by Leah Fleming
‘You poor sod! Nature can pull some cruel tricks on a woman. Sounds like post-partum dementia. Very rare. What rotten luck. Have they treated you well in here? I’m sure it gets better – eventually.’
‘How would you know? I have had the doubtful pleasure of experiencing the miracles of modern medicine: potions and pills and regular electrocution, bed rest and occupational therapy. At last something’s shifting. I have never stayed in one place long enough to draw a picture until now, and I can tell you this without bawling. No one has really bothered to explain it to me.
I thought, at first I had done something dreadfully wrong.’
Netta stopped in her tracks. He was her own height and abruptly pierced her gaze with his clear-eyed stare. ‘Believe me, you did nothing wrong. No one can explain it yet. Hormonal change after childbirth is as near as they’d probably get. You’re definitely OTM!’
‘What’s that?’
‘On the mend.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, and what is your fee?’ They had walked full circle back to the church. What a strange man, talking as if he knew something about her terrible experience. Netta decided it was better to humour him.
‘Call me Drew, and can we meet again? Do you go to the dance hall? I hear it’s pretty swish inside. Didn’t expect such a bevy of pretty patients and nurses around the place. You’re better than a G and T. Meet me tomorrow, promise? That’ll be my fee.’
‘Tomorrow it is but I’ll meet you inside.’
Netta paused to admire the pond and the late-autumn flowers in the rocky banks. An evening with Drew Stirling should be quite an experience; not quite the art therapy she had intended but it would pass the time, give her a chance to dress up and put a face on. She had not felt like doing that for months. Something was shifting inside her and she felt a leap of excitement. A bit of singing and dancing would do no harm.
Drew raised his arm instinctively to salute her then put it down and bowed. ‘Tomorrow at seven. I say, a date in the loony bin – how bizarre!’
*
Netta washed her hair and curled it under in a pageboy style. She wore a gathered skirt with panels of alternate navy blue and white, a white shirt with navy blue cuffs and collar, and her only pair of decent court shoes. She dabbed on perfume behind her ears and made her way to the ballroom to listen to the band striking up with all the Forces favourites. She tried not to think about Rae, taking comfort from the fact that he’d hated two-steps and waltzes and the jitterbugging craze. Dr Stirling looked the sort of guy who would push her round the floor like a sweeping brush but beggars can’t be choosers and one day she would laugh about his antics. There, it was happening again, she thought, I can think funny things, see the funny side of this strange exile. Oh, Ray, Mummy’ll soon be coming home to you.
The ballroom had a sprung floor that bounced in the middle. There was a stage at one end and a gallery at the other. It was the most splendid dancing space she had ever seen. The tea dances were popular with patients and staff alike and everyone mingled in the crush to hear the latest tunes from the hit parade. Park Royal was like being in one big ark: a shelter from the storms outside for a while, a haven for wounded souls. For seven months this had been her home and the thought that she might leave this place of safety soon terrified her. Here was order and dignity; out there would be coldness and chaos.
There had been no word from Stratharvar for months. Netta had written for news about Ray but short formal notes had been the only reply. His photograph was worn and cracked with fingering now.
Drew pounced on her as soon as she wandered to the edge of the dance-floor, introducing her to a bunch of other officers but waltzing her straight out of their reach. As Netta had feared his idea of ballroom dancing was an exuberant exhibition of twirls and turns which made her head spin. Like a demon possessed, he flung her this way and that until she staggered off the floor in a tizzy.
‘Isn’t she just lovely, you guys? So fresh and wholesome, like a buttered scone – and me such a poor haggis. If I’d had someone like you to come home to, perhaps I’d not have returned such a wreck. Come for a stroll in the moonlight, Netta, I’ve something to show you.’
Drew was wild-eyed and earnest as he elbowed her towards the door. Netta hesitated. ‘I promise to behave. Please, I want to show you my special tree.’ His eyes were brilliant, burnished like amber, sparkling mischievously like a child’s. Netta threw caution to the wind. Why ever not?
The moon wasn’t full but the autumn sky was lit with stars. Frost was already in the air and she was glad of her jacket as they tore down the path towards the trees.
‘What’s so special about a tree in the dark?’ shouted Netta as he guided her into the darkness towards a gnarled old specimen with a broken stump.
‘Trust me, this is purely in the line of science. I want to share the secret of my success with you,’ Drew yelled back as he leapt on to the broken branch like John Wayne astride a saddle.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Netta peered among its branches as he climbed further.
‘Just fishing…’ His voice faded with the effort to root inside the hollows of an old oak’s trunk. She could see dimly that he was embracing it with a hug and wondered if it was safe to be out with this madman. ‘There, got it! Come and see my liquid gold.’
He sat swinging his legs on the branch, waving a whisky bottle that glistened in the moonlight and shimmered temptingly. ‘Water of life, I dream of thee, slaver at the thought of your warm kisses. How I miss thee!’
‘I thought you were supposed to be off the juice?’ Netta crossed her arms, disappointed, shaking her head.
‘Oh, I’m dryer than a nun’s arse, pardon my French, but the sight of this sort of tops up the old resolve. My test piece, stashed away to prove I can live without my little comforter. See, it’s still sealed, untouched by human hand, I promise. I just thought you’d like to see what a good boy I’ve become. A black sheep needs something to ease the pain, believe me, to hide uncertainties behind a show of strength. Soldiers want false hope and bravado, not dour Scots honesty, when they go over the top into battle. It’s expected of officers but when we crack up, boy, do we know how to paint the town! It took three Redcaps to tear me off that jerk who said our Tommies were lily-livered. On my way to a discreet discharge until some kind soul recognised that we all have limits to our endurance. So here I am, the Wreck of the Hesperus, proving I can kick the urge once and for all.’
‘Your family must be relieved.’
‘My family know nothing of this little escapade nor must they. They’re missionaries in South Africa running a clinic, dear pious souls. They think I’m on some training course and there’s no one waiting at the station to clasp me to their bosom. After all that battle grub and mud, I’ve earned a few weeks in this gilded slammer, all mod cons and first-class cuisine, don’t you think?’
‘I can’t wait to be out of here, to see my little boy and pick up the threads of normal life again. I can’t believe it’s been over six months now.’
‘Something to aim for… That’s what this getting better is all about. Something to replace the joys of juice. To think that all my training and do gooding is reduced to a craving for liquid gold slurping down my throat.’
‘You must be on the mend if they let you out on the town with the others now?’
‘They watch out for me and keep me out of the bars but there’s been a lapse or two. One snifter and it’s anchors aweigh again, I’m afraid.’
‘At least you seem to understand what’s going on.’
‘It doesn’t make it any easier, believe me, knowing the theory. Sobriety and comfort – the two don’t mix easily for me. One day at a time is just about bearable, but never to be able to drown my sorrows in alcoholic oblivion again… Perish the thought! Can you understand any of this?’ He slid the bottle down into the hollow with a sigh and patted the tree, afterwards jumping down beside Netta.
‘When Rae was killed, I couldn’t imagine anothe
r day of life without the promise of his return. I didn’t believe it was true for months afterwards. I kept on going down to the shore or up into the hills just to talk to him and feel his presence again. He wasn’t there and I wanted to die but there was this tiny creature inside me who wanted to live, who needed me, and that kept me living. But now I’ve not even the pleasure of my baby to comfort me. If I thought I’d never be with him again, I think it would be the end for me too…’
‘You’ll go home to your bairn, sure as death. There has to be some justice in this rotten world. Not that I’ve seen much of it so far but we must live in hope.’
‘Hope is what we must pray for in 1946, Drew. That you’ll find your purpose again and I’ll be with my baby. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘I suppose not. You’re a tonic, Netta. Let me kiss you for good luck! I didn’t expect to find such common sense in the loony bin. A lass who delights both ear and eye, I’m going to keep tabs on you.’ He drew her gently into a hug and kissed her on the forehead. ‘You are lovely! Who needs a dram when you are in the room?’
Netta tossed her head back and laughed. ‘And you are an awful tease! It’s time you walked me back to the dancing, I’m freezing out here!’
After such an enjoyable evening they met regularly at the kiosk, the cinema, the ceilidhs, and Netta saw Drew’s cheeks begin to fill out. She had not expected to make a friend in the asylum but Park Royal was no ordinary hospital.
*
Drew Stirling found his days brightened by the company of the flame-haired beauty but could not bring himself to tell her of his real shame. Few knew his rank or the real reason for his enforced rest cure. He himself didn’t want to think about any of it now the war was over. He would give the coming Remembrance Service a miss. It wasn’t going to bring any of his comrades back, the shrouded bits he had buried, the broken minds and severed limbs that disturbed his dreams each night.
All that carnage and waste… the burden of his unbelievable knowledge took its toll. No wonder he drank to anaesthetise himself from memories of carcasses, burning flesh and the stink of death.
How can anyone stay calm in the face of continual slaughter, seeing a handful of fine riflemen return from a sortie, all that was left of a company? Shivering wrecks of humanity that he was expected to patch up and send backwards, forwards or sideways into burial pits. At best he could secure them a few days’ respite at an exhaustion centre further back down the line. As they shoved forward from street to street, avoiding mines and snipers, ambushes and bombardment, performing miracles of minor surgery, stemming the blood and guts, mud and gunge, the strain took its toll on all his staff.
In his arrogance Drew had thought doctors were invincible to the suffering around them behind masks of dispassionate professionalism. He could observe the madness of sadistic officers, logistical cock-ups, the stupidity of some orders, but the cover up of the tent massacre was the final act of needless carnage that yanked him adrift from his moorings.
A tent full of sleeping soldiers was mown down by a drunken driver out on a spree, a futile accident. He had to peel men off the tent walls. Just another needless waste of life that no one would talk about. A single slug from the whisky ration was no longer enough to quench his thirst or calm his anxieties after that. He was a doctor and could control his anaesthetic, or so he thought, but no white coat could switch off his feelings or his fears.
Only long hard bouts of boozing could keep him operational. Other ranks could go to the exhaustion centres to see the trick cyclist but Drew had been raised with a puritanical outlook, a tendency to regard mental illness as mere evasion of duty and a sign of moral weakness. He was now beginning to think otherwise.
How he tried to be strong for his men! And if that meant two bottles of juice a day, so be it. But then he was caught paralytic in the First Aid Post and sent down the line in disgrace. No one wanted to know about his nightmares or his panics. He was a label with ‘Nervous Exhaustion’ written large on it. The fact that he was a medic only added to his shame.
What followed was a blur of cold turkey, lectures and enforced drying out. Only his military record saved him from immediate discharge. He was put in some square-bashing barracks in the Borders and told to sort out the A1s from the C grades.
Drew puffed smoke into a ring, thinking of that final bar-room brawl that had landed him in Park Royal. This time he was for it. As he stared at the church and the green lawns and gracious buildings, he felt only despair.
He did not want to be around when the bugles blew the Last Post. He was sick of brass and uniforms and orders. He was ashamed that he had not seen out the last few weeks of war with his men. Someone had shoved a book of Wilfred Owen’s poems in his hand and he had found them oddly comforting. They were honest and stark, straight from the heart. No one cared a toss what was in Drew’s heart, it seemed. The doctors and nurses here were kindly enough but reserved with a fellow medic who would not take their orders. He hated being beholden to anyone.
There was really no point in hanging around in here any longer. Time to leg it over the wall and take a hike south. Pity! He would miss Netta ’s turquoise eyes but she too was on her way out soon. Better not start what you can’t finish, Andrew. Quit while you’re ahead.
*
Netta was looking out for her friend at that first solemn Remembrance Day parade amongst the marching officers and the poppies, the dignitaries processing to the church. She sat in her pew, trying to find his shock of sandy hair and sloping shoulders. She asked around among the crowds who poured out of the service in silence. No one would give her a straight answer. They had arranged to take a stroll but Drew stood her up and she was puzzled.
In the grey mist of that November afternoon she found herself making her way down to the stumpy oak and the secret hollow. Perhaps he was waiting for her there. She darted into the undergrowth and shinned up to the hollow, fishing with her hand for the bottle. She smiled with relief to feel it there. When she pulled it up into the light, she saw that it was open and empty. Drew must have drained every drop. So much for hope, she sighed as she made her way back up the slope towards Denny House. You’re on you own again, Netta. It’s up to you now!
Ray’s photograph kept Netta moving forward, away from that black fog of despair by the rivers of tears. The cocktail of drugs in the egg cup changed its taste and smell from sweet to metallic to a more normal flavour on her tongue.
In the dayroom she watched the snow falling with excitement, and when it was exercise time the group threw snowballs at each other and danced around in the snow. Dr Goldberg promised a Christmas revue and asked for volunteers. Netta offered to help with costumes, some of the staff put on a show and they invited in a dancing troupe to cheer the patients up.
She was given a trunk of old costumes to sort out. The trunk was musty and some of the costumes moth-eaten, reeking of camphor candles. ‘These must have been here since the Ark!’ Netta laughed, prancing around waving a flimsy gauze evening dress. She fingered the materials lovingly.
‘These aren’t costumes, they’re real! Look at the beadwork on this bodice – and the lining of this waistcoat is pure silk.’ They were handling ancient dresses of a bygone era, handstitched, full of exquisite embroidery; gold filigree needlework on crumpled uniforms. This lot should be in the Stewartry Museum not a dressing up box in a madhouse, thought Netta as she salvaged the best of the costumes before showing them to the Revue Committee. She felt the texture of them, rubbing the materials against her cheek; the green velvet pile with the gold braid, the orange damask brocade with ivory lace edging. The greys and duns of the dreary past months disappeared in this visual feast. Colours were coming into focus again: she noticed the whiteness of the snow dusting the red bricks, turning Park Royal once more into a fairytale palace, not a mental hospital. The cloud of depression and weariness no longer pressed down on her forehead.
With such rich colours close at hand Netta could forget all her sadness and knew r
elease could not be far away. The last promotion was to go before the panel for a final assessment. How many times in those last weeks did she imagine holding Ray in her arms, cradling him to sleep, hugging away baby tears while singing her favourite lullaby?
Dr Goldberg assured her that the shock treatment was working. It had, however, taken much longer than anyone had expected to get her back on an even keel. There were great gaps in her memory, holes which the past had slipped through somehow, but she trusted him when he said that she was now fit to go before the Panel Board for assessment.
He shoved a newspaper in her hand and told Netta to read up about what was happening in the world outside. She was sent on day trips into Dumfries to find out the prices of post-war rationing, get used to traffic and the crowds milling around her. It had been a worry to be so out of touch with the real world. She looked for Drew but he had vanished. The thought of a winter journey back to Stratharvar made her feel faint with anticipation. How would it feel to see the pram and baby in it? How would it all work out?
*
She sat nervously before a line of worthies; some with kindly faces, others who never looked up from their paperwork.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Jeanette Hunter.’
‘Your mother’s maiden name?’
‘Jean Kirkpatrick.’
‘What is today’s date?’
‘December fifteenth, 1945. I was nineteen on the tenth of June last,’ she added for good measure.
‘The reports before me state that this woman is said to be fit to leave subject to the usual regulations. She must see her doctor on release.’
‘I just want to go home and see my baby.’ Netta smiled at the assembly.
‘All in good time, Mrs Hunter. We don’t want to rush things. You will be under strict supervision. The little mite’s managed fine without you so far, don’t want to upset his routine. Take it slowly, let yourself into it gently. Your family doctor… er… Dr Begg will want to see you first. Don’t go making a fuss. Remember, you’ve been away for eight months and the war’s over now.’