On Loving Josiah

by Olivia Fane

  Barely had Mrs de Selincourt begun her onslaught than Dr Goodman realised she had the grounds to sue both him and the hospital. Indeed, it was cases like Eve’s that were to force the closure of so many mental hospitals a few years later. For Mrs de Selincourt was right: the hospital was filthy, Eve had been ‘allowed to languish in this dire place’; she, her mother, had been kept entirely in the dark as to what was going on, and what was all this about Eve having a liaison with a gardener? And above all, how dare that man Fothering try and keep her away from the case conference that afternoon, as though its outcome didn’t concern her?

  And it’s true, if the dynamics of their meeting had been ever so slightly different, if Mrs de Selincourt had not registered, deep, deep within her psyche that Dr Goodman’s Harris tweed suit was bespoke, then her fury and her threats might have been such as to make Dr Goodman postpone his game of golf at two and actually attend the meeting in question. But this annual game of golf with a good school-friend was a fixture he was very loath to give up, and anyway, he knew the susceptibility of women such as Mrs de Selincourt to both charm and breeding, in addition to which he had a whole hour to placate her, to apologize unreservedly, to explain that Dr Fothering’s methods were not his own but psychiatry was not an area in which there was a right and a wrong, and whatever the outcome with the gardener he would personally see to it that Eve was discharged within the week, and if she chose not to return home with her, would make it a priority to find her suitable accommodation. Half way through their meeting he summoned tea and biscuits, and they sat on the lower, more comfortable chairs. Soon after, they discovered that they had both holidayed in Provence, and by the end of their jolly meeting they realised that Mr de Selincourt was a good friend of a good friend of Dr Goodman’s. Extraordinary coincidence! What a small, small world! So they said good-bye on the best of terms, with the assurance that he would personally look into any conclusions reached at the case conference. ‘And one final piece of advice,’ he said in a charmingly conspiratorial voice, as Mrs de Selincourt stood up to go, ‘Don’t talk too much. Just observe. Mark my words, to observe is to have power. And be my spy. I’d like to know what they talk about.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Dr Goodman. Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll let you know just what I think.’

  Hospitals are places of great drama, the fodder of every screenwriter. Mrs de Selincourt, Dr Fothering, Eve herself, are about to take their bow, as well as various others assigned to the case. Events can no longer be controlled by any of them.

  Conference room BH8: at first, semi-darkness, till a nurse releases a dust-laden blind to reveal ten low-slung orange chairs haphazardly arranged around two coffee tables. Without comment, the same nurse picks up two old coffee cups from the table and says, ‘Laura, could you rinse these out, please?

  Laura is a student social worker who’s on a placement for six weeks; a pretty thing in a fashionable denim pinafore and a flowery shirt. She’s presently shadowing Alison, who walks in now, senior social worker in the Branston team. She’s thin and spiky but efficient; she looks about her for Dr Aggs, Gibson Nelson’s consultant psychiatrist, and Fothering’s ally, but he’s not arrived yet, nor has June Briggs, who is going to be Eve de Selincourt’s senior field social worker once she’s discharged. Instead, she notices Eve’s mother, or at least, an alien force, someone who ought not to be there at such sensitive proceedings. She walks up to her and introduces herself. Mrs de Selincourt is on best behaviour and nods courteously. Alison relaxes. She can stay if she’s quiet, she thinks. Dr Fothering makes a joke about the bad coffee, and suggests to Mrs de Selincourt that when asked it might prove a safer bet to choose the tea. She ignores his remarks; Dr Fothering begins to sweat.

  Dr Aggs walks in: he’s fifty, tall, with a wiry nest of black hair. He’s the most powerful man in the room, and he knows it; but it’s Alison who’ll be chairing the meeting. While Laura’s counting mugs in the adjacent kitchen, Alison is counting heads. ‘Now, where is June?’ she thinks, and June pitches up, slightly breathless, right on cue. It’s not in June’s nature to be late, and she’s reeling off excuses, the roadworks in Burleigh Street, the traffic lights on Cherry Hinton Road. ‘Coffee or tea?’ Laura calls out from the kitchen door.

  Dr Fothering is watching Mrs de Selincourt as though his life depends on how she answers her. ‘Tea,’ she says. ‘Two sugars.’

  ‘Wise choice!’ he exclaims, smiling ridiculously. But she doesn’t notice because she doesn’t look at him.

  A couple more nurses arrive, including Eve’s key-worker, Janet. Eve has Janet wrapped round her little finger, because, to put it bluntly, Eve is cleverer than she is. But she’s a good sort, and will have Eve’s best interests at heart. Then Dr Fothering leaps up and introduces Mrs de Selincourt to the assembled party; everyone nods politely and Mrs de Selincourt acknowledges them. There are, by now, cups of tea and coffee in front of everyone, and some bulky files are beginning to appear: some are opened on the low tables, other propped up on knees. Alison is ready to begin. Nothing untoward so far. The chatter subsides.

  ‘Now’, says Alison, ‘Thank you, Dr Fothering and Dr Aggs, for your reports. Both Eve and Gibson have made substantial progress over the last few months, as I think everyone in this room would agree. I think we would also agree that they are ready to move on. As we know, their attachment to each other is a romantic one, and although as a rule we discourage such affairs of the heart as being detrimental to a patient’s recovery, in this case it does seem that Eve’s behaviour has plateaued out and Gibson’s long-standing depression is finally beginning to lift. If anyone has any objections to their both being discharged as soon as possible, please make them known now. Mrs de Selincourt, I trust Dr Fothering has kept you informed of such a development?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ says Mrs de Selincourt, politely. ‘And I have to confess, it would have been useful to have been kept informed.’

  Everyone looks rather shocked, in particular Dr Aggs. Dr Fothering stands up and apologises unreservedly.

  Alison continues, trying to keep up the momentum of the proceedings. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs de Selincourt,’ she says, ‘if you would like to add your own feelings to this debate, please feel free…’

  ‘Thank you’, Mrs de Selincourt says, still quite calm. ‘I would like to know more about my daughter’s fiancé. How do they propose to live?’ Only Dr Fothering notices the crescendo.

  Dr Aggs is embarrassed. He stands up to speak to her, but sits down again when he realises how tall he is and how low the chairs are. ‘His name is Gibson Nelson. His wife died over a year ago and twice he has attempted to take his own life. He was a gardener in one of the colleges, let me see, Corpus. An excellent record. But your daughter seems to have given him a great will to live, Mrs de Selincourt. He’s off all the pills now…’

  ‘Ah,’ says Mrs de Selincourt, as cool as a cucumber. ‘Excellent. He’s off his anti-depressants.’

  ‘Yes, yes, and you have your daughter to thank for that!’ enthuses Dr Aggs, less perceptive than he might have been.

  ‘Now,’ interrupts Alison, ‘what we propose, Mrs de Selincourt, is protected housing, and June here is going to be Eve’s social worker, and she’ll be responsible for Eve during her pregnancy …’

  Well, she does say a little more about the house Eve will be living in, about how it’s only five years old and newly decorated. But no one is listening to her. For they are all wrapt by the face of Mrs de Selincourt, a face so taut and red and ugly, a mouth so hideous in its deformity, they are rendered speechless.

  Mrs de Selincourt gets up; Dr Fothering follows suit. For a moment, everyone is on tenterhooks; she looks as though she might slap him. But she saves the slap for her daughter, who is waiting on a chair beside Gibson outside Room BH8. They are holding hands.

  Mrs de Selincourt slaps her daughter with all the hope and frustration she has harboured for twenty years. ‘I am not its grandmother,’ she utters, under her breath. Gibson looks
up, a good face, a kind face, and holds Eve’s hand all the tighter.

  As Mrs de Selincourt drives back down to Harrow, one solitary tear escapes her. She brushes it away with the back of her hand, and puts her foot down on the accelerator.

  Chapter Two

  JOSIAH HORATIO NELSON was born on 1st June 1984, in the Rosie Maternity Hospital, Cambridge. He was pretty from the first, and his father doted on him, and his mother felt rather pleased with herself for making him so well.

  The Gideons had placed a copy of the Bible in Eve’s bedside locker, and no sooner had the midwife handed Eve her son and left the happy parents to coo over their baby in peace, than Eve, in turn, handed her son to Gibson so she could consult it and find a name for him.

  She propped herself up against the pillows, held the Bible tight shut on her lap and closed her eyes. ‘Now, Gibby darling, this always works. Sometimes it’s best to let God make the most important decisions for you, and a name is very, very important, don’t you think?’

  Gibson looked nervous.

  ‘Here, you put your hand on the Bible too.’

  Gibson did as he was told.

  ‘Say ‘Om’ with me,’ and Eve began to resound an ‘Om’.

  ‘Om’, said Gibson’s anxious, lower voice.

  Then suddenly, with no warning at all, Eve snatched the Bible and opened it.

  ‘There! Perfect!’ she exclaimed. ‘Our boy’s name is Josiah!’ She read on a little and explained, ‘Josiah, the greatest of all the Jewish Kings, and only a little boy of eight when he ruled over the entire kingdom of Judaea. That will do nicely. My God, Gibson, do you think we should bring him up as a Jew?’

  Gibson shook his head.

  ‘But there should at least be a Jewish theme running through his baptism ceremony. You’re not Catholic, are you?’

  ‘The Christian Church doesn’t like Jews’, said Gibson, ponderously.

  ‘Poodle and poof-cake! The Christian Church doesn’t know what’s good for them. Jesus was a Jew, after all, yet I’ve never spotted a single Jewish nose on a single crucifix. We shall begin our ceremony with ‘Shalom! Shalom!’ And of course we need champagne. And I think we should proceed as soon as we have some.’

  ‘They won’t like drink in the hospital. They just won’t.’ Gibson spoke slowly and anxiously, like the last whines of a devoted Labrador before his mistress sets off to work.

  ‘How can you call ‘champagne’ a ‘drink’? Champagne is a libation which we offer to the Gods! Champagne is about giving thanks for this happy, happy day! I bet you they have some in the foyer, Gibson. There’s a love, at least you could go and have a look for me.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll have champagne in the foyer,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Money! Here, let me give you money!’ insisted Eve, and she began rummaging around in the locker drawer.

  ‘I don’t think they’ve got any in the foyer, Eve.’ Gibson looked close to tears.

  ‘My dearest Gibson, my sweetheart, don’t cry on me again! Here, come, Josiah’s sleeping now. Put him in the crib and lie your head here on my breast and let me stroke your hair. That’s better! What a silly-billy you are, you great sausage!’

  Gibson lay still some moments in his wife’s arms; but no sooner had his equanimity been restored, than the great solace of his life jumped out of bed and merrily informed him, ‘I tell you what, I’ll get the champagne myself. If anyone wonders where I am tell them I’ve gone to the bathroom.’

  And with that, Eve quickly dressed herself, unperturbed by an eight-hour labour and an episiotomy. ‘This is for us,’ she whispered in Gibson’s ear. ‘For us and Josiah.’ And she strode off down the corridors of the hospital, while the nurses made way for her.

  Meanwhile Gibson drew the curtains tightly around Eve’s bed and sat hunched in a chair, intent only on her return. A domestic popped her head round the curtain, and he immediately began fumbling for the excuse Eve had given him, but before he could get it out she’d switched the water jugs and was gone. For forty minutes Gibson willed his wife back to his side, holding her image tightly between his temples, and when she came back he was so overjoyed that he couldn’t find the words to greet her.

  ‘The bloody anaesthetic’s beginning to wear off,’ she said, taking four aspirin from the drawer and gobbling them down. But then she lay down on the bed again in full majesty, and the great stalwart Gibson put his arm around her shoulders in relief and pride.

  ‘Gibby, my dear,’ said Eve, ‘I’ve done awfully well. Better than champagne by a mile. I bought a bottle of Polish vodka, forty-two percent proof, from the Italian delicatessen just over the bridge. Such a dear Italian boy sold it to me. Did you know there’s a Polish Jewish community living in Cherry Hinton? So of course I had to tell him about Josiah. They rip through this stuff, apparently. What more fitting tribute could we make to our dear one? I’ll tell him when he’s sixteen so can spend a day in a synagogue in remembrance of himself.’

  Eve emptied a mug of water into a pot plant and filled it to the brim with vodka. She took a large swig from it before handing it over to Gibson. ‘To the three of us,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Gibson, apologetically.

  ‘But it’s delicious, you silly, taste it.’

  ‘I don’t think I ought.’

  ‘Go on, Gibby.’

  ‘I love you, Eve,’ he said, as he dipped his finger in the mug and licked the end of it, and he might well have leant over to kiss his wife had not Josiah began to whimper a little, and he pulled his bulk (for Gibson was a large, well-built man) off the bed to see if there was anything he might do for his son.

  ‘Look at his lips, Eve, he’s feeding from you in his sleep.’

  ‘But he can’t be hungry again!’ exclaimed Eve, suddenly looking weary.

  ‘It’s OK, love, I’ve given him my finger, he likes that.’

  ‘Bless you, Gibson!’ and she took hold of his other hand and held it in hers. ‘I can tell, you’ll be a much better father than I will a mother. Perhaps we should bottle-feed him.’

  ‘No, no, that won’t do, you feed him yourself, Eve. Little Jo, he’s a dear’un. He’s sucking so hard, Eve.’

  But even Gibson’s little finger was a large, alien object; a lined, dirt-filled, unsterilized, frightening thing which made a nurse cry out in horror.

  ‘No! No! Take that out! That’s a new-born baby!’ she cried. And when Eve looked indignant she went on, ‘Your husband’s hands are filthy!’

  ‘My husband is a gardener, thank you very much,’ declared Eve, quite calm, ‘and Josiah is a gardener’s son. Earth was coursing through his veins in utero, so a little in his mouth certainly won’t harm him.’

  The other mothers in the ward momentarily looked up in shock or admiration; but the poor nurse blushed angrily and left. She went to see the ward sister, and the ward sister wrote a note down in Eve’s file.

  ‘Now, about Josiah’s baptism, darling. We must really try to get it right. The first thing we must establish is whom we should pray to, and the second, what we should pray for. Does that seem about right, Gibson?’

  Eve began to think, smiling benevolently at anyone who had overheard her. She didn’t notice her husband who was stirring uneasily. ‘Now, you’ve already said “no” to Judaism, which I respect, Gibson, I respect! But you can’t go wrong with the Holy Spirit, can you? He should be dedicated absolutely and one hundred percent to the Holy Spirit! Hand him over, Gib. Now, where’s that vodka? We’ll baptise him in Spirit itself.’

  ‘But we don’t have a priest,’ said Gibson, plaintively.

  ‘A priest?’ Eve was contemptuous.

  ‘You need a priest for baptism rites. I know you do.’

  ‘A priest is the archetypal middleman, creaming off a disproportionate amount of the profits. We certainly don’t need a priest. Even Luther would back me on that point.’

  ‘He’s so hungry, Eve. Don’t you think you’d best feed him?’

  ‘Oh, hand him
over then, goddammit.’

  It was the second feed of Josiah’s short life, and Eve grudgingly gave him her breast.

  ‘It’s not natural at all,’ she said. ‘If it didn’t have milk in it, I’d think it was a male conspiracy to make us women behave like this. I feel like a cow.’

  ‘A cow’s a noble creature,’ said Gibson, ‘and Jo’s happy.’

  ‘You, Gibson, are a noble creature,’ and Eve leant over and kissed him on the forehead. ‘So you won’t mind taking over from me quite soon, will you darling?’

  Gibson looked anxious.

  ‘Now,’ continued Eve, ‘We have to think of three virtues to give Josiah at his baptism. Or do we want him to have any virtues at all? Gibson, do we want him to be good?’

  ‘He’s good already,’ said Gibson, stroking Josiah’s head.

  ‘A good, solid romantic, that’s why I love you. The goodness of the innocent, versus the corrupting forces of our so called civilization. I do so think you’re right. So, allowing that he’s good, we must pray for three special gifts. I suggest beauty. What do you think?’

  ‘He’s beautiful already,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Beautiful, do you think?’ Eve promptly removed Josiah from her breast so she could take a good look at him. ‘You’re right again, Gibson, we made him beautifully, didn’t we, you and I?’