by Bill Douglas
Alas. He dialled Caroline. “Bad news. Come to my office.”
*
At midnight, Jamie dragged his weary frame out of the office. For the first time in many years, he’d felt like drowning himself in whisky. It was a blessing that his desk drawer did not (unlike that in Manchester) conceal a half-bottle. Now, in his emotionally flat state, the yearnings for that instant solace tugged compellingly at him.
Nearly home. He hoped Gill was awake so that he could unwind with her. Up north she too had enthused about unlocking wards, and she’d been active in encouraging the local community’s involvement in the hospital. At some point, she would set about doing for Springwell what she’d done for Dingleton. Her GP work was only two days a week.
The lights were on downstairs. She’d be up. Nonetheless, he tiptoed in.
“What the hell have you been up to, Jamie?” Gill was dressing-gowned and unsmiling.
He’d forgotten to ring, keep her posted. “I was winding up, when Matron rang me.”
“So? Confession time, laddie. You didn’t think to ring me, did you?”
“No. Sorry.” He needed a tirade like a bullet through his head. But he must tread carefully, as Gill’s sadness at the latest miscarriage had verged on depression. And she too had probably noted Caroline’s good looks and charm. “I didn’t think.”
“You didn’t think!”
No welcoming cocoa – just a grilling. He didn’t feel like apologising. “Okay, thoughtless! But you could have rung me.”
“I did – after being sick with worry – and they told me you were in conference with Matron. I told the man who I was. But he said it was a confidential matter, an emergency. You’d left orders not to be disturbed by anyone. I slammed the phone down. Confession time!”
He’d told switchboard: ‘No more calls, except the police’. Couldn’t risk the media or anyone else nosing. Gill thought he was having an affair with Caroline!
“Well?” She was scowling at him.
“Matron reported a female patient missing. The police came, and found her dead – drowned in the pond.”
Gill was looking intent, and her expression changed.
“I’ve had to deal with this. And I’m to blame for insisting all doors be unlocked, without giving thought to the frail, elderly wanderers in the Annex.”
“Goodness, Jamie!” She hugged him. “The kettle’s boiled. I’ll get the cocoa.”
Minutes later, sipping from a steaming mug and holding Gill close on the settee, he continued his sad tale. “It’s grim. Poor Nellie Morgan – she was so emaciated. The fence was down at one end; we assume that’s how she got into the pond. There’ll be a post-mortem and an inquest.”
“Had she family?”
“None recorded, Matron says. Apparently Nellie’d been here over forty years. She came in depressed after a stillbirth.”
“Tragic.”
“Aye. And I feel damn guilty. Ready for bed?”
She acquiesced and they went upstairs. In bed, they prayed – he saying the words. “Almighty God, I’m sorry for the death of Nellie Morgan. May she rest in peace. And be with all affected by her death – ward staff, fellow patients, Matron. And give each of us strength to face this coming day…” He pondered adding a prayer for the success of his policies, but that didn’t seem right.
They kissed and said goodnight. He felt calmer, but his mind stayed alert. Matron had said the ward sister was distraught – blaming herself for the death of “A sweet lady, a trusty for years.”
He’d agreed to go onto the ward with Caroline tomorrow. They’d seek out anyone affected and try to help with their distress. He’d insist the blame lay with him. And he’d agree to both Annex wards being locked pro tem.
The pond was a place of beauty, and now of death. He’d talk with Cope and the Chief Engineer, and have it drained.
Ammo for the old guard. Could derail his plans. If there was a big enough outcry… But he’d push ahead, monitoring the ‘open door’ progress and difficulties. The first psychiatric social worker and occupational therapist appointments would be made next week. And he had plans to start involving the community.
The press! He’d no experience dealing with them. The police sergeant had warned him. “Bloodhounds’ll love this and yap at your heels.” Terrible publicity.
“No such thing as bad publicity,” Mac Bell would say.
Well, the media would give him hell. But he could get from this an airing on the dire state of provision and the need for reform.
He’d take the initiative, ring the local paper and offer a world exclusive.
He began formulating how to approach this, what messages to give. Next thing, he was being shaken.
Gill was stretching across their bed. “Jamie, it’s 5.30. The alarm’s gone off.”
50
Monday 11th March 1957 – in Springwell.
“Our consultant’s a-comin’ tomorrow – especially to see you,” said Charge Williams, the boss white-coat.
Consultant – at last! John could feel the shiver of excitement. “Ah – the god?” he half joked.
“Our consultant’s the god, right enough. He says what treatment our patients are to have.”
Hell. This charge nurse was an earnest fellow. Dead earnest. And this was leuco heaven? “That monster nearly crucified me. Must I see him? I want home.”
The Charge’s face had reddened. “Our patients stay here and we looks after them for all their days.”
He’d joined the lifers.
Tuesday 12th March 1957 – in Springwell.
John had just finished breakfast when Charge Williams called him into the office.
“This is John Chisholm, Doctor,” the Charge said to a man seated behind the desk, and went to stand in the far corner.
This white-haired weather-beaten guy behind the desk was not the god.
“Mr Chisholm, I’m Dr Kenney, Consultant Psychiatrist.” The man smiled, then glanced down at a file spread open on the desk.
A different kind of god? “Hello, Dr Kenney.”
“I’m sorry not to see you for a chat before now, Mr Chisholm.”
Hey, a consultant psychiatrist apologising to him. “Okay.” But – beware of Mister Nice Guy. Could be even meaner than Mister Nasty?
“How are you feeling now?”
“Great, by comparison with how I was.”
“Right. I see that in January, you reported memory loss.”
“After the Shocker. I began remembering things sooner than I expected. The trouble is I’ve no idea what I’ve forgotten.”
“Hm. We can’t monitor any memory loss properly.” The doctor closed the file. “I’d like us to consider your mental state when you came into Springwell. There’s not much in our records. You hated your wife?”
“No. I was convinced she had a lover.”
“On what basis?”
A voyeur? “She’d been distant toward me since Becky’s birth. And my suspicion grew. Any man near her – I thought there there was something between them.”
“Now, what do you believe?” Not a ‘dirty old guy’ question!
“I don’t think there was a third party.”
“And I read in your file that your thinking started bothering you?”
“Thoughts came and went.”
“What do you mean?”
This didn’t feel like any kind of grilling. Nice Guy looked earnest. Really wanting to know. “My head would get crammed with negative thoughts that’d vanish, like they’d been snatched.”
“And now?”
“No such problems. I think clearly without interference. Oh, another funny thing hasn’t happened for ages. I thought sometimes people were reading my mind.”
“And the notes say you were depressed.”
“Yes, I had thoughts of suicide. These haven’t been around for ages either.”
“Good. What troubles you now?”
“No leucotomy?”
“Heavens, no.” Doctor look
ed shocked.
A genuine nice guy, who cared. “I can go home then?”
“No, it’s not –”
“Why ?”
The doctor rose suddenly and threw out a hand. “Just noticed the time. See you next week.”
John sat, seeing the hand dangle a moment then withdraw as the doctor breezed past him and exited. What? Did he scare this decent consultant?
Charge Williams escorted him out to the ward.
Tuesday 19th March 1957 – in Springwell.
John sat with Dr Kenney in the Charge’s office; a one-to-one in easy chairs. No desk barrier. And the Charge had, at Kenney’s request, left them alone.
“Sorry I left abruptly last time. I remembered I should be elsewhere. And today must be brief, as I’ve squeezed in your session. We’ll have longer next time.”
“It’s okay.” Time to make his move. “Why can’t I go home?”
“I have to be satisfied you’re ready. And your wife…”
“I’m ready. And I’m sure my wife will want me.”
“We’ll see. Any more questions?”
“Why was I diagnosed schizophrenic?”
“There’s little in the notes. Your beliefs about your wife were seen as delusional – fixed and without foundation. But they sound like over-valued ideas – that are common in the general population and don’t indicate schizophrenia.”
“So I’ve not had schizophrenia.”
“Well, it’s possible you have. Thoughts crowding into your head and being stolen, and believing others can read your mind, could be diagnostic. But I’d have needed to see you clinically at the time.”
The doctor looked at the notes again. “There’s no record of you hearing voices you couldn’t account for. True?”
John nodded. A pity the doctor was rising to signal an end to a useful dialogue.
Tuesday 26th March 1957 – in Springwell.
John sat with Dr Kenney – in easy chairs, as last time.
“And how’s life on this ward?”
An opening he hadn’t expected. “I feel so young, Doctor! But I’m grabbed by older men’s tales. Anecdotal history. And it’s nice to wear clothes that fit.”
“Happy staying here forever?”
He searched the doctor’s face. Not even a twinkle. “No!”
“I don’t want misery here, young man.” The doctor rose, his face crinkling into a smile. “John Chisholm, you are fit for discharge.”
What? He grasped Dr Kenney’s hand and crushed the man in a hug.
He stepped back. “Sorry.” The doctor smiled and straightened his tie. “That’s okay. You’ll be free to go once arrangements are made. This’ll take time, as your wife needs consulting. I’ll ask our new psychiatric social worker to contact you about this.”
The doctor sat down again. “Take a seat. We’ve a few more minutes for questions if you want.”
“If it was schizophrenia, could it come back?”
The doctor scratched in his hair. “I don’t know. There’s reason to hope not. It doesn’t seem to recur in a fair proportion of younger folk.”
“And maybe you guys got the diagnosis wrong?”
The doctor shrugged. “Maybe. In psychiatry we’re uncovering the tip of the iceberg. We rarely speak of curing, or having answers. Oh, and your depressed state might have indicated a schizo-affective disorder.”
More jargon. “What on earth’s that?”
“A state that doesn’t present firmly as schizophrenia, and where your mood is abnormally exaggerated – in your case, depressed. As for the depression – broadly speaking, did this come out of the blue, or were there things you felt caused it?”
“Definitely the latter. I was pretty stressed, both at work and at home.”
“Again, reason for optimism. Sounds like the stress triggered your breakdown – and indeed your troubling experiences could have been an understandable though exaggerated reaction to severe stress.” Dr Kenny smiled. “Enough psycho-babble!”
John shook the proffered hand as they rose. He leapt out into the ward. And the rest of the day he kept whistling his favourite tune, the Song of Liberty.
*
After a brisk walk in the sunshine and a celebratory coffee at The Stars – a new cafe at the top of Hospital Lane – John got back to a message from the staff nurse.
“A nice-looking woman called after you.” Staff chuckled. “Says she’s Maggie Lee, the new psychiatric social worker. I’ll ring and tell her you’re back.”
So this woman would be the crucial link for him.
*
A few minutes later, a fair-haired young woman appeared, spoke to the staff nurse, and came his direction. “John Chisholm?”
“Yes, hello.”
She was good-looking when she smiled. “Maggie Lee, PSW – stands for psychiatric social worker. You can call me Maggie. Let’s go to my office for a chat.”
Friday 12th April 1957 – to Aversham.
D-Day. Yes, Discharge Day. And now, nine a.m., he was en route home in Maggie’s car. “The road needs all my attention,” she said. “I haven’t long passed my test.”
She was crawling along, and kept hitting the brake. He stayed quiet!
Wednesday evening at half-past eight, Maggie had come to the ward. “I’ve just visited Heather and we had a long chat. The way’s clear to go home this Friday.”
He’d nearly hugged her. Clouds of doubt over whether he’d be welcome home had gathered. Though he and Heather hugged warmly on her fortnightly visits, and talked together so much – mainly her telling him about Becky, the nursery, her friends Elsie and Mattie and Moira – they hadn’t touched on him coming home. Even on her last visit, he’d been pessimistic about his chances of discharge. And her response to his mention of shacking up with another guy had left him wondering.
Yesterday had been a tying-up-of-the-ends day. Dr Kenney made an outpatient appointment at Aversham clinic and showed him the discharge letter for his GP.
“One last tip, John,” said Dr Kenney. “If you get over-stressed, try and find somebody you can trust to talk with about what’s bugging you. But if that doesn’t work, ring and I’ll fit you in at outpatients.”
He’d asked about Ginger. “Discharged. And the Baron insisted on taking, as companion, Mackay – the man you’d know as Kong, who sadly was like an automaton after a leucotomy – back to live on his estate.”
Great news! He’d also been given the okay to see old pals on Lilac (ex-Refractory) Ward. With each, sadly, he encountered flat rejection. Pat darted glances around and shambled away with his head down, hands in pockets. George whispered protest that being visited would identify him as the famous author.
He jerked forward, bumping his head on the windscreen.
“You’re home,” said Maggie. She waved. Heather was in the doorway. “I won’t stop. I’ll call again soon.”
“Thanks Maggie.” He shut the car door behind him and bounded towards Heather. He’d a lot of catching up to do.
EPILOGUE – in 1962
Thursday 4th October 1962 – in Aversham.
Two-fifty a.m. John lays down his fountain pen. Part One of Springwell: A Memoir is nearly completed. This will catalogue his journey through the institution. Identities are disguised through name changes – but the tale is revealed, unexpurgated.
He could continue, finish Part One. At college he’d swot till four a.m. and tackle exam papers later that morning. But now, a librarian facing the public from eight-forty-five a.m., he seeks rest.
He wants to go upstairs and join Heather in their cosy double bed. But no matter how softly he treads, the stairs and upstairs floorboards will creak. Heather mightn’t notice – she snored through a thunderstorm the other night – but he’d have to pass the children’s bedroom and could waken them. Baby Liam is a particularly light sleeper, with a lusty cry.
He settles in the armchair and closes his eyes. He drowses, but does not sleep. His brain urges him into reflection. He knows resistan
ce will espouse restlessness, and that anyway sleep will eventually prevail.
Part One has, in the writing, proved more harrowing than expected. He knows that writing about traumatic experiences is a tool sometimes used in therapy. The recently qualified PSW Mac (Angus) Macleod, now his closest friend, is encouraging him in this approach, and is helpfully being available to listen and discuss.
Mac (his old acquaintance Browncoat Mac) expresses no regret over having gone into psychiatric social work and not clinical psychology. “I messed up the finals – and am I glad now! Getting around to see folk and the families in their own homes is a heck of a lot more my style than sitting holding hands in therapy.”
It’s great to have Mac around, and sometimes they laugh about the dirty laundry and talk about the old days – including the escape. He loves discussing the radical ideas Mac has picked up. “These three guys, John – Ronnie Laing and Thomas Szasz, psychiatrists both, and the Yankee sociologist Erwin Goffman – are like heavyweight nuns in our hallowed psychiatric monastery. Aye, they persuade me that we mental health foot soldiers rely far too much on medical approaches.”
He’s considered how such ideas could relate to his own experience. Had he been ill, or was his breakdown a problem of living (in unbearable stresses), to do with events and relationships? Maybe in practice it doesn’t matter too much.
Or maybe it does. He agrees with Mac that diagnoses, while essential to the medical approach, can become labels that influence how folk view you socially. He’s occasionally been aware that his ‘label’ is inhibiting. “Reductionist – how we mental health guys can still talk,” says Mac. “It’s our historic culture, and public attitudes.”
He sees very clearly the relevance to Springwell-as-was of Goffman’s ‘total institution’ concept. In his memoirs, he sometimes refers readers to this and other literature sources.