‘She’s back in Canada.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No, they won’t let me. But I have spoken to her aunt.’
Does this sound paranoid? Psychiatrists explain the world in very different terms.
‘Who are the people who won’t let you speak to her?’
Over the next two hours I tell her the whole story, minus only the incest. She listens calmly and takes notes. I am aware as I talk that this is not so much my psychiatric history, as a kind of narrative that I am stringing together, partly for my own understanding. She may even think I am a fantasist.
‘If you ask me,’ Ella says, ‘I think it is a classic case of extreme stress leading to a psychotic break. To be honest, I think you have coped with it pretty well. It’s often uncertainty that triggers these incidents. We are designed to look for answers and conclusions. Ambiguity and uncertainty, as in your case, are destructive.’
‘Are you married?’
‘I am. To another doctor. He’s a GP.’
‘Are you happy?’
She smiles. Her smile is now more wintry.
‘It’s my job to ask the questions. So why did you ask me?’
‘Because I have a feeling that after the way I was brought up I don’t understand family life. I’m interested in it, in other people’s lives. I don’t understand quite a lot of mundane things. My father was a sort of hippy, as I said, with grand but delusional ideas, and we never spoke for years. I have a very weak idea of what normal domestic life is. At this moment, talking to you, I want to reconnect, but the problem is I don’t know what that entails. With Noor I could see where I was going and now that’s been taken away.’
‘OK. Let’s talk some more tomorrow; you look very tired. You should sleep, but I will come in tomorrow and tell you all about my delightful and happy marriage.’
‘Do you believe in the talking cure?’
‘Not in the Freudian sense of unlocking deep mysteries, no, but I do in the sense that conversations, like the one we have just had, are helpful. I mean that, at the most basic level, I will find out what may have triggered this episode, and I am able to give it a name and tell you that this condition will pass quite quickly.’
When she’s gone I lie in bed very conscious that I am a psychiatric patient. I wonder if this means that I am in some way weakened, with fissures opening. Cracked.
Some time later – I have been dozing – Ed comes in with biscuits. He seems a little nervous, as though he’s expecting the nutter to jump out of the bed and start screaming again.
‘Ed, I am so sorry about the other night. I flipped.’
‘No problem. We all know what you have been through.’
‘Ella, the doctor, said you had been great. I can’t remember much after I started shouting. You have been so kind to me and I abused your friendship and hospitality.’
‘What have they put you on? You don’t do remorse as far as I know?’
‘I mean it, Ed. I am ashamed.’
‘Some of the things you said were true, sadly.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Like why I am doing a Ph.d. And also about Lettie.’
‘Oh shit, sorry.’
‘I am going to give up my Ph.d. It was killing me.’
‘Don’t do it because of what I said. Although I can’t really remember clearly what I said.’
‘I’m not. I realised some time ago that this academic stuff was not for me. What you said was true. It is all the higher bollocks at this level. How are you feeling?’
‘I have had a psychotic episode, which was apparently caused by stress, and it is temporary. Anyway, they sedated me for two days.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you; you sat by my bedside. Ed, I feel disembodied as though I am talking about somebody else. It is a weird feeling. It must be the drugs. By the way, could you bring in my laptop so I can see if Noor or her aunt has been in touch? I feel a bit out of it.’
I can’t remember if I told him that Noor is my half-sister. It seems to me to be a holy secret, a kind of sacrament. I also wonder if I was wrong not to tell Ella. I thought it could open up an Aladdin’s cave of psychiatric bollocks, to use Ed’s word. The higher inanities are everywhere.
‘They kept you here for a couple of days just to calm down. Has it helped?’
‘I think so. As I said, I feel strange. I feel as though I have a clear picture of my situation, almost a vision. And thanks, Ed, for being such a pal. I can honestly say I don’t deserve it.’
I wonder whether the drugs my father took and those I have been given don’t have similar effects, a nudge off the true that produces some kind of spiritual understanding. I feel a current of affection flowing between Ed and me. It seems important to tap into this enhanced sensibility, but at the same time I know that all the absurdity and waste of my father’s life – his auras and revelations and cosmic love – were triggered by drugs. In his mind he had discovered the many mansions in God’s house. Perhaps I am suffering from the same delusion.
Ed possesses a sweet decency. We talk for an hour until a nurse comes in and declares that I need rest.
‘I’ll be back to you with the laptop. Would you like me to come and get you tomorrow or whenever they let you out?’
‘I would be very grateful.’
I am moved. Tears are pressing for release. It’s strange that nobody really knows why tears are set off by strong emotions. More and more, showing your emotions – having a good cry – is recommended, as it releases the tensions that are building within you. The analogy is with a volcano.
I slept and woke up again, two hours later, knowing that I had a long night ahead, a night troubled by drugs and inchoate fears. I dreamt of Richard imprisoned. I saw him held in Dürnstein. I heard the strains of Blondel’s songs, in the original Occitan, rising up to Richard’s chambers, which were sumptuous: he may be a prisoner, but he is still a king. Richard went to the Gothic window. Instead of singing along with Blondel, he sang C’mon, baby, light my fire. I saw medieval tapestries of hunting scenes, chunky furniture, a long table, a hawk sitting on a perch with an Arab hood over its eyes. On its legs were those leather tethers, jesses, I think they are called, with bells attached. I saw that my dream has a theme: the Lionheart imprisoned, Noor kidnapped, and me, held (am I held?) in a mental hospital.
It’s a lonely place to be at night. Nurses flit by from time to time, carrying medication. I fear the male nurses; I think they are the muscle. If I call for a taxi to take me home, I don’t believe they would be helpful; I think they would reach for the syringe. Someone is howling in a cubicle not far away. Her torment is pitiable.
When Ella comes to see me in the morning I am dressed and waiting in a grimly functional day room.
‘Ella, am I being held here?’
‘No, you are a voluntary admission.’
‘But I didn’t have a choice. Nobody asked me.’
‘You were in urgent need of treatment. You weren’t making much sense. But trust me, we are not going to section you or forbid you from leaving if you wish.’
‘But you could stop me leaving.’
‘In theory, if I thought you were a danger either to yourself or to the public, I could. But all I want to do today is to make sure that you are all right and to make sure that we support you properly in the unlikely event you need help. I just need to complete my notes. I am recommending that you are discharged tomorrow morning. Your friend Ed is coming to get you. He insisted.’
Ella takes me back over some aspects of my family history. What happened to my mother, for example. I answer her questions truthfully until she comes to the subject of Noor. Again I can’t tell her that I was sleeping with my half-sister; however enlightened Ella may be, she would be bound to refer to Freud, who believed everyone has the inclination to incest. Or maybe she would be familiar with Westermarck’s theory that young children, brought up in close proximity, related or not, develop a natural taboo against i
ncest. As Noor and I did not meet in childhood, there was no taboo. Or did we recognise, subconsciously, shared characteristics we were naturally attuned to, which is another theory about incest? How could any psychiatrist pass up the fun of exploring the dark secrets of our relationship?
But Ella is nothing if not reasonable. She seems chronically tired, but she is always patient and cheerful. She tells me again that it is highly unlikely I will have another episode, and that if I do I must go immediately for help, preferably here in the Warneford. She accompanies me on my obligatory walk. After just a few days of sedation I feel a bit shaky, and she takes my arm.
‘You said you would tell me about your wonderful marriage.’
‘Yes, I did. It is not so wonderful,’ she says.
‘Do you have children?’
‘No.’
We have swapped roles. She tells me that her husband has fallen in love with someone else. He believes that falling in love is not just an excuse; it’s an irresistible mystical event. Behind a yew hedge, I kiss her.
‘This is not very professional,’ she says anxiously.
‘No, but then I am not a professional.’
I hold her close for a moment. Obviously I haven’t quite moved to a higher plane.
‘Thank you, Ella, you have saved my life. Can we see each other, non-professionally?’
‘No. At least not in Oxford.’
‘Can I have another accompanied walk tomorrow?’
‘No. You are recovering well, I think.’
‘Yes, we non-professionals find the kissing cure works every time.’
Glancing around to make sure there are no gaps in the hedge, she squeezes my hand and slips her card into it.
‘Text me. My number is on the card.’
Her skin has surrendered some of that mortuary tone to the blush of sexual intrigue.
‘Ella, I honestly can’t imagine how any man could have left you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s true. I mean it.’
And I do. Patients often fall in love with their doctors.
When Ed comes for me – it comforts the administrators to know that you have at least one sane friend – his mind is on Lettie.
‘I spoke to Lettie last night, about our future or lack of it, but she asked me if my doubts were because she is seven years older than me, and of course I said no, no, no. Then she asked me what the problem was, and I said, which is partly true, that I needed to get back on my feet. And she said so I was just a little bit of light relief, fluff. Of course not, I said, no, not light relief; nobody could call you fluff, it’s not like that at all, but it wouldn’t be fair of me not to tell you the truth. It seems she didn’t want the truth.’
‘I kissed my psychiatrist.’
‘Where?’
‘Only on her mouth.’
‘I mean where in the hospital?’
‘Oh, we were behind a hedge in the garden.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Did you mean to use that word? The answer is “no longer”. I was certified sane, by Ella.’
‘After you kissed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus, as if your life wasn’t complicated enough.’
‘I’m fine.’
But then, as we get into Ed’s car, I begin to choke.
‘Don’t take me back, Ed. I am OK, really. It’s good to cry.’
‘I won’t take you back, Richie.’
Ed has a three-year-old Porsche, which the bank allowed him to keep. We roar away, although it’s difficult to roar in Headington. It is a stately sort of place.
15
Lords
My father’s admiration for Richard seems to have been born out of legend rather than history. What was he proposing to do with the document that he left in the urinal in Paris? His shambolic notes – mine are heading in the same direction – claim that there was incontrovertible evidence that Robin Hood and Richard met. I wonder if my father’s pal, Huntingdon, is still alive. Google reveals that he is, and that he often pops into the House of Lords if there is any talk of the European Union, which he detests. I write to him explaining who I am, and to my surprise he answers my letter promptly and invites me to lunch at the House of Lords. He remembers my father with affection.
Ed is certain that I need a suit for the occasion. He comes with me to Ede & Ravenscroft, in the High Street, astonished to hear that I have never had a suit, in the sense that the top half matches the bottom half exactly, and he feels he should guide me. He thinks a blue shirt will go well with the suit. I consider myself in the mirror, and I do have a lordly look. Ed insists on paying the bill. I take him aside, while the lugubrious man who has congratulated me on fitting perfectly into one of his suits, no alteration required, waits, tape measure around his neck: It doesn’t happen as often as you might imagine, sir. He admires it so much he offers a free college tie to complete the ensemble. He likes my college tie, because it is simple. Not too many griffins and escutcheons and so on, just a few subtle light blue stripes, sir.
‘Ed, I can’t pay you back, as you know. I had no idea a suit could cost so much.’
‘Pay me back when Richard the Lionheart comes in for you. Remember what you said, the genocidal, red-haired poofter was your meal ticket? Consider this an investment by me. By the way, the cuffs on the shirt are great, aren’t they?’
I haven’t noticed that they have some fancy detail on the inside which can be displayed by turning them back, to achieve the serious but informal look, that little touch of the dramatic. The atmosphere in the shop is equivocal: on the one hand the young gentleman must be accommodated, on the other, there is a suspicion that I may not be the sort of young gentleman they would like to serve, if they had a choice. The gentlemen they want, with their casually patronising self-assurance, have not been seen in numbers since my father’s day, but the myth of the English gentleman lives on. I feel they are looking right through my £800 suit and seeing the wee ghillie, his hands raw and his clothes smelling strongly of ash-smoked salmon. The scent clung to me for months.
The suit is placed within its own tent and handed to me carefully like a baby passed to the vicar at a christening. There is, it is true, something ritualistic about this suit buying and fitting.
‘He’s going to the House of Lords in this,’ says Ed, perhaps hoping to impress.
‘Good luck, sir.’
He says it as though he doubts that I will be well received.
Outside the peers’ entrance is the immense, rampant statue of Richard I. It is truly enormous, not just in the remembered impression of a boy. I imagine that every time Lord Huntingdon enters on important business, he basks in the knowledge that his unhistorical ancestor, Robin Hood, was a close chum of the Lionheart.
The entrance to the House of Lords is heavily protected, so that I am photographed and given a tag and passed through a metal detector, before being asked to sit and wait for his lordship, who is expecting me. Peers pass by, many of them former Members of Parliament, enclosed in an ineffable mist of self-regard. I think that, if you wanted to understand politics, you would need only to see the sort of people who are passing through here, eager to be important, eager to be recognised, eager to attach themselves to power and influence. The doors and screens and wallpaper and carpets are adorned with Augustus Pugin’s endless patterns of medieval Gothic motifs.
An usher calls me: Lord Huntingdon is here. He seems surprised to see me, as though he were expecting somebody more serious-looking, or generally older. Perhaps my suit is too new. His certainly isn’t: it is shiny with age, although this may be a desirable patina. The double-breasted jacket hangs very low; the vent at the back is under pressure from his comfortable backside, and gapes.
‘Ah Richard,’ he says, ‘how do you do and what jolly good fun to meet you. I am so glad you wrote.’
We shake hands. One of his eyes is a little glassy. It occurs to me that it might actually be glass. His face looks as though it has be
en lightly scorched on one side.
‘I was very fond of your father, you know. Shall we go through to the dining room? I can’t stand it: they have tried to become trendy and with-it, but they have mercifully left a few things on the menu that the old buffers can eat. Now it’s full of salad with goat’s cheese and raw tuna, and stuff like that. But I suppose we must move with the times.’
As we are shown to our table there is much Yes, milord and This way, milord and Is the table suitable, milord?
We order; he opts for the salmon fishcakes and I, who have taken an oath never to eat salmon again, order pickled razor clam risotto. Huntingdon looks concerned.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I think I will give the razor clams a go.’
‘They may give you a go.’
We laugh at his witticism.
‘I had a minor stroke last year, which accounts for my harlequin appearance. It’s not much fun getting old. I’m seventy-six. Lovely man, your father. Delightful. We were great muckers. Great muckers. You look like him, as a matter of fact. Now, what can I do to help? You said you are writing a thesis at Oxford.’
‘Well, thesis may be overstating it, but I am writing a paper on Crusader art. As of course you know, your ancestor was at Acre and other places during the Third Crusade. I just wondered if you had any historical records or recollections of your ancestor from that time.’
‘Look, the truth is we are not directly related to that Earl of Huntingdon in any way. The title was revived three times, but we do have some archives that go back a long way. It was mostly collected by my grandfather. Your father borrowed a document from the archive. When I gave it to him to show to experts, he managed to lose it. It wasn’t really his fault; I think we had had too much of the old magic mushroom the night before. I can’t say I blame him entirely. But there’s lots more that hasn’t been catalogued. My grandfather was very keen to establish that we were related to the first Earl, who was the grandson or son of the King of Scots, and he also bought all sorts of stuff about Robin Hood – there’s a whole network of Robin Hood loonies. He was sure he could discover a connection. A year ago we sent a few boxes to Oxford, and we have given some other things to a local museum. But there’s a lot more, and you could take a look at that. I would be grateful, as a matter of fact. It’s perfectly possible that my namesake helped himself to Crusader art, although the only things I believe we have from that time are the remains of some banners from Acre . . . oh, and some ghastly icons. I can’t stand icons. Do you like them? The women all look as though they have moustaches and the paintings are frightfully gloomy. Fat babies and depressed women, all in sepia, probably from the incense wafting about. Dreadful.’
Lion Heart Page 14