by Olivia Fane
And it was this latter manifestation, I’m afraid, which set her on the road to a madhouse, the box of all boxes, to have and to hold until deemed more wonder than disaster. What happened was this.
It was May Week, 1982. A picnic in the meadows of Granchester, Eve and half a dozen friends swimming naked in the Cam, and then an argument. There had been a short item in the paper that morning about a prostitute who, on her deathbed, told her only son to give her ‘immoral earnings’ to a Christian charity; the son had dutifully done so, only to have the cheque refused.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Eve, ‘it might have been a story of redemption, yet it’s been thwarted by the bloody Christian Church.’
They all agreed with her, all except one called Bill who supposed in a rather dry, old fogeyish way that the charity might have been accused of money laundering.
‘Why did the son tell the charity where the money had come from?’ put in one of the girls.
‘Because he wanted to tell the truth,’ said Eve. ‘To share in his mother’s deathbed confession purified him, too. After all, he was probably the son of one of her clients.’
‘I’m not persuaded,’ said Bill. ‘Stories of redemption are passé. And isn’t it worth making a stand against corruption?’
So far so good. The little party was warm and well-wined, the girls still topless after their swim, Bill lying stark naked on the grass proving once and for all to his girlfriend what a free spirit he could be.
Eve rolled over on top of him, ‘Do you think I’m corrupt, Bill?’
‘Get off him, Eve,’ said the girl whose boyfriend he was. The boyfriend was having an erection.
‘If I did a sponsored fuck for charity, would the charity accept it, do you think? Would that meet with your moral approval?’
‘Get off me,’ said Bill.
‘If by making love to me, you knew you would save the lives of ten starving children in Africa, couldn’t I tempt you?’
Then she wet her forefinger with her tongue, and slowly stroked his lips with it. ‘How much would you pay me, Bill?’
There was a pause. Interestingly, the others put on their clothes before physically pushing Eve off him.
‘Challenge me,’ she said. ‘Go on, challenge me.’
‘We challenge you,’ said Bill’s girlfriend, because she wanted Eve to be treated like the whore she was.
It wasn’t difficult. It took three days and three nights; 148 lovers, paying on average £18–00 each, raised a spectacular £2664. And as she explained to Mr Frederick Upton, that fine, longstanding commissar of Christian Aid in the Cambridge district, as she thrust both cash and cheques into his hands, each and every act was one of love: for they did not choose her, but she, them, and indeed, the entire operation was conducted with the utmost propriety, and, said Eve, blowing the word into Mr Upton’s unhappy ear, ‘whispering’.
‘Whispering?’ repeated the incredulous Mr Upton.
‘Yes,’ proclaimed Eve, proudly. ‘I would whisper, “I’m making love for charity, and I would like to make love to you.” And I told them the truth, Mr Upton. Let me assure you that I’d never dream of using my body as a mere vehicle for men’s lust. I certainly don’t know what you use your body for, sir, but I use mine to express love. And when my sponsors asked me to tell them more, I would explain that the Greek root of the word ‘charity’ was love, the very highest form of love, and I was merely enjoying the lowest form of love to reach the echelons of the highest. And I would whisper in the dear boys’ ears, “Socrates himself would have understood where I was coming from. Come with me!”’
Mr Upton was trying to put a generous angle on things; the girl, perhaps, had merely missed out on a sound Christian upbringing; and he began gathering up the money which had spilled out onto the floor while he muttered, ‘Goodness me! Goodness me!’
‘I do so admire men like you!’ gushed Eve, suddenly. ‘I’ve always liked older men, all my life I have, I swear I like their constancy!’
‘Constancy?’ Mr Upton queried.
‘I suppose because I am thoroughly inconstant.’
‘Surely…’ began Mr Upton. The ‘not’ stayed put.
‘You don’t mind me asking if you’re married?’
‘Now, now, dear,’ Mr Upton managed.
‘Are you?’ Eve persisted.
‘Indeed, I’m a widower.’ Mr Upton looked distinctly uneasy, and cast a look towards his secretary’s door.
Eve kicked off her shoes and planted herself on Mr Upton’s desk, dangling her legs in front of him.
‘I’m not sure this is money we should accept. You understand, we are a Christian charity. Now, here, here,’ (quaked the poor man as he gathered up the money and put it in a plastic bag from which he’d previously shaken sandwich crumbs) ‘take it back. Thank you for your good will but you must go.’
Eve wasn’t listening to him. She picked up one of the letters on his desk and exclaimed, ‘Frederick! What a wonderful name you have! Do you mind if I call you “Frederick”? I want you to know I understand where you’re coming from. It’s a difficult decision you have to make. But Frederick, I’ve earned you over two thousand pounds for the poor and needy of the world. And if you don’t accept it what would I do with it? For my sponsors gave the money to me, no, entrusted it to me so that I should give it to you. Therefore imagine my guilt if I simply put it all in an account in my name. And look here, some of these cheques have already been made out to “Christian Aid”. Now, I insist you dispose of them, not I, for in each one I see a “Thank you” and a human life changed for the better.’
Mr Upton’s head was in overdrive; she had a point, he thought. Perhaps he should keep the cheques and she the cash… but that was inconsistent. If it had all been given in good faith, perhaps he really should keep the whole lot. For the Cambridge district branch of Christian Aid had had a lean year, his fundraising abilities questioned, and worse, his impending retirement looked forward to by several young evangelists.
‘You look worried, Frederick,’ said Eve, gently. ‘I tell you what you must do. Come lay your head here on my lap. The velvet of my skirt is so soft. Feel it, Frederick. You’ll look just like John the Baptist’s head on Salome’s pillow. My heart’s contracting at the very thought. What love she had for him, that poor woman.’
And even in the second that followed, the way was not clear for poor Mr Upton, not clear at all. For to his shock and horror a part of him yearned to lay his head on the beautiful Eve’s lap, and be stroked softly by her, for the years had treated him harshly, and even his dead wife had never looked so tenderly at him.
But his better part suddenly stood to attention.
‘Mavis’ he called, barging into her office, ‘Mavis, there’s a woman in here and she’s not welcome.’
Eve indignantly jumped off the desk and said, ‘Who’s Mavis? What’s she doing here?’
Mavis was equally indignant, but was used to defending Mr Upton from predators. She was a short, dumpy woman with a great chest like a buttress and stood between him and the velveteen spectacle before her.
‘Mr Upton, do you wish me to call the police?’
‘Not yet, Mavis. She does seem to have calmed down a little.’ Mr Upton instinctively brushed down his suit and resumed a serious air. He looked at Eve and said, ‘If you go of your own accord, and take the money with you, we can forget this ever happened.’
But Eve would have none of it. ‘How could you betray me like that, Frederick? How could you just turn me in like that? Just when I felt the stirrings… Oh, oh Frederick, just when I was beginning to love you, for what is love but the spirited and unconditional acceptance of another human being?’
‘She’s a mad woman,’ said Mavis.
‘And she’s a jealous one,’ retorted Eve. ‘I can spot a rival a mile off. She loves you, too, doesn’t she?’
(And indeed Mavis did, and had for many years, even before the death of his wife.)
‘We insist that you go! The doo
r! Go!’ reiterated Mavis.
“‘Insist?”’ laughed Eve. ‘I’ve always thought it so funny the way people say, “I demand” and “I insist” when what they mean is, “I feel my power slipping away and I don’t like it.” And today’s your unlucky day, Mavis, today I have the power. I’m limitlessly sexy; what greater power is there? But we need privacy, don’t we, Frederick? Our kind of love doesn’t come in threes. Now, Mavis, there’s a dear, you couldn’t leave us, could you?’
‘You whore! You whore!’ whimpered Mavis. ‘And you look like one! Mr Upton, I’m calling the police!’ And the fretting, tutting Mavis left the two together.
Mr Upton, who was all heart when it came to it, found himself quite confused. He even found himself feeling faint pricklings of desire for the young girl as she took his hand in hers.
‘Eve, you must go, go now before it’s too late,’ he said, anxiously, withdrawing his hand a few seconds later than he might have.
Then Eve stood on her toes and planted a wet kiss on Mr Upton’s mouth.
‘I like you,’ she said. ‘We have about twenty minutes. Then they can carry me out.’
But Mr Upton resisted her (though not her money, as it transpired), as did the policeman, even when Eve told him she wouldn’t budge an inch unless he put handcuffs on her, and proffered him her fine wrists. The policeman’s colleagues down at the station resisted her too, despite her requests to be strip-searched; and the duty social worker resisted her, despite being a lesbian, and the duty psychiatrist resisted her, because it was his daughter’s school play that evening and he wanted to get back in time to see it. So what alternative was there than to admit her to Fulbright Hospital with the full intention of sorting it out in the morning? Only the duty psychiatrist hadn’t reckoned on Dr Fothering doing a ward round that Tuesday, and Dr Fothering couldn’t resist her. No, for Eve de Selincourt captivated Dr Fothering from the very first moment they met. Dr Fothering, you see, was a closet postmodern Freudian analyst, and had spent two years in the U.S. studying the primacy of the female orgasm under the celebrated Weichian psychiatrist, Dr. Anselm Bott.
For there was something so fluid about Eve, something so innocent, something so unscathed by the demands of living in a society, that intrigued Dr Fothering. There was one way in which she was the most mentally healthy person he had ever met; and yet another in which she was a sociopath, who needed to understand that the values of others were worth considering, even if she did not hold them herself.
‘Are you suggesting that I be duplicitous?’ the winsome Eve asked him, on his suggestion that she might be more aware of others’ sensitivities.
‘Perhaps human beings are supposed to be, to a certain extent, duplicitous. A self without others can’t exist. You need others to forge your very identity. You either beat ’em or you join ’em.’
‘I’ve always beaten them!’ said Eve with some pride. ‘But look where it’s got me. Look where integrity gets you nowadays. Now, I do so hate this sterile room. Can’t we go to a pub or something?’
‘Stick to the point, Eve!’
‘But what is the point?’ asked Eve, listlessly. ‘Isn’t the very point that there is no point?’
‘Has there ever been a point, Eve? Has there ever been a time in your life when there’s been meaning in it?’
During the eighteen months of Dr Fothering’s in-depth therapy, Eve never referred to the one decent and wonderful thing, or rather, dreadful and most terrible thing, which had ever happened to her. She never even breathed the name of Gilbert Fitzpatrick. Though this did not mean she didn’t think of him, particularly when Dr. Fothering would begin, ‘I want you to remember something that made you sad. You are not connecting to your ability to be sad.’
‘I thought your job was to make me happy.’
‘Don’t you wish to be out of here?’
‘I never made any friends at University. Everyone hated me in the end. Why would I want to go back to a place where everyone hates me? You at least don’t hate me, do you?
‘No, of course I don’t hate you.’
‘Then,’ purred Eve, ‘It’s in my interests to stay here.’
‘Have you ever wondered why people hate you?’
‘No.’
‘Not ever?’
‘It’s none of my business,’ said Eve, demurely.
Dr Fothering’s relationship with his boss proved rather more testing. Eve’s consultant, Dr Goodman, was more amused than alarmed by Eve’s early morning ritual, in which she would sneak round the wards and lay her hand on the brow of each and every patient, murmuring, ‘May you receive my love.’ (Indeed, it was Gibson Nelson’s assurances that he had received it that brought him to her attention.) Dr Goodman understood that she fascinated his young registrar, and he also understood that she was proving good fodder for Dr Fothering’s MSc dissertation; but Eve’s reluctance to leave and Dr Fothering’s reluctance to see her go were in themselves not sufficient causes to keep her as a patient in Fulbright hospital: her bed was needed for more pressing cases. This was as much the truth now as it had been six months previously, the last time Dr Fothering had invited Dr Goodman to read his files on the case, with all the trepidation and possessiveness of a young writer with his first novel.
The working title of Dr Fothering’s thesis was, The Self and Society: A Case History. To give him his credit, he was most excited by the fact of Eve’s turning on its head much of what he had held dear. Eve was a radical, a megalomaniac: not in the realm of politics, where we might begin to identify with her, but in the realm of Self. She demanded absolute power, and achieved it by behaving in exactly the way she chose when she chose. But the most enthralling and gratifying thing about Eve was that all Dr Fothering had to do was massage her eyelids, and she was in command of the maximum orgasmic tilt, the Weichian definition of supreme mental health. No wonder the beleaguered registrar found it quite impossible to discharge her.
Dr Goodman, however, was a drugs-orientated man and was by nature suspicious of therapy. He held that people qua people could be talked into and out of everything, and it was certainly not the business of a mere doctor to claim to know what his patient should be talked into or out of: rather he should seek to find a physical malfunction in that most complicated of organs, the brain, and attempt to alleviate the symptoms accordingly. Psychiatrists were not demigods, he reminded his students: and they would do well to stick to the finer points of chemistry, for it was the correct dosage of a drug, and not the mot juste, which would, in the end, cure them.
So Dr Goodman had scanned his registrar’s much-loved files on the subject of Eve right there, right in front of his nose. Eve’s description of the sexual act as ‘a beautiful integration of the self’ afforded Dr Fothering material for an entire chapter: Eve, he suggested, had achieved an extraordinary short-circuit to genital primacy, which he had spent several sessions exploring with her. He discovered that she had no envy of the penis; and even, as a child, had been quite conscious of wanting her father to make love to her, but was also aware of the time when that desire was displaced onto other objects.
‘No child can be conscious of the displacement of desire,’ said Dr Goodman.
‘You should question her yourself. I’ve never witnessed anything like it,’ insisted the registrar.
‘You know I don’t like this approach, Michael.’
‘I’ve found a supervisor in Peterborough, Graham Peterson. He’s more sympathetic to Freudian analysis.’
‘I want that in writing if you please, said Dr Goodman curtly.
‘But understand what an extraordinary case this is! It’s her very state of consciousness which sets Eve apart, she’s not shrouded her natural instincts as the rest of us do, in layer upon layer of socialization…’
‘Then why is she the patient and we, us poor socialized sods, her doctors?’
‘Don’t you see? Early Freud would have agreed with you, the sense of power her body had given her is quite remarkable, but later Freud dev
eloped the idea of the super-ego, which is akin to the conscience, and results from the introjection of parental authority. But Eve’s never done that, don’t you see? She’s never introjected her parents’ authority, and therefore can’t regulate her own moral behaviour. In a nutshell, Eve’s mother was too strict with her, and never provided the space in which Eve’s super-ego could grow, but made it superfluous by doing all the regulating on its behalf. That’s the kernel of it: there’s been little or no internalisation of parental values!’
‘You are too taken by the girl, Michael. I wish you well with your thesis. It seems well-written with enough footnotes to publish in a book on their own. But Eve shouldn’t be in this hospital. She doesn’t seem to me to be either particularly unhappy or particularly damaged. She suffers from neither visual nor auditory hallucinations; she certainly doesn’t suffer from psychosis, schizophrenia or even a mild neurosis. I’ll grant you, she borders on what some might consider a personality disorder, though the term is so vague as to be faintly irritating. She is manipulative, has a marked lack of self-criticism, and is abominably fickle. However, to compensate for such failings, she’s pretty and has a good share of social skills. I doubt she has little idea about constancy and the maintaining of a sustained sexual relationship, but I’m a doctor, Michael, I’m not a judge. The only thing I feel quite certain of is that she shouldn’t stay in this hospital. It’s the world that should be taking Eve on, not you, Michael.’
Dr Fothering had snatched his beloved files from the consultant’s desk and cried, ‘Are you saying there’s no truth in this? Are you saying I’ve been wasting my time this past year? Are you giving me no credit at all?’ And even his super-ego couldn’t prevent him from storming out and slamming the door.
This was the summer of 1983; Eve had been at Fulbright a full year, and at this time, surely, the guard and his pretty prisoner might have called a truce and gone their separate ways. But Dr Fothering’s
rage and sense of umbrage would have none of it. When another consultant, a Dr Aggs, professed an interest in the case over lunch in the cafeteria, and even read and approved of the abstract for his thesis, Dr Fothering introduced them, and an informal arrangement was set up in which Dr Aggs became Eve’s consultant, and Dr Goodman was barely aware that Eve was still in the hospital. But this new arrangement was never set up as it should have been; the literature on the case never re-filed under ‘A’, nor the case closed under ‘G’. Hence, on this particular day, the 15th March 1984, the day when Mrs de Selincourt felt both her first and last maternal feelings towards her daughter, it was towards Dr Goodman’s office that the impregnable woman strode, her invitation to her daughter’s case conference held tightly in her fist.
