Inheritance

by Thomas Wymark

As I walked away from the health centre I almost got hit by a car. I hadn’t seen it reversing. It’s tyres screeched as it stopped, despite the slow speed it was moving. The driver gestured at me. He mouthed something.

  I was finding it difficult to focus on the pavement as I walked. It was as though every other pedestrian was making a beeline for me. I found myself swerving out of the way of someone every few steps.

  I had no idea where to go with this. I didn’t know what my next move should be.

  I felt like running. As far away as possible. But I didn’t know where to run.

  Doctor Jones estimated that my assessment would take place in approximately three weeks. Possibly sooner. He could try to chase it up if I preferred. Try to hurry it along.

  I had to try to delay it.

  I felt as though I was missing something. Some piece of hidden information that would enable me to escape from the pressure bearing down on me.

  If I had a psychiatric assessment I would lose Michael and Rose, I was convinced of that.

  Instantly a vision came to me. A home, a desolate cottage. Windswept and alone. We could all go there. Me and Neil and the kids. On an island somewhere. I had seen them on the telly. I knew they existed.

  Somewhere we wouldn’t be found. None of us.

  I walked past a travel agent’s. Pictures of cruise ships and mountains filled the window.

  I put my hand on the door handle to go in, but stopped myself.

  What would I do if I was alone with the kids? What would I do to Neil? What on earth would I do to my own daughter? My beautiful Rose.

  The vision of the desolate cottage for four became a wretched, self-imposed prison for one. What else was there for me to do? I had to protect the children. I couldn’t let them be taken from me for being unstable.

  But they would put me away, surely. Perhaps I had been wrong all along. They would take me away, not the children. They could stay at home. They could stay with Neil. With Neil and who else?

  Then a peep of the “something” I thought I was missing showed itself. Something about the scans. Why had he been so dismissive of them? He wanted me to have an assessment. If the scans proved that there was some damage to my Frontal and Temporal lobes, I wouldn’t need the assessment. My actions and dysfunction could be caused by the damage to my brain sustained during the attack.

  I needed to see the scan results. I wanted another doctor to look at them. Or I could take them to the hospital and ask them to be explained to me there. I turned back to the health centre.

  My heart pounded as the adrenalin pumped its way through my body. At once I could see a different future. One where I wasn’t insane, just damaged by the attack. Why had the doctor been so desperate to have me assessed? Would they lock me up, just on his say so?

  I strode through the waiting-room and made my way round to Doctor Jones’ room. I pushed straight in.

  An elderly woman looked up at me, then back to the doctor. Doctor Jones blushed and stood up.

  ‘Mrs Marsden,’ he said. ‘Would you mind waiting outside please. I’m with another patient.’

  ‘I need those scan pictures,’ I said. ‘I’d like to take them away with me please.’

  The doctor apologised to the lady sat opposite him. He walked towards me and ushered me out of his room. We stood together in the corridor.

  ‘Mrs Marsden,’ he said. ‘There are no pictures of your scan here. The pictures that were taken from your scan are assessed at the hospital by a physician specifically trained to interpret MRI scans. They then write their report based on what they see. The report is what is sent through to your GP.’

  I realised how dry my throat was.

  ‘I’d be happy to give you a copy of the report.’

  I nodded.

  ‘If you’d be kind enough to wait in the waiting-room, I’ll photocopy it and bring it out to you after I’ve finished with my current patient.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said.

  He patted my arm and opened the door of his room. The old lady looked up at us both.

  I read the report while sitting in the waiting-room. It told me nothing new. It was exactly as Doctor Jones had read it. It even used the word “inconclusive”. I wondered how long it would take for the swelling to go down sufficiently for the scans to show things more clearly. I stopped myself from barging into his room again. Instead I asked at reception for a pen and some paper. I wrote a note to Doctor Jones requesting that I be sent along for another MRI scan before going for the psychiatric assessment. I signed the letter then handed the pen over to the receptionist. I took the note along the corridor to the doctor’s room. I hovered around just outside the door. I could hear voices inside. I didn’t want to piss him off by charging in there again, so I slipped the note under the door and left.

  As I walked to the taxi rank I could see the pavement more clearly. People weren’t walking into me, and I wasn’t having to swerve. I didn’t look in the travel agent’s window as I strode past.

  The taxi dropped me outside my house at 10:45. I could see Margaret waiting at the front door.

  I paid the taxi driver and walked towards her. She tried to pull off a smile, but it didn’t work out. She held her arms out to me as I drew nearer.

  ‘Christine, how are you? You look wonderful.’

  I tried a smile too, but obviously it just wasn’t our day.

  ‘You too,’ I said. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

  She bustled inside as soon as the door was open. It was as though it was her house and I was her guest. I half expected her to offer me a coffee.

  ‘Coffee?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘Please.’

  She followed me to the kitchen. Although she gave the impression of concentrating on me, her eyes studied every area of the rooms we were in. She looked as though she was looking for something she had previously lost, but was embarrassed to be seen looking for it. She needn’t have been embarrassed on my behalf. I had no idea what she was looking for. Perhaps she was wondering what the inside of a house looked like when it was inhabited by a woman who was slowly drifting further and further away from the shores of sanity.

  I wanted to snap her out of it.

  ‘Biscuit?’ I said.

  She stopped looking.

  ‘Ooh yes please,’ she said.

  I realised as soon as I had said the word that I had no biscuits.

  I poured two mugs of coffee and walked to the dining-room. Margaret followed. Neither of us mentioned the lack of biscuits.

  ‘So really, Christine — how are you? You were just at the doctor?’

  ‘I think I’ll be ready to come back soon,’ I said. ‘Really soon.’

  I couldn’t make eye contact with her as I spoke. I hoped she wouldn’t read the lies.

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said. ‘It really would. How’s Michael? He seems much happier.’

  I rubbed my thumb and forefinger across my eyebrows.

  ‘He’s great. Really good.’

  ‘I understand he and Rose are staying at Abigail’s at the moment.’

  I tried a dismissive throw of my head.

  ‘They’re just having a little fun holiday really. They love being with Abi’s children.’

  Margaret moved her coffee cup and leaned forward. I knew what was coming.

  ‘Christine,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be back really soon,’ I said. I sounded so desperate. ‘I’m almost better, and I can’t wait to be in school again. Back with the kids. I’m really missing them. There will be so much to catch up on. So much I must have missed. It’s funny, isn’t it, when you aren’t there for a while you feel almost nervous to come back again. But I can’t wait. I’m not nervous at all. It’ll be ever so soon.’

  Margaret sat quietly during my rant, allowing it all out.

  ‘The governors have been in a very difficult situation,’ she said. ‘We were all desperate for you to come back as soon as possible. But only when you were better.’

&nbs
p; ‘I am better,’ I said.

  Margaret held up a hand.

  ‘It’s been over two months now. And you know as well as anyone how much happens in a school in two months. In two days even. It was simply becoming harder and harder to justify delaying making an appointment. The school needs a Deputy Head. Needed.’

  I lowered my head to my hand and closed my eyes. I felt drained of energy, utterly exhausted.

  ‘As you know, it was me that recommended you to the position in the first place. And I know that it was I who convinced you to go for it. I blame myself, really. I know that once you made your mind up try, you really wanted the job. I had talked you into it.

  ‘It’s just that Matthew has been there. Every day he’s been there. He has been in on meetings, volunteered for clubs and after-school work. He has answered all of the governors’ questions and more. His credentials, Christine, are not that different from yours. OK, he’s not quite as experienced, and he lacks some of your qualities. I think we all know that if things had been different the governors would probably have been able to come to a different conclusion.’

  I wiped the tears off my cheeks.

  ‘Matthew is a good choice,’ I said. ‘He’ll do a good job.’

  Margaret reached across the table and held my hand.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Christine,’ she said. ‘Truly I am.’

  I smiled. A genuine one. Stroked her hand.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ I said. ‘It’s probably the right decision for everyone really. Me too.’

  Margaret patted my hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Sorry about the biscuits,’ I said.

  We both laughed.

  I stood up from the table and walked into the living-room to grab a box of tissues. As I moved, the phone rang. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and diverted to the kitchen to get the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Is that Christine Marsden?’

  I didn’t recognise the woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Mrs Marsden, my name is Mary Brookes. I am one of the Adoption Advisers at the district council offices. I am ringing to make an appointment for you to come in to see me. We think we have found your adoption file.’

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