by Susan Tarr
“Yes,” he said, in his usual slow way. But then he added, “All right.” And tacked on the additional words, “Thank you.”
“So tell me, Malcolm, who are you now?”
“I’m me.” And this time his voice was strong and true. “I’m Malcolm.”
“Good. And one day soon you’ll say I want, or, I will have. And you will. All of it.”
He practised his speaking, all day and well into the night. He spoke to everyone he passed in the ward or on the road.
“How do you do?”
“How are you, Jack?”
“Hello, Sister Evans.”
He practised his sentences relentlessly as the individuals strode past him, some replying, some not.
“Good evening. How are you?”
“Have a pleasant night, then.”
“I wish you a very good night.”
Perhaps some wondered where this new Malcolm had surfaced from.
“It’s cold today.”
“It’s certainly very cold.”
“It’s so cold.”
“I’ve only just realised how cold it is today.”
There were nine words in that new sentence. He was pleased. Ten, if he said ‘I have’ instead of shortening it.
“I have only just realised how cold it is today.”
“Don’t catch a chill.”
“Don’t catch a chill, whatever you do. Make sure you keep warm.” Twelve!
“Wrap up warmly.”
Daily and long into the night he practised the art of talking like the visitors talked. He even exchanged small talk with the young woman, Janice, who still came to visit with her father in the dayroom. Oddly enough, though she seemed unable to begin to talk with her father, she did talk briefly with Malcolm on the days when her friend did not accompany her.
Regularly, he attended the dances in the hospital hall, where he could interact with others, to practice. Sometimes just to watch Mrs O’Connell play the piano.
“May I have the pleasure of this waltz, please?”
“No? Perhaps the next one, then.”
“May I have the pleasure…?”
“Indeed, the pleasure of this dance.”
Speaking to Nurse West one day, he explained his past as he recalled it.
“I was terrified when they first jabbed my arse with the big needle. And when they slapped the paddles against my head and turned on the juice, I thought I was killed.”
He held out his hands to see if they were still shaking as they normally did when these memories surfaced. They weren’t, and he exhaled, greatly relieved.
“The funny thing is I remember being afraid before they did it. Shocked me, I mean, but other than that I don’t remember a damn thing about it.”
“I think that’s the whole intention. Do you feel like talking some more about it?”
He leaned his brow into his hand, and said, “No, I don’t think so. But thank you for asking.”
A man walking alone hooted like an owl, alternated with yells of Hell! Buggery! Bullshit! His voice was pitched like a crow’s call. ‘Buuuu-gery,’ the man bawled as he walked toward the gate, keeling off at the last minute to veer to the right. He thrust his head out in front of him as if to get his brain lower to the ground, to bury it in the toes of his hospital issue slippers.
Malcolm said to Nurse West, “I know him. That’s Sid.” Then he grew quiet watching the limited activity across the grounds, his eyes on the cars on the road beyond.
“They sure go slow around here. Their speed is as slow as walking. Sid’s got a swearing condition.”
Steady and calm, he reasoned that, like it or not, some people here were dead to certain realities that concerned the rest of the world, and that was maybe a blessing for them.
If he were to return to Maclaggan Street, if he were to have another chance at being outside, at being normal, he needed to be prepared. This was decided at a staff meeting along with the doctor, who in turn explained it to Malcolm.
“You’ll leave in two weeks,” he added finally.
So they’d told him on a morning so crisp that trails of smoke like writing patterned the bright blue sky above The Building. But two weeks wasn’t long enough to say goodbye.
Already he’d waited three days by the high wire fence for Catherine to come out on her sticks, the sun being present and not good for her fair skin. When she finally emerged from her ward he stared at her arms, the deep and rutted scars, and regular and criss-crossed cuts and slices like the intricate detail on a road map he’d once seen.
He’d already asked Jack what an egg mandolin was.
“Gee whiz, son! You don’t half ask some curly ones, but that one takes the biscuit. Go ask the missus.”
Mrs Green had explained about the wire contraption she used for slicing up cold boiled eggs for summer salads. She’d said it was called an egg mandolin because of the little wires that made it look like a musical mandolin. He’d never heard of that one either.
“Goodbye, Catherine,” was all he said this day, against the fence, only pleased she’d come back from the edge, wherever that might have been.
“Oh, Malcolm, I’m so glad you’re getting out. I’ll be happy for you – if I can. But I’ll miss you.”
Syrupy tears formed in each eye, flooding the pupil, and her face flushed up brightly before it began to crumple.
He didn’t wait to watch her cry because he was crying too. When he was far enough away he turned to wave.
On the bench in front of Clifton House, he waited for Dick. “Goodbye, old cobber. I’ll be gone soon. I’ll miss our yarns.”
“Yeah. Righto, mate. So, goodbye then. And the best of luck out there, eh. Here, take this. I saved it for you since you can read now. It was from Pete’s gear, what he left us.”
Malcolm took the book from Dick’s hand, the pages stained, creased and dog-eared. On the cover was the picture of a cowboy sitting on top of a spotted horse. He knew he’d treasure it.
Mrs Green was busily locking her canteen door when he said goodbye to her. And Jack – well, he was in the kitchen with Mr Antonio.
“Well, blow me down! Look who it is,” Jack said. “We wanted to say goodbye to you. All of us. So, hurrah!” He cheered along with Mr Antonio, Dick, Sandy, Martha and Patrick, and on behalf of Dorothea and the other quiet ones.
Nurse West said, “Goodbye, Malcolm. And good luck.”
Mr Antonio produced an enormous sponge cake with freshly whipped cream, topped with whole strawberries and sprinkled with grated chocolate.
Then they all stood around as if they expected him to say something. But for all his practising, he couldn’t say a blessed word. Tears threatened a second time that day. He blinked them back and swallowed hard.
“Yeah, we know. We understand. We’ll miss you too,” said Jack. “Just keep ya nose clean, son, and you’ll do all right.”
Dorothea stumbled to the front of the group. She clutched a large parcel to her wet pinny – Dorothea who once sang opera at the Dunedin Town Hall. The parcel was wrapped with bright floral wallpaper, tied with even brighter string.
“It’s from all of us,” she insisted. “We all paid.”
She shoved it at him and then proceeded to help him untie the string.
The string fell to the ground revealing a box chockfull of so many wonderful things: Pinky Bars, Buzz Bars, aniseed balls, cinnamon sticks and Pixie caramels. There was writing paper, envelopes, stamps and two pens. Shampoo and Cashmere Bouquet soap, Ipana toothpaste and a tub of Brylcreem!
He stood dumbly, his cap fumbled between his hands, hands that could now hold a pen and write his name. With his eyes watering, he waited silently. The gifts were laid neatly out in front of the sponge cake. He touched each one of them with his big hands.
“Bring the teapot, Dorothea.” That was Mr Antonio. “Now get some of this sponge into you. There you go, then, lad. You’ll be fine. Just fine and dandy. You mark my words.”
CHAPTER 36
/> Return to the Beginning – 1954
Inside the house up Maclaggan Street in Dunedin, tucked beneath the cherry blossoms, the larch and the pussy willow, Malcolm wandered from his bedroom along the passage toward the sitting room. First he touched the light switch, and then he ran his hand over the familiar linen cupboard and bathroom door. He stopped and stared at the closed door. That was one room he never wanted to go into again. The hairs on his arms rose, and he forced himself to stifle an old sense of horror.
No, he’d be all right. He would go into the bathroom again. Just like he’d go, at some time or other, into all of the rooms in this house.
He had a lot to re-learn, a lot to re-discover, yet it appeared that nothing much had changed. Oh, there was a stain on the carpet and a crack in one of the glass panes in the front door, but nothing else.
Now he stood in the sitting room doorway, basking in the warmth from the well-banked fire, avoiding the inquisitive stares of the few residents he didn’t know.
His world stopped!
She was tucked in a wheelchair.
Surely not! He could hardly breathe.
His throat constricted painfully. His heart was pounding within his chest. Something raced through his body as immediate and bracing as the waves crashing down upon the sands at Warrington Beach.
He couldn’t move or make a sound. They’d taken her before. They could take her again. And what if this was in his mind, not real, because he wanted it so badly? Then he’d go back to The Building and be lined up for more shock treatments or the operation, and so the cycle would repeat, forever and ever.
He wanted to retrace his steps until he was in his bedroom, or in Bob’s kitchen. Still, he couldn’t move, in case what he was seeing was true. In case he never saw it again.
Julie turned her head, listening. A smile trembled on her lips, and she bent forward as if to make an enquiry of the air. Her rug slipped from her grasp as her hand reached out toward the door where Malcolm stood, petrified. The light from the window played across her brow, turning it to a pale gold.
“Is it you?” Her voice cracked so she could barely whisper. “Is it really you? Have you truly come back to me?”
Oblivious to the stares of the others, their incomprehension, he crossed the room to kneel at her side.
Gently clasping her hand, he said, “I’m back. Truly. I won’t be going away again. Ever.”
His doubts were gone. He never would go back.
The others watched. Someone closed the door against the cooling spring night air. No one turned on the light.
“I’ve finished your rug,” Julie murmured, as he wiped her tears away with his thumb and stroked her cheek. “I made it for you, for when you came home.”
Home. The words she offered so simply played over and over in his mind. This was his home.
“Oh, Julie, I thought you died.”
“Just pneumonia, after the accident. But I didn’t die.”
Pneumonia. But that was in the past and he was done with the past.
“I’ve got a birthday. I’m thirty-three now. And I’ve got a whole name too.”
She widened her blue eyes.
“You finally got more?”
“Yep!” He stated it proudly. “Malcolm Anthony Bennett. A name big enough to hang a life on.”
Then Bob interrupted, anxious to say his piece.
“I heard they be thinking of closing down the main block at The Building. More earth movement. They gonna to be shifting more patients to Cherry Farm Hospital.”
“That’s right. It’ll be good for them there. All new things.”
But here at Maclaggan Street, things had changed too. The atmosphere was somehow lightened.
“We’ve switched to Kaitangata coal.” Bob pointed through the wall to where the shed would be, beyond the dunny. “So the roof won’t rust up and leak.”
Malcolm said he knew about sub-bituminous coal now.
Bob disappeared back into his kitchen to serve tea. Once the empty plates were cleared away, he hauled Malcolm away from Julie to show him the latest garden, though it was nearly dark outside.
“We’ve been living off it for years. Almost since ya went back in. We’ve got everything ya could ask for growing right here.”
“I’ve learned a lot about gardens. I’d like to help in your garden, Bob, if that’s all right with you. And help you in your kitchen. I learned how to make a casserole.”
Bob eyed him dourly. The kitchen was his sole domain. Still, he considered Malcolm’s request, and he grunted, “I’m gonna be making pudding sometime so I ’spose ya could get a casserole going for tomorrow. No mess, mind. But I’ll have to think long and hard about me garden.”
Next morning, Malcolm dressed and went into the kitchen to eat breakfast with his family. Once he’d done the dishes, Julie stood up from her wheelchair and he walked slowly with her outside. They sat in the sunshine on a bench Bob had recently made. And he told her what he’d learned about coal.
“There’s some that is dusty, earthy brown, and there’s the other that’s more brittle, shiny, blacker.”
Bob brought them sandwiches on a tray, and they stayed there quietly for the rest of the day under the warming sun, hoping they were heading for a long, hot lazy summer.
“What more do you need?” Julie wanted to know everything. “I mean, more than you have now.”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Everyone needs something more, but sometimes you don’t know what until you find it.”
He fingered the hoard of tablets hidden in his jacket lining, the balls of pale blue candlewick.
He had a secret.
He had two.
Actually, he had more.
He squeezed Julie’s hand. “And maybe you’re right.”
He knew he would tip the tablets into the bathroom sink, and wash them and his past fears all away.
But for now he had questions too.
“Why are you in a wheelchair, Julie?”
“My hip broke that day in the bathroom. I’m a bit crippled by it, but that’s all right.”
He smiled at that. “You can’t see and you can’t walk proper but that’s all right.”
“And I got stitches in my head.” She bobbed down for him to see. “There, where my hair’s gone. I was so frightened. I missed you when I came back. I asked and asked, but nobody told me anything.”
“Ah,” he said, and took her hand in his. He knew what it was to miss someone. He knew how people didn’t tell you things. And he knew fear; he’d met it head on. He told her so.
She directed her blank gaze at him.
“What frightens you most?”
Only things too bad to think about. Only…
“Nothing really,” he said evenly.
The bog under Ned’s willow tree, The Treatment, his father, water… In an instant, he fully grasped that he could cope with life on any level.
Here he was with Julie. He scrutinised the old scar across her chin and gazed deeply into her blind eyes, eyes the colour of cornflowers. In that muted accepting blue he saw himself and all his tattered imperfections.
Her fingers on his face in exploration were softer than moth’s wings.
Slowly she smiled, changing reality forever.
The End
AFTERWORD
I always thought the history about the inside of Seacliff Mental Hospital should not be lost, especially as so many from my own era who lived at Seacliff are now gone.
Seacliff Lunatic Asylum was an experiment in the early mental health movement, an experiment that too often went wrong. The location of the hospital itself is a significant indication of its basic philosophy – to hide away those citizens society was uncomfortable with.
Beyond that, inadequate engineering reports allowed the largest building in New Zealand to be built on unstable land – again, perhaps, because of who the building was for.
In 1863 there were thirty-six patients in the Dunedin Littlebourne Lu
natic Asylum, and it was vastly overcrowded. Public funding for the mentally ill was provided only after every other medical need had been met. Nobody appeared to be interested in providing sufficient funding for humane care in the mental health sector. The asylum’s main purpose was to keep the unloved and unlovable off the streets. So with the help of wardens and inmates they built the much-needed additional wooden barracks as wards to accommodate up to two hundred inmates.
Dunedin was declared a city in 1865; the population boosted with an influx of miners and speculators after the discovery of gold in Gabriel’s Gully, the first of Otago’s gold rush claims. This same influx left in its wake the disillusioned, the broken-hearted, the impoverished, those who had lost any will to continue searching for the elusive gold – and, of course, the genuinely mad. It fell to the state to provide care for these broken people. Hence the sudden and unexpected increase in inmates, coupled with ‘lunatics’ deliberately shipped out from England, or others whose families seized the opportunity to be rid of.
The Littlebourne Lunatic Asylum shared a campus with the Otago Boys High School. Perhaps in those days the housing of two awkward groups – the adolescent boys and the mentally ill – in close proximity was deemed appropriate. For years newspapers had trumpeted about the increasing overcrowding of the local asylum while the authorities, with one excuse or another, delayed doing anything about it.
Then in 1880 workmen (and it is believed also staff and pupils from Otago Boys High School) began demolishing the Littlebourne Lunatic Asylum, because the school required the land for their own expansion. Slowly but surely the school buildings began to crowd out the inmates.
Staff and inmates in 1874 had already begun to clear a new site along the coast at Seacliff, twenty miles north of Dunedin. First they erected temporary wooden structures, and later transported some of the original Littlebourne buildings to Seacliff.
At first glance it was a glorious place that had been made available to the inmates – the views were simply magnificent. Surely this location would encourage renewed sanity for them all? The sea was close with its healthy air and there was space for a community farm where work would produce food and provide outside activities and exercise. The grounds themselves could be slowly transformed into a park; such a beautiful park that in the future people would journey out from Dunedin to gape in wonder.
