Walls of Silence: a stunning historical thriller you won't be able to put down

by Ruth Wade

  Peter threw himself into the armchair. ‘Not that I’m complaining about you being here, but do you think you could dabble a little more in the art of conversation? I’ve spent the last three hours attempting to make columns of figures balance and could do with a bit of livening up.’

  ‘Haven’t you got sessions with patients this afternoon?’

  ‘Residents. How many times do I have to tell you that?’ Peter bent down and unlaced his shoes. ‘If I get mud on the rug, Helen’ll kill me. No, they’ve both cried off. There’s some sort of a bug going around. Can’t avoid it, even in the best run residential establishments. Arnold pigeonholed me on the way in wanting to know if Edith’s been laid low. Seems she was to come up to the Hall to plan the rest of her garden.’

  Stephen marked his place in the book with a piece of paper. ‘I doubt if they’ll be in a position to do that for a while yet. She’s going through a stage of being pretty anti-social.’

  ‘How’s the therapy going in general?’

  ‘Satisfactorily ... what you’d expect given her recent history ... predictable in its unpredictability.’ The weight of his desire to be accurate felt like a physical presence. ‘I’ve never encountered a case so riddled with complexities and contradictions before; it’s making me doubt everything I thought I knew about the workings of the mind. Peter ...’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Do you think that self-deception can ever be truly said to be total?’

  ‘In your case: completely and utterly.’

  ‘If that is your idea of intelligent discourse then I’ll finish this in my room.’

  Stephen stood up and Jung toppled to the floor.

  ‘Don’t go getting the hump; I can’t help it, you know. There’s something about the impenetrability of your sincerity that always brings out the worst in me. I’m an arse. Helen tells me that all the time.’

  This was the most fulsome apology he was ever going to get from Peter Hargreaves. He sank back down into the cushions.

  ‘I obviously can’t talk about the specifics but would appreciate testing my thinking. Forget about repression, dissociation and all the rest, and just suppose a perfectly sane person believed something everyone else would laugh out of court. Is it conceivable that they can maintain their world picture without ever having a chink of doubt?’

  ‘That’s an interesting one. But it depends on whether we are talking about actively lying to yourself or telling the truth as you perceive it. A subtle but profound distinction. I suspect the Old Testament prophets were a ragbag of the two. Using them as an example, the question you have to ask is: what’s in it for them to lie? Power, prestige, riches on earth, a crowd of supplicants to do their bidding ... but not access to the Kingdom of God.’

  ‘Would they know that though?’

  ‘Of course. However, if they thought the lie was a truth then the outcome would be the same but the reason why different.’

  ‘That hardly seems fair. That someone who is essentially being honest by their own definition receives the same punishment as those who deliberately mislead.’

  ‘Always batting for the underdog, aren’t you, Stephen? When will you realise that it’s sometimes the outcomes themselves that matter; they stand alone to be judged without the noisy accompaniment of motivation, intention, and integrity.’

  ‘It must be comforting to know everything’s so cut and dried.’

  ‘It’s not actually. Because, of course, it means that I’m as condemned as the next man.’

  ‘Fate?’

  ‘The will of God.’

  ‘That’s another thing we’ll never see eye to eye on. It doesn’t help me much with my theorising on the pervasiveness of self-deception either.’

  ‘Okay, let’s bring it down to our earthly existence.’ Peter started the business of lighting his pipe. ‘This is just like the old days, isn’t it? I really missed you in the intervening years, Stephen. We really shouldn’t have fallen out as we did.’

  ‘Did we? I thought we just went our different ways and lost contact.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Peter clapped his hands. ‘I can always rely on you to come up with the goods.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I pull your strings and you twitch, right on cue.’

  Stephen’s hand reached up to pluck at his non-existent beard. He pulled at his bottom lip instead.

  ‘A classic example of lying to self, old son. You and I both know that we came as close to exchanging blows over Helen as two respectable, educated, intelligent, physically cowardly men ever can. But that isn’t the point. And believe me, I meant it about the joys of clashing wits with you again, even if I did have an ulterior motive for saying it.’

  He puffed up a veil of aromatic smoke.

  ‘Now, only you know how thoroughly you believe what you’ve just said, but the fact is that your voice contained an edge of sharpness, and the words you chose were thoroughly precise. Both of which mean your self-deception isn’t as complete as you might think – or may want it to be – because I can only hit a nerve and therefore provoke a reaction if some part of you recognises the truth of my version of events. Down the other end of continuum, it wouldn’t have hurt if your self-deception was complete because you would’ve simply dismissed it as a flaw in my memory. It would be a falsehood maintained by me – deliberately or inadvertently, it’s irrelevant which – and you wouldn’t have felt the prick of it one little bit.’

  Stephen fought hard to squash his wounded pride at being so easily played. ‘So far, so obvious. But you only know that because you can refer to an external event, a conflict where one would expect there to be different sides to the story. But what about if the conflict is internal only; it exists nowhere but in the mind with few manifestations of its presence? Then the validation, observation, and correction can only come from the self-deceived themselves which, if it is complete, will result in stalemate.’

  ‘Are we talking about Edith Potter now?’

  ‘Let’s say more the theoretical possibility that a mind can shift itself without the stimulus of even being aware that it needs to.’

  ‘I know it’s a little early, but I seem to remember that a little lubrication always used to benefit our discussions. Can I get you one?’ Peter got up and walked to the sideboard.

  ‘Not for me, thanks. My digestion’s not behaving itself.’

  ‘You coming down with the bug too?’

  ‘No. Except I suppose I might be; the reaction was rather quick.’

  ‘To what? Helen’s splendid breakfast? I did notice you tucking into it as though you were going to take the pattern off the plate.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I will have that drink after all; maybe it might help settle something.’

  ‘As it’s you, I’ll crack open the brandy. The real stuff; gift from a grateful resident, or a resident’s grateful mother to be accurate. Here you are, get that down your neck.’

  Stephen’s nostrils prickled with anticipation. Maybe he did drink too much but this one was medicinal and didn’t count.

  Peter returned to his chair. ‘I suppose an observer could only pick up any clues that something was or wasn’t going on if they knew the person well enough to be able to judge the differences between their mind being in repose, as it were, and in the process of actively changing or denying. Almost impossible to do without a benchmark, I’d say. Assuming that the person we’re hypothesising about was a patient in need of psychiatric care and attention then their mind would already be playing tricks, and any shifts would be likely to be lost in the chaos of temporary, or permanent, insanity.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I’m struggling with.’ Stephen sipped his brandy. ‘It’s like being presented with a kaleidoscope but not knowing where the mirror is: which is the real pattern, and which the reflection. To be able to get the right perspective is crucial if I’m not to spend time being misled into treating the symptoms and missing the cause of the dis-ease itself.’

  ‘Got you
.’ Peter stabbed the air with the end of his pipe. ‘Something else that’s pertinent here is that, whether you want to or not, you can’t help being a factor in how the pattern is arranged in the first place. Edith Potter will inevitably react differently to you, and even she might never know if her persona as your patient is an exposure of the truth or a cover-up. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we pool our knowledge on her a little bit.’

  ‘I’m not about to breach patient confidentiality.’

  ‘Wouldn’t expect anything less of you, old son. No, what I mean is let’s share what we think her character traits are, what you like and dislike about her, how she came across to me on our first meeting, and my impressions of her subsequently. Try to get some of those kaleidoscope patterns of yours to coalesce into a recognisable picture. This composite Edith can then be your touchstone against which you can measure the progress of any of her internal power struggles. Here, chuck me over that pad and a pencil and I’ll be scribe.’

  Stephen did so, then swirled the brandy around in the glass. ‘She’s intelligent. Honest when she wants to be – except the whole problem is that I don’t know when that is.’

  ‘No analysing your responses. Just throw out your thoughts and gut-level feelings about her.’

  ‘She is genuinely interested in learning about psychology in general and hers in particular. There’s an independence about her; she’s prepared to challenge me and won’t always accept what I say just because I’ve said it. I admire that. It shows courage.’

  ‘Funnily enough, that’s the first thing I was going to say about her.’

  ‘She has a thorough grounding in scientific principles but can still appreciate the aesthetics of things; beauty without form or purpose.’

  ‘She did admire my painting when we had her up for tea and some of Helen’s chocolate cake.’

  ‘Now who’s being self-delusional? A capacity to recognise her need for help even when it pains her to ask for it. She’s pretty forgiving of my blunders or linguistic faux pas; is trusting enough to allow herself to be led without fully understanding the path we’re going down ... She is analytical, logical, quick to grasp and accept conclusions – if they are backed up by empirical evidence.’

  ‘Okay, but you forgot her wit. The woman has a wry sense of humour and isn’t afraid to make the occasional joke at her own expense. She acknowledges when another’s expertise on a subject is greater than her own – to whit: accepting Arnold’s advice about fertilising her garden. She has convictions greater than herself ... probably including a religious faith going by the amount of time she said she spent on church activities back in her village; I know that won’t rate highly in your book but it matters a great deal to me that someone believes in something.’

  ‘Granted.’ Stephen finished his drink. ‘Except there are other frames of reference besides Christianity.’

  ‘Let’s not get into squabbling over her soul like two dogs with a bone. Quite a healthy list we’ve got here. Now we’ve gone and got ourselves a living breathing saint, let’s dish the dirt a little. What don’t you like or admire about the woman?’

  Stephen took a deep breath. It didn’t sit well criticising a patient’s character or temperament, even to himself. But Peter was right; it was a three-dimensional picture they were endeavouring to build up, and it was essential not to hold anything back.

  ‘She can be stubborn, manipulative, childish, prone to ridiculous levels of frustration. Sometimes she uses silence as a weapon; at others she takes great delight in testing and taunting me. I think she has a wide streak of cruelty somewhere in her make up. She can be verbally vicious, intolerant of others’ weaknesses, sarcastic, and devastatingly patronising.’

  ‘I’ve seen her ridicule some of the residents to their faces, and she has a nasty habit of laughing at them behind their backs. She tried playing Helen and me off against each other when she was refused a bottle of bleach.’

  ‘Did you know she thinks you’ve been drugging her tea all this time?’

  ‘Really? I’ll put down suspicious and paranoid then.’

  ‘When I went to Fletching I found out she was caught slaughtering ducks and geese with an axe; and I’ve thought she was going to cause me actual physical harm once or twice. All in all, a formidable enemy.’

  ‘But possibly a good friend.’

  ‘Her neighbour, Wilfred Drayton, and Old Sophie the Gypsy seemed to think so. She reads poetry, I forgot that one.’

  ‘There’s one more thing I’d like to add. Helen likes her. Very, very much. And her judgement carries a lot of weight with me.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘Thanks, Peter, this has been a tremendous help. I had quite a session with her this morning and came away almost hating her. Not a healthy emotion for a psychoanalyst to harbour towards his patient. Mind if I take myself off to have a bath?’

  ‘Be my guest. It’s steak and kidney pudding tonight, my favourite, so don’t stay wallowing in there too long or there’ll be none left.’

  Stephen picked up the Jung book and placed it, along with his notes, where he’d been sitting on the couch. Peter tapped his pipe in the ashtray.

  ‘Tell me one more thing before you embark on titivating yourself. What is it that’s stopped you giving up on her? I know the depth of your professional pride but even that wouldn’t be enough to keep you going in the face of all this. So, what has Edith Potter got that keeps you coming back for more?’

  Stephen didn’t have to think about that one. ‘She looks at me sometimes and I see a spark of energy from deep inside that she’s managed to keep alive against all odds. The easy thing to say is that I come back because she needs me. But, in reality, I come back because she reinforces my belief in the indomitability of the human spirit.’

  He patted Peter’s shoulder on his way out. Although he wasn’t about to tell him so, he’d missed him, too.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The bug, or borax, or whatever it was, hadn’t had any long-lasting effects, and Stephen had been blessed with a good night’s sleep. Maybe his body had needed the exhaustion to force his mind to rest. The upcoming session with Edith was going to be a tough one. He had yet to determine if she recalled her revelation under hypnosis about her father’s murderous resentment; except forcing the recollection would bring problems of its own. In an attempt to clarify his approach, he’d creased the spine of Helen’s new copy of McDougall’s An Outline of Abnormal Psychology at the breakfast table (much to Peter’s annoyance) and made copious notes from the relevant passages. His trepidation had subsided a little when Helen had cleared away his plate and squeezed his hand in a sweetly reminiscent gesture of when they’d been about to sit a medical exam. All in all, he was now as up to the ordeal as he’d ever be. Although the question remained: was Edith? He was about to find out.

  *

  Her breakfast tray was on the cottage doorstep, the remains of the porridge clinging to the sides of the bowl. Stephen clutched his briefcase to his chest; he’d found her little gift when he’d been searching for a sharp pencil. At first he’d been irritated as he’d scraped at the mess with his penknife but eventually found he could extrapolate some learning from the fact that the childish act had been tempered with some of Edith’s neat orderliness; she may not be behaving rationally but her rational mind was still in evidence. It gave him some hope of her at least listening to his arguments.

  He knocked, waited for half a minute, then let himself in. She was sitting in the armchair. Dressed in a skirt, blouse, and cardigan in preference to the curtain-frock which he now recognised she wore whenever she thought she should be back in the asylum. Her hair had been combed through and she looked better rested than yesterday. But even from the other side of the room, he could see the muscles in her neck and shoulders quivering. He felt a pang of pity; she was trying so hard to maintain control over something she didn’t understand. He would help her peel away the layers. After dragging over
the chair, he sat in front of her a little closer than usual so she couldn’t pretend to ignore his presence. Her expression was vacant.

  ‘Edith, I’ve only another few days before I have to return to London so I’m going to start accelerating things a bit. You’re ready for it.’

  ‘Whatever you like, after all I’m only your laboratory rat to be poked and squeezed as you see fit. It would all be your fault if I turn around and bite you.’

  Was this an admission of gamesmanship? If so, it was a good indication of her objective state of mind; he had to try to get her to maintain it.

  ‘Why are you telling yourself that; is that how you want it to be?’

  ‘It’s as good a position as any, and more comfortable than most because I know where I stand, what you expect from me.’

  ‘Do you like regarding yourself as a victim?’

  ‘Of what ... Life? My father? Your utterly pointless questions?’

  Her lips twitched into a half-smile.

  ‘Granny always said I smell burning martyr whenever I reluctantly did something around the house. A peculiarly vicious turn of phrase to use to a child whose mother perished in a house fire, don’t you think?’

  ‘Does remembering anything about either woman make you angry?’

  Silence.

  ‘It would be perfectly reasonable if it did. The one was wrenched away from you in tragic circumstances just at the period in your life when you needed her most and, from what I can gather, your grandmother seemed unnecessarily strict towards a little girl who’d undergone such a terrible loss. Do you think I’ve got that right?’

  Again, silence. But now the muscular tremor had travelled down her arms; he could see them vibrating under the thin wool of her cardigan.

  ‘And if I were to take that assumption even further, I’d say that your father and his mother colluded in making you feel unwanted, unloved, a nuisance ... in short, nothing but a burden.’