Mad Worlds (17 page)

Sam Newman sat at his desk, blowing smoke rings. Life wasn't so great now. Ella was in a bad spell, staying in her wheelchair, negative and accusatory. She'd been pretty upbeat for weeks; and he couldn't think of anything that triggered this downturn. She'd never be the Ella he married.

And Helen was walking out with another Woolworth employee – a man the same age as himself. Sam believed the guy was after one thing only.

At work he was now ‘senior', with an extra increment – and theoretically his workload would be reduced. Huh! The first problem was having to share his room – they'd crammed another desk in, facing his – with a raw newcomer DAO. Maybe he could put up with that, but scarcely with a non-smoker who kept sniffing and coughed all over the desks when Sam lit up.

And he hadn't been involved in the interviewing. The MOH and the Chief Admin Officer, with the Health Committee Chairman, had constituted the interviewing panel. Newman had asked the MOH if he could be involved, but was told he needed all the time for his job. He wasn't even consulted. And when he objected to room-sharing, the Chief Admin told him there was nowhere else. On complaining to the boss, he was told, “It will help Carter learn the ropes.”

Mary, in on the interviews taking notes, gave him the low-down. They'd interviewed two men. The one in his fifties was an ex-relieving officer under the Poor Law, and the young man a civil service clerk. The older man had some experience working with ‘mental folk', and Mary liked him (“reminded me of my dad”). The young man wore a three-piece suit and ‘talked smart'. She didn't like him. But sadly the panel – including, critically, the boss – did.

Newman hadn't warmed to his opinionated new colleague. And inducting him was burdensome. Carter talked too much and didn't listen enough. It would be ages before this rookie could be let loose independently into complex situations.

Last week the pressure heightened to near unbearable – particularly with a couple of sleep-wrecking emergencies. This week was no better, and last night he'd been out to a middle-of-the-night ‘domestic'. Neither party was mad – though after two hours' peacekeeping, he'd happily have whisked both off to Springwell.

It should make sense for him to teach his colleague know-how, but this guy was raw and totally unsuitable. Taking Carter on visits was a drag, though at least then the rookie obeyed the order to “Keep your mouth shut and stay in the background.”

Today, though, his new colleague was at Springwell for the morning, sitting in lectures with student nurses as part of being inducted. The room was blissfully devoid of idle chatter. He sat back, yawning and enjoying the smoke.

He found himself daydreaming again about Heather Chisholm. Maybe she still loved her loony husband. But he'd sensed a growing bond with her, and it had taken superhuman self-control to hang back from grabbing her when they last parted. She was beautiful, naively seductive – and vulnerable, needing help.

It was some weeks since he took her to Springwell. Visiting her – a wife distraught at her mad hubby being in a nigh-inaccessible loony bin – would just about be legit. Last he heard, hubby was given ECT big time and she hadn't been to visit again. Odds were the poor sod would be in forever, but she didn't have to know that.

Nothing had come in. Still short of nine-thirty, and he didn't have the inhibiting presence of that fool. He stubbed out his fag. He'd ring the shop to check Mrs C was at home.

He got the number from his diary and reached towards the phone, then paused. That damn circular last week from the Chief Admin about making only urgent phone calls in the morning, when rates were dearest. He couldn't ignore a memo from the boss's right-hand man. And he did not want to broadcast this visit.

He left a message with Mary – “Out on a visit, back soon” – then drove to 90 Green Drive. There was no reply.

Over at the shop, Mattie told him, “Mrs Chisholm works at the nursery where the bairn is.”

Mattie's wife emerged from the back-shop. “Come in here, Sir.”

He didn't want a conversation. “Thanks, I won't. I'm busy. It's a flying visit to ask how Mrs Chisholm's coping while her husband's in Springwell.”

Those eyes, compassionate but searching. “I'll tell her you called, Sir. She'll be sorry to have missed you.”

He mustn't give any clue he was attracted to Heather. “Tell her she does not need to contact me. I'm hard to catch anyway.” He drew breath. The woman was half-smiling, as though she'd guessed the real reason for his visit. Damn, he never was any good at acting. “And I'll be in touch only if there's anything she needs to know.” Was it hot in here?

“Thank you, Mr Newman.”

She remembered his name. “Must dash. 'Bye.” He turned and exited the shop as fast as his limp allowed. He'd better hold back on this for a while.

On Tuesday evening, Heather had got two messages via Elsie. Mr Newman called to ask how she was. Nice of him, and she felt a tug towards the man. Though Elsie voiced caution. “I think he might like you, m'dear, just a little too much.”

And that afternoon, Charge Nurse Parker had rung suggesting she meet him on Friday evening to discuss John's condition. He'd be happy to call at her house, sometime after seven p.m. “Sounded a nice gentleman, m'dear, caring for John. And thoughtful, as he said it might be better if he came to your house – easier for you, with having the baby to look after, and there'd be privacy for him to tell you about John. Said he'd ring back for your answer on Thursday between one and two p.m.”

She agonised over whether to accept. She wanted to hear from someone so involved in caring for John. But how much could she trust a total stranger? Why did he suggest meeting, rather than asking her to ring? Was it because he really cared? Or was he trying to date her? Or was it a mix of both? She was too cautious. What was the harm in the man coming to the house with news she craved?

Elsie offered to have Becky. But in the event, she didn't need Elsie's help.

Lacklustre and clingy all week, Becky had been hot and running a temperature overnight. This morning the doctor said it could be measles (though there wasn't a rash) and prescribed penicillin.

A faint tapping? On the door? Yes. “Come in, Elsie.” A welcome visit. She wanted to speak to her friend, but daren't risk leaving Becky alone – or taking her out of the ‘constant room temperature' the doctor advised.

“Just a quick call to ask how Becky is, m'dear.”

She told Elsie what the doctor said and led her to where Becky was asleep. “Poor wee soul,” Elsie said. “You must be worried sick.”

“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.

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.

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.

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 over. “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.