Nor All Your Tears (14 page)

You see, in those days – the good old days as I call them now – although I knew that to Dad the ‘good old days' had happened twenty-five years before then (and so on, ad infinitum) – people looked up to other people who called themselves ‘Doctor'. There was none of this ‘whatever' attitude, and a better world it was, too. Accordingly, she reacted. She jumped, straightened up what I had seriously thought might be a congenitally deformed posture, and said, ‘Oh. I'm sorry.'

‘I'm here to see a patient. Tristan Charlton.'

Without complaint, without question, without even appearing to think, she turned her back on me and went to a desk against the far wall, whence she picked up a clipboard; she didn't ask for identification and I didn't expect her to. She ran her finger down the clipboard, then flipped over a sheet of paper, repeating the process until she reached about three-quarters of the way down. ‘Here he is,' she said. ‘Jupiter Ward.'

‘Where's that?'

She came back to the front desk and pulled out from underneath it a Xeroxed sheet that was a map of the hospital. She pointed at it with a stubby finger; her nail polish was bright red and badly chipped; the colour did not go well with her nicotine stains but I kept my mouth shut. Jupiter Ward was on the far side of the grounds, and they were extensive grounds; it would mean another long, hot trudge. When I murmured, ‘Oh,' she grimaced, I think in sympathy, but didn't actually speak. I asked, ‘Do you know if he's there at the moment?'

A shrug. ‘I really couldn't say.'

I sighed and repeated my exclamation of woe. She was unmoved, apparently having run dry of the social lubricant that is sympathy. She enquired, ‘Is there anything else?'

‘No. No, thanks.'

I left her to the unlikely and revoltingly platitudinous love waffle of Elton and Kiki, and went back out into the weather.

Jupiter Ward was in a single-storey block at the south-west corner of the hospital grounds. There was a sense of that kind of annoying yin-yang thing in the way that it contrasted sharply with the main hospital block. It was probably about forty years old and was built of prefabricated sheets; there had clearly been a considerable shortfall in the maintenance budget at Springfield Hospital for several years, given the amount of entropy that seemed to hang about the place. I had uncomfortable flashbacks to my days of National Service for the barracks had looked just like this. During those twenty-two months it had never once ceased to rain and I seem to remember having to run seven miles a day through the north Devon countryside for no very good reason; and, impossibly, it seemed to be wetter and draughtier inside them than out.

A middle-aged man came out of the front entrance, the latter being plain double doors painted in shiny dark red that was peeling badly at the bottom. He looked at me and I looked at him. We were each caught in that age-old mutual dilemma that is the inevitable consequence of finding yourself in a loony bin; he was wondering if I were a patient, or visitor, a doctor or a nurse, and I was doing exactly the same. It would be so much easy if each category wore a different uniform, but I could see why they hadn't opted for that one. He dropped his gaze and hurried past, and neither of us will ever know the truth about each other.

I went in.

There was a small foyer in which were four more of the orange plastic chairs and, by the door, a rubber plant; when I brushed against it, I realized it was plastic, which seemed to say something significant about psychiatry. The carpet had once been blue but it was now merely looking sad and depressed; it was covered in many rather disgusting-looking stains. Three doors led off this room; above the left-hand one was the sign ‘Jupiter Ward', above the right-hand one was the sign ‘Ellis Ward'; above the one straight ahead was the sign ‘Private'. The only other thing in the room was a small table on which was an opened book like a ledger, and a pencil on the end of a string. I looked at it curiously and discovered that it was a register in which the patients could sign in and out. I began to scan it for Tristan's name but the door to Jupiter Ward opened and a rather large Afro-Caribbean man came out. He stopped when he saw me. ‘Can I help you?'

‘Um . . .'

The assumption had to be that here was a member of the psychiatric establishment (as opposed to a guest of it), but, as I have already said, you can never be sure; I'd heard a story when I was a medical student about a girl in the year above mine who had been taken advantage of by ‘Professor Welsby', an elderly gentleman in pince-nez and bow-tie who, it transpired, had been a long-term patient with a fetish for courgettes. ‘I'm here to visit Tristan Charlton.' I added then, just to establish my credentials (whatever his were), ‘My name's Dr Elliot.'

He looked less than overly impressed. It was with a deep frown that he said suspiciously, ‘Dr Martindale didn't say anyone was coming to see Tristan today. May I ask what it's in connection with?' From his reaction, I strongly suspected he wasn't a patient.

‘It's a personal visit.'

His face lightened. ‘Oh, I see.' He was clearly relieved that no professional toes were going to be trampled on. There was a clock on the wall to his right and this he glanced at. ‘He's due for group psychotherapy at five, but you've got some time. He's towards the end on the left of the ward.'

With that he went out of the main front door and I went into Jupiter Ward.

It wasn't perfectly reminiscent of the barracks in which I had spent many ‘character-building' months of my late adolescence, but it wasn't a bad attempt. It was a lot wider and taller, and the atmosphere was permeated not just by a mix of foot odour and sweat, but also by the scents of over-boiled cabbage and disinfectant; the finest parfumiers in the land could not have done a better job. Also, there was a lot more lying down than I recall, much of it being done whilst pyjama'd. It was quiet, too, save for the sound of gentle snoring, which was sort of disappointing; no screeching, no maniacal laughing and no sobbing. There were doubtless numerous insects about the place, but not a one was being consumed by any of the patients. All in all, it was a peaceful scene and I heard my footsteps on the linoleum as I made my slow way down the centre of the aisle. About half of the patients, I estimate, were present. Most of these were just lying on their beds, either asleep, or staring at the ceiling. Some were sitting on the side of the bed or up against the pillows, of which five were reading – either magazines or books – and one was talking to himself, an archetype of concentration as he discoursed in a mumble that I could barely hear and certainly not interpret; I am afraid to admit that he rocked slightly. Each of them – they were all men, of course – had just a bed, a cheaply made combined wooden cupboard and drawer unit, and another of those ubiquitous orange plastic chairs; the beds, though, were not crowded together, giving at least a nod towards privacy.

Tristan was where I had been told I would find him, towards the end of the ward. Just beyond his bed were open double doors that I could see opened on to a day room. I could hear a television and peeked around the door jamb to discover that it was like every other NHS hospital day room, in that it was depressing and soulless; as was the rule, the furniture was upholstered in brightly coloured artificial leather and specifically designed to be totally uncomfortable. There were five people in there, and presumably at least one (and possibly every one) was a nurse.

Tristan was lying on his back on his bed, dressed in day clothes, but asleep. I didn't know whether to wake him or wait. In truth, now that I had arrived, I was unsure of why I had come at all. Perhaps somewhere inside me there had been the idea that I would march in here and let him have a piece of my mind, that he might be able to fool the psychiatrists, but he hadn't taken me in; I think, too, I was going to assure him that he might have beaten me to a pulp on a previous occasion, but that was then and this is now . . . et cetera, et cetera; and I would say all this in a calm but commanding tone. Now I was there, though, it didn't seem quite so simple. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I was timorous or anything but, for the first time, I came to appreciate that I had a position in society to consider, that it wouldn't look seemly to brawl in public, especially not with a patient of the NHS.

He suddenly opened his eyes but he was not immediately aware of me, I think. He just stared up the ceiling, not blinking; it was as though the on-switch had been thrown but the current had yet to increase to a level at which any other muscular movement was possible. In accord with this hypothesis, after a few seconds he turned his head so that he was looking at me; it was a smooth action but accompanied by no other, not even a change in his blank expression. I was still standing by the side of the bed but, feeling slightly oppressed by this passive scrutiny, I sat down on his chair.

Nothing more happened. We regarded each other, but he did not appear to recognize me. He had aged, I decided, but then so had I; I had aged considerably following his determined assault on my person. He was tall – a few inches over six feet – with ginger hair that was long and untidy, and mild blue eyes that belied his facility with violence. His hair was shoulder length – longer than I remember it, but not unusually so for that time – and he was unshaven. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with Pink Floyd's prism and refracted light on it.

Had I not spoken we might still be there to this day for all I know, because he seemed disinclined to do anything more than peruse me without obvious emotion. ‘Tristan?' I essayed, and I heard my voice to be slightly husky and, a surprise to me, edged with a tremor.

He frowned. It was a reaction, although not a particularly animated one, in both senses of that word. I repeated my salutation. Still nothing, so I felt it incumbent upon me to go a bit further. ‘It's Lance. Lance Elliot. Do you remember me?'

It took a couple of seconds, but this did eventually induce him to lift his head and frown; not brilliant, I'll grant, but I was desperate by then for anything. A slow, lazy grin spread over his face, enticing his lips to part slightly so that I could see a sliver of teeth; he hadn't been keeping up on his dental cleanliness and these nameless, dateless dental dead appeared somewhat squalid. ‘Lancey. You came to visit.'

He had always called me that because, despite my best efforts, I had been unable to portray my disgust at the nickname. He wasn't too good though, that was clear. He struggled to raise himself on his elbows but seemed uncoordinated; it took quite a while and was accompanied by small, delicate grunts. I waited, my thoughts of a manly confrontation evaporating in the presence of this performance. At last he raised his shoulders, whereupon he yawned mightily. ‘What time is it?' he enquired through this.

‘Just after four thirty.'

‘It's fucking hot.'

‘Rather.'

He nodded groggily. ‘It's good of you to come.'

‘Well . . .' I began, not sure where I was going to end, but it didn't matter because he interrupted me.

‘Fucking load of loonies in here.' He began to laugh softly, looking around at those around us. Suddenly he pointed at the man sitting on the side of his bed quietly jabbering to himself. ‘Look at that old cock! Talk about bonkers!' I was programmed not to take the Mickey out of patients and had to fight hard not to tell him off. He continued, ‘He spends his time reciting the seventeen times table; every time he gets it wrong, he swears enough to make the paint peel, then he just goes back to the beginning. Not sure what his record his, but I bet it's pretty impressive.' A soft laugh, one that might have been a cover for tears held back, then, ‘I've seen some scenes over the past few weeks, Lancey. Some unbelievable sights.' He laughed again, but this time it was as if to himself, as if to a private, unheard joke.

I couldn't see the funny side myself, but Tristan could; after a while he could hardly control his merriment, in fact, so that he collapsed back on the bed, continuing to chortle, more of his rather unpleasant teeth making an unwelcome appearance in my ken. What could I say? I actually began to feel sorry for this man who had terrified me and broken up an important relationship in my life. He was clearly addled by an example of the latest addition to the psychiatrists' arsenal against severe psychiatric problems – ‘the liquid cosh' or, as it was known in the trade, a ‘major tranquillizer'. These were extremely effective in suppressing the symptoms and signs associated with psychotic depression and schizophrenia but, perhaps inevitably, they were also extremely effective at suppressing any signs of sentient life.

But then suddenly he stopped and, as if taken over by something, got back up on his elbows without apparent effort and turned once again to look directly at me. ‘We've got unfinished business, Lancey-boy.' There was no amusement in his voice now. It was all rather spooky, horribly reminiscent of
The Exorcist
, which Max and I had been to see a few months before and was still prone to pop up in my dreams now and again. ‘I might have consented to come in here, but that doesn't mean that I've forgotten what you did.'

I hadn't done anything, but we had agreed to differ on that point a long time ago, although it had never been an easy accord, especially for me. I took a deep breath, relying on the fact that although I couldn't actually see any nursing staff, they couldn't be too far away. ‘What you did to the rabbit is unforgivable.'

He stared at me, his expression unreadable, for just a second, then he neatly flopped back down, eyes on the ceiling once again. He said contentedly, ‘The rabbit sure won't forgive me.'

And that was all he said, whilst I discovered that insouciance was the perfect defence against anger and thus was I rendered without appropriate words. I heard the evocative tones of ‘Barnacle Bill' coming from the day room and I subconsciously lamented the loss of Christopher Trace from the lives of the nation's children. Without taking his eyes from the ceiling (which, as far as I could discern, was just a normal ceiling covered in painted polystyrene tiles), he asked, ‘Was she upset?'