MARCH HOUSE

by MARY HOCKING

  Douglas, being wary, was prepared to suffer this accusation in silence, but Iris said, ‘I hope we are not resistant to new techniques. It depends what one regards as new, I suppose; the analysis of dreams could hardly be described as a new technique, could it?’

  ‘Perhaps I am wrong.’ Dr. Laver sat up and pushed the drawing aside. ‘Before I try a new treatment on Mrs. Wilmer I should like to talk it over with you so that you can think about it before we reach a final decision. Any decision taken should, I think, be a team decision.’

  They brightened at the prospect of being a team again.

  ‘What had you in mind?’ Iris took upon herself the role of spokesman.

  ‘Hypnotism.’

  ‘Hypnotism!’ Iris ran the clinic; it was her arena. She was about as pleased by this suggestion as a Cleopatra might have been to see Isis doing the dance of the seven veils as she clasps the asp to her bosom.

  ‘You have objections?’ Dr. Laver gazed at Iris’s breasts which had swelled superbly.

  ‘Do you imagine . . . Have you any idea of the difficulty of getting people to attend, voluntarily, a clinic of this kind? They may be used to watching TV programmes about psychiatry; they may be familiar with the more publicised techniques and have a superficial knowledge of the jargon; but this is something which is happening to other people. The vast majority of ordinary people are still very resistant to psychiatry happening to them. It is hard enough as it is for G.P.s to persuade their patients to come here; but to tell them that when they arrive they will be hypnotised by the psychiatrist . . .’ She put her head back and gave a laugh which fell a fraction short of delight. ‘You would have to start by converting the G.P.s.’

  ‘It has been done.’

  ‘But not here! It may be all right with trendy medicos in London, but it certainly wouldn’t go down here in the sticks.’

  Dr. Laver regarded Iris with bright, unblinking eyes. He was quite as intent on winning as she was and yet there was something one-sided about the confrontation. It occurred to me that while Iris was summoning her resources to the fray. Dr. Laver did not see himself as engaged with her. The possibility of defeat was something he did not admit. Such inflexibility in a mature person is a little chilling. After a moment, he said, ‘How familiar are the G.P.s with the current situation in this clinic?’

  The choice of the words ‘this clinic’ suggested a place where something questionable had happened. There was an awkward silence. He looked down, fingering the list of ‘current’ cases which had been prepared for him. Earlier in the week he had asked me to write beside the name of each client the date of the last visit to the clinic. Many of the people on the list had not been seen for a considerable time. ‘Does the Foundation know how low the numbers are ?’ he had asked me.

  Now he asked, ‘What does “R” stand for?’

  Iris looked at me expectantly, but I decided she could handle this. She said, ‘Residential.’

  ‘But we have no residential clients at present?’

  ‘No.’

  He nodded his head and began ostentatiously to make a tally, ticking the number of genuinely current cases. Douglas cleared his throat.

  ‘I should be quite prepared to move out if Iris and her family would like to take over.’

  ‘I don’t see why Eddie can’t move out,’ Iris said sharply. ‘In fact, he scarcely seems to be here. I never see him.’

  ‘I seldom see your family,’ Douglas said. ‘But I assume them to exist.’

  Iris was startled by this rapid return of fire. Although she was ready to admit to being ‘a typical Aries’—dominating and assertive and, therefore, at times difficult to work with—she did not see herself as being the object of real animosity. Now, perhaps beginning to feel herself in danger of isolation, she addressed Dr. Laver in a more conciliatory manner. ‘You have a lot of experience in this particular field?’

  ‘I suppose you might say that.’ It was not in him to be conciliatory.

  ‘And you find the results encouraging?’ she persisted.

  He rubbed his nose. ‘They encourage me; I don’t know about the subjects.’

  Iris said coldly, ‘Perhaps I didn’t word that very well. It is your experience that a not inconsiderable number of people can be helped by hypnosis when other treatments have failed?’

  ‘I think you still haven’t worded it very well. What, for example, would you regard as a not inconsiderable number? Don’t bother to answer. Statistics won’t carry any conviction.’

  ‘But would you agree that other methods should be tried first?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Joint counselling sessions with the family have often proved very successful here.’ Iris had in the past played the dominant role in such sessions.

  Dr. Laver said, ‘I find I succeed with hypnosis when I have failed with other treatments.’

  Iris pondered this, eyeing Dr. Laver speculatively as though assessing whether this admission was indicative of genius, humility, or a failed psychiatrist. Douglas flexed his hands and examined his knuckles unhappily; no doubt he was torn between his dislike of the suggestion and his fear of having his changed domestic affairs brought to the notice of the Foundation. He said, ‘Perhaps we could have a discussion about this another time?’

  ‘We could have a mild experiment among ourselves, if you like, before practising on the clients.’ Dr. Laver spoke casually, but he was not master of the throw-away line and it was apparent to me that the whole discussion had been leading up to this moment.

  ‘You mean you would hypnotise one of us?’ Iris asked.

  ‘All of you might be better.’ Casual again, examining his finger nails. ‘It would avoid any one person feeling awkward about it.’ Iris and Douglas looked at each other. They might have done better, I felt, to study him.

  He said, ‘You need have no fear. There are constraints which apply even under hypnosis. Nothing will be dragged from you against your will; all that can happen is that those things which are asking for attention may receive your attention.’

  This did not appear to reassure Iris and Douglas. I began to collect my papers.

  ‘I wonder if you would give us some idea of what might be involved?’ Iris asked pleasantly: she was good at dealing with other people’s ideas.

  ‘Indeed, when you have decided whether or not you wish to proceed with the suggestion.’

  ‘But if we could have some idea . . .’

  ‘I don’t find this trade in ideas very constructive. How can I give you an idea of what it is like to be under hypnosis? It is something to be experienced. If you do not experience it, how can you make a decision as to whether it is a suitable form of treatment for your clients?’

  ‘I have never been a patient in a psychiatric ward,’ Iris pointed out. ‘Should that preclude me from being a party to recommending such treatment?’

  ‘Ah, now that is something we might well discuss.’ He sounded almost genial. ‘But I think you are evading the present issue which is whether hypnosis is a suitable treatment for our clients.’

  Iris frowned; the form of treatment was, finally, a decision for the psychiatrist to take, but if she said this she might seem to be giving her blessing to the proposal. On the other hand, if she rejected it, she would be assuming a responsibility which should not have been hers. Since Dr. Arnold left she had assumed a good deal of responsibility which should not have been hers. Dr. Laver had hinted as much. Her eyes moved from side to side as she backtracked over the discussion to see how she had arrived at this point. She was thinking of herself. I wanted to tell her: Take a look at this man; think about him before you commit yourself! Iris said, ‘I think this should be a joint decision. I agree with Douglas that we should talk about it another time.’

  At least she had won time for reflection.

  Dr. Laver said, ‘You are very quiet, Ruth.’

  ‘There is a lot of work to be done before I go home. Do you mind if I leave you now?’

  ‘You will be in
volved in this, Ruth. You are part of the team.’

  ‘I can give you my answer now.’

  ‘That is why I am not asking for it now.’

  I made for the door; before I reached it, he said, ‘There is one other matter I want to mention while we are all here. I have been looking at these case files and I find the language uncongenial. I should like our reports to be written without the use of such words as “supportive”, “sharing” and this terrible marriage of piety and technology—“caring input”.’

  Douglas, who found great difficulty in writing his reports, protested, ‘I can’t possibly do that! What words can I use?’

  ‘There are other words.’

  ‘I haven’t the time to sit down and think about “other words”.’ A fly had been buzzing round the room for some time; Douglas was now agitated by it and he got up and opened the window.

  ‘That is exactly how these reports read,’ Dr. Laver went on relentlessly, oblivious of distractions. ‘They read as though you hadn’t had time to think so you have used a convenience language.’

  ‘Do you know how many reports we have to do a week?’ Iris asked.

  Douglas leant out of the window, arms resting on the sill. Unfortunately, it was the window which had a broken sash cord; we had all been warned that it was dangerous. Douglas had time to take one good gulp of air before it descended knocking him forward and pinning him by the shoulder blades. His glasses fell into the garden below which seemed to distress him more than anything else. Iris and I ran to the window. Dr. Laver followed us, but only to continue the argument.

  ‘I can imagine how many reports should be done a week, but in fact this is the only one I have seen.’

  Iris and I tugged at the window but could not raise it. On the other side of the glass Douglas groaned, ‘My glasses, oh my glasses!’

  Iris said breathlessly, ‘In any case, the recipients wouldn’t understand if we used other words . . .’

  ‘You mean their minds are set to receive this language and this language only?’

  ‘From another professional, yes. Oh dear, we aren’t going to be able to manage this, Ruth; it’s jammed.’

  Dr. Laver said loudly, ‘Well, I demand another kind of professionalism.’

  ‘I’ll go and get Mrs. Libnitz,’ I said, though what help that would be I could not imagine.

  As I went out of the room. Dr. Laver was saying, ‘Nothing will induce me to send a report from this clinic which reeks of secular piety.’

  He was totally absorbed in his argument to the exclusion of all else; I felt that if Douglas, or even he himself, had been dying, he would have pursued it to the last breath. I ran down the stairs. Mrs. Libnitz was in the hall talking to a burly man who had come to complain because Iris had parked her car in the entrance to a field so that he could not get his tractor past it.

  ‘Oh please help us,’ I said breathlessly. ‘Something terrible has happened.’

  We ran up the stairs. Iris was by this time standing on a chair; I could see that if she succeeded in getting the window open she would fall out. Dr. Laver was telling her that people are conditioned by the language they use. Douglas was hanging limply, arms dangling; whether he found this more comfortable, or had fainted, was not clear. The farm labourer put Iris to one side, then placed an enormous hand each side of the frame and heaved. The window shot up.

  ‘Don’t let go of it!’ I shouted, afraid it would come down again and decapitate Douglas before we dragged him clear. We pulled him into the room and he sat on the floor in a crumpled heap, his face in his hands. ‘Put your head between your legs,’ Iris commanded brusquely.

  ‘My head is bursting with blood as it is.’

  Dr. Laver said, ‘I think we’ve all had a tiring day, so we’ll close shop now.’ He walked out of the room.

  Douglas said, ‘I had a vision of some sort while I was hanging there. I’ll just stay here and think about it for a while.’

  Iris said, ‘Everyone is mad today.’ It was not a word much used in our clinic.

  Chapter Six

  My father had arranged for a memorial tablet to be placed in the graveyard at the back of our church, and Mother’s ashes were to be scattered on the Saturday. Eleanor came down for this occasion. We took her inclusion as natural although she had not been a frequent visitor in the days when Mother was alive. Whether it was Eleanor’s participation in our lives, I don’t know, but about this time, although I would never have addressed him in this way, I found that I was thinking of my father as Stewart. It was as though he was moving out of my close family circle and becoming a different person. Perhaps in some ways this freed him, but it also made him subject to the hazards of a more objective appraisal. For years I had, so to speak, swallowed him whole without savouring the special taste of him; now I was no longer so undiscerning.

  The ceremony was short. I had expected to be upset but wasn’t. I could not associate the fine grey ashes with Mother. Stewart was not upset either, and I think this confused him. He was restless afterwards. We walked round the graveyard reading the inscriptions on the tombstones and he was very moved by the jam jars containing primroses and violets. On the east side of the church there was a big, vigorous forsythia, its branches clotted with yellow. He came to it unexpectedly and caught his breath as though its vibrant display was too much for him. Eleanor, who seemed to have resented the church atmosphere, was making comments about the church porch and the possible date of the chancel, her tone emphasising that to her this was just another ancient monument.

  Beyond the low wall of the graveyard there was pasture-land where cows grazed, a gentle, unemphatic country landscape. Stewart leant his elbows on the wall and said, ‘How peaceful it is!’ We stood silent beside him. A breeze parted the long grass. Somewhere, so far away it scarcely disturbed the quiet, a motor bike zoomed along a country lane. He said, ‘She would like to lie here.’ His voice was choked.

  A feeling, so fierce I had no idea what caused it, swept over me. ‘She would like to have been buried in London,’ I said.

  He looked at me in amazement; his face was working and seemed in imminent danger of falling apart. I walked away to give us both time to recover. He was my father and I loved him; he was going through a very distressing experience and he was trying to be brave about it; now, more than at any other time, he needed my support. But I could not give it and I was not even sorry. I was angry. I did not know why I was angry, but that made no difference; my whole body throbbed with the pain of my anger so that I wanted to cry out loud. I stared up at the forsythia, brilliant against the blue sky. I loved my father and I loved my mother and I did not like myself, but there was nothing I could do about it.

  After a minute or two Eleanor joined me. ‘Stewart has gone to have a few words with the verger,’ she said.

  I did not answer. She plucked a sprig of rosemary and rubbed it between her fingers.

  ‘You’re incredible!’ I thought she meant to rebuke me, but she went on, ‘You are both quite incredible, talking about where she would like to have been buried as though it had any relevance. Those ashes . . . don’t you realise what they were?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I looked at her in surprise.

  ‘You suppose so!’ Her face was pale. ‘I shall give my body to science if anyone wants it by the time I’m through with it.’ She sucked her breath in and shut her lips tightly.

  ‘You could do with a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘I’ll go home and put the kettle on.’

  She gave me a lop-sided smile, knowing that I was glad of an excuse to escape.

  Stewart seemed to have put my outburst out of his mind and over tea he talked about the graveyard and how nicely it was maintained, including me in the conversation as though he was sure that I agreed with every word that he spoke. After tea, he said he must see the vicar. I was going to a meeting of the local amateur dramatic society.

  ‘We can’t leave you alone,’ he said to Eleanor.

  ‘Why ever not?’ She reacted wi
th the irritation of a person who is used to organising her own life.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He was going through a spell when he could not bear to be left alone and he had adopted the attitude that no one should be alone. It was a pleasant evening and I think Eleanor would have enjoyed an hour or so on her own.

  ‘You can come to the vicarage with me,’ he said.

  She did not like his insistence but she controlled her impatience. Again, I was aware of her refashioning her personality.

  ‘I’m not very good at making conversation with reverend gentlemen.’ Her voice sounded amused: she was not going to make an issue of this.

  ‘He’s a very interesting man; quite an authority on Gilbert White.’

  Eleanor said drily, ‘That makes all the difference.’

  He was impatient to leave. Since Mother’s death he had been anxious to make more contacts in the village. He talked to people over the wall when he was gardening, he had made the acquaintance of a solicitor who lived further along the lane and had been to his house for lunch-time drinks, and he had visited the vicar several times.

  At lunch the next day he told us he would like to call on Miss Maud. He said he was very moved that she had sent a wreath. Eleanor announced her intention of working in the garden, if he would trust her to weed the gravel path. She was firm about it. He asked me to accompany him, and as I was still feeling guilty about my behaviour in the graveyard I said that I would.

  ‘I shall have to be back by five o’clock, though, because I’m going out,’ I said as we left the house. ‘But I don’t suppose Miss Maud will expect us to stay long.’

  ‘She might want us to stay for tea.’

  ‘I don’t think she lives in that style now.’

  ‘There’s nothing stylish about having tea, is there?’ he asked irritably.

  It was a fine, warm day and we took the footpath across the fields to Miss Maud’s house.

  ‘What are you doing this evening?’ Stewart did not ask as a matter of casual concern, but as though he wanted to find out about my life to see where he fitted into it. He had made several enquiries of this kind recently.