Fair Mile Hospital

by Ian Wheeler

  Suicides

  The first suicide noted in the journals was a male patient who drowned himself in April 1872. The next was in November of the same year: it was a woman who had been discharged days earlier as unlikely to make further improvement. The risk of suicide was present throughout the asylum’s history, although excellent training and vigilance on the part of nursing staff made it an uncommon occurrence. The Staff Regulations of 1904 contained clear and strict directives for the supervision of suicidal patients, foremost among these being that actively suicidal patients should never be out of the sight of nursing staff. In the 1930s, such cases were ‘red carded’ while patients who had not attempted self-harm in six months were ‘yellow carded’ and those who had only expressed intent got a green card. All were kept away from any possible means of self-harm.

  Suicides nevertheless occurred and anyone who knew Fair Mile Hospital up to its latest days could be forgiven for associating the grim subject with the River Thames, which flowed along the asylum’s border, and with locally named ‘Silly Bridge’, a lofty bridge that crosses the London–Bristol main line barely half a mile from the asylum’s gates. Needless to say, the means of achieving the unthinkable were many and diverse but invariably tragic. Records of such events are largely closed to public scrutiny but readers may care to refer to Crime and Calamity in Cholsey, by Barrie Charles, which describes in detail a few of the earliest suicides.

  Enlargement of Cholsey Churchyard

  There was a disagreement – indeed, a heated dispute – in about 1908 between Revd Henry C.B. Field, the vicar of St Mary’s, Cholsey, and the Committee of Visitors at the Berkshire Lunatic Asylum over the cost of burying its patients. The problems were real enough, since the asylum’s death rate was more than double that of the village and the available space in the churchyard was fast dwindling. In the face of vigorous opposition from the Visitors to the spending of public money, it fell to Mr Morland, long-serving Clerk to the Visitors, to point out that the asylum had previously supported an enlargement of the graveyard in response to need and that a precedent had thus been established. There ensued a protracted and complex argument over proposals to create a new graveyard at the asylum, counter-proposals to expand the church’s burial ground and quibbling over every detail of the execution of that plan. In the event, a considerable extension was created at St Mary’s, which served asylum and parish alike, the costs being shared.

  This wrangle being at last settled, one can only guess at the mood of the Visitors when, in August 1909, they received a letter from an unabashed Revd Field, who was ‘desired’ by the Committee for the Repair & Restoration of the Church Tower, to ask for a contribution from the asylum. As the asylum had willingly paid – among other amounts – half of the recent consecration expenses, they replied that they felt they had no power to make a contribution towards the tower. Whatever the final outcome on this particular affair, a journal entry of 1912 tells that the tenders for erection of a wall for the extended churchyard were submitted to the Visitors for approval and that the job fell to the respected local firm of Boshers, for the princely sum of £105.

  Grave Markers

  The graveyard plots in the allotted part of the churchyard had to be reused after a decent interval and very few patients’ graves were graced by a headstone. Instead, iron stakes topped with a simple iron cross and a number were all that stood to remind the world of the souls who had died in the hospital. This may, in part, illustrate the inability of surviving relatives to come to terms with mental illness in the family. In some cases, of course, there were no relatives and an asylum burial was a bleak and sorry entry in the chaplain’s journal. The only consolation was that most of the deceased had reached a ripe old age.

  Over time, even the simple markers were progressively removed – no doubt being a serious obstacle to the mowing of the churchyard. A few still exist, stored in the parish council’s shed.

  There remains a beacon of remembrance and respect towards those unfortunate enough to have passed away in the asylum. At his explicit instruction, Dr James William Aitken Murdoch, much-respected Medical Superintendent from 1892 to 1917, was interred in the area set aside for asylum burials, watching over many of his erstwhile charges. Mary Fairbairn was quick to notice this when she arrived as a trainee nurse in 1935 and used the lesson in developing the skills and disciplines of her craft. Many years later, in 1962, Murdoch’s widow, Celia, joined the good doctor.

  Part of a grave marker from the asylum’s section of Cholsey churchyard. (Author’s collection)

  The grave of Dr James William Aitken Murdoch and his wife, Celia, watches over many asylum patients in Cholsey churchyard. (Author’s collection)

  Note

  40 A salacious story related in detail in Barrie Charles’ Crime and Calamity in Cholsey.

  12

  FADING INTO MEMORY

  It may be rather obvious that this account has not related much detail of the NHS era – the period that introduced the name Fair Mile – but the remainder of this book’s title, A Victorian Asylum, is perhaps what most interests the modern eye. Between 1870 and 1948, psychiatry became a well-developed discipline, society and healthcare underwent cataclysmic changes and therapeutic drugs began to alter the very nature of treatment, presenting a post-war image that was much closer to today’s pill-popping41 approach to therapy. The greater resources of the NHS permitted attempts at modernisation denied by years of war and national economic restraint; the technologies employed were mature and largely reliable and these aspects are, frankly, less fascinating.

  A significant problem for researchers is that, the nearer we come to the present day, the more records are restricted. Put simply, there is not a lot of material available to draw on. Also, this book is not about modern psychiatric care – which is the real story of Fair Mile’s later years and a subject too vast and specialised for these pages.

  We know that the hospital adopted modern methods, some of which were as much about prevention as treatment; patients were given greater liberty and more up-to-date living conditions, although the buildings themselves prevented radical improvements. Former staff invariably describe Fair Mile as a happy place to work, whatever the physical shortcomings bequeathed by its builders.

  Around 1990, the hospital was clearly approaching its ‘sell-by date’, a victim of progress and spiralling costs. Modern therapies, including drugs, had reduced the nation’s mental hospital population from around 150,000 in the 1950s to just 25,000 and Fair Mile cared for just a few hundred in premises that once housed over 1,000. Another consideration was the 1974 change in the county boundary between Oxfordshire and Berkshire. Even though it still served Berkshire, which was now considerably smaller, Fair Mile found itself, overnight, a mile or two inside Oxfordshire.

  A planning document prepared by South Oxford District Council quoted just 200 inpatients by 2002 and, given these small numbers, the fabric and sheer scale of the hospital were very real sources of difficulty. Some areas had seen neither use nor adequate maintenance for years; infrastructure was outdated and inefficient; heating the great Victorian edifice with its high ceilings and draughty corridors was costing a fortune and, despite efforts over several previous decades, the place did not lend itself to that other modern buzzword, ‘upgrading’.

  A sombre view of Grazeley and Frilsham wards, with the boiler house beyond, in 1990. (Spackman collection)

  A main corridor on the Female side in about 2000. (Spackman collection)

  Tastes change, too. What had once been regarded as a handsome and rather grand establishment – comfortable surroundings if your sorrows had originated in a filthy slum or run-down cottage – was beginning to look rather stark; Marnock’s mature, landscaped grounds did much to soften Howell’s characteristic asylum architecture. Despite facelifts, the interiors retained their labyrinthine, tiled passageways and staircases, dormitory accommodation and chilly washrooms, which were now a far cry from the comforts of normal, modern housing.
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  Operating costs had become prohibitive by the 1990s, a situation possibly exacerbated by the National Health Service and Community Care Act of 1990, primarily concerned with the hocus-pocus of creating an ‘internal market’ for health and social care, and which resulted in a doctrine known as ‘Care in the Community’. This aimed to return as many patients as possible to their home environments or, failing that, into small care units serving as a halfway house between institutional treatment and complete independence. In this development, the wheel of mental healthcare had in some ways turned full circle.

  Property and land values being what they were by the 1990s, the attraction of selling off the considerable acreage of Fair Mile, even to fund a brand-new facility elsewhere, was irresistible. Although probably not the literal truth, the author was once told that a complete new hospital would cost less than one year’s upkeep of the old one.

  A shared bathroom. (Bill Nicholls)

  In the last few years of Fair Mile’s life, careful preparations were made to abandon the old homestead. Moulsford Manor had already closed and it was from there that many of the archive photographs in these pages were rescued, their significance finally appreciated. As many patients as possible were reintroduced to some semblance of a normal life in the community, while some were transferred to a purpose-built facility at Prospect Park, Reading, where the good work would continue.

  The Victorian asylum closed its doors on 132 years and 7 months of service on 30 April 2003.

  Once serviceable and fashionable, the glazed tiles in staircases and corridors took on a bleak aspect as standards of comfort changed. (Bill Nicholls)

  A farewell message left in Hermitage ward. (Bill Nicholls)

  The interior of the chapel, sadly not in all its former glory in 2010. (Bill Nicholls)

  The gallery of Ipsden ward retained much of its Victorian character up to closure. (Bill Nicholls)

  Most of the underground tunnels and chambers were filled in but this cellar survives near the site of the original kitchen. (Bill Nicholls)

  Dereliction is fascinating, although this contrivance adds a completely misleading hint of the torture chamber. (Bill Nicholls)

  An excellent view of the external corridor serving Female 8 (Ipsden) ward. These corridors allowed discreet movement about the asylum. (Bill Nicholls)

  Male 6 (Frilsham) ward with Male 7 (Grazeley) above. (Bill Nicholls)

  Note

  41 A loose term for which the author craves indulgence; the skill and dedication of modern psychiatric care staff is not in question but the emergence of sophisticated drugs was instrumental in a steady reduction in patient numbers that finally did away with the asylum in its familiar form.

  13

  DERELICTION AND REDEVELOPMENT

  A year or two later, Fair Mile enjoyed brief celebrity status when it was the film location for an episode of the popular Midsomer Murders television series, in an episode called ‘The Silent Land’. The old asylum convincingly carried off the part of St Fidelis Hospital, a derelict tuberculosis sanatorium.

  The hospital’s closure left the community of Cholsey with a sense of loss; a kind of vacuum after 133 years of interaction; an old habit that had to be given up. There was real affection for the place, not so much for its echoing corridors, peeling paint and red-brick walls as for its sense of community and its mission of care. Would the new facility at Prospect Park, Reading, perform well? Would it uphold the Fair Mile traditions, even with many of the same personnel? Would ‘Care in the Community’ prove successful at the supervised accommodation units set up in Cholsey for vulnerable patients who, although no longer in need of acute care, had no other place to call home?

  The most obvious question on Cholsey’s collective mind concerned the future of the hospital’s buildings and land, which were worth a king’s ransom to any predatory developer: images of wrecking balls and a carpet of cheaply built, shoebox-sized homes stretching from the A329 to the Thames gave rise to many a worried conversation. Some imagined the place being turned into a conference centre, at a time when they were so commonplace that attending conferences had become more popular than working for a living. Thankfully, Cholsey – already in the habit of looking out for its best interests – was blessed with the good sense and initiative to organise a liaison committee to monitor events. After several years of high-level negotiations between local authorities, the NHS, developers, financiers and architects, a set of proposals was presented to the village in an exemplary manner. Architects John Thompson & Partners held several public meetings to tune into local concerns and views, organised workshops in which residents not only voiced their opinions but collaborated and used their local knowledge to develop ideas and policies and to identify issues – and every promise of information was fulfilled.

  Whilst we may be entitled to a dash of cynicism over whether local concerns are ever actually taken into account in such situations, the plans that were subsequently made public were no discredit to either the architects or South Oxfordshire District Council (SODC). It was confirmed that the Victorian buildings enjoyed Grade II listed status and there was relief at the news that Marnock’s elegant grounds were similarly protected. In fact, the South Oxfordshire Local Plan of 1997 had taken stock of Fair Mile’s impending closure and made a number of explicit decisions affording protection from reckless exploitation.

  Thompson’s vision saw the hospital buildings transformed into modern, energy-efficient apartments and houses, with demolition largely confined to the unprepossessing twentieth-century wings, a number of dilapidated industrial buildings, parts of the farm site and a few other impractical and architecturally low-grade structures. Locals would, however, have to tolerate the demolition of Rotherfield Ward (the much-loved ‘Bungalow’), the Villa, Brightwell House, the hostels and the Super’s house. Also on the agenda for removal was the complex of buildings occupied by the still-vigorous FMSSC. The Schuster was to be the largest single casualty. Notwithstanding its architectural award, it had not proved durable and was by now vandalised and in a sorry state.

  Alongside the Victorian hospital, which would revert more or less to its 1904 layout, new houses and flats would be built to the north-east and south-west, mostly on land made available by demolition. The housing would include apartments of various sizes, social housing, live/work units for small businesses and some spacious dwellings with commanding views towards the Thames. Whilst new buildings hugged the north and south boundaries, the land between the old asylum and the river was to remain completely unspoilt; the cricket field would be reinstated and its pavilion refurbished; there would be meadows, footpaths and allotments, not to mention a number of eco-friendly proposals, including one to reopen the artesian wells42.

  Local reaction was favourable and discussion turned to such mundane considerations as access and parking, traffic calming and the profitable use of the former chapel and Recreation Hall. The FMSSC would have to vacate its clubhouse but much energy was expended on identifying a new home. Another significant consideration, much discussed from an early stage, was the careful integration of the new-style Fair Mile community into the village as a whole.

  Developers Linden Homes and Thomas Homes became the new joint owners of a sad-looking piece of real estate, and security fencing went up in an attempt to deter the less kindly disposed class of visitor. Linden would attend to new-build construction, styling their offerings Cholsey Meadows, while Thomas Homes faced the daunting task of converting 312,000sq.ft (29,000sq.m) of draughty and dilapidated Victorian wards, offices and corridors into stylish and energy-efficient independent homes that were fully attuned to the age of the smartphone and rocketing energy prices. With an eye to continuity, they elected to retain the Fair Mile name and adopted a number of the original ward names to identify areas of housing.

  The FMSSC premises in 2010, just before they were demolished. The interior was more capacious and comfortable than this view suggests. (Tony Rayner)

  The recessionary ham
mer blows of 2008 then caused everyone, including the planning authorities, to re-examine their financial calculations and mark time for nearly two years before there was a reasonable expectation of sufficient buyers to make it worth placing one brick on top of another.

  The George Schuster Hospital was the first area scheduled for demolition, standing as it did outside the main site; the bulldozers arrived in 2010 and properties were on sale in 2011. Within the original grounds, the first impact was the shock announcement that the FMSSC buildings would be the first to come down – at unexpectedly short notice. This revelation created a justifiable storm of protest from FMSSC, which had been led to expect adequate provision in the redundant chapel. Fortunately, a nearby pub had recently ceased trading and assistance was provided to relocate the club a couple of hundred metres up the road into the old-established Morning Star, although not without significant reduction in the facilities it formerly boasted. This interim measure proved successful enough that the club had embarked on purchasing the pub before Fair Mile’s redevelopment had been completed.

  After closure, and while the future of Fair Mile remained uncertain, an entirely new class of visitor made its presence felt on the hospital site. Students of dereliction with an interest in history in the raw found their way – not always entirely legally – into the grounds and buildings, armed with curiosity and cameras. The fascinating photographic records that resulted are readily found on the Internet. Photographs of ruined workshops and broken-down interiors, long-abandoned bathrooms and ghost-filled corridors are poignant reminders of better days and of a lost purpose.