The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ Neil asked, shifting slightly beside me.

  ‘Mm. Yes.’ The room tilted slightly and then righted itself. A poster appeared to be sliding slowly down the wall, and the books in the bookcase jiggled and blurred. I smiled, and moved closer into Neil’s willing arms.

  ‘That’s better,’ Neil murmured. ‘I was beginning to think you didn’t fancy me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’ve always jumped like a startled rabbit when I’ve touched you, and done that ducking thing with your head when I tried to kiss you. You’re a cool customer, little Cassandra. I’ll say that for you.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘And I reckon I’ve been a very good boy.’

  ‘Of course you’re a good boy.’ Another poster seemed to be joining its partner on their journey down the wall. I was certainly feeling very strange.

  ‘But being good is fine, as far as it goes,’ Neil murmured, placing a hand somewhere in the region of my midriff. ‘I’d like to go a bit further.’ The hand began to meander slowly upwards in the direction of my bosom. ‘Just a tiny, tiny bit further.’

  His voice was soft and caressing, like that of a parent soothing an anxious child. The posters, which seemed miraculously to have regained their former positions, now began to tilt slowly sideways, and the narrow bed swayed beneath us.

  ‘A bit further? What do you mean?’ I held on to the edge of the bed in an effort to steady it.

  ‘I think you know what I mean.’ The hand paused for a moment, and then continued on its travels upwards. ‘Come on, little Cassandra. You know you want it as much as I do.’

  ‘Want what?’

  At this stage I have to say it must have seemed that I was quite extraordinarily stupid, but I was very drunk, and the civilized nature of the evening’s proceedings had persuaded me that Neil’s reputation was entirely undeserved. As ever, he had behaved impeccably, and I felt that he had been the innocent victim of vicious gossip from people who ought to know better. As for my own feelings, these had always been emotional rather than physical. I certainly longed for Neil, but my longing was of the children’s fairy-story variety; all hearts and flowers, being gently wooed, and then perhaps carried away into the sunset like Snow White.

  Of course I knew that Neil probably wanted more, but so far he had seemed so sensitive to my finer feelings that I think I had managed to persuade myself he might be prepared to wait. After all, this was love, and if he was in love with me (and why wouldn’t he be?) then his feelings could be helped to transcend anything as basic as sex. If sex were ever to come into our relationship it would be in the fullness of time and when I was ready. I certainly wasn’t ready yet.

  So when the wandering hand, having found its way between the buttons of my blouse, finally arrived at my left breast and grasped it firmly by the nipple, I was taken completely by surprise.

  ‘No!’ I gripped his wrist and pulled his hand away. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Undeterred, the hand made its way back.

  ‘No. Please. Please, don’t!’ I pulled away from him and tried to sit up.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Cass? Anyone would think I was trying to rape you!’

  ‘Just — don’t. I don’t want you to — to do that.’ My feet found the floor, and I stooped down and tried to put my shoes on. The room was still spinning gently and my head was pounding, but I was thinking perfectly clearly and all I wanted was to get away as quickly as I could.

  ‘Well, you little prick-teaser!’

  ‘I’m not!’ Tears stung my eyelids. ‘That’s a horrible thing to say!’

  ‘Is it?’ Neil’s voice was cold. ‘I think you’ve just been leading me on all this time, Cass. I suppose you thought it was a bit of fun. You probably even told your friends, I shouldn’t wonder. Had a laugh at my expense.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’

  ‘No. You’re not being fair. I’ve taken you out, I’ve tried to understand this — problem you seem to have. And all the time you were just stringing me along.’ Neil swung his legs off the bed and stood up.

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ By now I was weeping. ‘Please try to understand.’

  ‘Oh, I understand all right. I understand perfectly. Just let me warn you, Cass. This game you’re playing is a very dangerous one, and could land you in serious trouble. Not everyone’s as nice as I am.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you’re being nice at all.’ I hunted for my bag, trying to see through a blur of tears.

  ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ Neil watched me as I struggled into my coat. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t see you home.’

  It took me several weeks to get over Neil. I think he really was my first love, and while first loves are often insubstantial things, helped along by a combination of youthful imagination, optimism and a sturdy pair of rose-tinted spectacles, their passing can be very hard to bear.

  Worse still, though, was the realization that my problem with men really was here to stay.

  Thirty-three

  Six months later, I took my final examinations; and after what seemed an interminable wait, received the news that I had passed. I was now a State Registered Nurse, with a shiny badge and a royal-blue uniform to prove it.

  Within days, Mum paid a visit to inspect me, but this time with my reluctant permission, and with promises not to embarrass me or — more importantly — give food to the patients. Her proud gaze followed me for an entire afternoon, and while her behaviour was beyond reproach (‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed to feed you,’ I heard her whisper to an elderly man, as though he were an animal in the zoo), I found her presence discomfiting.

  ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself a cup of tea in the canteen?’ I asked her at one point.

  ‘Oh no. I don’t want to miss a minute of this. There might be an emergency, Cass. I’d hate to miss seeing you dealing with an emergency.’

  Fortunately, there were no emergencies, and the afternoon passed without incident. But while I was of course grateful for the interest Mum took in my promotion, I was also relieved to hear that there wouldn’t be a repeat performance.

  ‘It’s difficult to get away nowadays. New Dog needs me,’ she explained, after we’d had some supper together before she caught the train home. ‘I can’t leave him for long. The others — well, they don’t understand him.’

  I don’t know exactly when I realized that I was suffering from depression. I suppose because I had always considered myself to be a reasonably sanguine person, it never occurred to me that I should fall prey to any kind of mental problem. Certainly, life had had its ups and downs, but then that was the same for everyone, and if I was occasionally sad or fed up, then I knew that sooner or later I would snap out of it and return to normal.

  Of course I had long been accustomed to Mum’s depressions. These were unmistakable, tending to strike suddenly out of a clear blue sky, plunging her into the depths of weeping despair, paralysing her mentally and physically and dragging everyone within her vicinity down with her. Then, just as she seemed to reach rock bottom, and we were wondering whether she was ever going to return to normal (although ‘Mum’ and ‘normal’ were not words I was accustomed to use in conjunction), she would bounce back as though nothing had happened.

  My own depression was different, creeping up on me over several weeks, and so gradually that for a while I didn’t realize what was happening. I was tired, certainly, but then I had been working hard. I wasn’t sleeping, but I had suffered from bouts of insomnia before. I had no boyfriend, but that was nothing new, and since the unfortunate episode with Neil, I had long since managed to persuade myself that I was better off without one. And if life seemed flat and colourless, then that was probably because, what with work and the drab London winter, there didn’t seem to be a lot to look forward to.

  The bouts of weeping were something else. I have never cried easily, but now I found myself burs
ting into tears at the slightest provocation. Rudeness from a patient, a phone call from home, the prospect of an extra-long shift — any of these could induce in me a wave of despair quite disproportionate to the significance of what had triggered it. I began to dread waking in the morning, while getting up, washing and dressing — once activities carried out without a thought — now became at best chores, and at worst, almost insuperable obstacles. I know Mum suspected that something was wrong, and of course I could have told her how I felt. But what was there to tell? Nothing awful had happened, I wasn’t ill, and life on the whole should have been good.

  Eventually, the decision as to what to do was taken out of my hands.

  ‘Nurse Fitzpatrick, you need help.’ My ward sister, a tough woman of the old school but one with a surprisingly soft centre, took me aside.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘Just a bit tired.’

  ‘We’re all a bit tired. It’s the nature of the job.’ She tilted her head, appraising me as though I were one of her patients. ‘You’re not yourself. You’re forgetting things, making silly little mistakes, and there’s obviously something the matter. Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. Really.’

  ‘Nothing to tell, or nothing to tell me?’

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  ‘I think you should go and see Dr Burns. Just for a chat. Take the rest of the day off, and go to his surgery this evening. I need healthy staff on my ward, and at the moment you’re not really up to the job. Get yourself sorted, and then come back to me and we’ll have another talk.’

  Dr Burns was the medical officer in charge of our health. I don’t believe student nurses have such things these days, but we were fortunate, and while the hospital worked us hard, they also looked after us well.

  Some hours later, I was weeping helplessly in Dr Burns’s surgery.

  ‘I’m fine. Really I am.’ I fumbled for my handkerchief.

  ‘So I see.’ He regarded me with kindly amusement over his half-rimmed spectacles, then passed me a box of Kleenex.

  ‘I just — just —’

  ‘Feel a bit low?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And when did you pass your exams?’

  ‘Eight months ago.’ I blew my nose.

  ‘Did you want to be a staff nurse?’

  ‘Of course I did! I mean, I do.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, of course.’

  Dr Burns steepled his fingers and leant back in his chair. ‘It’s a big step from being a student. More responsibility. More demands. More people to look after.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know a bit about your history, Nurse Fitzpatrick. You’ve maybe had more than your share of responsibility, one way and another. From what you’ve told me in the past, it seems to me that you’ve spent much of your life looking after other people. It could just be that there’s a part of you saying enough is enough. That it’s time to start taking care of number one.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I give up?’ I was incredulous. It had never for a moment occurred to me that I shouldn’t continue my nursing career.

  ‘No. Not necessarily.’ Dr Burns sat forward in his chair once more. ‘I’m just wondering whether nursing is the right career for you. Whether it’s something you really should be doing.’

  ‘Of course it is!’

  ‘Is it?’ He opened a folder with my name on it and perused the sheaf of notes inside. ‘You’ve had a lot of time off, one way and another.’

  ‘But I had permission! I always had permission. I’ve had family problems as well as being ill.’

  ‘I know all that. Nurse Fitzpatrick — Cassandra. No one’s criticizing you. I believe your conduct has been exemplary. But Matron’s recently had a word with me —’

  ‘She had no right!’

  ‘She has every right. She’s in charge of the nursing staff, and not much gets past her, believe me. I can’t tell her what passes between us. Between you and me. That’s confidential. But she’s within her rights — in fact it’s her duty — to tell me if she has concerns about her nurses.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She has no problems with your work, but she is concerned about how you’re coping.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she say something to me?’

  ‘I believe she was going to suggest you came to talk things over with me, but it seems you beat her to it.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do.’ I took another Kleenex.

  ‘I know you don’t. That’s what I’m here for.’ Dr Burns regarded me thoughtfully. ‘I’d like you to take a bit of time off.’

  ‘But I’ve had masses of time off! I can’t have any more. I want — I want —’

  ‘What do you want, Cassandra?’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  I burst into tears again, thinking how feeble that sounded, and wondering what on earth had made me say it. A few hours ago, nothing could have been further from my thoughts, but now the thought of home, the very word home, made me ache with longing. The warmth of our big untidy kitchen, Greta’s brews of too-strong tea (‘builders’ tea’ Mum called it), my own familiar bedroom (provided there was no one else in it), Lucas’s amused banter, and of course Mum herself — suddenly I felt I needed them all as never before.

  ‘Then that’s what you shall do.’ Dr Burns took up his pen and wrote something in my notes.

  ‘What, now? I can’t. The ward’s busy, and two people are off with flu, and —’

  ‘And I suppose they can’t possibly run the ward without you.’

  ‘Well, yes of course they can, but —’

  ‘No buts. You’ve just said it yourself. You’re not indispensable. I’m not asking you, Cassandra. I’m telling you.’ He put down his pen and smiled at me. ‘You need to go home, get some rest, do a bit of thinking. I’m signing you off for a month.’

  ‘A month!’

  ‘Yes. A month. I’m prescribing some tablets for you. Some mild antidepressants. Get some rest, some fresh air. Relax for a bit. I’ll see you when you get back, and we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘And what about Matron?’

  ‘I’ll tell Matron. Just let the ward know what’s happening, and off you go. I don’t want to see you for another four weeks. All right?’

  ‘All right.’

  I left the room feeling numb but oddly relieved. I couldn’t remember when anyone had last taken responsibility for my welfare; made important decisions on my behalf; taken care of me.

  As I changed out of my uniform later that evening it was with an enormous sense of relief, as though I were shedding an ill-fitting skin. But it never crossed my mind that there was any possibility that I might have worn it for the last time.

  Thirty-four

  February 1970

  I spent the first three days at home crying. The relief — the utter relief — of being able finally to let go; to be rid of the constraints of my job, of maintaining a stiff upper lip and avoiding the watchful of eye of Sister was indescribable. I don’t think I had fully realized how low I had been until I was able to give full vent to my unhappiness with the blessed release of being free to weep whenever and wherever I wanted to.

  Mum’s reaction was at first ambivalent. On the one hand, while she was deeply distressed on my behalf, she was also bewildered. For some years now I had been the strong one — the person upon whom she could rely for help and support when she needed it — and for me to disintegrate like this must have been hard for her to deal with. On the other hand, Mum loved looking after people, and once she had got used to the idea that this time it was I who needed her, she was in her element. She rushed up and down stairs with trays and cups of tea, she made all my favourite dishes, she even offered to read aloud to me. Entertained by this idea, I accepted her offer, and we spent a weepy afternoon together while she read me selected excerpts from Little Women, one of my favourite childhood books.

  To her ver
y great credit, Mum didn’t ask any questions until I’d been home nearly a week. A veteran of the battle against depression (albeit her battles had been very different from mine) she knew better than to look for glib answers or easy diagnoses, and she wisely waited until I was ready before expecting me to do any talking.

  ‘I do love you, you know, Cass,’ she said unexpectedly one morning, as she brought me breakfast in bed.

  ‘I know you do, Mum.’

  ‘Whatever you do,’ she added.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And — the nursing thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I shan’t — I shan’t be disappointed if you don’t go back.’

  How I blessed Mum for that, for while I had given very little thought to my future, I knew what it must have cost her to, as it were, give me permission to turn my back on a profession of which she was so proud.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Mum,’ I said now. ‘I don’t feel ready to make any decisions.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ She sat down on the bed and stroked my arm. ‘You must stay at home as long as you want. There’s no hurry.’

  ‘I’ve got another three weeks before I have to go back. I may be feeling better by then.’

  Mum seemed to hesitate, plucking at the bedspread, gazing towards the open window.

  ‘I’m — I’m sorry I haven’t been a better mother. I — well, I didn’t really know how. And then somehow it was too late.’

  ‘I suppose it’s like that for everyone,’ I said. ‘After all, no one tells you how to do it, do they?’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘In any case, you’ve been a brilliant mother.’

  ‘Do you really mean it?’

  ‘Of course I mean it. I wouldn’t have you any other way.’