by Susan Tarr
Mostly it was quiet still and cool. In winter, though, it was bitterly cold with icicles formed on the coloured windowpanes from which prisms of light glanced off the walls. In the centre was a large wooden cross. He eased himself inconspicuously into a back pew while others wandered around. Some cried, and some knelt on floor cushions mumbling prayers.
A man who regularly had fits during each service clung to his Bible, mouth wide open, teeth in a permanent rictus, eyes tightly closed. Others stared, mute and unmoved. He stared, mute and unmoved. It was safer to be a non-person.
Now he was troubled by a spate of nervous yawning, which he suppressed with a frown and a flaring of his nostrils – it would not be to his advantage if God thought he was bored. He even worried he might be capable of behaving stupidly or explosively in such a place. He further worried he might be potentially dangerous. Could he trust himself? He’d been referred to often as ‘one of those quiet types’. Whatever that meant.
Kneeling on the wooden pad in front of him, he prayed silently to God that he wouldn’t become lodged between the two pews, knocking over the one in front which would then knock into the one in front of it, all of them crashing to the floor like dominoes in the dayroom. Whilst he made this ardent prayer, he put his hand over his mouth to cover the grin that came unbidden at the image of what he was praying against.
Most earnestly, however, he prayed for his mother and Julie.
Over a period of Sunday services he learned to give thanks to God for all things. He learned there were situations in life worse than any of theirs, though he couldn’t begin to imagine how that could possibly be. And he learned of the love of Jesus and his saving grace. Maybe he could talk to God about going to heaven straight away and finding a little grace of his own.
Father Teague placed his hand on Malcolm’s forehead while quietly speaking holy words.
Malcolm whispered, “What you teach me will see me through, won’t it, Father?”
Father Teague smiled and nodded his head. He gave Malcolm some books with pictures of angels, Jesus and God. Maybe if he prayed earnestly enough, long enough, and loud enough, he could reach up into the arms of the angels – his Julie angel, his Mummy angel. And maybe he could fly higher than the clouds.
For now, though, he was exhausted with the effort of piecing together the jigsaw of his memories, and fitting them together to form the truth. And from his heavy black boot that dragged him down, made him different.
He asked if he could talk with the nice young doctor some time soon. He was told Yes. When he walked across to this appointment, he knew what he would ask.
“Doctor Burt, am I getting The Leucotomy?” he said bluntly.
“Not at all, Malcolm. No, not you. Why do you ask?”
He felt an immense wash of relief. “Just talk.”
“No, don’t you worry yourself about that. You’re coming along fine.” The doctor said this as he wrote notes in an open file on his desk. “Is there anything else you would like to talk about? Any worries?”
“My memories. Some are gone. I know they are gone.”
“And they will come back again, I assure you. Has that been troubling you?”
“Yes. I have some memories, but others aren’t there. Just dark holes with nothing in them.”
“I understand, but they’ll return. And, Malcolm, I hear you’re enjoying working in the gardens.”
Since he wasn’t going to have The Leucotomy, he knew it would be easier to get on with living without the fear many others lived with.
He smiled broadly. “Yes, I like flowers and trees. I like working outside.”
On another fine day, he set out to climb Mount Charlotte again. After days of rain the air was thick with the abundance of summer. The din of birds: fantails and chaffinches, yellow heads or red heads, sparrows and thrush, and birds less common whose names he didn’t know but was determined to learn. The whirr of insects vied with the scent of trodden grass. The sky a bright shade of blue and trees decked out in their summer leaves, the straw in the surrounding fields ripening in time for harvest.
He’d worked out the easiest route to the top so it didn’t take him as long as the last time. Though there was a breeze higher up the hill, it was not chilly. Beyond the hospital’s main buildings and farms, he could clearly see Maeve’s ward, where she’d told him the patients weren’t mad and budgerigars were no longer allowed. He could see Ward H, the men’s isolation ward. And the fenced paddocks where men and women trudged for their daily exercise, barely clothed. Separate and apart from each other.
In another direction he saw a procession of staff run across a paddock in chase of patients hot-footing it toward the dense bush. There was no need to hide his amusement up here. There was no one to see. He laughed long and hard. And he felt good.
He was fascinated with one particular fight that took place in the dayroom. The sun beamed softly through the open windows. The scent of flowers seemed at odds with the unfolding drama. There were fights from time to time but he’d sensed this was going to be different. Rather than taking himself off, he stayed to watch. In these fights he found a thrilling unpredictability and a spontaneity that eluded him in the rest of his tranquil existence. He made sure he wasn’t close enough to become physically involved.
Old Sammy had got himself worked up over Phaedrus’ constant crotch-grabbing, his maniacal cackles that too often turned into shrieking, and because Phaedrus hogged the morning sunlight with his comfy chair.
Malcolm saw Old Sammy leap to his feet and pad over to Phaedrus, yelling, “I’ll give you something to cackle about, you disgusting bastard.”
And with that Old Sammy downed his corduroys and dumped a load right on Phaedrus’ knees.
Malcolm was astounded. He’d expected Old Sammy to fart in Phaedrus’ lap, as he’d done in the past when pushed to the limit of his tolerance. Everyone was shocked silent. Then one man began to giggle while surreptitiously lowering his trousers. Malcolm’s eyes bulged. Could that man truly be manufacturing ammunition on the spot?
Sure enough, he lobbed his lot indiscriminately.
Father Teague was left with his glasses hanging off his right ear. He blinked slowly before wiping the back of his hand across his face. Malcolm watched in horror as tears formed in the holy man’s eyes, before sliding down his cheeks to run off his chin. Malcolm wanted to go to Father Teague’s aid, but was riveted to the spot. He turned back to the thrower, equally shocked, his gummy mouth now working overtime.
Meanwhile, Phaedrus sat dead still as Old Sammy’s poo came to rest on his slippers. Pressed to the absolute limit of what his nose could stand, Phaedrus rose to spew in the curtains.
Old Sammy was back in his chair. His shaking hand picked up his cup of tea to slurp. Clearly distressed at the climax of his fury, his mouth worked furiously in his deeply flushed face.
Father Teague stood still, muttering silent prayers. Malcolm wondered sadly if Father Teague was right now in that place of despair Satan had warned about.
Those of a more delicate nature, including Mr Desmond Markby who had coquettish, almost maidenly, poses and postures, had taken shelter in the furthest corners of the dayroom or behind the curtains, though Phaedrus’ untimely spew forced some to scramble.
Then Old Sammy, in his blundering fashion, took further advantage of the fight to unleash his own pent-up compulsions, bellowing like a madman.
Malcolm never flinched. He stood where he was, truly intrigued, noting the different personalities. He was learning from this.
In came the domestics, the clean-up brigade and the attendants to deal to the fighters. All became quiet with everyone sullen or bewildered. The Ward Charge bustled Father Teague away, him still crying quietly.
Some patients were sent to cool off in the lockup.
Can’t have shit fights in a dayroom with new curtains.
CHAPTER 19
More Secrets
Malcolm was happy to be working in the gardening gang. He’d always
liked flowers and trees, and the ornamental shrubs that filled the hospital grounds and made them look like a park. Like the Queens Gardens he remembered from his way-distant past. He was issued a sturdy wooden wheelbarrow with an iron-rimmed wooden wheel made in the workshop. Although still set and ordered by the clanging of the morning tea and lunch bell, his life was somehow changed. It seemed to him that even the keen chill in the early spring air parted to allow him through.
With a barrowful of weeds, he headed to the rubbish dump past the willows. He thought of Ned The Accountant and wondered if his sister knew he’d hanged himself in the willow tree. Over the previous autumn and winter, he’d listened to various talk but he’d never heard mention of the man again, or of any enquiry. And it wouldn’t be wise to ask anyone about it. He glanced at his boots, the traces of bog dirt long gone.
Even so, a cold shiver raced down his spine.
He turned at the sudden howling behind the wooden fence to the right of the main entrance. The barrier was thirteen-feet high. No chance of climbing that one in a hurry. Abandoning his wheelbarrow, he pressed his good eye to a knothole. He’d used this hole before to observe with horrified fascination recurrent and boisterous bouts of extreme unreason. He was only grateful to live outside this fence, away from the many and varied forms of greater madness. Beyond this courtyard the bad patients were housed. Yet who decided they were ‘bad’ and what did ‘bad’ look like compared to ‘mad’?
Paddy lived here, freshly delivered from Dunedin Prison, along with other prisoners who showed the vaguest sign of instability; shunted out to the country airs. He’d chopped his wife’s head off with an axe, and tossed it in the rubbish tin.
Behind the fence, Paddy was yelling at the top of his vocal range, “Slut! Slut! Slut!” and wildly galloping hither and yon whilst constrained awkwardly within his straitjacket, even though the buckles had come loose. One of the bigger attendants tackled him to the ground. The rest took it from there, dodging as he kicked out with his bare feet.
Some patients egged him on while another group wearing an assortment of pyjama tops and bottoms stood quietly by. Some drew closer to the fence as if to make them invisible. Malcolm felt a wash of emotion. The place was overwhelmingly dreary and dispiriting.
“Slut!” bellowed Paddy from beneath the scrum of arms, legs and boots.
Malcolm removed his cap to run his shaking fingers through his hair. How could he possibly survive if he ended up behind this fence? His throat constricted painfully. Then he became aware of talking and shouting from farther along the fence and recognised the two different voices of Alan Bowcock.
The first Alan whimpered, “Shut up. Get away.”
“Don’t you tell me to shut up,” boomed the second voice of Alan.
The first Alan whimpered again, “You keep your dirty hands off me. And stop looking at me. I don’t like it when you look at me.”
“What about him then? Is he still your friend?” This second Alan was strong and overbearing.
“I hate him. He hates me.”
And then it was quiet for a moment.
“I’m scared.” The tremulous whisper was right beneath Malcolm’s knothole. “Eye? I’m scared.”
“Shut the hell up with all that cryptic crap,” the second Alan shouted back to himself. “Talking to an eye. You’re a bloody insane imbecile!”
“Eye? Can you feel the hate? Can you?” The madman’s mouth, wet and pale, was hard up against the knothole, his voice filled with horror.
Malcolm stepped back, wiping spittle from his eyelid.
The second Alan was now even more menacing. “Haven’t you ever wanted to kill someone?” he goaded.
The first Alan said, “Get away from me! Oh, God!”
“Who’d you kill then? Your son?” His taunts were provoking all kinds of fear in his other personality.
Timidly he asserted to his own self, “Not my son. Not my boy. I never done it.”
Malcolm peeped again through the knothole.
“You pathetic, locked-up demented sod!”
He jumped violently when Alan’s fist slammed into the fence. He remembered those fists, sometimes bloodied, sometimes bound within a straitjacket. He often wondered what this man’s life must be like. Clearly much worse than his own.
There were so many noisy distractions behind that fence. He didn’t want to end up in the lockup. He’d heard all about it. Massive keys and locks, a prison, a padded cell, straitjackets, haunting darkness and dismal noises. So on he walked, as fast as his gammy leg would allow, up the road to the dump to empty his wheelbarrow.
Malcolm was re-assigned the care of the tennis courts since the previous chap had been discharged. Now he spent some time each day watching the game until he thought he’d got the hang of it. Martin, a junior nurse, appeared to be a mediocre player. He had a decent serve that made use of his height, and he could hit the occasional beefy shot from the baseline, but at the net he was clumsy and stupid. His backhand was mutinous and he seemed to prefer to run around balls to his left. Perhaps he was scared to win against the senior attendant, Carlos.
Carlos was in another league altogether, a player of fast and accurate strokes, and with a surprising prancing vigour for a man of his age. He took the first set six-one, the second six-love, the third six-one, but what astonished Malcolm was his fury whenever the junior Martin managed to snatch a point. Though aimed at himself for being such a dunderhead, it was a tangible fury nonetheless. Cussing and blaspheming he made it obvious that he didn’t want to simply win the game, he wanted every last point.
Once the game was over, Carlos was amenable again and thanked his opponent for a ‘bloody good game, cobber’. Martin in turn gave Carlos a vigorous handshake along with promises of another game. Soon.
This exchange of courtesies amused Malcolm.
When the tennis court was neat and tidy, he was sent up to the Chief Engineer’s house to rake leaves and trim thorny hedges. A young male nurse was his escort to ensure he didn’t do a runner or cut himself. He was leaning against a tree smoking Pall Mall filter tips when Malcolm arrived.
“You can call me Joe if you like.” He offered a cigarette to Malcolm. “Go on. I’ve got plenty more.”
Joe had tattoos on his brown forearms, and across his knuckles the words ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’.
Malcolm thought Joe was quite possibly a Maori. There weren’t a lot of Maori folk in his world. He politely shook his head. Those patients who worked were paid at the end of each week. Most accepted a packet or two of Government Issue tobacco and lollies.
“Thank you, anyway.”
“What do you get then, if you don’t get tobacco?” Joe asked pleasantly.
“Mutton pies.”
“Mutton pies? Well, I’ll be damned.” Joe blew a smoke ring into the air. “Hey, I heard you were the one who went to live down in the big smoke a couple of years back.”
Malcolm nodded. Here he was talking with this nice young chap who could be around his own age. He reckoned he was more than thirty now.
“Where did you live?” He wasn’t used to asking questions of staff, especially personal ones. Normally he just answered theirs.
“Down country. Down south a bit.”
“What’s it like?”
“The country? Well, it’s – umm.” Joe’s face lit with amusement. “Let’s see. Less buildings and more cows. Yep, that about sums it up. Lots of sheep.”
Joe stayed nearby while Malcolm trimmed the hedge with the shears. He talked easily of his life in the country.
Malcolm marvelled at how he was engaging in normal conversation just like the staff or the patients from Clifton House. He liked Joe. Joe could prove to be a good cobber.
Joe took a turn with the clippers as Malcolm filled the wheelbarrow. “What about where you’re from?”
Malcolm tried to find words to describe where he came from, what he’d seen. But he couldn’t find them. He spread his arms wide. “Big… Many houses…”
Malcolm thought about the cosy meals around the table in the roughcast house up the high street with the others, the roasts and the puddings, the coal sacks and icy windows in the winter. After a time, he smiled. Yes, he had a family.
The hedges and bushes were neat. The crocus spikes poked golden or purple heads through the hard earth. There were pansies, hyacinths and alyssum, pretty to look at though alyssum smelled like piss. Flowers he would never have introduced to Julie.
Julie had liked roses, stock and violets. The jonquils, alyssum and bright daffodils flowered in the hospital grounds alongside vibrant polyanthus and snapdragons. Now they were flowering, the gardens were beautiful, reminding him of the Queens Gardens.
Violets made him maudlin.
He, who had long ago learned to listen, vowed to speak more, like he did with Joe.
“I beg your pardon?” he practised on the yellow daffodils, and to the bluebells, he said, “I’m not sure I follow you.” And, “I’m not sure I quite understand,” he said to the park bench. “I don’t understand what you are saying,” to The Twins, Leonard and Margaret, who were twittering at him. And as he grew more comfortable with his assemblage of words, “I do believe there will be sunshine today. I do believe there will be. Oh, my, isn’t that something? That tree over there.”
A large cloud covered half of the sky. The fresh bright colours in the garden turned grey. A woman was picking little purple flowers and tearing them up.
His memory was returning in dramatic spurts, usually triggered by a comment or a smell.
Or like now, when he suddenly thought of Bazza for no reason he could fathom. He recalled everything he could about him. Bazza said he was suffering from some form of acute mania, that he was suicidal because of money worries. The attendants fed him with oesophageal tubes, twice daily. It was a wretched time for him when he didn’t want to live as a failure or a burden to his family. He was being forced to live.
Soon he’d be discharged to deal with his money worries all over again. He told Malcolm that being disruptive at night was another form of insanity, as well as stripping naked. So he deliberately became disruptive and naked, especially at night. But, inexplicably, he’d burst out crying. He said he hadn’t planned on the crying.