by Clare Allan
'Who is it?' come Poppy's voice.
'N,' I said, and I give two Vs to this old bloke sat in the home opposite, been staring at me for the full five minutes it taken Poppy to answer the door; he give me a finger back.
'N?' she goes. 'Oh. OK! Come up.' Then the door gone buzz. 'Just push,' she said. So I pushed. 'Third floor,' she said.
There was a pile of post on the floor by the door and a bike and a baby's pushchair. It was dark, just light enough to see on account of this glass above the front door, and it smelt of damp; not at all like what I'd expected. The stairs seemed to go on for fucking ever. By the time I got to the third-floor landing, my legs felt like lumps of the dead meat they give you Sundays down Sunshine House; blue-grey it was and stunk so bad stray dogs used to come in and try and roll on the table.
Poppy was stood in the open doorway, grey jogging bums, bare midriff, painted toenails. 'N!' she said. 'Are you alright?' I got the feeling I'd fucked up somewhere along.
'I come as quick as I could,' I said. 'Ain't next door, do you know what I'm saying. And this backpack weighs a fucking tonne!'
Poppy frowned.
'Here. Lift it!' I said.
She taken it from me. 'Christ!' she said.
'And I run all the way from the Darkwoods.
'Sweating like a pig,' I said. I could feel my sweatshirt clung to my back.
'N,' she said. 'Sorry, but . . .'
'What?' I said. And that was when I twigged.
'You forgotten, innit!'
'No,' she said.
'MAD money forms! You forgot all about it! You asked me to come round and fill them in.'
'I hadn't forgotten,' said Poppy. 'It's just . . .'
'So you going to invite me in?' I said. 'Or d'you want me to do them out here on the landing?'
'Sorry,' said Poppy. She smiled. 'Come in.'
'Can't believe you forgot!' I said, stepping past her into the hall. 'You'll be making tables next,' I said. 'You and Dawn. How many she done you?'
'I've lost count,' said Poppy. 'Seven, I think. Saffra! I thought you were staying in bed.'
I looked round behind me where Poppy was talking.
This little kid stood in the door of a room staring back at me.
'Hello,' she said.
'Alright?' I said. Not rude or nothing but I ain't really into kids.
'Are you N?' she said.
'I s'pose,' I said.
'Either you are or you aren't,' she said.
I shrugged. 'Whatever.'
'You're early,' she said.
'Saffra,' said Poppy, 'just go back to bed. I tell you what, if you go back to bed, N will bring you a mug of hot lemon.'
'Will you?' said Saffra.
'Now,' Poppy said, and she gone.
The kitchen was just like Saffra everywhere. There was pictures she'd painted all over the walls and her trainers lain all over the floor and her little puffa jacket on the back of a chair and her backpack spilling all over the table, do you know what I'm saying, it weren't hard to see who was boss.
'She was s'posed to be going to Dud's this weekend,' said Poppy, 'but she's got a sore throat. . .' She was squeezing a lemon into a mug, a mug with a snake on in the shape of an 'S', or I might of made that up. 'She's a bit upset at the moment,' she said. 'All this business with me; kids pick things up.' She spooned some honey into the mug and stood stirring in the hot water. 'The other night she woke up,' she said, 'came into my room and I was crying.
'I hate her to see me upset,' she said. She give me the mug. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Would you mind?'
As I carried it down to Saffra's room, I taken a sip; it was warm and sweet. When I looked up, Saffra was watching me from the doorway.
Me and Poppy sat at the kitchen table. 'Jesus!' she said. 'All that!' she said.
'That's just part one,' I said.
'So how many parts are there?' she said.
'Seven,' I said and one by one I loaded them on to the table.
' "MAD Money Application Part One: Information about yourself". That's just your name and your details and stuff. "Part Two: Information about your illness". That's where you fill in what you got, like all your diagnoses and stuff and what medication you's taking."Part Three: Why you reckon you's been hard done by . . .", "Part Four. . . . any worse than anyone else", "Part Five: Why that means you deserve taxpayers' money","Part Six: What that implies about you", "Part Seven: Any further information, specifically why it is you can't just pull yourself together".
'That's the lot,' I said. 'One to seven.'
'Jesus!' said Poppy. She stared at the pile. The table groaned like a weightlifter, its legs bulged outwards under the strain.
'It repeats itself a bit,' I said.
'Jesus!' said Poppy.
'Here,' I said. 'You can use my lucky biro.'
'Thanks,' said Poppy.
'I done all my forms with this,' I said. 'Should of run out years ago. There ain't even no ink left. Look!
'Look!' I said, unscrewing the end to show her the empty tube inside. Poppy looked. 'No ink!' I said. 'Been like that for ages,' I said. I give it a kiss and handed it over. 'Middle High Middle,' I said. 'Every time.'
'I'd be happy with anything,' said Poppy.
'Shoot for the sky,' I said.
I ain't saying nothing but without me helping, Poppy hadn't got a clue. 'Hang about!' I said. 'What you doing?'
'I'm just filling in my name,' she said.
'Not like that,' I said. 'You're not!'
'Eh?' she said.
'You got to scrawl it.'
'It says BLOCK CAPITALS,' she said.
'Fuck what it says,' I said. 'Just scrawl it. You's s'posed to be mentally ill,' I said.
'Alright,' said Poppy and she done it small.
'Try with your other hand,' I said.
'They need to be able to read it,' she said.
'Trust me, Poppy,' I said. 'I know what I'm doing.'
By the time we reached the end of Part One, she was starting to get the feel of it. I ain't saying she was dribbling exactly but she weren't doing a bad impression. Some of her lines gone up in the air, crossing over the line above and wandering out of the box and into the margin. Others sunk down, like all shrunk and depressed and shrivelled away to nothing. When she wrote the address of the Dorothy Fish, like the full address, do you know what I'm saying: The Dorothy Fish Psychiatric Day Hospital, The Abaddon Unit, Abaddon Hill . . . it started off climbing out of the box, then suddenly seemed to lose its nerve, around the middle of 'psychiatric', and swung down sharp, down the side of the box, bending back on itself just before the bottom, so the first 'Abaddon' was wrote upside down, before climbing back upwards, up 'Abaddon Hill', to curl back inside the first line. 'London' was so small you couldn't hardly read it, and the postcode just looked like a smudge in the middle of the box.
'You don't want to make it too neat,' I said. 'It looks a bit . . . do you know what I'm saying?'
'What?' said Poppy.
'Like you thought about it,' I said. 'It'll do. But maybe if you cross some words out and like write in the margin with arrows and stuff. And your handwriting too, you got better at it . . .'
'I'm supposed to be mentally ill,' said Poppy. 'Not mentally retarded.'
'Same difference,' I said. 'S'far as they's concerned.'
'But you don't write like this,' said Poppy. 'I've seen your writing. Your writing's alright.'
'Not on my MAD forms it ain't,' I said. 'My last one you couldn't read it at all. It was a waste to be honest 'cause some of my answers, not bragging or nothing but d'you know what I'm saying, and you couldn't even read them. I never signed it neither,' I said. 'You know where you sign it?' I shown her the box. 'Done a fingerprint in my own blood,' I said.
'I don't want to overdo it!' said Poppy.
'You ain't, Poppy! Trust me,' I said. 'You ain't! You'll be lucky with Low Low Low at this rate. They don't just hand it out,' I said. 'You got to dribble for it!'
Pop
py smiled this strange sort of smile and signed the form. 'Alright,' she said. 'Part Two.'
I'm not being funny but the fact of it was that Poppy had said come for dinner, and since I arrived, 'side of Saffra's hot lemon, I hadn't seen so much as a cold sip of water do you know what I'm saying and my stomach was starting to grumble. I didn't like to say nothing on account of it looked so bad and brought up, but when I seen the sunshine clock on the wall hit a quarter past one and she still ain't said nothing, I reckoned I got to drop a hint 'cause else I was going to pass out.
'Diagnosis,' said Poppy. 'You may state more than one. 'I laughed. 'Like you's going to leave it at one! Alright, let me think about it.
'Feel a bit light-headed,' I said. I glanced up at the sunshine clock. 'Ain't eaten nothing today,' I said.
She didn't say nothing.
'Depression,' I said.
'Depression's accurate,' said Poppy.
'It's easier than psychosis,' I said. 'Don't want to run before you can walk. And self-harm as well and an eating disorder, panic attacks . . .'
'Hang on,' said Poppy.
'Personality!' I said. 'You definitely got one of those. Everybody's got one of those! Borderline mostly . . .D'you hear my stomach! . . . Just means you're a pain in the arse,' I said.
'Is that one word or two?' said Poppy frowning.
'Pain in the arse?' I said. 'Four; I make it.'
'Borderline,' she said.
'Dunno!' I said. 'Jesus, Poppy. I'm fucking bloody starving!'
So after that she finally caught on, come over all sorry.'It's alright,' I said. 'Thought I was going to pass out there a minute.'
'I'm sorry!' she said. 'I've been so distracted. I haven't even offered you a cup oftea! And you're helping me out,' she said.
She stood up. 'I'll put the kettle on.'
'Good job I didn't faint,' I said. 'Imagine that! If I'd of fainted!'
'What would you like to eat?' she said. 'Look! I've got loads!' She opened this cupboard. Full, it was; packed full to bursting with Penguins and peanuts and packets of crisps. 'Help yourself,' she said. 'What would you like? I get it all in for doing Saffra's packed lunch. We'll eat a bit later if that's alright. I think she must have gone to sleep. Make the most of it!'
I stared at the cupboard. 'I don't know,' I said. I didn't; my mind gone numb. So she brought over armfuls of peanuts and crisps, 'Cheese and onion. You see? I remember.' And Penguins as well, all laid out nice on a sparkly plastic plate.
'I got this metabolism,' I said, as she emptied the peanuts into a bowl and I finished a packet of crisps. 'Just got to eat regular,' I said, ' 'cause otherwise I feel faint if I don't. Must burn it off really fast,' I said.
Poppy smiled. 'Shall I make you some tea? Or I know. How about a beer?' And she opened the fridge, fuck-off huge one it was, as tall as the ceiling practically, and more beer and wine inside than a Darkwoods offie.
'Good job Swiller Steve ain't here!' I said.
'Here you are,' said Poppy. And she give me a beer and a glass as well, and she opened it for me.
'This is alright!' I said.
'I'm not putting down that I foul the bed,' said Poppy. 'I'm sorry; I can't.'
'Hold your horses,' I said. 'Just listen.' I taken a sip of my beer. 'This ain't about what you want,' I said. 'What you want don't come into it. You got to give them what they want to hear. Lot of dribblers make that mistake . . .'
'But why would they want to hear that?' said Poppy. 'Can't you be mentally ill without "incontinence of the bowel"?' She grinned.
'Alright then, put what you want!' I said.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
I taken a handful of peanuts.
'Please, N,' she said. 'Go on, explain.'
I shaken my head. 'You's missing the point,' I said. 'This form ain't got nothing to do with mental illness. This is about giving sniffs what they want. It's like an exchange,' I said. 'You tell them what they want to hear and they give you the MAD money.'
'No such thing as a free lunch,' said Poppy.
'It ain't what dribblers are like that matters; it's what they want to think we's like . . .'
'But why?' said Poppy. 'That's the bit I don't get. Why do they want us to be like that? I mean shitting the bed, and all that stuff' I looked at her. 'I'm serious!' she said.
'Well,' I said. I thought a bit. 'Well 'cause that's what we's for,' I said. 'Makes them feel better about theirselves, if we's dribbling all over the place. They can look at us, think "Thank God, I'm not like that!" It's a public service is what it is. You got to have dribblers, else you wouldn't have sniffs.'
'So what are sniffs for then?' said Poppy.
'To pay our benefits,' I said. 'And they want their money's worth.'
Poppy grinned. 'So this is their pound of flesh . . .' she said. 'You're not stupid, are you!'
'Whatever,' I said, and I polished off the rest of my beer.
In the end we settled on pissing the bed. Pissing she could just about cope with, said Poppy, but shitting the bed, no way. 'I think I need a beer myself,' she said as she fetched me another. 'Or shall we open a bottle of wine? Do you fancy wine or beer?' she said. 'Ain't bothered,' I said, so she opened the wine. White it was, didn't taste of much, but it done the job, do you know what I'm saying. By the time we reached the end of Part Three, Poppy weren't the same woman who'd printed her name so careful on the opening page. 'I can't believe I'm writing this!' she'd say, but we was laughing about it. 'How did it come to this!' she'd say.
'It's a public service!' we'd shout both together. It become like a catch-phrase, like who said it first. I never laughed so much in my life.
Saffra come through, must of heard us laughing. Made out she was starving to death, so Poppy done her fish fingers. I don't remember much after that but I know Saffra watched a video while we finished off the rest of the form. And I know it taken for-fucking-ever, but we was laughing so much, we didn't even want to finish. And I'd still say that now, do you know what I'm saying; we had such a good time, the two of us, it was worth it, almost, despite of the consequentials.
35. How Middle-Class Michael done this speech and everyone switched off
You always known when Middle-Class Michael got an announcement to make. He couldn't settle until he'd said it, and he couldn't say it until he'd picked his moment. So he sat there twitching and glancing around, and checking his watch, and glancing around and clearing his throat, and checking his watch and glancing around, till we's all of us like 'For fuck sake, Michael, stop twitching and just fucking say it!'
'I received a letter this morning,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'Perhaps I should wait for Brian.'
'Just fucking get on with it!' we said. Weren't like we give a shit either way, but you know what I'm saying, he'd hooked us now.
'All right,' he says and laying his briefcase flat on his lap, he undone the clasps and taken out this letter. 'It might be simplest if I read it to you.' The flops all gone silent, like straining to listen, hoping for more bad news.
Middle-Class Michael put on his glasses. He only worn glasses for Patients' Council and reading and counting his peas. He stood up. 'I can't see!' said Candid Headphones.
'So turn your headphones down!' said Sue.
'I can hear,' said Candid. 'I can't see, I said!'
'Well I don't know how,' said Sue, 'with that racket. Surprised you can hear anything with that racket. Think what you're doing to your ears,' she said. 'It's giving me a headache!'
Middle-Class Michael gone up the end, stood facing us all with the dead plant behind him. A crisp brown leaf dropped on to his shoulder and he whisked it away with his hand. 'It's from Dave Franks up in Barnet,' he said. 'You may have heard of him already. He used to chair Friern Patients' Council?' He paused. We hadn't. Do you know what I'm saying, hardly Dave fucking Beckham, was he? 'Well,' says Middle-Class Michael. 'No matter. The point is he's set up a pressure group.'
'A what?' said Sue
'A pressure group,' sai
d Verna the Vomit.
'Shush!' said Astrid.
'I've heard of a pressure cooker!' said Sue and we all cracked up, 'cept for Astrid who tutted. Candid turned her headphones down, but slowly so Sue didn't notice.
'He's set up this pressure group,' said Michael, 'to campaign against the privatisation of our mental-health services. This is what he writes,' he said and he started to read it out. And maybe on account it weren't his, and he didn't got the same feel for it, as he done like for one of his own, he read it in this flat sort of voice, 'stead of punching the air like he normally done, and getting the flops excited, just read it straight through like a set of instructions, like a 'Patient Information Leaflet' he'd found in his packet of meds.
Dear All, [it gone]
Let's get this clear. A massive transformation is under way in how our government deals with the mentally ill. You won't have heard much in the media, but the fact is sweeping changes are planned - some have already taken place. We need to act NOW to prevent a catastrophe!
This government has told lie after lie, promising us our health service would never be considered for privatisation, whilst at the same time appointing a Minister for Madness, responsible for overseeing nothing less than the wholesale sell-off of all mental-health services. The truth is the government has landed itself in a mess. Having pledged to reduce hospital waiting times by fifteen minutes before the next election, it now finds it lacks the resources to do so without raising taxes (big vote-winner, that one) or increasing Public Sector Borrowing [Here Middle-Class Michael spotted the chance for one of his explanations, and fuck did he go off on one, all what that was and what it meant and why it weren't a smart move and shit, which I would go into except for I can't on account of I switched off anyway soon as my first few brain cells keeled over and died of fucking boredom!], a move certain to raise eyebrows in the City.
But now it seems ministers have hit on a win-win solution. By selling off mental-health services, not only can they raise some quick cash (negative spending, they call it!), they also stand to save still more by increasing the efficiency of psychiatric treatment. Companies will compete with each other to discharge the most patients in the shortest time for the lowest overheads. Already our very own Mad Tsar, a former number two at the Ministry for Transport, has introduced a whole raft of measures designed to make madness more lucrative and attractive to investors. And already investors are sniffing around. Guess who? You got it! - the pharmaceuticals companies.
