Mad Worlds

by Bill Douglas

  He’d not seen Dave’s body and wasn’t allowed to the funeral or the inquest. He’d read in the papers of the ‘death by misadventure’ verdict, and the school and teachers being exonerated. “A cover-up,” John told her. “Dave wasn’t irresponsible and wouldn’t do a daft thing like they alleged.”

  In their early days together, he’d always got worked up talking about it. She’d listened sympathetically, moved by the tragedy. But he’d gone on about it so often that she’d long ago tired of listening and switched off. It was ancient history and he should be getting on with his life. She’d resented his obsession and started to believe that Dave was the real love of his life.

  What selfishness! She’d felt jealous of his love for Dave? Her love, longing and grief for a dead brother that she’d never met were real enough. But her pain could scarcely be compared with John’s at the loss of his big brother, lifelong companion and best mate.

  Now she could understand and identify fully with John’s agony. The brother he idolised had deserted him – forever. And ‘drowned’ wasn’t enough explanation. The pain would surely always be with him.

  Brotherly love. The love between her and John was different, with a vital sexual attraction, overlapping with brotherly love only in the tender bonding.

  She still couldn’t help a jealousy pang. What happened to the undying love for her that John used to proclaim in his words and behaviour?

  Dave’s death had clearly been the biggest tragedy of John’s life. But not the only one, she was reminded as she peered at the next item – a small black and white photo of a youngish couple. The rugged smiling features of the man looked like an older version of John. The woman – smaller, homely and plump – was also smiling. They held hands and looked happy. His parents, who died before she met John.

  Another photo of the couple showed the man in a collarless shirt with sleeves rolled up, the woman in a long-sleeved dress – each with their hands on the shoulders of the two children standing in front of them. The couple were older and looked proud of their young offspring.

  She used the magnifying glass to get a closer look at the children’s faces. They could have been taken for twins, but one, her John, must be a few inches smaller. He had a cheeky grin. Dave’s expression was more serious, thoughtful. The brothers looked around the middle and upper ends of primary school.

  The photo must have been taken not long before the pit accident. John had mentioned about his da coming home with an old Kodak box camera and getting the next-door neighbour to take a family photo. Said he regretted not having that camera – a childhood memento, and something to picture the three of them now. “Ma sold it to help us survive after Da died.”

  The family in the photos looked so like she’d imagined. Of course – a memory catch-up! Soon after Becky’s birth, John showed her the photos. She’d given them a disinterested glance and he’d put them in his pocket. Oh, to have that moment back!

  She wiped her wet cheeks with her sleeve and closed the drawer. Enough. She’d get on with housework before Becky awoke.

  All through the chores, she thought of the heroic child John shouldering his burden. She’d known from Social Studies that mining communities were no strangers to tragedy and hardship. When she expressed amazement at how he and his ma coped, John shrugged. “When bad things happened, we’d all look out for each other.”

  But he’d had more than the proverbial bucketful. Not just Dave’s drowning, but his da’s calamitous accident and, after two years’ struggle, death. (“Got home from school to find Ma weeping over his body… massive crowd at the funeral…”). And his ma, who took on three jobs to keep them alive, dropping dead soon after John started at Uni. (“Brain haemorrhage, they said, but sheer overwork caused it…”).

  She marvelled at how he took on the extra paper round, passed the eleven-plus, won a university bursary and got a first. She’d married a special guy. Maybe he had been driven over the edge? If so, the treatment should help. Anyway, she’d stand by him, and one day soon get him back from that place.

  A soft moaning signalled Becky’s waking. Her lovely child – their lovely child. She lifted her infant and nuzzled her aromatic midriff. Becky must not suffer the kind of early hardships that beset John.

  She’d contact The Windmill Nursery. Now. It was only three streets away.

  *

  Heather wanted to sing and dance down the path from the old stone building. But, with a sleeping infant in a pushchair, she settled for walking quietly.

  At last, she saw a positive way ahead. Becky would have a free place at the nursery from Monday. And she would go in with Becky to start a four-day-a-week job as a nursery assistant. Matron’s offer was a welcome surprise.

  The pay wasn’t great, but the cash would help. She’d see Becky at nursery and could check on her infant’s progress. And she’d have a focus outside her woes, doing work that interested her. Surely this would work out!

  28

  Friday 1st June 1956 – in Aversham.

  Heather stretched out on the settee. Good to have Fridays off. Work at the Nursery was hard. And it was fun. The toughest part was caring for other infants with Becky around. Nappy-changing was a chore, but good for communicating with the children. The fun came when the children played, sang, or listened to simple rhymes and stories. And being with other infants would be good for Becky. The only downer had come on day one, when an older girl made Becky cry.

  The nursery nurse she worked with (‘I’m Gemma, and I’ve passed my NNEB”) was around the same age as she. Bossy, though nice enough, Gemma took turns looking out for Becky, in nappy-changing and playing. A real plus was Matron, who was pleasant and encouraging.

  So it had been a sound move. She was suited to the work, and it was useful to have cash at the end of the week.

  A couple of days ago, she’d called at the shop to ask after Mattie. Elsie said he wasn’t right yet, but he’d insisted on getting up and serving in the shop. He still had the cough, but the doctor said he wasn’t infectious.

  Also she got from Moira much-needed advice on claiming benefits and the position on John’s sick pay and employment rights. The news wasn’t all great, as scrutiny of John’s teaching contract indicated he could be sacked.

  But at least she was clearer about her situation and more in control. A deep longing for John, and worry over how he was faring in that awful place, nudged her towards trying to contact him again.

  Now, on her day off from The Windmill and free from Becky, she’d do something about getting to see him. Elsie had said it was again safe for her to use the phone.

  *

  In the back-shop, Elsie greeted her with a teapot. “A cuppa, m’dear?”

  “Thanks Elsie. Could I use your phone?”

  “Of course, m’dear. You’ll want to do it in private?”

  “No, I just want to find out how John is. I’ll wait till I’ve drunk the tea. I need something to fortify me.”

  She sat down at the table opposite Elsie. This steaming mug was just the job.

  “We’re all right for a wee chat to catch up over the tea,” Elsie said.

  “How’s Mattie?” She kept her voice low.

  Elsie leaned forward. “He wheezes a bit, but the cough’s near gone away.”

  “Good. I thought he looked better.”

  “Tell me m’dear, how’s Becky – and the nursery?” Elsie leaned back again.

  She told Elsie. “I suppose it’s kept my mind off the troubles with John.”

  “Good, m’dear. So you’ll try to find out how John is?”

  “Yes, and I’m not sure whether to ring Sam Newman – the mental man, who said to get in touch if I needed help – or to ring Springwell directly.”

  “Hmm. What’s stopping you asking for Mr Newman’s help, m’dear?”

  Good question. “He’s very busy. And John doesn’t like him.” Aware her cheeks were warm, she continued, “And I’ve a feeling he fancies me.”

  “Are you drawn to
him, m’dear?”

  “Well, yes. Though I do love John.” Her face must be afire.

  “M’dear, you can always be honest with me, and I’ll keep any secret. So you’re afraid you might depend on him too much?”

  “Yes, and I trust you, Elsie.”

  “M’dear, we’ll do all we can for you and the bairn.” Elsie was smiling now. “What about ringing Springwell?”

  “Their switchboard treat me like a hostile alien.” She drained her mug. “But your tea’s fortified me. Springwell – look out! And,” she smiled, “If I’m not satisfied, I’ll contact Mr Newman.”

  “Sounds sensible, m’dear.” Elsie rose. “Use the phone when you’re ready. I’m joining Mattie, but I’ll come back to ask how you got on.”

  Friday 1st June 1956 – in Springwell.

  Back from lunch, and with all patients despatched to the airing court, Charge Nurse Parker sat hunched at his desk, reading a paper and sipping tea. He twitched at the sound of the external phone. Rare to get anything through to the ward. Last time it was Sandra, his second bitch of a wife, asking for money. He snatched the receiver.

  “Parker.”

  “Mr Parker, I have a woman enquiring after her husband. She sounds really worked up.” The irritating Welsh whine of Switchboard Jones – a right drip.

  “So?” He’d better things to do than answer the phone about patients.

  “Well it’s a Mrs Heather Chisholm, about John Chisholm. You remember the fuss when he nearly pegged it and the Medical Superintendent granted a special visit.”

  Heather Chisholm – the wife of that snotty madman teacher he’d be starting on an ECT career. ‘A stunner’, Clark had said.

  “Are you still there, Sir?”

  “Of course I’m still here,” he snapped. “Put her through.”

  “Hello,” came a woman’s voice, “I’m Mrs Heather Chisholm, wondering how my husband John is and when I can visit him again.”

  “Mrs Chisholm – might I call you Heather? – I’m Charge Nurse Anthony Parker, head of the Admissions Ward. I take a special interest in John’s care. I’m afraid the news about his mental state is not good. He’s very disturbed. Sadly, your last visit set him back. The paranoid delusions are murderous and centre on you.”

  There was silence at the other end, then a squeal. “No!”

  He’d keep up his charming façade. (“A right lady-killer,” his first wife said). “Heather, this must be terrible news, but it’s better if I’m honest with you.”

  “Yes, thanks. It’s a dreadful shock.”

  Shock – yes, electric in fact. “I assure you Heather, I and my team are doing all we can to help John. You could of course come out on next visiting day, but I have to advise strongly against a visit at this stage.”

  “So you’re saying I shouldn’t come to see him?” She sounded weepy. He wouldn’t mind giving her one. That would help her forget her loony husband.

  “Yes – for John’s sake. Look, I know how upsetting this must be for you.”

  Silence again, then, “Yes. It is.”

  “I wouldn’t be saying this if it wasn’t important. I’m sorry you’re upset, and I wish I could be there to comfort you in person, Heather. I really care about John’s mental health and we’re doing our best. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look Heather, this is unusual, but if you want, I’ll ring you periodically to let you know how he is. The only thing is that I’ll need your phone number.”

  “Thanks. The problem is that I have to use the shop phone across the road, but they’re my friends and I don’t think they’ll mind. Let me check.”

  He hung on. Damn Chisholm, not having a phone. He could’ve got off with this bird.

  “It’s all right. You can leave a message any time. Here’s the number.”

  He noted it down. He could feel the stirrings, the excitement of the chase.

  Friday 1st June 1956 – in Aversham.

  Heather sat down on Elsie’s sofa, forcing herself to take deep breaths. This was horrible. Her John was murderous, with delusions centring on her. She remembered from abnormal psychology (the most intriguing subject on Social Studies) about delusions – fixed ideas that were false.

  “All right, m’dear?” Elsie had come in, and joined her on the sofa.

  “No, Elsie.” She could hardly get the words out.

  “I’ll make us another cuppa, m’dear.”

  “Thanks, no. I’ll have to go soon for Becky.” She needed to offload now though. Nearly choking, she told Elsie about her phone call.

  “M’dear, you must feel very sad.”

  Her eyes were moist. “Yes. The only good thing is that Charge Nurse Parker sounds caring and genuine, and he says he’s doing all he can to help John.”

  “That’s something, m’dear. We’ll let you know if he rings.”

  “Thanks again, Elsie.” She dabbed her eyes and stood up. “I’m off to get Becky from nursery.” She turned and rushed out through the shop.

  29

  Monday 4th June 1956 – in Springwell.

  Peering at the bathroom mirror, Charge Nurse Anthony Parker shaved round his moustache. At least that was still ginger. His sideburns were greying, along with his hair.

  As a kid he’d had a red mop. ‘Red’ they’d called him – which was okay, until one day a big lad pointed at him and shouted, “Redhead, he’s a girl!” He gave that shit a pasting. He said they could call him ‘Reddy’ – which he translated into ‘Ready’. Ready implied action. That was him, a man of action.

  He couldn’t stick disobedience. Discipline was the key, right through his life. As a kid it was rough, but his dad’s tough approach to discipline got him, a young-un with a hell of a temper, to comply. Not that he had to do anything wrong to get a thrashing. When his dad was drunk or in a rage, ‘Ant’ (as his dad called him – and he hated the name) copped it.

  Damn, he’d cut his lip. It was thinking about his dad. He dabbed the wound with cotton wool. The thrashings were from his dad’s massive paw, and nearly always on the bum. Never on the face. He ached like hell and swore revenge some day. As a nipper, he howled, but as he got older, he took it all without crying.

  The Great War was great for him alright, as his military policeman dad was away a lot. His mum was okay at first, but after his dad was blown up somewhere, she began tippling. Pathetic bitch got fonder of the bottle than of him, her only kid.

  ‘Big boys don’t cry’ served him well in the orphanage. ‘Care’, they called it – laughable. There were some evil bastards, but he learned to survive. Being big for his age helped, and he was a scrapper. Soon even the biggest kids treated him with respect.

  The internal phone rang. He glanced at his watch. Who the hell would ring him at six-thirty a.m.? He wasn’t on duty till seven. The curse of living in.

  He lifted the receiver and growled, “Parker.”

  “The Chief.”

  He could feel the blood pumping, the adrenalin of anticipation. “Sir.”

  “Report to me seven a.m., instead of the ward. I’ll see it’s covered.” Chief Male Nurse Hallman didn’t waste words. Another ex-army man strong on discipline.

  “Will do, Sir.” This would be about the promotion. Since leaving the army, his mental nursing career had been spectacular. Joined up at Springwell as an attendant and – with his size and military police background – proved ideal for the job. He was up to sorting out loonies, keeping them under control and locked away to protect the sane folk outside. He went to the lectures and found he was good at exams. Attendants were re-named nurses, and he was soon a staff nurse (and deputy charge). Then last year came promotion to a key post, as Charge Nurse on the Admissions Ward. And the Chief had mentioned, over a drink the other evening, an assistant chief vacancy coming up, with Porter retiring.

  The next step. He’d then be in with a shout when the Chief went, early next year. As Assistant Chief, he’d prove his worth.

  Shaving finished, h
e put on shirt and tie, then his blazer. At six forty-five, he looked in the mirror. He brushed back his well-oiled thinning hair and straightened his shoulders. Immaculate, he marched off to this further step in his destiny.

  At seven-fifteen, he emerged from the Chief’s office. He marched back to his room and fished the whisky bottle out from his underwear drawer.

  *

  Parker sat sipping the bottle, re-playing. The Chief had greeted him real friendly. Standing, the man shook hands (a bit premature, as they hadn’t even talked about the assistant chief job yet – but maybe he wouldn’t need a formal interview). “Ready – sit down.” The Chief sat down himself. Then – bang! The Chief brought his beefy fist crashing onto the desk. “There’s a problem, Ready.”

  Confusing. Maybe he was too old for the job – but surely not. “Sir?”

  “In fact, Ready” – the Chief was looking fierce – “a bloody great headache.”

  Was the Chief making fun? “Sir.” Or maybe he wanted help. “Can I help?”

  “It’s too late for that,” the Chief snorted. “Our friend the Baron’s had his ribs kicked in – on your watch – and you wonder now if you can help?”

  Jesus Christ! A fuss over a patient? Of course he hadn’t meant the ape to break bones – just duff the conceited little sod up a bit. “Sir, it was another patient that went wild, assaulted him.”

  The Chief didn’t seem to hear this. “A nobleman, whose incarceration brings Springwell repute and dosh – I told you to look out for him, and you bloody well let him get beaten up,” he thundered. “His slimy colonel brother’s been on to the Med Super and I’ve been given a right sore ear.”

  “But –”

  “No buts. You’re suspended on full pay, pending an inquiry.”

  With that, he was dismissed from the room. No handshake.