PHENOMENA: THE LOST AND FORGOTTEN CHILDREN

by Susan Tarr

  He couldn’t keep up.

  He said goodbye, turned and walked away.

  Another day when they were positioned on either side of the fence, Catherine resumed her story as if there’d been no break.

  “My mother said I was an English rose.” Imitating her mother’s voice, perhaps?

  But there was altogether too much switching back and forth for him. He wanted to see if Jack was in the kitchen or if Dorothea might make him a cuppa. Perhaps Mr Antonio had made cheese scones – in a creased slab, not cut separate.

  Still, he waited politely for Catherine.

  She and Roger made love beside the water hole.

  Malcolm wondered if her thighs were slender back then. There was one woman he’d seen recently with slender thighs…

  “Roger was a shy farm boy,” she said, and then she was silent as if lost in her memories.

  He watched intently as her grey eyes clouded over. When her silence continued, he said goodbye, and began to walk away.

  “Wait! There’s more to tell you.”

  So he turned back and waited, though he didn’t want to hear this part. It confused him, made him feel awkward. He concentrated on the afternoon sun that was creeping behind a bank of clouds. His thoughts wandered off to what they would be served for pudding that night. Sago or tapioca, maybe stewed apples and custard?

  Catherine smiled conspiratorially.

  He resigned himself to spending the rest of his day up close to the fence; she was intent on reliving her entire past.

  “It was the first time either of us had seen a nuddy.”

  He’d seen lots of nude bodies, all of them pretty normal, like his. He tuned out from listening, recalling instead white layers and mounds of flesh, the dank animal smells early in the morning…

  “…and the sun was so hot…”

  …steam rising from the concrete bathroom floor in the summer, damp against his face, his hair…

  “…and we were sleepy from our hike and warm beer…”

  He stared directly into the face of the once-slim, once-virginal, once-Catherine. He watched her eyes as she probed her memory, searching until satisfied, going on to another level, her eyes darkening.

  “…we talked about being married, having babies…”

  He reckoned she was probably thankful to get out from her family constraints. So now she had a chance at her own house somewhere on a hill with chickens, nappies and peony roses. Even a branch-horned Ayrshire cow. He thought about those particular cows. A patient from the dairy farm told him that Ayrshire cows gave the best yield of milk.

  As usual Catherine abruptly stopped talking and turned and walked back to her ward.

  The sun crept away to hide its warmth behind clouds.

  It was a late autumn day, with sleet skittering through leafless trees, when Catherine came to the fence.

  “I remember exactly what Roger told me.” She spoke as if there’d been no pause in their conversation. “As soon as he got back from his uncle’s sheep station he’d ask my father for my hand in marriage.”

  On her side of the wire fence she seemed aware of the effect of her story on Malcolm. In him she had perhaps found the ideal audience. Inspired by this discovery she launched into more and more detail.

  He decided she was once a spoilt girl given everything she demanded for a smile. So it was perhaps a curious thing to Catherine that he did not laugh or pursue her with mockery. He believed her. Yet even as he watched, her expression changed again, dark and angry, disbelieving.

  He found it hard to keep up with her.

  In a tone laden with contempt, Catherine spat out her words.

  “That woman said I’d gone mad, that lots of girls can’t cope with the blood. That was her excuse for destroying my life. She tucked thirty-five quid in her bra, grabbed her bag of knitting needles and other tools with her filthy hands, and left my baby’s bloodied remains in a towel on the floor.

  “I howled as if there were no tomorrow,” she said. “Once started, there was no stopping me.”

  Her parents bundled her off to the sanatorium.

  “Best thing for you,” she mimicked her mother’s cultured accent. “It won’t be for long, dear.”

  A glycerine tear welled in the corner of her left eye.

  “They said it was a sanatorium, a private rest home. Imagine that. And I actually believed them.”

  Once disposed of, she never saw her parents again.

  He understood lies and emotional pain. He ached for Catherine who, after all, was only a woman.

  “The last I knew, I was dead. It was in the Otago Daily Times. And I had no way of contacting Roger. I wasn’t mad, either. Well, maybe just a bit at first. You know, when I saw – it. They thought it was the blood that did it. It wasn’t the blood.”

  She leaned closer, mouth working, forming the whispered words.

  “It was the hand, Malcolm. I saw the wee hand with its wee fingers, fingernails and all. It was the wee hand…”

  He watched her face fold and crumple. She started to mew and whimper, like Esther’s shoebox baby, then to cry with her mouth gaping and nostrils pinching in and out. He placed his hand against the wire fence, against her cheek, reluctant to leave her. She reached blindly for a touch of his hand, her face jammed hard against the wires.

  A nurse came to drive her away, saying, “Has he been annoying you, dear? It’s all right now. You have a little cry and you’ll feel better.”

  Catherine shuffled off blindly.

  He stayed at the fence, despair within his heart for Catherine, his friend.

  One Saturday night at the pictures they were seated next to each other. After the film was over, with everyone milling around and chatting, Malcolm said, “You have glasses now.”

  Catherine smiled prettily. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Your glasses have no lenses in them.”

  “They took them out in case I hurt my eyes.”

  She told him that ever since she’d seen her death reported in the Otago Daily Times, she’d wanted to be rid of the old Catherine – or rather, the young Catherine; the girl they were so proud of, the girl Roger was coming back to marry. She believed she had shamed her family into writing her death notice.

  Malcolm heard from the staff how she’d set about eating, stealing food from the ward kitchen and from other patients, stuffing it down her throat as fast as she could to pile on the weight, to punish them and herself. The doctors prescribed different medication and the nurses put her on a diet and controlled her food intake. She began eating blankets, lavatory rolls, newspapers, even dirt – anything she could get her hands on.

  To Malcolm, Catherine, standing on the brink of an abyss, had fallen, an outcast from her parents’ place in society.

  She said, “Today is my twenty-eighth birthday.”

  “Happy birthday, then. I’m probably some years older than you, but I’m not sure.”

  “You never did tell me why you’re here. How come you’re here?”

  “Well, I’ve never understood entirely but I’m working on finding out,” he said.

  “Will you tell me when you know?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell you.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Visitors

  Malcolm didn’t like visitors. At least, not since Catherine had said she didn’t like them. He didn’t like the interruptions to their normal life, the gawping curiosity of the visitors. But he listened intently to their words and what they meant by them.

  Two young women were visiting today, fidgeting and screwing handkerchiefs. He thought they were probably best friends because they stayed so close together.

  Janice and Marie sat in the dayroom, their chairs pulled close, stockinged knees almost touching. Although visiting Janice’s father, they kept apart from him as if afraid of what he had grown into. A man, old before his time, he constantly rubbed his forehead, and he clicked his tongue incessantly against the roof of his mouth.

  After some time the lack o
f conversation began to disturb them, and both young women rushed into talk. Predictably, in Malcolm’s opinion, it centred on the institution.

  Janice lowered her voice and dipped her head. “I hear the patients on parole are welcomed into many homes in the area.”

  “If I lived anywhere near this Godforsaken place,” Marie replied stiffly, “I certainly wouldn’t allow anyone associated with it inside my gate. The whole set-up is so remote it’s dangerous. I heard a patient even delivers papers to the villagers.”

  It was Fergus Marie was talking about. For years Fergus had been doing odd jobs for the villagers. He delivered their papers, dug their veggie gardens over, and planted spuds and rhubarb. Fergus was an amiable and gentle character, and though he didn’t say much he sure smiled a lot.

  Malcolm tensed when Marie said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, but there’ll come a time when they regret such lax control.”

  Then Janice justified her family’s need to commit their father to Seacliff from their family home in nearby Palmerston, though she was still unable to begin a conversation with him.

  Malcolm wandered outside. Among those who arrived on this afternoon’s train were three well-dressed young men who were not visiting anyone; they appeared to be interested in the history of the hospital as a whole. One was maintaining a dialogue regarding The Building, “…built in the late 19th century, it was famous for its extravagant architecture. Ah, but what a pity the construction faults resulted in partial collapse. It has been said it was an architectural exercise in Gothic Revival.”

  Perhaps they were from Dunedin University; the way they were studying the buildings, observing the patients as well as the staff, and, as he followed close by, one commented loftily on the gardens and the pig stye.

  Malcolm could learn facts from these men so he listened as the balding one explained how he’d studied the history of this hospital since his grandfather had been carted off. He’d found that the weak-minded and dim-witted had been shipped out from England. The sheer number cast adrift without any relationship to those about them had astounded him.

  The taller of the trio said it saddened him to think of the injustice done to so many helpless souls. Then the portly one put his spoke in.

  “Because the patients are so well cared for, many live far longer than if they’d stayed with their own families. Supported, of course, by us, the taxpayers. And they look as if they intend living even longer, rather than dying from old age.”

  In his shell of hardness, Malcolm decided this portly man was bitter and full of scorn toward those less fortunate than him. The taller man seemed to have a more sympathetic view.

  This man said, “They might have been friendless when they were first shunted onto the colonial system, but I wager a new kind of family formed around them, making them feel normal, secure.”

  In his opinion there would always be heartless people wanting to rid themselves of a family burden. Say a relative, whose plainness of speech and countenance or eccentric behaviour didn’t fit in with their social circle. They excused their actions by exalting the qualities of the establishment they were taking advantage of.

  Malcolm thought about Catherine. Her family had rid themselves of their only child to suit their social needs.

  The chubby man retorted in his caustic fashion that just the cost of housing so many from abroad within a fledgling mental health system must surely have been horrendous, and still was.

  “The hospital’s so far from the city it’s a damned inconvenience to anyone making regular duty-bound journeys.”

  Yes, Malcolm had overheard staff members, those without family in the village down below, complain about the distance and isolation.

  The balding man perhaps didn’t agree with the other man’s comments, for he said softly, “It’s all part of the confused and corrupt state of our world in general.”

  Malcolm decided he liked him. And he had enjoyed listening to their debate because from them he’d learned more of the history of The Building.

  He returned to the dayroom to wait for the tea trolley. From Janice and Marie he’d learned a different side to how those visiting communicated with those being visited. He hoped he might one day introduce himself to Janice, to have a conversation with her, and to practise normal communication.

  He would tell Catherine everything they’d said, because she’d brought it up in the first place. Since he’d paid particular attention to the visitors’ conversations he’d developed a contrary dislike for most of them. Not that he had ever had a visitor or was ever likely to have one. But he was now aware how much of their conversation was negative.

  Visitors were an unnecessary intrusion.

  From now he noticed how they’d park their cars along the fence lines or in front of each ward, even on the new bitumen that had No Parking signs either side. The throng walking up from Seacliff Railway Station either admired or discounted the newly-formed gardens: the polyanthus, pansies and rhododendrons, and the bird-life, and some made false comments as if the hospital was connected to them.

  He resented them all.

  There were big changes afoot. He mentally noted each as it unfolded. One week the surrounding fence to the men’s Ward Two was removed. Only the big gate stayed as before, and the gate surrounds with the hinges still attached, still locked, strong and erect. He watched how the men approached their new freedom, some with caution, and some with no idea of any change.

  He studied a group of men who had walked over to where the fence had been and gawped out exactly as they had done the previous week and all the weeks before when the fence was still there. Another line of men grew longer while they waited for an attendant to unlock the gate so they could go outside onto the new bitumen to walk in semi-freedom, oblivious of the total freedom that was their new reality.

  Big changes made no difference to the likes of Johnny.

  Malcolm felt great sorrow for Johnny and the other men who didn’t appreciate the freedom they were faced with now their fence was gone. Johnny didn’t know his own name let alone the name of his sister. The two had been admitted together, causing a bit of talk among staff. Malcolm heard how they’d been labelled imbeciles from birth. He gathered information on the two family members and stored it in his mind, adding details as he became privy to them.

  A constable delivered them in the prison van. Seems their parents were raising their brood in filthy conditions, amidst a dozen or more cats. Even during the coldest weather the children were barely clothed. Like frightened animals they cowered, sucking their fingers, unable to communicate.

  Johnny had congenital diplegia. Malcolm overheard his case being discussed, the speculation on what might have caused Johnny’s profound retardation. He was unable to do anything for himself. He didn’t speak but could certainly bellow. Mostly he sat in the dayroom with a vacant expression on his face. He was barely able to get about on his deformed legs. Generally Johnny was hunched over.

  Malcolm thought how fortunate he was compared to him. They both had cerebral palsy, but luckily his own brain worked perfectly fine, while poor Johnny’s didn’t seem to function much at all. Johnny had nothing to do, could do nothing. While Malcolm and the other patients were outside enjoying organised activities, this was impossible for Johnny, given his physical disabilities.

  One day, Malcolm heard Johnny was confined to bed.

  Johnny died.

  It saddened Malcolm that no one had ever visited Johnny, even though he had never had a visitor. The story of Johnny’s family was tragic, all seemingly touched by insanity.

  Malcolm and Johnny were both in their thirties.

  But at least, unlike Malcolm, Johnny had a full name even though he couldn’t say any part of it.

  Sundays were roast mutton days with roasted potatoes and parsnip, peas and apple crumble pudding. The food was delivered from the main kitchen along with jugs of gravy and fresh cream. Dick from Clifton House talked of the dishes of slops they were fed years back before M
r Green and Mr Antonio were in the kitchen.

  “Pig swill,” he said. “It were no better than pig swill. Now it’s as good a feast as you could get anywhere.”

  Wherever that might be.

  Malcolm walked up to the wire fence to see if Catherine would come out this time. He wanted to tell her about the visitors. He’d often wondered how she was getting on. If he waited long enough, would he see her coming along in her pale floppy petticoat, on her sticks? Asking everyone she passed Do I look pretty enough? But she never came.

  That evening, however, while his dinner plate was being piled high, the staff talked about Catherine.

  “You hear what the fat one did?”

  “Up the women’s ward? Parsnips two and more meat for this one. What’d she do?”

  “Cut herself up. Razor blade.”

  “More gravy? That’s all for you, Malcolm. Now move along. How did she get hold of a razor blade?”

  “Some are real crafty when they want to be.”

  “Next. Malcolm, don’t dawdle.”

  He stalled long enough to overhear an attendant explaining to a junior nurse, ‘Sometimes they inflict physical pain to cover the emotional pain they’re experiencing. That’s why scissors, razor blades, knives and the like are always under lock and key and counted time and time again. Also crochet hooks and knitting needles. You’d be amazed at the lengths they’ll go to damage themselves, or end it all.”

  Malcolm hoped Catherine was all right. He sat near the servery so he could better hear.

  “Some of them go right over the edge and don’t come back, poor sods,” said another, as he dolloped mashed potato onto plates.

  “Young Catherine comes from a wealthy family, not that it ever did her any good. They’ve never visited the poor girl. Her parents ordered that de-sexing operation too. They took her fallopian tubes, ovaries and clitoris. And the other two girls from up there, you know the ones I mean?”

  “The whores from the city docks?”

  “Yep. They’re for the chop this week, or so my missus tells me. It limits the number of bastards the dim-witted produce so there’re fewer children admitted. They call it eugenics or something like that. The science of eugenics.”