The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

  I shake my head, as if trying to dislodge the memory of them. Bring myself back to the present. ‘And Jack?’ I ask. ‘You’ve been spending some time with him, haven’t you? How’s that going?’

  Smeaton nods. ‘Surprisingly well, actually. When he first arrived he seemed a bit spaced-out. I thought he might be on drugs, antidepressants maybe, something sedative.’

  ‘Especially with what happened at the party,’ I cut in, ‘I’m not sure that elderflower wine mixes well with medication.’

  ‘Quite. Well, I did ask, but he said no. But they’ve been here a few weeks now, and he seems much clearer of mind. So maybe it was just stress, his previous life—’

  ‘Do you think there’s something wrong with Jack?’ I interrupt.

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Everyone needs a bit of help sometimes. But Jack almost seems to be helping himself by being here. And,’ he pauses, steeples his hands, ‘I’m probably speaking out of turn, but being with me a lot of the time, and not with Ali might be helping him. I get the feeling their relationship was very intense. I hate to use the term codependent … And they were both working in stressful jobs.’

  ‘He was a policeman, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He worked in child protection. He was part of a team of social workers and medical staff who reviewed children at risk, investigated their parents, new partners, all that sort of thing. His team was linked to something high profile, something that went wrong. It was a big deal, but of course none of us would have known about it. The only person who has any real, regular contact with the outside world, is you, Angela. And if you don’t know, no one here does.’

  ‘You know I never pick up the papers when I’m in Mary’s shop,’ I say, hoping he doesn’t catch the lie. ‘I want to avoid the real world as much as anyone else does. I certainly don’t want to be reading about abused children.’ I pause, glancing away. I don’t want to seem too keen, too probing. ‘Do you know any more about what went wrong?’

  Smeaton shakes his head. ‘He didn’t tell me the full details. But he ended up having to leave the force due to stress. It pushed him over the edge, he said. He has huge periods where he can’t even remember where he was or what he was doing.’

  ‘Some kind of breakdown?’ Am I pushing too hard?

  ‘Perhaps. He told me he would wake up in strange places, with people thinking that he was drunk or on drugs, whole days of amnesia where he had had no idea that he’d even been to work. In the end his superiors said it wasn’t safe for him to be on the case. They sent him for tests, and they said it was burnout. He took retirement, and Ali looked after him at home, giving up her own job to do it…’ He pauses, takes a sip of tea.

  This explains a lot, I think. About their dynamics. I’d assumed, as we all did, after the incident at the party, that he had hurt Ali in the past. Seems we weren’t quite right about that. ‘How stressful for them both.’

  ‘Indeed. They lived like this for several months, and I think this time might have been too much for both of them. Two of them together in a small flat, him suffering from some sort of psychotic breakdown that no one seemed to be able to diagnose; Ali unsure whether she was his wife or his carer. You can imagine why she might be traumatised herself.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ I say, quietly.

  My mind is whirring as I process this. He worked in child protection. Nothing to do with unexplained deaths on motorways or unidentified victims. I think about the newspaper clippings. Wonder again, what his interest was in these. Could it be because of his breakdown? Maybe he got confused, maybe he can’t even remember cutting out the articles at all. Maybe he doesn’t even know that he has them.

  It’s at times like this I’m glad I’m in the country, in this house, in this community.

  Safe.

  We have to be safe here. It’s all that we have.

  18

  Ali

  After breakfast Ali says, ‘Do you fancy walking into the village with me today? We’ve been here a month.’ She gives Jack a grin. ‘We must be settled in enough now to risk being corrupted by the locals.’

  Jack shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. There’s some stuff I want to do here. I’ve been helping Ford build a new area for the chickens. He thinks there are foxes getting in; we lost another one last night. I’d like to get started on that now, if that’s OK? You go, though. I’m sure someone will go with you. Or it might be good to have some time to yourself?’ He picks up his cereal bowl and his mug and carries it through to the washing area. Then he disappears outside. Ali is left at the table by herself, Jack’s words bristling. He knows she doesn’t like to be by herself. Everyone else is already off doing their jobs. She doesn’t seem to have found a regular job yet – still helps out with many things. That suits her just fine for the moment; variety was always a thing she liked about nursing. She was always the one who was called on to deal with the more unusual cases – the things that disturbed the other nurses. Plus, she’s hoping to spend some time in the library that Smeaton mentioned. If he ever tells her where it is.

  She takes her own breakfast things through to the kitchen and offers to help wash up, but Rose shakes her head. ‘Don’t worry about it; you know I like doing it.’

  Ali smiles and leaves through the back exit into the gardens. She doesn’t say anything else to Rose. The woman has had a go at her several times when they’ve worked a kitchen shift together, telling her quite aggressively that she’d had to re-wash all of the pots that Ali had done, because she hadn’t done them properly. Hot rinse, soak, scrub, cold rinse, drain, dry. Apparently Ali’s pots were still greasy, not enough rinsing, not enough scrubbing. Ali couldn’t be bothered to argue with her then, and she can’t be bothered to argue today. Besides, she’s still not sure what she meant by that comment outside the kitchen a few weeks ago, about not stirring things up. Who does Rose think she is? Clearly not someone who takes kindly to newcomers.

  She walks out onto the lawn and decides that she will walk down to the other end where she hasn’t been yet, maybe try and find the natural perimeter, walk all the way round. She was keen to go to the village, but now she isn’t so sure. Jack is already different. He seems to be happy to make more of his own decisions, happy to spend time without her. She isn’t used to it.

  She walks round the edge of the lawn, listens to the gentle chirping of birds in the trees; there isn’t much else to listen to. Her mind drifts, and she thinks about Jack. About what he was like when they met. About the night they met. When it all started.

  It was July 2008. They met at the Blue Light Ball. A regular night in one of the shiny late-night bars at the end of Clapham High Street. It was a monthly thing, meant to be for all the services. So generally the place was full of police, firemen, nurses, and anyone else who’d heard about it, and fancied themselves a bit of something in uniform. There were plenty there, and it wasn’t just the men who liked to pretend they were something that they weren’t. Uniforms usually elicit two key reactions: there are those who despise them, and the authority they represent; and there are those who are inexplicably attracted to them, no matter what the person wearing it might look like. For the ladies, firemen, always come out on top. Think the Baldwins in Backdraft. For the boys: nurses – the more Barbara Windsor in Carry on Doctor, the better. The police usually came somewhere after that, for both males and females. There was an extra-special thrill when the gender norms were reversed, female fire officer, male nurse.

  It was easy enough to tell the fakes. They talked about things that they’d seen on TV shows as if they were real. Ali would often select one of the fakes, just to wind them up. Simpering, and laughing at all their jokes, before delivering a caustic blow and walking away. She feels a little guilty now – maybe it wasn’t a very nice thing to do, but it was just banter. No different from the blokes who thought it was smart to pretend to be something they weren’t. She remembers Jack being one of the quietest of his crowd, but not at all shy. He had the right balance: not pushy, b
ut when it was clear that you were keen, he was interesting to talk to, engaging. Not just one of those typical bolshie lads trying to impress. It wasn’t just lads who did that obviously, there were plenty of girls who’d try to use their positions of power to ensnare men. Many people who wear uniforms have the propensity to play power games, but those people never come out on top in the end.

  Jack had stared at her with big puppy-dog eyes, and although he had been chatting easily to two of the other girls in her group, when it came to Ali he seemed tongue-tied, stumbling over his words. Ali prided herself on being funny, good with a perfectly timed putdown, knowing how to back it all up with a nice compliment. She liked to have fun. One of Jack’s friends, one of the bolshie types, tried the full-on charm offensive with her, but it didn’t work. He was far too much of a Flash Harry for her, and despite what he thought of himself, not actually very good looking. Appearance was never actually the first thing that Ali went for, but there was something about Jack that attracted her immediately. He had a certain look, especially those eyes. Especially the way that he looked at her, like she was some kind of goddess. Ali took care of herself; she knew that she looked good, but she wasn’t vain. She had never been short of men, though, always having her pick, usually having brief flings, short-term relationships. Just enough to make sure she wasn’t on her own too much, but she still had her freedom. She probably did like the idea of control just a little too much. The occasional bossing around of the juniors on the ward, maybe. She was fascinated by this element of behaviour – often observing the senior doctors and how it all worked so effortlessly for them. But she’d never really known what it was like to truly control someone. Didn’t even know that she could.

  Until she met Jack.

  She remembered sitting in the dark corner of the bar, her and Jack deep in conversation, two champagne flutes in front of them that someone kept topping up from the bottle of cheapo two-for-one Prosecco that sat in an ice bucket on the table. They drank a lot, talked a lot. They were all words and hands and deep, longing looks. She was desperate to get him home, but not just because she wanted to sleep with him.

  There was a connection there. That way he looked at her … it was something special. Something important. She remembered when his bolshie friend came over to them at the end of the night, worse for wear, trying to persuade them to go back to a party with a bunch of the others. There were stage-whispered mentions of orgies and swinging. Not Ali’s scene. Yeah, she had tried a few things. And she didn’t mind what other people got up to, but she much preferred one man at a time. Preferably the one that she had chosen. Jack had told his mate that no, they weren’t going to come. He’d suggested to Ali already that they went to a late-night café. Have some coffee, something to eat. More time to chat.

  His mate had laughed, shaking his head, and said to Jack, ‘Christ, man, you’ve only just met her. Think about it, you don’t want her wrapping you around her little finger, not straightaway anyway.’ He laughed. Ali had been a little bemused by this, wondering what he meant. He must have sensed her confusion, because he continued: ‘He’s got a bit of a thing.’ He made air quotes with his fingers and laughed. ‘When he likes someone, he gets a bit obsessed. Play your cards right, love, and he will do absolutely anything you ask him to. Anything.’ He winked, and slapped Jack on the shoulder, before disappearing off with a girl on each arm. Ali looked at Jack, and saw he was gazing at her intently. A smile on his face as if he had drifted off somewhere, but taking her with him.

  He would do anything for me, would he?

  Ali wondered about this. Wondered if this lovely, sweet man might just be the little pet project she’d been looking for. She wasn’t going to tell anyone that bit, of course. And she felt a little bad even thinking it. But it wasn’t just about fun, coming to these nights? She’d had a bit of an agenda all along. She had an idea for an academic thesis, and she needed a subject. It had been tricky to recruit, because the subject had to adore her … and most importantly, the subject had to have no idea that he was part of an experiment.

  And of course the subject had to have certain propensities…

  Oh Jack, she’d thought. What were the chances of finding you tonight?

  She is back at Rosalind House before she knows it. She barely remembers the walk at all, but she’s enjoying the sun on her cheeks. Most of all, she’s enjoying remembering what Jack was like in the beginning, how it all started. The fun they used to have. She said jump, he said how high? It was a game that they’d both enjoyed.

  Now she just needs to make sure he plays by her rules.

  Dr Henry Baldock’s Journal – 20th April 1955

  I think after what I have seen so far, some changes will have to be implemented sooner rather than later. I was unsure about coming here under the guise of a new doctor, when in fact I was sent here by the authorities to check on procedures and report back – the whistle-blower had told us some worrying things and it seemed that this was the correct way to approach matters, to observe rather than accuse. It was also thought that my presence here might be enough to deter anything untoward. But it did backfire somewhat. I reacted too passionately to the scene in the bathroom, and perhaps should have appeared less shocked – especially as it was one of the things I’d been warned to look out for. Cold-bath therapy is one of the worst forms of quackery, and one that has no place in a modern medical facility. However, I worry now that the trust I had started to build with the staff has been lost – but maybe it’s not over yet.

  They still don’t know who I am. They only suspect, and I think if I can get them back onside I can find a way to deal with this without causing further distress. I think perhaps going back to some of the older methods will help. They used to organise many things here, tea dances, family fêtes; all of these things giving the patients something to focus on and contribute to. I know that many of the women were keen bakers before they were admitted here. With supervision, they can be allowed to enjoy some of these pleasures again. And getting some of the men involved in prettying up the gardens again; mowing the lawns is done, of course, but perhaps planting some flowers will be therapeutic.

  Perhaps, in time, we can persuade them to be involved in putting on a show – in the past, some of these patient-led shows have been a great success – the creativity of performance and preparing the sets a great therapy. But perhaps something simpler, first, a garden party – with all the patients’ families invited. The staff’s families, too. Something to bring them all back onto an even keel, appreciate what they have here – in this beautiful setting, and there is good being done here. I am certain that something like this will help mend the frosty atmosphere, make this a happy place once more.

  I don’t know where the deep sadness has come from, but I know that I do not care for it one bit.

  19

  Ali

  Ali knows that only she can make things better for them both. She waits until Jack has had breakfast and gone outside to his usual job, which now seems to be helping Ford – collecting wood, chopping wood. Ford is teaching him how to make things, and Jack has seemed a lot happier these last few weeks. If Jack can forget about what he’s done, then maybe she can too. As long as she stays out of Angela’s way, things will be better. As long as she accepts that Jack has changed now, things will be better.

  She finds him in the woodshed, alone. ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You’re on your own? Where’s Ford?’ She walks over to be closer to him. ‘What you doing?’

  Jack picks up a rag and wipes his hands. ‘He’s gone to the tip to get some stuff for the gazebo. I’m not sure what. I wanted to go with him but he said it be better if I stayed here and got on with this. He’s asked me to prep these planks for some decking. It’s to go outside the back doors into the garden. One of his ideas to spruce this place up. He’s got all these plans – have you seen them?’

  ‘No, I haven’t but that sounds great,’ Ali says. ‘Can I have a look, then?’

  She is still impressed
by how easily Jack seems to have adapted. She needs to take a leaf out of his book and try to relax. She follows him over to the other side of the woodshed and watches as he unfolds a large sheet of paper. He lays it out flat, then puts a few different objects on the corners to keep it that way: two stones, a piece of brick and a large chunk of glass.

  ‘This is the lawn, as you can see.’ Jack runs a finger across the paper. ‘And the pond. Still having trouble with that, trying to make sure it’s sealed up properly. Ford is pretty sure that he’s got it right this time. From what he says, the only way it will leak now will be very gradually, through the groundwater path, into the soil. We’ve got markers in there so we can measure the water level, see if it’s draining away or staying put. There is a natural drainage pipe, obviously, to stop it flooding out when it rains.’ He points to another section on the plan. ‘This bit over here … he wants to turn this part into some sort of games area, a croquet lawn, I think. This is the kind of thing that Smeaton asked him to do. He wants to recreate what it was like back in the olden days. When they had garden parties here. It’s a nice thing for the community, and beyond – he hopes.’

  Ali is impressed. She likes the vision, likes the effort that has been put into this. ‘So Ford is doing this all by himself?’

  ‘Well, he has me now,’ Jack laughs.