Authors: Graham Swift
After our set-to over the television, for example, I did not let the boys come in from their punishment in the garden till after night-fall. Not only did they have to search for non-existent stones but they had to do so in the dark as well. When Marian tried to go out to fetch them in I held her by the arm. It was not until nearly nine – a good half-hour after dusk – that I went out myself to
have the satisfaction of seeing their bewildered, chastened faces as they trooped in.
And now, a few hours later, in bed, because of this (in her view) excessiveness on my part, Marian was once more questioning my threat to have our television removed – not with the bluster of our earlier row in the kitchen, but with the neat, just and almost disinterestedly expressed argument that since I had already made my point by my stern penalty, wouldn’t it be going too far to confiscate the television as well?
All the time Marian was pleading in this way I was making adjustments to her body and manoeuvring her limbs into one of my favourite positions for love-making. I won’t go into exact details; it is something developed over the years which requires a little setting up. Marian is quite accustomed, almost indifferent to these preparations. She lies back, lets me continue and lets herself go like putty. I was determined, you see, to take my consolation for a taxing day.
She kept on talking. ‘So I’m not taking that television back,’ she concluded, firmly – though hardly in a posture that went with command. It was rather as if she were saying (it’s a kind of argument which Marian is always, in a way, silently, wearily advancing): ‘See what I’m letting you do to me, I don’t resist one bit, I let you go ahead – and you still want everything your own way.’
‘All right, all right,’ I said. I had almost finished my adjustments, had become quite aroused in the process, and now the matter of the television seemed not so important after all. I was ready to take my place in the structure of flesh I had been building.
‘Now –’ I said.
And then Marian said: ‘Tough’ – in a quite mild voice. ‘I haven’t put my doo-dah in.’
When Marian says her ‘doo-dah’ she means her diaphragm. I looked her in the face – which was not, in fact, in our present position, such an easy action. I knew she was probably lying. But I didn’t risk it. Martin and Peter are enough by themselves.
I held out for a few more, tormented seconds. I thought to myself: now is the time when I could tell her about my promotion. This might break the impasse. Then she might say: ‘Oh – it’s all right darling – I’ve got my doo-dah in really’ – and give some coaxing wiggle.
But I didn’t. I said: ‘I’ll bloody well take the television back myself.’
Today –
But you will have gathered by now that I am writing all this as thoughts come to me and as things happen. I have broken off since I last wrote, time has passed, and when I say ‘today’ I mean, of course, today, a day later – Wednesday to be precise. I don’t know that I ever intended to put pen to paper again, or, indeed, to write as much as I have already. It all began when I remembered my hamster in the Tube and I had this urge to set down my feelings and try to account for them. It’s strange, I’ve never really wanted to put them on paper before. And
then it seemed, no sooner had I written that first confession than there were lots of other things that had to be examined and written down – and now I’m at it again. I don’t know where it’s getting me. It’s not as if anything extraordinary is happening. But I feel I have to go on.
Today I went to visit Dad. I go to see Dad most Wednesday evenings, and often on Sundays too. Dad lives in a mental hospital. It’s fair to use the word ‘lives’ because he has been there now for nearly two years. He is not insane, you understand. Most people who live in mental hospitals are not insane; they just have, like people in ordinary hospitals, some particular thing or other wrong with them. If you saw Dad now you would see nothing alarming. Quite the opposite. He is an upright, robust, distinguished-looking man in his late fifties. He has always had a good physique, a strong, intelligent, photogenic face – like the face of some seasoned explorer or mountaineer – and all these imposing features, this statuesque quality, are now, if anything, accentuated. But nearly two years ago he had some sort of sudden breakdown, as a result of which he went into, for want of a better word, a kind of language-coma. I haven’t heard Dad speak since. For two years I have been visiting this silent shell. That is all that is odd about him. Now the doctors say that there is no physical reason that they, at least, can discover why Dad shouldn’t speak. In that sense his condition is ‘psychological’. But what they don’t know for certain is whether Dad can understand anything of what is spoken to him or if he can even recognize people around him. In order to know that, Dad would have to be able to tell them. Oh, I speak to Dad myself, of course. I have long, rambling conversations with him – like Marian with her plants – in which I even reply to things which I suppose Dad might have
said. But all I ever see in his eyes is a filmy gaze, fixed on the distance, which now and then settles on me as on some curious object. And all that ever emerges from his lips are inarticulate sounds – coughs, grunts, clearings of the throat.
Nobody knows the cause of Dad’s breakdown – or, if it comes to it, whether what was involved was a true mental breakdown or some sort of seizure of the brain. At the time, there was nothing in my Dad’s circumstances which would have seemed capable of triggering off such a crisis. A year before his own trouble, it’s true, my mother died quite suddenly and apparently in perfect health (she simply collapsed one day on the kitchen floor – it’s a day, to be honest, I don’t like to remember in detail), and if any event might have led to my father’s breakdown, this was it. I have never doubted – since I began to consider such things (and that, of course, was after my pre-hamster days of tantrums and rebellion) – my father’s feeling for my mother. I have always thought that his command, his confidence and poise, owed much to her, and that she in turn derived her calm, her contentment from his success. Since I got married myself I have looked up, almost in awe, to the solidarity of their partnership, their health, stability, their ease. If any event … But my father did not crumble at my mother’s death. He bore it, yes, with grief, but with a noble (and it was only then that I began to think of that word as appropriate to my father) resignation. All this admiration, I should add, I have never shown, not to my father’s face – quite the opposite. He was a partner in a successful firm of consultant engineers. He had an office with a thick, plush carpet and enormous chairs. After my mother’s death he worked on as energetically as ever, no doubt with a certain inner hollowness, but (for reasons I
will come to) he was a popular, a respected man, he had plenty of friends and business connexions with which to fill his time. Then one day, a year later, he cracked up completely. Nobody can say why. And nobody can say if my Dad will ever recover.
When I go to visit him we always follow the same ritual. Dad lives in a ward with about twelve other patients, all in their fifties and sixties. For the most part, gentle, amiable-looking men in dull dressing-gowns with piping round the cuffs and tasselled cords. Now that the weather is warm, and as the ward is on the ground floor, they are usually sitting outside when I arrive, grouped in wicker chairs on the little terrace outside the tall ward windows, smoking, talking, reading the papers or playing board games. Dad sits amongst them, but not taking part in any of their activities. When I appear I say hello to them all, and a broken chorus answers me. Then I say hello to Dad in particular. His eyes flicker. He recognizes me. But I don’t know if he recognizes me as his son or only as the person who comes to see him on Wednesdays and Sundays. He gets up – sometimes he does this automatically and sometimes I have to put a hand on his arm – and we go for a slow stroll round the hospital grounds. We sit for a while on one of the wooden benches placed here and there on the lawns and ‘chat’. Then we stroll back to the group outside the ward windows and I have conversations with some of the others in which I somehow pretend Dad is taking part. In the winter, of course, we cannot take our stroll outside. Then we walk up and down the corridors (the hospital is run on liberal lines and is quite tolerant about this), and we visit the canteen where the more capable patients can come and go as they please. But I don’t like these indoor meetings so much. In the corridor we have
to pass other patients, some of whom jibber, jerk their heads and even yell out loud (though I have learnt after two years’ visits that such things are nothing to be alarmed at). But passing by these patients makes me think that my Dad is only another indiscriminate member of the ranks of the mad.
Of course, there is something terribly perfunctory, terribly pointless and mechanical about these twice-weekly visits. Sometimes I think it is not a man who walks or sits beside me, but some effigy I push and trundle about on a wheeled trolley, and it is I who am the deranged one for imagining this dummy is really alive, is my own father. When we sit on our bench (we have our favourite one, beneath a cedar tree) there is this feeling of hopeless pantomime. But then, on the other hand, there is so much to be
said
, so much to be explained, understood and resolved between us. It is odd, but until Dad ceased to speak I never had this need to talk to him. And because Dad does not answer back, because he neither hinders nor encourages whatever I say, I use him as a sort of confessional. I go to Father to say things I would never say anywhere else. (Perhaps I
am
the deranged one, after all.)
Tonight, for example, I said: ‘The boys have been bad again this week. Trouble-making, insolent. What’s wrong with them, Dad? I’ve been down on them again, and I’ve been bullying Marian and I’ve threatened to take back our television. And I don’t mean any of it, not really, though I’m going to go through with it.…’ Dad looks in front of him, as if he is looking at some phenomenon in the middle distance which only he has noticed. His eyebrows are thick; pale brown hairs mixed with grey. The little furrows above his straight nose, the firm set of his lips suggest some inscrutable resolution.
His hands rest on his knees, and now and then they move automatically, rubbing the cloth of his trousers. Between the knuckles on the first finger of his right hand is the little bluish scar where I bit him when I was a boy. ‘What do you say?’ I ask. ‘Nothing, eh?’ For, even after two years, I still treat Dad’s silence as if it is some quirky thing of the moment and not a permanent fact. And even after two years, because I can’t help feeling that Dad’s silence is some punishment, some judgement against me, I sometimes say to him, in all ingenuousness: ‘Please Dad, please. Speak to me. Explain.’
It’s peaceful in the hospital grounds these spring evenings, as the light fades and the more disturbed patients are ushered inside and put to bed. In some ways I would rather be there, sitting with Dad under the cedar tree, than in my own back garden at home, or even with Marian feeding the ducks on the common. The hospital is like an old red-brick country house of another age, set amidst trees. Except for the blue and white notices, the modern extensions and the iron bars across the lower windows, you wouldn’t know. There are rose beds, yew walks, ornamental ponds and the sort of sculptural trees (cedars, maples, copper beeches) that you associate with private estates. All this is surrounded by a high brick wall; and the hospital grounds themselves are set within fields and woodland, though the suburbs of South London are less than a mile away. It’s a strange thing that we put mad people in these walled-in parks, as if we recognize that though they have to be confined they need to rub against nature. But then, as I’ve said, the people in mental hospitals aren’t mad, no – or if they behave like mad people, this is only what you’d expect in such a place – so there seems nothing abnormal about it.
Since I’ve been visiting Dad I’ve been making my own
private study of the inmates. I cannot decide, still, whether they are prisoners or whether in some way, unlike you or me, they have broken free. Don’t we all, secretly, want to have their privileges? The hospital staff cheerfully condone behaviour that elsewhere would, to say the least, be frowned upon; and the same indulgence is somehow expected from visitors. It’s like entering a foreign country where you must bide by the native customs. So when you see a man walking down a corridor with what looks like – and, indeed, it is – a turd in his hand – you say nothing. Or when a figure, in an apparently drugged lethargy, at one end of the ward, suddenly starts to beat his head, in archetypal fashion, against the metal bars of a bed-frame, you do not stop and stare.
Only once have I seen the hospital staff perturbed on behalf of their visitors’ sensibilities. This was almost a year ago, a Sunday afternoon, when the weather was especially hot. The inmates were scattered over the lawns, some lying in little groups, some sitting with visiting relatives, some sprawled alone, in shady places, fast asleep. Some of them wore handkerchiefs with the corners tied in knots over their heads as sun-hats, and this fashion seemed to have caught on, like the crazes which sometimes sweep through children’s playgrounds, so that the only activity seemed to be the appropriating of handkerchiefs, the making and trying-on of the finished caps. The nursing staff, with their white jackets, were also lounging drowsily on the grass, and nobody seemed to mind their apparent non-vigilance. I was sitting with Dad, not on our usual bench under the cedar – somebody had got there first – but on one of the five or six benches ranged in front of the rose beds. This is a popular place for visitors, and on fine Sunday afternoons each rose-bowered
bench is occupied by a patient and usually a middle-aged or elderly couple. Some of these visitors are often quite smartly dressed – like the sedate old couples I see sometimes watching the bowls matches on Clapham Common – the women in pastel suits, hats and white gloves, the men in linen jackets. And I swear they come on these visits because they actually enjoy it – a day out to some exclusive private garden.