Mad Worlds

by Bill Douglas

  At last, a door opposite was unlocked and two men – a gaunt, drab-looking man and a white-coated giant – emerged. John. Plus minder.

  19

  Friday 11th May 1956 – in Springwell.

  “These trousers should fit you, Chisholm,” said Clark. And they did – round the waist. They were a bit short in the leg, but they matched the jacket. And he had braces.

  “That’s better, man.” Clark stepped back, looking at him. “Can’t have them falling down in front of your missus.”

  Why not? Might give Heather a laugh. “Where is she?”

  “Downstairs in the Main Hall. That’s where the visitors see you.” Clark smiled. “No funny business. I’m a martial arts champ. And the boss fair crucifies anybody that gets feisty.”

  John wouldn’t be trying anything.

  Clark held up his bunch of keys and unlocked the door, then locked it behind them. As they went along the gloomy corridor, Clark added, “They don’t let visitors on the wards, for their own safety. Visiting day’s once a month. This is by special arrangement – and that’d be why the boss was so pissed off.”

  Clark halted, and unlocked a door to reveal a vast cheerless space. “The Main Hall,” Clark said. “Let’s find your missus.”

  Near the far corner, a woman rose from a chair. Heather, in her best costume.

  “Mrs Chisholm?” asked Clark as they approached her. “I’m Mr Clark, a nurse on John’s ward. I’ve been told to stay around during your visit.”

  John halted and stood beside the chair Clark motioned him to. He inhaled as he caught the aroma. Mesmerising. And a touch of evil – that’s what he’d smelt the day they put him in here. He stared at her. She looked a bit startled.

  Heather stepped forward, put her arms round his neck and pressed against him. Oh the allure of his beautiful wife – his arousal was immediate. He accepted the hug and squeezed her round the waist. That this moment could last! He felt a thrill at the kiss on the cheek, but hung back from reciprocating.

  She drew back and sat down. He sat on the chair opposite her. Their knees were nearly touching. God, she was seductive. He wanted her.

  “John,” she said, “how are you?”

  Well, he’d nearly died. And she put him in here. However… “Okay, Heather.”

  “Look John, I know you’ve been very ill.” She was sighing? “I’m really sorry you’re in here.”

  Was she apologising for getting him put into this madhouse, in collusion with that little toad? If ever he met that guy again… His head was exploding.

  “I want you to come home again to me and Becky – after you’ve finished your treatment.”

  Sweet music. Would she rescue him? Nothing was clear. She had a lover? Yet she said she wanted him home. And he’d always loved her.

  He heard a laugh. He glanced across and did a double-take. Over in another corner – that little smart-suited guy beside the white-coat. He looked at Heather. “How did you get out here?” He stood up.

  “What?” She looked shocked and was flushing. “Mr Newman gave me a lift, John.” She was standing now.

  Clark moved closer. “Something wrong?”

  You bet! “That mental man,” John yelled. He pointed at Newman (now looking their way). “Her fancy man’s come with her. They put me in here.”

  “What nonsense,” she protested. “Mr Newman just gave me a lift. John, please listen. There’s nothing going on. I love you and want you home – when you’re well.”

  Nothing going on? He was sure there was and he wanted to beat up the mental man. Yet he couldn’t decide whether to go for the toad. He stood watching as the mental man followed the white-coat through an exit.

  Heather seemed distant now – though he got the scent again as she moved closer to him. His head was emptying. “Go away,” he said. Everyone was too close. He needed to be left alone, to have space.

  Heather moved back. She was weeping – or was she laughing? Somehow it didn’t matter. The whole scene was surreal, with some hidden force anaesthetising him. He stood, transfixed, as a white-coat unlocked the door for her to go out. She waved as she disappeared, and the door was locked again.

  “C’mon Chisholm, let’s go,” said Clark, taking his arm.

  He didn’t like this, but let himself be steered by the other man back to the ward. They halted outside Sarge’s office. Clark knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” barked Sarge, and John went in, with Clark at his elbow.

  “Sir,” said Clark. The parade-ground again.

  “Did he behave himself, Mr Clark?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I can’t be doing with teachers – and even less can I stand teachers’ pets,” Sarge ranted. “No more extra visits.”

  Well, who cared. Sarge moved round the desk and was right in his face.

  Sewer breath. “A nice piece of skirt, I hear. Probably on the game by now.” Sarge leered. “You’ll never see her again, you pathetic scum.”

  This was torture, but he was deadened to it. Maybe he was pathetic. “No.”

  He felt a nudge. Was Clark trying to tell him something?

  “And I won’t have scum not respecting my authority,” Sarge bawled, and, turning to answer the phone, added, “Get out – both of you.”

  Away from the office, Clark let go his arm and muttered, “For God’s sake, remember to call him ‘sir’.”

  He was taken to the airing court and added to a row of patients. Walking round in this army was okay. He was an automaton, anonymous, and nobody could get at him. His head throbbed, and it was like his brain was clogged. Images – of Heather and the mental man, of Becky with the spoonful of baby food, of the day Dave vanished, of Da on the floor legless, of Ma on her deathbed, of Sarge yelling – all came and went, like a nightmare with no focus.

  He heard his name called. Sounded derisory. He looked up. Niven. Even that sadist couldn’t penetrate his protective shield.

  The guys next him were clutching their trousers’ waistbands, but his were staying up. This surely was the nuthouse. There were two musts – survival and escape.

  A downer awaited in the ward. Clark passed him the elephantine trousers. “Boss says you’ve to change back – so’s you can’t escape.” Sarge had read his mind.

  20

  Friday 11th May 1956 – to and in Aversham.

  En route home, Heather slouched in the seat. Within, a bubbling cauldron jostled her weariness.

  “How’re you doing, Heather?” Newman’s eyes stayed on the road.

  “How do you think! I do not want to talk about it, or anything else.” If this stupid man hadn’t stayed around chatting…

  She closed her eyes. But images of John, wild-eyed and ranting, wouldn’t let her snooze. What hurt most was his bitterness against her. How did he get this insane idea she was having an affair? And with Sam Newman!

  Suddenly it struck her. Sam too was an innocent target – harangued over an affair he wasn’t having. A man who was courteous and supportive. There had been no advances, even insinuations. Before she’d met John, there were guys who tried it on. John had taken good care of her since – until just before his fateful birthday. And now Sam was looking out for her.

  The car was slowing to a halt. She sat up. They were outside her house.

  “Thanks very much.” She felt like kissing him to emphasise her gratitude – though that wouldn’t have been right.

  “Don’t mention it.” Was he blushing? “All part of the job.”

  Out of the car, she stood with the passenger door held open, looking in at Newman. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. And I’m sorry John was so –”

  “Can I join you for a minute,” he cut in, “on the pavement?”

  “I suppose so.” She stood up straight as he exited the car and limped round the bonnet to face her. He was going to try something – and she didn’t know how she’d react. Right now, she could do with a hug!

  “Look,” he said, “there’s no need to apologise t
o me.” He glanced around and continued to keep his voice low. This man was aware of possible damage from gossiping tongues. “I get a lot worse than this in my job. And –” He paused, staring past her shoulder.

  Heather followed his gaze. Number 86’s curtain was twitching. “The Allens. An older couple, keep themselves to themselves – they’re not usually nosey.”

  “Okay. I’ll be brief. Don’t blame yourself, Heather. Your husband’s had a breakdown and probably feels the world’s against him. And –” He paused again. The curtains were still. “I’m the man who got him into Springwell. He’s bound to feel like I’m a villain. This may change once he’s had enough treatment – though I guess that could be a long time yet.” He smiled. “Meanwhile, look after yourself, get on with your life as best you can, and try to get friends and relatives on side with you.”

  She nodded, unable to find words. This man cared about how she’d cope.

  He drew breath, looking thoughtful. “If you need help with childcare, how about a nursery, like The Windmill?” He shifted his feet. Maybe his leg was troubling him? His face stretched towards her. Eyeballing her, but this was no confrontation. He was handsome. “If you need my help again, get in touch and I’ll do what I can.”

  With that, he returned to the driver’s seat. No hug, but it was probably just as well. She still loved John. Her cheeks felt moist as the car pulled away. What a decent balanced man, despite his work with people having breakdowns. And there were so many questions he might be able to help with.

  Today, though, she’d had enough.

  She went over to Elsie’s. Becky needed her, and she hungered for Becky.

  The shop was closed. Early? She pressed the bell. Elsie appeared with Becky on one arm. “Heather m’dear, come on in.”

  “Becky,” she whispered, taking her precious child into her arms and kissing her. “Thanks Elsie.” She followed the older woman up the stairs to the living room. She sat down, dandling Becky on her knee, smiling and murmuring “Choo-choo-choo.” Becky smiled back. Lovely. She buried her face into the babe’s tummy, savouring the aroma, then looked at Elsie. “Has she been a good girl?”

  “Aw, she’s been perfect. Just like wee Ailsa would’ve been.” Elsie’s joy was tinged with sadness. After all these years, the pain of her loss was there. Maybe it never went away, but you found ways of coping. Could something similar apply to John?

  Elsie was staring at her. “You didn’t hear me, m’dear?”

  “Sorry, I was miles away.”

  “You look fair worn, m’dear. A cuppa? And smoked haddock for tea?”

  “Yes and yes, please.” She wasn’t hungry, but needed to keep her strength up.

  She heard coughing. “Mattie?”

  Elsie’s face wrinkled up. “Yes, m’dear. He’s not well – coughing and spluttering and fair boiling – so we closed the shop. He’s having a lie-down. He’ll not be joining us for tea. Though I might tempt him to a wee piece of fish.”

  Worrying news. Mattie – reliable and indestructible – was ill.

  “I’m sorry,” Heather said, as Elsie returned, bearing a tray with teapot and cups. “You must be worried.” She stopped dandling Becky and the child snuggled into her.

  Elsie laid the tray on the table and sat down opposite Heather and Becky. “It’ll just be a cold.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “It’s a long time since he had anything like this. And then he’d work through, shake it off.” She smiled. “We’re a right pair of oldies now.”

  “You don’t look old.” Untrue. “What about the doctor?”

  “Mattie won’t hear of it. I’m giving him some old cough medicine I found in a cupboard. But, m’dear,” Elsie said, pouring the tea. “Enough of that. How did you go on?”

  “I want to tell you, but I might cry a lot.”

  “When you’re upset m’dear, it’s better to cry.” Elsie stretched out her arms. “Here, I’ll have the bairn.”

  Face awash, Heather surrendered Becky. “It all went wrong – horribly.”

  Elsie held out a hankie. “M’dear, use this.”

  She wiped her face. “John turned nasty when he saw Sam Newman. Shouted at Sam, and at me.” She paused, dabbing with the hankie again.

  “That must have been awful for you, m’dear.”

  “He thinks we’re having an affair – and we’re not.” She was calming.

  “Oh m’dear. Is that part of the sickness they’re trying to cure?”

  “No – but.” Hang on, what was wrong with John? “Probably it is, Elsie. If so, their treatment’s not working.”

  “But it’s not been long, m’dear. He’ll still be getting over the pneumonia.”

  A thought. Maybe it wasn’t so hopeless.

  Elsie squeezed her hand. “M’dear, I hope John gets better soon. He’s always been polite and friendly with us, though we never saw much of him.”

  “Thanks Elsie.”

  “Take care of yourself and the bairn. And remember we’re here to help out.”

  *

  Back home that evening, with Becky asleep, Heather lay awake, her tired brain working overtime. Being with Elsie was comforting. The older woman was a brilliant listener – and Elsie had looked after Becky all afternoon.

  That’s why the shop was closed. They’d lost an afternoon’s trade because of her. Customers could go elsewhere if they feared the shop might close suddenly. She mustn’t put Elsie in that position – not while Mattie was ill.

  She’d cope on her own, without their help. She needed to be independent. It would be useful, though, to go to her parents’ again for a few days. They’d invited her to go and live there. While she didn’t want that, a short break could let her gather strength and think of ways ahead. And there was unfinished business – about Mother’s headaches, and the ‘terrible thing’ Granny mentioned. In the morning, she’d ask Elsie about using the shop phone again.

  Her restless mind switched to the nightmare meeting with John. She’d been moved by how sad and forlorn he’d looked. Until he’d been alerted to Sam’s presence – when he was transfigured. Enraged, hatred blazing from his eyes – and towards her, not just Sam.

  John had changed into a hostile being she scarcely recognised. Yet this was her beloved John. Would this wholly unreasonable jealousy be cured by treatment? He’d until recently said he loved her, and shown it. Maybe their love affair was over?

  Could the real love of John’s life be his big brother? Someone he’d pined for – been obsessed with – all the time she’d known him. Now she was feeling jealous…

  21

  Saturday 12th May 1956 – in Aversham.

  Tapping. On the front door. This early?

  Heather’s un-set alarm clock registered 12 noon. She must have got to sleep at last – a deep sleep. Heather leapt out of bed and glanced in the crib. Becky was asleep. There was that tap-tap-tap again. A creaking sound – the letterbox resisting an attempt to open it – and a voice, distorted and faint, saying, “Heather?”

  She grabbed her dressing gown and scrambled downstairs. John? Newman? Not the postie? He’d have banged loudly – and he didn’t call her Heather.

  “Who is it?” She stood in the hallway, putting on her gown.

  The letterbox creaked open. “It’s me, m’dear. Elsie.”

  Had something happened to Mattie? She sprang to open the door. “Sorry Elsie. I overslept. Come in.”

  “I won’t, m’dear. I’ve got a lass standing in at the shop. I wanted to check you were all right. Your bedroom curtains aren’t drawn back.”

  “Thanks Elsie. I’m fine. How’s Mattie?”

  “He’s determined to stay up, so he’s in the back-shop – he doesn’t like his bed – but he’s coughing and sneezing and not himself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Elsie’s face crinkled. “It’s better you don’t come over for a few days, m’dear. Becky – nor you – mustn’t catch what he’s got. Place’ll be alive with germs. I might be getting a touch of it.�
�� Were those tears in Elsie’s eyes?

  “That makes sense to me, Elsie. Thanks for caring about us so much.”

  “It’s all right, m’dear. I’d better get back.”

  “Tell Mattie I’m asking after him,” she shouted to the retreating figure.

  That ruled out the shop phone. But she must contact her parents. She’d get Becky dressed and go to the public phone-box.

  *

  Trekking to the nearest phone-box – a mile away, and some of the journey uphill – was the harder for having to push Becky’s pram. The last time Heather went there – months ago (alone, with John baby-sitting), to ring her parents – the walk was okay.

  The problem then was two teenage girls ignoring an angry queue. An elderly man at the front of the queue rapped on one of the glass panes and yelled, “Get a move on.” One teen opened the door and screamed, “You dirty old man.” The man flushed deep red and hung back.

  She gave up and went away then. This time she must phone.

  Now she could see the box. There was a woman in it. Green coat, grey-haired, standing erect, back turned.

  She stopped a few feet short.

  Moments later, the woman emerged, smiling. “Hello, Mrs Chisholm.”

  Mrs Allen, from number 86. “Hello, Mrs Allen. A nice day.”

  Mrs Allen looked into the pram and whispered, “Your Becky’s asleep – so peaceful.” It was pleasing that the elderly neighbour she’d rarely even seen remembered Becky’s name. “Look,” Mrs Allen continued, “I’m not in a hurry. I’d be happy to wait outside with Becky while you make your call.”

  A welcome offer. Leaving Becky in the pram outside the phone-box wouldn’t be ideal. “Thanks, yes.”