Finally out of great frustration, oh, as well as unbelievable meanness, the doctor did something that to most decent, thinking people would seem inconceivable: he decided it was high time to break up their special friendship once and for all by having Polly transferred to a high-security ward where others of a similar ilk were locked away for their own protection, as well as for the good of mankind. Here in these wards there would be no ability for any kind of friendship to develop, let alone blossom, as all inpatients were utterly locked away in their own personal nightmares.
Once again Polly found herself alone, without a friend in the world. She quickly learned that other patients contented themselves by walking around in circles or wandering the long corridors back and forth as they shouted and yelled at hateful but imaginary people. Still others chose a more calm approach, such as sitting in the television lounge, passively staring into the blank screen in front of them.
At first Polly did attempt to open up the odd conversation or two, just as she had tried on the last ward. There was a day quite early on when she took it upon herself to walk up to a gentleman who was repeatedly banging his head against the wall, and typical of Polly, she dared to ask him why he was doing such a harmful thing to himself. The poor man was visibly shocked by her line of questioning, and so he looked her directly in the eye as he angrily informed her that what he was doing should be perfectly clear and therefore obvious to all. “I am doing my duty,” he indignantly informed her before turning back to continue banging his bloodied forehead against the wall in front of him. Polly walked away feeling very perplexed, and so it would be a number of weeks before she plucked up the courage to once more give it another try.
This time she innocently came to sit down beside a patient in the hope of striking up a friendly conversation.
“Hello, Jasmine. My name is Polly.”
“Go away. Leave me alone, for I am working very hard,” Jasmine cried.
“Working hard at what?” Polly innocently requested to know.
“Can’t you see that I’m concentrating my mind to stop every horrid war that is going on in this crazy, mixed-up world?” she screamed.
This response was more than enough to persuade Polly to completely give up trying to make polite conversation with any of the patients on Ward 707, as she had no desire whatsoever to join in with any of their deeply disturbing and most personal recreational activities. So, yet again, she resorted to hiding away under the bed covers while still trying as desperately hard as she was able to hold on to her fast-fading memories of Piadora.
Despite keeping a diary of Polly’s progress, Dr. Ninkumpoop was to remain in a permanent state of confused bewilderment as to the root cause of Polly’s deep melancholy, especially when he was forced to accept that Polly was failing to respond to even one of his many internationally recognized and profoundly groundbreaking treatments.
All this left him feeling extremely frustrated and angry, and so he recommended that her medication be further increased in an effort to free her from this most disturbing malady, which took the form of a deeply penetrating melancholy, as well as eyes that now appeared permanently glazed over. Sadly, like everything else, this too failed dismally.
July 27
Latest entry regarding “the girl”
It would appear that Patient 579, who must continue to remain nameless, has lost all reason to live. Her bed and bedclothes have literally become her sanctuary and womb, far away from the hostile world she believes she experiences. Very occasionally she still presents me with little mysterious, handwritten notes that she says are sent from Piadora to encourage her, but now it has come to the point where I am no longer interested in either her notes or her little games. I am therefore going to ask her to keep all future notes to herself.
This morning after I confronted her and made my request known, she withdrew even further.
She appeared very confused by my refusal to read any more of them but shrugged her shoulders when I told her that she was obviously still hiding the truth from me, for freshly written notes of encouragement don’t just suddenly appear every day from the navel of an oversized elephant!
Of course, she was equally adamant that in this special case they did.
So, for the time being, she appears to have completely closed down, and therefore she has little to say of any meaning to anyone.
I have scrapped her involvement in group therapy sessions, as she made little to no effort to join in, opting to sullenly sit holding on for dear life to that very irritating blue elephant with a larger-than-average belly.
At mealtimes she sits alone, hurriedly eating up every tiny morsel on her plate as though it were a last supper.
With her plate thoroughly cleaned of all food, she heads back to the dormitory to climb back under the sheets and hide away from the rest of the world. It also means she spends much of the day sleeping.
I have to add that apart from the odd, sporadic moment of resistance, there is little opposition when she is forced to take her large volume of medication, and to date I have seen little that would suggest that the girl is an out-and-out rebel who needs reining in. However, as I observe her lying scrunched up in a tight ball with only her elephant for comfort, oh, as well as an increasing pile of darned notes, I am left wondering if, with everything else having failed, this might be the perfect time to consider giving electroconvulsive therapy a try. However, if the response from the medical community happens to be a resounding no to my otherwise bold suggestion, then from where, might I take the trouble to ask, will her very essential and most necessary cure possibly come from?
It did not seem like a whole year had passed before it was time to get the festive decorations and the battered Christmas tree out of storage once more. Sadly, once up and in position, it looked tattier than ever, even when covered by the sparse, ever-fading decorations that as a rule brighten up a Christmas tree. Equally sad was the truth that Polly had received hardly a visitor in all this time.
Oh, Uncle Boritz and Aunt Mildred had visited Polly twice throughout the year. The first time they left after only twenty minutes, as Aunt Mildred rather unfortunately had one of her troubling nosebleeds. As for the second time, they accidentally bumped into dear Dr. Ninkumpoop doing his ward rounds, so the majority of this otherwise short and therefore sacred visit was not spent with Polly but with all other parties fawning over each other as they tried hard to outdo each other with as much personal adulation and praise as they could think of.
So, Christmas Eve found Polly watching on as over-chummy nurses and doctors mischievously used this glorious annual occasion as the perfect excuse to kiss and hug each other for longer than they should—under the mistletoe, of course! Some even deigned to take things further by planting one wet kiss after another on every available rosy cheek as, filled with unabashed, festive cheer, they gathered around the Christmas tree to sing joyful carols intended to lift even the saddest spirits on the ward. Secretly, Polly could only feel great concern for the spindly, wilting tree, which due to hospital cutbacks appeared bereft of almost any pretty and precious decorations, save a battered-looking, one-armed fairy precariously dangling from the top branch that, just like her, appeared to be losing the battle to cling on for its very life.
She shook her head in disbelief as she viewed the straggly, fading tinsel that someone had so generously and randomly flung ’round a few of the scrawny branches along with some seriously dilapidated lights, most of which had near given up the ghost and so needed urgent replacing. As she stood sorrowfully looking up at the near naked symbol of festive generosity that was clearly meant to fill the empty palace of her soul to overflowing with unspeakable joy, or at the very least to the brim, she sadly felt nothing but paralyzed by pain and emptiness.
Polly was about to head back to her bed with its empty bedside locker but was prevented from doing so by the many overly excited staff who urged her to come and join in the singing, and so it was with great reluctance that she took her pla
ce alongside the other anxious patients in standing around the tree to bite their fingernails as, completely out of key, they bravely attempted to sing along to the heartwarming Christmas carols.
While other troubled souls sang out loud and with great gusto, Polly felt as though every word stuck like sandpaper to the back of her throat. After all, carols, as a rule of thumb, were the verbal expression of abiding hope, joy, and other good tidings that, in truth, all patients on this ward appeared to know absolutely nothing of. Polly could only bring herself to stand quiet and helpless as she forced herself to quietly mutter the words of Silent Night, which in times past had been her all-time favorite carol.
As she continued half-heartedly to mouth the words, she found herself looking back on many a Christmas past when she had casually wandered past frozen, red-nosed carolers jubilantly singing by the bedecked tree in the town center. She had often stopped to watch and wonder how their Christmas holiday might just differ from hers, and as she pressed her nose against the pane glass of a tearoom and watched families lovingly celebrating this festive occasion, once again she could only feel the intense anguish and loneliness that being a child in care brings. Many times she had quietly whispered into the dead of night, “Father Christmas, if you really do love giving children presents, then please give me the best present ever by bringing me and my brothers a loving, caring family to forever cherish.”
This year was now her second Christmas spent in the hospital and was therefore another year where she entirely failed to even consider, let alone pray, this much dreamed-of request. So as she melancholically continued to stare up at the poor tree, it was a stark reminder that heartwarming Christmas carols were no longer enough, for they neither warmed the cockles of her heart, bringing a smile to her countenance, nor did they bring any form of internal relief. Now, just like this tree, she was in dire need of some tender care and attention. Or, if nothing else, a strong, loving hug would not only be warmly reciprocated, but it would also be considered the most special and much-appreciated Christmas gift that anyone could even think to give her.
Soon the evening drew to its natural close, and the patients were ordered to line up for their routine dosage of medication. Patient 579, as per usual, gulped hers down quickly and then immediately turned on her heels to head back to bed to once more hide away under the bedclothes and anxiously hope for Christmas to go as quickly as it came.
Unbeknown to Polly, she did have a mysterious visitor that festive night, yes, a tall, dark, handsome visitor who had finally plucked up the necessary courage to pay her a very long overdue visit.
Just like Polly, he had found the miserably long walk down the dark, dingy corridors extremely unpleasant. He had also felt startled, if not shocked when he was informed by a most miserable-looking nurse that Polly had been removed from the general ward and was now being cared for in a high-security, locked ward.
As he walked along, he tried very hard not to imagine just how crazy she must surely be if she was now forcibly hidden away under lock and key in one of the worst wards in the hospital. Perhaps to see her this way would turn out to be far too much for him to bear, he nervously pondered. His anxiety was to be further heightened as, climbing the stairs, he was to find himself startled by a number of blood-curdling screams.
“Don’t worry, luv. They’re all safely locked away for their own good,” one of the nurses grinned, her open and gummy mouth noticeably betraying an absence of any healthy-looking teeth.
He had obediently followed the nurse up many flights of stairs, his heart racing within his breast as he wondered what he might possibly say in his opening line to her, although there really was no way of telling if she would agree to or refuse an audience with him. At the last minute, the nurse, having placed her key in the lock, then opened the door wide.
His eyes instantly fell on Polly standing alone by the Christmas tree, and in that instant he panicked. In that panic he knew all he needed to know. He immediately found himself hearing his mother’s very chilling warnings to stay away reverberating loudly through his head, and in that tragic moment in time he sincerely felt he had no other choice other than to hold back, for if his mother were to find out, she would be most infuriated with him. He could face that if it were to happen, but if Polly’s guardians were to ever find out, well then, the repercussions would be far more catastrophic, for Mr. Scumberry had as good as promised that he would see to it that their family name be ruined forever.
“I’m so sorry, nurse, but I no longer wish to see her. I have to go, yes, for I’ve changed my mind,” he hastily blurted out. “Yes, perhaps it’s for the best, the best. I would so hate to see her looking so terribly ill, for that would be utterly unbearable, if not altogether intolerable,” he loudly muttered as, stumbling over his words, he then went on to push something into her open hand.
“Please give her this little gift and card and tell her that I miss her so very much, and that is why I came here to see her today of all days,” he miserably mumbled.
“Yes, luv, I most certainly will, for I happen to know that she’ll really appreciate the card and gift, for to date she does not have as much as a single card on her bedside locker. God bless her, for it’s as if she never existed before she came here.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, luv. If you ask me, she’s as sad and hopeless a case if ever there was one,” she remarked.
“Well then, that makes it of even more importance that she receives this special card and gift from me. So promise me, nurse, that you’ll take it straight too her.”
The old dear nodded and placed her hand on his arm. “It’s probably for the best that you don’t get to see her as she is now, luv,” the old and withered nurse sniffed as she once more placed a decrepit hand on his to give it a reassuring and comforting pat.
“And tell her also that I hope and pray she is feeling better with each new day that passes,” he hoarsely whispered, his voice cracking, as he was now feeling stirred to the very seat of his emotions. “I am feeling both contrite and broken,” he whispered under his breath as he rebuked himself that, having come this far, he was now backing out.
Will quickly turned his face away from the nurse, as he did not wish for her to see how difficult and painful this all really was.
“All right, luv. You hurry on back home and leave it with me, for I’ll tell her,” the haggard-looking nurse answered.
Will turned back to look her directly in the eye.
“Promise?”
“I promise, hand on me heart,” she reassured him as she gave him another toothless grin before firmly closing the door on him.
As the nurse hurriedly marched down the long ward, her shoes still making their harsh, clickety-clack noise, from out of nowhere a young doctor bedecked with decorations more suited to the Christmas tree grabbed hold of her arm and beckoned her to join all the other staff in the office for the usual and very traditional glass of sherry.
The old nurse barely resisted, especially when she heard that not only had they saved her a couple of mince pies, but there was also a glass or two of sherry in the offing.
“Ooh, doctor. What a naughty but nice little treat,” she foolishly giggled.
As soon as she stepped into the office, she immediately placed the card and gift to one side, as rather too quickly she accepted a glass of the heartwarming, festive liquid. She was then ordered to join everyone else present in raising a toast to dear friends and family. Sadly, from that moment on, she was never again to think of or remind herself concerning either the beautifully gift-wrapped present or the promise she had given to the nervous young man who had anxiously wished to visit Patient 579, formerly known as Polly Esther Brown.
A few glasses of sherry later, and Nurse Battersea, as she was known to all, was called down to another ward and another equally lively Christmas party. One thing was certain: by the next morning not only would she be nursing a sore head that would quickly have her feeling most repentant and wretched, but
she would also be unable to recollect a single memory of anything that had taken place the night before.
With all the festive merriment going on in the tiny ward office, the card was in no time separated from the gift, as it quietly slid onto the floor. And as the card was the only clue as to whom the kind gift was from or to whom it was intended, the gift remained unclaimed for most of that distinctly melodious evening; that is, until one very merry and inquisitive doctor just happened to catch sight of it.
“I say, old chap, does anyone have the slightest idea as to whom this delightfully wrapped gift is meant for?” he cried out as his paper Christmas hat suddenly slid down his forehead to then completely cover his eyes.
“No idea, old boy, but it’s so exquisitely wrapped that it must surely be intended for you, old boy.”
“Yes, doctor, by one of the many nurses who secretly have the hots for you,” another overly boisterous doctor laughed as he turned on his heels to once more pick up the now half-empty sherry bottle.
“I say, old chap, anyone in need of a quick refill?” he shouted as he moved around the small office, haphazardly pouring the celebratory drink into every available glass.
“Well, gentlemen. Bottoms up!” shrieked another slightly inebriated doctor as he lifted the glass to his lips and then proceeded to consume the whole glass in one hit.
“Chin chin!” shouted another equally intoxicated doctor as he proceeded to swig it down as though it were water.
“Well, don’t keep us all in limbo. Open it up, old boy!” one of the doctors loudly suggested, referring back to the mystery gift.
The young and foolish doctor adjusted his paper Christmas hat so that he could once again see, and with everyone in the room egging him on, he felt he had little choice other than to find out what exactly lay beneath the extravagantly wrapped Christmas gift. He hurriedly pulled off the beautiful decorative ribbon before quickly stripping the gift of its exquisitely beautiful wrapping paper.
The Trouble with Polly Brown Page 42