The lies she tells would make Ananias proud.
Colin tosses another pile of cuttings onto the bonfire.
“Where did ye go? One minute ye were there, the next gone. Left me all alone in that manky place.”
“Don’t tell me you were worried,” Grace says.
“I was bloody frantic. I didna ken what had happened ta ye.”
“I’m sorry sweetie, but there is a very simple explanation. Alec was ringing my doorbell.”
“Huh? How would that–”
“Remember when I was travelling on the bus and kept popping in and out because my concentration was being disrupted by me keeping an eye on the stops?”
“Aye. Kinda.”
“Well it was just like that. Unfortunately this time it happened all at once, and so quickly that my brain couldn’t keep up and I passed out. Poor Alec. He nearly had a fit. He thought I’d been dieting and forgotten to eat. In part he was right. I have, but not intentionally. It’s something I have to keep an eye on.”
Colin frowns. “I dinna unnerstand.”
She holds up her chocolate biscuit. “This is not real,” she says, then points to the tea brewing in the old brown Betty pot. “That is not real. The strawberries, blackberries, apples, lovely as they are – none of them are real. I can eat and drink as much of them as I like, but because they are not real I’m getting nothing from them. They are as nutritious as fresh air. Passing out taught me a lesson. I’m spending too much time here, drinking your pretend tea, eating your pretend biscuits, while out there in the real world I’m starving. I’m losing weight–”
“You look fine.”
“No, Colin, I don’t. I only look how we both think I look. Out there it’s a different story. Mal said I’d lost some puffiness in my face, but he was just being kind. I hadn’t seen Alec for weeks and he was shocked. He knows me better and he told the truth. He said I look scrawny, that my hair has lost its shine and my skin is all dull and pasty, and he’s right, I’m a mess. When he’d gone, I took a good long look at myself and then I checked the scale. I’ve lost over a stone in the last couple of months and I hadn’t even noticed.”
“So you’re going to abandon me for what …a bacon sandwich?”
“No I’m not. Don’t be silly. But I do have to take care of myself. If I get sick, I won’t be able to come here … and I won’t be able to visit you at Pelham either. I’m taking it as a wake-up call, nothing more. I’m neglecting Pickles too. If I don’t pay him some attention he’s going to turn feral, so it’s not just me. Now do you understand?”
He nods, sorrowfully she thinks.
“It’s not your fault,” she says. “You weren’t to know. Neither of us did. It makes me want to ask though … how do you manage it? You’re here all the time? When do you eat?”
He smiles coyly and bites his lip. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
Chapter 23
The Black Dog so often depicted in illustrations to give imagery to depression looks too much like a rheumatic old Labrador to truly illustrate the tooth bearing ferocity, the sheer mean nastiness, the untrustworthiness, the unpredictability and the kind of raw misery and distress that Grace’s episodes visit on her.
To her, it’s like having a thick wet blanket draped over her and then wrapped so tightly that she can’t breathe because there is no air, can’t move because someone has stolen all her bones, can’t think because her thought processes have been turned off at the mains.
She sits on the floor in her bedroom, face to the wall, limbs turned to lead, being tormented by the voices in her head telling her how worthless she is, how pointless her life is and how she’s not worth the time it takes to draw her next breath.
They pick and poke at her, deepening her self loathing, stripping bare her already scant self confidence. There is one having a go at her now and is particularly insistent in its demands for her attention, calling her name over and again, although it seems far away. Muffled. Indistinct.
“Grace? Grace! Ye alright? Talk ta me Grace.”
A weight falls on her shoulders, strong, firm, giving her a little shake.
“Grace!”
Not listening. It’s a trick.
“Grace!”
“Go away.”
Another shake. “Look at me, Grace!”
She opens her eyes, forces herself to focus on the face floating inches from her own. It is Colin’s, and he is staring at her with those deep set brown eyes.
“Ach, thank God, you’re still alive,” he says, relief washing over his features.
“Eh?”
“When ye didna come ta see me like ye promised, I thought ye’d changed yer mind, so I tried that thing like ye said, reaching out wi ma mind, to ask ye what the problem was, but I couldna find ye. All I could see was this thick black fog and I kent something was terribly wrong. Fit’s the matter wi ye?”
“I’m not in a good place today, Colin,” she says, the words slurred, tired. “I really need to be on my own.”
Colin shakes his head vigourously. “Nae chance! I’m no leaving ye alone in this state. Come on. Get up. Get yersel’ inta yer bed.”
“I’m fine here.”
“No yer no.” He hauls her to her feet and leads her to the bed, lays her down and covers her with the counterpane. She doesn’t move as he tucks it around her, making her a quilted nest, cosy and warm and secure.
“Theer ye go,” he says, brushing back a stray strand of hair from her face. “Issa real bad day fer ye noo, eh? Tell me fit I can dae, Grace. I canna stand by and dae not’in. Please gimme a clue.”
“You can stop panicking for a start, you’re getting all … Scottish.” She offers him the weakest, frailest smile he’s ever seen. “There’s nothing you can do,” she says. “It will pass. It comes quickly and goes quickly. Just … let me be. I’ll be fine in a day or two. Leave me.”
“You didn’t leave me when I needed you,” he says. “So I’m no gain anywhere either. I’ll be right here wi ye fer as long as ye need.”
Pickles jumps up on the bed, wastes a precious moment of his time giving Colin a cursory investigation, before settling down on the coverlet and ignoring him completely.
“Fit ‘boot yer cat? I canna feed him,” says Colin.
“He’ll be fine. He could do with losing a bit of weight.”
“Fit ‘boot water?”
“He’ll drink from the toilet. He’s done it before. Dirty bugger. We’ll both be fine. I’m always fine.”
“Aye well, this time I’m gain ta make sure of it. Hutch up.”
Colin slips off his boots, shoos Pickles off the counterpane, untucks it and climbs fully clothed into the nest with her, holding her to him, faces almost touching, exchanging breaths. His arm rests heavy at her waist, and she puts her hand to his heart, to a solid reassuring presence that comforts her.
She closes her eyes and listens to the rhythmic whooshing of her blood in her ears as Colin strokes her hair and touches his cool lips to her hot brow, and somewhere, far away, there is the glimmer of light in the darkness.
Grace has no idea how long she stays in bed, smothered by her thick grey blanket, plagued by voices and visions. It feels like weeks, although Colin assures her it has only been two days and two nights, and he hasn’t left her side in all that time.
When some sense of normality begins to creep back, and she finds strength enough to get out of bed and feed and water Mr Pickles, who doesn’t seem to have suffered at all, she makes herself a cup of tea and a slice of toast.
“Ye look ghastly,” Colin says perched on the arm of the sofa watching her peck at her toast like a bird.
“Believe me, I’ve looked worse.”
“How are ye feelin’ now?”
“For the millionth time, I’m fine. Not a hundred per cent yet, but I’ll get there.”
“Ye had me worried. I’ve never seen anyone go so low so quickly.”
“It happens,” she says. “I told you I’d inherited so
me peculiarities from my mother. She was … is full blown bipolar. I have the same, but to a lesser degree, what’s known as cyclothymia. I can go for ages without an episode of any kind and then depending on which way the wind is blowing either go way up or way down, just like that.” She snaps her fingers. “And then be over it in a couple of days and it won’t happen again until some kind of stressor triggers another episode.”
“Is there nothing ta be done? Some medicines you can take?”
“No. Drugs can make it worse, and there’s always the temptation to … you know.”
“Take them all at once?”
“Yeah. The best weapon I have in my armoury is to be aware of its coming. Not easy because it can be a sneaky bugger, jumping out at me when I least expect it.”
He comes to sit beside her. “So … what do you think triggered this episode? Was it me? Something I’ve said or done?”
“I don’t know. There have been a lot of stresses over the last few weeks. It could be any one of them.” She puts her hand on his leg. “Whatever it was, it’s not your fault.”
“Ye’ll no be coming ta visit me now then. If the stress of it is tae much–. I don’t want–”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This was just a setback. A delay. As soon as I’m up to it, I’ll be there with bells on. Next week for sure. I promise.”
Chapter 24
If the colour of her hair is anything to go by, Grace is feeling on top of the world. It has taken a little longer than she expected, but with Colin’s continued and unwavering support, a visit to Dr Mal’s office and the comforting warmth of several bottles of fine wine inside her, she manages to shake off her dark spell, waking from a particularly refreshing twelve hour sleep with a surge of optimism, with no thought of making this day her last, with an eye to the future. To reinforce her renewed good mood, she invests in a bottle of hair dye.
Not the candyfloss pink she threatened Ms Latimer with, that seemed a little extreme even to her, but a glowing chestnut red that shines like silk and captures every ray of sunlight, giving her a fiery halo.
She hops off the bus at the end of St Mary’s Way, Kemnay, and takes the short walk to the imposing gateway of Pelham Chase Rehabilitation Centre.
The driveway leading to the facility is wide and straight, a quarter of a mile of tree lined tarmac, no potholes yet because the place is almost brand new, less than three years old, and the savage Aberdeenshire winter hasn’t had chance to tear into it yet.
Cars pass her on the drive, bobbing over the speed bumps which help them maintain the strict limit of 10 miles per hour. At the end of the drive is another high red brick wall topped with spikes. Whether its intention is to keep people in, or out, remains unclear.
Access into the grounds proper is via a red and white striped security barrier, a large red hexagon in its centre demanding every vehicle STOP and be checked.
She’s on foot. What does she do?
Outside the little booth, a group of soldiers in fatigues are chatting and don’t seem to have noticed her. She keeps on walking.
Suddenly one of them, a corporal, magically pops out of nowhere, like the shopkeeper from Mr Benn, and is standing in front of her, barring her way, towering over her in his big shiny boots, a Glengarry with its cocky blue hackle perched on his head.
“Can I help you, Miss?”
The man is huge, built to the dimensions of a brick outhouse, neck like a bulldog, arms like ham shanks, hands like snow shovels, and under his steely scrutiny Grace feels very small indeed.
“I … I’ve come to see a patient,” she says, voice tight with nerves.
“Can I see your pass please?”
“I … I don’t have one. I didn’t know I needed one.”
“All visitors must have a pass. Security regulations.”
“I didn’t know. How do I get one?”
“I’m sure Reception can help you there. If you give them a ring–”
He extends his arm towards the exit, a sure sign she should leave, or else …
But she’s come this far.
“Can’t I just go in and ask? Seeing as I’m here?”
“No admittance without a pass, I’m afraid.”
“So … I can’t get in because I haven’t got a pass … and I can’t get a pass because I can’t get in. Is that right?”
A pause, then the corporal smiles down on her, and suddenly he doesn’t look half so menacing.
“Does sound to be a bit of a catch-22 situation doesn’t it?” he says, and glances up the drive. “It just so happens I’m due a break and I’ll be going that way, so if you care to wait a couple of minutes I’ll walk with you, to make sure you don’t get into any bother along the way.”
“Thank you very much. I appreciate it.”
They walk together up the short roadway until it forks. On a blue sign, a collection of white arrows point in all directions, indicating the routes to the various facilities and services Pelham has to offer – East and West Campus Rehabilitation Wings, Family Liaison Unit, Personnel Recovery Officers, Physiotherapy, Hydrotherapy, Gymnasium, Occupational Therapy, Chapel, Restaurant, Shop. Every need catered for in one easy package.
Directly ahead, at the cross of the T of the junction, stands an entrance foyer with a sign of its own; Welcome to Pelham Chase, and an instruction for all visitors to report to Main Reception. On the wall to the left is a plaque with the instantly recognisable navy, red and turquoise medal logo of the Help for Heroes charity.
“They do sterling work,” says the soldier, proudly. “Wouldn’t be here without them. Here we are.”
A pair of glass doors slide aside to admit them. The area is light and airy, functional but welcoming, stained glass panels depicting scenes of bucolic serenity filtering the light and casting a rainbow of colours over the tiled floor.
“Nice isn’t it?” says the corporal, and Grace agrees that it is quite beautiful.
“That looks like Bennachie,” she says, pointing to a stylised mountain, its mither tap bent like a crooked witch’s hat.
“Aye, it is. The craftsmen they commissioned to make the glass wanted to depict local scenes. Some schools had a fundraiser to pay for it all too. Bloody marvellous what folk will do, don’t you think?”
Once more, Grace agrees.
“This way.”
The corporal leads her to the Reception Desk and slaps his meaty hand down on the counter. “Shop!”
A young woman starts and swears, dropping the envelopes into which she has been stuffing leaflets, and turns to give whomever scared her out of her boots a piece of her mind.
Pin neat in her army fatigues, blonde hair pulled back in a regulation bun, no jewellery, minimal makeup, she looks more like a model than a soldier, and Grace could never imagine this lithe young thing strafing the enemy with machine-gun fire or slinging a hand grenade.
Her name badge identifies her as Private Susan McGuire.
“Bloody hell, Bob. How many times have I told you not to do that?” she says. “Jeez! Good job I have excellent bladder control.”
Corporal Bob grins at her. “Jest keepin’ ye oan yer toes, lass. This lady needs some help please, M’dear. If I can leave her in your tender care?”
He then leans forward to whisper something in Pte McGuire’s ear, tipping her a cheeky wink before he leaves. She smiles coyly and blushes, leaving Grace in no doubt that something is definitely going on between those two.
Pte McGuire pulls on a smile of welcome, professional again from bun to boot. “How can I help you?” she says with a trace of a Geordie accent.
“As I told your young admirer there, I’m looking to visit with a patient,” says Grace. “But I don’t have a pass. I didn’t know I needed one. He said you could help me get one.”
“Who is it you’ve come to see?”
“Colin McLeod.”
The smile slips a fraction. “Are you a family member?”
“No. I’m just a friend.”
And a little
bit further. “Ah.”
“Is that a problem?”
The smile reinstates itself. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“At Pelham we encourage all our residents to have visitors, as many and as often as they like, but you have to appreciate that for the safety of everyone concerned, both staff and residents, we cannot operate an open door policy. We have to maintain strict security measures, and they state that all visitors, out with immediate family, have to be vetted and approved before being issued with a visitor’s pass.”
Friends are welcome, but only if they are the right sort? Grace thinks.
“I see,” she says. “I didn’t know anything about being vetted. Nobody said. How do I get it done?”
“There are a series of forms to be completed and submitted, along with proof of identity, a photograph and a suitable reference. We also do a standard CRB check–”
“A what? Sorry?”
“Criminal records bureau. A necessary evil I’m afraid.”
“Blimey. All that just to say hello and hand over a bag of grapes?”
Private McGuire clears her throat, smiles, and stays diplomatically silent.
“So … how long might this whole rigmarole take?” Grace says.
“Anything up to six weeks.”
“Six weeks!”
“That’s an average. If all goes well it could be less.”
“Six weeks, six days, makes no difference. Poor Colin. I promised him I’d be here today, with bells on I said, and now I’ve got to let him down. He’s going to be so disappointed.” Sigh. “Isn’t there anything you can do now, seeing that I’m already here? I’m totally harmless, honestly. A bit gobby, but harmless.”
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