The Sleep Room Read online

  Marian was subsequently moved to a foster home on the outskirts of Dartford, where she seems to have been reasonably contented. She attended a local school and made what is described as ‘good progress’. There is a curious entry in her notes dating from this period. A teacher by the name of Mr Joshua Armstrong became convinced that Marian possessed psychic powers and had her investigated by members of the Society for Psychical Research. I have asked Marian what the test procedure involved and, although she has only the dimmest memory of what transpired, she was able to remember being encouraged by two ‘gentlemen’ to influence the fall of a die. There is no record of whether the experiment was successful or not. I only mention this, because the test date may give us some indication as to when Marian’s illness began. The credulous Armstrong very probably mistook her auditory hallucinations for some kind of ‘spirit communication’. (It never ceases to amaze me how many seemingly educated individuals still believe in such arrant nonsense.)

  Marian was not officially diagnosed as suffering from childhood schizophrenia until a full year later, in 1951, when she was thirteen years of age. Her symptoms were mainly of the leaden, lumpish variety: lack of motivation, blunted emotion, social withdrawal, poor self-care and poverty of speech – a presentation that has, in fact, changed little since the onset of her illness to the present day. For the next few years, due to a combination of administrative changes and closures, Marian was moved around several homes in South London, and finally came to us last summer. As far as I can tell, she was given no medication before her arrival at Hawthorne House. There are references in her notes to occupational therapy only.

  Her general behaviour is unremarkable, with the single exception of a recurring delusion concerning her rag doll (a very ancient and tattered specimen), which she insists is her daughter. She calls it ‘Little Marian’ and comforts it and talks to it as though it were real. Her tenderness is quite affecting and she will become enraged if anyone tries to remove ‘Little Marian’ before the fantasy has run its course; however, between delusional episodes, she is quite happy to concede that the doll is nothing more than a toy.

  I very much hope that you will be able to admit Marian onto one of your treatment programmes. She has had a wretched life and deserves so much better. Given the extensive armamentarium at your disposal, I have every confidence that you will be able to help her.

  Finally, concerning another matter: the trustees responded very favourably to your suggestion vis-à-vis the creation of a Hawthorne Annexe. Sir Philip Ostler was particularly keen and will be writing to you shortly. A document must be prepared before the AGM, but there is plenty of time (the AGM is scheduled for late September). Sir Philip’s fundraising achievements are second to none and with his support the prospects for the Annexe are very good indeed. He is already talking about architects!

  I very much hope we will not have to wait too long before you visit us again.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Margery Garrett

  Dr M. Garrett

  Senior Medical Officer

  9

  Jane knew that I had been down to London, but I had not told her the real purpose of my visit. I had fabricated some excuse about a reunion with old college friends. When she asked me how things had gone I described an enjoyable day spent in Soho, reminiscing and eating cheap but authentic Italian food, but all the time I was thinking of Palmer, and in particular what he had said about how the nurses had made fun of him. I hoped that Jane wasn’t one of them. Or at least I hoped that, if she had made jokes at his expense, her humour had not been too heartless.

  It must have been two or three in the morning. I was sitting up in bed, smoking and staring at Jane’s back, admiring the length of her spine, its long, smooth descent to a dimpled depression that always seemed to invite the weight of my hand. Unable to resist, I reached out, rested my palm on her cool skin and felt a curious sense of satisfaction – almost relief. The upper half of Jane’s body was propped up on her elbows, and she held a steaming cup of tea a few inches beneath her chin.

  I am not sure why it was that I had not told Jane the truth: perhaps there was a part of me that feared she would think me ridiculous, and that I would suddenly find myself being mocked, just like Palmer.

  On returning to Wyldehope, I had entered my apartment and found one of Maitland’s notes. He had written that he wanted me to keep a Saturday free in March. There was going to be a fundraising event at the Savoy Hotel in aid of the Hawthorne Trust, a mental illness charity for young people. Maitland had become involved in one of their projects and he had decided that I should be on hand to explain ‘modern psychiatry’ to anyone who expressed an interest: ‘Sir Philip Ostler is the organizer, so there will be no shortage of worthies.’ I was familiar with the name Ostler on account of its regular appearance in the society pages of newspapers and magazines.

  I read the note out aloud to Jane and when I had finished she exclaimed with undisguised envy, ‘A dinner and dance at the Savoy!’

  ‘Yes. A crying shame you can’t come. But . . .’

  She affected an excessively glum expression. ‘I know . . .’

  ‘It’ll be a black tie do, of course, so I’ll have to hire a formal suit and all the trimmings. I hope Maitland doesn’t expect me to pay.’

  ‘I’d like to see you dressed up.’ Jane looked at me with devouring eyes and blew the surface of her tea. ‘Who’s Sir Philip Ostler?’

  ‘An industrialist. Immensely rich and a great champion of children’s causes. He had a daughter who suffered from depression and she committed suicide when she was only fifteen.’

  ‘Poor man.’

  I slid the note under the ashtray. ‘I wonder how it is that Maitland is so well connected? He seems to mix in such exalted circles. Only a few weeks ago, he told me that he was at a private function attended by Princess Margaret.’

  ‘Were they introduced?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. And while he was interviewing me for this job, he said something that, on reflection, strikes me as rather odd. He said that when he learned that Wyldehope wasn’t needed by the military, he was able to pull a few strings. Why would the military do Maitland any favours? I mean, he’s distinguished, obviously, a public figure, but at the end of the day he’s still only a doctor.’

  Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, surely you must have guessed.’

  ‘Guessed what?’

  ‘He used to work for British intelligence.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  There had been something in her tone of voice, the merest suggestion that I was being slow or dim-witted, but it had been enough to make me overreact. My voice had sounded accusatory instead of surprised.

  Jane blushed and seemed flustered. Before I could apologize, she blurted out, ‘Oh, back at St Thomas’s . . . You know how vain he is. He could be very indiscreet.’ Thankfully she had not taken offence. Indeed, she didn’t even seem to have noticed that I had raised my voice. ‘I think he used to say things to impress us girls.’

  ‘What?’ I said incredulously. ‘That he was a spy?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that. I think he had some sort of advisory role with MI5 – or is it MI6? One of them anyway. He used to speak a lot about foreign travel. I think he wanted to give us the impression that he had been sent on missions.’ Jane placed her teacup on the floor and turned over. She folded her arms over her breasts and the compression made them rise. I found their taught luminescence somewhat distracting. ‘There were always Americans coming to visit the department at St Thomas’s. I think they had something to do with intelligence. One of them was a colonel. Maitland used to show him around the sleep room at St Thomas’s. He would observe our routine, the feeding and voiding – the exercises.’

  Jane was tired and her speech became more fragmented and digressive. I lit another cigarette and once or twice the world seemed to fall away. We yawned simultaneously and exchanged forgiving glances. After a long silence Jane said, ‘Have you heard ab
out Mary?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were right. She isn’t very happy here. She handed in her notice. I’m sorry, I didn’t get the chance to speak to her like I promised. I’m really very sorry.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I said, stubbing out my cigarette. ‘It can’t be helped. I’ll have a word with her myself if I get the chance.’

  Jane glanced at my alarm clock. ‘I really should be getting some sleep.’ Her eyelids looked heavy. ‘I’ve got to be up in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, leaning sideways and turning off the lamp. Jane stretched an arm across my chest and pulled me closer. She made small wriggling movements and emitted a contented purr as she settled. Our limbs discovered mutual accommodations and shoals of darkness seemed to swim before my eyes. I did not expect their perpetual motion to relieve me of my thoughts quite so easily.

  That night I had a most peculiar dream. I was descending the staircase at Wyldehope, carrying some records under my arm. The mellow, sentimental melody of a big band serenade was wafting up from below, accompanied by the babble of conversation. I leaned over the banister-rail and saw that the vestibule had been festooned with bunting, paper garlands and Union Jack flags. Golden crowns, made from cardboard and gift paper, had been mounted over the doors. Patients were dancing. The majority had dressed for the occasion, but some were still wearing their hospital gowns and pyjamas. I didn’t recognize any of the faces, but I was overwhelmed by a curious impression of familiarity. Beneath a large, framed photograph of the Queen was a trellis table, piled high with sandwiches, scones and cakes. I saw bowls of jam and heaps of clotted cream. Two nurses were arranging cups and saucers in neat rows by a tea urn. One of them opened her mouth and produced a peal of theatrical laughter. Clearly, the purpose of the gathering was to celebrate the coronation.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I discovered my father standing next to the suit of armour. He was surveying the festivities with a benign smile. On noticing me his expression became solemn and he said, ‘Good boy.’ Then he lit a cigarette and blew an aromatic cloud of smoke over my head. I could read the tiny red writing that curled around the cigarette paper: ‘Abdulla No.7’. Even the punctuation was clearly visible. My father started to cough and it struck me that he didn’t look very well. His skin was grey and he had lost a lot of weight. ‘Run along then,’ said my father, still coughing into his hand. ‘Give those records to your mother.’ He gave me a gentle push and I began to walk away from him. I took a few steps and narrowly missed a woman in a pink frock, whose solitary dance consisted of fast revolutions followed by a reckless leap.

  My mother was sitting beside a table on which a gramophone had been set up. Her hair had been combed and lacquered into a fixed bell-shape and a double string of pearls dangled from her neck. I made my way around the edge of the dance floor, and when I reached my mother she took the records I was carrying and said, ‘Thank you, Jimmy.’

  ‘What a helpful child,’ said a cheerful ward sister.

  My mother looked up, acknowledged the compliment and began searching through the discs.

  Two patients, holding each other close, shuffled past. The man was extremely tall, with wiry hair that looked knotted and windblown. He wore a dark suit and he stared into space with moist, fearful eyes. Clinging to him was a tiny woman, as fragile as a hummingbird, wrapped in a quilted housecoat. Her lipstick had smeared and she was grinning madly.

  ‘What shall we listen to while we’re eating?’ said my mother. ‘Some Elgar, perhaps?’

  ‘That would be splendid,’ said the ward sister. ‘Do you have his Pomp and Circumstance Marches?’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ said my mother.

  The gramophone was covered with what appeared to be crocodile skin. On the inside of the open lid, I could see the ‘His Master’s Voice’ trademark, the little white dog with brown ears looking into an old-fashioned brass horn. Again, I was oddly conscious of how clear everything was.

  ‘My husband has a recording of Malcolm Sargent conducting The Dream of Gerontius,’ the ward sister continued, evidently anxious to impress upon my mother that her husband was a man who appreciated good music.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said my mother wistfully. ‘The dream.’

  I woke up. The sound of the sea brought me to my senses and I turned my head to see Jane lying at my side. Yet it seemed to me that I could still detect a trace of my mother’s perfume lingering in the air. I found myself thinking about my parent’s bedroom and the glass bottle on my mother’s dressing table, the words ‘Chanel’ and ‘Paris’ on the label. It wasn’t until I had washed and dressed that I felt the cloying atmosphere of the dream beginning to dispel, and it wasn’t until my second cup of coffee that my emotional equilibrium was fully restored.

  The first thing I did that morning was make a close inspection of the sleep-room rota. Mary had been allocated a late shift. The day passed uneventfully and I went down to see her at ten o’clock.

  As I stepped into the basement, my expectations were confirmed. Mary was seated behind the desk, hunched close to the desk light, as if its cone of brilliance was in some way protective. She suddenly looked up, eyes wide – apprehensive. Then: recognition, a sigh, the slow release of tension from her shoulders. I walked towards her, dimly aware of the sleepers, half-hidden in shadow. A faint smiled appeared on the trainee’s face.

  ‘Dr Richardson?’

  ‘Mary.’

  She closed the book she was reading and hastily put it away in one of the drawers. I suspected that it was her prayer book.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I asked. She nodded. ‘Good.’

  I pretended to study the notes and made some inconsequential remarks about Kathy Webb’s blood pressure, after which I circled the beds and returned to the desk.

  ‘Mary,’ I began. ‘I was so sorry to hear that you are leaving us.’

  She shifted position. ‘It’s because of my boyfriend. You see, he’s got a job in Ipswich and I’d like to be near him.’

  ‘Are you engaged?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t realize. Congratulations.’ She murmured something that I supposed must be thanks and looked away, unable to sustain eye contact. ‘And is that the only reason?’

  She turned to face me again: ‘The only reason?’

  ‘For leaving us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  One of the patients moaned. Another answered in the same register and the two voices overlapped to produce a discordant, guttural duet.

  ‘It’s just . . .’ I paused and wished that I had given my line of questioning prior consideration. The sentences that formed in my mind seemed unfit for purpose. Tentative, faltering. ‘I was wondering whether there was more to it?’ She did not respond and I noticed that her lips were pressed tightly together. ‘Is it possible that you haven’t been very happy here?’

  She shook her head, denying my suggestion. ‘No. I have been happy here, Dr Richardson.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mary,’ I made an appeasing gesture, ‘I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but are you quite sure?’

  Her response was slightly delayed. ‘Sister Jenkins has been very thoughtful.’

  ‘Indeed – a little severe, on occasion, but her heart is in the right place.’ I offered Mary a smile, but her features did not soften and the set of her jaw remained rigidly defiant. ‘Although, to be frank, I wasn’t really thinking about Sister Jenkins.’ I picked up a pencil, twirled it in my fingers and put it down again. ‘I was thinking more about the house.’ I looked up at the wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. They were dark and oppressive. ‘The atmosphere. It does have an atmosphere – doesn’t it?’

  Mary responded with a jarring non sequitur. ‘I think they’ll take me at the Ipswich General.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure they will.’ There was an awkward break in our conversation, and I realized that I would have to be more blunt. ‘Mary, there’s something I’ve been m
eaning to ask you for some time. Shortly after my arrival, we were leaving the basement together, do you remember? You gasped, and when I turned round you had your hand raised, covering the back of your neck. You said that you’d twisted your ankle, but that wasn’t true, was it? You were only saying that. In actual fact, something had either struck you on the back of the head, or pulled your hair.’ She looked confused, frightened. ‘Mary. Listen,’ I continued, trying not to sound too inquisitorial. ‘I understand your reluctance to speak about it. Really I do. You think that people won’t believe you, or, even worse, they’ll assume you’re going crazy. But I’m not like that. Please. Can you tell me – honestly – what happened? I won’t say a word to anyone else.’

  She looked at me with uncharacteristic intensity, as if she possessed some auxiliary sense that allowed her to gauge my intentions and judge the extent to which I could be trusted. I was willing her to speak, to confide in me, and she seemed to be on the verge of disclosing something, when the door flew open and Sister Jenkins entered. Such was my frustration that an inwardly voiced expletive almost found expression.

  ‘Dr Richardson? What are you doing here?’ Her emphasis carried a subtle demand: my presence in the sleep room at that late hour required justification.

  ‘I was a little concerned about Kathy Webb’s blood pressure.’

  Sister Jenkins advanced, her shoes sounding a lively staccato on the tiled floor. ‘Really? I wasn’t aware that there was a problem.’

  ‘It’s been a little low.’

  ‘But nothing to worry about, surely?’