwasher.
‘What were you expecting?’
She paused, a dirty plate suspended in mid-air. ‘I don’t know. Just something ... different.’ She sounded disappointed.
I knew exactly what she had been expecting. I had seen the copy of Shogun on her bedside table. She had expected Chen to arrive at the door in full samurai costume, sporting a long ponytail, like Richard Chamberlain in the mini-series. Never mind that the samurai were Japanese; that was what had been in her head.
Mum’s disappointment was in direct proportion to Dad’s approval. I was quite proud of the way he was handling himself. Here was a man who had envisaged his daughters marrying nice, respectable Irish lads, preferably professionals, preferably with parents who came from the West – a pair of doctors from Sligo would have been ideal – yet here he was, taking his exotic future son-in-law to his bosom. Mind you, it didn’t hurt that Chen was a rampant sports fanatic. He was especially fond of Manchester United. Normally Dad wasn’t too fond of Man U fans, accusing them of jumping onto the bandwagon of success. He supported West Bromwich Albion himself – out of sheer bloody-mindedness, I suspected. He may well have been their only supporter in the entire country. But his surprise and delight that Chen knew anything at all about soccer more than made up for Chen’s support of the Red Devils.
And, furthermore, Chen was just dying to learn all about the rules of Gaelic football. The two men disappeared off into Dad’s study for an hour and a half after dinner (while the dishes were being done). I was eventually told to go ‘rescue’ Chen and fetch them both in for a game of charades, but he didn’t look in the slightest need of rescuing to me. Some Gaelic match was playing, unnoticed, in the background. Chen and Dad were well into their second six-pack and, heads close together, were loudly discussing the current Middle East crisis. They both looked as if they were enjoying themselves no end.
‘What are you watching?’
They looked up at me in surprise, and I felt as though I was intruding.
‘A video of the last time Galway won the All-Ireland.’
‘I didn’t know they had colour in those days. Anyway, come on; you’re wanted for charades.’
Chen hadn’t played before, but he picked up the rules quickly enough. Dad went first. He stood up, in his new Debenham’s jumper and Farrah slacks (‘slacks’ – a word second only to ‘gusset’ in ugliness). He may have been staggering a little. He held up five fingers.
‘Five words,’ we all roared.
He made a motion as if he were reeling in a fishing-line.
‘Film,’ we all shouted.
He held up one finger.
‘First word.’
He made a ‘T’ sign.
‘The Day of the Triffids.’
Dad was visibly crushed. ‘How did you know?’
‘’Cause you do that one every year,’ said Annie. ‘Now it’s my turn.’
So she hoisted herself up and acted out ‘the Battle of the Bulge’, pointing to her stomach for the final word. Dad in particular found this hysterical. Then we played Trivial Pursuit, boys against girls. They thrashed us, due to Chen’s superior knowledge of – well, everything, really. Then he taught us how to play five-card stud poker. The stakes were high: the pool was five euro. Dad was the biggest winner of the night, happily raking in his shiny one- and two-euro coins as if they were real Las Vegas chips. I’d seldom seen him so happy. I almost felt sorry for the memory of Paul. Even in his heyday, he had never made such an impression.
I wondered what he was doing right now.
It was well into the wee hours by the time we all went to bed – a little drunk, a little tired, but a lot happy.
Chapter Twenty
That family get-together was exactly the tonic I needed. The only snag was that I had to return to Ballyknock sooner or later. Christmas was over; the glitter had long since been washed away by the rain, the fairy lights extinguished. I felt like a discarded Christmas tree put out for the bin-men.
My charming little cottage in the country had never seemed bleaker. I was sick with longing for the comparatively bright lights of Dublin. I even rang Tyrone and begged him to let me come back. But he convinced me to stay. It was only for another six months – no time at all; and the spring wouldn’t be long coming; and he needed me down there; and he’d make it worth my while.
So I stayed.
January can be the most unforgiving of months. The prospect of spending the remainder of the winter in Ballymuck seemed to me that year to be the worst kind of endurance test. My walks with Terence had become more or less non-existent; most days I couldn’t bring myself to step outside the relative safety and warmth of the cottage into the harsh, hostile winter landscape. Everything seemed so – dead. I just battened down the hatches and prayed for the early onset of spring.
Then there was the danger of bumping into Jack at any moment. I didn’t think I had the strength right then to handle the mortification. But I kept a constant lookout for him. Every time a car sped up the hill, my and Terence’s ears pricked up simultaneously. Whenever I turned my trolley into the next aisle in the local supermarket, I expected him to be there, peering at me from amongst the vegetables. But he never was.
You see, I still held out some hope for him, in a teeny-weeny corner of my heart. Surely all the good times we’d had couldn’t be obliterated by that one unfortunate night? I knew, deep down, that I’d give him another chance if he’d have me.
But I needn’t have worried my little head about running into Jack Power. I was in the office one afternoon in mid-January. My concentration was broken by Patricia, who had been hovering around for some time now. She was fiddling around with the filing cabinet in a manner I recognised as meaning that she wasn’t actually looking for a file but had something on her mind.
‘Can I help you with anything, Patricia?’
‘Oh, no, love. I’ve just this second found what I was looking for.’ She plucked a file arbitrarily out of the cabinet. She moved towards the door and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, turned to face me.
‘By the way ...’
‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering if you’d heard how Jack Power was getting on in New York.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Bridie was telling me at Christmas that he’d gone to New York for six months, and I just thought that since you and he were very ... close....’ She trailed off in a kind of fascinated embarrassment.
I stared blindly at the file in front of me. I didn’t even have the wherewithal to cover up and pretend I’d known all about it. I thought I might be sick.
‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, love.’
Patricia closed the door gently behind her and left me alone with my racing thoughts. She might have been nosy, but she wasn’t mean; she wasn’t the type to revel in another person’s discomfort.
New York? Why? For what? With whom? When had this been decided? He’d never once mentioned it to me. Had my thighs been so off-putting that he’d had no choice but to quit the country forthwith?
New York.
Six months.
Well, that was that, then, wasn’t it? Gloom descended on me like a heavy grey blanket.
Then, one night in February, Paul phoned. Surprised? Me too.
‘Hi, Lainey.’
‘Paul!’ I was so lonely that it was lovely to hear his familiar voice.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘I checked EastEnders was over before I rang.’
I laughed. He remembered my addiction. He ought to; he’d suffered it for long enough.
‘Do you still watch it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thought so.’
There were a few moments of silence.
‘Look, I won’t beat about the bush. I’m ringing about Hazel.’
‘What about her?’
‘She
’s been admitted to St Catherine’s Hospital.’
My blood turned to ice.
‘Has she been in an accident?’
‘No, St Catherine’s. It’s a psychiatric hospital.’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ. What happened?’
‘I’m not sure. Some sort of breakdown, I think.’
When I failed to reply, he continued, ‘Have you spoken to her recently?’
‘No.’
Hazel had made it abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with me. My initial worries for her had soon turned to hurt and feelings of rejection. I had only managed to get her on the phone once. Before she’d speak to me, I’d had to go through the ordeal of listening to her mother coercing her into taking the call. Even then, she’d been cold and evasive and had cut the conversation short. I had sent her a Christmas card, asking her to contact me over the holidays, but she hadn’t even sent one back.
‘Lainey – you all right?’
Paul’s voice pulled me back from my thoughts. I realised I must have been silent for at least a minute.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Which was more than could be said for Hazel. ‘Is she allowed visitors?’
‘Yes. I’m going to see her on Sunday –’
‘Can I come with you?’ I interrupted.
‘Course you can.’ He sounded pleased.
‘It’s just that I’m afraid I’d bottle out if I had to go on my own.’
‘You don’t have to explain. I didn’t much fancy going on my own either.’
‘Does Chris know?’
‘I don’t think so. I haven’t told her, anyway. I thought it’d be better coming from you.’
We arranged a time and a place to meet on Sunday. The second he hung up, I dialled the number for the flat. Iseult picked up.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi, Iseult, it’s Elena.’
‘Sorry – who?’
‘You know – your flatmate.’ Bitch!
‘Oh, Elena! I’m so sorry!’
Yeah, so am I. Sorry I have to share a flat with a snobby cow like you. ‘Can I speak to Chris, please? It’s important.’
‘I don’t know. I’ll just check and see if she’s available.’
Who did she think she was?
‘Christiana!’ I heard her call out. Iseult was in the habit of calling everyone by their full names. This suited me fine, as I only liked my friends to call me Lainey.
‘Lainey!’ Chris sounded out of breath.
‘Chris, I’m ringing about Hazel.’
‘What about her?’ Her tone instantly became cool and hard.
‘You haven’t heard, then.’
‘Heard what?’
‘Chris, she’s in a mental hospital.’
There was a long silence, on the other end of the phone, which I didn’t try to interrupt.
‘When can we go and see her?’
Paul, Chris and I met outside the gates of St Catherine’s that Sunday morning. I felt ill with nerves, as if I were about to go into a very important exam. My jitters weren’t calmed by the sight of St Catherine’s. Gothic wasn’t in it. It was like something out of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein – an ugly, sprawling old building dominated by a tall, sinister tower. Was that where they kept the worst of the loonies?
Was Hazel up there?
The sense of desolation was compounded by the waves crashing angrily against the shoreline. St Catherine’s was situated right on the brink of the sea. Land’s end. The colour of the waves reflected the sludgy grey sky. I was reminded of Alcatraz. I looked around suspiciously, expecting to see men in uniform patrolling high barbed-wire fences with vicious-looking Alsatian dogs. Strangely enough, there were none. There was just an imposing wrought-iron gate, which we went through without so much as giving a password.
It was weird, but we were all dressed in black. You’d think we’d planned it. Paul was wearing the black coat I’d bought him for his last birthday – bright-orange pollen stains long gone. We all had matching white faces, too.
We asked for Hazel at Reception. We were given directions – there was nobody available to escort us – by a pretty, smiling girl who seemed totally out of place in her surroundings. Where was Nurse Ratched?
Halfway down an impossibly long corridor, we came across an obstruction. Up ahead was a stationary vehicle – it looked a little like a golf buggy, but it was laden down with various domestic supplies – driven by a man who was clearly an employee. He was talking to someone we couldn’t yet see.
‘Ah, come on now, John. Be a good man and get up out of the way. You’re always doing this.’
‘No,’ said another voice. ‘Not until all my demands are met.’
‘Come on, man. You have to let me by. They’re totally out of bog roll on Ward 3.’
We drew close enough to see that there was a man – presumably an inmate and not another employee – sprawled across the floor, impeding the progress of the buggy. He saw us, too.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’
Luckily we had reached our stairwell and didn’t have to get past him. We all ducked in through the door and burst out laughing like a gaggle of silly schoolkids. I felt terrible, laughing at the afflicted – but it was funny. And God knows we all needed something to laugh about just then.
We ascended the stairs to the second floor. Was it my imagination or were our footsteps becoming slower?
We saw the sign for Hazel’s ward up ahead. Thank God. But – oh, God ... what would we find in there?
Paul was about to push the door open.
‘Stop!’ It was Chris. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can go in.’
‘It’ll be okay. It’s only Hazel.’
‘I know. But I’m sorry, I really can’t.’
I looked at her white, pinched face.
‘Okay. You don’t have to. Just stay here and wait for us.’
I pushed open the door.
‘No!’ Chris almost shrieked. ‘I’m not staying out here on my own.’
So we all three went into Ward 4. It was a long, narrow room with beds on either side. Thankfully, all was peaceful – perhaps the inmates had just received their meds. We scanned all the faces, looking for a familiar one, half-hoping not to find it.
I was beginning to think we were in the wrong place when Chris exclaimed, ‘Over there!’ and pointed to the very last bed on the left.
Sure enough, there was Hazel. A little paler and thinner than usual, but Hazel just the same. Her bed was beside a grubby-looking window out of which she was staring. That’ll suit her, I thought ludicrously. She always likes the window seat on planes. She was sitting quietly, knees up, covers half off. She wasn’t rocking to and fro. She wasn’t wailing. She wasn’t wearing a straitjacket. She was just Hazel.
As we reached her bed, she turned towards us and gave a little start.
‘Hello,’ I said.
A mixture of emotions fought for precedence on her face: pleasure, anger, shame.
‘What are you lot doing here?’
‘We’ve come to see you, silly.’
There was an awkward silence, which we filled by presenting her with our ridiculous gifts. I had brought along a bag of fruit. Well, that was what I normally brought to patients in hospital. Was it the done thing to bring fruit to someone in a mental hospital? Could they cause injury to themselves or others with a finely sharpened banana? Paul presented her with a gossip magazine and a packet of Mikado biscuits (10% extra free). Chris bore a big white plastic bag, which I discovered – too late – contained her top ten self-help books. This gift seemed woefully tactless, somehow. I steeled myself for a vicious reaction, but I needn’t have worried: Hazel accepted each gift with an almost eerie absence of emotion. I got the impression I could have handed her a live lobster and she wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. With monumental effort, I blinked back tears. It was like a light had gone out inside her; as if the Hazel I knew had been taken by body-snatchers and replaced by this insipid stranger.
It
was Paul who broke the silence.
‘What happened to you, Hazel?’
I stiffened. Surely that was too direct. But, quietly and calmly, she began to tell us what had happened.
Hazel had got to the point where she was working every single weekend. She hadn’t had a day off in three months. Her working day began at seven and ended at eight. In the final weeks, things had got very hairy indeed. Her first glimpse of the office building each morning reduced her to tears. She knew she was in real trouble when she was in a department store one lunchtime, buying tights for work, and went to the toilet; they happened to use the same hand soap that was in the office toilets, and the smell made her vomit.
It had all come to a head one morning when her boss had summoned her into his office and given her a right bollocking in front of two of her colleagues. She hadn’t answered back. She hadn’t responded at all. She’d just turned and walked out of his office and out of the building, stopping only to collect her bag and coat. She’d kept on walking until she reached her parents’ house, six miles away. There she’d walked straight up the stairs to her room, got into the bed of her childhood and slept for eighteen hours. When she woke, her distraught mother, unable to get any sense out of her, had called the family GP, who had sent her straight to St Catherine’s.
‘So here I am,’ Hazel concluded flatly.
It was lucky a nurse approached just as she was finishing her story, because not one of us had the first clue what to say. The nurse silently handed Hazel a tablet and a small plastic cup half-filled with water, then plumped up the pillows and left as silently as she had arrived. Hazel swallowed the pill and looked at me defiantly.
‘It’s only an antidepressant.’
I nodded.
‘I’m not mad, you know.’
‘Oh, I know.’
She stared at me long and hard, trying to work out whether she could believe me. Seemingly satisfied, she tore her eyes away and went back to looking out of the window. A sea view. How nice.
Paul and I exchanged glances.
‘How long will you be ... staying here?’ he asked.
‘I can leave whenever I like,’ she said sharply.
‘Oh, I know – I didn’t mean –’
