by James Wilson
This seemed the most outlandish idea I had ever heard – and yet at the same time, so dazzlingly obvious that I could not imagine why I had not hit upon it myself.
‘Is that what you believe?’ I asked finally.
‘I’ve yet to see conclusive proof of it. But I have used it successfully in the treatment of several patients, which inclines me to hope it’s only a matter of time before our Galileo appears. Some of my more enthusiastic colleagues, indeed, are convinced that he is here already.’
‘And you think this … new approach … would be effective in my case?’
‘Well, naturally, I cannot say for sure. But in my opinion it’s certainly worth trying.’
I had no idea, of course, what the new approach might entail, but I could not help imagining phials of bitter-tasting potions, and tangles of electric wires. But, not wishing to appear a coward, I swallowed my curiosity, and asked:
‘And what is your diagnosis?’
‘Oh, there’s no question there: obsession.’
‘You mean I am obsessed with Mary Wilson?’
His eyes widened. ‘Well, yes,’ he murmured, as if it were so obvious as not to require saying.
‘And what about the … the hallucinations?’
‘I have no doubt what they are in principle. But –’
‘Not the spirit of the child?’
One corner of his mouth puckered. ‘No.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ And it was, in a way, because it restored me to a world I could understand. But at the same time, to my surprise, I felt a sharp jab of disappointment.
‘It was natural enough, no doubt,’ said Enticknap, ‘for a man of your … unusual gifts, having just lost his child, to imagine that he had been possessed by another.’
‘Why should I not imagine I had been possessed by my own?’
‘You were too much on your guard against that. It would have meant, in effect, accepting your wife’s spiritualism, and that you were not able to do. So the idea had to find some other way of getting past your defences.’
‘I still don’t see why it should have taken that particular form.’
‘Neither do I, at the moment. I have a few tentative ideas, of course – but it’s far too early to know whether or not any of them is right.’
‘How can you find out?’
He smiled. ‘There is a school of thought that favours hypnosis. Have you ever been hypnotized, Mr. Roper?’
I shook my head. ‘But I suspect I wouldn’t prove a very suitable subject. And I can’t see what the point would be, in any case.’
‘Well, the theory is that there’s a part of your mind that’s completely unknown to your normal waking self. Difficult to conceive, I know. Perhaps the easiest way to think of it is architecturally. Imagine, say, your house has a whole other wing that you didn’t realize was there, and which can’t be reached by the usual doors and passages, but only through an underground tunnel concealed behind a wall in the cellar. Hypnosis allows you access to it, by taking you down into the cellar, as it were, and unblocking the closed-off entrance.’
‘That,’ I said – a sudden surge of rage lifting my voice almost to a shout – ‘is the most absurd thing I ever heard in my life!’ I was shocked by my own vehemence, and had to pause for a moment to bring myself back under control. ‘And,’ I went on, more calmly, ‘even if it were true, I fail to see how it could possibly help.’
‘I think you’ve just suggested at least a part of the answer yourself.’
I jerked my head irritably. ‘How?’
He smiled again. ‘Why did what I said make you so angry?’
‘I told you. I thought it absurd.’ But the feeling had unaccountably begun to evaporate, and the words seemed to deflate as I said them.
‘Absurdity makes us laugh. You were incensed.’
I started to try to rebut it, and then realized I couldn’t. I felt hurt and puzzled, like a child reproached for breaching some rule of etiquette he had not even been aware of. It would have been too much of a concession to say Yes, you’re right, so I merely gave him a nod instead.
‘Do you know why you were incensed?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, we get angry when we feel threatened by something, don’t we? In hope that if we yell and beat our chests enough, we’ll manage to intimidate whatever it is into retreating.’
It was half a statement, half a question – and there was a kind of cajoling sweet-reasonableness about it that made me feel more like a disgruntled child than ever. But, again, I couldn’t refute it.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose so.’
‘So the notion of the sealed-off wing seems threatening to you. That isn’t altogether surprising. According to the theory, you see, it’s sealed off for a reason. Which, put simply, is this: that it would be too difficult and uncomfortable for you to acknowledge its existence.’
‘I really can’t see why it should be –’
‘Because it’s where you’ve banished the memory of your most painful experiences. And those aspects of yourself you find most disreputable and unacceptable.’
This notion was so startling that I had to grapple with it for several seconds before I even knew what I thought of it. The effect was rather like holding a portrait of yourself next to a looking-glass, and finding that while the artist’s vision – a turbulent swirl of blacks and reds – is quite unrecognizable, it still somehow manages to deprive the familiar mirror-image of some of its substance, making it appear thin and shadowless. I felt unnerved and strangely violated, as if he had suddenly leaned across and put his hand on my knee.
‘I know,’ he said gently. ‘It is a disturbing idea, when you first meet it. It seems to run counter to everything we’ve been taught about the world, and about ourselves. But it has the power, I promise you, to make you well again. Not at once, but over time. Bit by bit, you will come to see that Mary Wilson is just an ordinary flesh-and-blood woman. And that her “child” is no more than a mental aberration – some rejected part of yourself, cowering in a corner, which – as you bring it more and more into your conscious mind – will simply dissolve away into nothing, and never trouble you again.’
I was struck by that tottery sensation you get when you’re standing at the sea’s edge and a retreating wave sucks the sand from under your feet. I blinked, and tried to swallow, but my throat was dry.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Enticknap, smiling. ‘I shan’t be using hypnosis. There is a way into the tunnel without it.’
‘Which is?’
‘Sit back in your chair. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. That’s it. Now, without thinking about it, say the first words that come into your head.’
For a moment, nothing came into my head. And then, in the darkness, I saw it again. It was more clearly defined this time, so that I could just make out what seemed to be tentacles or limbs, moving with the balletic grace of a sea creature. As I watched, it rolled towards me, and I glimpsed what appeared to be a face. I gazed into the eyes: huge, and strangely passive, like craters on the moon, as if it had no inkling that its fate hung in the balance. And somewhere – in my hand, or in my own chest – I thought I felt the flutter of its pulse.
I was startled, of course – and yet, at the same time, flooded with unbearable tenderness at the odd, alien beauty of the thing, and the sense of its utter dependence on me.
‘Anything,’ said Enticknap. ‘Just whatever suggests itself.’
Could I do this? Could I pluck it out, and still its heartbeat, and reduce Mary Wilson in my own mind to the unhappy, closed-in woman the rest of the world must see? Or should I accept the destiny that had somehow linked me to them, and try to find some way to restore them to life?
‘Whatever it is,’ said Enticknap, ‘I promise you, I shan’t be shocked.’
‘I must be going!’
I shouted it so loudly that he started, and then twitched back in his seat as I jumped up, as if he feared I was about to attack him. To
my surprise and relief, he didn’t try to stop me, but simply nodded, and rang the bell for the maid to show me out.
But, as I left, I noticed he was scribbling something on my notes.
IX
You will conclude, I am sure, that I really was mad – and, indeed, I half thought so myself. But, odd as it may seem, the idea did not particularly trouble me. In fact, as I retrieved my coat from the parlour-maid and hurried back into the street, I felt strangely liberated. I had made a decision: after weeks of vacillation and uncertainty, I finally had a star to navigate by. And even if it was no more than an illusion, as Enticknap believed, I still had a strong enough grasp on reality to know that I should be harming no one but myself by following it. Deranged I might be, but I was not dangerous.
I spent the entire journey back trying to come to terms with my new situation. The implications were dizzying, and I could not assimilate them all at once; but one thing, at any rate, was immediately clear: it was impossible for me now simply to return to my old life, and carry on as before. Whatever else I had done, I had plainly accepted a responsibility, and must begin to find a way of fulfilling it. By the time I got home, though I still had no long-term plan, I had at least clarified my thoughts enough to know what my next step should be. So when my wife saw me crossing the lawn, and came out to intercept me, I was more or less prepared for her.
‘Hallo, my dear.’
‘Hallo.’
‘I’ve a message from Bear. He’s been silly with worry about you. He –’
I clicked my tongue. It was enough. She stopped, and in the light from the drawing-room window I saw her grimace.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Oh, well, you know …’
‘I don’t, as it happens. You didn’t even tell me who you were going to see.’
‘Just a specialist.’
‘And what did he say?’
I shrugged. ‘I wasn’t entirely satisfied by his approach. So I’ve decided to take myself in hand, and prescribe my own treatment.’
‘Oh, but darling, is that wise?’ She reached out impulsively and touched my arm. ‘I mean, surely, he’ll know best, won’t he?’
I shrugged again. ‘In any event, you should be pleased. Because it means I shall be going away. Indefinitely.’
I waited for her to respond, but she said nothing.
‘Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?’
‘I think it’s very cruel of you to say that,’ she said. ‘You make it sound as if I’m a hard-hearted woman who’s just trying to get rid of you, and doesn’t care what happens to you afterwards. And that just isn’t true. I do care, very much. I only suggested … what I did … because I want us both to be happy. And I think we would be, if we were leading our own separate lives.’
The back of my neck started to burn, but I knew it would be pointless to waste energy remonstrating with her.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’
‘But where will you go?’
‘The seaside, to begin with.’
She did not reply. I started to pull away. She reached out and grabbed my wrist.
‘Well, all right, then,’ she said. She leaned forward, and for a moment her cheek brushed against mine. ‘Good night, darling.’
‘Good night.’
She nodded me on my way, then turned and went back into the house.
*
It took me three whole days to pack, to settle matters with the bank, and to arrange for my post to be forwarded to my lawyer in London; and most of a fourth to make the zig-zag railway journey to Southsea. I had never been there before, and had no idea where I was going to stay; but the cab-driver who picked me up at the station said he knew just the place, and drove me to an unpretentious little private hotel on the sea-front.
‘How many nights?’ asked the woman at the desk, eyeing my mountain of luggage.
‘That depends,’ I said. ‘But at least two.’
I had dinner in the dining-room, watching the last faint glow of the sunset melt into the Solent, and clusters of light starting to speckle the black bulk of the Isle of Wight in the distance. Afterwards, I asked the waiter for directions to Sussex Place, and sauntered out to look for it – not in the expectation of making much progress in my quest, since it was obviously far too late to go knocking on doors, but merely out of curiosity, and to save time by finding out where I had to go in the morning.
It turned out to be no more than half a mile from the hotel: a dark little cul-de-sac, crammed into an odd corner next to the grounds of a large grammar school. The street-lamps were lit, but the houses were set so far back that all you could make out clearly was a lintel here and a window there looming out of the darkness. I walked up and down a couple of times, searching for some clue that would tell me where the Misses Robinson’s school had been; but the gloom was simply too impenetrable, and after a few minutes I gave up.
I had just reached the corner when I heard a rapid rattling sound approaching from the main road. Imagining I might be about to collide with a child on roller-skates, I stopped abruptly, and the next second saw a girl in a house-maid’s uniform push a bath-chair into Sussex Place. As she caught sight of me, she gave a gasp of surprise and jolted to a halt. I was conscious of something being catapulted towards me from the seat, and – instinctively leaning forward to catch it – found myself holding an old woman swathed in a blanket. She was pitifully light, and trembling with cold or fear.
‘Ooh, I’m sorry,’ squeaked the girl. ‘Are you all right, m’m?’
‘Yes, yes, no harm done,’ muttered the woman, as I helped her back into the chair. ‘Thanks to this gentleman.’ She peered up at me, as if she were trying to decide whether she should offer me a tip. Finally, she smiled and said: ‘Very improper, being in a man’s arms before we’ve even been introduced. My mother would be scandalized.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Agnes Winterton. How do you do, Mr. –?’
‘Roper.’
We shook hands. ‘Well, I’m indebted to you, Mr. Roper,’ she said. ‘You showed great presence of mind.’
I bowed, and tucked the blanket around her, then stood aside to let them go on. Only when they were already past me did it suddenly occur to me that – unless she had moved here very recently – Agnes Winterton would almost certainly know the answer to my question.
‘Excuse me,’ I called. ‘But could you by any chance tell me which of these houses was the Misses Robinson’s school?’
She made an odd barking noise, and jerked her head on to her right shoulder. The girl immediately stopped the chair and wheeled it round.
‘Number five,’ said the old woman. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I want to talk to them about a former pupil of theirs.’
‘Do you, now?’ She was obviously curious to know more, and slightly suspicious. But when I didn’t reply – guessing, perhaps, that I was a lawyer, and bound to be professionally discreet – she decided to give me the benefit of the doubt.
‘They aren’t there now, you know,’ she said. ‘They left years ago.’
‘I realize that. But I thought the people who are there now might be able to give me their new address.’
‘You don’t need to trouble them. I can give it to you. Or at least, I can give you an address for Marion Robinson. She’s the only one who’s still in Southsea. She lives a stone’s throw from here, in Western Parade. We play whist together every week. I was with her just yesterday.’
‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘In fact, I’ll do better than that. I’ll write her a note, telling her to expect you. And then you can be certain she won’t just plead age and ill-health, but will actually see you.’
‘That would be ripping,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘What was the name again?’
‘Roper. Corley Roper.’
*
Anxious though I was to meet Miss Robinson, I could not reasonably call on her before the afternoon, so th
e next day, rather than fretting in my room all morning and then lunching at the hotel, I decided to walk out to the Roman castle at Portchester, and find a waterside pub where I could eat more simply. As I was coming back, a ray of sunshine suddenly broke through the clouds, scattering brilliant fish-scales of light across the surface of the sea. I stopped to admire the effect; and all at once felt a familiar stirring in my temple.
‘Yes, old fellow,’ I murmured. ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
The boom of the wind and the crashing of the waves made it impossible to be sure, but I was almost certain that I heard an answer: one word, split childishly into two:
Love-ly.
I wasn’t frightened, this time: I was elated. Not for myself, but for the child. Even if Enticknap was right, and he was there only in my imagination, I could still give him existence of a kind, by letting him use my eyes and ears and touch to experience the world that would have been his.
‘And just think,’ I said. ‘It’s what your mother would have looked at every day, when she was a schoolgirl.’
Mo-ther.
‘And now we’re going to help her, if we can.’