by Bill Douglas
“Can Becky and I come to see you and stay a few days?”
“I’m sure… Here, speak with your father a minute.”
“Heather.” Father’s voice, but quieter than she remembered – almost strained. He’d always sounded like he was addressing a meeting. “I’m sorry to hear John’s ill.” Hypocrite. “We’d be glad to have you and Becky over here.”
“Thanks.”
“Which hospital’s John in? We’ll send a card.”
“Actually,” she hesitated. She hated reinforcing their negative view of John. But she had to tell them. “He’s in the infirmary at Springwell.”
“Whew.” A whispered aside (Father to Mother): “He’s gone off his rocker.” Then, “Right, we’ll get details when we see you. When do you want to come?”
“I’d like to come on Tuesday, if that’s okay?”
“Yes. We’d be happy to come and collect you on Tuesday evening.”
Collect – like a parcel? However, she hadn’t fancied a journey that would mean catching one bus then changing to another. “Yes. Thanks.”
“Good. See you both on Tuesday.”
“Oh, hang on a minute, Father.” With a hand firmly over the mouthpiece, she shouted to Elsie. She did not want her parents going into her house in its present state.
After a quick consultation with Elsie, she added, “We’ll be here across the road, at number 81. It’s the flat above the shop.”
“Right-ho. ’Bye.”
Not entirely a comfortable experience, but not bad, and a good result. Her parents sounded disposed to help her and Becky.
Tuesday 24th April 1956 – in Aversham, then Bolsall.
As Springwell hadn’t rung, Heather felt okay about going to her parents. Three or four days should be long enough – to get help, also check on how they were doing.
Just after six p.m., they arrived in their Riley, a grand red car, ageing but shining like new. They tooted, and Heather went out with Becky asleep in the crib, followed by Mattie with her bag and Elsie the pushchair. Her parents got out of the car to embrace her and shook hands with the older couple, but declined a cup of tea.
As Father revved up, she wound down the car window, shouted “’Bye,” and waved to the pair. Elsie’s eyes glistened.
She brushed her wet face with her hand and closed the window.
Mother twisted round from the front and whispered, “Mustn’t waken Becky.”
The journey passed in silence. Mother’s brow was more lined. Father’s black hair was snowy-white. Just getting older? Or were they under pressure? There was of course a big age gap – they were both forty-two when she was born. Funny, she’d never thought of her parents as vulnerable. Both always presented a strong front. Father’s words to her some time in her childhood – “Stiff upper lip, young Heather; some things are sent to try us” – epitomised their approach to any kind of setback.
Not that much seemed to get in the way of their affluent lifestyle. Even in the war, Father continued as a bank manager and Mother as a medical secretary at the hospital – leaving her in the care of Granny (who lived in the ‘granny flat’).
Yes, cared for by her wonderful granny until that fateful day. Her tenth birthday party over, friends gone, she’d kissed Granny goodnight. Next morning, Father stood in her bedroom doorway. “Granny’s ill, Heather.”
She’d never known Granny to be ill. Tiptoeing through to Granny’s, she slipped past Mother and crawled onto the bed. Mother yelled, “Come back, darling.”
And there Granny lay – mouth open, eyes staring from her lifeless face.
Aching with grief for ages after, she’d got no comfort from Mother’s repeated “I gave up a good job for you, Heather.” Sacrifice and an eternal grudge. Mother’s switch to part-time work in the typing pool had meant a slump in status and pay.
The car was slowing. They were near her parents’ home. Throughout the journey, she’d hardly given John a thought. From deep in her core, she began to experience again the anguish threatening to overwhelm her.
She didn’t want to face talking to her parents this evening. She fed Becky, then, pleading fatigue, went up to bed, to seek the rest she craved.
12
Monday 23rd – Tuesday 24th April 1956 – in Springwell.
John was burning. He heard a funny noise, a rasping – his own breathing. Something was on his face. He couldn’t move. Everything was swirling, then fading.
In and out of dreams, he fancied he could hear Heather’s voice, feel her holding his hand. She floated among the white-coats.
Now he was awake. Everything was blurred. Funny smell. He wriggled, uncomfortable and sweating. He was in a bed, lying on something smooth yet lumpy, like a horsehair mattress.
A white-coated man was peering at him. “You’re awake.”
He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He felt up around his mouth – he was wearing a mask of some kind. He moved it to one side and managed a hoarse whisper. “Where am I?”
“You’re on Infirmary Ward, in Springwell Mental Hospital. That’s an oxygen mask.” The white-coated man put it back on his face.
What was he doing here? Felt like he’d survived a good kicking. His chest ached and his throat was on fire. He wanted to raise himself, but his left hand felt shackled.
“Don’t move!” A crisp command. “You’re on a drip.” The white-coated man put a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.
What? This was his face. He lifted the mask with his right hand. “Why?”
“You’ve been critical with pneumonia.” The man leaned over – and John felt the mask back on his face. “Keep that on. You still need it to breathe properly.”
That was better. Anyway, talking hurt.
“Doc Burn gave you penicillin right away and it’s worked wonders. You’re out of danger.”
‘Out of danger’. Nearly died. Helpless, sleepy, he slid into unconsciousness.
*
John awoke. Something stank – like fumes, powerful and nasty. His head felt it had been stamped on. But he could see more clearly. And that mask was off his face. He could breathe okay. He shifted his body and realised the drip had gone.
Using his hands and elbows, he raised himself and looked around. Giddifying, but he could see. His bed was near the end of a long row.
He heard demented crying. White-coats were clustering round a bed, opposite and along the row. The crying ceased.
A dressing-gowned man was coming his direction from down the ward. Head bowed, the man shuffled to the bottom of John’s bed, then stopped, mumbling. Gibberish? The man looked up, gripped the bedstead’s iron rail and stared, wild-eyed, straight at him.
Disconcerting. Was this madness? Closer now, the man looked younger – middle-aged, maybe.
“Hello, what’s wrong?” John croaked.
“You,” shouted the man, pointing at him.
“Me?” He braced himself.
The man whirled round and, muttering, with head bowed, shuffled away.
He watched the man go slowly down the ward – head still bowed and not turning to right or left.
The white-coats now stood talking. Were they doctors – or these wretched ‘nurses’, like Sarge and his henchmen? He closed his eyes and slumped back onto the pillow. He didn’t want to see Sarge and co again – except some day in that dark alley.
His bed was shaking. An earthquake? No. The dressing-gowned one had reappeared at the end of the bed, tugging at the bed-rail with both hands and yelling.
This man was strong – and crazy.
He dragged himself up onto an elbow. Through a wave of stars, he saw a white-coat appear and take the man by the arm. “C’mon professor. Back to your own bed.” The man said something that sounded unintelligible but abusive, released his grip on the bed-rail, and raised a clenched fist towards John. A white-coated reinforcement came, and the man was led off muttering.
The dizziness gone, he raised himself to sitting and watched the party go down the ward to near t
he other end. He heard shouting as the man was bundled into bed. Loud groaning was followed by silence.
He lay back, grateful for the white-coats’ intervention. He could normally handle all this, without hurting anyone. But right now…
He remembered from long ago the words of his grandpa – a Great War soldier, standing looking very sad – to his da. “Some men went doolally, right off their heads. Fought like wildcats. Didn’t know their own strength.”
A white-coat was at his bedside, holding a thermometer. “I’ll take your temperature and feel your pulse.” The same Irish voice as before.
“Wait,” he croaked. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mr Macnamara, the Charge Nurse – that means I’m in charge of this Infirmary Ward. Now, can you please open your mouth, Mr Chisholm.”
He did so, staring back at Macnamara, and accommodated the thermometer under his tongue.
“Take his pulse, Tommy.” Another white-coated man, that he hadn’t noticed on the other side of his bed, leaned across and grabbed his wrist. “Mr Niven here’s a nursing assistant,” the Charge Nurse said, “and,” nodding towards the end of the bed, towards another white-coat, “that’s Mr Maclean, who’s a staff nurse and my deputy.”
Intensive caring – or a show of strength?
“Like me,” Macnamara continued, “Mr Maclean is doubly qualified – the only other man in Springwell that knows his physical as well as his mental.”
The man’s tone and demeanour were calming, though he was a show-off. The ‘doubly qualified’ – did that mean like ordinary nurses as well? Or did ‘physical’ mean they could take care of themselves in a fight?
Macnamara added, “As well as knowing my physical and psychological medicine, I’m trained in martial arts.” The man had read his thoughts. “Mr Maclean is too. So if you’re thirsting after a fight, don’t try anything here.”
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t take a handshake, never mind a beating.
Macnamara smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay – I know you’ll be done in.” Reading his mind again? “It’ll be a few days, maybe weeks, before you’re real fit. Sure I’m glad you pulled through. I’d have bet against it. You must have one helluva constitution.”
He felt the thermometer being removed. Macnamara examined it. “Still up a bit. Pulse, Tommy?”
“Eighty-six, Sir.”
“Right, you’re on the road to recovery, Mr Chisholm. But I guess it’ll be a while before we can let you go from here.”
“Home?” His spirits lifted.
“No,” said Macnamara, stepping back as though shocked. “Another ward.”
Trapped in this bin. “Why?”
“You’ll need treatment for your breakdown. I guess you’ll have to stay in Springwell a long while yet.” Macnamara held up a hand as if to signal the end of debate. “Now, John Chisholm, we need to give you medicine.”
“I don’t want it.” He was hopelessly weak and achy. His voice was stronger again, though his throat was scorched.
Macnamara frowned. “You must have it. First, the penicillin that’s saved your life. We’ve given you injections every few hours since you came here.” He smiled. “And now it’s time for that. We’ll give your arms a rest. Go on your side, facing Mr Niven over there, and bare your bum for the needle.”
He didn’t like this. But he complied with the order, and faced Niven, whose bulging black eyes stared through him. He closed his eyes.
He heard Macnamara’s “Over to you, Eddie,” and glimpsed Maclean moving round from the end of the bed. Ouch. The jab in the bum.
“Now a couple of spoonfuls of paraldehyde to knock you out. Go on your back again and sit up.”
He could smell the horrible stuff. “I’m not having that.”
“You are, and if you won’t swallow it, we’ll jab it into you. You’ll need it to help you sleep.” Macnamara smiled. “Right?”
“I’ll take the dope.” Turning to sit up again, his vision blurred and then cleared.
Macnamara, now at the end of the bed, was passing a bottle and spoon to Maclean. Spoonfuls of the now familiar foul-smelling liquid went down John’s throat.
At least, he thought, I know what it’s called. Paraldehyde. Everything faded.
13
Wednesday 25th– Friday 27th April 1956 –in Bolsall, then back to Aversham.
As both parents were out almost all day, Heather had welcomed having a quiet pressure-free time with Becky.
Now – the evening meal over and Becky asleep upstairs – Heather settled into an armchair opposite her parents on the settee. It was time to talk.
“Tell us what happened.” Father sucked a biro pen. (He used to smoke those dreadful cigars. Could he have given up?). “How did John end up in the loony bin?”
“It’s not a loony bin.” Heather’s cheeks were warming. It wasn’t just the words – there was something about his tone.
“Father means the asylum,” said Mother, glancing at Father, who grunted.
She’d known it wouldn’t be easy. And hadn’t she herself always called it the loony bin? She took a deep breath, straightened her back and leant forward. “No. Springwell is no longer an asylum. John is in a hospital,” she said, firmly and slowly, looking squarely at each of her parents in turn, “a mental hospital.”
Her parents huddled together more closely. “Well, whatever,” said Father. “It’s where they always send the nutters.”
“Ssh,” said Mother, glancing at him again and nudging him with her elbow. “You mean the lunatics.” Both now seemed to be frowning.
Something volcanic within was about to erupt. They classed John as a madman, a creature somehow inferior. She stood up and glared at them. She could see the shock on Mother’s face, the unchanging bland expression on Father’s.
How dare they talk about her beloved John like this? Ignoring her father’s curt “Sit down, Heather,” and her mother’s “Yes dear, do,” she paced over towards the drawn curtains – taking deep breaths. She calmed, walked slowly back and sat down.
“We’ve got off on the wrong track,” said Father, and Mother added, “Sorry.”
“Well, I know you don’t much like John ” – she ignored the protestations – “but I love him. And he’s not really mad. He’s been critically ill with pneumonia and he nearly died.” She paused.
Both were looking contrite, Mother possibly sympathetic.
Heather added, her eyes moistening, “He shouldn’t be in that dreadful place. He could be there months, or years.”
Now they both looked uncomfortable. Father scratched among his white mop of hair. Mother was looking down – studying the pattern on the carpet?
“And he might never get out.” She drew her sleeve across her face.
It was clear they were struggling for words. “Surely he will,” said Mother. “Look, I need another cup. I’ll go fill the teapot.”
Mother never was strong in emotional situations. Avoidance and distraction. “Good idea, Mother. I’ll check on Becky.”
Father stretched and yawned. Or more probably he feigned a yawn – “A tried and tested way to give yourself space to think,” he once told her. He was never one to display his feelings either. “I’ll help,” he said, following Mother to the kitchen.
She crept upstairs. Becky lay on her back, eyes closed, breathing softly.
Heather stood entranced. She’d always be there for her child, like Granny was for her. These terrible months after the birth would have been tough for Becky – something she’d never considered while she was depressed. She was doing her best to make it up and would never again let Becky down.
John was a great dad; but he couldn’t be there for Becky now. This insane jealousy that surfaced recently – and led to the loony bin! She’d never had an affair, but he didn’t believe her.
What went wrong between her and Mother? On the Social Studies degree, she’d been moved by Bowlby’s research on maternal deprivation. Bonding in the early yea
rs was considered important to later wellbeing. She’d bonded with Granny, and could still draw support from imaginary talks with her.
“How’s Becky?”
Heather jerked round, half expecting to see Granny. Mother was tiptoeing from the doorway, to stand looking into the crib and whisper, “My lovely granddaughter. She reminds me of you as a baby; you slept on your back too.”
Mother turned away and began moving quietly out of the room. “Tea’s made. Come when you’re ready,” she whispered, and disappeared.
Heather continued standing. She’d glimpsed a different side to Mother – something maternal. All these years ago, Mother had watched her sleeping.
“A reminder – tea’s brewed.” Father was in the doorway.
She enjoyed one last look at Becky – a picture of contentment and peace. This, she reminded herself, was what really mattered here. She’d come to ensure help for her and Becky, not John.
She went downstairs. Mother finished pouring tea into the china cups and sat down on the settee beside Father.
She took her cup and sipped the warm liquid. “Thanks. Having a break was a good idea, Mother.” She paused. Both parents looked anxious. “I’m really worried, not just about John, but about Becky and me.”
“Yes dear,” said Mother. “So are we.”
Sounded encouraging. “I mean, I’m not sure we’ll have enough to live on. John started teaching only last September and I don’t know what sick pay he’ll get – if any. Or if he’ll keep his job.” She paused. She hated playing the sympathy card. “It’s Becky and her future, that’s what I care about. And,” she added, aware she was blushing, “as well as being my parents, you’re the only folk I know with money.”
Her parents were looking at each other. “Well,” said Father, “it grieves us to see you in this situation.”
“And we do care about you and Becky,” Mother added.
“You could come and live with us,” said Father. “It’s only a council house you’re in.”
