The ambiguity of her imminent departure fell to the side of relief rather than guilt. Clouds of despair parted and Geraint’s eyebrows un-knit and his shoulders relaxed. She was safe, and she’d be his beautiful, wonderful wife again soon.
He had to stop himself bursting into uncontrollable laughter and sufficed with a heartfelt grin. With tension melting, he set about catching up on paperwork with a new found aplomb. He allowed himself a small chuckle and soldiered on.
Chapter Seven
Stella
When he’d finished most of his paperwork and was about to leave the station to follow up some enquiries, his desk phone shrilled into life again. It had been a couple of hours since his last contact with Dr Richards but he knew it would be him.
“Mr Ellis?” Once confirmed, the purpose of his call was revealed, and he was pleased to confirm Diane a place on Addenbrookes A5 ward. It was a section of the hospital separate from the main building to facilitate mental health care.
Visiting times were whenever he wanted, so long as he appreciated he might arrive to find he wouldn’t be allowed entry after all. Things could change rapidly on the psychiatric ward. Geraint said he understood, which he clearly did. Diane was becoming a frequent user of their facility.
He had to leave work early again today to collect Carys from school. Childcare would need to be arranged urgently. There were no family members to call on for help. Geraint’s were back home in Wales, and Diane’s had kept their distance since her diagnosis. Disgusted, Geraint had long since accepted their shortcomings
They’d used a child-minder before who Carys was fond of, called Stella; a robust, wholesome if not slightly scruffy former teacher in her late fifties. She could be relied upon to collect Carys from school, and entertain her with paints, or cooking, or even (under strict supervision) using Stella’s potter’s wheel.
That was Carys’s favourite thing to do. It almost made it worthwhile for her mummy to be unwell. Stella had fired a few of Carys’s creations, which now adorned shelves in her workshop. Some had even made it into the house.
Diane was always a little embarrassed in Stella’s company. The circumstances at such times were usually unfortunate. But she too was a fan of the potter’s wheel. It was after dabbling they’d decided to make ‘Tim’s Room’ into their own pottery.
They’d yet to start the project. Potters’ wheels and kiln’s were prohibitively expensive. Stella kindly offered that if a wheel was purchased, she would fire the first few attempts in her kiln.
Thinking of Stella, and why she was in their life, brought a pang for home and a lump to Geraint’s throat. In his melancholy, the ruler-drawn horizon riled him. Things would be so different in the bosom of his family.
Diane found the wonderful ‘Nutters’ after exhaustive telephone calls and mailings to estate agents when the opportunity for his career had been too tempting to dismiss, prising him from the lofty peaks and sandy shores of his homeland.
There were days when he conceded some preferences for his new surroundings. Every house lining the leafy lanes of Nuthampstead was full of character; a far cry from the grey breeze blocks deemed suitable as a finished surface so commonplace in Wales.
He held little fondness for the row upon row of long terraced housing in the valleys compared with the charm of thatched cottages and brick facades. Recently, he’d learned that Nutter’s displayed its own thatched roof once. A senior villager had enlightened him.
Slate (probably from Wales), had long since replaced the reeds after severe weather damage over its hundred and fifty years of history had prompted the modification. The cost of restoring it to its former glory was too pricey for Geraint’s police wages
Daydreaming his way despondently through the bland countryside, a thin smile played on his lips at another source of joy: the wildlife the area boasted. The first time he’d seen deer in the woods and fields behind the house he’d gasped with surprise; and been ecstatic upon discovery of hoof prints in their garden! Deer roamed in Wales, too, but in the Swansea valley’s it was all mountain ponies and sheep.
A slowing of traffic forced his view left and made him judder. The reason for his disdain, the road sign noting his location: Caxton Gibbet; a pretty village named after a hideous execution. The gibbet itself sat gruesomely on the outskirts of the village. In Geraint’s mind, a dangling cadaver still hung grotesquely in the sky.
When the traffic finally moved, the relentless flat fenland was unyielding, provoking within Geraint a feeling of almost agoraphobia. Atop a Welsh mountain so open and free, the peaks and troughs of the undulating landscape gave scale and perspective. For a Welshman, this flatness was hard to endure.
It was with mild relief that he reached Royston, boasting as it did the highest point for miles on the pinnacle of Therfield Heath. Famous for rare species of orchid, there was nothing higher than the grassy upland on a direct line across the channel.
On a clear day, it was said you could (just) make out the Eiffel Tower, but never on any of Geraint’s trips to the summit. He almost felt more home sick knowing this was as high as he could get, and it still not providing the scenery he yearned for.
He wondered if this kind of home-sickness might be uniquely Welsh. Wherever he was, he knew he’d never be truly happy unless he stood on Welsh soil; his feet bedded into the Cambrian bedrock that was even a term geologists used to describe rocks of immense age.
He’d been warned of it by family, and fellow Welshmen and women, before their move across the water. The Welsh had a word for it, ‘Hiriaeth’, that they say has no direct English translation.
Geraint always choked on it, driving over the four mile long Second Severn crossing; always singing the same song. And when he got to the line We’ll kiss away each hour of Hiriaeth, when... You come home again to Wales, he’d struggle to get the words out.
Arriving at school along with the other parents, mostly mums, Geraint and the squad car received plenty of attention. Not being one of local town Bobbies, it was with suspicious murmurs that the crowd parted. After a few broad smiles and ‘good afternoon’s’ in his friendly Welsh accent, he was soon winning them over.
Carys ran out from her class. “Daddy!” she cried, dashing towards him. He grabbed and lifted her to the sky in one brisk motion, nuzzling her woolly jumper covered tummy, her giggles filled the air.
The atmosphere in the car was strained. Fear from the day before had given way to a sadness. Worrying how Diane was coping, they missed her; the loving, nurturing wife and mother the enduring memory.
The pleasant drive back home washed over them comfortingly, but Diane’s absence hit harder closer to home. Passing ‘Lower Green’, the first of the two halves into which the village was split, ‘Nutters’ stood proud and white at the end of a long shingle driveway just around the corner at the start of ‘Upper Green’. Its roof pitched slightly oddly, a little too steeply. It must have looked grand thatched. The ‘Nutters’ sign Geraint had carved before they’d even moved in, hung from its purpose made post taunting them.
No signs of seasonal cheer adorned the Ellis home, and it was later than they’d usually start. The neighbours hadn’t succumbed to the festive pressure. With a silent prayer, Geraint acknowledged there was still time to have a normal Christmas.
Geraint couldn’t face visiting tonight. It hadn’t been long since the violent outburst from her cell, and it wouldn’t be fair on Carys to drag her out again. She looked exhausted. Maybe tomorrow, if Diane was any better.
He phoned Stella, who, apart from her concern for the family, was delighted to have Carys after school for a few days or so. Then, after poached eggs on toast for tea (three eggs each, because he was a bit greedy, and Carys only ate the yolk), he led Carys to bed.
Halfway up the stairs he remembered the mess Carys had confessed her bed to be. Pushing her door open, flinching at the anticipated gagging, he smiled when he was greeted by an agreeable, flowery smell. Before Diane had tackled the kitchen in her cleaning f
renzy of the day before, evidently she had changed Carys’s bedding.
Carys was a bit tearful as he tucked her in. It took three stories of quite considerable length for Geraint to make it back downstairs. When he did manage to settle her down, he sat with a cup of tea in front of the television. Some new comedy series was starting on BBC One. It amused him in his fretful state. He chuckled a couple of times during it and made a note to perhaps watch ‘Birds of a Feather’ again next week. It was followed by the news. He was usually an avid fan but tonight he fell into a deep sleep.
He awoke to a fuzzy screen and an excruciating high pitched humming noise. He’d heard the noise plenty of times before. Often he’d fall asleep during the news before the weather forecast (his favourite part.) Tonight, though, it jolted him awake. He hadn’t realised how on edge he was. It wouldn’t have surprised him to see little green men surrounding him
“Bloody Hell’s bells!” he cried. “We’ll all end up in the nuthouse at this rate!”
He stumbled over to the television and depressed the button under the wood effect speaker. The telly fuzz reduced to a small white dot before disappearing. The screen was black and the humming noise, intended to alert viewers to the schedule ending for the night, sounded no more.
Static haze from the screen prickled Geraint’s shirt as he brushed past. Jumping back, he snorted before realising what it was and steadied himself against the wall. Climbing the stairs to bed, further sleep evaded him as he lay awake wondering what his wife was doing.
Was she having the worst time? Maybe she was sleeping peacefully with a good dose of medication. His mind tracked back to before she’d started her episode, or rather, when he’d recognised she was struggling. The trigger was obvious. The bloody hum; and Carys’s nightmare. With a chill, he found himself giving it credibility. What was happening to him? He shook his head on his pillow and tried to laugh it off.
When the room flooded with bright sunlight through the curtains, he was convinced he’d not slept at all, but soon realised otherwise. He had a little visitor. Carys lay across his chest, duvet wrapped round her like a sausage roll, and Geraint cold and uncovered.
“Wyt ti’n iawn, Cariad? You okay?” he asked with a frown.
“Yes Daddy,” she mumbled. “I’m fine. I thought you might be lonely on your own without Mummy.”
Geraint squeezed her tight, glancing at the time.
Last night’s apprehension flooded his mind in a nauseating wave. ‘Get a grip, you fool’ he chided himself. How could he be a comfort to her, or care for Diane when she came home if he believed in aliens too?
“Come on Carys,” he said with a smile. “Let’s get you ready for school.”
Chapter Eight
No Remorse
Parking could be a nightmare at Addenbrookes, but easier in a police car. Finding a spot with double-yellow lines, he parked near the entrance and walked inside. The receptionist at the main desk looked up reverently. “Can we help you, officer?” she inquired.
Geraint flinched at what he saw as his disloyal embarrassment at his wife’s condition, but found himself reluctant to explain his presence. Maybe he was protecting her. “No, thank you. You’re okay. I know where I’m headed,” he assured, barely pausing on his well-trodden route to A5 ward.
It was quite a walk through the large busy hospital. When he arrived, one of the psychiatric nurses acknowledged him and went to a small window where he was expected to speak to her. Seeing him in his uniform would be no surprise. Patients were often brought in by police, particularly if they’d been sectioned against their will.
He stated who he was there to see, and the same nurse left the room and made her way to let him in. A moustached man in pyjamas approached her. Geraint saw her mouth form the words, “in a minute,” but he couldn’t lip read the name. It might have been Steve.
When she turned from him, he made a grab for her behind. Un-phased, she pushed his hand away and walked toward Geraint. She typed in a code that Geraint’s police brain couldn’t help but memorise.
“Come in, come in,” she bustled. The pyjama man advanced again, pleading (Geraint could scarcely make out his mumbling) for his cigarettes. His barely discernible muttering, easily comprehended by the nurse, was an indecipherable whale music to Geraint’s ear.
“Wait a moment, Steve,” she instructed firmly (he’d been correct). “I’m just showing this nice policeman to one of the side rooms.” He reached down and managed to tweak her bottom before she silently moved his hand back to beside his body. Steve mumbled something in reply and shuffled away.
The nurse unlocked a door to the left with two keys and asked Geraint to wait while she fetched Diane. He wiped sweaty palms on his uniform trousers and struggled to pose in a natural way to receive his wife.
Constant glances along the corridor for the first glimpse of her made time drag. Should he leave the room and make his way back to reception to see if they’d forgotten he was waiting?
Pacing to the window, he gazed through cell-like bars and fought back a surge of claustrophobia. He read every poster on the wall a dozen times, then tried to decipher what the lesson might have been, on the large flip chart.
A sudden racket echoed down the corridor. He thought he recognised Steve the mumbler’s voice, shouting now, like thunder; echoing from every surface in eardrum-shattering uproar.
Then, he saw her; stony faced, flanked by the nurse, oblivious to the cacophony of Steve’s whale song and walking towards him. Reaching the door, she stood, starring through the narrow pane of wired security glass, and straight through him. The catatonia was mildly preferable to the violent screaming.
Ushered in by gentle shoves from the nurse, she was guided to a chair where she slumped heavily. Turning to Geraint, the nurse plastered on a professional smile. “Do you need anything? Tea? Coffee, perhaps?”
When he declined, the smile remained, but the nurse left, locking the door behind her, leaving Geraint feeling like he was in one of his own cells.
Detesting the excruciating silence, he ventured to break it with the warmest of greetings. “Hello, cariad,” he soothed, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. Her head shot away, leaving him pucker-lipped, mid-air.
Standing straight again, he fought down his irritation at the rebuff. He knew it wasn’t really her. “How are you?” he asked to stony silence. His mouth dried in the face of her loathing of him. No words came to his lips, his mind pre-edited stringently every notion, deciding each topic of conversation was perilous.
Carys visiting was certainly out of the question for now. He shouldn’t expect miracles so soon.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed through gritted teeth, her gaze, if he’d met it, surely would’ve turned him to stone. “Have you come to admire your handy work?”
“What do you mean?”
“You put me here, to rot. You can’t love me. You’ve never loved me. Conniving, lying, scum. Get out! Go on. You’ve got rid of me like you wanted. You may as well go home.”
The spat out words hung venomously in the air. Geraint smiled. He understood that deep within, the real Diane was being desperately hurt by this alternative personality. Pained at the thought of upsetting him, the part of her exhibited now wanted to cause her pain. It wanted to prove to her that she was unloved and on her own.
Geraint knew his role well. It was vital he didn’t bite on his agitation, that he understood what she really needed, which was unconditional love. Whilst it cut him to the quick when she said such horrible, hurtful things to him, he made a good show of absorbing it harmlessly and giving back only love.
He made a few more chit-chat attempts, but Diane only stared at the floor. Her icy exterior did little to hide the furnace of fury inside. Rage combusting with every word, threatened to explode. Geraint stopped dead. His floundering lips terrified of giving reason to react.
The silence calmed her. Geraint offered his strong hand across the chasm between them; a show of affection without word
s that were so easy to misconstrue.
“Don’t TOUCH me!!” she screamed.
He should have expected it, but he jumped, attempting to withdraw his hand calmly. There was no more he could do today.
After half an hour of excruciating silence, Geraint was glad when the nurse returned. She must’ve seen through the glass that the visit was over. She unlocked the door and came smiling into the room. “Everything okay?” Geraint looked at his wife. The nurse caught his eye. That was answer enough.
Standing to leave, he rasped “Bye, bye, Cariad,” choking back a great gulp of emotion. Silence was the stern response until he made it to the door when a deep sob escaped from deep within her.
Shooting his head to look at her, she hadn’t moved. But just visible in the corner of her eye, getting larger and larger, a steadily growing tear threatened to breach its salty skin. Mesmerised, Geraint watched as it stretched to bursting point, cascading down her nose. The droplet grew on the tip, until it too fell. Geraint wasn’t sure if he imagined the small thud as it hit the carpet. “Diane?”
She carried on staring at the floor. The nurse looked up at him and squeezed her eyes almost closed in a fashion Geraint took to mean ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll take it from here.’
He nodded, darting his moist eyes away before she could see his pain. Striding down the corridor, he used the code he’d memorised and left.
Thankful Carys hadn’t witnessed her mother’s mood, when he arrived to collect her from Stella, he found her having a wonderful time. They’d baked cookies and ginger bread men, and Carys had been given a free hand with the decoration.
“Wow, they’re fantastic, Carys, bach,” he said as she threw her arms around him.
As Carys carefully arranged her creations into a Tupperware tub to take home, Stella took the opportunity to ask after Diane. Geraint shrugged, the emotion he’d been free from distracted at work threatened to embarrass him again. Stella understood implicitly and went back to help Carys with the lid.
The HUM: The complete novel Page 6
