I make sandwiches and tea and take them through to the lounge; Dad tucks into his with relish while Nick and I pick at ours. I wonder how long we’ll have to wait and more importantly, I wonder what can they do?
They’ve arrived. The Mental Health team consists of two men, one sporty type in a tracksuit called Geoff and a tall man who I think is a doctor. We’re standing in the hallway and I’m updating them on Dad’s condition.
It’s now six o’clock and the afternoon seemed to go on forever. Dad stopped talking to the coffee table and started to take an interest in what was going on outside.
‘Look at them,’ he said, pointing out of the window. ’See all those people sat on my car. I’m going to go and sort them out.’ We looked, we really did, as if what he was saying was real. He got more and more agitated and annoyed, said they were guerrillas and that they had sent them to make him give up his mission.
We tried to persuade him to stay indoors but short of physically restraining him what could we do? We went outside with him and he could still see them and started shouting at them and waving his arms. Simon from next door came out to ask if everything was alright. He seemed really concerned and tried to talk to Dad, but Dad didn’t recognise him; looked right through him as if he wasn’t even there. We thanked Simon for his concern and told him it would be better if he went back inside, said we were waiting for the doctor. I think he was relieved and we didn’t need to tell him twice. I don’t think he could quite believe the way Dad was, I couldn’t either. We tried to humour Dad but in the end Nick pretended he was the Commander and ordered him to go back inside and wait for orders. Dad looked crestfallen and meekly walked inside muttering that he was only trying to complete his mission.
It was heart-breaking, and he just got worse and worse. He got really agitated and wouldn’t sit down even when Nick ordered him to in his guise as the commander. He was pacing the room and talking to himself and other people who weren’t there. He ignored us.
He looked dreadful, pale and sweating and I thought if he carried on like it his heart would give out and he’d die. At about four o’clock I said, ‘why don’t you have a rest Dad? Have a break.’ I thought he’d ignore me, but he brushed his hand over his head and said, ‘yes, I think I will. It’s going to be a long night.’
Nick and I steered him to the sofa and laid him down and put a throw over him. He closed his eyes and we thought he’d gone to sleep. Then he started singing.
‘So,’ says Geoff, ‘from what you say we’re probably going to have to admit him. Do you think he’d come willingly?’
‘I don’t know.’ I say.
‘I think he will,’ says Nick, ‘if I pretend I’m his commander and tell him to.’
‘It would be much better if he comes willingly,’ says Philip, ‘otherwise we’ll need to wait for another doctor, so we can section him.’
Section him. Oh my God, section him. I can’t quite take it in.
‘Okay, let’s go and talk to him.’
They go through to the lounge; Dad is lying on the sofa. He’s asleep, well he has his eyes closed. But he’s singing, the same song over and over again. ‘The sunny side of the street.’
‘TOM,’ Geoff is talking loudly to him. ‘TOM, CAN YOU HEAR ME?’
Philip gently shakes Dad’s arm, but Dad continues to sing and doesn’t answer. They continue trying to rouse him but after ten minutes we’re all back in the hallway.
‘Okay, he’s not in a coherent state to give his permission so we’re going to need another doctor to section him. Are you okay with that? Philip looks at me and Nick.
What choice do we have?
‘Yes,’ we both say. ‘What do you think is wrong with him?’ I ask Philip, ‘What’s wrong with our Dad?’
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. ‘Obviously we can’t make a diagnosis without tests but from what I’ve seen I would say he’s having a psychotic episode.’
‘What could have caused it?’ asks Nick, ‘Will he get better?’
‘Many things can cause it but without further investigation I can’t say anymore at the moment; the important thing is that we get him into hospital where we can help him and find out what’s going on.’ He takes out his mobile. ‘I’m going to ring for another doctor and an ambulance. Hopefully we won’t have to wait too long.’
We follow the ambulance in Nick’s car. We don’t talk, I think we’re both in a state of shock. They’re taking Dad to the Elderly Mental Health Unit which is in a separate building within the hospital grounds. I’m nervous, I have visions of a Victorian lunatic asylum with people banging on doors shouting to be let out. I’m being ridiculous.
I hope.
They’ve taken Dad round to the back entrance, but we have to go in through the visitor’s entrance, so we follow the signs and park the car. I tramp across to the ticket machine which of course is broken so I go back to the car.
‘I’ll walk round to the main car park and get a ticket.’
‘Don’t bother,’ says Nick. ‘I don’t care if I get a fine.’
‘No, I’ll get one,’ I say, starting to walk off.
‘Don’t bother,’ Nick shouts after me. ‘I don’t fucking care if I get a ticket. Just leave it.’
He’s right, of course he’s right. I stop and walk back, and we head towards the Blossom Unit.
‘Sorry. Wasn’t having a go at you.’
‘I know, forget it. Doesn’t matter. You’re right.’
‘I just can’t believe this, it’s like some fucking nightmare and I can’t wake up.’
‘It’s worse than a nightmare.’
‘Everything’s turning to shit,’ Says Nick.
It is.
The Blossom Unit is an ordinary building – which is a relief. We have to press a buzzer and wait. After a few minutes a disembodied voice asks us to step in front of the camera. It’s only then that we notice a camera lens over the door; we step forward. Moments later there’s another buzz and the door clicks open.
We follow the sign to ‘Reception’. It’s very quiet. No screaming.
We then press another buzzer and are let into Bluebell Ward. It looks like a regular hospital ward except that the nurses’ station is in a booth with windows and a door with a keypad lock on it. It’s in the middle of a large room with sofas and occasional tables scattered around. An elderly lady is sitting in an armchair by the window knitting what looks like longest scarf in the world, an elderly man is trudging in slow shuffling steps around the nurses’ station.
A smiling woman introduces herself as Sister Kathy although she’s dressed in normal clothing, not a nurse’s uniform. She gently steers the shuffling man over to the windows and he continues to shuffle in smaller circles then comes back over to us, a practiced smile on her face.
‘You must be Tom’s family. Come through.’
She unlocks the booth door by tapping in a code and we go in. A couple of desks and masses of files and boxes are crammed into a very small space. A bank of television screens, all showing the insides of bedrooms, look down at us from the walls. Kathy moves files and boxes from two chairs and we wedge ourselves into the seats.
‘Now, while we get Tom settled in we just need to go through a few things.’ She notices the shell-shocked look on our faces. ‘Try not to worry,’ she says, ‘he’s in the right place now, he’s safe.’
We’re very lucky I know. Mental health beds are like gold dust, we are extremely fortunate that there was one bed free for Dad otherwise he could have been sent miles away.
‘Let me tell you a little about the unit. We have only twelve patients at a time and everyone has their own room and bathroom. We’ve tried to make it has unlike a hospital as possible but obviously we can only go so far. All of our patients are older adults, most of them are past retirement age.’
She opens a file and we go through everything that’s happened today and she make copious notes.
‘Okay, I just need to check with the staff how your father’s se
ttling in, but I won’t be long.’
She leaves the office and shuts the door.
‘Is that to keep us in or them out?’ says Nick grimly.
‘Probably both.’
‘Can we see him?’ Nick asks when she returns.
‘Not at the moment, but he’s fine don’t worry. He’s still asleep and in bed but we’ve taken his obs and he’s fine. Once he’s awake we’ll start some more detailed investigations. The best thing you can do is go home and come back tomorrow.’
I wanted to see him, make sure he’s okay. He won’t know where he is when he wakes up.
‘Look,’ says Kathy reaching up to one of the screens and flicking the switch. ‘He’s fine, fast asleep.’
The screen flickers to life to show Dad tucked up in bed like a child with the covers pulled up to his neck and his arms tucked in.
He’s still singing.
Chapter 8
‘At least he’s safe,’ I say.
‘That’s right. He’s in the right place.’ Nick nods thoughtfully.
‘They can help him there.’
We’re trying to convince ourselves; trying to make ourselves feel better. We’ve just left Dad incarcerated in a secure mental unit and we’re not feeling good about it. He’s a prisoner. We’re parked outside my house sitting in the car and are going to walk round to Linda’s to pick up Sprocket. It’s a beautiful evening, very warm for June. There’s a light breeze and it’s still light although it’s half past eight. The weather feels like a traitor, it should be stormy, bleak and miserable to match our moods.
‘We’d better paste a smile on our faces before we inflict ourselves on Linda,’ I say as we arrive at her door and ring the bell.
‘Easy for me, I do it all of the time.’
‘Helloo.’ We fix smiles as she opens the door, she looks at us a bit funny and I think our rictus grins might have frightened her. She lets us in and Sprocket hurls himself at me and nearly knocks me over.
‘Come on into the dining room,’ Linda says. ‘I’ve done us some supper – I know it’s late, but I bet you haven’t eaten.’
I’m about to say that I’m not hungry but the smell of garlic sets my mouth watering.
‘Don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ Nick gives her a model-man smile.
‘No trouble at all.’ Linda pulls the chairs out from the table in the dining room. ‘Sit yourselves down and I’ll bring it in. It’s nothing special but it’ll fill a gap.’
She bustles out to the kitchen and comes back in with a large dish of lasagne which she places in the middle of the table. She goes out again then comes back with garlic bread and salad.
‘Okay,’ she says, putting them in the middle of the table, ‘help yourselves.’
We load our plates up and tuck in; it’s delicious.
‘This is amazing,’ Nick says through his third mouthful ‘I didn’t realise how hungry I was.’
Linda smiles and pours us all a large glass of red and we chomp in silence. When we’ve finished I can’t believe how much better I feel and I can tell from looking at Nick that he feels the same. We fill Linda in on the day’s events and she listens sympathetically.
‘Sounds like you were lucky to get a bed at this mental health place.’ Linda opens another bottle of red.
‘We were,’ I say. ‘The doctor said some people have to travel a couple of hours to visit their relatives. Imagine that.’
‘Nightmare. That lasagne was so good. Shouldn’t really have had second helpings. Got to watch the waistline.’ Nick pats his stomach. ‘If I can’t fit into the samples they’ll get someone else.’ He pulls a face.
‘Yes, it’s a hard life being a top model,’ I joke.
‘I’m sure it’s not as easy as it looks,’ Linda says. ‘I mean you have to look after your looks and everything.’
‘I’m not going to pretend it’s rocket science but there is a skill to it like everything else and you’re always looking over your shoulder at the competition. There’s an assumption that if you’re good looking it’s an accident of birth and you’re lucky. Which is true, but really, it’s no different from being born a genius, that’s an accident of birth too but no-one dismisses geniuses as being born lucky. There’s respect if you’re clever but not if you have a pretty face.’
‘That’s very profound, Nick, hope you’re not expecting sympathy.’ I nudge him.
‘Was a bit deep wasn’t it? Plenty of time to think when you’re pouting and posing. And I definitely wasn’t expecting sympathy from you.’ He laughs. ‘Anyway, I’ll be downgraded to catalogue work soon – too old and not the right look.’
‘Look?’ says Linda.
‘The up and coming models who do well have a look, a trademark. They don’t even have to be good looking. One guy you’ve probably seen has tats everywhere, even on his head.’
‘Yeah, I’ve seen him,’ says Linda. ‘Always looking moody and miserable, never smiles, shaved head, very muscled and toned.’
‘He is, great gym honed physique,’ says Nick, ‘and the reason he never smiles or shows his teeth is because he hasn’t got any.’
‘No teeth!’
‘Well he’s got a few but they’re rotten, makes you feel sick when he smiles. Black stumps. He’s only 23.’
‘You liar.’ I laugh.
He laughs too. ‘Honestly, it’s true. They’ve booked him for the Christmas shoot I’m doing on Monday for Next. He’s doing the edgy teenager stuff.’
‘A Christmas shoot in June, really?’
‘Yep,’ Nick says getting up from the table. ‘You think you decide what to wear but you don’t, it’s all been decided six months in advance for you.’ He pauses. ‘Although probably not for you Linda, you’ve got your own style, sort of retro. I like it.’
He’s right, Linda’s wearing a plum coloured, flowery long dress with smocking around the middle and smocking around the neck. Looks seventies to me. I’d feel self-conscious wearing it but it looks great on her. I feel quite dull by comparison in my Next summer dress.
‘Thanks.’ She’s blushing.
It’s quite late when we leave but we’re in much better moods that when we arrived. We’ve all had a bit too much wine and I’m ready for bed. We offer to help clear up, but Linda won’t hear of it. I feel a bit guilty leaving her to do it all, but I feel absolutely done in, so I don’t protest too much.
I hug Linda. ‘Thank you so much, tonight’s really done us good.’
Nick kisses Linda on the cheek. ‘It has, thank you for a wonderful meal, Linda, see you soon.’
I sneak a look at Linda’s face as we’re leaving.
I’ve seen that look before.
Smitten.
We stand outside Blossom Unit waiting to be buzzed in.
‘It’s like a prison,’ says Nick, smiling for the camera.
‘It is,’ I say out of the corner of my mouth. We’re buzzed in and the door releases.
Yet another locked door; we’re buzzed into the ward and in we go. It’s stifling inside, definitely no air-con in here. The temperature must be hitting thirty degrees today but tomorrow there may be a frost, typical British weather.
‘Christ, the music’s enough to send you round the bend,’ says Nick quietly.
I know what he means, I don’t know if it’s the radio or a CD but it reminds me of the black and white minstrel show that was always on when I was very little. Songs from the musicals sung by people who can’t sing. Blacked up men with white chalky mouths.
I spot Dad straight away. He’s sitting in an armchair by the window, he has a newspaper on his lap which he’s not reading because he’s listening to the knitting woman sitting next to him.
As we get closer I can see that the scarf she’s knitting is even longer than yesterday and I also realise that although her mouth is moving she’s saying the same words over and over, knit, purl, knit, purl...
‘Hello.’ Dad has spotted us and gives a big smile. He’s smartly dressed in shirt and tro
users and I’m glad that we had the presence of mind to bring a bag of his clothes with us last night.
We say our hellos and Nick asks Dad how he’s feeling.
‘Oh, can’t complain. They’re very nice here you know. And it’s been nice talking to Betty again. She’s looking out for me you know, says she’s going to visit soon.’
He’s talking to Mum now.
Nick and I exchange worried glances as he finds us a couple of chairs and we pull them over in front of Dad and settle ourselves.
‘Hello.’ A uniformed woman appears and introduces herself. ‘I’m nursing assistant Liz, but I’m also the family assistance co-ordinator. I can help with any leaflets and organisations you might need to contact. If Thomas should need anything or you’re not sure of anything, then just let me know and I’ll do what I can to help.’
Irrationally, I decide that I don’t like her; it’s Tom not Thomas. She’s also looking at Nick the whole time she’s speaking which is not unusual but for Christ’s sake this is a mental hospital. Show some restraint. And respect.
‘So,’ she says turning to Dad, ‘are you going to introduce me to your visitors?’
Dad looks at her and then Nick, and says, ‘This is my son Nick.’
‘Hello, Nick,’ she says fluttering her eyelashes at Nick. ‘Nice to meet you. And who is this lady here?’ She says to Dad waving a hand in my direction.
Dad looks at me but doesn’t say anything.
Liz opens her mouth to speak and I want to tell her to shut up and go away and mind her own business. Everything is happening in slow motion and I’m powerless to stop it, but I know what he’s going to say, and I don’t want him to.
‘Thomas? Who is this lovely lady, is she your daughter?’
Dad looks at her in surprise. ‘Oh no. She’s not my daughter. I don’t know who she is.’
‘Lou, he’s not well. Of course he knows who you are.’
We walk across the car park back to the car. I don’t know how I got through the visit. I plastered a fake smile on my face and pretended everything was fine; I was pleasant to Liz when really I wanted to punch her in the face. I chatted to Dad, but he more or less ignored me. As if I wasn’t there.
A Confusion of Murders: There's murder on his mind... Page 9
