From a Safe Distance (9 page)

“If people lost their jobs every time they had a cold, they would soon protest. But that's what it can be like for people with a mental illness. When you think that one in four people at any given time are in the throes of a mental illness, you can see how illogical stigma is – it is born of fear and ignorance.”

The darkness lifted and he was back in the attic. Fiery red and orange lines – that's what he used to draw on the board in his talks to represent failure, prejudice and discrimination – they were the threat.

He wrote:-

“Because of what we the onlookers might be feeling, it is easy to miss the fear – drawn as a ragged black blob underneath the rearing colours – which a patient experiences: I knew that Vee was terrified when she began to relapse. Mental illness, the glass box round all my drawings, is not seen as a struggle in the same sense as, perhaps, a battle against cancer.

“Becoming ill is all about losing control, which is not the same as giving in. Vee never gave in, but she feared losing control: her black wave. In terms of hostile environments, however, teaching was lower down the scale than what was to come. Oh yes, it was going to get worse for Vee.

“Then there was guilt. Guilt was an empty sphere in the corner of this picture, which could grow and fill like a balloon, but filling with lead, not air. And what about the fear of change, represented by a jagged blue line along the bottom? Vee had had plenty of change in her life, so she wasn't afraid of that in itself. But at Squaremile, she was to discover that change is not always for the better. I know this from what Bella has told me. And another thing: even if it is welcomed, change entails stepping into the unknown.

“Finally, as a result of her experiences at Squaremile, Vee's belief that you were not worthy of love unless you had never failed at anything, academic or emotional, seemed to
be confirmed. So there is the ‘R' stamp in the middle, obliterating much of the drawing. Reject”.

Vee had been afraid of becoming ill, afraid of failure and afraid of love, each a part of losing control in some sense. But at the same time, ironically, she displayed great persistence. Someone else who knew the meaning of persistence was his darling Helen.

As he glanced along his bookshelf and saw her photo, he remembered Edinburgh. The gusty wind reminded him of the city too. Helen was doing her nurse's training, he was a brand new consultant, he'd only been there about six months, and they used to meet in a busy café. From the start, from their first encounter in Paris, he'd felt the rightness of it. His time in Lexby with Vee faded into the background, his love for her became dormant as Helen moved into the foreground.

Any number of things might have prevented that first meeting, and yet here she was, Helen, wanting to be with him, sitting opposite him by the window. She was talking to him, pointing things out in the street, but he couldn't hear what she was saying because he was overwhelmed by the wonderful fact of her presence, her amazing eyes, her beautiful, expressive hands …

“Max, are you OK? Only you didn't answer my question.”

“Sorry … er, what did you say?”

“What time have you got to be back at the Royal?”

“Oh – now!” he stood up and put some money on the table.

“Call me!” She smiled to herself as he headed out towards a sunlit Morningside.

While Max was working at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, Helen made their first few weeks together an adventure. As she had been born and brought up in the city, she was able to show him round. Edinburgh is amazing, full of contrasts, not least where the weather is concerned. Of course they saw all the tourist sites and places of interest in
the area: the castle, various monuments and several museums for example; Max had particularly enjoyed the National. They walked their legs off.

Max appreciated the fact that as well as knowing the cultural highlights, Helen knew all the right restaurants and cafés to go in, when they were too shattered to walk any further. They were both free at the weekend and spent most of the time together. Max remembered those Sunday mornings in her flat, in bed by her side one minute, then smelling the toast the next, and hearing her sing in the kitchen. He had the wonderful, comfortable feeling that he could say anything to Helen and she would understand. He could tell she was totally at ease as well. This was going to work.

Coming back to the present in Howcester, he steeled himself to read the next chapters: Lexby was imminent. Once again, he had to try to be objective, a difficult task when he remembered the special party. Although aware that Vee's account was allowing him a greater insight than usual into another's thoughts, Max also had to bear in mind his main reason for reading the book: to find out what she wanted him to do.

Castlebrough School for girls, in Lexby on the south coast, was in fact a row of five imposing houses dating from the early 1900s. They had been converted in the ‘50s and were linked at the back by a covered way. The sound of deep gravel in the parking area dignified the arrival of my taxi.

‘Miss Gates?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do come in. I'm matron. If you wouldn't mind waiting in here, Miss Henshaw will be with you in a moment.' She smiled graciously and I sat in a corner of a large room, my stomach fizzing with nerves.

Miss Henshaw, the headmistress, was a short, round, pink woman of about fifty. She had a slight Irish accent. After my interview, in the few anxious minutes alone in that room with the high white ceiling, I knew I would have to say
something: when Miss Henshaw reappeared, I admitted that I'd failed my probation. I could not look at her and the seconds passed. Her tone of voice did not alter, however.

‘I would like to offer you the post of French teacher,' she said. ‘I'll see you in September. And thank you for your honesty.'

While my first thought was that Miss Henshaw must have been desperate to fill the post, the next moment I felt optimistic. Having passed my driving test in Howcester, the first thing I did was buy a car.

A few years would pass with no hint of trouble, no sign of the black wave, making me think the dream of Aunt Mary was just that, a dream, an ineffectual force.

The staffroom was full of sunlight the first time I went in; the enormous windows faced south east.

‘You'll be in charge of the French teaching,' my new head of department told me. Miss Gibson was tall and thin and had a strange laugh, which seemed to require a lot of effort. She was responsible for the German teaching.

‘So – right through to ‘A' level?'

‘Yes. The classes here are small, much smaller that I expect you've taught before, so you'll get to know the girls quite quickly. I've been here ten years and I love it.' She gave one of her laughs, which resembled deep-seated panting. ‘And there's very little in the way of serious disruptive behaviour. After all, their parents are paying, and they'd soon hear if anything happened. The girls come from all over the world, you know.'

I realised I was the youngest teacher there. And at last I could now do what I'd always wanted to do: enjoy my work. Marking in the evenings was nowhere near as daunting as before, and I could give individual attention more easily.

On the subject of individual attention, the brand new computer room was opposite the staffroom in House 1: I was to spend some time in there, though not necessarily occupied with computing. Tony taught IT, when it had just emerged from maths as a separate subject. We found we were attracted to each other. On the last day before half-term, when as usual there was sherry in the staffroom, Tony went across the way to pack up his things. I teased, flirted. The sherry was strong.

‘You keep on like that and I'll be round your flat.'

I draped myself up the doorframe when the coast was clear. ‘Can if you want.' The sexual tension between us about to find release, I drove home and waited, nervous but excited by the secrecy. I had only had one boyfriend up to then.

I lived on the top floor of a forties semi, near the railway line. It belonged to one of the other teachers and I paid a low rent because one room was full of his stuff. All the bedroom furniture was in dark wood and there was a flimsy camp bed in the corner. Everything seemed to be tidy today. But now here was Tony's car. My heart jumped and I went down to let him in. He was married, so we had to be discreet, but right now discretion was the last thing on our minds. The kissing was powerful, our clothes went everywhere. It was sheer lust and it felt good, perhaps because of the guilt.

Then one day Miss Henshaw came into the computer room and we had to put our hands away. ‘Ah, Miss Gates. I didn't know you were interested in computers!'

I knew I looked guilty. ‘I … I'm having lessons,' I managed.

‘I see. How's she doing, Mr Brown?'

‘Oh,' Tony gave a nervous laugh. ‘Shaping up nicely!'

This unfortunate expression didn't help at all; Miss Henshaw looked at each of us in turn, raised her eyebrows, nodded sagely and walked out. I sighed. I suppose she could hardly say, “Keep it up!” could she?

Tony and I met regularly for a while at my flat, but with Christmas coming, he would be needed more at home. And my downstairs neighbours complained to my landlord about the bedroom noises. A camp bed on bare boards. Rather embarrassing to recall.

But worse was to come.

‘I heard of two teachers once,' began Mrs Selby, science, as she addressed the group round the staffroom table one lunchtime. ‘They used to meet once a week – oh, yes, and at the end of term, after the sherry.'

Luckily I had my back to them, but I sensed that the others were smiling as they got the message. My skin tingled.

‘He was married, but his car was seen outside her flat.'

I dared not try to catch Tony's eye. It would have meant turning my head and it was not difficult to imagine that I was being watched.

‘They thought nobody knew, but you could tell which day of the week it was – at least, so I'm told.'

When the time came for afternoon lessons, I found it hard to know where to look and wanted to escape from the staffroom as unobtrusively as possible. But I nearly knocked over the Christmas tree in the foyer. Nowadays I would probably have smiled at Mrs Selby as if I hadn't recognised myself.

Ben's motorbike pulled up. Tony and I were in the bedroom. I knew Ben fancied me, but I wasn't expecting him. I panicked, threw on my dressing gown, Tony grabbed his clothes and fled into the bathroom. ‘Let him in, Vee! Tell him you were just about to have a bath!'

‘But he'll see your car!'

‘Yes, and you can say I've only just turned up. Something needed fixing or something. Go!' He slammed his feet into his shoes.

But I couldn't carry it off. Ben went home. Tony was furious. When we started the new term in January, I knew that Ben had worked it out. They spoke to each other but not to me: I was the scarlet woman. There was not going to be any more hanky panky on the camp bed: shame is a big obstacle to passion.

I had never fallen in love. I'd had lustful flings, but that was about it. I couldn't really see a future with the expected husband and children. That world was closed to me and I did not deserve to enter it. Marriage signified a higher level of being, of acceptance in society than I could ever hope to attain: if you failed or you weren't tough, you were unworthy of love. I just had to accept this fundamental truth. I was simply inferior. Even though the wound from my first job had healed enough for me to succeed at Castlebrough, there was a scar. My guilt over the affair with Tony made
things worse in the end. And keeping in touch with Mum, Ron and Jim was difficult as I was not on the phone in my flat. I was lonely. But as I said, not once did the black wave threaten. The whole thing seemed to have gone for good.

Joan Gibson hardly ever interfered with what I was doing in the classroom; if she did have something to say, it would always be with her apologetic, panting laugh. Because I felt strong in this environment, where I had control, it was easier for me to deal with any minor misbehaviour. One day in my first term, I picked up my books and headed along the covered way to House 3. I know you're not supposed to have favourites as a teacher, but everyone does. You just have to be careful.

‘I think you'll find they're in room 9,' a colleague whispered to me in the corridor as I searched for 2H, normally in room 4. She smiled knowingly and patted me on the arm. As I got nearer to room 9, I heard “ssshh! ssshh!” There was silence as I walked in.

‘Bonjour la classe!'

Their reply was punctuated by giggles and snorts of suppressed laughter. ‘Bon … jour, Mademoi … selle!'

I turned to the board. ‘Now copy this down in your rough books: “I must stay in the right classroom so that my teacher knows where I am.”‘ I gave them a few moments, then when heads started to come up, I added: ‘And … translate it into French.' Of course I knew that they were only having a bit of harmless fun, but I still had to have the last word.