by Hugh Canham
4
What happened during the next few months is very hazy in my mind. I must have been very ill and I suppose severely depressed. I now recall various incidents, not necessarily in the correct order. First, and this must have been shortly after I had arrived at the nursing home, I suddenly remembered about my purchase of Toy Boy, my tax affairs and my horses. I became hysterical and tried to get out of bed and get dressed. The doctor was called and he gave me an injection to sedate me. Then Cristabel arrived and said she would take care of everything for me. She came back later with a power of attorney for me to sign in her favour and said that she and the solicitors and accountants would deal with everything and that ‘nice Mr Cohen’ had agreed to carry on running Toy Boy until I was better and I was not to worry about anything.
Then there was some problem about getting the test results and so I had to be taken to the local hospital and put through the same rigmarole of X-rays, blood tests, etc. all over again. I did keep saying that Dr Smith must have got some test results that he could send to the nursing home but Auntie just patted my arm and said, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.’
Sometimes I was allowed to get out of bed and sit in an armchair in a dressing gown. The doctor who looked after the patients in the home was apparently also a local GP. I found him very annoying. Every time I asked him if ‘they’ knew what was the matter with me, he kept replying, ‘We’ll take you to see the consultant at the hospital when we can get an appointment.’
It seemed like an eternity before I saw the consultant. When I got there he merely looked at my test results, examined me physically and said, ‘I think you’ll be all right. Just take it easy.’
What was I doing but ‘taking it easy’?
When the weather got better, I was allowed to get dressed and walk about in the little garden the nuns had next to their chapel. I remember for the first time in my life watching things slowly coming into bud. I’d never had the time to watch before. And then I remember being terribly excited when the buds on a shrub (I’ve no idea what it was called) burst into leaf.
‘Ah, the new leaf !’ I remember saying out loud. But then I remembered that I was supposed to have turned over a different sort of leaf.
‘Look where it’s got me!’ I said to myself over and over. It made me feel unbearably sad as everything sprang into life in the nuns’ garden. I became more and more depressed and didn’t want to go there any more. I stayed in my room despite Auntie insisting that ‘some fresh air would do me good’.
One day, the GP announced that he’d spoken to the consultant again after I’d undergone another lot of tests and, as I didn’t seem to be making much progress, they wanted me to see a psychiatrist.
I lay awake that night. ‘They think I’ve gone nuts,’ I kept saying to myself.
The psychiatrist was an effete young man, obviously gay. After I had sat down in the chair opposite his desk he spent several minutes reading my file and going, ‘Um, um, um,’ from time to time. I did wonder why he hadn’t bothered to read it before asking me into his room.
‘So you’ve been ill for quite a few months now,’ he said at last.
I nodded.
‘Tell me, do you have any sexual urges?’
Did he know something about my past, I wondered? ‘Not recently,’ I replied truthfully.
‘Ah! Have you tried masturbating or watching a blue movie, or both?’
‘Well, no,’ I said, thinking that masturbation might be done under cover, as it were, but I could not really see myself asking Auntie to get me a blue movie to play on the DVD player in my room.
‘Maybe you should think about it. You are obviously very depressed. It’s difficult to know what to do for the best when someone has had a bad breakdown in their health like you had and is not progressing. You see, all the latest tests have been pretty normal.’
I was glad to hear it, but thought that somebody might have told me so before now.
‘But,’ the young man was continuing in his languid voice, ‘it’s probably a case for psychotherapy. If you go back home to London are you able to arrange for someone to look after you? You know, a sort of daily housekeeper?’
I said I hoped I could.
‘That’s good. I’ll refer you to a first class man I know in Harley Street and I’ll change your antidepressants to something a little stronger.’
‘Excellent!’ said Cristabel when I told her about going back to London and the psychotherapy. Apparently at one stage in her life she couldn’t paint; went to a psychoanalyst and bingo – she could to paint again!
And so I went back to my flat and office in Brook Street. Cristabel arranged for a Filipino lady, Grace, to come in every day to look after me. She was a good cook and it was lovely to have her around the place, but I have to admit I missed Auntie and her nuns. I’d become rather institutionalised and grown used to their seemingly unconditional kindness. Auntie seemed pleased with the cheque I gave her when I left.
I needed a routine. I wasn’t ready to start work again but, now I was home, I desperately wanted to start back on the road to normality, and I was hoping the sessions with the psychoanalyst would help to bring about my recovery.
So now we get to Dr Greenbaum. I remember my first session with him very well. His room was almost unfurnished. It had a couch, an armchair for him, and a hard one for me at the initial interview, a table and a table lamp. But no pictures and no curtains, only a blind always half drawn down. Dr G was of indeterminate age; always sombrely dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt and plain tie. His accent was curious. Where did he come from originally? Germany? South America? He had a very large hooked nose and thick spectacles.
‘Do please zit down, Mr Bannister,’ he said, indicating the hard chair. ‘I have had a report about you from my colleague. I vill do my best to help. Zese things often take zome time. I have zis vacancy every day Monday to Friday at eleven o’clock. Most people find it helpful to lie on ze couch. Just zay vot comes into your mind and tell me also about any dreams you may have.’
I duly lay on the couch. It was dead flat with a small cushion under my head, and a paper towel over the cushion. All rather uncomfortable, I thought. I shuffled about a bit and then supposed I ought to say something.
‘I fainted when I went into a church and I’ve felt ill every since. But I expect you know all that from the reports you’ve had. And I think I’ve got this terrible hang-up about women. I’ve thought about it a lot since I’ve been ill. I’m like a dog at a lamp post when I see a pretty woman. I think it’s to do with my mother, you see. She did what my father always used to refer to as “a bunk” when I was three.’
I hoped this might elicit a response like, ‘I see,’ or something similar. But there was silence. So I went on, ‘I always wanted her to come back but she didn’t. She just sometimes sent me presents like this ring I’ve brought to show you. It has an inscription from her inside it, “To G love from Mum”. Would you like to see it?’
I waved it towards Dr Greenbaum behind me. He appeared to ignore it and when I turned round to look at him, he seemed to be staring straight through me. Eventually I became embarrassed; lay down again and put the ring on my little finger.
‘Then I had a nanny. I hated her. She was fat, had hairy legs and a very loud voice. She was always telling me off. One of her favourite expressions was, “Gregory, you’ve got to turn over a new leaf.” So that was what came into my mind when I first felt ill and went to Dr Smith and he told me I might become seriously ill if I didn’t change my lifestyle. Have you had a report from him? But now I’m told my illness is maybe not physical but psychological. It seems unfair. I tried to turn over a new leaf and immediately for the first time in my life I’ve become really ill. I wish I could go back to how I was before, but I know I can’t. I feel too depressed to do anything. I’ve been given these new antidepressants and told not to drive, not to drink, and not to work. I think all that those previous antidepressants have done is made me impotent – and that’s
even more depressing, of course. But you know most of this from those reports you’ve had. I’d better tell you about my childhood. At first, I went to a day prep school in London. I think Dad wanted me at home for company. He always used to call me “old chap” and we went away for very nice holidays in Scotland and Cornwall and places like that. He didn’t really like foreigners.’
Then I realised that this perhaps wasn’t a very tactful remark. So as to cover up for this, I continued brightly, ‘Of course I have would have been delighted to go to the Continent myself, but he didn’t want it. Nanny didn’t ever come with us on these holidays, thank God. She went to stay with her sister in Wales. Then my aunt – that’s my father’s sister – suggested I should be sent away to boarding school. I hated the idea. My father, I think, also hated my going away. At the beginning of term I was always sick before the day I had to catch the train. I suppose I hoped it would mean I didn’t have to go, but Dad always insisted. He used to drive me to the station. Secretly, I thought he looked a bit green himself as we waited on the platform for the school train to come into the station. And then at the last minute he would take out his wallet, thrust a tenner into my left hand, and shake me firmly by the right and say, “Have a good term, old chap,” and then turn on his heel and walk away. Back to the office I suppose. He was a property dealer and developer by the way, like me. I took over what was left of his business after it was more or less ruined by Lola. But I’ll come on to her later. I’m sorry if this is a bit rambling. I hope you can follow?’
Silence – Oh well! Just carry on, I thought. I suppose it’s good ‘therapy’ just getting all this off my chest.
‘Well, as I said, I think if I’d had a nice kind mother at home it would have all have been all right and I wouldn’t have developed what my aunt called “bad ways” when I got away to school. I got expelled three times, you know. On the first occasion my father sent a telegram to Mother – “Gregory expelled and at home. Please come.” He showed it to me before he sent it off. But she didn’t come. All she did was to phone and take me out to tea at Claridge’s and tell me I’d been a very, very naughty boy. But I could tell even at age thirteen that she didn’t really mean it! She was secretly amused. She sat there in a very smart suit and hat picking at a piece of cake and sipping her Lapsang Suchong. And then she put a cigarette into her holder and lit it. She was a most beautiful woman; slim and dark with a very pretty face, and long black hair and eyelashes. She’d run off with a French businessman and they lived in Paris. She always referred to him as “the Count”, but my father said it was a lot of nonsense and he wasn’t really a Count. As far as I know they never got married. She died when I was twenty-two. I think I only saw her twice more after the tea at Claridge’s. It was probably after each time I was expelled. The first expulsion, by the way, was for being found drunk with two other boys after dark in the school grounds. After that, my father managed to get me into one of the London day schools. But that didn’t last very long. I was found smoking in the changing rooms. Breach of school rules. So then my father managed to get me into a liberal co-ed boarding school in Scotland where the rules weren’t half as strict. That’s where I discovered that I liked girls very much, even though I was only fifteen.’
I stopped there and hoped for some reaction to this revelation. But there was still silence.
‘Are you going to say anything?’ I asked.
‘I’m just listening carefully to vot you are telling me.’
Oh good, I thought. Well, at least that was something. I continued, ‘I think I’d better tell you in detail about when I fainted. It was connected with this very beautiful artist friend I have called Cristabel. I haven’t slept with her. She’s very strict. She’s a Catholic.’
And I started telling Dr Greenbaum exactly what had happened. But after a few words, he interrupted me.
‘I zink you are afraid of zumthing. But we must stop for today. Ze time is up!’
As I emerged into Harley Street, I thought it was not much advice for the £70 that Dr Greenbaum was apparently going to charge each time he saw me.
After that memorable first session, I can’t, of course, remember in detail what was said every day that I went to see him, but certain conversations stand out. It was some time later when I told him, ‘I’m thinking about Jasper, Jasper Cohen. He’s a hard sod, but he agreed to carry on running this company that I bought from him while I’m not well. He didn’t need to do that.’
‘Maybe you project your own hard bits into Jasper?’
‘I don’t understand!’
‘You, yourself, may be hard, but you don’t like to zee yourself as such. Zo you get rid of it by putting it into Jasper!’
‘But Jasper is hard!’
‘Ve always project vere ze cap fits.’
‘But that’s mad. Jasper is a mean sod.’
‘Very vell. If you don’t agree viz vot I say, it is up to you!’
This produced a lengthy and resentful silence from me. It sounded totally barmy, like when some weeks before Dr Greenbaum had said he did not ‘zink’ my problems were anything to do with my mother. I did begin to wonder! Clocking up the hours – not even full hours, only fifty minutes I discovered – at £70 per hour. Well, at least I don’t have far to go. He was at the south end of Harley Street – most of these analysts are found in Hampstead apparently because that was where Freud had lived.
And then I remember telling Dr G one day about the sort of life I was leading and how boring it was: ‘But you must know, Dr Greenbaum, I lead a very reclusive life. When I first came back to London I had somebody to come in every day to get my meals and look after me. But after a couple of weeks I came to the conclusion I could manage on my own. So I get up at eight o’clock and listen to the news on the radio while I have some orange juice, coffee and a roll. I get the rolls from the bakers down the road. Then I have a shave and a shower and get dressed and read the paper for a bit. Then it’s time to come and see you. It’s lucky you’re not far away. Then after I leave you I stop off at a little café I know on the way back to Brook Street and have lunch and a very small glass of wine. Then I have a sleep. I don’t usually sleep for very long and sometimes I lie awake and think about what we’ve talked about in the session, but more likely about one of my ex-girlfriends. I then get up and have a cup of tea and read a book for about an hour or so. Something light. I’m getting through an awful lot of Agatha Christies! Nobody ever seems to phone me and I never get any post. I think Cristabel and the doctor have arranged something so that it all goes to my lawyers. At six o’clock every evening I ring Cristabel because she finishes painting then. We have a chat. Then I go to my club and have dinner. Only one glass of wine again and a cup of coffee in the Reading Room. By the way, as you know I was told not to drink while taking these antidepressants, but I’ve read the instructions enclosed with them and it says only “avoid” alcohol, so that’s what I’m trying to do. Then I walk home and go to bed. I don’t feel very well most of the time and I often wonder if there’s something still physically wrong with me that tests didn’t reveal. At the weekend I go and see Cristabel after lunch on Saturday, I stay on her sofa Saturday night and I’m with her all day Sunday. I don’t go to church with her. I’m afraid I might faint again. She’s very kind to me, but very strict. She cooks me nice meals and often we go to an art gallery together. Sometimes she lets me watch while she paints. I don’t think I really understand her paintings, which are abstracts by the way, even though I bought two of them for my reception area, which is how I got to know her. She’s very beautiful. She has lovely breasts and long, dark brown hair. Her face is exquisite. But she never lets me touch her. She says our friendship is “not like that”. It’s all rather odd, don’t you think? I can’t make out where she’s “coming from”, if you know what I mean.’
There was the usual silence. Then Dr Greenbaum said, ‘I zink you are telling me that you have my breast from Monday to Friday and Cristabel’s on Saturday and Sunday. You nee
d ze food, but it is food for ze mind and ze soul – intangible!’
Occasionally, very occasionally, Dr Greenbaum will ask me a few questions like, ‘Do you never listen to ze music?’
‘No, I think I’m tone deaf.’
‘Have you no close friends?’
‘No, I suppose not. I was very close to my father and worked with him until he died. I have or did have lots of business acquaintances – but they are only acquaintances. And as you know I’ve had rather a lot of girlfriends. But none of them have lasted for any length of time. I suppose I’m quite friendly with the three trainers I have my horses with. But that’s really friendship on a professional basis. They’re a very long way away and seem to be only interested in horses!’
‘Like you ver only interested in business and girls!’
And then after one weekend, ‘Dr Greenbaum, I feel terrible today. I suppose because it’s a Monday and I couldn’t see Cristabel at the weekend. She’d gone to see her aunt at that nursing home I told you about. But I didn’t want to go there again! So I went for a walk in Regent’s Park on Saturday and saw some of the animals in the zoo. They are nice to look at but don’t smell too good. Then on Sunday I had a long walk in Hyde Park. I like Hyde Park very much. My club is closed on a Sunday so I tried to cook myself a meal on Sunday evening. I went to a supermarket and got… but you don’t want to hear about my cooking. Maybe it was eating what I’d cooked that has made me feel so ill!’
‘I zink it was because you ver missing Cristabel and missing me, of course!’
‘You keep on about my missing you, but I’m only coming to see you to try and get better, not because I like you particularly, Dr Greenbaum! What I want you to tell me is why I fainted in church. But we never seem to get on to that.’
There was a long silence.
‘Well, go on, say something!’ I felt my anger rising.
‘I zink you see me now, zis morning, as the bad breast.’