Donald’s eyes fell from the walls and the windows of the façade, to the shadow of the figure stood in the doorway.
“I’m Dr Alistair Woodrow and I’m the director of the Ambleside Clinic. I’ll be looking after you during your stay with us.” The man said reassuringly. He knew from years of experience that first impressions were never more important than when a new patient arrived at the clinic… it was the reason he’d been so against Donald’s late arrival but his old friend had been so insistent.
“When can I go home?” Donald asked ungratefully. There was something about the place that unsettled him and he’d not even set foot inside the building.
Dr Woodrow smiled, as he stood to one side and beckoned Donald forward.
“Well, not until the morning. At least spend the night here and then you can decide.” He said amiably. He’d seen the same look of uncertainty many times before and a good night’s sleep followed by a bright new day had usually reassured his patients that the clinic wasn’t as foreboding as it might seem at first glance.
Perhaps it had been a blast of cold air sweeping up from the lake or maybe something… a ghost from the past, had been stirred by Donald’s late arrival but whatever the cause, a sudden shiver ran the length of Dr Woodrow’s back causing the director to shake uncontrollably.
“Are you alright doctor?” Donald asked thoughtfully.
“It’s nothing Donald just the night air… come on now let’s get you inside, into the warmth.” Dr Woodrow gently guided his new patient into the clinic and drew a veil over the past.
“So I don’t have to stay if I decide not to? I only ask because the wall looked very daunting and too high to climb, so escaping would seem to be impossible.”
“Let me assure you Donald, the only escape we desire is the one that will free your mind from the shackles that are presently blinding your consciousness and preventing you remembering your past. If you will allow us, I hope that when you next walk through the gates at the bottom of the drive, you will do so as your real self.”
Donald, like he’d done every day in Cromarty, woke early, as the daylight flooded into his bedroom through the open window.
The room had been warm and stuffy when he’d finally retired, and feeling a little claustrophobic, he’d pulled back the plain green curtains and pushed open the sliding sash window. Now, as he pulled the sheet over his head and retreated into the heart of his own warm cocoon, he wished that he’d not been so cavalier…
Most of the clinic had been in complete darkness, as he’d been shown directly to his room with only the lights in the grand hall and landing having been left on for his arrival and after a brief introductory chat with Dr Woodrow, who on the face of the evidence Donald had thought to be a pleasant, reasonable man, he was left in the solitude of his room. The doctor had said nothing about being locked in his room, in fact he’d been quite adamant that at Ambleside just the opposite was true, but as he stood alone, with his heart pounding he’d nevertheless waited expectantly for the sound of the key turning in the lock.
Hearing nothing… not one single note of metal scrapping against metal, Donald had walked across the carpeted floor and stood with his hand welded to the wooden door knob before slowly turning the handle and gently tugging the door. With as much surprise as relief, the door slid silently ajar and hearing the sound of footsteps on the landing outside, he’d poked his head around the bedroom door just in time to see his host disappearing through another door at the far end of the landing.
After all the false expectation of his incarceration, sleep had come easy and he’d very quickly drifted away into another world… a world in which there was a nameless man … a world where someone called Martha never existed… and a world where he’d never been attacked and injured.
Living and breathing within this new dream world, he’d made himself a promise that he would remember everything so that in the cold light of day, he’d be able to recount his experiences and his memories… but in the morning, when he’d opened his eyes, all the details and characters that had seemed so real as he’d slept, had vanished in the flash of bright sunlight.
“Good morning Donald. How did you sleep?” Dr Woodrow asked, as he sat down opposite his new patient.
“So well that I don’t remember my head touching my pillow, and then the next sound I heard was a bird singing outside my window and the sunlight was streaming inside the room.” He replied, taking another sip of tea to wash down the toast and marmalade, which had been his breakfast.
He’d decided to keep his dream to himself until such time as he’d revisited the subconscious world of his sleep and had gathered more tangible memories of his experience and who he might be.
“You don’t seem to have had much to eat this morning, is that normal for you or are you just being polite?” The doctor asked, whilst pouring himself a cup of tea. “You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” He asked as an afterthought, but continued to add the milk and sugar to the teacup.
“No, not at all… should I?”
“Well it’s your choice… as is everything we do here. Like I said to you last night, there are no bars at this clinic, you are here because you want to be and if you don’t want to stay, then you are free to leave… but I hope I can persuade you to stay a while longer.” He added quickly with a reassuring smile. “I thought I could show you around the clinic this morning and introduce you to some of our other guests and staff. Then maybe after lunch you might like to explore the extensive grounds or maybe go into Ambleside for a look around the town. I know our cook is planning one of her regular daily visits and I’m sure she’d be more than happy if you wanted to tag along.”
“Err yes… whatever you think best.”
“Excellent, well I have a little paperwork to finish first, so shall we say ten o’clock in your room?”
It had been a masterful performance in putting Donald at ease. Dr Woodrow understood that most of his patients reacted best if they were treated like children. Tell them they couldn’t do something and they’d go out of their way to prove you wrong… allow them the freedom to leave and they would invariably complete their treatment plan.
Of course there was always an exception to every rule, but he’d tried to forget that particular blot on the clinic’s exemplary record and had blanked it from his mind by repeatedly telling himself that the man should never have been sent there in the first place.
Donald watched the doctor leave the restaurant, like a canary watching the family cat. On his journey south, in between his dreaming or maybe as part of his dreams, he’d thought about declining any treatment, of turning round and going straight back to Martha and the new life he’d started to make for himself. Unfortunately, the whole ambience surrounding the clinic and the sight of the house, which had appeared out of the dark like the set of some gothic horror film, had only served to heighten the feeling that he was slowly and inexorably disappearing into some bottomless pit of despair.
But in the bright light of a new day, as he was left to finish his breakfast in peace, he thought he might give Dr Woodrow the benefit of the doubt and hear what the man had to say… after all he had nothing to lose and he could always leave tomorrow. Maybe he’d just stay in Ambleside and ask Martha to come and join him. But whatever he decided, Donald knew that this time it was going to be his decision… not Dr Woodrow’s and certainly not Dr Monroe’s.
The clinic itself was more a grand house than hospital. The treatment areas had been designed to put the guests at ease, to allow them and their minds the chance to relax and recuperate in the most conducive environment. Unlike the hospital in Inverness, the clinic was warm and inviting. The stark white walls had been replaced by comforting colours of reds, browns and greens.
There was no utilitarian hospital furniture, everywhere the polished sterile steel and plastic had been usurped by dark woods and country fabrics, which seem to litter the rooms and passageways like a photo-shoot in Country Life. Plush carpets covered the
floors and the only linoleum that dared show its face was in the kitchens, where cleanliness and sterility were fundamental to the patient’s well-being and to the demise of the property’s resident mouse population.
If the décor and contents had been specially chosen to relax and recuperate disturbed minds, the lighting which was so important to the ambience of any building had been designed to reflect and enhance the soothing nature of the interior. By day, the large windows allowed the natural light to flood into the rooms, creating a bright and cheerful environment, whilst after dusk the house was bathed in subtle yellow and cream tones, which radiated out from a plethora of lamps and chandeliers. Gone were the mile upon mile of garishly flickering fluorescent tubes that most hospitals relied upon, but which only served to turn every ward into an institution… and the Ambleside Clinic was as far removed from Broadmoor, as it was from Cromarty.
Dr Woodrow was as good as his word and at just after ten o’clock introduced Donald to the other members of his team. At Ambleside, Donald quickly learnt that there was no demarcation between staff and guests. Everyone looked the same and there wasn’t a white coat or stethoscope to be seen anywhere.
“Don’t look so worried Donald.” Dr Woodward had reassured him. “If you become ill we are all qualified doctors here and we have all the necessary equipment on hand to treat any complaint or ailment… it’s just that at Ambleside we believe that our guests are more important than our egos… all those are left at the gates, together with that other badge of medical office, the white laboratory coat. Inside the clinic I hope you will understand that you are the most important person here and if you leave without …”
“What… being cured?” Donald interrupted, as if he had some unmentionable social disease.
“No Donald, I wasn’t going to say that. You see you’ve got nothing to be cured of. You’re not ill, you don’t have a disease, there’s no infection to fight or body part to replace or remove. What you have is far more complicated than a mere illness.
Look, I like to think of it like this… inside your brain there are billions of electrical connections and miles and miles of wiring. Somewhere for whatever reason, some of your wiring has become crossed and some of your electrical connections have failed. Now we can’t fix those physically with an operation but we can… if we can find out where the blockage or damage is, try to re-route your wiring and make new connections. Your brain is the most amazing and wonderful part of your body you know… I’ve been studying it and working with people like yourself for years and I probably still only understand a small fraction of how it all works.”
“What happens if the connections, which have been damaged, cannot be repaired?” Donald asked quietly, as he considered everything that Dr Woodrow was explaining to him.
“Well… I can’t give you a guarantee about anything… no one can. But if you want to try and recover your memory I will give you all the help I can. It’s all still in there Donald.” He said pointing to Donald’s head. “Just think about that for moment… everything you have ever seen or heard is locked away inside your head. It’s not a photograph that’s digitally stored on magnetic tape like in a computer… it’s something altogether more complicated whilst at the same time being beautifully simple… it’s just human tissue and chemical reactions and as clever as we humans think we are, we could never engineer such a biological structure.” The doctor let Donald absorb his thoughts. “It’s a magical conundrum isn’t it Donald… our brains, which are such amazing structures, are not so amazing that they can reproduce themselves. That can only be done by the invisible forces of nature.”
“I… I’ve never thought about any of that before.” Donald’s mind raced away in all directions, as he struggled to understand the significance of what he was being told. “But if you know so little and we could never build a brain… how are you going to help me remember?”
“Ahh! That is the million dollar question, isn’t it? Now before I answer that, there’s another altogether more important question that needs to be answered. You see this will be a journey for both of us, but before we can start… you need to be sure about one thing, because if you’re uncertain about the reason for the journey then it will all be a waste of time.”
“What’s the question doctor?” Donald asked… now he was really mystified. So far the clinic had broken every misconception he had about what might be going to happen to him and now the doctor seemed to think that one simple question could be the key to his recovery.
“The question Donald… and I want you to consider this very carefully during the rest of today and then give me your answer tomorrow morning after you’ve slept with your thoughts. The question is… do you actually want to recover your memory?”
Donald looked perplexed at the question. He hadn’t known what to expect but it wasn’t that. Surely everyone who came to the clinic wanted to recover their past… to know who they really were, what they were like, who their friends and family were.
“I don’t understand… why am I here if it’s not to remember?”
“That’s what I want you to carefully consider Donald. In the end, you have only what you know now upon which to make your decision. Obviously if you had some memory of your past life it would be easier for you, there would be clues or hints as to what you might expect if you made a complete recovery but when you have no past thoughts, no recollections then going back might be like winning the lottery or it might be like being consigned to the torments of hell.”
“I don’t know what to say… I…”
“That’s why you need to think about the future, to see if your past has any relevance to it and then we’ll talk again tomorrow.” Dr Woodrow stood up, as if to signal the end of the session, leaving Donald seated and slightly bemused by the whole conversation.
“Oh I nearly forgot, cook says she’s leaving for the town at twelve-thirty, she’ll be gone a couple of hours and if you want a lift to have a look around, meet her outside the front entrance just before… now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”
Bemused by Dr Woodrow’s candid approach, Donald returned to his room and grabbed his coat. He hoped that a brisk walk around the gardens and the grounds of the estate might clear his head and give him a chance to digest what he’d been asked to consider.
From the rear terrace he could just see the lake through the lea of the tall trees and felt inexorably drawn to the flat calm water, just as he had been to the beach and the seals in Cromarty. Perhaps the attraction was a symptom of how he felt… the water, like his own self had an external reflection that belied what was really going on beneath the surface. The seals were like his memories, when they were basking on the shore, he could see them and understand them, but as soon as they dived under the surface then like his past, they disappeared from sight. Whatever the explanation he knew the water was where he wanted to be right at that moment.
As he wandered down the grassy slopes to the shore of the lake, he couldn’t stop thinking about the question, which Dr Woodrow had posed and which was now planted and growing in his head like some cancerous tumour. If only Martha had been nearby, he knew he could have asked her for advice but then he guessed that’s why the clinic was so remote… if there were any distractions he might never find what he’d lost or worse still he might make the wrong decision… a decision he was supposed to have made before he next saw Dr Woodrow.
On the shore of the lake he stood and watched the boats sailing up and down the water. He thought about the people he could see on board and knew that they would all have a past… that they would all have memories of their childhood, of growing up… maybe even families and children but what he couldn’t work out was whether they were any happier for that knowledge.
He knew he’d been happy living with Martha and working in the garden… did it matter if he had been happier before? Would a past life make Martha a different person… probably not he thought to himself, as he picked up a stone and skimmed it acr
oss the water… but it might make him think about her in a different way and that troubled him. What if he had a wife, who he’d loved as much as he thought he loved Martha, what would happen then? One thing was certain, whatever memory he regained, he’d not lose those memories he currently had and that was a conflict he wasn’t yet prepared for.
He picked up another flat stone and skimmed it out into the lake. Like the conundrum posed by Dr Woodrow it bounced along the surface of the water before finally plopping under the surface into the dark silent depths.
“So what do you think?” The woman asked Dr Woodrow, as they stood on the terrace at the side of the house and watched their new guest walk down towards the lake.
“I’m not sure. According to William Monroe, he walked into a local hotel and just collapsed. The hospital said he’d either been in a bad car accident or had been beaten nearly to death… they assumed most of his head injuries were as a result of being kicked.”
“Ooh… nasty. Presumably they didn’t find anything out about him?”
“Nothing. But the result of the beating was a total loss of memory and he hasn’t shown a flicker of a flashback since… well nothing of any consequence according to his consultant.”
“So whose idea was it for him to come here?” Woodrow’s colleague asked.
“It was William’s. If I’m honest I only agreed to see him because we go back a long way… I’m not even sure that Donald had any say in his coming here, so that’s the first hurdle we face.”
“Do you think he wants to remember and if he does what do you think his chances are?”
“I don’t know. All William told me on the phone was that he seemed to be getting close to the daughter and was content to work as a gardener and handyman. If he was a brain surgeon in his previous life, he hasn’t shown any inkling to go back to it but the consultant at Inverness did make a comment that his hands weren’t the hands of a general labourer… they were too soft for him to have done any sort of hard manual work. His best guess had been white collar with maybe an interest in gardening and DIY or someone who used their brains and hands in equal proportions and maybe worked outdoors for part of the time.”
Stranger at the Wedding Page 18