Mad Worlds

by Bill Douglas

  “I am, Elsie.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  Yes, she’d nearly forgotten. “Could you ring the nursery, let them know Becky’s ill and that I can’t come in?”

  “Yes, m’dear. Anything more?”

  “Oh, tell Charge Nurse Parker if he rings – thanks, and sorry, but my child’s ill. And ask him how John is.”

  “Yes, m’dear. I’ll come over later to see if you need anything.”

  She’d wait over the weekend to see how Becky was, and she’d ask her parents for more help. The nursery wage wasn’t great, but was vital now, as another wretched brown envelope had signalled an end to John’s employment. Her parents could cover the rent. She and Becky would not be homeless.

  Friday 3rd August 1956 – in Springwell.

  Parker leaned back in his armchair, sipping whisky. It had been a long day. He’d worked a double shift. Yesterday’s news about Mrs C’s blasted child being ill meant he’d be at a loose end after the early shift finished at 2pm. They were a man down, with Mullen off, and he’d stayed on as Charge, rather than let that shit Niven stand in. He’d made sure the Chief knew. This would not harm his promotion prospects!

  The day was capped by the news that the dandy nobleman had recovered from the kicking and would, from Sunday, grace the Admissions Ward with his presence. He’d have to see this prick was wrapped in cotton wool.

  He switched on the wireless. Home Service – boring. Light Programme – rubbish. He turned the wireless off. He’d make the Red Lion before closing.

  A loud knock on the door. Who the hell was this, disturbing him? He rose quietly, unlocked the door and flung it open to confront the intruder. The Chief!

  “Thought I’d pay you a visit, Ready, rather than you coming to the office.”

  “Sir. Come in.” This must be about the assistant chief job. “Join me in a whisky, Sir?” He beckoned to the other armchair.

  “Yes, Ready.” The Chief looked distracted as he sat down.

  He poured a large whisky and passed it to the Chief. Was the man’s hand shaking as he took the glass? “Sir.”

  The Chief took a gulp, then set the glass down. “I needed that, Ready. I’ve just seen the Med Super and come straight from his office.” He paused.

  Had the Med Super agreed on the assistant chief job? “Sir.”

  The Chief took another gulp. “The Baron’s brother was told about the transfer back to Admissions. The bastard demanded that the nobleman should not be on any ward you’re in charge of. And the boss has damn well caved in.”

  What! Bloody colonels! “Sir, I –”

  “I’m moving you, from Sunday, to Refractory.” The Chief drained his glass.

  The Factory, taking care of bad boys. Okay he could do that, but this was a demotion. And who the hell was this colonel to dictate to Springwell? “But Sir –”

  The Chief rose. “This is not demoshun. Could help with th’assistant chief job – broaden experience.”

  Aha! He’d never been Charge on Refractory.

  “Ready, friend, gotta go.” The Chief made for the door.

  Parker leapt up and opened the door. “Sir.” The Chief exited without turning.

  33

  Friday 3rd August 1956 on – in Aversham.

  Heather thought the coughing and sneezing and fever that tormented her child would never end. Was Becky going to die? If so, she’d want to as well. John might not need her any more. Murderous, the charge nurse said. She didn’t want to think about that.

  *

  At last a red rash came and, soon after, the coughing and sneezing seemed to trouble less. The fever subsided and, with Becky fully alert, the cheeky smiles returned. The red rash gave way to brown spots.

  The proverbial turning of the corner. Heather, inspired, took to singing nursery rhymes and reading stories to Becky, till they both fell asleep.

  At other times, she got on with housework – humming the Elvis hits, listening to the wireless, losing herself in a Dickens novel, or reading snatches from women’s magazines Elsie brought for her.

  But she kept thinking about John and mourning her loss. Evenings, she could sit for hours ruminating. She tried to divert her thinking into the happier memories of their time together. His sense of fun – and the dry humour similar to hers – hadn’t been evident for a long time now.

  That wonderful sunny day by Lake Windermere, on a trip the Students’ Union organised. She was dawdling along, holding hands with John. Lightning-fast, he swung to kneel in front of her and, clinging to her hand, gazed up – his eyes shining and blond hair chaotic from the wind. “Heather Sloan, will you marry me?”

  He was fooling – they hadn’t been courting five minutes. She screwed her face up like she smelt dog shit. “John Chisholm, I’ll not be marrying a lowlife.”

  His blue eyes stared earnestly. “That’s it! What I really love about you. You’re so discerning.”

  “Unlike you.”

  “Sure – I guess I’d only ever go for a lowlife.”

  “Kick him in the goolies, Heather.” Her friend Amy. They had an audience!

  “Yes or no, Heather?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Lowlifes don’t think. Hey – this is doing for my knees. Yes or no?”

  Maybe he wasn’t kidding about the knees. “Okay. Arise, Sir Lancelot.”

  He remained kneeling, and the grip on her hand tightened. “Okay yes, or okay no?”

  She extended her other hand. “Okay yes, you fool!”

  They laughed and hugged, cheered by their fellow students. Her happiest day?

  A story she read in one of Elsie’s mags featured a woman spurned by her husband, and her dilemmas when pursued by two other men. This, she’d thought, could be uncannily like her situation. But she didn’t want to think such a ridiculous thing – that Sam Newman or Charge Nurse Parker might be wooing her.

  Tap tap? The door. Elsie. “Won’t come in m’dear. How’s Becky?”

  “She’s nearly better thanks, Elsie.”

  “That’s a relief, m’dear. Oh, and when Charge Nurse Parker rang, I told him about Becky being ill. Mr Parker said he was very sorry to hear that and to pass on his best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  “Thanks Elsie. Did he say how John is?”

  “No m’dear. Said he could only tell you, as it was confidential, and even with you he couldn’t say over the phone. He said he’ll ring soon to ask after Becky and whether he can meet to tell you about John.” Elsie paused. “He sounds a real good-hearted man, m’dear. And if he comes of an evening, I’ll be happy to come and sit with Becky.”

  Nice offer. Swept away lingering hesitations about Mr Parker visiting.

  Friday 21st September 1956 – in Aversham.

  Heather glanced at the clock. Six-fifteen – just over an hour to go, and she was still coaxing Becky to eat. She was using all her wiles, talking and singing while surreptitiously shovelling in the odd spoonful. Dollops of food were on the carpet. She just could not stop her hand from trembling.

  Abandoning the effort, she changed Becky’s nappy and put the child down to sleep. She’d ignore the bawling. She must get the mess off the carpet.

  On her knees, rubbing with a cloth, she left a big wet patch. It might dry before her visitor came. Six-thirty – better get ready! She dashed upstairs and changed into her costume, then looked in the mirror. Her hair was still in curlers! She started taking them out. Careful, she shouldn’t rush it. Lucky it was her day off, and she’d had time to wash and dry her hair.

  Curlers out, she combed her hair. But she couldn’t ignore the yelling any more. She went and picked Becky up. That aroma – again! She changed the nappy and sang lullabies until, thankfully, Becky’s eyes closed.

  She rushed back to finish combing her hair, then brushed it.

  Just on seven. She looked in the wardrobe mirror. Fine. Should she put the wireless on? No, she might not hear him knock.

  The other evening, Elsie had come ove
r. “Won’t come inside, m’dear. That nice Mr Parker from Springwell rang. Asked how you were and whether he could visit this Friday evening at seven-thirty, to tell you about John. He’ll ring back Thursday for an answer.”

  She’d done the agonising. “Tell him ‘yes thanks’.”

  “Yes m’dear. I’m afraid Mattie’s started fair coughing up again – so it’s best to stay away from the back-shop and me for now, in case Becky catches something.”

  That had been a downer. Elsie could not help with Becky for Parker’s visit.

  However, things had worked out. She’d decided to tell Moira about the charge nurse’s offer. “It’s unusual,” Moira said, “though it sounds genuine. Look, I’d be happy to come over when he visits and stay with Becky in her bedroom.”

  “That would be good, Moira. Thanks.”

  They’d agreed Moira would call at around twenty to eight. Heather wanted a few minutes alone with her visitor first.

  So now, a quarter past seven, Charge Nurse Parker was nearly due. She fiddled with the cushions on the settee, still not sure she’d done the right thing.

  Two thunderous raps on the front door! She ran to open it, and suppressed a gasp. The man filled the doorway. He was smiling. “Mrs Chisholm – Heather? Charge Nurse Parker, boss of Admissions.”

  He was early. She took his extended hand to shake it. Did he squeeze her hand – or was it a friendly handshake? “Pleased to meet you. Come in.” She led the way into the lounge and motioned to the armchair. He sprawled into it.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Charge Nurse Parker, or some lemon squash?”

  “Thanks, Heather. I’m parched. I’ll go for the lemon squash, please.” He was still smiling. “And you needn’t call me Charge Nurse Parker – though I assure you I am. Ready’s the name – for ‘Ready for action’.”

  “Yes, eh, Ready.” She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of squash and brought it to the nesting table beside the armchair.

  The man stood by the sideboard, looking at something. At the photo she’d taken from the bureau. “Is that John’s family when he was young?” He pointed.

  “Yes, with his brother and parents.” She paused, aware she was blushing. This intruded into her very private domain. She was being churlish though. The charge nurse was showing his concern for John.

  “Now can you tell me who’s who?” The man was holding the photo, peering at it, and she’d have to move close to examine it. Where was Moira?

  She moved alongside him. Nice smell – was it hair oil? “John’s on your left. The other boy’s his brother who drowned aged ten.” She drew back. “Do sit down.”

  The man propped the photo back on the sideboard, sank into the armchair and drained the squash. “Thanks, Heather. I needed that. Haven’t stopped all day.” He put down the glass and sighed. “How sad, the brother drowning. In his few sane moments, John’s talked about this.”

  A loud knocking. “Excuse me.” She went to the door. “Moira, come in.”

  Back in the living room, she performed introductions. The man beamed and, lifting his gigantic frame to tower over them, squeezed Moira’s hand.

  “Moira’s come to look after Becky while we talk.”

  “Good, because I couldn’t say anything about John in your friend’s presence.” He looked towards Moira. “In my profession, we swear an oath of confidentiality.”

  “Becky’s asleep through there, at the other end of the living room, Moira.” She pointed to a door that was slightly ajar.

  “Thanks, I’ll go through. Good-bye, Mr Parker,” said Moira, and left them.

  Mr Parker sank back into the chair. He nodded towards the bedroom door, still a fraction open. “Can we close that?”

  “It might waken Becky, as it doesn’t shut easily. Anyway, I’m sure what we talk about wouldn’t interest Moira.” Heather sat down on the settee.

  “Your friend must not hear what I have to say. I could face the sack if she did. I’m telling you about John in the strictest confidence.”

  This man was trusting her. Putting his career on the line. “Well…”

  “It’s all right.” He’d lowered his voice. He stood up. No – he was leaving? “If I may, I’ll join you on the settee, so I can keep my voice very low,” he whispered.

  He was staying, thank goodness. “Yes, that seems sensible.” She moved across to ensure he had enough room.

  He tiptoed over and she felt him sink into the settee beside her. His vast bulk meant he was almost touching her. She moved her legs towards her end of the settee. This skirt was shorter than she’d realised.

  He leaned against her, whispering into her ear. There was a whiff of something sweet on his breath. “What I have to tell you isn’t good news, Heather. John’s condition is worse, despite all our efforts.”

  “You said on the phone he was murderous,” she whispered back.

  “I’m afraid that’s the case. And I despair of him ever changing.”

  She twisted round to look at him. His expression was grave.

  “This must be upsetting, Heather. It’s all right if you cry.”

  She drew her sleeve across her eyes. A long weep was overdue.

  “The problem is that with his paranoid delusions – which will be lifelong – he has strange unshakable ideas that you are an evil force needing to be extinguished.”

  Her worst fears. She could hear John shouting at her, and see him picking up the breadknife. Tears were now streaming down her face. She used her sleeve again.

  “There now, Heather,” he said. She felt his comforting arm across her back, his large hand drawing her in towards him. Nice. A rock. “You need a good cry.”

  Yes. Her world was shattering. And she needed a good cuddle – which this decent man was giving her. She could feel her bare leg being warmed by his trousered one. She heard a soft whisper, “There now, Heather.” Her knee was being patted. All felt okay; comforting.

  A loud bawling erupted. Becky. “I must go. Excuse me.” She leapt off the settee, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and rushed through to her wailing child.

  “I don’t know what happened,” said Moira, standing by the crib.

  “It’s okay. I’ll change her nappy and settle her. It’ll take some time. Can you thank Mr Parker for calling and tell him I hope to see him again soon?”

  “Yes.” Moira went back into the living room, leaving the door ajar.

  Heather sang lullabies till Becky dozed off, then returned to the living room.

  “Mr Parker’s gone,” Moira said. “I gave him your message and talked to him while he lingered. I asked him about his job and said my husband knows a man that works in Springwell’s Admin.”

  “Thanks Moira. I was in tears – the news about John was so bad.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “In fact he was starting to comfort me – put an arm round me.”

  “I suspected as much. I heard a little of your conversation.”

  Had Moira listened throughout? Maybe, but her friend wouldn’t waken Becky deliberately. Would she? “I was distraught, Moira. I’m glad you were there.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “There was something scary about him at first – just his bulk, I guess – but he’s been very kind to me. And he’s taking a special interest in John.”

  “Yes, Heather. He might be entirely genuine. But I should go carefully. He struck me as evasive, and I do wonder why he wanted to meet you. Remember, I’m your friend, and if you want me to help again like this, just say.”

  “Thanks again, Moira.”

  The older woman gave her a hug. “Take care, Heather.” On the doorstep, Moira turned to face her. “And my hubby could ask his cousin Rob – he’s a clerk on Admin – if he knows anything about Mr Parker?”

  Fortuitous – and an idea! She mustn’t antagonise the man caring for John. But she’d like to know more about him – be sure he was for real. “Maybe…”

  “I promise it wouldn’t
get back to Mr P. Rob’s very discreet. He mightn’t know – and it could be a while before we see him. But I’d let you know of anything.”

  “Okay then. Thanks Moira.” She waved her friend good-bye.

  Left alone with Becky, she moped and wept, abandoned and hated by the love of her life, her hero – her poor mad murderous husband.

  34

  Monday 24th September 1956 on – in Springwell.

  John was now seeing Dr Singh for periodic check-ups (the god, thank goodness, still being off sick, according to Mullen). And each time he could report improvements in how he felt.

  At their last meeting, he’d asked about discharge.

  “No, your treatment will continue here for some time.”

  “But I feel well and I’d be okay at home. And I doubt my wife’s having an affair. I got to feeling certain, but I could be wrong. Anyway, I could hardly blame her – the way I was.”

  “However, it is still early in your treatment, Mr Chisholm.” The doctor coughed. “And I am only a psychiatric registrar, without authority to discharge patients. Legally you are detained under an order, for review next April. Only a consultant could vary this if he thought fit.”

  A downer! The god would never set him free. Much of his thinking was about Heather – the great times they’d had, and the way he’d treated her. She couldn’t be blamed for not visiting. He’d made it clear he didn’t want her to. He must have been sick. If only he could get home to her and Becky. How were they managing? He must achieve the impossible. Escape.

  One thing making life tolerable was the continuing unexplained absence of Sarge. While Mullen didn’t rate that highly on caring, he was fair on the whole and didn’t engage in torment and sadistic threat.

  However, this was offset by Niven’s return. “I’ve got a promotion from Infirmary to come and make your lives hell – you and your carrot-top mate,” the bully said, confronting John on the airing court one day. And back on the ward, Clark confirmed this. “We both passed our exams for staff nurse. I leave here tomorrow for another ward as deputy charge, and you’ll have Tommy Niven regular as staff.”