Mad Worlds (9 page)

John lay half-awake, musing on the grim times after Da's accident.

“Da's in hospital,” Ma says, “hurt bad.” Da's away ages. He's afraid Da's gone forever. Ma goes to visit twice a week, but the miners' hospital is two bus rides away, so on those days he and Dave do for themselves after school. Dave looks after him – takes him to football, includes him with the big boys. Ma says Da's getting better. Nights he hears her crying. He asks Dave about this, and is told “Go to sleep.”

Da comes home with no legs. The big wheelchair makes the living room look small. Prosthetic legs come. Da says, “Magic legs, my boys. I'll be a great big giant.”

Then Dave vanishes. For ages, he half thinks Dave'll burst through the door. He takes on Dave's paper round as well. Through all weathers on a big bike, he rages, feels the tears.

And there's no magic in the new legs. They're too short and Da keeps tumbling over. Ma wants to try and get another pair, but Da says not to fuss and learns to use the legs to get around the house.

After school he stays in for the household chores and doing homework, and often falls asleep downstairs before Ma's home.
They're real hard up, even with help from Miners' Relief and neighbours. Ma takes three jobs charring for families in the snobby part of town. He's proud of his Ma; wearing herself out to keep them going.

He blinked himself fully awake. A hand was gripping his shoulder. He glanced up. Black bulging eyes glared at him. Niven.

“Make sure Chisholm's awake, Tommy.” Macnamara's Irish brogue. “Doctor'll be coming soon.”

He didn't want to see anybody. He shut his eyes and lay still.

“Get the hell up!” A low voice, menacing. Niven threw the bedclothes off, jerked him up to a sitting position.

“The patient stinks, boss,” Niven shouted.

“Change the drawer sheet and the mac. Eddie, you take the man walkies.”

Maclean appeared beside Niven. “I'll take you to the bog. No funny tricks!”

Some chance. He closed his eyes and saw stars as a tug under each arm hauled him out of bed to standing.

“I'll manage, Tommy,” said Maclean.

He began to totter down the ward, glad of Maclean's support. He saw from the corner of his eye an old man with a shock of white hair, sitting up in bed and pointing at him – and it dawned. He looked down, to see that he was naked apart from the coarse pyjama jacket.

“My trousers,” he said. He felt the white-coat's grip tighten.

“You haven't got any yet. You've been too incontinent.”

Nausea hit him after a few steps. This exercise was tough, but worse was the pungent smell of urine, even stronger than the paraldehyde. Maclean halted him by the end of one of the beds. A pail stood half-f of stinking dark yellow liquid.

“Glaekit,” Maclean yelled. “Get this shit-pot emptied – and any others!” A young brown-coated man appeared, lifted the offending pail and walked off rapidly. “Damned orderly – it's his job,” Maclean muttered.

John was thankful to continue the walk. They went slowly until Maclean said “Here,” and guided him towards an opening between the beds. “The bog. I'll stay with you.”

Great cocktail. Piss and shit, plus disinfectant? A chain was pulled in one of the cubicles. He saw the brown-coated youth emerge with an empty pail and speed out onto the ward.

“I'm right here, laddie.” Maclean was talking to him. The shame of being watched like this!

Ablutions finished, he felt Maclean's grip tighten again as they walked back into almost welcome paraldehyde territory. He inhaled. Mustn't pass out!

At last, his bed. He flopped onto it, welcoming the bedclothes being pulled over him. He started to doze.

“Sit the patient up, Mr Macnamara!” A man's voice, like Panjit's. Ah, from the padded cell?

He was gripped under each arm and lofted to sit up. He sat, blinking at the white-coated man. A beard and a turban – like Panjit.

“This is Dr Singh, the psychiatrist,” said Macnamara, stepping back to let the doctor come nearer. Yes, the guy from the padded cell.

“Mr Chisholm, you have been very ill with pneumonia, and on a drip to give you nourishment,” said the doctor. “How are you?”

“Okay.” Slipped out automatically. He was anything but.

“We have also been worried about your mental state.”

So what? “Can I go home?”

“No, Mr Chisholm. You are a certified patient.”

A loony! He shut his eyes.

“Mr Chisholm, are you listening to me?” Like he was a naughty child.

“No.”

“You will be detained a long time while we treat your mental condition. After you have fully recovered from the pneumonia, you will be moved back to our Admissions Ward. Good day.”

Trapped. And they held all the cards. He saw the doctor and Macnamara move off down the ward, leaving Niven by the end of the bed. His minder?

He slid down the bed and curled into a ball. Befuddled. A word he'd seen in books, but never felt applied to him. His mind felt vacant – like his thoughts had been pulled out, into the ether somewhere. Maybe he was crazy, living out a nightmare.

The bedclothes were jerked back. “Wakey wakey.” Niven leaned over to whisper into his ear. “Sit up, you bastard, or I'll tear off all your clothes.”

John sat up, leaning his head against the bed railings.

“Boss says you've to drink this. I hold the mug and you drink.”

Well, what if it was poison? He gulped the liquid down. It tasted like water.

*

Over his remaining days in the infirmary, John endured being shaved each morning – by Niven, who said “Bloody hayfield” the first day. Pointing out he could do this himself now led to being grabbed by his pyjama jacket and told that “Patients never get razors.” The shave that followed was painful and bloody, but at least he felt cleaner.

He also experienced the Niven bed bath. “You mad bastard,” Niven kept muttering as he sponged, too vigorously.

“I can wash myself,” he protested, then endured agony as his crotch was squeezed. Like Sarge, Niven was for that dark alley someday.

On trips to the bog, he had to be accompanied, they said. Utter humiliation. After that first trip, he could walk unsupported.

The meals came – breakfast, lunch, tea – with monotonous regularity. There was nothing appetising about them – and the soup had to be dishwater – but he forced everything down. He must get his strength back.

He began to welcome the nightly paraldehyde. Could it be addictive? And the penicillin injections were important to his getting well. Macnamara had explained about this life-saving medicine.

That wasn't all Macnamara explained. One afternoon the Charge Nurse came across and sat beside the bed.

“How're you doing?”

Sounded like the man cared. “I'm getting stronger. Why was I in that cell?”

“You were out cold when you came to Springwell. They took you to Reception to complete the certifying, then, as you'd cut up so rough, put you into seclusion on the Admissions Ward.”

“Seclusion?”

“That's officially what being put in a cell is. It's padded so that you can't hurt yourself if you're violent, and you're put in there to help you cool off. We call it the cooler.” Macnamara smiled. “Sure, you can see why?”

John nodded. “‘Cooler' is a euphemism. You should try it.”

“Sure I have done – and I'd heartily agree. Then after a few hours they came to take you to a bed on Admissions, and you cut up rough again.”

“Hell, you should've seen them square up. And one of them had a syringe.”

“That would be in case you resisted, for sure. They knocked you out and put you back in the cell. But this time the doc said you'd to be watched, and visited once an hour. He didn't like you being there on your own too long.”

It was coming back. Doc would be Dr Singh.

“When they went in later, they saw you were breathing funny, gasping, and thought you were off with the angels. Lucky old Doc Burn was around – he's a GP, lives out here as his wife's a nurse on the female side. Doubles up on psychiatry, doing outpatient clinics. He diagnosed pneumonia, said it would be dangerous to move you into town as you could be dying.”

“Why didn't you let me die?”

“Sure, we don't want that. You were brought into Infirmary. We got you onto penicillin right away. After a bit longer for recovery, you'll be for the Admissions Ward, where they'll assess and begin treating you for the mental trouble.”

“When can I get out from Springwell?”

“I don't know. You're certified, and surely you'll be in a long while.”

“But I'm sane. What do they say's wrong with me?”

“You haven't been diagnosed yet. They said your behaviour was disturbed.”

Disturbed? “Well, I put up a fight.”

Macnamara glanced at his watch and started to rise.

A reminder. “Where's my watch?”

“In safe keeping. Could go missing if you kept it on your person. I've to go. One more thing – Doc Burn said to summon next of kin, and your wife was brought out to see you.” Macnamara stood up and started to walk away.

So he hadn't dreamed it.

Macnamara paused and turned. “She was very upset.”

Well… Maybe Heather did still love him. But it could have been an act. “I've been suspecting she doesn't love me anymore.”

But Macnamara had gone.

“Trouble with the missus, son?”

Two beds away, the old man with the shock of white hair was sitting up, gesticulating towards him. Must have heard something. Great privacy in here. “Who wants to know?” he shouted back.

“Fred. I've been on this ward longer than any. Had trouble with my missus. That's what brought me into these places.”

“Well, Fred. And –?” He twisted round to face the old man.

“I was in the Great War, joined up 1915. That damn Kitchener's poster! I came home on leave after Mons and found the missus in bed with a lout. I beat him up and left him for dead. Trouble was, the weasel did peg it some time after and the police said it was from the hammering I gave him. I'd given the wife a thrashing too. She was whining, said she wouldn't tell who'd beaten the lout up.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, she testified against me, said I'd gone right mad – and other things that wasn't true. But I'd gone back to France, went over the top at the Somme – so by the time the trial came I'd lost a leg and a lot more down below. The court said I was insane. Meant I didn't swing, but they put me in Broadmoor's infirmary. Then they reckoned I couldn't escape nor do no damage, and moved me in here.”

“Oh.” He wanted to say more, but his head was pounding and he sank down under the bedclothes.

Another patient appeared at the end of his bed. Looked familiar. It was the man who'd startled him the other day.

He sat up, and felt the bed being shaken, then the shaking stopped. The man stepped back and pointed at him, shouting “You,” before turning and going back down the ward – head bowed and muttering. The same routine as before.

“What's all that about?” he shouted to Fred.

“Poor bugger, Larry. Came onto this ward in 1952. He'd been in the infantry and got decorated at Monte Casino. But he'd gone around shagging Italian women and got the clap. They brought him here in a straitjacket. Made a right shindig till they silenced him with their dope. He's GPI.”

“What do you mean – GPI?”

“General Paralysis of the Insane – a nurse told me. There's a couple of other lads in here with it. They say if Larry'd had the medicine earlier he could've got better. But he's got worse. When he had your bed, I used to get right deafened with his swearing.”

So, it was nothing personal. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The sooner he got away from here, the better. “What happened to your wife, Fred?”

“Don't know. She divorced me long ago. And I don't want to know.”

John slipped down under the bedclothes again. His head was bursting. He drowsed until tea arrived. A generous though marginally edible offering. He gobbled the lot and finished by licking the rubber plate. Survive!

When Maclean came with the medicines, it was a relief to gulp down his passport to oblivion.

Cajoling Becky into accepting the spoonfuls, Heather could feel her resolve weaken. She and Becky didn't
have
to face the cold unwelcoming darkness at home tonight.

“You look fair played out, m'dear.”

“It's been a long day, Elsie.” Heather managed a smile. “Tea's helped revive me.”

Elsie's arms reached out. “Let me have the bairn. I'll change her nappy.”

“Thanks.” She passed the inert bundle across.

“Was everything all right with your folks, m'dear?”

This intruded. “Yes, Elsie – except that Mother had a bad headache.” She didn't want to start discussing her parents, even with her friend. Her resolve strengthened.

“Must be terrible that, m'dear. Sure you won't stay?” That concerned look.

“No, thanks. I must get on with things in the house.”

“Could I go ahead of you, lass?” said Mattie. “To take the crib and sort your lighting – while the bairn's being seen to?”

“Please, Mattie.” Managing the crib would have been okay, but that dark hallway was spooky.

Mattie went off with the key while Elsie helped Heather get her things ready and prepare Becky. “All's sorted, lass.” Gosh, Mattie'd been quick.

After the goodnights, she took the key and went with Becky to the empty house. The hallway radiated brightness. It was almost welcoming.

She carried Becky upstairs to the crib and stayed on in the bedroom. She didn't want to linger downstairs with the bloodstains on the carpet. Her eyes would surely keep being drawn to them. She'd tackle removing this gruesome reminder of what must have been an uneven gory struggle for John. But not tonight.

Fatigued yet restless, she lay watching Becky. When Mother similarly watched her all these years ago, was it pleasurable or a chore? No doubt Granny had done this (surely not as a chore) with Mother when a child, and with her. These motherhood thoughts were sustaining.

Lying under the bedclothes without John was strange and lonely. Not that there had been, for ages, even tenderness. But while his snoring kept her awake, it was a sign of being alive. Oh for that snoring now!

Through the night, Becky kept waking and needing nappy changes. Welcome relief from half-waking nightmarish thoughts and fears.

Gnawing at her was anxiety about John. She must get a visit.

Feet on the desk, Sam Newman was enjoying his cigar. Woodbines were his stock-in-trade, but this morning he'd splashed out.

He'd spent a boring half-hour yawning over a backlog of paperwork, then at nine o'clock the internal rang. The MOH. “Newman, come to my office now please.” Shit! At least the boss said ‘please'. Okay – he hadn't phoned Tickler. En route to the MOH's office, he rehearsed his excuse and braced himself.

But the Medical Officer of Health, beaming, greeted him with excellent news. “The Health Committee have agreed to the appointment of a second mental health officer. And from the first of July, you will be titled ‘senior', with one extra increment on your salary.”

“Thank you, Sir!” He couldn't have guessed this was coming. He accepted the handshake, got back to his room and slapped the desk. No, he hadn't misheard.

Five minutes had changed his world. Senior! He went straight to the tobacconist's.

Now he was savouring his recognition. It was well earned. And the killer workload would ease. He'd questions to ask. How would the incomer be recruited – and would he, Sam, have a say in this? Where would they put the man's desk (as his own room was too small to accommodate that)? But whatever, the world felt good.

He looked at his watch. Half-past nine. Better get on with the paperwork before the planet went mad. He stubbed the cigar and hunched over the desk again.

He was up to last Saturday. Missing the match had been a right downer. But Rovers lost seven-nil and his presence at the ground couldn't have worked the needed miracle. “One-way traffic,” the team coach said, “worst day of my life.”

So the trip to Springwell with the beautiful Mrs Chisholm had been a damn good alternative. Mrs C had been in a mess after, and would hardly speak, but then having your mate at death's door in the loony bin probably wasn't much fun. He'd felt for her. Like a father would – though boy, he'd love to get her into bed.

Saturday night, one call, but he hadn't needed to go out. Sunday, two calls. Only one a callout, ending in a woman agreeing to a voluntary admission. He'd been glad of the excuse to leave home for a while as Ella had been in a grumpy mood.

Ella. He laid his pen down and, leaning back in his chair, resuscitated his cigar. He puffed, enjoying the heady aroma. Ella was the other reason the world felt a better place. Monday, Tuesday and this morning, she'd been in good humour. Smiling at him. No mention of an affair. Even trying a few steps out of the wheelchair yesterday evening and laughing as she collapsed onto the settee. They'd kissed. Glimpses of happier times together. Of course it wouldn't last; the specialist said there would be ‘up' periods, though the long-term prognosis was grim.

The external phone rang. He snatched up the receiver. “Newman.”

“Mr Newman, it's Mrs Heather Chisholm. Please can you help?” Sounded desperate. “I want to visit John, but I keep getting blocked when I try to phone Springwell.”

He could picture her – naïve and seductive. “I'll do what I can when I'm next out there.” He'd love to be able to comfort her. He took down the phone number of Mattie's shop.

*

That afternoon, Newman had cause to visit Springwell. McNab rang. “High wire act, Sam. Trinity church caretaker, Bert Knowles, is on their tower with a loudhailer – says he'll jump.”

Why didn't they let him? “Okay – Tarzan coming.” He took details, carefully stubbed out his cigar and went straight to the car.

He arrived at the church to find a crowd being kept back by two policemen. The voice from the loudhailer was distorted and unintelligible. With a policeman's help, he pushed through, into the church, and gained access to the tower steps.

Dodgy this. Softly softly, or the guy might jump. Attract attention, invite an explanation. He could see through to the top now. Things had gone quiet. Maybe the guy had jumped. Then he saw the loudhailer and, holding it, the man.

“Hello,” Newman shouted. “I won't come any closer. I just want to hear what you're saying. The loudhailer isn't clear.” He had the man's attention – maybe.

“I am the Messiah, returning to my people.”

Delusional? Don't argue, or challenge in any way. “Yes, so you are the Messiah. Look, my name's Sam. What is your earthly name?”

“Bert. I have been told I am the Messiah.” The man was looking down at him.

“Bert, you've gone up high to tell everyone you're the Messiah? Not to jump or anything like that?”

“A space has been cleared for me below, so that I can throw myself down. The scripture says God will give orders to the angels, and they will hold me up, so that not even my feet will be hurt on the stones.”

Tough one, this. “Look Bert. You are the Messiah. You've proclaimed it, and people are listening. Do you think jumping down could seem like showing off? Though of course I'm sure you would not intend to show off.”

“I do not want to show off – just show people I am immortal.”

“But people will know you are immortal, as you are the Messiah.”

Bert had lowered the loudhailer and was still looking towards him. “Bert, another thing's struck me. If you jump, it could scare people, and make them run away, instead of welcoming you – which is what you'll want them to do.”

The man disappeared from view, surely to jump. He heard the loudhailer blare unintelligibly. He waited. Silence. Bert had jumped.

Then came a hoarse shout. “Sam, my disciple, you go ahead and clear the way. I am going through the door to meet my flock.”

“Will do, Bert.” He went down the steps, through the door, and waited with the police. His leg ached.

Poor guy, Bert – wrinkled, getting on. Looked bewildered as the police escorted him into their van. “Unhand me. I am the Messiah. Where is Sam, my disciple?”

Sam was in his car – and followed to ensure the emergency admission into Springwell. While he was there, he'd try getting Mrs C a visit.

The business finished – forms completed, Bert sedated – Newman's thoughts turned to Heather. Jock Mackenzie agreed to his using the internal phone and gave him the number he wanted. He dialled, his hand trembling.

“The Medical Superintendent's office. Miss Bewlay speaking.” Who else? A voice to rally the troops.

He explained his whereabouts and reason for ringing – reminding Miss Bewlay of last Saturday's visit and emphasising how distraught Mrs C. had been.

“Mr Newman, stay there and I will ring you.”

Well, she hadn't exploded. He told Jock what had happened and waited by the phone. After an age, it rang.

“The Medical Superintendent has consented to Mrs Chisholm paying another special visit. Her husband is recuperating in our Infirmary and will shortly be transferred to our Male Admissions Ward. It is permitted for Mrs Chisholm to visit the patient there on Friday 11
^th
May at two o'clock.”

Over a week? Still… “Thanks for your help. I'll pass that on today.”

As if he hadn't spoken, she continued, “Mr Newman, I assume you will escort Mrs Chisholm. You will please ensure she is in our Main Hall while the patient is brought down from the ward.”

That was a cheek, but he relished the idea of spending time with the luscious Mrs C. “Yes,” he replied, “though –” The phone had gone dead.

He had a laugh with Jock, then drove back to the office. He rang the shop to leave a message, and found he could give the news directly to Mrs C.

“Springwell have suggested I give you a lift – there and back,” he volunteered.

Silence. Was she turning him down? “Yes please. But you must be busy?”

“No problem. I'll call around one o'clock. If something does blow up, I could be late, even very late – but I'll still come. Okay?”

“Okay, thanks. I'll be ready whenever you come.”

He went back to his cigar. And his paperwork – though he abandoned this soon after, to luxuriate in dreaming about the lovely Heather Chisholm.