by Ruth Wade
‘Stephen! Stephen, for pity’s sake get a hold of yourself, you bloody fool.’
And then the world went black.
*
His neck was stiff and his head throbbed. He was lying on the couch, Peter standing above him pouring a finger of brandy.
‘Here, drink this.’ He held the glass out with undisguised contempt.
Stephen had to lick his lips before he could swallow. The alcohol burned his throat, but set his pulse racing again.
‘I’m sorry ... it was the shock,’ he muttered the words as they came to him, ‘... I didn’t expect ... come across them like that ... unprepared ...’
‘And do you think they were prepared for it when a shell fell out of the sky and blew them to bits? What the hell came over you, Stephen? I thought you had more bloody common sense – let alone clinical training – to react like that.’
‘Broken minds, not bodies. The things you can’t see are my forte, remember.’
Peter’s brusque tone and lack of sympathy were beginning to make Stephen defensive. It was preferable to the sick shame he’d felt when he’d first come around.
‘Didn’t have you down for the type to be prone to a touch of the vapours either.’
He wasn’t being forgiven exactly, but Stephen knew a half-joke at his expense was the best he could expect. He formed his mouth into a smile. ‘Want me to go and apologise?’
‘That would only make things worse. They’re used to it anyway; why d’you think they’ve taken to calling this place home from home?’
Bloody Hell Hole. He remembered that’s what they really called it. He held his glass out for another snort of brandy. Peter was right; he had to get a grip.
‘Helen said she’ll be sorry she missed you. She’s gone into Haywards Heath to spend some time with an old friend before lecturing there first thing in the morning at the teaching hospital. Next time, eh?’
Stephen felt his cheeks flush and hoped Peter would think it the brandy. He couldn’t have borne if it she’d witnessed that appalling scene. He offered up a silent prayer for that kindness, at least.
‘Now, what have you got in your basket, Little Red Riding Hood? Not a freshly baked apple pie for Grandma, I assume?’
Stephen swallowed the jibe along with the last dregs of brandy. He placed the glass on the floor and reached out for the offending basket.
‘The clothes you asked for and a few bits and pieces I thought Edith might like to have around her.’
Peter clapped his hands. ‘Right, even I’m getting bored poking fun at you. Down to business. We don’t have many rules here, but we do have some. And, despite you being on the side of the ministering angels, I expect you to adhere to them along with everyone else. Nothing is to be brought in that might cause distress – mirrors especially. Neither do we welcome anything with which the more fragile could cause themselves harm.’
‘Christ, Peter, I spend my entire waking life in clinics for the depressed and suicidal, and institutions for the insane; do you think I don’t know that?’ A thought came to him. ‘But what about the farm; you’ve scythes and pitchforks and whatnot there, surely?’
‘Please don’t blaspheme. Only those who’ve been here for a minimum of a year have access to those, by which time they will have grown into acceptance of their lot. Desperate but not despairing is how I’d label the vast majority if I had to. But we don’t do that here, either. No one is a condition, or a walking mass of healed wounds and scar tissue. They are merely men who went to do their duty and came back changed beyond recognition: literally, in many cases. It is refuge from society they seek, not refuge from themselves or from life itself.’
‘I’m not sure I can say the same for Edith Potter.’
‘Not now, maybe, but you will in time. If anyone can cure her, you can; once you apply yourself to something you can be impressively single-minded.’
Stephen couldn’t stop a shudder rippling through his muscles. ‘Trust me; she will never be released from what’s tormenting her.’
‘Resigned to herself then, like the other residents here. She’s made remarkable progress settling in with us, so much so that we decided to move her into one of the cottages. Peace and quiet is exactly what she needs right now; a healing strategy much underrated by you interventionists.’
Stephen nodded. Peter wasn’t trying to score points.
‘To maintain her equilibrium, I want you to be especially careful about what you leave with her. We don’t operate a watch system here and unless there is a behavioural crisis of some sort we will maintain her privacy as much as we can. There aren’t any kitchens in the cottages so the residents eat here in the Hall or we have food taken down to them. So far, Edith has preferred to dine alone. Maybe that will change and the two of you will eat together. How often will you be coming to see her?’
‘Every Sunday. A whole weekend when I’m not on the clinic rota.’
‘Perfect. If you need to stop over you can stay upstairs in the flat with us. Helen will love having someone with more discerning taste buds than mine to cook for. She blames smoking a pipe for my being unable to tell the difference between one of our own veal cutlets and the butcher’s cheapest stewing steak.’
Stephen busied himself turning out the contents of the basket onto the floor. He didn’t want to think of sleeping in the next room to Helen. Not yet anyway. Peter bent down and picked out the National Geographic magazines and books, and the brightly coloured scarf the old Gypsy had donated.
‘I’ll keep these back for a while if you don’t mind. She might get a little over-stimulated to be reminded of her past all at once …’
‘But I specifically wanted her to engage in some of her old habits such as reading.’ ‘I’ve been doing my best to explain to you how different it will be for her here; a residential situation is nothing like an asylum or a hospital, and I find that the most productive way to soothe acute anxiety is undertake something physical …’
‘Acute anxiety? Have you got any idea what’s the matter with the woman?’
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘Well then. You can hardly blame me for stumbling around in the dark. I know our methods are alien to someone wedded to the talking cure but they are effective, Stephen. And if you want us to take care of her here then you have to do what I say and avoid causing her a degree of agitation that we just won’t be able to cope with. Otherwise, she’ll have to go back to Dr Johns.’
‘He wouldn’t have her. He made that quite clear.’
‘Another lunatic asylum then – there are plenty of those around.’
Stephen breathed deeply and backed down. ‘Is she off the bromide?’
‘Clean as a whistle.’
‘No side effects?’
‘Only the usual but she’s evidently sleeping better; that’s one thing I’m sure you’ll agree we’ve managed to do for her in our amateur way.’
‘Please don’t get me wrong, Peter, I’m very grateful to you, really. I want Edith Potter to receive the best possible care and treatment, and I know that, between the two of us, she’ll get it here.’
‘Then hightail it down to the last cottage on the right and make a start. Leave the scarf though, eh?’ He mimed tying a knot around his throat and strangling himself. ‘You, not her.’
Stephen only just stopped from asking if he could take the bottle of brandy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Stephen stood outside the cottage door, unsure if he should peek in the window to observe her manner as she waited for him. But Peter had made a point – one of many, and they all rankled – about respecting the residents’ privacy. Resident. It would take an enormous shift for him to regard Edith Potter as anything other than a patient but he supposed the choice of nomenclature was important; after all, hadn’t he been more than a little frosty when the asylum attendant had insisted on calling her a loony?
He decided to opt for the conventional approach of knocking just a
s any other normal visitor would when paying a pre-arranged call. But still he didn’t put down either the basket or his briefcase in order to do so. Stephen’s hesitation was to buy time as much as anything else. He didn’t know what to expect on the other side of the door. She might be huddled in a corner trying to create the confines of the shell-shock wing of the asylum for all he knew – perhaps he should snatch a glance to check. Being in an institution did strange things to people and from his limited experience of those tasting life again beyond high walls, being let out was often difficult to adjust to. However, he had to trust the Hargreaves’ judgement that Edith Potter wasn’t exhibiting any signs of trauma or they would have kept her under observation up at the Hall. Although he hadn’t been fooled for one moment when Peter had said they didn’t institute a watch system here; it wasn’t a coincidence that someone was paying especial attention to trimming the grass with a pair of shears in front of one of the far cottages, and no doubt would continue his rounds to the others in due course. It was more subtle than pressing a face up against the hatched window in the ward doors but it would be just as effective – the Hargreaves obviously took their duty of care very seriously, even if it was with a somewhat unorthodox approach.
There was no sound from inside. Perhaps she was asleep? Stephen allowed himself a thin smile; he had to stop behaving like a nervous schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s office. He knocked and received a surprisingly strong ‘come in’. If he could only focus on which of them had more to dread from this encounter.
*
‘So, Edith, do you remember me now?’
He was sitting on a small over-stuffed armchair by the fireplace. She was perched on the edge of a high-backed chair, legs uncrossed, her hands folded in her lap. She exuded an aura of suppressed agitation – or distrust. It was impossible to gauge which until she gave a little more of herself away. As he’d settled into his seat, he’d observed the physical changes she’d undergone since the last time they’d met. He could hardly believe she was the same woman; without the bromide and croton oil flooding her system she looked almost well. The muscles of her face were no longer immobile but neither did they work to portray any distinct expressions, rather moving around her jaw to maintain a distant neutrality. She appeared to have put on a little weight although his assessment was based on only ever seeing the outline of her body beneath bedclothes. At last her hair had been allowed to grow. The light brown crop gave some definition to her features and she no longer resembled a diseased pauper. She was wearing tartan slippers that were too small and scrunched her toes, beneath a calf-length flowery cotton frock with a rampaging pattern that dwarfed her frame. He occupied the silence by trying to decide if the yellow splashes were supposed to be buttercups or impressionistic rosebuds.
A flush crawled up Edith’s neck as she registered that he was staring.
‘Helen made it for me. From some old curtains or a tablecloth no doubt. Ugly isn’t it? But, I think we can both agree, a distinct improvement on my previous garb. Are those my clothes?’
Stephen handed over the basket. She was verbally dextrous and obviously alert to her surroundings. But she still hadn’t displayed any emotion towards him.
‘You’re Dr Maynard.’
‘So you recognise me then? Even with the beard.’
‘Peter Hargreaves told me who you were and that you’d be coming today. I expected you earlier.’
This was better; mild annoyance was something he could work with – indifference wasn’t.
‘I’m sorry but I had to go to your place first to fetch these. I’m pleased to tell you it is being well looked after.’
‘Nobody does something for nothing these days so I expect they’ve one eye on moving in themselves.’
So she did realise she wouldn’t be resuming her life in Fletching any time soon. Her acceptance of the need to be at Beddingham Hall would make life – for the both of them – easier.
‘You know why you’re here, don’t you?’
‘Again, he told me. Do you think I’m simple or something? Well, I’m not.’ She tapped her head. ‘My marbles are all here.’
Stephen took a moment to compose his reply. It was essential that he start where Edith was in her understanding of her reality and not pitch her into an exploration of her psychosis until her mind was ready to face it squarely. This first session was to get her to accept him again, and to ascertain how much she was able – or willing – to remember about what had gone on between them. Only then could he decide on the appropriate course any treatment should take. Because there was no doubt that her mind would latch back onto its protective strategy of choice, catatonia, if he got it wrong. Staying on this side of intrusion for the time being would eventually allow familiarity to breach the more outlying of her defensive barriers. That’s what he was banking on anyway.
‘Why don’t you go and change into some of your own things? I’m sure it’ll make you feel much more comfortable.’
He’d only just stopped himself from saying: more like your old self. He clenched his hands together in an effort to stay rooted in the positive.
‘I’m feeling fine as it happens, but yes, if you say so.’
‘It’s just a suggestion, Edith, not an order. No one here is going to try to make you do anything against your will.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t steal the silver.’
She didn’t smile. Stephen watched her disappear around the curve of the narrow stairs before taking the opportunity to appraise Edith Potter’s surroundings. The cottage would’ve been built for one of the Hall’s retainers; only this room downstairs – with presumably a simple bathroom in what would have been the scullery – and a bedroom above. He wondered how she would manage for heating in the winter; there was a hearth but he thought it unlikely Peter would allow fires in the cottages. A wise precaution in Edith Potter’s case, given what licking flames must symbolise. However there was electric light so perhaps they would provide her with a heater of some sort. He hoped so because it would be a very long and bleak winter indeed if she had to spend it in bed fully dressed and wrapped in blankets. He pushed the image out of his mind and forced himself to return to the present. What he had to concentrate on was establishing a relationship with her again. But he could only do that if she would allow him to, and, so far, she was exhibiting precious little sign of that.
She came back down into the room wearing the men’s slippers Stephen had found under her kitchen table, a baggy grey cardigan, and a skirt and blouse that had once probably fitted but now hung off her bones. She had the appearance of any middle-aged spinster prone to self-neglect. The external trappings of normality never failed to cloak and deceive.
‘So, how are you finding it here?’
She regarded him for a moment as if she’d been startled by his presence. He hoped he wouldn’t have to introduce himself once more. It really was a waste of precious time to keep re-tracing ground with her. On the other hand, perhaps it was inevitable given that only a few months ago she’d been in a stupor from which he’d never thought she would emerge. Maybe she still hadn’t entirely because there were different degrees of withdrawal, some less debilitating than others but all rooted in the same need to escape. He could only begin to judge how many layers remained in place by encouraging her to share any thoughts she had on her current situation. The exercise would be instructive and a benchmark against which to measure progress; comparing the state of mind of the Edith Potter sitting before him with the asylum inmate she had been would be less than useless: no longer being a zombie was not a sign of recovered sanity. He decided, after all, to start again.
‘Edith, I am Dr Stephen Maynard. I treated you for a while.’
‘What for, rheumatism?’
‘No ...’ he glanced at her expression and relaxed a little ‘… you’re teasing me, aren’t you?’
‘There isn’t much else to find amusing around here
.’
‘Ah, you’ve met some of the other residents then.’
‘I go for a walk some mornings. They’re often about. Look nothing like nature intended. You should do some of your doctoring on them.’
He felt sure he should deliver one of Peter’s lectures on the nature and ethos of the place but adopting the role of an authority figure might only serve to remind her of how thoroughly she’d been rejected at the hands of her earliest. And they were nowhere near ready to confront her revelation that her father had wished her dead.
‘I’m not that sort of a doctor, Edith. I’m a psychoanalyst. I work with the mind, not the body.’
‘Well, they have to be crazy to walk around with faces like that. Any self-respecting person with an ounce of dignity left would wear a mask.’
‘Would you, Edith?’
‘What?’
‘Wear a mask.’
‘Don’t we all anyway?’
This was the opening he’d been waiting for. ‘That’s very astute of you.’
He had to stop himself from wincing at his automatic adoption of a jollying-along tone. Edith was displaying signs of being as bright as any patient he’d ever had, and cut-throat sharp; she’d surgically dissect him if he gave her cause. Being patronised probably headed her list of transgressions deserving punishment.