From a Safe Distance (18 page)

‘Go and sit in there. I'll be back in a minute.' I waited, looking absently at the notices which had appeared during my time off. Brendan came back and shut the door.

‘Now, let's see.' He read the letter standing up. At more than six feet, he towered over me. ‘Oh, so the hearing's in … half an hour. The trouble is, Vee, they see an absence like this as you failing in terms of performance, which is all that matters to them.'

‘But when I'm well, I do a reasonable job, don't I?'

‘Wh … yes, you do! Better than reasonable. But absence means you don't, if you see what I mean. It kind of … cancels it out.' The phone rang. ‘I'll ring you back', he muttered hastily into it. ‘Vee, they can't tell the difference between a bad performance at work and not being at work at all. That's what you're up against. Their policies don't cover your circumstances.'

‘So what do I do?'

‘You go to the meeting and stick up for yourself. That's all you can do. I can't really help beyond that, I'm afraid. They've seen the good reports I've written about you. I take it a Union rep will be there to support you?'

‘Yes. I met up with him yesterday afternoon. It was the first thing I did after opening the letter. It's Bernie from the repair shop. I don't know if he'll be any use, quite honestly. I don't think he really grasped what was happening.'

‘Well, I wish you luck. By the way,' he added, with a friendly smile, ‘It's good to see you looking much better than when I saw you in Porteblanche.' He turned and picked up
the phone. So he'd visited me! I wished I could remember. And who else had? It was a disturbing idea. And I had to admit that, although I had told them at interview that I'd been depressed, I don't think anyone, including me, had anticipated a three-month spell in hospital. Was the medication wrong? Oh, I had so much to ask Max! What made things worse at this stage was that I was still trying to find the real me again, so I wasn't as strong as I'd have liked going into this hearing. The white door wasn't quite shut, but I was treated as if it was; most people, after all, only have one state of being, and are fortunate not to know other mental dimensions.

‘Come in, sit down.' Susan Perry, the Personnel Manager, sounded weary and distant. She was a pale-faced woman of about my age who spoke with a Yorkshire accent and always wore a short skirt and jacket. There were two men in suits in the office as well.

‘You've met Jack Marshall and Tim Clark, Senior Managers, haven't you Miss Gates? You will appreciate,' she went on, without giving me a chance to reply, ‘that absences of this length cannot be tolerated. They put a great strain on us in terms of manpower.' Her voice sounded mechanical.

‘I do realise that, yes, but I couldn't help it.'

‘Now … we know you've had problems, but you see, if everyone took three months off when they felt like it, we'd be in a right mess. Think about it. And think about your colleagues for once.' This was said with emphasis, so that I felt like a naughty child. But I had to speak up, take Brendan's advice, as Bernie didn't seem able to take part.

‘I was actually ill in hospital. It wasn't that I felt like taking time off!'

Ms Perry showed all the understanding of which she was capable, which meant ignoring what I had to say. ‘Be that as it may, the result's the same for the Centre. And if you were in hospital, Miss Gates, how do you account for the fact that you were seen at your flat a few days ago?' It was obvious she held all the cards.

‘I was on weekend leave. That's what they do, to see if you're ready to come out of hospital.' As expected, this had no effect.

‘We have decided to give you a verbal warning at this stage.' She glanced at a folder on her desk. ‘According to our records, you have only worked for seventy-five per cent of your time here. That's not good enough.' She paused. Brendan was right. Then came a bizarre question. ‘When are you going to be ill again?'

A groan of disbelief was all Bernie could manage. I couldn't believe it either. It was like asking someone when they would next catch cold.

‘I don't know.' This was all I dared answer, because in a split second, I suspected that the question was designed to provoke me. An angry outburst wouldn't help my cause at all.

I left the department feeling sick and bad-tempered. There was guilt, too, introduced by Ms Perry's overriding concern with staff numbers. I could have done without that, and their suspicions; I was still struggling to get my life back together, and it was clear I was on my own.

ECT does not discriminate between short-term and long-term memory. If a plate of cakes represents the mind, ECT is the hand which can take memories at random from any part without your knowledge. Some of the cakes reappear at different times, and some take longer to find their cue. But some disappear for ever. So it was with the Christmas before Porteblanche. I have a vague memory of the wedding, however, which went something like this.

I remember knowing it was hard for me to join in with the excitement all around me. I only really caught a little of the atmosphere in that small room, when the registrar, a short woman in an embroidered suit, began her important and dignified address. Even then, I watched as if I were an observer from another world.

‘ … Pamela and Ronald … and James and Sophie … before these witnesses … Pamela and Ronald first, please … '

Mum was wearing a fitted cream dress and short-sleeved jacket (“We won't bother with hats!”). She carried a simple mixed bouquet. Ron wore a pale grey suit, waistcoat and bright blue tie. As they stood together, from my seat in the front row I could see the edge of Mum's jacket quivering. Her voice was thin and higher-pitched than usual, but I knew she meant every word.

There were Christmas swags along the seats. Vows and rings were exchanged, and when the cheers and applause had died down, the registrar called Jim and Sophie forward. Jim also had on a smart light grey suit and slightly darker tie, with a very pale blue shirt. Sophie was in a frothy,
low-cut white creation. Her parents were clearly moved. Outside, bouquets and confetti were thrown and a cheer went up when one of the bridesmaids caught Sophie's flowers. All the usual stuff that happens. As for the reception, it is a complete blank apart from the amazing cake. It's a shame, I know, and I've probably imagined a lot of this to compensate for what has been lost. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

Nevertheless, that old feeling was with me throughout: weddings were not part of my life and never would be. These people, however close they were to me, were separated from me by an invisible divide. It wasn't that I didn't love them: I just couldn't share their joy.

Whether the memory was accurate or not, what I
feel
has no connection with ECT or illness. It was normal for me to think that I could never hope to cross into the world which
real
people took for granted. Something was missing in me: love was too difficult, too complicated, so how could I ever get married? It was out of the question. I knew I would always be alone.

The feeling of alienation was compounded by a sense of not being on the same wavelength as Sophie. I couldn't remember if we'd had a disagreement, or what it was exactly. I couldn't pin it down, but there was definitely something not right. As for her relationship with Jim, it was none of my business, so I kept my thoughts to myself. I was hardly in a position to judge her, and if Jim was happy, which he obviously was, then I had to accept his new wife.

I had a text from Jim a few days after the nightmare hearing, suggesting we meet up. No more “memory cakes” of the Christmas wedding had resurfaced, but I had to pretend they had. I was looking forward to seeing my nephew for the first time.

We found a corner of the pub which wasn't too noisy. Matthew was in a buggy, crying. He stopped briefly when I said hello, but then carried on; I laughed. Sophie got a bottle out for him and picked him up. The Lion, in Howcester, was
where Jim said he came sometimes before he went to university. Sophie was quiet, appearing a little on edge.

Jim returned with our drinks. ‘What's it like being back at work then, Vee?' he asked.

‘Oh, you know. Still getting used to it. But I've got a new ally now, a CPN.' Jim knew what that meant of course, but spelt it out for Sophie's benefit. ‘Her name is Bella and she came to see me for the first time yesterday. She seems nice.'

‘That's good. You could do with some support, from what you've told me.'

Still Sophie remained silent.

‘Yes. She was horrified to hear that I'd been disciplined for something I can't help. In fact, it's strange, but I hadn't realised that this hearing was anything out of the ordinary. I'd just accepted it, until I saw Bella's reaction. It reminded me of telling Mum the price of something and hearing her say, “
How
much?!”'

Jim smiled. Sophie sipped her drink.

‘So Bella will be keeping an eye on you. But Vee – you might never be ill again!'

‘Maybe, but I've read that if you've had more than one episode, it's likely it'll happen again. Apparently it's a combination of genetics and a severe stress which starts the illness off, after which it develops a timetable, a momentum of its own, regardless of stress. And even if you take your tablets.'

At last Sophie spoke. ‘Isn't it all just an attitude of mind, though?'

‘What do you mean?' I had forgotten the way I used to think, but now I was looking at it again, this time like a cast-off skin.

‘I mean, this “
illness
”. Pha, we all get depressed, after all. You just have to get through it. Take today, for instance. Someone scratched my car, and I was really fed up. But I didn't let it ruin my life! You have to be a bit tougher, Vee. And as for tablets, well … '

I felt a hot surge of anger in my stomach. ‘Oh, really?' was all I could manage, with false cheer and a sudden desire to
walk out. Jim could tell that things were getting awkward and opted for a diversion.

‘Oh, look!' he said, pointing to a noisy gathering. ‘They're obviously having their reception here. Brings back memories.' He kissed Sophie on the cheek.

I composed myself. I had to concentrate on the fact that she was
lucky
not to understand. Her skies were a cloudless blue. Once, a long time ago, I had believed I was invincible too. There was a pause for ruffled feathers to subside and put themselves straight, but I suddenly felt as if only two or three people in the whole world could help me, and I longed to see Max again.

I tried not to think about Sophie too often over the next few days; her comments raised my blood pressure and I would find it hard to get off to sleep.

It was my first day back full-time. On Forest House the routine hadn't changed, but I had to re-learn certain things eroded or erased by ECT. Sometimes memories – “cakes”– returned without any effort on my part. This might occur quite spontaneously in the course of a conversation, or while doing some ordinary task.

But at other times, no matter how hard I tried to conceal it, there would be embarrassment. Nobody knows how many memories they have, so I had no way of telling which ones were missing. Seen another way, finding memories stolen by ECT was like blundering about in the dark and stumbling upon familiar pieces of furniture.

‘Is tea ready yet, Vee?' JD asked.

‘No, er … can you lay the tables for me please. I think it's your turn.'

‘OK. Then you get tea, yeah?'

‘Are you hungry?' I asked, smiling but wondering how I was supposed to conjure up this meal.

‘Yeah.'

‘So'm I,' said John, another resident. And now even those who couldn't speak were getting agitated as well. I was beginning to panic. Where was the tea? Did I have to cook it
myself, and with what? Brendan came into the kitchen. ‘Everything OK?' he asked, his tone of voice letting me know he was worried.

‘Fine, except that I don't seem to have anything for their tea.'

Brendan looked at me with ill-concealed surprise. ‘The trolley will be here in a few minutes. I've just sent Mags over to collect it.' He said this as calmly as he could. Suddenly I felt stupid as this memory cake crashed down so hard it almost broke the plate. I was so ashamed I ran off to the toilet. Of course the hot trolley would come from the kitchens! It was usually small details which came back, but this was a major disaster, a memory lapse of such magnitude that, despite Brendan's reassurance, I did not recover my equanimity for some while. The residents were oblivious, which made things a little easier, but I couldn't help asking myself if there might be another crash soon. And once again I was alone in this experience. Oh, Max.

I arrived at the hospital in a thunderstorm for our next appointment. When the bus pulled up at the request stop at the far end of Howcester General, everyone on board knew you were going to Porteblanche. Oh well.

After a short while, my name was called. The double doors buzzed as the receptionist let me through. Just before the offices, to the right, a flight of stairs plunged down and round a corner to the lower floor, where the acute wards were situated, out of sight. I had gone down those steps only months beforehand, in an altered state of mind. Painful memories had to be shut down as I passed. The smell of the place, too, a mixture of stale tobacco and cleaning fluid, brought back the feeling of being “in” again, or “on the farm” as some people called it. All the doors were stiff and creaked, echoing in the corridor. I approached the row of offices, my footsteps now muffled by a carpet whose pattern I recognised from the ward, although it was a different shade and much cleaner. I had seen it when I came up to this floor for ECT. The last room bore his name. I knocked.