by F. R. Tallis
‘Christ!’ I said out aloud. ‘Jesus Christ!’
I tipped my hand and watched the shreds fall to the carpet. Once again, I heard movement in the skirting.
My nostrils flared and I identified a pungent odour that, under normal circumstances, would have captured my attention earlier. I could smell burning. After rising to my feet I began searching for its cause. The cigarettes in the ashtray had been extinguished hours ago. I buried a fingertip in the white-grey flakes of tobacco and after stirring them felt no warmth. In the wastebin, I found two used matches with blackened tips, but none of the discarded balls of paper were scorched or discoloured.
I wanted answers. And it occurred to me – in a rare, jolting moment of insight – that there was someone who could very probably supply them. I needed to find my predecessor. I needed to find Palmer.
8
The Royal Medico-Psychological Association was most helpful. I discovered that Dr Benjamin Palmer, formerly based at Wyldehope Hall, was now part of a small team attached to the maternity services at the Whittington Hospital, not very far from where I used to live in Kentish Town. I wrote to him, requesting a meeting, and he responded, saying that – in principle – he was agreeable, but that he would appreciate a little more clarification concerning my purpose. The tone of his reply was civil and solicitous: ‘I wouldn’t want you to come all the way down to London for nothing.’ It was impossible to test someone’s willingness to talk about bizarre experiences in a letter. I needed Palmer sitting right in front of me, close enough to see his eyes and gauge his reactions. Consequently, I was obliged to fabricate a pretext.
Maitland had been critical of Palmer and I suspected that their relationship must have been quite difficult towards the end. With this in mind, I wrote to Palmer a second time, suggesting that I was not particularly happy at Wyldehope and quite worried about my prospects. I was certain that Palmer, being a junior doctor, would interpret this as meaning that I was thinking about resigning and anxious to know what sort of reference I could expect from Maitland.
The ruse worked. Palmer wrote back, assuring me of his discretion, and as luck would have it we were both free the following Saturday. I cycled to Darsham, caught the train to Liverpool Street, and then travelled by underground to Archway. We had arranged to meet in a pub on Highgate Hill.
I arrived early, bought myself a pint of Guinness, and sat next to a window. There were only two other patrons, red-faced regulars with swollen features, who occasionally consulted the horse-racing pages of a newspaper and conferred in hushed voices. A man wearing an apron entered and sold the pair some jellied eels. When the transaction was completed, the vendor approached my table, but I communicated my lack of interest with a shake of the head. He raised a densely tattooed arm, saluted the barman and made his exit, whistling a popular ballad that – at that time – was being played incessantly on the wireless.
When Palmer appeared, we recognized each other immediately.
‘Richardson?’
‘Palmer.’ I extended my hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
‘My pleasure. Can I get you anything?’
I indicated my stout: ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
He nodded and went off to the bar.
When he returned, he draped his coat over the back of his chair and placed a dimpled glass tankard, filled with pale ale, on a cardboard beer mat. We made some small talk about the weather and the east coast trains, and while we were chatting Palmer produced a pipe. He tamped a plug of tobacco into the bowl and struck a match. I was reminded of Lillian’s cruel impression of Palmer smoking, and had to make efforts to conceal a smile.
He was just the man I had expected him to be: early thirties, somewhat gaunt, bearded. His suit did not fit him very well, his hair was a shade too long, and his maroon cardigan clashed with a blue shirt and green tie. These sartorial defects were compounded by oversized spectacles that created an impression of owlish eccentricity.
Our conversation progressed from trivia to professional matters and I asked him about his new position.
‘I was very fortunate,’ he replied. ‘I learned of the vacancy as soon as I got back to London. It’s psychosomatic medicine, really. I see mothers suffering from post-natal depression and, when the need arises, other family members: husbands and occasionally older children.’ He spoke with enthusiasm, but there was something clerical about his delivery, a particular cadence that recalled sermons and church halls.
‘There wasn’t any trouble then?’ I ventured.
‘With my reference? No.’ Palmer took a temperate sip of his ale. ‘Maitland’s a difficult customer, but he’s not vindictive. I know for a fact that he thought I’d let him down – he as good as told me so – and in a way I suppose that’s true. I did let him down.’
‘Everyone has the right to resign.’
Palmer winced. ‘The situation was complicated. You see, when I was at St Thomas’s . . .’ He looked away for a moment and mumbled, ‘How can I put this?’ Then looking back again: ‘Maitland took what you might call a fatherly interest in me. I haven’t a clue why. I’m quite conscientious, I suppose, but that’s all – I didn’t do anything to make myself stand out. The job at Wyldehope came up and it was as good as handed to me on a plate. So, as you can imagine, when I resigned Maitland was none too pleased. I must have appeared very ungrateful.’
‘How did he respond, when you told him you wanted to leave?’
Palmer shivered a little at the recollection. ‘He was pretty fearsome. And when I left his office I was having serious doubts about whether I’d done the right thing, let me tell you.’
‘What did he say?’
‘It wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it.’ I was about to ask another question but Palmer stopped me with a gesture. ‘Richardson. I wouldn’t get too het up over all this. What you need to remember about Maitland is that he’s always got bigger fish to fry. Once you’re off his radar he simply forgets you. He doesn’t have time for vendettas. If there was anything prejudicial in my reference, it wasn’t enough to stop me from getting another job.’
Palmer bit the stem of his pipe and rocked his head sagely.
Two more customers arrived, labourers in flat caps, who perched themselves on high stools and greeted the barman with strong Welsh accents.
It seemed to me that Palmer and I were getting along well enough, so I decided to ask him a more direct question.
‘Why did you resign?’
Palmer frowned. ‘I felt the same as you do now. I wasn’t happy. Although, thinking about it, I should never have gone to Wyldehope in the first place.’
‘Why?’
‘Bad timing. Six months – or maybe a year later – and I think I might have found the place less irksome. I thought it was what I wanted – to be given responsibilities, to immerse myself in work, without any distractions – but I was wrong.’ He produced a crooked, pained smile. ‘And I didn’t get on with the nurses.’ He was weighing up in his mind whether to proceed. The mental scales tipped in favour of disclosure and he added, ‘They used to make fun of me – and laugh behind my back. I mean, really! How bloody childish!’ I could see that he regretted this final admission as soon as the words were out of his mouth. When he spoke again he sounded embarrassed, beaten: ‘You must think me a dolt. To let that sort of thing get to me.’
‘No,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Not at all. Situations of that kind can be very tricky. If you object, you’re accused of not being able to take a joke.’
‘But if you say nothing . . .’
‘They’ll continue to take advantage of your forbearance.’
‘Quite,’ Palmer agreed.
I lit a cigarette and endeavoured to establish more common ground: ‘I had similar good intentions.’ Palmer looked at me quizzically. ‘I imagined myself working, reading, writing. As you say – no distractions. But I’ve found it very hard. I miss the city more than I expected. My friends, Soho. And as for the accommodation .
. .’
‘Second floor?’
‘Yes.’ Simulating perplexity, I continued, ‘The rooms are spacious enough. But I find the atmosphere rather . . .’ I hesitated on purpose and watched Palmer’s expression intensify. He was impatient for me to complete the sentence. ‘Unsettling.’ Palmer gave me a hard, penetrating look, as if he were trying to read my thoughts. I went on: ‘I don’t feel comfortable there.’
For a fleeting moment it appeared that he was about to say something relevant to my real concerns; however, his courage failed him at the last instant and instead he said, ‘Then there’s the sleep room, of course.’ Returning the conversation to his own reasons for leaving Wyldehope, he continued, ‘Between you and me, I’m not sure that narcosis is anywhere near as effective as Maitland says.’ Palmer leaned across the table and whispered, ‘Patients have died, you know.’
‘Not at Wyldehope?’
My companion shook his head. ‘No. Not at Wyldehope. Even so, the possibility always worried me.’
‘Did Maitland ever let you read their histories – the sleep room patients’?’
‘I was instructed to give them ECT and keep an eye on their measures. We never discussed particular cases.’
‘Odd – don’t you think?’
Palmer fussed with his pipe. ‘I gave up trying to fathom Maitland a long time ago.’
An hour had passed and I hadn’t got anywhere. Allusive language and knowing glances had not tempted Palmer to take me into his confidence. Yet I was absolutely certain that he was holding something back. I decided that I would have to abandon innuendo and speak more plainly.
‘There’s a trainee nurse called Mary Williams. She clearly hates working in the sleep room.’
‘I’m not surprised. Only the nightingales seem inured to the smell. It can be quite dreadful.’
‘No – it’s nothing to do with the smell. She’s frightened.’
‘Frightened?’
‘Yes. She acts as if she’s seen something.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘You know. Something supernatural – a ghost.’
A pulse appeared on Palmer’s temple.
‘Old houses . . .’ he said, non-committally. Then, after a long pause, he said it again, ‘Old houses.’ But it was obvious that he was struggling to conceal a more violent reaction. His pipe had gone out, and when he tried to light it again I thought I detected a slight tremor. He stood up and said, ‘Let me get you another stout,’ and before I could decline he turned away and marched briskly to the bar.
When he returned, he was restless and our conversation flowed less easily. There were a few lengthy pauses during which he simply stared into his glass, and he might have stayed like that indefinitely had I not reminded him of my presence with a tactful cough. Eventually, he shifted in his seat and said something entirely unconnected with our ongoing talk. ‘Look, Richardson. I don’t suppose you’ve come across a ring by any chance?’ Palmer saw me start. ‘You have?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
I watched him grasp the edge of the table. There were only two jackets in my wardrobe, and the jacket I happened to be wearing was the same one that I had worn when I had spoken to Sister Jenkins about my find. Although I had said to her that I intended to sell the ring and donate the proceeds to the hospital, I hadn’t touched it since that day. I reached into my pocket and handed the shining object to Palmer.
‘Where did you find this?’ he asked.
‘In the bedroom.’
‘But where?’
‘On the carpet.’
He was staring at the ring as if he had fallen into a trance.
‘Palmer, who does it belong to?’
He hesitated before replying: ‘My wife.’
‘I didn’t know you were married, Palmer?’
‘She died last year.’
‘Oh. I’m so sorry.’
He looked up and said, ‘Leukaemia.’ It was said with such tender melancholy he might have been telling me her name. ‘That’s why Wyldehope wasn’t such a good idea. I wasn’t ready.’ He continued staring at the ring, fascinated. ‘Extraordinary. I never thought I’d see this again. Before they closed the casket, I removed the ring from her finger. I wanted something that had been close to her – to hang on to.’
‘Palmer,’ I said gently. ‘How did you come to lose an item of such enormous sentimental value?’
‘I don’t know. I put it down and . . .’ His voice carried a trace of irritation. ‘Look, I just lost it – all right?’
‘No. You didn’t just lose it, Palmer. It disappeared. That’s what really happened.’ His head changed position sharply and the lenses of his spectacles caught the light. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I detected a certain hardening of his attitude – a suggestion of ‘squaring up’. I continued. ‘And I suspect other things happened too – strange things that were difficult to explain.’
‘Listen, Richardson,’ Palmer replied. ‘If you’re not happy at Wyldehope then leave. I’ve done what I can to help you – and there really is nothing more to say.’ He stood up abruptly and offered me his hand. ‘Thank you for the ring.’
‘But Palmer—’
‘Good luck with everything.’ He picked up his coat and took a few steps towards the door. Then he stopped and turned to face me. His expression had softened again. ‘Remember what you do for a living, Richardson. Be careful what you say – and to whom you say it. You don’t want to find yourself hauled up in front of an RMPA disciplinary committee, being assessed with regard to your fitness to practise.’
I watched Palmer cross the floor and crash through the doors. One of them remained open for a few moments, and I saw a line of buses and lorries struggling up the hill. Diesel engines roared and a blast of cold air carried exhaust fumes and a few autumn leaves into the pub. The barman was looking at me, and I wondered if I had inadvertently attracted attention by raising my voice. I ignored his inquisitive gaze and lit another cigarette.
Palmer’s refusal to speak freely about what he had seen, or heard, was extremely frustrating, and at first I was annoyed with him, irritated by his caution. His concerns about professional embarrassment were so exaggerated that they were almost paranoid! But as I sat there, smoking and thinking, I could not sustain my anger. Palmer didn’t know me – he had no idea what sort of person I might be – and I had not demonstrated much integrity by inventing a pretext for our meeting. I am sure that Palmer must have realized something was amiss quite early on. And it was impossible not to pity the man. The loss of his wife at such a young age must have been devastating. I pictured Palmer at Wyldehope, sitting at my bureau, lonely, miserable, and – on occasion – scared. Taking his little white tablets to steady his nerves. No wonder he resigned and no wonder he didn’t want to talk about his experiences.
While on the train, returning to Suffolk, the movement of the carriage rocked me to sleep and I had a disturbing dream. I had entered my study, and there standing directly in front of me was a young woman in a gauzy nightdress. An endless shower of confetti fell around her. ‘What have you done with my wedding ring?’ she demanded.
‘I gave it to your husband,’ I replied.
‘You had no right to do that!’ she howled. Then she picked up a pile of my books and threw them to the floor. The impact was so loud that I awoke.
‘Just a dream,’ I said to myself. Then, as if I was not quite convinced, I repeated the words more firmly. ‘Just a dream.’
THE HAWTHORNE TRUST
Est’d 1928
Dr Margery Garrett
Hawthorne House
Tulip Crescent
East Dulwich
London SE22
11th February 1955
Dr Hugh Maitland
The Institute of Psychiatry
Maudsley Hospital
Denmark Hill
London SE5
Dear Dr Maitland,
It was a great pleasure to meet you and Dr Palmer last week and your talk was m
uch appreciated. Thank you once again for interrupting your doubtless busy schedule to keep us abreast of the latest developments in somatic psychiatry. We live in exciting times and the new treatments you discussed will bring hope to many young people who have been, until very recently, poorly served by our profession. I couldn’t agree with you more: psychiatry is a branch of medicine, not philosophy. If only there were more practitioners willing to acknowledge this simple truth, then the mental health of our nation would be greatly improved. I would also like to thank you for agreeing to accept direct referrals. The trustees were overjoyed when I gave them the news. We simply do not have the facilities at Hawthorne House to undertake the treatments you recommend. The London County Council medical advisory committee refused to give us permission to purchase a shock machine on the grounds that ECT is yet to be proved effective for young men and women. So, your kind offer is as timely as it is welcome.
I have now reviewed all of our residents and would very much like you to assess a young lady called Marian Powell. You may recall we talked about her very briefly before your departure.
Marian is sixteen years of age and has been living in foster homes almost all of her life. She was born in Hackney. Her mother worked in a munitions factory but died when Marian was five. Her father, who was apparently a music-hall performer, abandoned his wife and infant daughter at the outbreak of the war. Marian was adopted by her maternal aunt, Mrs Mildred Hurst, and her husband, Mr Raymond Hurst, but sadly, shortly after, both were killed in a fire.
Marian spent the next four years in Nazareth House, Epping, which has since been closed. You may have heard rumours concerning the scandalous conditions that prevailed there. Children were underfed, frequently beaten and, if the official inquiry is to be believed, molested. A sorry state of affairs, and one that thankfully escaped public notice. If the iniquitous Mr Gilbert, who was as canny as he was unprincipled, had not fallen down the stairs and broken his neck, I fear that Nazareth House would still be operating today. It is highly likely that Marian was one of the many children who had to endure Gilbert’s shameful improprieties. She has never spoken of her time at Nazareth House and if pressed, becomes electively mute.