When the children playing heard the pealing tones, they began making their way back to class. As Max got closer and realised who was ringing the bell, he adopted a funny walk. With arms and legs unbending, he marched in a robotic fashion. Several other of the boys emulated him, and then copied him when he spoke, so that a cacophony of grotesque spite rose from the gang.
“I am an alien... I am an alien,” they shouted before breaking into cruel laughter.
“That’s enough!” yelled Mrs Robbins from the doorway. “Into class now, and sit down!”
The children hushed and walked sheepishly past her into class. Yet despite the displeasure of their teacher, a few unkind comments about aliens, and even that her mother’s a mad woman, floated to Carys’s ears. The teasing wasn’t so different from usual, and she took comfort in Mrs Robbins attitude toward her today.
After a lunchtime sitting alone, and further lessons in the afternoon writing stories, which Carys loved to do, home time was upon them. The children all waited for their mums, or occasionally, dads, to collect them. When Mrs Robbins recognised a parent, she would allow the correct child to venture off home.
One by one the children left. One by one, that is, except Carys. Once all the others had left, Mrs Robbins asked Carys to wipe the blackboard for the second time that day. It wasn’t unprecedented for Diane to be late. Living in Nuthampstead meant she was prone to delays where pupils’ parents who lived in Royston weren’t.
When more time had elapsed than could be explained by usual unpunctuality, Mrs Robbins asked reception for Carys’s home phone number. She rang, but there was no reply. She rang a further three times before deciding that the lack of response probably meant that Mrs Ellis was on her way to collect her daughter.
A further twenty minutes passed. Mrs Robbins had run out of things for her to help with, and Carys was becoming upset. She decided there was nothing for it but to phone Carys’s father. It was most fortunate that he was close by.
Soon, the jam sandwich topped with a light with the appearance of an upturned blue bucket which passed for a police car in 1989, pulled up outside. Geraint exited the squad car and made his way to the front door of the school, then to Carys’s classroom.
Mrs Robbins took the opportunity to discuss her concerns about Carys’s night terrors. She inquired after Diane’s health in a transparently abrupt manner, then proffered her opinion that Diane’s mental problems were rubbing off on their daughter.
“I trust I can leave the matter in your capable hands?” she frowned with a not-too-subtle threat of social services involvement lingering in the air.
Geraint and Carys left for home over an hour late. Neither spoke; both uneasy for what they might find at home. As Geraint glanced in the rear view mirror, he was horrified to catch sight of his grey pallor. Any attempt to reassure his little girl would be unconvincing at best
It was with mounting dread he steered the rover squad car round the narrow lanes leading back to Nuthampstead and ‘Nutters.’ Cringing at the unfortunate choice of house name, he continued their short journey.
It was obvious, even from the driveway, that all was not well at the Ellis family home. Not to the untrained eye, perhaps. Although any onlooker might notice a few things not quite right. To Geraint, and doubtless little Carys too, the signs were all too clear.
With every single window in the house flung open, spring cleaning was clearly the order of the day. Give the house a good blow through of fresh air. A not uncommon sight, but given the wintry temperature, decidedly odd.
As music from Diane’s favourite, ABBA, blared from the open windows, the two newly arrived Ellis’s walked with trepidation up the shingle drive to the front door. It was locked and Geraint had to fish around for his keys before he could allow them access.
The pair flinched at the absurdly loud music assaulting their eardrums as the front door swung open. Entering the hall, they struggled against the volume toward the source of the sound. The ‘music centre’ crackled away beneath its Perspex lid, bellowing out the vinyl L.P. of ABBA’s greatest hits. Diane was nowhere to be seen.
A clatter coming from the kitchen gave her whereabouts away. Geraint and Carys expected another mammoth cooking escapade to be taking place. The lack of food smells should have alerted them, but didn’t. As Geraint pushed the kitchen door open they were shocked at the sight which greeted them.
The cupboards contents were lined up all over the floor which fortunately looked freshly cleaned. Diane wasn’t immediately obvious, but then Geraint spotted her, kneeling in front of the oven, her head buried inside.
Rushing to her, he was forced to sidestep saucepans, tins of everything from spaghetti hoops to figs, and packets of rice and pasta; desperately hoping he wouldn’t be too late to purge the deadly fumes of domestic gas from her lungs.
Skidding on an unseen posse of penne pasta tubes, he came to an abrupt halt banging his palm on the cream-cleaner covered hob. A startled Diane shot her head out from the oven and beamed up at him.
Her reason for being in the oven, obvious now: she was cleaning it. “Hiya, you two! What are you both doing home?” she asked, seeming genuinely surprised.
Geraint found it hard to repress a seething rage, but had long since learned that showing his displeasure only exacerbated the problem. Relief that she wasn’t gassing herself (the lack of smell should have been a clue to a seasoned professional policeman anyway, he noted ruefully) helped keep him calm. He knew he shouldn’t be cross anyway. She wasn’t herself in this state. She wasn’t rational.
He had to mention Carys, though. She had to know what she’d done. “We’re home because I had to collect our daughter from school.”
No reaction.
“I had to do that, because you forgot to pick her up.”
Comprehension dawned with a dark cloud in her eyes. Explosive, irrational anger bubbled just beneath the surface; a volcano on the verge of creating utter devastation to its surroundings. A pinprick of light; of hope, pierced through the cloud as Diane fought through.
“I’ve been very busy spring cleaning,” she announced, as though that was a valid excuse; as if that were a perfectly normal reason to abandon a child at school.
Carys hid behind her father, sensing the tension in the air. Turning away, Diane sprayed more oven cleaner vigorously into the oven before declaring, “Right. I need to leave that for no more than half an hour.” She paused before rising to her feet and announcing cheerfully, “I’m glad you’re home. You can help me get the curtains down in the lounge. They’re absolutely filthy.” Geraint could see nothing wrong with them. They were actually fairly new. But he knew better than to argue.
Carys hung around, not knowing what to do with herself. She didn’t want to be around her mother in this strange mood. That meant the lounge, and therefore the television, would be out of bounds whilst the curtains were dealt with.
She had most likely missed her favourite programs by now anyway, being so late arriving home. Outside, darkness had woven its cloak around the house. A step towards the stairs, and her bedroom, brought flooding back the images of dark eyes and grey skin. Trembling hands clutched her belly, the sounds of the whirring machinery beat in her ears at the fading memory. She couldn’t move.
“Whatever is the matter, Carys?” her mother demanded. A simple enough question, but loaded with undisclosed importance.
“Nothing.” Carys replied, unconvincingly.
“Well something is obviously wrong. Why don’t you go and watch television? Like normal?”
It was a command, not a question. Carys nodded that she would. The next comment, on the face of it throw away, chilled Carys with the implied threat. “I was beginning to think you didn’t want to spend time with your mummy.”
Carys turned and strained to smile. The moment passed, but was too soon for Carys to breathe a sigh of relief. Diane followed her into the lounge whilst barking orders to Geraint to fetch the step ladder.
“Now then, young lady
,” the tone less harsh now as Diane smiled tenderly at her little girl. Carys’s fears dispelled instantly.
Her mummy was lovely and kind, really. Carys did understand that when she was behaving oddly, it was only because of her illness. It was like she became a different person. That person didn’t show itself often, and despite believing it to be present today, Carys could see the warm truth of her mummy smiling at her. “What did you do at school today?”
In the warm glow of motherly love, Carys felt no reason to censor her reply. “I was a bit upset in the morning. I was crying because of a horrible nightmare I had last night. Mrs Robbins told me about night terrors and let me stay in at playtime so the other children wouldn’t tease me. I wiped the blackboard and I got to ring the end of play time bell, then I felt better,” Carys babbled.
“She asked how you were, and said when you’re unwell you say things that might give me night...” Carys froze as she noticed the unmistakable change in her mother’s countenance. “...mares,” she whispered hoarsely.
Geraint breezed in with a chirpy whistle, carrying the stepladder under his arm. His apparent good mood, a transparent placatory act designed to help his wife feel better, disappeared the moment he saw her face. Dark eyes, whose gaze it was impossible to hold, stared hatefully out at the world. Catatonic, even her breathing was barely discernable.
He stood motionless, hesitant of what he should do. Saying the wrong thing now could be enough to push Diane over the edge. Over her edge. He decided to remind her of her excitement at washing the curtains; ignore her awful mood in the vain hope of pulling her through before she slipped too far. “Well then, cariad. Where do you want me?” he gushed, ever the enthusiastic helper.
Careful not to suggest any way of proceeding; she would likely object if she wasn’t in charge, he was all too aware he could be making a huge mistake. Sometimes she needed gentle prompting for it to be palatable for her to cope with.
There must have been signs. An MO built up over the years, but Geraint struggled to make any sense of it. He was always sure he’d done the wrong thing and made things worse. But he couldn’t put action off forever. “Shall I start on the right-hand side?” he queried in desperation, and then, realising he’d made a suggestion, began to panic.
Diane sat in stony silence for a full heart-wrenching minute before piercing the stillness with the cold steel of her tongue. “Aren’t you going to ask me what’s wrong?”
Geraint, who dealt with the dregs of abusive society; who’d seen more horrific things than most people could cope with and stay sane, was floundering. Wincing at his stupidity, he felt a failure. Not just for Diane, or even for himself, but for Carys. Doing things right and keeping his little family safe was his responsibility, and it was all going wrong.
Deep within Diane, she yearned to reach out to her husband; to place a reassuring hand on his and tell him everything would be okay. But the part of her that had breached the surface now was too strong and too clever to let her.
Voices. Always the same. They knew her. They knew when she was at her lowest, and exactly what to say to get her to react. They implored her to do things she’d never think of doing otherwise. So compelling, so irresistible; like what they wanted her to do was the only thing that could bring her salvation.
Threats of terrible consequences for telling anyone kept them a secret. They, and only they understood her. Everyone else was the enemy. That part of her that wanted desperately to be free knew it was all lies; the voices were the enemy. But she could only fight them for so long. They never, ever gave up.
Today, the simple occurrence of her husband negating to ask her ‘What’s wrong?’ became confirmation he didn’t care about her. He didn’t love her. On top of the indisputable fact that her daughter was obviously afraid of her, it became too much. All in all, she was certain now. They’d be better off without her.
Before Geraint had issued a suitable reply to her heavily laden question, she calmly stood and removed herself from the room. Geraint could do nothing but stand and watch as she walked to the stairs and out of view.
The door to their bedroom slammed, followed by banging and clattering signifying what, Geraint and Carys could only imagine.
And neither of them imagined it to be good.
Geraint always did his best to keep Carys from the worst; the self-harm, the threats of suicide. It was so unexplainable to his logical mind. There was no one to ask, to unburden himself. He kept it all in, dangerously inside.
If Diane could talk about it, she’d explain that far from making things worse, he was her rock. There was no right or wrong way, just an inevitability that couldn’t be fought; a bath filling from a dripping tap—eventually it would overflow. One drip might be the final drop to cause the cascade, but if it wasn’t one thing it would be another.
She would explain her abuse of her arms by cutting, as a reaction to the incessant beleaguering by the voices; but partly, contradictorily, to exercise some control. Medication, prescribed by her psychiatrist to help her stay calm, detached her from her emotions. Pain made her feel something. It made her feel alive. It was cathartic.
If she recognised the compulsion creeping up on her, she could sometimes head it off with controlled, socially acceptable self-harm. Tattoos or piercings were often jumped upon as a solution, and she had quite a collection of both.
It had been a while since she’d sliced her flesh with some random sharp object. Kitchen knives and obvious instruments of injury were kept under close scrutiny by Geraint when necessary. But Diane would always find something. A belt buckle, a broken cup, even jewellery could be used to gash her wrists and arms alarmingly. Not life-threatening injuries, or even bad scars, but they caused pain, and that was enough.
Upon discovery of Diane’s wounds, Geraint would always be mortified, punishing himself with the sight, certain he could have done more to protect her. He loved her desperately. He had to, or he couldn’t have coped with his marriage. Conversely, loving her and caring so much made it so much more difficult to cope with when she was ill.
The self-harm would often be too much for him to bear, and he’d recommend a stay in hospital. Cared for by strangers who didn’t love her would be the tonic that often brought the real Diane, who cared for and loved her family, rushing to the surface. It was rare she would ever need to be hospitalised for more than a couple of weeks. Her stays were voluntary, so discharging was never a problem.
It struck both Diane and Geraint, and would have Carys if she’d been more aware, that it was a shame she couldn’t check into hospital whenever she felt the need. It was a prerequisite she be completely over the edge before it could even be considered.
Unfortunately, being over the edge was something she effortlessly hid from health visitors and the so called Crisis Team who could actually help her.
They would only ever call at the house when it was far too late. Even then, they always showed reluctance to do anything. Geraint’s position in the police force was often the only thing that swayed their judgment.
It could have been worse, they were both aware. Mrs Thatcher’s ‘care in the community’ project which had been talked of for years, was finally taking effect. Prior to now, Diane would simply have been sectioned under the mental health act and left to rot in the nut house as a paranoid schizophrenic.
On the whole, they were all grateful Diane was home for the vast majority of the time. For a lot of that time she was an extremely capable, intelligent, kind and loving member of society; and the invaluable linchpin of the Ellis family.
Filled with apprehension, Geraint raced up the stairs. Pausing outside his own bedroom, he felt the need to knock. He didn’t know why. There would either be no answer or worse, abuse.
‘Knock, knock’...no reply. Geraint tried the handle and pushed the door to enter but it wouldn’t move. There was no lock, so something must have been pushed in front of it.
What was she doing in there? He imagined the worst. “Open the door
. Come on, cariad. Please. Don’t be daft. Open up. Now!” He rattled the handle again before giving in with a sigh. Geraint was now stricken with worry.
Chapter Four
The ladder and
The wardrobe
He tramped down the stairs and opened the red, plastic flip up telephone book at ‘c’ for Crisis Team. He dialled the long number and waited as it rang and rang. Eventually a female voice answered in a manner suggesting perhaps the fridge had been ringing and had confused her.
“Yes?”
Not ‘Crisis Team, how may we help?’ or the name of the medical centre, or anything even vaguely professional. Geraint, used to the difficulties, continued with the necessary farce.
“My wife is a patient of Doctor Richards. We’re experiencing a crisis and need your help... please.” He thought to add the polite nicety despite his welling contempt for the service he’d learned to loathe.
A sighing sound, like they really had better things to be doing than dealing with his pathetic so-called crisis, escaped from the earpiece. “What’s happening, then?” she grunted.
Geraint described Diane’s worsening mental state, culminating in her locking herself in the bedroom.
“Well, what’s she doing in there?”
“Obviously, I don’t know, but I don’t suppose she’s bloody knitting! You are aware of her history, aren’t you?” Geraint hissed. “She has past cases of depression and self-harm. I’m seriously concerned she may be doing something we’ll all regret.”
There was no response, other than the irritated clicking of a computer keyboard. When no reply came afterwards, Geraint spoke again. “Can someone come out and bring medication or something?” he pleaded. “I really think she needs to go into hospital.”
The HUM: The complete novel Page 3
