2004 - The Reunion

by Sue Walker

  They were led around the side of the ugly building, and the world suddenly changed. The garden was sloped and landscaped. Trees, shrubbery, lawns and the sound of a fountain somewhere. It reminded her of a Swiss sanatorium from the turn of the century—except, instead of consumptive convalescents in bath-chairs and tartan knee rugs, there were various, disparate huddles of people in twos and threes. Despite the chilly March air, all the patients wore some form of night attire. Some had brightly coloured fashionable dressing gowns on, in silky reds and blues. Others were more conventionally dressed in dull towelling affairs. Every patient she could see looked very ill, some chuntering away to nobody in particular, some bent over, withdrawn into their own universes, johnny chattered on.

  “All the patients are aged between twenty-five and forty-five. All have a history of brain injury and psychological disturbance. But the good news is that they’re doing well. Lydia has made remarkably fast progress, remember. Just the very fact that she’s in the Annexe means that. You know, this is one of the best places in the UK. And all on the good old NHS. It was originally funded by a generous bequest, and some trust money helps out. And we get rent from the private wing. Anyway, Lydia’s round here, I think.” He squinted against the sun. “Yes, there she is. Down by the swing. D’you want me to come to introduce you?”

  She barely heard his offer. She could scarcely believe her eyes. It was the hair-style that she recognized first. The same blonde bob with an Alice-band framing a far less chubby face than of old. The swing was an over-stylized copy of a Victorian contraption. An attempt had been made to train climbing plants around the rope hangings, but it hadn’t worked. The seat was a huge, wooden board painted bright vermilion. Lydia was swinging slowly, legs held straight out in front of her and locked at the knees. Her head hung down, strands of hair covering each cheek. Her choice of dressing gown was a long, satiny, pink confection. Perfectly respectable, since she had on brushed cotton pyjamas that were clearly visible underneath, the trousers strangely rolled above the knees, exposing pale, flabby calves.

  Jean Lament touched Innes’s arm. “Shall we try, then, my dear?”

  Innes nodded, and they approached slowly. With each step she had to force the unwelcome images of the Unit’s garden swing from her mind.

  Jean Lament’s voice was soft. “Lydia? Lydia dear?”

  Five feet from them, Lydia remained oblivious, head hanging down towards the ground. Penduluming to and fro.

  Innes heard the old lady trying again, a bit louder this time. “Lydia? Lydia, hello? Lydia!”

  The face that looked up had only one memorable feature for Innes. The striking blue eyes still held their colour, though most of the life in them had gone elsewhere. Innes’s shock at the vacant look of Lydia’s face made her step back. The Lydia of twenty-six years ago had been lively, intelligent, fresh-faced. What was left still had a good complexion, full lips. But the lifeless eyes had the effect of disfiguring the face. Lydia had lost a considerable amount of weight since her binge-eating days in the Unit. She was still big, though not obese. And she looked at least a decade older than she really was, especially around those eyes. The skin there was jaundiced and wrinkled. Only the hair had held on to its original promise, though on closer examination all it had was bottled colour. Still, someone had been trying to look after Lydia’s appearance. That apart, the exceptional shine and gloss had gone with the loss of youth. And health. And care.

  Innes offered Lydia a smile as she silently admonished herself for such a reaction. What the hell did losing your entire family do to you if not ruin your looks as well as everything else? Whether or not Lydia had brought this all on herself, Innes felt the strangling emotion of pity as she stared on.

  “Who you?” It was little more than a throaty, Neanderthal grunt, and they both strained to work out what Lydia was saying.

  “Who you, cunt?” The second utterance was marginally clearer. The expletive seemed to leave Jean Lament unruffled, as she was just about to answer, when Lydia started up again.

  “Fag? Fag? Got fag? Fag?” The staccato grunting was unsettling. For the first time in God knows how long, Innes cursed herself for being a non-smoker.

  Jean Lamont whispered, “It’s okay, she always starts like this. Hello, Lydia! It’s Jean here. Your neighbour from ‘Kittiwake’. I’m the lady with the Westie. Remember, you liked to walk him with me. You remember Scampi, don’t you?” She turned back to Innes. “I should’ve brought the dog. I did once before and she loved it. Never mind.”

  “Fag! Fag! Got fag! Fag!” Slowly, in an almost obscenely sensuous gesture, Lydia reached under her dressing gown and brought out a ten-pack of extra long cigarettes. The plastic lighter, with ‘Welcome to Blackpool’ incongruously etched into it, followed. She sucked at the first draw. The grimace that accompanied exhalation showing exceptionally well-cared-for teeth.

  Jean patted Innes on the arm again. “Tell you what. I’ll go up to the caf£ and get us some coffees and biccies. That’ll settle her down. You’ll be okay here, won’t you, dear?”

  Innes was relieved at the old woman’s departure. It would give her a chance to talk to Lydia on her own. She stepped forward to the swing.

  “Hello, Lydia. I’m Innes. I’ve come to visit you. Nurse Johnny says you don’t get many visitors.”

  “Nurse Johnny poof! Nurse Johnny poof cunt!”

  The sun was shining directly into the blank face, and Lydia turned her head to one side, eyes swivelled to keep the visitor in her sights. Innes walked round in front of her, casting a protective shadow. She couldn’t work out if Lydia had had something like a stroke. Her way of talking was garbled, mumbling—gone was the perfect diction of her youth—but her face was symmetrical and mobile. Lydia’s one-word sentences punctuated by Tourette’s-style obscenities had her wondering exactly what damage she had suffered. Innes tried again on the visitor tack.

  “So, who visited you last time, Lydia? Was it Jean?”

  The suck on the cigarette came first. Then, “Cunt!”

  Innes was unclear if this was directed against Jean or was just a general outburst. She decided to leave the visitor issue alone. The problem was, she didn’t know if Lydia’s childlike behaviour reflected her actual take on the world now. How the hell could she possibly raise the issue of die Unit with this, this shell of a once intelligent, at times exuberant girl? It was cruel. And wrong.

  “Push, cunt. Please.”

  The request and the ‘please’ had to be some kind of breakthrough. Innes moved slowly behind and gently began to push die swing, die action bringing a shudder as she reached her guilt-ridden decision.

  “Lydia? I used to know you before.”

  Silence.

  “Yes. I knew you as Lydia Young. In die Unit. Remember? I’m Innes? Innes Haldane.”

  Nodiing.

  She checked up towards the main building, anxious that Jean Lamont shouldn’t return too soon. She pushed Lydia again. “There was Carrie? Simon? Alex?” She paused before die last two, her hands giving a final firm shove. Then she walked round to face Lydia again. “And remember Isabella? And Danny?”

  She slipped die group photograph of diem all at die camping holiday out of her pocket and held it in front of Lydia’s eyes. “See, here we all are.”

  Lydia was fiddling widi her cigarette packet again, pulling out one cigarette after anorner and dien pushing diem back in. Her pretence of not looking at the photo was poor and Innes could see her eyes slewing towards it.

  Then, “D’nny. D’nny cunt!”

  “Danny, that’s right. Danny Rintoul?”

  Lydia planted her trainered feet on the ground, bringing the swinging to an abrupt halt. Her entire concentration was now on the cigarette packet’s lid, which she tore at, eventually wrenching it off and hurling it to the ground.

  Innes bent down, trying to force Lydia to meet her eye while simultaneously pointing her finger at Danny’s image in the photograph. “Danny? You remember Danny? Do you, Lydia? Look,
remember this day at the holiday in Argyll? The day you hurt your leg falling from the monkey rope? Remember? We had a lovely holiday a—”

  At this Lydia shot her head up. “No! No, cunt!”

  Something had clearly disturbed her. Innes held out her hand and put it on Lydia’s cold knee. “It’s okay, Lydia. That’s all right. Here.” She gently uncurled the short, fat, babyish fingers and lit Lydia’s second cigarette for her.

  “Innes, thanks. Nessie thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Lydia.”. So, she remembered Carrie Franks’s old nickname for her.

  “Innes. Nessie Abby. Nessie Abby cunt.”

  Innes’s now accustomed ear picked out Lydia’s reference to Isabella. She pushed. “Abby, yes. Isabella, you remember Abby?”

  For no obvious reason, Lydia suddenly put out her cigarette, the ember flicked off in a lightning-quick twist of finger and thumb.

  “Abby dead. Abby cunt dead.”

  Unthinkingly, the shock at what she had heard blinding her, Innes grabbed a beefy arm. “What did you say, Lydia? How d’you know Abby’s dead? How d’you know?”

  Lydia pulled away from the grip that was hurting her.

  “No touch, cunt! Abby cunt dead. Danny cunt dead. Danny dead cunt! Cunt! Cunt!”

  Innes felt Lydia’s agitation but couldn’t stop herself. She tightened her grip, shaking the heavy body. “Lydia, tell me. How d’jou know they’re dead? Tell me. Please.”

  “Nooo No cuuunt! Hurty hurty hurty cunt!”

  Within seconds, two nurses were at Lydia’s side, talking soothingly to her, and Innes couldn’t help but notice them exchanging worried looks. Jean Lament hurried up, the tray of refreshments wobbling in her hands. “What’s going on? What happened?”

  Innes wanted to make a run for it. She fumbled quickly for a plausible lie. “Eh, I don’t know. I said something about her family. Her father. It upset her.”

  Nurse Johnny had arrived and nodded his head slowly. “I see. Shame. She’s not had any outbursts in weeks.” He shouted over to the other two nurses by Lydia’s side. “Better take her in now. Go on now, Lydia, love.”

  She stood up from the creaking swing seat, gazing blankly, straight ahead. Then, with no warning, Innes saw her shuffle sideways to within a foot of where she was standing. Lydia had cocked her head and was looking directly into her eyes, cigarette-sour breath warm on Innes’s cheek.

  “Abby dead! Danny dead! Everyone dead!”

  Lydia’s parting utterance had left her reeling. How on earth could she know about the deaths? Lydia had been in this place when Danny and Abby died. Innes felt chilled and sick. And real fear was settling in now. As she tried to gather herself together, the recurring question chiselled its way back into her thoughts.

  What on earth had been going on these past months to lead to this?

  REUNIONS

  Six months earlier—late 2003

  File note from Charge Nurse Ranjit Singh to Sister

  Anna Cockburn

  18 November 1977

  RE: Morning group session

  Given that more than one patient will be given their dates for discharge in coming weeks, I decided to run the morning’s group session on that theme. I had discussed the idea yesterday with Adrian, who approved.

  What happened, I can only say, is odd. There was a distinctly strained atmosphere throughout the session, with several patients unwilling to contribute. Abby, Innes and Lydia were active participants. Innes showing real affection for Abby, expressing how much she would miss her when she goes, and also expressing her desire to get better and be given a leaving date, though she recognized that this would be some months away. All this I took to be very positive. Abby too said that she was looking forward to leaving, though she admitted to being a bit scared. All expected and understandable. (Adrian has warned her that she can expect to be given a leaving date in the next few weeks.)

  Lydia, predictably, became rather overexcited by all the talk of leaving. It was somewhat of a challenge to get her to see that she was quite a bit away from being given her own leaving date. But she took that in good spirits today, thankfully.

  However, it is the behaviour of the rest of the group that is worthy of note. When the topic was initially raised, Carrie labelled it ‘boring’ and tried to enforce a subject change, with some help from a particularly supercilious Simon. Alex wouldn’t say a word, and Danny was monosyllabic and aggressive in equal measure.

  When Lydia raised the subject of them all keeping in touch, as she put it, ‘for ever’ and ‘all being the best of friends for ever’ once they left, the atmosphere became very dark. There were odd looks among Carrie, Alex and Simon, while Danny repeatedly told Lydia to shut up, even getting out of his chair to threaten her, until I intervened.

  I haven’t the slightest clue as to what this is about, but we’ll need to monitor those four very closely for a while. I feel something’s brewing. The holiday seems to have made things worse rather than better. Pity.

  Copy to: Daily Nursing Log

  Copies to: patient files, D. Rintoul; C. Franks; L. Young; S. Calder; A. Baxendale

  TWENTY-TWO

  The bar was seedy but quiet. In a shitty part of Edinburgh, off the Easter Road. It had been Danny’s choice: conveniently near the mate’s flat that he was staying at for a couple of nights. Simon nodded his thanks to the barman and took his double whisky to a corner table. For the hundredth time he checked his watch. Not yet eight. He was early. He sat back, trying to look relaxed, and picked up a stained and torn copy of the Edinburgh Evening News. Seeking shelter from the curious eyes of locals behind the newspaper, he felt worry pick away at him. He doubted he would recognize Danny, though he at least knew what he’d be wearing. “I’ll have on my usual tatty biker’s jacket, pal. What aboot you?” And he’d replied that he’d be wearing a dark blue overcoat and a red scarf. Unmissably smart in this dump of a place.

  Reluctantly, he let his mind rove back to the events of the day. What timing! The very day he was going to meet Danny Rintoul. That afternoon there’d been an uncomfortable return to the house by Rachel and the girls. Katie looked well. She would survive her ordeal after all. France had been good for her—for all three, by the looks of them. He’d had hopes of life getting back to normal again. Being a family once more. Should he cancel seeing Dan? But it had all lasted precisely three hours, as Rachel packed more clothes for her and the girls.

  His anger and shock at seeing Mother and that bloody golden Labrador, once his faithful companion—the dog’s changing allegiances symbolic of all that had gone wrong with his family—turning up to collect his family, his family, to take them back to her house still curdled within him. Rachel had made it plain. She was taking the girls back to France in a few days. For a lengthier stay. A ‘healing stay’—undoubtedly a quote straight from the mouth of Debbie Fry. Oh, and he needn’t worry about driving them to the airport for their return flight to France. His mother would do that. His mother, for fuck’s sake! It was a nasty betrayal by her. And Rachel. Though predictable, if only he’d thought about it, since Rachel consistently refused to see the truth about her mother-in-law. Not surprising. The old bitch was a chameleon. She wanted to keep on Rachel’s side because she wanted access to the grandchildren. Her grandchildren! Proprietorial cow!

  So, he had to face it. He’d lost everything. Rachel had made mollifying noises, like “It’s just for a while, until you get yourself back to normal.” But he’d never get back to normal until he faced a few things. He’d had some sessions with a colleague as part of his assessment for starting clinical work again. The time was spent looking only at the immediate effects of Katie’s abduction. It was a waste of time. He, Dr Simon Calder, knew all the psychological tricks of the game. There was no chance he was going to go down those other dark, mind-game and mind-fuck roads.

  He sank half the burning whisky in a oner. Careful—he was driving. His eyes returned to the headlines on the paper’s sports pages and then blurred out again
as he replayed the phone conversation of a week earlier, Danny’s now much deeper voice still sounding improbably familiar…

  “…I just felt I had tae write to you, pal. It seemed incredible. Unbelievable! But yer wee one’s okay now, eh?”

  He didn’t want to get into it all yet. “Eh…yeah. Look, Danny. I need to see you. I have to talk to someone. Someone from that time. You’re the one, Dan. The only one I feel I can talk to. Please. I need to see you…”

  The shadow cast over the newspaper he wasn’t reading roused him.

  “Simon?”

  He looked up at the man he’d not set eyes on for a lifetime. The transformation was hard to credit. Danny Rintoul looked die outdoors type now. Weather-beaten. Strong as an ox. Seemingly a good foot taller than he’d been before. Ruggedly handsome too. Simon could scarcely believe that the nondescript, skinny whippersnapper of old had turned into this. But he immediately detected a more profound inner change too. Given away by the relaxed body language, the lazy smile. Danny was much stiller at his centre. Calmer. At ease with himself. Simon envied him the quality.

  He stood up, hand outstretched. “Jesus, man! Look at you! Good to see you…and…and thanks for coming. I really mean that. Now, first things first. Let me get a drink in.” He laid a tentative hand on Danny’s shoulder and led him to the bar.

  There’d been little small talk during the past half-hour. Just enough to confirm what Simon already knew about Danny. And what of him? Well, thankfully Danny wasn’t, never had been, a man to talk about himself. He’d quickly, if a bit clumsily, got on to the most important matter of all.

  “I’m glad your wee girl’s back now. But…but how is she? What happened…what did he…I mean, sorry, Simon, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. You know, the papers don’t say much, quite righdy and I just wondered…”