by Ruth Wade
She turned and stalked towards the bathroom. Stephen thought better of still being in her firing line when she returned, and let himself out of the front door. The entire encounter had given him more than enough to chew over until the next time they met.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Hargreaves’ flat was at the top of the turret. Stephen had got out of breath climbing the steep stone staircase that snaked up relentlessly in a disorientating anticlockwise direction. He wanted to elicit his friends’ opinions but to do so would require a great deal of circumspection; Edith was his official patient and therefore had every right to expect a high degree of confidentiality. He was duty-bound to share anything about her current state of mind that might impinge on the Hargreaves’ pastoral care of her, but her anger at him could hardly be said to fall into that category. Except he had unwittingly awakened a deep-seated aggression; he would leave her request for bleach for another time.
He allowed himself to sink into the soft couch and rest his neck on the back. His gaze fell on a watercolour in smoky greys and greens. A church took up most of the foreground, its tower and roof unfinished. The land it sat on was an impressionistic smudge. He thought of the summer he’d spent exploring the priory on Holy Island. This painting captured perfectly the emotions he’d had at the time: awe at the effort required to build monumental edifices in the middle of nowhere; envy at the simplicity of having a single-minded purpose; melancholy at the reality of impermanence and mortality.
Peter handed him a glass of whisky. ‘Helen’s having a bath. She’ll join us in a little while. I see you’re admiring my painting.’
‘You did it?’
‘It isn’t quite how it was, but the conditions weren’t ideal. In fact, it was pouring with rain that day; if you press your nose up to the glass you can see where the water made the colours bleed.’
‘It’s very good all the same; where were you? It has something of the North Country about it.’
‘Mons. There’d been a heavy bombardment and we’d been operating all night. I remember thinking that if I had to sever one more limb or sew up some poor blighter’s abdomen knowing that he wouldn’t live to see the daylight hours, I’d throw myself on the bloody sawdust and howl. So I took out my watercolour box. The church had received a direct hit. Fifty of the villagers were inside praying. None survived. It turns out I walked away from one scene of death and carnage to find solace in painting another. Ironic, don’t you think?’
Stephen didn’t know what to say. He sipped his drink, the painting now totally transformed from a romantic study to yet another vivid reminder of the Great War. He forced his gaze away from the broken promise of peace and sanctuary. The thought, inevitably, brought him back to Edith.
‘Whilst I’m here, have you got any journals covering the latest theories on personality changes resulting from repression? If not I’ll have to wheedle my way into Prof Inkman’s library and be forced to endure stories of his fishing trips.’
‘Of course, old son. Why?’
‘I’ve a few things buzzing around in my brain and I thought having a quick look at them might help me sort out my thinking. I’m concerned with the long-term effects of being unable to adequately release deep and profound anger in order to readjust to normal life.’
‘Then I wouldn’t waste your time ploughing through a load of dry papers on the subject because Helen’s the one to ask about that. How it’s manifested in shell-shock cases is by way of being a bit of a specialism of hers. Ellie, darling,’ he called, ‘are you about to grace us with your presence any time soon? Our esteemed guest has a philosophical question or two for you on the meaning of life after near-death.’
And then she was in the room with them. Stephen felt the air as charged as in the aftermath of a lightning strike. Tall, and as slender as she’d always been, her body was wrapped in a black and purple silk kimono. Her alabaster skin was luminous in contrast. He flushed to notice the outline of her breasts as she came towards him. Clumsily, he stood up to greet her. She was smiling broadly, her arms open. As the light hit her, he saw the scar. An impertinent gash on her beautiful face. His stomach flipped at the pain of realising there was something about her he had no knowledge of, no part in her acquiring; that she’d had a life outside his heart and thoughts; that it had been Peter who’d watched her imperfection fade year after year, who would’ve woken up every morning and traced it with his fingertip or kissed the ragged outline softly to show her that it made no difference to his love. And he experienced a flash of murderous jealousy because it should’ve been he who’d done those things. Who’d been grateful for the fact that she’d been stricken as it meant he could share it with her.
All that in the time it took for her to fold her arms tightly around his shoulders and place a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t dare return the hug because he thought that if he did he’d be in danger of never letting go. Once free of her embrace, he slumped back on the couch. Peter handed her a glass of whisky and then crossed the room to top up Stephen’s.
‘You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?’
Her voice was exactly as he remembered.
‘No ... thank you ... I really have to get back to London at a reasonable time; I’ve a full clinic tomorrow.’
It wasn’t true but he didn’t think he could stand a whole evening of feeling this self-conscious.
‘Another time then.’
She perched on the arm of Peter’s chair and playfully snatched away his tobacco jar as he tried to fill his pipe.
‘Right, so what was it this inarticulate husband of mine was saying about philosophy? I have to warn you that my days of being able to pontificate at will are long gone. But then I suspect the arrogant certainty of youth has left us all for good.’
Her expression clouded and Stephen longed to be able to say something that would cause her to unleash the beauty of her smile again. However, as any witticism eluded him, he’d have to settle for impressing her with his insightful intelligence.
‘Do you agree that anger is fundamentally a frustration at not being able to sublimate feelings of inadequacy?’
‘I think that’s a little simplistic but it’ll do as a working hypothesis for now.’
Stephen caught himself blushing like a schoolboy having his mistakes corrected in front of the class. He took refuge in prising open the buckle of his briefcase and hauling his papers onto his lap.
‘I like your beard, by the way.’ Helen tipped her head as if studying him. ‘It makes you look so much older – sorry, that sounded rude; distinguished, I meant.’
‘One of his nubile medical students certainly seems to think so.’ Peter was grinning through a haze of pipe smoke.
The heat in Stephen’s cheeks increased.
‘It was a bit scratchy to kiss, though.’ Helen ran her fingertips over her lips. ‘But I’m sure she’s willing to make the sacrifice. Oh, Stephen, I’ve embarrassed you; since when did you become so sensitive?’
He tried to smile with what he hoped could be interpreted as chivalrous discretion. When he finally realised it had become fixed, he cleared his throat.
‘Well, assuming that the underlying cause of the dis-ease is firmly rooted and nothing can be done to change the events that led to its acquisition – the past being something we can distance ourselves from at best – then what would you regard as the primary clinical manifestations that might indicate a greater or lesser movement towards acceptance?’
Helen raised her eyebrows. He thought he saw her mouth the word bravo. He picked up his pen in readiness.
‘I’m pretty sure it depends on whether or not one knows the exact point about which the person is grieving. Or if they are aware of it themselves.’
‘Let’s take it that they are.’
‘I use the word grieving intentionally because inadequacy is based on the actual or imagined loss of something, someone, or state – such as happiness, security, or love ...’
Was that directed at him? Her l
ips were slightly upturned as if to harbour a secret smile, and he wondered if she remembered everything that’d passed between them as clearly as he did.
‘... the problems arise because the person either won’t, or can’t, accept their limitations to control reality.’
‘And that’s interesting in itself.’ Peter was poking the stem of his pipe at his wife’s upper arm. ‘Reality is actually more a state of emotion than anything else so when you get difficult feelings resulting from something as nebulous as our relation to our existence then it only takes a slight tremor for it all to come tumbling down like a worm-eaten hovel.’ He sucked on his pipe once more. ‘Back to you, professor.’
Helen hit him lightly on the chest. Stephen’s lungs deflated a little as if he’d been the recipient of the love-tap.
‘As much as I hate to admit it, Peter – on this occasion at least – is right. A person disturbed in this way may not have their reason or intellect seriously impaired and, to all intents and purposes, appear to be functioning perfectly normally – able to hold rational conversations for example, or follow quite complex thought processes. But at heart they are responding to the world as a child does when they’re unable to adapt to their environment; or more usually the frustration they experience when they can’t change their environment to suit themselves. However, on top of that, as rational adults they have an awareness of their lack of inner harmony. So there are warring elements on the inside as well as the outside. It’s as if ... as if ... they are trying to fight to retain an eroding beach-head, but with an army that’s already in the process of mutinying.’
Stephen thought Helen couldn’t have summed up Edith’s state of mind more accurately if she’d psychoanalysed the woman. A profound respect piled on top of his other feelings for her. Although the concepts were ones he worked with every day, hearing them said by someone using a different language, and making different connections, was illuminating – particularly as Helen had exposure to those blighted by long-term shell-shock whereas his experience was confined to the initial acute stages. He scribbled a few quick notes.
‘I’ve just remembered the case McDougall quoted which illustrates that very nicely.’ Helen took a sip of her whisky. ‘In 1901 a highly respected and competent village schoolmaster got drunk and committed an act of sodomy resulting in him, twelve years later, murdering his wife and children while they slept then setting fire to a neighbouring village and shooting the inhabitants – killing nine and seriously wounding eleven. The question you have to ask is not why he did it, but why it took him so long.’
‘In your experience does every deep-seated trauma manifest itself – sooner or later – in violence?’
‘Not necessarily. Sometimes. It isn’t even a consistent approach in the same person.’
Helen bit at the skin at the side of her thumbnail for a moment.
‘I think that sums it up, actually: unpredictability. I’ve known some get very aggressive but the next minute they are all sweetness and light; over-affectionate, clinging, inappropriately demonstrative, penitent, needy. And then there was one who had to have his entire family sit on him whenever there was a bugle playing on the wireless to stop him breaking every stick of furniture in the house.’
‘How much of this do they remember afterwards?’
‘Interesting you should ask that.’
She bit at her thumb again.
‘The memory seems to be the key mental process affected by long-term shell-shock. Obviously they are fixated on things they remember too vividly and dwell on them as if they are current experiences, but other events they transmogrify into representing their inner turmoil.’
Stephen managed to make himself look away as Helen readjusted her kimono where it had been threatening to slip apart over her crossed knees.
‘Sometimes the memory itself is severely affected often resulting in slips of the tongue, slips of the pen, the mislaying of important objects, forgetting significant facts – one man forgot to turn up at his wedding; all are indications that the memory is doing its best to destroy any equanimity the mind is desperately trying to hang on to. Ring any bells with your Edith Potter?’
Stephen nodded. ‘But I’m at the stage with her where I can’t tell the difference between self-protective memory lapses which will be broken down as a defence mechanism when she becomes more aware of her subconscious reactions to her condition, and repression. One could be considered to be almost healthy given her past trauma, the other ...’
‘I think you’ve got yourself a very tricky one. Whenever I talk to her, she seems on one level to be adopting a persona that is working for her in terms of being relatively able to cope. But at the same time it’s as if there’s a part of her that is desperate to be forced to open up in some way. There aren’t any easy answers I’m afraid, Stephen. But I could do a lot worse than quote you a little of Jung’s wisdom on the subject.’
Peter groaned. ‘Not again? She bores everyone with this at the drop of a hat; you could say it’s her party piece.’
‘Shut up.’
There was no affection in her tone. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes sparking with intensity. Stephen felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
‘No one could express any better, or any more directly, what we never cease to maintain, however lacking in science it may seem at first – namely, the real therapeutic action of kindness.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Edith woke up. This surprised her as she didn’t think she’d been asleep. Something was banging in her head. No, it was downstairs. At the door. The tip of her nose was icy. She raised her head off the pillow and looked at the window. Bubbles of condensation distorted the view. There was no denying that, after a little delay, autumn had well and truly started; it was her favourite time of year with its crisp crinkly leaves, and freshly dug vegetables from the garden. Except she remembered that her London flat hadn’t had one. Perhaps she meant her granny’s way back in Cambridge. The knocking continued.
She swung her legs free from the blankets and reached for the candlewick dressing gown they’d finally got around to providing. Her hands were unaccountably grubby; grey smudges on the fingertips. She would wash them thoroughly, and then see who it was. Perhaps it was time for her breakfast. She had a hollow sensation in her stomach so it could be; but then she was always hungry these days.
When she got to the door, it was Helen. She was carrying a steaming bowl of porridge and something wrapped in a tea towel that smelt like toast.
‘Good morning, Edith. Did you sleep well? I won’t stay so you can eat this up before it gets cold. I didn’t bother with the tea this time because I know you won’t drink it; there’s plenty of water in the tap.’
She walked in and placed the tray on the table.
‘I’ve a message for you. Dr Maynard isn’t likely to come this weekend.’
Edith thought she felt relieved. Or disappointed. Or maybe both.
‘What day is it?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Where have the other days gone?’
‘Time does have a habit of slipping past, doesn’t it? I remember when I was lucky enough to be able to take a holiday and afterwards I’d always wonder why it always felt as if it never happened. Our way of switching off and getting a complete rest I suppose. Anyway, Stephen telephoned Peter first thing to warn him – really to get a little sympathy would be my guess. It seems he went for a long walk yesterday evening and nearly drowned in a downpour – men, they do exaggerate – and has a bit of a sniffle. His own diagnosis is probably galloping influenza.’
Helen’s smile was like that of an indulgent mother. Edith felt a flash of irritation; why was it that men were always allowed their foibles whereas women were immediately labelled neurotic or hysteric, or worse. She suspected that right now they’d have her down as bitter and frustrated and jealous. And they’d be right.
‘So what will you do with yourself today?’
�
��Nothing I expect. As usual.’
‘You could come up to the Hall and play chess again. Or some of the men have a card school going – bridge, I think.’
‘And have the hours drag even more?’
‘Edith, you are down in the dumps this morning. Maybe we’re partially at fault for not organising any specific activities but you’ve always displayed such an independence of spirit that we didn’t want to crowd you. Look, why don’t you come to tea with Peter and me this afternoon?’
‘Will any of the other freaks be there?’
She noted with satisfaction Helen’s moue of disapproval. But then she saw how the younger woman lifted her hand towards her scar, and experienced a pang of shame. It was something she hadn’t felt for a long time. Being made to feel as if Helen was offering her company as some sort of therapy had provoked her into acting like a spiteful child and now she was suffering the consequences.
‘Thank you very much for your kind invitation. I will be delighted to accept. Just don’t expect me to dress for the occasion.’
‘And that’s another thing; I don’t want you to take this the wrong way but I’m going into Lewes in a bit to pick up some barely worn clothes from a wealthy supporter of ours; her son was killed at Ypres. We could go through them if you like and see if there’s something suitable.’
Edith tried not to recall what her grandmother said about charity cases and worked on an it’ll-be-fun-being-girls-together expression instead.
‘Is there anything I can get you whilst I’m there?’
The only things missing in her life couldn’t be bought over the counter, but having some distractions might make her notice their absence less. ‘Can I have some paper and pencils? Instead of waiting for Dr Maynard to give me my books I thought I might try my hand at writing one myself. I’ve enough material here,’ she tapped the side of her head, ‘to produce another War and Peace.’
She knew there was something else the promise-breaker was going to procure but couldn’t remember what. Helen beamed at her.
