The Virgin and the Whale

by Carl Nixon

  ‘I must repeat, Doctor, that I believe there are significant differences between those patients you mentioned and Mr Blackwell.’

  He frowns and leans back in his chair. ‘Really? And what are those differences? In your opinion as a nurse.’

  ‘Paul Blackwell is not suffering from delusions. He has, however, suffered a penetrating head injury and I believe that injury has resulted in a profound loss of memory.’

  ‘Permanent memory loss is very rare, almost unheard of. The fact is that Mr Blackwell believes he is someone else.’

  ‘With no memories he has been forced to form a new identity.’

  ‘That is unprecedented.’

  ‘Just because something is rare or even unique does not make it impossible.’

  ‘Is your background in psychiatric nursing, Mrs Whitman?’

  ‘It is not. Even so, I believe that I am right in my assessment.’

  The doctor turns back to Mrs Blackwell. ‘I would like to speak to your husband alone. There are some standard questions I can ask him that will give me a very good idea of his mental state. For someone of my experience, it will not take long to make a preliminary diagnosis.’

  Mrs Blackwell is obviously relieved. ‘I would appreciate that, Doctor. Thank you.’

  Dr Parkinson nods towards Elizabeth. ‘I will of course take into account any head injury.’

  ‘Shall I have Paul brought here?’ asks Mrs Blackwell.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Let Mohammed go to the mountain, shall we?’

  Mrs Blackwell smiles and tinkles a small brass bell. Merry appears almost instantly. ‘My maid will show you the way to Paul’s room.’

  ‘Thank you. If you will excuse me, ladies. I shan’t be too long.’

  He follows Merry out of the conservatory and Elizabeth and Mrs Blackwell are left together.

  ‘If you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to,’ says Mrs Blackwell, rising to her feet. ‘Please ask Merry to inform me when Dr Parkinson returns. I am anxious to hear what he has to say.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Elizabeth is left alone. There is nothing to be done except wait.

  twenty-nine

  Even before Lucky turns from the fireplace, he smells the man’s cologne

  ‘Good morning. I am Dr Phillip Parkinson.’ The stranger carries himself like a person who is used to being obeyed, an officer or a senior doctor at Shand. He crosses the bedroom and holds out his hand. Lucky is not wearing a shirt and his muscles are tingling pleasurably from the heat.

  ‘Will you not shake my hand?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘To show that you and I are friends.’

  ‘I don’t know you, so how can you be my friend?’

  ‘Do you think that I am your enemy?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. It’s as likely as you being my friend.’

  The doctor withdraws his hand. He walks towards the bookcase and glances at the titles. ‘Do you often think that people are trying to hurt you?’ Lucky does not reply. ‘Will you at least tell me your name? I have given you mine.’

  ‘It’s Lucky.’

  ‘Actually, isn’t it true that your name is Paul, Paul Blackwell?’

  Lucky scowls. ‘Some people say that.’

  ‘But you do not believe them?’

  ‘My name is Lucky.’

  The doctor makes a sweeping gesture with one hand, indicating the room and its contents but also taking in the rest of the house and the grounds. The movement subjects Lucky to a fresh wave of cologne. ‘Is this not your own home, where you were raised, and where you now live with your wife?’

  ‘I think you should leave me alone,’ says Lucky quietly. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of the heat on his skin. But the man does not leave. Instead he starts to pace the room, circling and buzzing.

  ‘I have some more questions, only a few. Why do you keep this room so hot?’

  Lucky does not open his eyes when he speaks. ‘My first memory is of winter. It was so cold that I thought my bones would freeze and shatter.’

  ‘That’s very poetic. Did this happen when you were a child?’

  Lucky does not reply. The burning logs of macrocarpa crack and pop and an ember is spat out onto the tiles in front of the grate.

  ‘Do you ever hear a voice that tells you what to think or what to do?’

  Lucky turns his head to look at him. ‘All the time.’

  The man’s face lights up. ‘That’s very interesting. Can you tell me more?’

  ‘Yes. I’m hearing a voice like that right now. I hear one every time the woman who calls herself my wife appears.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I have more questions.’

  ‘But I have no more answers.’ Lucky takes a step towards the man. He is taller than the doctor by almost a head. ‘Leave me. Now.’

  The doctor takes two steps back. ‘You should not get so excited, Mr Blackwell.’

  Lucky bunches his hands into fists and takes another step towards this droning fool. ‘Go!’

  The man turns and hurries from the room.

  When Dr Parkinson returns to the conservatory, Mrs Blackwell is informed and comes back to the room within a few minutes. Elizabeth has not moved from her seat at the table.

  ‘I would like to speak to you about your husband alone, if I may,’ he says to Mrs Blackwell.

  Elizabeth raises her voice. ‘If you’re going to discuss my patient, I would prefer to stay.’

  ‘Your patient? Really, Mrs Whitman, you are not his doctor, merely his nurse. I must insist on talking to Mrs Blackwell alone.’

  ‘Dr Parkinson,’ Elizabeth begins.

  Mrs Blackwell interrupts. ‘Mrs Whitman, if you wouldn’t mind. Please.’

  Elizabeth is about to argue her case further but seeing the look on Mrs Blackwell’s face she realises that it would be futile. ‘Very well.’ She turns and leaves the room without another word.

  When the door is closed, Mrs Blackwell sits at the table. Dr Parkinson remains standing. He pauses, as though considering how to begin.

  ‘It is only a preliminary impression, but I have seen for myself that your husband is antagonistic and volatile. Obviously, in light of what happened to your driver, he is more than potentially dangerous. By his own confession, he hears voices telling him what to do.’

  Mrs Blackwell purses her lips. ‘I did not know that.’

  ‘I am sorry to have to tell you, but it is my professional opinion that your husband is suffering from quite a profound psychological illness, most likely a form of what is called schizophrenia.’

  ‘Schizophrenia?’ Mrs Blackwell repeats the word slowly, sounding out the syllables one by one. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A rather serious condition, I’m afraid. It is a form of mental illness that has recently been identified by Dr Eugen Bleuler. The good doctor was actually a teacher of mine when I studied in Europe before the war.’

  ‘And you think this is what Paul has?’

  ‘Yes. It is likely that his condition was brought on by the traumatic events he experienced during the war, but it is possible that he was always predisposed towards it.’

  ‘But what about his head injury? Mrs Whitman was sure that was the reason he lost his memory.’

  ‘It is an interesting theory but rather fanciful, I’m afraid. In my experience people do not simply lose their memories, not entirely and certainly not permanently.’

  ‘Surely it is possible, though.’

  ‘I think it will be fruitful to look for the most scientifically probable explanation. As I noted earlier, it is actually quite common for the mentally ill to claim that they do not remember who they are. They block out their own history in order to more easily adopt a new persona.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘It is not a conscious decision. Often it is to protect themselves from remembering what is too painful to recall — events that have sca
rred the conscious mind, in a figurative sense.’

  ‘Apart from the incident with the knife, Paul has been much calmer since Mrs Whitman took over his care.’

  ‘I have no doubt. She is feeding his delusions, not challenging the false reality that he has spun around himself. But I must tell you quite firmly, this nurse is doing exactly the opposite of what any trained psychiatrist would do. By supporting the idea that your husband is this fictitious character, this Lucky, she is guiding him deeper and deeper into the very state which you one day hope to remedy.’

  Mrs Blackwell sighs. Her shoulders slump and for a moment her head droops forward. When she looks up she seems diminished, even frail. ‘She came very highly recommended.’

  ‘I’m sure that Mrs Whitman has your husband’s best interests at heart. However she is not a doctor, let alone a psychiatrist. She is simply a nurse, and nurses are trained in little more than administering medicine and making beds.’

  ‘I see now that I should have come to you immediately.’

  ‘Not too much harm done, I’m sure, as long as you allow me to act quickly.’

  ‘What would you advise?’

  ‘I strongly believe that Paul would get the best treatment that modern psychiatry can provide if he were under my care at Sunnyside.’

  ‘I had been hoping to avoid having him institutionalised.’

  ‘I cannot adequately treat him here. He needs to be watched twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘What type of treatment would you give him?’

  ‘Medication is the main weapon in the modern psychiatrist’s arsenal. We would have to experiment but I am confident that the new barbiturates will keep your husband’s mood swings in check and make him far more receptive to accepting reality.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘To begin with.’

  ‘And how long would Paul have to be … to stay with you?’

  ‘It’s impossible to say, really. At least a year, perhaps longer.’

  ‘Such a long time? I will have to think about this.’

  ‘Of course if you are concerned about the family’s reputation, we could admit your husband under a pseudonym, to save any embarrassment. It would not be the first time that we have treated a member of a prominent family.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I would, however, urge you to make your decision sooner rather than later — for your husband’s sake.’

  Mrs Blackwell rises and Dr Parkinson mirrors her. ‘Thank you very much for coming today,’ she says. ‘It has been most illuminating.’

  ‘It was my pleasure, Mrs Blackwell. I look forward to hearing from you very soon. Good day.’

  When she is alone, Mrs Blackwell sits and lifts the tea cup to her lips. The tepid liquid trembles and before she can drink a sob escapes her mouth. She is forced to rattle the cup and saucer back down onto the table. She composes herself. ‘Big girls don’t cry,’ her mother used to say. ‘Crying solves nothing.’

  thirty

  That evening, Jack asks for another instalment of The Balloonist. He has a chest cold that has come on quickly and his breathing is raspy and uneven in the darkness, acidic on the air.

  Elizabeth almost refuses him. Upset by the accident with Martin Templeton and Dr Parkinson’s visit to Woodbridge, she has been anxious and distracted all evening. Besides, she has given no thought to how the story will continue. Yet when she sits on the edge of Jack’s bed the words tumble from her mouth as if she had carefully planned the next part of the tale. It is not an exaggeration to say that the story has been growing inside her, unbidden.

  The first thing the man saw when he crawled out of the wreckage of the balloon was a large male tiger. The Tiger was sitting perfectly still on the edge of the clearing, only 20 feet from where the man was still on all fours amongst the mud and rotting jungle leaves.

  ‘How far is 20 feet?’ asks Jack in a thick, nasal voice.

  ‘From the back wall of the house to the hen house.’

  Jack makes a snuffling sound which simultaneously indicates that he understands and that his mother should continue.

  The great cat raised one paw and licked it thoroughly. When he had finished he looked up and met the man’s gaze.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the Tiger, his voice very deep. ‘I was wondering if you could help me?’

  The man looked around. He was hoping to spy a nearby tree into which he could scramble, but as luck would have it all the trees on his side of the clearing were either too slender or the branches too high.

  ‘The thing is,’ continued the Tiger, ‘yesterday, or possibly the day before, I’m not really sure, a group of men captured my wife and child.’

  It is always a bad idea to engage in conversation with any of the larger carnivores. As you know, even so much as smiling at a crocodile is unwise. Still, the Balloonist was curious.

  ‘How is it that you are not sure when this happened?’

  ‘Ahhhhh,’ said the Tiger with a sound almost like a purr, ‘that is a very good question.’

  He turned his massive head so that the man could see a deep graze running across the fur on the Tiger’s skull just behind his right ear. ‘When I was attempting to protect my family the men shot me and I became unconscious for some time. It was only the storm that woke me.’

  The Balloonist got slowly to his feet. He thought it best not to make any sudden movements. Brushing the damp leaves off his trousers, he glanced towards the wreckage of the balloon. It was in a sorry state.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but before you go on with your story, can I ask if you know the whereabouts of Mboli and Dougal MacTavish?’

  ‘I take it you are referring to your two companions?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘The impressively red-headed one in the skirt took one look at me and ran off in that direction.’ The Tiger flicked his tail towards the north.

  ‘MacTavish.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, your MacTavish is going to find the jungle a difficult place in which to survive. Not everyone he meets will be as friendly as I am.’ And the Tiger smiled, showing a set of teeth that were very white, very large and clearly very sharp.

  ‘And Mboli?’ asked the man.

  ‘If my nose serves me well, and it always does, he is still inside your flying contraption.’

  The man lifted aside part of the deflated silk balloon that covered the basket and saw that the Tiger was right. Mboli had always been a very sound sleeper and apparently neither the thunder nor the resulting crash had been enough to rouse him from his hammock. He was still lying entangled in it. His neck, however, had been broken and he was dead.

  The Balloonist emerged from the wreckage, looking grim. ‘So how can I be of help to you?’ he asked the Tiger, who had not moved.

  ‘I thought you might be so kind as to negotiate on my behalf with those who have taken my wife and child. I would speak to them myself, but I do not wish to be shot at again.’

  The man took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘I have three questions, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘You would be a fool if you didn’t have questions.’

  ‘Firstly, what would I gain from this bargain?’

  ‘If you help me then I will give my word to lead you out of the jungle. Without my help you could wander in here for weeks and not come close to finding the nearest village.’

  ‘My second question: what do these men want with your wife and son?’

  ‘You will appreciate,’ said the Tiger, ‘that I had little chance to question them in any depth on the matter, but I do believe that they intend to sell my family to a zoo. I have heard that zoos, particularly ones in America, will pay very well for a female of breeding age, especially with a cub.’

  ‘I see. My final question is this: you said you wish me to negotiate on your behalf, but what will you be offering the kidnappers in exchange for your family’s release?’

  The Tiger stood up. It was a movement so quick and fluid that it happened in the course
of the Balloonist’s single blink. ‘Come with me and I will show you.’

  Without so much as a backward glance, the Tiger stalked majestically to the edge of the clearing and disappeared into the dense foliage. The leaves closed behind him like a curtain. Taking only a minute to throw some supplies into a duffel bag, the Balloonist set out after the Tiger.

  She thinks that Jack is asleep and is surprised when he speaks. ‘Hugh’s father is back from the war.’ Hugh is a boy who lives down the road, a friend.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘He lives in their house with Hugh and his sister and their mother.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘And Mrs Wilson’s son’s back, too.’

  ‘Yes.’ Of course she knows what he is going to ask.

  ‘Why isn’t Dad home yet?’

  ‘Well, Jack, not everyone has come home so soon. Some of the men have to stay and help in Europe.’ That is not, strictly speaking, a lie.

  Jack nods. ‘When will he be finished helping?’

  She puts a hand on his warm head and gently ruffles his hair. ‘I’m not sure, but soon, I hope. Now it’s time to go to sleep. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mum. I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  thirty-one

  ‘Ah, Mrs Whitman. I’m glad I bumped into you.’

  Elizabeth, still unbuttoning her coat, is met by Mrs Blackwell in the hallway. She is certain that her employer has been waiting for her to arrive. Mrs Blackwell looks tired; there are dark bags under her eyes. Elizabeth, too, has had an unsatisfactory night’s sleep. Jack developed a cough and a slight fever and he spent most of the night tossing and turning, while in the bed next to his Elizabeth’s thoughts kept circling back to Lucky.

  ‘Can we talk for a moment?’ asks Mrs Blackwell.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Perhaps in the library?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Merry brings tea and the two women wait politely while it is poured. After a minute, Mrs Blackwell comes to the point. ‘Dr Parkinson believes that Paul is suffering from a form of mental illness brought on by his war experiences. Have you heard of a condition called schizophrenia?’