The Sleep Room

by F. R. Tallis

  ‘Osborne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was very decent of you, coming out like this.’ He smirked and turned to walk away. ‘No, really, Osborne. I won’t forget it.’

  ‘Steady on, Richardson, have you been at the sherry?’

  ‘You know, sometimes you can be extremely irritating, Osborne.’

  ‘Ah, that’s better! You were beginning to worry me.’

  As I climbed the stairs, I heard him whistling the tune of ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams’.

  When I reached the top floor, the door to my apartment was still open and a wedge of yellow light divided the hallway. It was coming from my bedroom. Earlier, when I had tested the switch, I must have left it in the ‘on’ position. I stripped, finished the last of the whisky, and got ready to get into bed. Gripping the blanket, I pulled it aside, and as it came away I jumped backwards. Something was lying on the exposed sheet. It was a doll. One of the dolls from the Christmas tree.

  I only slept for five hours. Perhaps it was the cold that woke me up. Even though the radiators were on, the windowpanes were purled with ice on the inside. I attended to my ablutions, dressed and made myself a cup of tea. The view from my kitchen was extraordinarily beautiful. Beneath a cloudless sky, the heath was carpeted with snow and a violet haze lingered just above the horizon. Osborne’s sports car had been transformed into a sculpted object of gentle contours and smoothed, rounded edges. At regular intervals, the wind rolled long streamers of powdered ice in a southerly direction. This unsullied prospect refuted everything that had transpired during the night: the leaping shadows, slamming doors and ghostly apparitions. All of these things seemed to belong to another world, a world of fevered dreams and lunacy. Yet when I placed my hand on the window frame, and the bloodied bandage attracted my attention, I was reminded of their undeniable and horrible reality. What was I to do?

  I didn’t have to stay. I could always resign. But then I would forfeit the opportunity to be joint-author of Maitland’s textbook. I thought of the mansion flat in Hampstead that I had imagined, and Jane, sitting by an open fire, her legs curled beneath her; a suitably stylish conveyance parked on the road outside and holidays spent in the south of France. I wasn’t about to throw it all away because of a poltergeist.

  With these considerations in mind, I decided that when Jane returned I would tell her everything. We knew each other well enough now. Just the idea of having someone to talk to was enough to get things into perspective. Mary Williams had died because of her psychological vulnerabilities. She was a young woman whose family were members of a religious sect, and from birth her brain had probably been crammed with all kinds of nonsense about devils and demons. It was fear that had killed Mary Williams. Although living in a haunted house was disturbing, it was not dangerous. If Mary Williams hadn’t been so frightened, she would still be alive. I finished my tea, put the cup in the sink and went downstairs.

  On the men’s ward, I discovered Osborne slumped forward over the desktop, his head resting in the crook of his arm. I placed a hand on his shoulder and rocked him until he woke up with a start.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, wiping some dribble from the corner of his mouth. ‘I must have dropped off.’ Then he looked around more anxiously. ‘Sister Jenkins isn’t here, is she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s up and about, you know. A little unsteady on her feet, but as spirited as ever.’ He rubbed his forehead and grunted. ‘I think I may have overdone it last night.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ I got him a glass of water and two aspirin.

  ‘Ah, thank you, Richardson. Much appreciated.’

  I learned that Osborne had had a busy morning – perhaps a little too busy for a man with a hangover. With Mrs Hartley’s assistance, he and Sister Jenkins had already given all of the patients their breakfast, even those in the sleep room. The drips had been removed and Sister Jenkins was apparently eager to reinstate the usual routine. ‘I had to give two enemas,’ said Osborne, shaking his head. ‘I hope to God the nurses make a swift recovery, or I’m off.’ His expression was uncharacteristically grave. Leaving him to formulate an escape plan, I went down to the sleep room, where Sister Jenkins was restocking the trolleys with medication. She looked pale and gaunt. Even so, she was a determined woman and I knew that she would be offended if I questioned her ability to function. ‘I’ve spoken to Nurse Fraser,’ said Sister Jenkins. ‘She will be back at work later this morning, and I’m expecting Nurse Hunt to join us by two o’clock.’ She covered her mouth and coughed. ‘If Mrs Hartley continues to enjoy good health, we may weather this crisis yet.’

  I joined Osborne for a late lunch, and afterwards we sat in the empty dining room smoking. Through the French windows I saw bands of dark cloud accumulating. Osborne was a little distracted. I thought this was because of his hangover, but as we spoke I realized that there was more to it. He was ruminating about his failed assignation. ‘I mean, it wasn’t as if she didn’t lead me on. She was the one who took the initiative. I suppose I did take a few liberties, but what’s a man supposed to do in that situation?’ He was clearly concerned about his conduct and the possibility of repercussions; however, this did not prevent him from contemplating future amorous adventures. He was soon rambling on about the nightingales. ‘Nurse Brewer is pretty enough, but she can’t take a joke. Likewise, Nurse McAllister. A woman of singularly impressive endowments.’ His grin twisted in leery amusement. Ordinarily, I would have ignored his silly innuendoes or cut him short, but on this particular occasion I felt obliged to indulge him. It seemed churlish not to, given that he had come to my aid in the middle of the night – albeit because of a drunken afterthought. In due course, he arrived at a not very surprising conclusion: ‘If I’m not mistaken, there are only two nurses worth making a play for: Gray and Turner. Now, the thing is, Richardson, I don’t want this to become a bone of contention between us. I’ve given you ample time to declare an interest, and you have chosen to hold your peace, as it were.’ Satisfied with his homophonic double entendre, he lit another cigarette and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Do as you please, Osborne.’

  ‘Gray and Turner.’ He imitated the seesawing movements of a scale, one hand going up as the other came down. ‘Turner and Gray. A difficult decision, don’t you think?’

  ‘They’re both very attractive women.’

  ‘When all’s said and done, though, I think it’s got to be the lovely Jane.’ He stopped and waited for me to react. When I didn’t, he added, ‘Yes, I definitely fancy my chances with Nurse Turner.’

  There was something ridiculous, indeed, almost sad, about his complete lack of insight. I no longer saw him as conceited and arrogant, but utterly deluded. A buffoon, a cloakroom Lothario, misjudging the women he meant to seduce, and blaming them for being fickle after his maladroit fumblings had earned him a hard slap across the face.

  ‘What makes you feel so confident?’ I asked with weary disinterest.

  ‘Oh, she’s a game girl all right.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘How would you know?’ Contempt had leaked into my voice.

  He leaned closer. ‘Not long after this place opened,’ he looked back over his shoulder, ‘we had a patient here, a depressed woman who also suffered from asthma. She was prone to very bad nocturnal attacks. I was already fast asleep when the duty nurse called; the patient was wheezing and turning blue. I got up, rushed over and got the situation under control. It wasn’t half as bad as the nurse thought, but to be on the safe side I went upstairs to get some cortisone. At that time, the medications were still stored in a cupboard on the first floor, where the outpatient rooms are now. It must have been about two thirty. I’d just switched the light off and was about to go back downstairs, when the door to Maitland’s office opened. Of course, I was expecting the old boy to come out. He didn’t – but someone else did.’ Once again he tapped the side of his nose.

  A finger of ice seemed to stroke the nape of my neck.
>
  ‘How do you know that Maitland was in the room?’ I asked.

  ‘His car was outside.’

  ‘The transfer of staff and resources from London was a major operation. Perhaps there was an emergency meeting and they were working late. Perhaps Sister Jenkins was in there too.’

  ‘Come off it, Richardson. There was no light coming out from under the door. They couldn’t have been doing admin in the dark!’

  ‘Did Nurse Turner see you?’

  ‘Yes. I must have given her a nasty surprise.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. She just glared at me and walked straight past. I must say, I was quite impressed. Another girl might have gone to pieces. She knew that I knew and that’s all there was to it. She didn’t make things worse by trying to persuade me otherwise.’ He flicked some ash into a teacup and added: ‘Now, if she can find a soft spot in her heart for old Maitland – a married man, let’s not forget, and in his fifties – then I’m sure she’ll do the same for me.’ I suddenly felt very sick. ‘Bloody hell, Richardson! You’re not coming down with this flu are you? You look terrible.’

  ‘I think I might be. I’m sorry. Excuse me.’ I got up so fast the chair almost toppled over. Osborne had to reach out to steady it. I left him in the dining room and let myself into the men’s ward. As soon as I reached the toilet, I fell on my knees and threw up into the bowl.

  14

  For the next few days I functioned like an automaton. Outwardly I appeared normal: I dispensed drugs, administered ECT, and wrote up notes. But inside I was seething with anger and could not stop myself from thinking about Jane and Maitland. An endless stream of questions flowed through my mind. How did the affair come about? Did it last for very long? Had she really found Maitland, a man over twice her age, attractive? I reconstructed the stages of their relationship and found that my heated imagination was eager to create a coherent narrative. Glances, touches, smiles and small favours. Meetings in Maitland’s office. A dinner, perhaps, at a discreet location near the Braxton Club. It was as though I had been handed a stack of photographs by a private investigator. Each scene showed them in increasingly compromised positions and progressed inexorably to the same end: Jane sprawled naked on Maitland’s Chesterfield, her pale skin silvered with moonlight. Very occasionally, a small, dissenting voice urged me to give Jane the benefit of the doubt, but it was difficult to nourish hope. What Osborne had observed seemed to merit only a single, rather seedy interpretation.

  Gradually, the routines of Wyldehope were restored. Osborne went back to Saxmundham and the nightingales who had been away over Christmas started to reappear. There were two new cases of flu on the men’s ward, but thankfully no more patients were affected. Throughout this period, Maitland called the hospital every day. He appeared in person on the 2nd of January, and immediately sought me out. ‘Well done, James,’ he said, slapping me on the back. ‘I’m indebted.’ We went up to his office and he thanked me again for managing the ‘crisis’. I was aware of certain clichés being aired – ‘darkest hour’, ‘call of duty’ – but I was unable to give his praise my full and undivided attention. The Chesterfield and the unorthodox uses to which it had no doubt been put were a permanent source of distraction. Even so, I kept a tight rein on my emotions and gave Maitland no reason to suspect that anything was wrong.

  I became acutely conscious of his age, the sagging flesh around his neck, the uneven pigmentation of his skin, the paunch that even expensive tailoring could not quite disguise; the grey streaks in his hair and the shine, betokening intemperance, that emphasized the size of his nose. My gaze lingered on his big, bucolic hands: hands that had touched the most intimate parts of the woman I had, until only a week before, intended to marry. Eventually it all got too much for me. I presented Maitland with a thin excuse for my departure and hastened to the door.

  As I was leaving, he asked, ‘Did you read any of those offprints?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘There wasn’t the time.’

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘How stupid of me.’

  Jane returned the following day. I entered the women’s ward in a state of trepidation, knowing that she would be there. She was standing in the corridor, receiving instructions from Sister Jenkins. It is almost impossible to express how I felt at that precise moment, but confused would be a fair description. Anger competed with desire, but in the end anger won. Jane turned, registered my presence with feigned indifference, and carried on nodding her head. I busied myself with the patients until Sister Jenkins had left, then I walked back to the nurses’ station.

  Jane grinned as I approached.

  ‘Happy New Year.’

  The muscles in my face felt tight but I managed to reciprocate. ‘Happy New Year.’

  ‘What have you done to your hand?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I was careless in the kitchen.’

  She stood up, swept her gaze around the ward, and kissed me quickly on the lips. ‘I’ve missed you.’ Assuming a sulky pout, she added, ‘You didn’t call me.’

  ‘I was rather busy.’

  The pout became a smile again: ‘I know. I heard all about it from Sister Jenkins. She said you saved the day.’

  ‘With a little help from Osborne.’

  ‘Well, there’s a surprise.’

  We exchanged accounts of our respective Christmases, but as I spoke my delivery was becoming flat and increasingly stilted. Once or twice, Jane looked at me quizzically and asked, ‘Are you all right?’ I shrugged off her enquiry and said that I was still feeling tired, having lost so much sleep and having worked so hard over the past week. We both heard the sound of jangling keys and stepped apart.

  ‘Tomorrow night?’ Jane was bright-eyed, eager.

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  When Sister Jenkins appeared again we were both walking in opposite directions.

  That night, I lay on the bed, smoking and thinking. My brief encounter with Jane had reminded me of how much I wanted her. I tried to be rational. All right, I said to myself, let’s assume that she did have an affair with Maitland. Is that such a bad thing? She hasn’t cheated on me, as such. And she’s had other lovers, surely? I had always approved of her rejection of conventional morality, the outmoded standards of ‘good behaviour’ espoused by her parents’ generation. Indeed, it was exactly that which made her exciting and our relationship possible. I wouldn’t have been attracted to a narrow-minded prig. To be the beneficiary of her modernity and to condemn it at the same time was rank hypocrisy on my part. Why couldn’t I just accept that Maitland was a former lover, in the same way that I accepted those other nameless individuals from her past?

  The first sticking point seemed to be the fact that Jane had kept the affair a secret. True, I hadn’t been cheated, but I still felt betrayed. Lovers are not obliged to confess their histories, but given the circumstances I felt that in this particular instance I had had a right to know. Secondly, there was something about their age discrepancy, thirty years at least, that made me feel deeply uncomfortable. A young woman making herself available to a considerably older man suggests the operation of ulterior motives. What was in it for her, really? Jane suddenly seemed much less like a modern woman and more like a common tart. She had cheapened herself irredeemably.

  I stubbed out my cigarette in an ashtray overflowing with filters. Swinging my legs off the side of the bed, I got up, coughed, and went to make myself a cup of tea. In the dark rectangle of the window I saw my reflection: a transparent man floating in space. He looked drawn and exhausted. Before pouring the milk, I waved it under my nose. It had gone off and I had to have my tea black. As I was leaving the kitchen, I noticed a mark on the door: a circular patch of discoloration. Moving closer, I saw that the paint had blistered. I ran my fingers over the uneven surface and the brittle bubbles shattered. Flakes came away and fell to the floor. It was as though the door had been exposed to heat, but there was no scorch mark, no sooty residue. I remembered the flame in the darkness,
advancing down the corridor. If I had been in a different state of mind, I might have given this new phenomenon the consideration it deserved. But I didn’t. I had too many other things to think about.

  The following night, Jane knocked on the landing door. As soon as she had slipped through the gap, she hauled me close and pressed her lips against mine. I almost forgot all of my tortured deliberations in that first, heady moment. Yet the desire that her greedy kiss awakened in me was short-lived. Passion was swiftly replaced by objectivity and I suddenly felt disengaged. I pulled away and said, ‘Let’s go to the bedroom.’ Ill-chosen words, because Jane thought that I was impatient to make love and she threw me a look of lascivious intent.

  When we reached the bedroom, she took off her cap and primped her hair. Before she could remove any more items of clothing, I offered her a cigarette. It was a crude manoeuvre, but it worked. She sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, and spoke airily about her mother, Christmas and London. I don’t know how long this went on for. All that I can recall is becoming increasingly restless and tense. In the end, I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  ‘Jane,’ I said, ‘there’s something I want to ask you.’ Her expression was so childlike, so trusting, that my resolve almost faltered. ‘This is very difficult,’ I sighed.

  ‘James? What’s the matter?’

  ‘When Osborne was here last he said something that’s been troubling me. He was being indiscreet. It concerns you,’ I paused before adding, ‘and Maitland.’

  ‘Me and Maitland? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘He said that shortly after this place opened, he saw you coming out of Maitland’s office in the early hours of the morning. He said that it was pretty obvious what had been going on.’

  ‘Going on?’

  ‘Don’t make me spell it out, Jane, please. This is difficult enough as it is.’