Mad Worlds (16 page)

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.”

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.

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.

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, he 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.

Whisky – the old medicine. His dad used to boast about being reared with a nip in the gruel. Now he, Ready Parker, had drained this whole bottle. He hurled the empty at the blank wall facing him. Like a mine or a bomb – splinters all over the place!

A hell of a shock, that telling-off was. But he was a survivor, always came through. Gawd, he would burst. He pulled himself out of the chair and staggered across the splinters to the bog. Just in time to stop peeing his pants. That was better. He tugged the chain and sat down on the bog – too early.

But the cold water gave him a thrill. He chuckled, then roared, as he slithered onto the bathroom floor. Suspended – getting paid for doing nothing. Bugger Springwell. Up the Red Lion! And he lapsed into oblivion.

The Shocker was now part of John's life. The blasting and battering didn't seem so bad. White-coats told him what to do and he complied. Each day, it was the same routine – meals, trudges round the airing courts, that welcome smelly medicine to help him sleep. Sometimes he remembered names, other times not. Images of people and incidents were fuzzy. These neither bothered nor interested him much – like he was anaesthetised.

Every few days, he was treated to a variation from the routine. He was jostled into readiness for a hygiene ritual. They called it ‘bathing' (“The ‘a' as in ‘bath' – in case you get the wrong idea,” said Mullen). With fellow patients, he was lined up in single file, marched out of the ward to a large area with baths in it, stripped naked and (overseen by a white-coat and a brown-coat) ordered to stand waiting.

When his turn came, he was nudged to sit in a bath of water. Being sponged while sitting in cold water wasn't a great experience. It was better when they gave him the sponge. At least the ritual ended quickly. They'd pass him a towel, with an order to dry himself pronto.

Somehow, all this didn't seem too mortifying. He didn't protest. Even when one sadistic white-coat sponged his genitals and bum roughly, then rubbed them dry. Even when he was told to get into water where pieces of shit floated.

Through this and the other routines and rituals, however humiliating, he obeyed the orders. He survived.

Sarge was back. The brute stamped out of the office, barked a command and went back in again. A white-coat came over. “Chisholm, I've to get you into the office to see the consultant psychiatrist, the god.”

John shuffled along beside the white-coat. The psychiatrist, the god? He'd a bad feeling about this. He could see Sarge (one name he hadn't forgotten) sitting in the office. The white-coat stopped outside the door and knocked. “Bring him in,” he heard, and felt his elbow gripped as he was propelled inside.

“Chisholm, Sir.” The white-coat stood to attention.

“Yes, Mr Clark. I know this son of a witch.” Sarge stood leering. “He's the creature with that nice whore of a wife. I'll be giving her one soon.”

“Sir.” Clark was unsmiling.

Sarge laughed. “Not that he'll ever be able to.”

The door opened. “Mr Parker, good day.” The turbaned man.

What was his name?

“Mr Chisholm, you may remember me. I am Dr Singh.”

His thoughts were being read? But he'd a good feeling about this man.

“Sir, I expected –” Sarge had turned to face the doctor.

“Yes, I too expected my superior back today. But sadly he is still unwell and I am instructed to act in his place. May I use your seat, Mr Parker?”

“Yes Sir.” Sarge stepped back. “The file is on the desk.”

“Thank you.” The doctor sat down and studied the file.

John could feel Clark relaxing the grip on his elbow. The doctor frowned at something, then looked up at Sarge. “He has had a lot of ECT in a short time. Have you observed any effects?”

“Sir, this has curbed his violent behaviour. Isn't that so, Mr Clark?” Sarge was standing at ease.

“Sir,” said Clark.

The doctor glanced from one to the other, then looked at John. “How are you feeling, Mr Chisholm?”

“Dazed.”

“I am not surprised,” said the doctor. “You have had twenty-four ECT doses this past two months – which is a lot. One short-term effect is on the memory.”

Spot on, Doctor. I've already forgotten your name.

“How is your mood now – are you still depressed?”

Well he wasn't great, but he wasn't bent on doing himself in. And he was sure he had been. “Not as much.”

Sarge coughed. “Chisholm, address the doctor as ‘Sir',” he barked.

“No.” The quietly-spoken doctor had shouted? “Thank you, Mr Parker, but I do not wish to be called ‘Sir'. Mr Chisholm and you and your staff may, if you wish, call me Dr Singh or simply ‘Doctor'.” The doctor smiled, looking at Sarge, whose face had reddened. “I do apologise if I shouted just now. I wish both patients and staff to communicate with me without such an unnecessary barrier.”

He heard Clark shuffle, and felt his elbow shake. Could the man be giggling?

“So you are not as depressed, Mr Chisholm. That at least is good. ECT is often useful for depression, though we usually give fewer doses. ECT will cease. Now.”

“But –” began Sarge.

“No more ECT, I said.” Thank God – an end to the electrical torture. The doctor wrote something on the file, then looked up.

“Yes – Doctor.” Sarge spat this out slowly, with emphasis.

“Mr Chisholm, I know your diagnosis. I wish to check what disturbances you have been having in your mind. Do you hear voices that you cannot account for?”

“No.”

“Your wife, Heather. Do you still believe she is having an affair?”

Wife – Heather. Yes, he could picture his beautiful wife, those soft brown eyes gazing up at him. “I'm not sure, can't think.”

“Try to relax, Mr Chisholm, and think. You believed your wife was having an affair with a man. Can you recall why you thought this?”

Sarge cleared his throat very audibly. “Sir, Doctor –.”

“Ssh, Mr Parker,” said the doctor. “Can you remember, Mr Chisholm?”

He struggled to think. It began to come back. “She was distant, like she didn't want to know me.”

“I see. And have you control of your thoughts?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you ever feel your thoughts are being read, or stolen?”

Bang on. “Yes.”

“Can you give me an example?”

He struggled to recall. Fog swirled in his head. “No.”

“Thank you, Mr Chisholm.” The doctor made a note on the file, and looked up again. “I am prescribing you new medication. Chlorpromazine is quite a recent drug which has proved helpful to many people who suffer similar disturbance. It is more commonly known as Largactil.”

Surely an improvement on electrical torture. “Thanks.”

“Also, I am taking you off paraldehyde. Largactil is one of what we term the tranquillisers and will provide enough sedation. I will put you on a low dosage, as you do not appear to manifest some of the worse symptoms of schizophrenia, and this will reduce the possibility of side-effects.”

The doctor glanced at Sarge, who was coughing. “You are not choking, Mr Parker?”

“Sir – Doctor.” The reply sounded laboured.

The doctor looked back at John and smiled. “Either I or the consultant will review in one month. Before you go, is there anything you wish to ask me?”

Of course. “When can I get out?”

“I cannot say. You are detained and will be here many months while we treat you for your breakdown.”

A breakdown – awaiting a restart. Sounded too simple.

The doctor turned to Sarge (whose impassive face was an unusual red, flecked with purple). “I have finished with Mr Chisholm. What activity will he return to?”

Sarge stood erect. “He will be escorted to the airing court – Doctor.” This sounded like the announcing of a sentence. “Mr Clark – take the patient there.”

“Sir.” The grip on his elbow tightened and he was escorted out.

*

Parker slammed the door behind the doctor, the high-and-mighty that looked and spoke funny. A fucking nerve this turban-and-beard, a lowly registrar, had, swaggering into his office, telling him – the charge nurse, and boss of Admissions – to say ‘doctor' instead of ‘sir'. Insulting bugger. Should be sent back to where he belonged. They'd got above themselves, should never have been given independence. He walked round his desk, swearing. The god would be back soon and he, Ready Parker, would complain about this ‘doctor'.

And the namby-pamby way this ‘doctor' treated the patient! Taking the hooligan off the Shocker, when it was serving its purpose. This teacher snob, nutty as a fruitcake, was trouble, and one patient he'd vowed would suffer when he got back from suspension.

Mrs C, Heather, was juicy by all accounts. Ages since he had a woman. The last one was that student nurse Aileen – gone now, thank God. Threatened to report him, the silly bitch. She asked for it, and no way could she have proved anything.

Greying hair needn't be a problem. It gave him that mature distinguished look. The ‘foul breath' that Aileen said disgusted her wasn't a problem either. Chlorophyll tablets sorted that for special occasions. He still knew how to charm a girl and give her a good time. With a ‘softly softly' approach, he'd have it off with Mrs C. She should be hungry for it by now, unless she had a fancy man. And he would teach that teacher, give him every detail of what he did to her.

Friday was her day off. He'd ring, tell her about hubby and try to meet up. Ready the lady-killer. Yes, but he'd have to go careful. An affair with a patient meant the sack; an affair with a patient's wife could be dodgy too, if anyone found out.

Maybe the suspension hadn't done any harm. The Chief had investigated, and recommended he be reinstated with immediate effect. Hallman was okay – coming in for a whisky one night and telling him he'd be in the clear. But the Med Super had insisted the Management Committee must decide – to try and shut up that bloody colonel brother. He'd never liked colonels, but they had to be obeyed. By the time the Committee – a load of figureheads that knew nothing about loonies – met, weeks had passed. It was last Friday evening and the Chief had come straight round to confirm. Over a whisky, the boss agreed he would start duty Sunday at seven a.m.

Not that the waiting was all bad. Being paid for doing nothing was all right, and the Red Lion was okay, with Flowers Keg Bitter and the darts.

And that stuck-up toff was in Infirmary. Good riddance.

He sat down at his desk. Without a stain on his record, he was back. Boss of Admissions – the best job in nursing, apart from up the hierarchy. The Chief, over last Friday's whisky, had confirmed he was in line for the assistant chief job when Porter went. And the Chief added with a wink, “Ready, you'll remember I'm going too next year.” His career was on track.