Somewhere Beyond Reproach

by Tim Jeal

  With a feeling of panic I heard her voice in the lift. She was talking to another woman.

  ‘… I don’t think so. I haven’t heard anyway.’

  The lift gates opened on the floor beneath. I heard her high heels on the tiles of the corridor. I could go down. What hadn’t she heard? Something very ordinary, very easily explicable. Dinah Simpson, age thirty-five, housewife, mother of a nine-year-old child. Yet I was still trembling.

  In the hall the porter smirked and asked me if I’d forgotten something.

  ‘Anyway you’ve found your own way out now.’

  Ten

  As soon as I got home I started to read some of the typewritten pages that I had ‘borrowed’. Before I write down their contents I must say that though I had been shocked by Simpson’s disability I had not thought that it obliged me to revise my plan of action. Disease, like death, is often arbitrary in its choice of victim. The sufferer is involved through no willed choice, so can claim no special merit, can expect no special consideration. This is perhaps too categorical. Had the picture I had been given by these papers been one of a saint I might have been impelled to try and think again.

  I sat down in one of my black leather arm-chairs and started to read. The pages, as I have said, had no numbers. The contents were sometimes developed thoughts and sometimes isolated ideas. Whether he had written to clarify things for himself I do not know. I suspect that loneliness, and a fear of there being no point in thought without any recipient for that thought, both played their part. Boredom may well have accounted for much. I cannot pretend not to have been moved by much of what I read, to have admired. I also hated. Here then is part of what I took from that drawer.

  I have been here three months. So much time for thought. It would be so easy to surrender to the routine. The tank, the parallel bars, the ramps, the arrival of food. There is no need for thought. ‘How are you today?’ The rhetorical question … only one answer expected, only one answer possible: ‘Better.’ This lack of conversation, lack of contact with the outside world, has helped me. I have been completely undisturbed. I have begun to resent any change in the expected routine of the hospital. Dinah came yesterday. Already she comes from a very alien world. I felt tired when she left. Why do people have to be cheerful when they visit hospitals?

  I can now understand why the Hebrew idea of conversion is more like repentance than conversion in the Christian sense.

  My reading of the Old Testament has been instructive. Atonement is through sacrifice. In Isaiah we have it already. The elect must suffer. I am writing down the fifth verse of the fifty-third chapter: ‘He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.’

  When I arrived they performed a tracheotomy to stop me choking with my own mucus. They thought the nerves in my medulla had gone. I am better but my legs weigh so much. I know this by moving them with my hands. Only my toes are living. My legs look all right, the muscles have not yet shrunk with atrophy. I can see my body now with a strange detachment. I don’t think I ever saw my knees till now. I have read that men when dying feel that they are somewhere else, participating in some action. I have felt that I have been dying. It is strange now that I am better to be typing this.

  It is quite easy to think of oneself as a limpet clinging to a rock. One accepts that one has no control over one’s life that is at best a fleeting one. The waves break, and one concentrates on the process of living, clinging on. It is very simple to regard the order one lives in as natural. I have done this. Only when I think of all that I have taken for granted suddenly changing, am I able to realise the fatuity of a life of acquisitiveness and acceptance. My life has not changed with a national revolution or a bereavement, simply the loss of the use of my legs.

  I do not consider that people turn to religion when there is nothing else left. Or at least I grant some truth in this. In my case my misfortune has not been the direct cause of my reorientation. My new thought is not engendered by any certainty that life without it would be unbearable. I have come upon it because I know that satisfaction with a profane life is fatuous. Here I am very much aware of the passing of time. What have I ever achieved till now?

  I have put these two passages together to show the kind of contradictions which Simpson was attempting to reconcile. To my mind unsatisfactorily. The egotism of what I am transcribing next amazes me.

  The healthy often say with scorn that sickness is God’s opportunity. They say that affliction is arbitrary. But God tortures those he loves. He tortured Abraham. Adversity is our test and our opportunity to see more clearly. Suffering is a warning of our inadequacy, which we may reject or choose to take. Illness shows us just how self-sufficient we are. Abraham was tested because God loved him. I hope that I too may prove myself worthy of his calling. Now I can no longer ask with resentment: ‘Why did this happen to me?’ I can see the connection with sacrifice. The king dying to bring rain, the corn rising from his blood. The seeds that fall when the flower has died so that the flower can live again. I understand the fakir’s living death upon his bed of nails. Out of his suffering he knows wisdom will come. I have been lucky to have been reminded in the way I have. I had to do so little. I can return the will, that I once considered to be mine, so easily.

  I would not attempt to improve those I did not love.

  Yesterday I heard some Mozart on the radio. I cried to think of the pain and poverty he had suffered, he who had given such pleasure to so many. I cried until I thought of the strength that he had found to go on with his work. I asked for a book of his letters. Today I have it. I am not surprised to see that he was a deeply religious man. He gave what he did because of suffering.

  I wonder how I can ever have thought myself self-sufficient when I consider all the things beyond my control. The names I have forgotten, the things I have said by mistake, the moods I have not asked to have, the people I have not asked to love. I have never asked to be smitten with apathy, nor ever been able to predict a period of prolonged creative thought. I could drive a car, eat without thinking, the process in my mind continuing without my being aware of it, allowing me to think of something else. And then there is the darker side. The areas of mind that I cannot regulate at all. My fears and visions that come in the night. Excrement, monsters with human flesh, the bubbling in the guts of rotting flesh I recognise to be my own. In my hand is a gun, I am shooting, shooting out of fear. I am killing an animal that will not die. All these I recognise are mine, all these I did not summon. Self-sufficiency is a myth.

  My right leg has swollen to almost twice its size. I am not allowed to move it. Ironically thrombophlebitis is caused by insufficient movement. They take blood from my arm every morning. I have little other than fruit juice. The leg is raised in a cradle and the fluid has started to drain to the thigh. My air cushion does little to relieve the pains round the coccyx. In spite of the frame on the end of my bed the bedclothes are still heavy. My feet are braced against boards to stop them dropping.

  I assume that what follows belongs to a later period. It is understandable. It should not have made me angry and yet it did. In spite of the fact that in it I found the justification I needed, I still felt anger.

  Andrew came this afternoon. I have got some movement back in my left leg. I shook it around to impress him with my progress. Although the movement of the actual leg is slight, the bedclothes heaved as though the leg were almost normal. We found little to say to each other. He seemed nervous and I must have appeared grumpy. I was thankful when he left. Dinah started off being ‘marvellous’. Her visits were frequent. The flowers and fruit in my room were abundant. Her visits now are limited to one a week. I feel that this is through no fault of hers. Some people respond to hospital by being thankful for anything that reminds them of their natural life. I have seen a child in a respirator reading a Latin text book, a machine turning the pages. They yearn for visiting hours, for the gramophone reco
rd on the radio that reminds them of a holiday taken when they could walk. I have reacted very differently. While I am here I have wanted to forget everything connected with my previous life. Dinah’s visits force me to consider the order of life I considered natural and inevitable. Here I may depend on people to crank up or let down my bed, to help me into the lift to the gymnasium, and yet this is an impersonal dependence. I am more helpless but I feel more free. Now there is nothing like the need I felt for Dinah, the necessity for her presence. The self-absorption I experience here has made me more truly myself.

  Three weeks ago I had a new therapist. I started by feeling no curiosity at all. Her professional attitude to me has been in perfect accord with my desire to be left alone. I was an object that was out of order and had to be put right. She treated me much as I should imagine a mechanic would a machine that had been brought in. On my way to the gym she is always with me, walking just behind as I struggle onwards with the help of my crutches. My legs are braced. If there is any danger of my falling it will be backwards. She is there to catch me. For the first time since I entered this place I feel envy, the envy of the sick for the healthy. If I take too many rests I am told to hurry. The first time I fell she reproved me: ‘I haven’t taught you how to do that yet.’ If my performance is worse than usual because I am not trying she never loses her temper. The nearest she has come to anger is irritation that I am unable to bend my knees more. I am placed on a table and she gently pulls them downwards. On these occasions the pain is terrible. I cannot, as I look at the healthy bloom on her cheeks, bring myself to scream. I try and keep up a jovial conversation as my voice falters. She has chestnut hair and green eyes. One of the nurses tells me she left her husband. She makes my Christian name sound more formal than my surname. Jane and I are together for over three hours a day.

  Last week she was away. I did not make so much progress. I heard her say to the therapist I had been with: ‘He does better with me.’ I feel that this is pride in her work rather than affection.

  When my new brace came for the left leg it did not fit properly. For the first time I saw her angry. This has happened to other of her patients and she has not shown the same emotion.

  I have begun to look forward to my sessions in the gym and in the water tank. The progress I have made in the last couple of weeks has surprised the orthopaedists. Jane is pleased with me. I think there is something personal about this. She is pleased for me. I do not think that her encouragement is now solely to get better results for the purpose of enhancing her reputation. Only now am I starting to realise that we have been working as a partnership. I feel from some of the things she has said that her earlier stony attitude was due to her sorrow for my plight. ‘Anything,’ she has said, ‘is better than showing pity for a patient.’ I have noticed several of the nurses looking at us with interest. Has she been talking about me? Dr Adams has suggested that now that I am better I should be moved to a public ward to let a more serious case have my bed. I have been touched by the way Jane has objected to this. She views my writing with interest. I am ashamed to say that I have told her I am writing a book. I wonder what she would think if she knew what I have typed. It is a standing joke in the hospital that polio does not diminish sexual feelings.

  I am now able to walk with considerably greater ease. Yesterday I was allowed out into the garden for the first time. How pleasant the sun felt. I regretted not being able to kneel down and feel the grass. I walked over a hundred yards before resting. Jane and I sat on a bench in front of a large group of rhododendrons. For the first time we were really alone. The hospital was hidden behind the bushes. ‘You’ll be going home soon, if you go on like this.’ I detected some sadness. I suddenly felt something like terror at the prospect. She must have sensed this. ‘It’s never easy.’ Neither of us said anything for some moments. ‘Anyway you’ll be back with your wife and son. They’ll be surprised at what we’ve done.’ There was a time when I could think of little else but Dinah. I looked at Jane and realised that in different circumstances I could have loved her too. How much this has taught me. I know now that I am free of human dependence. I looked at Jane, who loved me I am sure. I looked at her and knew that I was free.

  Had I simply taken the pages that Simpson had written about himself? Had he ever thought about what it would be like to be left alone at home? I thought of how lonely Dinah must have felt. Did he ever give this a thought while experiencing the pleasures of the mind in the delightful company of his therapist. I felt his neglect of Dinah as an insult to me. If I cared, why didn’t he? We’d see how much the hobbling philosopher could practise what he preached. I have chosen only the pages that seem relevant. Many of the pages had crossings out and thoughts so undeveloped as to be incomprehensible. Not once, I noticed, had Simpson complained about being in pain. At the time I read his words I did not think of this at all. Only now am I forced to concede that he was brave. Then, the omission made him seem inhuman.

  It was four o’clock in the morning when I finished reading. My absorption had been so great that I had not noticed the acute pins and needles in my left arm until I finished.

  Eleven

  Three days later the letter I had been expecting from Dinah arrived.

  Dear Harry, [No date. No address.]

  Thank you so much for giving Andrew such a magnificent present.

  I know that you met Andrew by coincidence and I much appreciate the interest you have shown in him and your kindness in taking him to the cinema. He has repeatedly told me how much he enjoyed himself. I do hope you do not consider me ridiculous when I say that I cannot let Andrew keep what you gave him. This is not only in view of what happened years ago. I’m sure it is wrong to visit the sins of the parents on their children but in this case I am sure it is the only answer. Since I am going to ask you not to take Andrew out again I don’t think it is fair to let him keep such an expensive present. It would not be fair to you. I shall be posting it after the Christmas rush as I can’t face the post office again till things have subsided.

  In a way I blame my mother for putting both of us in this position. I regret having to write as I do. Andrew is very disappointed and thinks me a brute. So be it. Well my apologies and I hope you have a good Christmas.

  Yours,

  Dinah Simpson.

  I immediately began to compose my reply. I had known the letter would be impersonal and had suspected the contents would be as they were. The sight of her writing caused me a momentary tightening of the stomach muscles, but otherwise I was completely under control. I had known what to write even when I had chosen the present. I fancied that any contact I had now with her mother would be reported back. Or at least Dinah would ask her mother to do so. Although I suspected that Mrs Lisle might be unscrupulous enough to double-cross anybody, her daughter included, I decided not to contact her again before writing to Dinah. I wrote:

  Dear Dinah,

  Thank you for your letter. Really you needn’t have been so effusive in your thanks to me for taking out Andrew and giving him something. I enjoyed both probably more than he did.

  Although I am sure that you are considering me when you say that Andrew can’t keep the toys, I really do insist that it would not be fair to him if you gave them back. I should hate to think that a gift given to cause pleasure should instead bring grief. I’m afraid that when we were walking down Regent Street after the film the idea came to me suddenly and I didn’t think of your feelings. I am also sorry that after ten years any contact with me is so undesirable. I feel that I should not have written the last sentence but the return of these toys does not only seem unfair to a child who did not ask for them, but it is also unfair to me, precisely what you say you are seeking to avoid being. I saw your mother so that I could in some way bury the past and show her, and also you, that I felt no malice for what happened once. The return of these toys exactly destroys my gesture. I too must apologise. As things have turned out I was misguided.

  If you do insist on taking th
e toys away, as I feel sure you will after your initial stand, would it not be possible for me to make this up to Andrew by taking him out the Saturday after Christmas? I think he shares my interest in the pugilistic! How about some wrestling? Could I collect him at your mother’s house? I shall be away till then. I shall be at your mother’s at five. If I make the journey for nothing, then it’s my fault for being away. I shall in fact be abroad, and the post being what it is any reply would probably be useless.

  Sincerely,

  Harry.

  Of course I would not be away. I simply did not want another letter. The time had come for a confrontation. Of course she could let her mother explain that she did not want Andrew to see me again. I felt after the letter that she would not be able to square this with her conscience. I also felt that she would try to make sure that I did not force any further attentions on them. After all, a goodwill visit when the whole family were at home could turn into something distinctly embarrassing. Perhaps Simpson had not been told about the relationship that had ended so soon before his had begun. She, not Andrew, would be there at her mother’s house. She probably wouldn’t want to talk in front of her mother. I was sure that the regenerate Simpson and a lady of Mrs Lisle’s evident materialism would not be close friends. We would be able to talk on neutral ground. I realised that everything would depend on this meeting — or almost everything. The Simpson papers with their blackmail potential might be a means to get the husband himself to invite me to the flat as a friend of his. If necessary I would find the Mapham Hospital therapist. I felt fairly sure that I had probably missed a few vital pages in my rapid robbery.