Mad Worlds

by Bill Douglas

  Back to this miserable day. In the still cool of the asylum’s darkened room, young Jamie stood, his lanky frame bent over his auntie’s frail shrunken figure, willing her through his blurred vision to breathe and sit up.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. Gently stroking her icy cold face, Jamie mused in sad reflection.

  He shuddered to think of her dying within this wretched place, in God knows what misery, a prisoner amid demented ravings on that locked ward. He hadn’t, though, actually seen her die.

  Not like when Mum died. He’d been there, with her. The day after his eighth birthday, Mum had served up his porridge. She twisted round from the kitchen sink, said “Jamie, what do you –” Her face went absent and, clutching her bosom, she dropped to the floor. Curled up like she was asleep.

  For a moment, Jamie thought it might be a game. Mum, a star in amateur dramatics – ‘until you came along’ – would sometimes engage him in impromptu melodrama. That is, when she was in a good mood.

  When she was weepy, she’d invite him to a cuddle as they looked at the grainy photograph of herself with the young soldier – “Your dad, killed at Cambrai when you were a wee bairn… you know, he had braw dark curls and a freckled face, just like you.” She’d go on to tell him stories about his dad. “He was daft on golf. When you were born, we named you after a famous Scottish golfer.”

  But no. This had not been melodrama. The limpness of her body and the colour of her face signalled tragedy. The ambulance man’s “No pulse; she’s dead,” confirmed his fears. As the neighbour led him away from the body, numbness was ceding to desolation at the loss of his mum and best pal.

  That was when Aunt Jean came to his rescue. Mum’s sister, she took a train from Edinburgh to St Andrews the same day she got his neighbour’s phone call. She stayed with him, in support and comforting, when needed – at his side through the misery of the funeral, while he remained a ‘brave boy’ and didn’t cry (in public). Uncle Frank came to ‘sort out the business end’, then returned to Edinburgh.

  Auntie stayed on – taking him some schooldays for a ‘treat’ lunch at nearby Macarthur’s Café, showing interest in his homework, encouraging him in his football (later, rugby) and golf. At Easter she took him to her house ‘for a wee break’.

  One day, she asked how he’d feel about her and Uncle Frank adopting him. “We’ve no bairns and can’t have any. We love you and we’d like to come and stay with you, Jamie. This house and what’s in it would always be yours.” He said ‘yes’ immediately. They sold their house, put nearly all the money into a bank account in his name and joined him at home. And she did a great job, as a sweet loving ‘second mum’, for more than half his life.

  Now, holding Auntie’s cold lifeless hand, he wept silently. At least in death she looked peaceful. But what a tragic end, in this asylum and surely in torment.

  For years, she’d been depressed, and often her mood was deeply melancholy. He spent hours talking with her, trying to lift her spirits – sometimes feeling his effort was useless, other times encouraged by “Jamie, these wee chats are a help.”

  She would scream at Uncle Frank, a mild-mannered man, and bang things around. Poor Uncle Frank would look bewildered and retreat into pipe-smoking.

  But she never screamed at ‘ma Jamie’. When most deeply depressed, she was fidgety and restless, kept sighing, and mumbling “Sorry, I should end all this.”

  Her mutterings alarmed him. His best efforts to pull her out of this didn’t work. Uncle Frank got the doctor in and she was taken to an asylum miles away.

  He’d protested. That was the loony bin. But the doctor explained she needed to go there to help her nerves, or she might die. “And, laddie, it’s called a mental hospital now – not the loony bin or an asylum.”

  He got on okay with Uncle Frank these awful few weeks. They didn’t speak much to each other, but shared the household tasks. He buckled down to his homework and kept up the rugby and golf. In everything he did, he could hear Auntie’s gentle firm voice. “Jamie, stick at it. You’ll do it.”

  Last month (the third of Auntie’s stay in the mental place) he’d insisted on accompanying Uncle Frank on the bus for the monthly visit.

  “It’s no place for youngsters.” Uncle Frank addressed him like he was still eight. “She’s being looked after.” Uncle Frank lit his pipe.

  “Uncle Frank, I’m coming along.” He had good news he must tell Auntie.

  So to the loony bin he went. Feeling unwelcome at the forbidding locked front door, he trailed his uncle and their escort – staying well behind them, gaping at dingy smelly corridors. He’d stopped as a door off the corridor opened in front of him and a brown-coated woman wheeled out a trolley bearing laundry. He craned his neck, to glimpse inside a world of madness – of haunted-looking women staring his way, against a cacophony of wailing and shouting. Oh God, was his precious Auntie caged in here? The door slammed and keys jangled as it was locked.

  Their escort halted outside a door with a sign saying ‘female visitors’, unlocked it and showed them inside. “Wait here please.” It was vast, gloomy, cold. He couldn’t see Auntie among the faces.

  “They bring her in from the ward,” said Uncle Frank.

  “Why can’t we go there to see her?”

  “Don’t know. We might get attacked by loonies, I suppose.”

  A hunched figure in drab clothing was shuffling towards them, escorted by a woman in a white coat. The white-coated escort helped the old woman sit down.

  No! His beloved Auntie looked twenty years older, with her wrinkled face set in a mask of despair. Uncle Frank kissed her on the forehead, and stepped away.

  “Auntie, it’s me, Jamie.”

  She didn’t respond. He bent forward to kiss her and she turned her face away. Trying to cuddle her produced a grunt and her shrinking into the chair. Taking her hand and squeezing it didn’t work either. She didn’t return the squeeze, and withdrew her hand. She kept sighing, rubbing her hands together, and her eyes moved restlessly. She wasn’t really looking at or communicating with him or Uncle Frank.

  He must, though, tell her his news. He grasped her hand (firmly this time), and leaned over to speak into her ear. She shrank away from him, but he persisted. This news would be important for her to know – about the career direction she’d passionately encouraged. “Auntie, I will be going to Edinburgh to train as a doctor.”

  He fancied he felt a slight squeeze of his hand. But when she looked his way, her eyes reflected only misery. What hellish nightmare world was she in?

  He wanted to rescue her from this terrible place, but was powerless to do so.

  “Time’s up.” The white-coated woman was back, helping Auntie stand.

  “What’s wrong with my aunt, and what treatment is she having?” he asked.

  “I think she’s depressed. I’m only an attendant.”

  “I want to see a psychiatrist about my aunt.” He didn’t mean to shout.

  He persisted, and eventually (with Uncle Frank) saw a white-coated elderly man with a careworn face. “She has involutional melancholia – a profound depression which affects mostly women in their middle and later years.”

  “Is there a cure? And what treatment’s she having?”

  “There’s no cure, or effective treatment. And because of the risk of suicide – she’s very agitated – we’re keeping her under heavy sedation.”

  Why wasn’t there a cure? The suicide stuff was scary, and he’d felt inclined to stay in that crazy place to watch over Auntie.

  Now she’d died in there. An inquest would follow, and he wanted to know exactly what had happened. Could she have committed suicide? Had they killed her with too much ‘heavy sedation’? His beloved aunt had been in torment.

  In his final moments with her, he took her hand, and closing his eyes, said the Lord’s Prayer (as she had done with him that day Mum died). Then he gripped her hand more firmly and, bending to look her in the face, uttered loudly a vow. “I, James Brai
d Macdonald, will dedicate myself to helping people who suffer mental torment.”

  He felt a tap on his elbow. The attendant whispered, “Aye. It’s time to go, laddie.” He’d forgotten about his escort’s presence.

  “Aye.” So what if the woman heard his vow; and probably thought he was mad? In fact, he’d like to tell the world about his resolve. He squeezed his aunt’s lifeless hand and whispered, “Thanks, Auntie. Good-bye.” He brushed his eyes and kissed her on the cheek for the last time.

  He straightened his shoulders. “Thanks,” he said to his escort, and followed her along gloomy corridors to short of the massive front door.

  She stopped and faced him. “Good-bye laddie. You remember what you promised your aunt.” Aye, he’d remember.

  “Lachy, can you take over?” she said to a large white-coated man.

  Trailing his beefy escort (silent but key-jangling), he strode down the path towards the iron gates between high walls. One day, he vowed, I will change all this.

  Part Two – HOPE – in 1956-7

  26

  Monday 14th May 1956 – in Bolsall.

  Now Heather was grieving for the newcomer to her life, the dead brother she’d never known. Edward – uncle to Becky, and brother-in-law to John.

  A brother she was almost getting to know. Having ended their silence, her parents kept talking about him – his shyness, his love of rambling, his prowess at cricket, his dedication to study, his likes and dislikes, his delight in that motorcycle (and how they rued buying it). Mother would talk, then suddenly go speechless and weep. Father would talk until he couldn’t carry on.

  Heather listened, asked the odd question, and found herself choking as her eyes blurred. The stirrings inside her were momentous, almost overwhelming. In their disjointed harrowing chatter, her parents communicated with more warmth and honesty than she’d thought them capable of.

  They should have told her. If her parents hadn’t moved, she’d have heard from neighbours and friends. And she’d have visited the tell-tale family gravestone (of which she’d now seen a photo, showing Edward’s name at the bottom).

  From psychology classes on her Social Studies course, she’d learned about the concept of unresolved grief, and been touched by case studies of people thought to be stuck in their grieving and unable to get on with their lives. It hadn’t occurred to her this might happen in her own family.

  Of course, her parents had got on with their lives. They’d dealt with tragedy in their own way, throwing themselves into work and Bolsall high society. It sounded like they’d bottled up their grief and managed their feelings in a ‘stiff upper lip’ tradition. When they moved, they’d even kept the photos of him locked in a drawer. “We were too upset, seeing him all the time,” said Father.

  “We loved him so much,” said Mother. “We’re sorry we didn’t tell you earlier.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Something impelled her to keep asking.

  “It wasn’t just that we’d get upset,” said Father. “We’d started again with you, and when you were young we thought it better not to confuse and trouble you.”

  Her parents had certainly been protective of her; they had indeed treated her like a child, up until she’d left home. “And I’m not confused or troubled now?”

  “We were so afraid we might lose you,” Mother said. “We were lucky to have Granny helping out.”

  “And life went on,” Father added. “We were all busy, and we agreed not to say anything about your having had a brother. We thought it might unsettle you.”

  This was going round in circles. “Why did you tell me now?”

  “You asked me what ‘terrible thing’ Granny was talking about. I spoke with your mother and we decided to tell you,” said Father.

  “We always meant to tell you, sometime in your teens,” added Mother. “But there was never a good time, what with your exams and so on.”

  “I didn’t have exams all the time.”

  “I know. But your teens were difficult for you, darling,” Mother countered.

  True, things had been tough for ages after Granny died. In Year Three at grammar school, she’d withdrawn into herself and feigned sickness to avoid classes.

  “We know we should have told you. I’m glad we have now,” said Father.

  There was no point in pursuing this. Her parents felt bad about having kept this secret from her, and were apologising. “I’m glad too.”

  Howls from upstairs signalled that Becky was awake. “I must go.” At the foot of the stairs, she paused and, looking back at two haggard elderly faces, added, “Thanks.”

  Tuesday 15th – Friday 25th May 1956 – in Bolsall, then to Aversham.

  Heather’s chats with her parents continued. Daytimes, she saw a lot of Father, who accompanied her on morning walks with Becky. He was warming to the role of granddad. And he’d answer questions about her dead brother.

  Late afternoons, Mother would join them – still looking tired at first and reaching for aspirins, but rallying over tea and staying up to talk about Edward.

  Evenings, Heather examined old photos and listened carefully to her parents’ comments. Sometimes she was moved to laughter, sometimes tears. She wanted to find out all she could about her brother. And the more she learned about him, the greater her sense of loss.

  Anger at her parents was dissolving. The keeping of the secret was largely (though, she suspected, not wholly) to protect her, a vulnerable teenager.

  How she wished she’d known Edward. Though ‘never interested in girls’, he’d surely have been there for his sister in her troubled teens. And now, she’d have been in touch to gain solace.

  Her parents had been crushed by losing the child they doted on. And their openness now about their sadly hurt feelings was welcome – almost embarrassing at first, but moving in the revelation of their humanity. On Sunday, she felt like going with them to church and praying for Edward’s soul as well as for John. But she didn’t see that would help. And inhibitions about searching questions were too strong.

  A roller-coaster time with her parents. Now she must get on with life back home. She wanted to ensure Becky’s welfare (and her own).

  That evening, she asked about Mother’s headaches. “They started after Edward died,” said Mother. “They’ve never really gone away. Talking with you this past few days has helped.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Darling, I’ve never told you this. You’re a good listener.”

  “Thanks.” Mother praising her? Within her now was a fuzzy kind of warmth towards Mother.

  In the night she lay awake, imagining Edward and what he was like. Before she drifted off, it struck her. She had this in common with John – a big brother (also a caring one) who died tragically.

  Home beckoned. She must face up to living without John.

  Next morning her farewells were hugs, fond and tearful – with Mother after breakfast, then with Father outside her house. Brushing her cheeks, she lifted Becky and waved at the retreating car.

  27

  Friday 25th May 1956 – in Aversham.

  Heather unlocked the front door. Home again. Well, almost. The door opened a couple of inches, then stuck. Maybe the house didn’t want her back?

  She didn’t relish the idea of entering the cold, John-less house, its happy memories overlain by the recent horror. But it was home. And something was jamming this door. Yet the hallway floor was just lino. A body? Ridiculous – but no! Could John be lying there – discharged home?

  Braced, hands shaking, she bent down and peered through the letterbox. She could see the lino by the stairwell, but that was a few feet in. She couldn’t see what was directly behind, obstructing.

  She tensed and, with an energy charge fuelled by anxiety, heaved against the door. It gave way and she sprawled into the doorway.

  Brown envelopes. A relief – although they’d be bad news, asking for payment of bills. John’s duty to open these would now fall to her.

  Sure eno
ugh, one was for electricity, another for gas, another for water. At least they were bills, not reminders. And John’s pay was due at the end of each month. For now, she and Becky would be covered. Thank goodness for the joint account and a chequebook she could use.

  Where was the chequebook? Did he have it on him when he was taken to Springwell? He normally kept it in the small bureau that was his desk, in the corner of their living room. Happily, the drawers were unlocked.

  She found the chequebook straight away. About half used. In the same drawer, she spied an important-looking document headed ‘Aversham Education Department Terms and Conditions of Contract’. Compulsory reading – to clarify about John’s employment and pay – though not right now.

  She rummaged through his drawers, in case there was anything else she might need. Something she’d never done. And in the bottom left drawer, she found treasure.

  It was a large, faded brown envelope with something scribbled on it. She lifted the envelope out. The scribble, in John’s handwriting, said ‘personal’. What was ‘personal’? She removed the contents. Then she sat gaping, fascinated, and aware of a powerful sadness.

  The banner headline from the faded newspaper cutting was ‘Boy drowned on school trip’. Mid-page was a photo of the boy, a smiling lad in school uniform who could have been John as he looked then. Except that it was his big brother.

  John had often told her about Dave’s drowning. He wasn’t there to see it, never knew how it happened, and picked up contrasting versions from Dave’s pals and the local paper. This news cutting blamed ‘the pupil’s rash behaviour’. While the pals’ accounts varied in detail, all had Dave as an innocent victim of sloppy non-supervision by teachers. His parents wouldn’t talk about it with him.