by S. J. Finn
These were the entries.
4 September 1959
Tilley attended a session (brought by her paternal grandmother) and referred by teaching staff at Williamstown Primary School where she attends grade one. At age seven years and three months, she is a small, underweight child, presenting with average intelligence. She appeared nervous, had difficulty answering questions, demonstrating a speech impediment: an extended stutter that prevented her from finishing sentences. Her wishes to see her mother were expressed in her drawings. Note also from the drawings, especially those of the house, she appears to suffer considerable fear of life at home. Her wishes to find her mother, whose whereabouts are unknown, and to have a pet, such as a dog or cat, indicate her sense of isolation and need to be nurtured. My concerns at this early stage are that the child is being abused by the paternal grandfather, which should be investigated, and that neither grandparent is capable, physically or emotionally (not robust enough) to raise the child or to support her through the next important developmental steps.
I searched for the drawings, but couldn’t find them.
Second entry:
19 September 1959
Tilley presented as withdrawn and troubled today. It was difficult to engage her in a conversation and her eye contact remained very poor. She sat for most of the session in the corner of the room clutching a doll she’d brought with her. At some points, if I asked her about her mother, or a brother that the grandmother has reported to me this morning is still in the care of the mother, she began to rock back and forth, clearly agitated. I have asked both grandparents to attend a session on their own to ascertain their level of competency and understanding of the child’s needs.
Request for a speech assessment to be done has been lodged.
Third entry:
26 September 1959
Grandparents failed to attend appointment today. Decision made in consultation with Dr Schneider, to inform the State Government Department of Child Services as to our concerns. Action carried out. Further follow up with the department to occur after their investigation.
It occurred to me that Dr Schneider was one such name that, according to my instructions, should be scrubbed out. But as my hand went up to do it, the white tape stretching a little in my grip, I couldn’t work out the sense of it. Didn’t it render the request ridiculous – didn’t it contravene the purpose of past clients requesting the information in the first place?
I flipped to the other documents behind the notes. A referral from the school, stating the child’s details, date of birth, parentage, height, weight, physical features, and presenting concerns. Despite the brevity in the report, the weightlessness of it, it felt like a twenty kilogram ball and chain. I went back and covered Schneider’s name and that of the therapist: a Miss Julie Jacobson of the profession of occupational therapy. It was done. If I deleted anything else there would be nothing left. A clawing nauseousness rose in my throat, not only because of my suspicions that Tilley had been removed from her grandparents’ care and there had never been any follow up, but because of the hard cold reality of a file, a hospital file that starkly describes pivotal details about people and their lives. Construing a file one way or the other is one thing, but the physicality of its existence doesn’t change. It stands, often as the only evidence available for why something might have happened, something that may have been catastrophic for someone.
I sat back in my chair, eyeing a pile of my files that sat on the far right of my desk. I was, ridiculously, trying to remember if I had made any grand statements that might twist the fate of my clients, or that they may need to pore over or be outraged at on some future date. I was tempted to look through them as if they may have been requested for just that purpose but knew it would take hours of reading to satisfy myself and even then I wouldn’t be certain of my innocence. It’s not about me anyway, I berated myself, it’s about all the Tilleys in the world.
I opened the next one, a fat file of a kid who’d been admitted onto the inpatient ward twice. This was going to take hours and the kid, who was twenty-four now, was requesting the file because he’d become an actor and wanted to investigate his stint at Marlowe Downs as research for a role. I breathed deeply and exhaled in a rush. The entries described a boy who was very difficult to manage: severe mood swings, concentration problems. Diagnosis: attention deficit disorder, of course. I closed the file. He wanted the story; I was going to give it to him. Time was ticking away. I reached for the next, hardened already; my aim was to be as expedient as I possibly could.
‘First I became a barnacle. Attached. Now I’m feeding the machine like an artery of oxygenated blood,’ I said to James, him smoking, me pacing three or four repeated steps, back and forth in front of him.
‘The machine was made a long time ago,’ he said. ‘It’s perpetually out of date.’
I sat beside him.
‘Our response seems so impersonal. Almost defensive.’ I looked across the lawn at the smooth grey tree trunks, their skin infant-like, softening the walls of the buildings.
I searched the ground and watched several ants roaming between gumnuts at my feet. For a long time we sat in silence. I was aware of his cigarette crackling as he inhaled. My feelings, I realised, were stalking about on their own and, as such, felt too ruthless. By way of apology, I said, ‘Have you been playing music? You know, recording anything?’ (James was a good guitarist and had made a few demos. But, like all extraneous pursuits, Marlowe Downs seemed to soak up the energy they required.)
James shook his head resignedly.
‘You can’t give it up. That’s how people burn out, get depressed.’ Was I talking about myself?
He looked at me calmly. ‘I’ve got to buy more memory for my computer, or get a new one. Just waiting for the bank balance to turn around.’
‘Oh!’ I said, enthusiasm folding into contrition.
James laughed. ‘I could say the same to you about being swallowed up. Are you keeping up your hobbies, Mont?’
‘I’ve forgotten what a hobby is.’
‘It distracts you, you get absorbed in it, you don’t have to defend it. And it relaxes you, keeps you pliable.’
I watched him disappear into the staff lounge to wash his coffee cup. And, in the few seconds that followed, perhaps at the sight of his receding form, I saw myself, sitting out there on that ugly bench, alone. The image, the most vivid view of myself I’d ever had, was palpable. Not in a frightening or pitiful or even sad way, just in an unadulterated-and-unexpected-surge-of-seeing way, of knowing I was there, of the reality of my presence. No less, no more than who I was. A startling reminder of my omnipotence and lack of it, of my limitations and my strengths. And then it was gone.
I breathed rather fitfully. A piercing hankering for Renny, for her confidence, for her company and for home flowed into the gap it left. An odd moment had registered and been sucked away equally as quickly. And I was glad. Glad I’d felt it and glad it was over. Tears were issuing from me as I sat on, absorbing my tangibility, my spot here in this scrappy courtyard I knew so well now. And, as after most emotional eruptions, I felt wonderful and crushed, liberated and defeated in the same moment; I knew it signalled something of a turning point.
Perhaps in a way I’d arrived at banality, the place from where I’d heard someone once say that learning begins.
There was, of course, the possibility that the hand of corruption was closing tighter around me, but the fact remained that I had seen – even if it had been just for a few seconds – myself, the reality of my presence, my work, the good and the bad of it.
One other thing stood out; I had to change tack, to step away, be less caught up in my reactions to what I saw. I had to concentrate on doing my job to the best of my ability and let the other stuff – the political implications of the work, the judgemental framework of some of the practitioners – go. Those concerns had sated me and would very soon begin to rule me. I had reached a crossroads and I couldn’t proceed any fur
ther. I needed another spot on the horizon to head towards, another marker as a guiding point.
TWENTY-SEVEN
James and I organised our diaries to work from home. We had two assignments: the first was to design a pamphlet for the new-look organisation – the SKYHooks we had become – and the second was to write a skit to perform at the Xmas break-up.
Easy enough. I’d gathered some old pamphlets to work from and chosen some kids’ drawings. It was important to get to the nub of what we did, and relay it in the least complicated way to families.
It was one of those days that bellowed a rich blue sky – like ground dye – and breathed a stream of cool air into our lungs. Melbourne spring at its best. James lived in the top half of an old house that had been divided into two. Dusty pink, its stucco walls were as thick and impenetrable as old hospital walls. He lived close by, and not having to travel across town made me feel like I was having a day off.
James had coffee brewing and was tackling an enormous booty of dishes in the tiniest of sinks.
‘Can’t believe you’d let that many dishes fester,’ I joked, unburdening myself of possessions.
‘The man behind the mask,’ he said.
I offered a six-pack to go in the fridge. ‘It’s beers on me when we’re finished.’
‘Beauty.’
Through the open window I could see into the kitchen of the house next door.
‘That’s close.’
‘Learnt not to look.’
‘Hope they do the same?’ I noted lightly, wondering if I would cope with such a lack of privacy.
‘Saw her bang her head against the kitchen table one night, fall onto the floor. When I couldn’t raise her from ringing the doorbell, I called an ambulance. They got the fire brigade to break in. She hasn’t spoken to me since.’
I shook my head. ‘Imagine if you hadn’t and she’d carked it. Imagine the headlines: Neighbourly Help Is Dead.’
He peeled off his rippling laugh.
We worked on the pamphlet, appropriating snippets from the original, setting out new headings to put the information under. Who We Are. Where You’ll Find Us. When You Might Need Us. How We Can Help. Boring stuff. Pared down. Made-friendly facts. A benign face to a stressful and harrowing experience for the whole family.
I showed James the kids’ drawings I’d brought for the front of the brochure and we narrowed the choice to four. One was of a tiny house, its chimney gushing smoke that produced a black cloud which overtook the page. Beside it there was a small tree, red apples lying on the ground under it. The next was a house with a bold orange roof – like a mop of hair – but we weren’t sure the printing options would do justice to the colour. There was a For Sale sign in the front yard, which was a common theme amongst little pencil pushers at Marlowe Downs. The third was a picture of a family – all the girls dressed in triangular skirts, the boys in square trousers. But in the end we chose the fourth: a tall, uncluttered house drawn with a shaky hand. It had an interesting roof line, and overhead, a jagged crook of lightning hung, not so much ominously, but a little querulously. There were a few strands of grass in the front yard and one lone flower in bloom. But the most captivating part of the drawing was a crack running in a squiggly line through the face of the house from above the door to the roof.
‘Shows strength and vulnerability,’ I commented, my throat tight with sentiment.
‘The simplicity makes it a brilliant graphic,’ James agreed. ‘Makes it stand out.’
‘Is it full of emotion or is it me?’
‘It’s great. Doesn’t look cutesy or ordinary. Even the shape of the house.’
‘Okay, good, done. Now the Xmas skit.’
It was mid-afternoon by the time we’d worked out a script that included the whole team and managed, in a teasing way, to poke fun at the organisation. The idea was based around the hub-and-spoke agenda. Marlowe Downs – contentiously, from the staff’s point of view – was planning to decentralise. Office spaces with two or three clinicians were being negotiated for small outposts in the suburbs, and from these so-called “hubs”, even smaller offices, referred to as spokes – with perhaps one or two clinicians – were on the cards. My role as sergeant major was to enlist the motivation of my team as we prepared to open up these clinics, much like the medical unit of an army might get ready to move camp.
We laughed a lot during the course of that afternoon, suggesting, rescinding, writing down, crossing out. The best parts, of course, were too true to be included. In the end – the jokes a little naff but not bawdy or offensive – we felt we had created some good clean wholesome fun. We cracked open the stubbies when we could see the finish line. Keeping it light, keeping it very light.
Later, we sat on James’s small back verandah, looking down on a Hills hoist. The backyard was cut dramatically in half by light and shade. Two lemon trees shone their bottle-green foliage up at us. We tilted our beers in salute. I was smoking a cigarette, a thin rollie I liked the smell of rather than the taste.
‘You know,’ I said after the talk of funnier, light-hearted things had waned, ‘if Anton gets his way, Marlowe Downs will be gone in a year. I hate to agree with that woman, Deborah Armata, but…’
‘What does she say?’ James asked.
‘Well, something Celia says actually. In fact, she probably got it from Celia. It’s that notion that critical thinking only exists when there’s a critical mass of people. The kind of excellence that comes from many minds meeting. We won’t just be corporate, we’ll be split off into tiny spokes.’
‘Audit’s in a week.’
‘Wonder what’ll happen if we don’t pass?’
‘They can’t just shut us down. There has to be some kind of service.’
‘There’s a lot of noises about letting some things go.’
‘Zzst!’ He made the noise of a mosquito zapper.
‘They’ll take the specialist areas: autism, the school.’
‘It’s a shake up. You know, something the business world calls getting rid of deadwood.’
‘But that’s meant to cut out individuals, selectively prune. If they end up culling programs, the people they most need to sack will hang on.’
‘There’s a list.’
‘What?’ I was laughing. ‘Who told you that?
‘Elliot. There’ll be heads to roll.’
‘See!’ I said judiciously. ‘How ridiculous. As if we work for a private billion-dollar company with shareholders to please.’
We hadn’t spoken like this for weeks. The whine, despite the vitriol in my words, had disappeared from my voice and I could breathe. To my relief, I didn’t need to get so het up about what was going on at Marlowe Downs. Perhaps James detected this because he had a massive grin on his face; he approved of my pique.
‘You should be careful of Elliot,’ I said. ‘He talks things up. Has a way of getting your blood going.’
‘It’s MeadowLea. The place, from what I can work out, lumbers along no matter what occurs. Like that Ben Lee song, A lot goes on but nothing happens. This’ll blow over, Monty, or take them so long to reform it won’t matter in the end.’
I drained my beer.
‘Another?’ he asked jovially. I nodded.
Work had reached a holding pattern. Or I’d built up a certain immunity to it and was, at last, able to be circumspect about things. James, luckily for him, was someone more naturally able to roll with the punches. This was his saving grace, and somehow, for now at least, I seemed to have cottoned-on and joined him. Oh, I knew that the train had left the station and I was firmly seated on it, destination unknown. But I’d also become resigned to the fact that I had no choice but to settle back and get used to the ride, even if it was winging at high-speed towards a very wobbly bridge.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The auditors arrived and to the vast majority of Marlowe Downs employees they were a band of ghostly figures, never sighted but present. Rumours flew of their entrance and their whereabouts as they tour
ed the complex.
‘They’re in the adolescent unit,’ Teresa said to me, not attempting to whisper. ‘Everybody’s dressed to the nines, especially the commanders in charge.’ She slid her eyes away with a hint of irreverence.
‘They’ll be sweating on it,’ I said dryly, to which Teresa gave the smallest agreement in the curl of her lip.
Somehow, for the entire day, they eluded the vast majority of staff. Teresa was reliable enough for information, while everyone else was rather hysterical, so I had no delusions that they were on the premises. The exceptions, those unperturbed, were Eddy, who passed me in the corridor and said, ‘Who can tell what’s happening? The emperor’s new clothing is either working a treat or revealing all.’
And Celia, who hadn’t even registered what was going on: ‘Auditors? What on earth can they see in a day? The whole notion is ludicrous.’
And then later I heard her in the staff area, outside. ‘They can scrutinise all they like.’ She had risen from a huddle of her cohorts. ‘Won’t make an ounce of difference to me.’
Celia’s mates were an array of part-timers, women specialist doctors and psychotherapists: competent, professional mothers who juggled career and home. They had all looked up at her, nodding solemnly and unemotionally. These were the women worth preserving and, from my viewpoint at least, seemed most probably in the firing line for the chop. They were women who lived for their work in a quiet, unassuming manner. It was also probably true to say that they weren’t the best at keeping their records up-to-date – although no worse than me – because their priorities were with their patients and not with a group of health department bureaucrats who were ticking boxes. These women weren’t going to alter their commitment to their mode of operation and, while they understood the dangers of money crunching, they were simply more solid than changing fiscal winds. They paid homage to a higher principle; they had their work, and they believed in their subject matter beyond the hospital bottom line, unlike those in upper management. Elliot, to name one.
