by Bill Douglas
Whisky – the old medicine. His dad used to boast about being reared with a nip in the gruel. Now he, Ready Parker, had drained this whole bottle. He hurled the empty at the blank wall facing him. Like a mine or a bomb – splinters all over the place!
A hell of a shock, that telling-off was. But he was a survivor, always came through. Gawd, he would burst. He pulled himself out of the chair and staggered across the splinters to the bog. Just in time to stop peeing his pants. That was better. He tugged the chain and sat down on the bog – too early.
But the cold water gave him a thrill. He chuckled, then roared, as he slithered onto the bathroom floor. Suspended – getting paid for doing nothing. Bugger Springwell. Up the Red Lion! And he lapsed into oblivion.
30
Monday 2nd – Monday 30th July 1956 – in Springwell.
The Shocker was now part of John’s life. The blasting and battering didn’t seem so bad. White-coats told him what to do and he complied. Each day, it was the same routine – meals, trudges round the airing courts, that welcome smelly medicine to help him sleep. Sometimes he remembered names, other times not. Images of people and incidents were fuzzy. These neither bothered nor interested him much – like he was anaesthetised.
Every few days, he was treated to a variation from the routine. He was jostled into readiness for a hygiene ritual. They called it ‘bathing’ (“The ‘a’ as in ‘bath’ – in case you get the wrong idea,” said Mullen). With fellow patients, he was lined up in single file, marched out of the ward to a large area with baths in it, stripped naked and (overseen by a white-coat and a brown-coat) ordered to stand waiting.
When his turn came, he was nudged to sit in a bath of water. Being sponged while sitting in cold water wasn’t a great experience. It was better when they gave him the sponge. At least the ritual ended quickly. They’d pass him a towel, with an order to dry himself pronto.
Somehow, all this didn’t seem too mortifying. He didn’t protest. Even when one sadistic white-coat sponged his genitals and bum roughly, then rubbed them dry. Even when he was told to get into water where pieces of shit floated.
Through this and the other routines and rituals, however humiliating, he obeyed the orders. He survived.
Monday 30th July 1956 – in Springwell
Sarge was back. The brute stamped out of the office, barked a command and went back in again. A white-coat came over. “Chisholm, I’ve to get you into the office to see the consultant psychiatrist, the god.”
John shuffled along beside the white-coat. The psychiatrist, the god? He’d a bad feeling about this. He could see Sarge (one name he hadn’t forgotten) sitting in the office. The white-coat stopped outside the door and knocked. “Bring him in,” he heard, and felt his elbow gripped as he was propelled inside.
“Chisholm, Sir.” The white-coat stood to attention.
“Yes, Mr Clark. I know this son of a witch.” Sarge stood leering. “He’s the creature with that nice whore of a wife. I’ll be giving her one soon.”
“Sir.” Clark was unsmiling.
Sarge laughed. “Not that he’ll ever be able to.”
The door opened. “Mr Parker, good day.” The turbaned man.
What was his name?
“Mr Chisholm, you may remember me. I am Dr Singh.”
His thoughts were being read? But he’d a good feeling about this man.
“Sir, I expected –” Sarge had turned to face the doctor.
“Yes, I too expected my superior back today. But sadly he is still unwell and I am instructed to act in his place. May I use your seat, Mr Parker?”
“Yes Sir.” Sarge stepped back. “The file is on the desk.”
“Thank you.” The doctor sat down and studied the file.
John could feel Clark relaxing the grip on his elbow. The doctor frowned at something, then looked up at Sarge. “He has had a lot of ECT in a short time. Have you observed any effects?”
“Sir, this has curbed his violent behaviour. Isn’t that so, Mr Clark?” Sarge was standing at ease.
“Sir,” said Clark.
The doctor glanced from one to the other, then looked at John. “How are you feeling, Mr Chisholm?”
“Dazed.”
“I am not surprised,” said the doctor. “You have had twenty-four ECT doses this past two months – which is a lot. One short-term effect is on the memory.”
Spot on, Doctor. I’ve already forgotten your name.
“How is your mood now – are you still depressed?”
Well he wasn’t great, but he wasn’t bent on doing himself in. And he was sure he had been. “Not as much.”
Sarge coughed. “Chisholm, address the doctor as ‘Sir’,” he barked.
“No.” The quietly-spoken doctor had shouted? “Thank you, Mr Parker, but I do not wish to be called ‘Sir’. Mr Chisholm and you and your staff may, if you wish, call me Dr Singh or simply ‘Doctor’.” The doctor smiled, looking at Sarge, whose face had reddened. “I do apologise if I shouted just now. I wish both patients and staff to communicate with me without such an unnecessary barrier.”
He heard Clark shuffle, and felt his elbow shake. Could the man be giggling?
“So you are not as depressed, Mr Chisholm. That at least is good. ECT is often useful for depression, though we usually give fewer doses. ECT will cease. Now.”
“But –” began Sarge.
“No more ECT, I said.” Thank God – an end to the electrical torture. The doctor wrote something on the file, then looked up.
“Yes – Doctor.” Sarge spat this out slowly, with emphasis.
“Mr Chisholm, I know your diagnosis. I wish to check what disturbances you have been having in your mind. Do you hear voices that you cannot account for?”
“No.”
“Your wife, Heather. Do you still believe she is having an affair?”
Wife – Heather. Yes, he could picture his beautiful wife, those soft brown eyes gazing up at him. “I’m not sure, can’t think.”
“Try to relax, Mr Chisholm, and think. You believed your wife was having an affair with a man. Can you recall why you thought this?”
Sarge cleared his throat very audibly. “Sir, Doctor –.”
“Ssh, Mr Parker,” said the doctor. “Can you remember, Mr Chisholm?”
He struggled to think. It began to come back. “She was distant, like she didn’t want to know me.”
“I see. And have you control of your thoughts?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you ever feel your thoughts are being read, or stolen?”
Bang on. “Yes.”
“Can you give me an example?”
He struggled to recall. Fog swirled in his head. “No.”
“Thank you, Mr Chisholm.” The doctor made a note on the file, and looked up again. “I am prescribing you new medication. Chlorpromazine is quite a recent drug which has proved helpful to many people who suffer similar disturbance. It is more commonly known as Largactil.”
Surely an improvement on electrical torture. “Thanks.”
“Also, I am taking you off paraldehyde. Largactil is one of what we term the tranquillisers and will provide enough sedation. I will put you on a low dosage, as you do not appear to manifest some of the worse symptoms of schizophrenia, and this will reduce the possibility of side-effects.”
The doctor glanced at Sarge, who was coughing. “You are not choking, Mr Parker?”
“Sir – Doctor.” The reply sounded laboured.
The doctor looked back at John and smiled. “Either I or the consultant will review in one month. Before you go, is there anything you wish to ask me?”
Of course. “When can I get out?”
“I cannot say. You are detained and will be here many months while we treat you for your breakdown.”
A breakdown – awaiting a restart. Sounded too simple.
The doctor turned to Sarge (whose impassive face was an unusual red, flecked with purple). “I have finished with Mr Chisholm.
What activity will he return to?”
Sarge stood erect. “He will be escorted to the airing court – Doctor.” This sounded like the announcing of a sentence. “Mr Clark – take the patient there.”
“Sir.” The grip on his elbow tightened and he was escorted out.
*
Parker slammed the door behind the doctor, the high-and-mighty that looked and spoke funny. A fucking nerve this turban-and-beard, a lowly registrar, had, swaggering into his office, telling him – the charge nurse, and boss of Admissions – to say ‘doctor’ instead of ‘sir’. Insulting bugger. Should be sent back to where he belonged. They’d got above themselves, should never have been given independence. He walked round his desk, swearing. The god would be back soon and he, Ready Parker, would complain about this ‘doctor’.
And the namby-pamby way this ‘doctor’ treated the patient! Taking the hooligan off the Shocker, when it was serving its purpose. This teacher snob, nutty as a fruitcake, was trouble, and one patient he’d vowed would suffer when he got back from suspension.
Mrs C, Heather, was juicy by all accounts. Ages since he had a woman. The last one was that student nurse Aileen – gone now, thank God. Threatened to report him, the silly bitch. She asked for it, and no way could she have proved anything.
Greying hair needn’t be a problem. It gave him that mature distinguished look. The ‘foul breath’ that Aileen said disgusted her wasn’t a problem either. Chlorophyll tablets sorted that for special occasions. He still knew how to charm a girl and give her a good time. With a ‘softly softly’ approach, he’d have it off with Mrs C. She should be hungry for it by now, unless she had a fancy man. And he would teach that teacher, give him every detail of what he did to her.
Friday was her day off. He’d ring, tell her about hubby and try to meet up. Ready the lady-killer. Yes, but he’d have to go careful. An affair with a patient meant the sack; an affair with a patient’s wife could be dodgy too, if anyone found out.
Maybe the suspension hadn’t done any harm. The Chief had investigated, and recommended he be reinstated with immediate effect. Hallman was okay – coming in for a whisky one night and telling him he’d be in the clear. But the Med Super had insisted the Management Committee must decide – to try and shut up that bloody colonel brother. He’d never liked colonels, but they had to be obeyed. By the time the Committee – a load of figureheads that knew nothing about loonies – met, weeks had passed. It was last Friday evening and the Chief had come straight round to confirm. Over a whisky, the boss agreed he would start duty Sunday at seven a.m.
Not that the waiting was all bad. Being paid for doing nothing was all right, and the Red Lion was okay, with Flowers Keg Bitter and the darts.
And that stuck-up toff was in Infirmary. Good riddance.
He sat down at his desk. Without a stain on his record, he was back. Boss of Admissions – the best job in nursing, apart from up the hierarchy. The Chief, over last Friday’s whisky, had confirmed he was in line for the assistant chief job when Porter went. And the Chief added with a wink, “Ready, you’ll remember I’m going too next year.” His career was on track.
31
Tuesday 31st July 1956 – in Aversham, then Springwell.
Sam Newman sat at his desk, blowing smoke rings. Life wasn’t so great now. Ella was in a bad spell, staying in her wheelchair, negative and accusatory. She’d been pretty upbeat for weeks; and he couldn’t think of anything that triggered this downturn. She’d never be the Ella he married.
And Helen was walking out with another Woolworth employee – a man the same age as himself. Sam believed the guy was after one thing only.
At work he was now ‘senior’, with an extra increment – and theoretically his workload would be reduced. Huh! The first problem was having to share his room – they’d crammed another desk in, facing his – with a raw newcomer DAO. Maybe he could put up with that, but scarcely with a non-smoker who kept sniffing and coughed all over the desks when Sam lit up.
And he hadn’t been involved in the interviewing. The MOH and the Chief Admin Officer, with the Health Committee Chairman, had constituted the interviewing panel. Newman had asked the MOH if he could be involved, but was told he needed all the time for his job. He wasn’t even consulted. And when he objected to room-sharing, the Chief Admin told him there was nowhere else. On complaining to the boss, he was told, “It will help Carter learn the ropes.”
Mary, in on the interviews taking notes, gave him the low-down. They’d interviewed two men. The one in his fifties was an ex-relieving officer under the Poor Law, and the young man a civil service clerk. The older man had some experience working with ‘mental folk’, and Mary liked him (“reminded me of my dad”). The young man wore a three-piece suit and ‘talked smart’. She didn’t like him. But sadly the panel – including, critically, the boss – did.
Newman hadn’t warmed to his opinionated new colleague. And inducting him was burdensome. Carter talked too much and didn’t listen enough. It would be ages before this rookie could be let loose independently into complex situations.
Last week the pressure heightened to near unbearable – particularly with a couple of sleep-wrecking emergencies. This week was no better, and last night he’d been out to a middle-of-the-night ‘domestic’. Neither party was mad – though after two hours’ peacekeeping, he’d happily have whisked both off to Springwell.
It should make sense for him to teach his colleague know-how, but this guy was raw and totally unsuitable. Taking Carter on visits was a drag, though at least then the rookie obeyed the order to “Keep your mouth shut and stay in the background.”
Today, though, his new colleague was at Springwell for the morning, sitting in lectures with student nurses as part of being inducted. The room was blissfully devoid of idle chatter. He sat back, yawning and enjoying the smoke.
He found himself daydreaming again about Heather Chisholm. Maybe she still loved her loony husband. But he’d sensed a growing bond with her, and it had taken superhuman self-control to hang back from grabbing her when they last parted. She was beautiful, naively seductive – and vulnerable, needing help.
It was some weeks since he took her to Springwell. Visiting her – a wife distraught at her mad hubby being in a nigh-inaccessible loony bin – would just about be legit. Last he heard, hubby was given ECT big time and she hadn’t been to visit again. Odds were the poor sod would be in forever, but she didn’t have to know that.
Nothing had come in. Still short of nine-thirty, and he didn’t have the inhibiting presence of that fool. He stubbed out his fag. He’d ring the shop to check Mrs C was at home.
He got the number from his diary and reached towards the phone, then paused. That damn circular last week from the Chief Admin about making only urgent phone calls in the morning, when rates were dearest. He couldn’t ignore a memo from the boss’s right-hand man. And he did not want to broadcast this visit.
He left a message with Mary – “Out on a visit, back soon” – then drove to 90 Green Drive. There was no reply.
Over at the shop, Mattie told him, “Mrs Chisholm works at the nursery where the bairn is.”
Mattie’s wife emerged from the back-shop. “Come in here, Sir.”
He didn’t want a conversation. “Thanks, I won’t. I’m busy. It’s a flying visit to ask how Mrs Chisholm’s coping while her husband’s in Springwell.”
Those eyes, compassionate but searching. “I’ll tell her you called, Sir. She’ll be sorry to have missed you.”
He mustn’t give any clue he was attracted to Heather. “Tell her she does not need to contact me. I’m hard to catch anyway.” He drew breath. The woman was half-smiling, as though she’d guessed the real reason for his visit. Damn, he never was any good at acting. “And I’ll be in touch only if there’s anything she needs to know.” Was it hot in here?
“Thank you, Mr Newman.”
She remembered his name. “Must dash. ’Bye.” He turned and exited the shop as fast as his
limp allowed. He’d better hold back on this for a while.
32
Thursday 2nd August 1956 – in Aversham.
On Tuesday evening, Heather had got two messages via Elsie. Mr Newman called to ask how she was. Nice of him, and she felt a tug towards the man. Though Elsie voiced caution. “I think he might like you, m’dear, just a little too much.”
And that afternoon, Charge Nurse Parker had rung suggesting she meet him on Friday evening to discuss John’s condition. He’d be happy to call at her house, sometime after seven p.m. “Sounded a nice gentleman, m’dear, caring for John. And thoughtful, as he said it might be better if he came to your house – easier for you, with having the baby to look after, and there’d be privacy for him to tell you about John. Said he’d ring back for your answer on Thursday between one and two p.m.”
She agonised over whether to accept. She wanted to hear from someone so involved in caring for John. But how much could she trust a total stranger? Why did he suggest meeting, rather than asking her to ring? Was it because he really cared? Or was he trying to date her? Or was it a mix of both? She was too cautious. What was the harm in the man coming to the house with news she craved?
Elsie offered to have Becky. But in the event, she didn’t need Elsie’s help.
Lacklustre and clingy all week, Becky had been hot and running a temperature overnight. This morning the doctor said it could be measles (though there wasn’t a rash) and prescribed penicillin.
A faint tapping? On the door? Yes. “Come in, Elsie.” A welcome visit. She wanted to speak to her friend, but daren’t risk leaving Becky alone – or taking her out of the ‘constant room temperature’ the doctor advised.
“Just a quick call to ask how Becky is, m’dear.”
She told Elsie what the doctor said and led her to where Becky was asleep. “Poor wee soul,” Elsie said. “You must be worried sick.”
