The Sleep Room Read online

  Elizabeth won’t go outside any more. She’s frightened. I’ve tried taking her to Ridley Road market, but she starts shaking and crying and she runs back home. You can’t talk sense to her. It’s as if she doesn’t really understand what you’re saying. Sometimes she acts like things are just the same as they were before. She wants to sit down and plan her wedding and she talks about what kind of dress she wants. It’s heartbreaking and I can barely stop myself from crying.

  I know that her doctor is a clever man, but I can’t say, hand on heart, that he’s been able to help Lizzie very much. He talks to her and gives her injections but she doesn’t get any better. A specialist from the Hackney Hospital came to see her and gave her some pills, but they didn’t work either. Lizzie does seem to get a bit better when she’s had a long sleep. Which makes me think that your sleeping treatment might be good for her?

  I hope this letter gets to you. When you were introduced on the wireless, they said you worked at a lot of hospitals, but I wasn’t really listening properly and so can’t remember their names. If you think you can cure Lizzie, then please write and let me know how she can get to see you. My husband, poor Jack, was killed in Normandy and these days I’m not very well myself. I’ve lost a lot of weight and have a very bad cough. The doctor says I smoke too much but it’s one of the few pleasures I’ve got left. Should anything happen to me, God forbid, I don’t know what will happen to Lizzie.

  Thank you for reading my letter.

  God Bless

  Mrs Matilda Mason

  12

  In the weeks running up to Christmas the hospital was generally more animated. There was, undeniably, if not excitement in the air, then at least a sense of expectation. Some of the nurses, Jane among them, were preparing to go home and replacement nightingales had started to appear in readiness for their departure. Unforeseen problems had arisen with respect to the secondment of staff from St Thomas’s and Sister Jenkins was constantly fretting over her rotas. In the end, we had to accept that on Christmas Day and Boxing Day we would just have to get by with reduced numbers.

  Maitland arrived early on the Thursday before Christmas. He spent the entire morning on the wards and made a point of talking to each nurse individually. The compliments of the season were declared and he distributed gift bags of Fortnum & Mason chocolates. It was a kind gesture, but not entirely selfless, as he so clearly enjoyed playing the role of paterfamilias. At two o’clock, I was summoned to his office, where we consumed a significant amount of brandy and several of Mrs Hartley’s cinnamon biscuits. Maitland informed me that he and his wife were going to spend Christmas in Norfolk with friends. He wrote down a name and telephone number and urged me to call him if the need arose. We touched glasses and toasted Wyldehope.

  As I was leaving the office, Maitland indicated a large cardboard box and suggested that I take it with me.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘A sort of present,’ he said. When I looked inside I discovered that it was full of offprints. ‘You may as well start thinking about how we’re going to revise the first chapter. Merry Christmas, James.’

  I received a more traditional gift from Jane. She handed me a beribboned parcel and insisted that I open it at once. The wrapping fell away to reveal the title of the latest Agatha Christie novel: Hickory Dickory Dock.

  ‘Something to keep you occupied while I’m away.’

  She was not expecting me to reciprocate. I passed her an envelope of red crêpe paper, inside which was a pair of delicately fashioned silver earrings that I had obtained through a mail-order company. Jane was delighted and immediately held them up to her earlobes and examined her reflection in the window glass.

  ‘Will you telephone me on Christmas Day?’ she asked, pushing her hair aside and tilting her head back.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

  ‘How do they look?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ I replied – thinking also of how much I would miss her.

  On Christmas Eve, efforts were made to make the interior of the hospital more cheerful. Paper chains were hung around the windows and Mr Hartley erected a tree in the vestibule. I happened to be passing just as he was tidying up. He had dressed the branches with decorations that looked extremely old, most probably Victorian: miniature dolls, tin stars, wooden animals and porcelain trinkets. I commented on their quaint appearance, their antique charm, and Hartley said that he had found them in the tower attic while mending the roof. I scrutinized one of the little dolls and was slightly disturbed by the sinister vacancy of her expression.

  As we were talking, I noticed that Hartley was looking distinctly off-colour. A film of perspiration covered his forehead and he was shivering. His complexion was pale and his eyes had a watery, glazed appearance.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Hartley?’ I asked.

  ‘I think I’ve caught a chill, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Then perhaps you’d better spend the afternoon in bed.’

  ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary, sir,’ he replied with gruff civility. ‘I’m sure to shake it off.’

  Unfortunately, his constitution did not prove to be as robust as he had hoped. Later in the day I was accosted by Mrs Hartley. ‘Dr Richardson, I know you’re very busy, but would you mind popping over to take a look at Mr Hartley. He’s taken a turn for the worse. He’s very poorly. Very poorly indeed.’

  As soon as I entered the caretaker’s cottage I could smell sickness and I found Hartley in bed with a raging temperature. He had clearly come down with a very bad flu. I gave him some aspirin and commiserated. ‘What bad luck. On Christmas Eve as well. I’m so sorry.’

  On returning to the men’s ward, I discovered Sister Jenkins massaging her temples and wincing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘A headache,’ she replied.

  ‘Perhaps you should take an aspirin?’ I ventured.

  She pointed at a pill jar. ‘I already have.’

  An hour passed and Sister Jenkins’s condition got considerably worse. She could hardly keep her head up without support and she was feeling nauseous.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s no point in you being here. You’re too ill to work.’

  ‘But I’ve only got four nurses! How can I take time off?’

  I ignored her protest and studied the rota. ‘Nurse Fraser will have to do a double shift.’

  Three of the male patients were looking peaky and their temperatures were raised. One of the female patients threw up and was clearly very unwell. The six sleepers, thankfully, were as yet unaffected.

  As the evening progressed, I lost another nurse to the contagion and several of the women patients started to complain of aches and pains. I attempted to contact Maitland, but he had already left London for Norfolk, and when I called the Norfolk number no one was there to pick up the telephone. Subsequently, I rang Saxmundham, only to discover that they too were understaffed and stricken by an outbreak of flu. They couldn’t spare any nurses – and neither could Ipswich.

  Sister Jenkins and I had planned a modest Christmas celebration for the patients. We were going to move the radiogram into the vestibule, play seasonal records, and allow the men and women to mix. I had envisaged parlour games, carol singing and pyramids of mince pies; however, when I entered the sleep room and found Nurse Brewer mopping up her own vomit, I realized it wasn’t to be.

  By four o’clock in the morning I was managing Wyldehope on my own. I spent the whole night rushing between the wards and the sleep room. For much of the time I was changing bed sheets and scrubbing the floor with disinfectant. The air was fouled by various forms of bodily elimination and the revolting smell got into my clothes and hair. Without assistance, it was going to be impossible for me to accomplish the feeding and the voiding of the sleep-room patients. There was always Mrs Hartley, of course, but she was not medically qualified and I did not feel that it was appropriate to seek her involvement. I decided that the best course of action would be to keep the sle
epers sedated for the next twenty-four hours. After which I hoped some of the nurses might be, if not fully recovered, then at least well enough to provide essential support. I set up intravenous drips to ensure that the sleepers were properly hydrated and used the ECT canvas restraints to restrict their movements.

  Suspension of the usual routine, I recognized, might produce a few problems – constipation, haemorrhoids and so on – but, conversely, it could also save lives. If any of the sleepers became infected, they might choke on their own vomit. This wasn’t going to happen if their stomachs were empty. Only one favourable contingency was required to ensure the success of my stewardship: this was that I should not succumb to infection myself.

  Dawn broke over a frosty heath and I picked my way along a slippery path to the nurses’ accommodation, where I was admitted by a very weak Sister Jenkins. She could only stand by leaning against a door jamb. All of the nurses, I was informed, had had a very bad night. After the briefest of discussions, she cut short my solicitous enquiries and said, with gravelly insistence, ‘Get back to the hospital. If you’re needed, I’ll give you a call.’ Thus, I was summarily dismissed. It was only when I got back to the hospital that I realized neither of us had troubled to acknowledge the day’s significance with the customary greetings.

  At seven o’clock, Mrs Hartley arrived. Her plump cheeks had been pinched by the cold and she looked as strong as an ox.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Dr Richardson,’ she said, striking a defiant pose. She was not going to be cowed by circumstance.

  ‘And a Merry Christmas to you too, Mrs Hartley. How is Mr Hartley?’

  ‘A bit better. He’s stopped being sick but he still gets dizzy when he gets out of bed.’

  ‘Don’t forget to give him plenty to drink.’

  ‘I won’t, Doctor. Can I get you some breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Hartley. That would be excellent.’

  I telephoned Maitland in Norfolk and explained what had happened. He approved of the measures I had taken with the sleep-room patients and applauded my initiative.

  ‘Do you think you can cope?’ he asked.

  I took the question too personally. It sounded like a challenge and rather stupidly I answered, ‘Yes. Providing I don’t get ill.’

  ‘Good man. If you start to get any symptoms, I’ll come down without delay.’

  When the receiver was back in its cradle, I wondered why I was always quite so eager to impress him.

  My Christmas Day was spent serving meals, checking on the sleepers, and mopping up vomit. In the evening, after Mrs Hartley’s departure, I allowed myself a few moments of repose under the porch. The air was refreshing and overhead a clear winter sky was dense with stars. I was exhausted.

  In the sleep room, the patients were dreaming. I passed between the beds, registering the rapid-eye movements. Marian Powell’s lips were opening and closing. I stood beside her and studied her face: the sharp flint of her nose and her gingery lashes. She was trying to say something. I leaned closer and turned my ear towards her mouth. All that I could hear at first was a kind of inflected breathing, but gradually consonants were introduced and words became intelligible. ‘Wake up . . . wake up.’ It was as if her brain had recognized a departure from the usual routine and was sounding an alarm. Although sleep-talking is common enough, it is relatively rare while dreaming. I wondered if her sedation had stopped working, and said, ‘Marian? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Wake up!’ she repeated. ‘Wake up!’ It sounded like a command and I was left with the curious impression that she was speaking specifically to me. The effect was quite unnerving.

  Immediately after, Sarah Blake’s lips began to tremble and she produced a lengthy exhalation. It was not continuous, but modulated. I walked from Marian Powell’s bed over to Sarah Blake’s, and caught a faint whisper: ‘Wake up . . . wake up.’ Again, there was a note of irritation, or perhaps urgency in this exhortation.

  Had Sarah Blake actually heard Marian Powell and copied her? It was just possible, I supposed, but I had never observed anything like it before. Not even in a sleep laboratory. Subsequently, I began to worry about the sedation. Perhaps the sleep-room patients were becoming inured to its effects? Perhaps they weren’t as deeply asleep as I had intended. I couldn’t risk them waking up in my absence, so I gave them all an extra 15 millilitres of intramuscular paraldehyde.

  As I was updating their notes I kept on experiencing brief absences. I really was very tired. Staying awake through a second night was going to be extremely difficult and I desperately needed to shave and freshen up. A quick bath and a change of clothes would, so I told myself, be entirely justified.

  I ascended the stairs and when I reached the vestibule I became conscious of a delicate jangling sound. Looking around, I couldn’t determine its source and it quickly faded. Then I noticed the Christmas tree. A number of the decorations were in motion, swinging gently from side to side. I was aware that there was something odd about what I was seeing, but a second or two passed before I realized what it was. Only some of the baubles were affected. It was as if half had been touched or prodded, while the other half had been left alone. A draught would not have been quite so selective. Two of the decorations had fallen to the floor and both were miniature dolls. At any other time I might have stopped to investigate, but I was simply too weary. I wanted my bath. Not another encounter with the supernatural.

  After bathing and shaving I changed my clothes and felt much better. As I was putting on a clean, starched shirt, I remembered that I had not called Jane as I had promised, and when I looked at my wristwatch I realized that it was now far too late.

  Then I did something very foolish.

  I went to the bedroom, laid down on the mattress, and lit a cigarette. I don’t remember finishing the cigarette, because I fell asleep.

  13

  When I woke up, an hour later, everything was black. I had a feeling that I should be doing something, but no idea what it might be. My stupor lifted and, startled into activity by the sudden recollection of my circumstances, I launched myself out of bed and reached for the light switch. I did this instinctively, and it was only when the switch ‘clicked’ and nothing happened that I remembered: prior to falling asleep I had been lying on the bed and smoking a cigarette with the light on. I worked the switch up and down, but the room remained stubbornly dark. Blaspheming loudly, I felt my way into the hallway and swept my hand across the wallpaper until I encountered the protruding Bakelite fixture. Again, when I flicked the switch, there was no light, and no sound to suggest that the bulb had blown. A power cut. That seemed to be the only explanation. I shook my head in disbelief and groaned, ‘What luck!’ There was an emergency generator in one of the outbuildings, but I had no idea how to operate it, which meant that I would have to wake poor Mr Hartley and drag him from his sickbed.

  I located my matches. A ribbon of smoke twisted in the air and the smell of phosphorus made me cough. Shielding the flame with my hand, I walked briskly to the kitchen where I knew I would find a candle in one of the drawers. I lit the wick and stepped back out into the hallway. A noise halted my progress. The door to one of the empty rooms had started to swing backwards and forwards, wringing out a slow, creaky scale from obstinate hinges: it ascended and descended as the door went this way, then that, and there was something about the tempo, and the length of each note, that suggested the exercise of control, a certain musicality. It was as though the sounds were being produced for pleasure, and I was reminded of the kind of games that children play – their capacity to find repetition endlessly amusing. There was no draught. No obvious, natural cause. Taking small, cautious steps, I approached the swinging door and, when I was close enough, I quickly grabbed the handle and pushed it shut. The action was too forceful, too nervous, and I almost extinguished the light. The flame danced and shadows jumped across the ceiling. For a few moments I stood very still, half expecting the handle to turn and the door to spring open again.

 
On the landing, the candle light was too weak to repel the darkness, which pressed at the edges of a pathetically small sphere of illumination. It was a darkness that made me feel utterly alone. I could sense its enormity, its infinite expansion beyond the walls, across the heath and the grazing marsh and the sea. Midwinter darkness. It awakened primordial fears, and I was returned to a primitive state of trembling ignorance: huddled in some ancestral cave, gazing out of its mouth at a night that concealed unimaginable terrors. I wanted that dreadful feeling of aloneness to end, because its indefinite extension seemed to present a very real threat to my sanity. Yet, only an instant later, I was thinking the very opposite, because to my shock and surprise it transpired that I wasn’t alone after all. I had company.

  The silence had been broken by a dull, repetitive thudding. Someone was climbing the stairs. The footfall was quite distinct and followed by an echo. There was a pause, a sigh, and the climber continued. My first thought was that it might be Hartley, but I knew that this was extremely unlikely. Hartley would be fast asleep. And if he had woken up and discovered that we had no electricity, he would have gone straight to the outhouses to start the generator. He wouldn’t have come to the main building without a torch to light his way.

  A querulous floorboard protested somewhere below. I peered into the emptiness and the roar of my own blood became louder. Nothing was discernible. I held out the candle and waved it over the void, but all that this achieved was a rearrangement of the shadows. The magnified silhouettes of woodland creatures circled me like predators. My eyes strained against the darkness and I detected subtle suggestions of form and movement. I found myself looking at a figure, engaged in the task of slow, effortful ascent. Its pale hand slid along the banister rail, producing a soft hiss, and the looseness of its garment reminded me of monkish robes. Fear rendered me insensible, and a kind of strangulated cry escaped from my open mouth.