MARCH HOUSE

by MARY HOCKING

  I was shaken by this letter. Eleanor and now Hilda; two people I had imagined to be very set in their ways had shown themselves capable of making big changes in their lives. How brave they were and how generous! I read Hilda’s letter through again. Was she in rather too much of a hurry? ‘. . . physically, I think nursing will be too much for me in future.’ This worried me a little, perhaps because it was so unlike the Hilda I knew. Had her operation really been only a minor one? Perhaps she needed me more than she had allowed herself to say. I could imagine without too much difficulty what life would be like looking after a sick Hilda and running a country tea-shop and I thought it was something I could do. I knew how I would cope with it and what resources I could call upon; whereas the London idea would call for qualities I was not sure that I possessed. The teashop, so practical and possible, made the London idea seem something of a castle in the air. In the matter of change, it was one thing to be bold but a degree of realism was surely necessary as well? Then I heard Dr. Laver, as clearly as if he was behind me, saying that we never break the patterns of the past and that I would find another sick relative to look after’.

  I spent some time composing a letter to Hilda which sounded concerned and warmly appreciative without committing me to an immediate decision. On the matter of decision, I wrote: ‘You say you have been unable to think about yourself in recent years and I have been in much the same case. So I hope you won’t think me ungrateful if I ask for a little time to sort myself out. But I am grateful, Hilda, and I shan’t be proud. Rest assured, I’ll put that conscience of yours to rest and accept one of your options.’

  I was still thinking of those options when I went to work the next day. We had heard nothing from Dr. Laver since his telephone call to say that he had ‘flu and by now Iris was convinced that we should never see him again. His presence here was now irrelevant and—although discretion had not seemed to be one of his virtues— she assumed that, this being the case, he would not trouble us again.

  ‘But he can’t go away and leave his cases in the air,’ Douglas said. ‘What do you think, Ruth?’

  The only excuse I was prepared to accept for Dr. Laver’s conduct was that he was dead; but I thought Douglas might think this a rather extreme reaction, so I said, ‘I can’t see him coming back.’

  ‘We shall manage very well without him,’ Iris said. ‘It has been a stimulating experience, I would not deny that. But it is not the kind of experience which can, or should, be prolonged. He has served his purpose.’

  ‘But have we served our purpose for him?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘I am reminded of a Buddhist parable,’ Iris said magisterially. ‘A man has to ford a river and he is fortunate in finding a raft. But when the raft has taken him across the river he does not lumber himself with it for the rest of his journey. The raft was for crossing over, not for retention.’

  At this moment the door opened and Dr. Laver strode in, followed by Di.

  Douglas said, ‘I’m not quite clear which of us is the travelling man and which the raft.’

  ‘No papers have been put out for me,’ Dr. Laver said.

  ‘Your papers have not been put out for you because we did not expect you to return,’ Iris told him coldly.

  ‘Well, as you see, you were mistaken.’ He turned to me. ‘Who am I seeing this morning?’

  ‘Mrs. Wilmer.’ I had some difficulty in speaking because my throat was dry. ‘And this afternoon you have Mr. and Mrs. Brodie.’

  ‘What time is Mrs. Wilmer due?’

  ‘Mrs. Wilmer can wait,’ Iris said. ‘In any case, she will probably be late.’ There was an awful vitality about Iris. Her face gleamed in its frame of white hair and her body was more thrustful than ever; it was as though some force within her had turned to evil and she buzzed with it like a wasp. ‘We have had a letter from the Foundation. I think you should see it.’ She snapped her fingers at me, impatient for her moment of triumph. The letter was on my desk but I did not give it to her. I kept my shaking hands in my lap. Dr. Laver strolled across and looked down at it, hands in pockets, jingling coins. Iris came to the other side of my desk.

  ‘We will not ask the meaning of this,’ she said, more magisterial than ever. ‘No one here wishes to be ruthless. Nor are we interested in explanations which can only be painful. By a stroke of the greatest good fortune, I am in contact with a young psychiatrist who would be prepared to work in this clinic, as well as taking part in another project which it is not now necessary for me to discuss with you . . .’

  ‘If it is the television nonsense there is certainly no need to discuss it with me.’

  ‘How did you find out about that?’ Iris was momentarily disconcerted.

  ‘The cleaner told me. All the time that she is cleaning your room you are scribbling on pieces of paper. Do you know what she says about you? “The poor creature, it must be hard being so clever you are forever tripping over your own brains.” But there will be no fear of your doing that on television because I absolutely forbid you to use any material with which I am concerned . . .’

  ‘When this was first mooted it was to have been an extension of a programme . . .’

  ‘You had no business to moot anything which involved me. I have no intention of becoming a fairground freak.’

  ‘Fairground freak! A regrettable attitude to the value of television as an educational medium. However, I . . .’

  ‘Television is essentially a commercial medium . . .’

  ‘HOWEVER I would not quarrel were you to substitute the word “fake”.’

  I said, ‘I don’t want all this drama. Would you please go further away. Both of you!’

  Iris whirled away, angry to be cheated of the climax for which she had worked so hard. Dr. Laver laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard him laugh and I could not say that he appeared to be amused, although his eyes glittered with pleasure of a kind.

  ‘Fake? You are the fake. This scene which you have set up is a fake. It is not because of this letter that you want me to leave. Do you remember Mrs. Brodie’s dream? She is in her house with her mother and her grandmother, and a man is holding them up with a gun. She manages to escape through a skylight, but when she is outside she sees that the house is being watched by policemen and she knows she will not be able to get away without the policemen seeing her, so she goes back into the house. Do you understand what that means?’

  ‘She is afraid of men,’ Iris said scornfully.

  ‘She is afraid of freedom. We are all afraid of freedom.’

  ‘And we have all read Erich Fromm.’

  ‘And you, in particular, are afraid.’ I had not realised before that he was so grotesque. He was short, but long in the body and he had very broad shoulders. Perhaps to give an impression of height he frequently lifted his shoulders and when, as now, he made an assertion he raised himself on his toes. There was something vulgar and comic about him, but there was, too, more than a hint of malevolence. Iris laughed when he said that she was afraid, but she looked to us to join in, suddenly finding that she needed support.

  ‘Yes, you are afraid.’ He did not miss this signal for reassurance. ‘You are afraid of what I have started in you. When we begin to examine ourselves the going gets rough. We may find wholeness, or our personality may be shattered into fragments. That is a risk you are not prepared to take. So, as Mrs. Brodie returns to the place where she was a prisoner, you want to return to the clinic as it was before I came, with you in control; and the greatest adventure which you will permit yourself will be to take part in a television programme which you will fill with tepid superficialities.’

  Iris said in a high, stretched voice, ‘I see no point in prolonging this argument. If you will wind up your affairs at the clinic today, making what explanations you consider appropriate to the clients, I think I can answer for my colleagues when I say that we shall not seek to embarrass you.’

  ‘Embarrass me!’ He laughed, baring his teeth. Iris turned her back on him and he gav
e her a sharp slap across the behind. ‘You’ll never embarrass me, duckie!’

  ‘How uncouth,’ Iris said disdainfully, her voice trembling a little.

  Dr. Laver turned on Douglas. ‘And you? How were you proposing to embarrass me?’ Douglas backed away, knocking over the waste paper basket. ‘Well, speak up, one of you. She may say there is no need of explanation, but I certainly intend to have one.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Di said. ‘It’s been made pretty clear to me ever since I’ve been here that the nurse isn’t a senior partner in this outfit. Any decisions that have to be taken, Douglas and Iris will take.’ She went out of the room, banging the door noisily behind her.

  Iris said to Douglas, ‘For goodness sake go after her, or she will tell Mrs. Libnitz about this.’

  ‘But I should have no objection to her telling Mrs. Libnitz,’ Dr. Laver said. ‘I am not sure what it is we are telling, but I see no reason why it should not be widely known, bruited about, blazened abroad, or whatever cliché comes to your mind this morning. In the meantime, I suggest that we should all go away and think about this quietly. You gave me until tomorrow morning; so, I give you until tomorrow morning. We will talk about it then. In the meantime, I should like Mrs. Wilmer’s file, please.’

  When he had gone, Douglas said to Iris, ‘I hope you are satisfied.’ He walked hurriedly to the door but had a little trouble with the handle before he could get it to turn.

  Iris said, ‘If he had bothered to wait for an answer I should have told him that I am perfectly satisfied.’ She walked across to the mirror and spoke to the woman in the mirror. ‘The Laver creature could hardly have demonstrated more unanswerably that he is not fit to run this clinic, could he? I hope we are going to be able to deal with him in a dignified and compassionate way, but if he does not have the sense to accept our offer when he has had time to reflect on it . . .’ She stood, turning her head from one side to the other, looking at the changing planes of the face. ‘Not that I want to destroy him; I would not want to destroy anyone.’ She paused, considering the possibility of destruction. Then something disturbed her, some blemish; she bent forward, peering, but her breath misted the mirror. She rubbed at the glass fretfully and then turned away.

  I threaded paper into the typewriter and began to type. Even after she had gone, the atmosphere in the room was oppressive with drama. There had always been a lot of drama at the clinic, and, come to think of it, in my life. All this fermenting and highlighting of incidents was as though life itself was not enough, but some extra ingredient must be injected into it. I did not want any more drama.

  I was angry with Dr. Laver for returning apparently safe and well, but not as angry as I should have been. Fear predominated. His disappearance had been a relief; he had departed at an opportune moment allowing me to make an accommodation with life. I had nearly gone too far in probing my problems and might well have made myself into a tiresome neurotic. I did not want to have anything more to do with Dr. Laver because, however fraudulent he might be, I was more than ever convinced that my first impression of him had been right; he was a man who knew too much for his own and other people’s good.

  I decided that I would finish the typing which I had on hand and then I would go home. I would accept Hilda’s offer to help with the teashop and I would not return to the clinic or ever see Dr. Laver again. I typed steadily while my mind worked out what I would say to my father and what arrangements I would have to make with Hilda. Time passed. It must have been early afternoon when a shadow fell across my typewriter and I looked up to find Mr. Brodie standing in front of me looking more than ever like a despotic Roman emperor.

  ‘My G.P. has not received any information from Dr. Laver,’ he said. ‘In fact, he was quite surprised to learn that my wife was seeing a psychiatrist here.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said.

  Mr. Brodie chewed at his lip thoughtfully, perhaps considering whether I should be thrown to the lions or reserved for a worse fate. ‘I sit on a committee with a consultant psychiatrist,’ he said eventually. ‘I think perhaps I’ll ask him what the procedure usually is.’

  ‘It might be simpler to ask Dr. Laver.’

  Mr. Brodie raised his eyebrows. ‘My dear young lady, do you really think so?’

  ‘Have you told the consultant that your wife is being treated here?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, not. I thought it amusing to see how far things would go. My wife claims to be gaining new insights; but my impression is that she has become even more disturbed. I shall make a point of speaking to the consultant this afternoon when I shall be attending a meeting at which he will be present. He is a very eminent psychiatrist, you may have heard of him: Dr. Cumner Asche.’

  I said drily, ‘Yes, I have heard of him.’

  Mr. Brodie went out of the room chuckling to himself. Some ten minutes later he left the building with his wife and I heard them arguing as they walked towards his car. The buzzer on my telephone sounded querulously and I picked up the receiver automatically as I watched the Brodies. Dr. Laver said, ‘Will you come up, please, Ruth.’ I put the receiver down without answering and wondered what to do. I decided to leave and I was just about to put the cover on my typewriter when Iris came in. ‘Dr. Laver is waiting for you,’ she said.

  I did not want to explain my actions to Iris, or to anyone else. Douglas was standing outside the reception-room talking to Mrs. Libnitz. I decided to go up the front stairs and down the back stairs. I picked up my handbag and put my jacket over my arm. ‘It can be chilly in his room,’ I said to Iris, but there was no need of explanation; she was intent on the woman in the mirror. I went lightly up the front stairs and was in sight of the back stairs when I saw that the door of Dr. Laver’s room was open and he was standing waiting for me.

  ‘No doubt you feel you are entitled to an explanation,’ he said, taking me by the elbow and pushing me into the room.

  I shook my arm free. ‘You had better save your explanations for the police.’

  ‘The police?’ He shut the door and moved away from me towards his desk. It occurred to me that once I had told him about Dr. Cumner Asche he would not spare a thought for me, so I said, ‘Do you know a Dr. Cumner Asche?’

  ‘I know of a Dr. Cumner Asche,’ he said casually.

  ‘So does Mr. Brodie. He is going to talk to him about you this afternoon.’

  Dr. Laver sat down heavily; he looked as though something unpleasant which he had always suspected had been confirmed. ‘How all the little pieces of life slot into place, don’t they? Who could believe it is a random event!’

  ‘It was Dr. Cumner Asche on the station platform, wasn’t it? He recognised you.’

  Dr. Laver waved a hand in the direction of the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘In the words of Iris and her cohorts, it may be therapeutic for me to “share” this with you. But it will take some time, so you had better sit down.’

  ‘I’m not interested.’

  He began to talk as though I had not spoken. ‘Every examination he sat Dr. Consummate Ass had to take three times, whereas it was all too easy for me. Psychiatry is very boring now, everyone is so afraid of exerting undue influence that it is all left to the patient; it doesn’t require any more skill than putting on a long- playing record. But I had a gift. A great gift. However, even hypnotising people can be boring; most people lead dull lives and their innermost secrets are remarkably trivial; there is no such thing as original sin. In time, I wanted something else. I began to hypnotise myself. The results were fantastic. I was in a world with an extra dimension. So much was explained that it was difficult to get my mind round it. The trouble was that once I could explain one thing, another question was posed, a question that no one else in the world would ever think to ask because they hadn’t discovered that dimension, and so it went on, explanation, question, explanation, question, and all the time I was going further and further out . . .’ He had been talking faster and faster. Now he stopped; when he cont
inued, he was petulant. ‘My mind cracked. No one tried to help me. I was out in space and they were light years away, mouthing at me from their little earth capsule, yapping about “abuse of patients”, “fraudulent use of national health resources.” You know how petty-minded these bureaucrats are. I was put away somewhere. It seemed best to acquiesce; the alternatives were very unpleasant.’ Observing his face as he talked, I saw that the eyes were set too close to the bridge of the nose, and the nose itself was a clumsy, triangular affair like the matchbox noses children make. His exhibitionism was that of the conjuror distracting attention from that which must not be noticed; in his case, his ugliness. He was saying, ‘I don’t remember much about what happened; that part of my life is blocked, but one day I shall find a way through and then it will all start again and I shall take up where I left off. However . . . One day I saw the sunlight shining in through a window: the sun had not shone for a long time. It drew me out. There was no one about, but there was a baker’s van in the yard. I climbed into the back of it. It took me away from that dark place. Then it stopped in a country lane; the driver went behind a hedge to pee and I got out and walked away. I was not sure where I was in time or place; I didn’t know what year it was or the actual part of the country I was in. So I hitch-hiked. On the way I came by these clothes; I won’t bother you with the details. Eventually, I arrived at Weston Market and went into the information office. I saw a leaflet about “caring agencies” and March House was mentioned. The name lodged in my mind and I came here. I walked into this building and opened a door and you said, “Dr. Laver, I presume.” I thought to myself: keep close to her and she’ll see you through; the clinic secretary knows all that it is necessary for anyone to know.’ He was quiet for a moment, gazing at me.

  ‘There was something between us, Ruth, from the very beginning. You were waiting for me to walk into that room. There was something in you which had to be broken; a composed, unshakable Victorian miss to be shattered.’ He enjoyed saying ‘broken’ and ‘shattered’. ‘Isn’t that right?’