‘OK. Let’s talk some more tomorrow; you look very tired. You should sleep, but I will come in tomorrow and tell you all about my delightful and happy marriage.’
‘Do you believe in the talking cure?’
‘Not in the Freudian sense of unlocking deep mysteries, no, but I do in the sense that conversations, like the one we have just had, are helpful. I mean that, at the most basic level, I will find out what may have triggered this episode, and I am able to give it a name and tell you that this condition will pass quite quickly.’
When she’s gone I lie in bed very conscious that I am a psychiatric patient. I wonder if this means that I am in some way weakened, with fissures opening. Cracked.
Some time later – I have been dozing – Ed comes in with biscuits. He seems a little nervous, as though he’s expecting the nutter to jump out of the bed and start screaming again.
‘Ed, I am so sorry about the other night. I flipped.’
‘No problem. We all know what you have been through.’
‘Ella, the doctor, said you had been great. I can’t remember much after I started shouting. You have been so kind to me and I abused your friendship and hospitality.’
‘What have they put you on? You don’t do remorse as far as I know?’
‘I mean it, Ed. I am ashamed.’
‘Some of the things you said were true, sadly.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Like why I am doing a Ph.d. And also about Lettie.’
‘Oh shit, sorry.’
‘I am going to give up my Ph.d. It was killing me.’
‘Don’t do it because of what I said. Although I can’t really remember clearly what I said.’
‘I’m not. I realised some time ago that this academic stuff was not for me. What you said was true. It is all the higher bollocks at this level. How are you feeling?’
‘I have had a psychotic episode, which was apparently caused by stress, and it is temporary. Anyway, they sedated me for two days.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you; you sat by my bedside. Ed, I feel disembodied as though I am talking about somebody else. It is a weird feeling. It must be the drugs. By the way, could you bring in my laptop so I can see if Noor or her aunt has been in touch? I feel a bit out of it.’
I can’t remember if I told him that Noor is my half-sister. It seems to me to be a holy secret, a kind of sacrament. I also wonder if I was wrong not to tell Ella. I thought it could open up an Aladdin’s cave of psychiatric bollocks, to use Ed’s word. The higher inanities are everywhere.
‘They kept you here for a couple of days just to calm down. Has it helped?’
‘I think so. As I said, I feel strange. I feel as though I have a clear picture of my situation, almost a vision. And thanks, Ed, for being such a pal. I can honestly say I don’t deserve it.’
I wonder whether the drugs my father took and those I have been given don’t have similar effects, a nudge off the true that produces some kind of spiritual understanding. I feel a current of affection flowing between Ed and me. It seems important to tap into this enhanced sensibility, but at the same time I know that all the absurdity and waste of my father’s life – his auras and revelations and cosmic love – were triggered by drugs. In his mind he had discovered the many mansions in God’s house. Perhaps I am suffering from the same delusion.
Ed possesses a sweet decency. We talk for an hour until a nurse comes in and declares that I need rest.
‘I’ll be back to you with the laptop. Would you like me to come and get you tomorrow or whenever they let you out?’
‘I would be very grateful.’
I am moved. Tears are pressing for release. It’s strange that nobody really knows why tears are set off by strong emotions. More and more, showing your emotions –
having a good cry
– is recommended, as it releases the tensions that are building within you. The analogy is with a volcano.
I slept and woke up again, two hours later, knowing that I had a long night ahead, a night troubled by drugs and inchoate fears. I dreamt of Richard imprisoned. I saw him held in Dürnstein. I heard the strains of Blondel’s songs, in the original Occitan, rising up to Richard’s chambers, which were sumptuous: he may be a prisoner, but he is still a king. Richard went to the Gothic window. Instead of singing along with Blondel, he sang
C’mon, baby, light my fire
. I saw medieval tapestries of hunting scenes, chunky furniture, a long table, a hawk sitting on a perch with an Arab hood over its eyes. On its legs were those leather tethers,
jesses
, I think they are called, with bells attached. I saw that my dream has a theme: the Lionheart imprisoned, Noor kidnapped, and me, held (am I held?) in a mental hospital.
It’s a lonely place to be at night. Nurses flit by from time to time, carrying medication. I fear the male nurses; I think they are the muscle. If I call for a taxi to take me home, I don’t believe they would be helpful; I think they would reach for the syringe. Someone is howling in a cubicle not far away. Her torment is pitiable.
When Ella comes to see me in the morning I am dressed and waiting in a grimly functional day room.
‘Ella, am I being held here?’
‘No, you are a voluntary admission.’
‘But I didn’t have a choice. Nobody asked me.’
‘You were in urgent need of treatment. You weren’t making much sense. But trust me, we are not going to section you or forbid you from leaving if you wish.’
‘But you could stop me leaving.’
‘In theory, if I thought you were a danger either to yourself or to the public, I could. But all I want to do today is to make sure that you are all right and to make sure that we support you properly in the unlikely event you need help. I just need to complete my notes. I am recommending that you are discharged tomorrow morning. Your friend Ed is coming to get you. He insisted.’
Ella takes me back over some aspects of my family history. What happened to my mother, for example. I answer her questions truthfully until she comes to the subject of Noor. Again I can’t tell her that I was sleeping with my half-sister; however enlightened Ella may be, she would be bound to refer to Freud, who believed everyone has the inclination to incest. Or maybe she would be familiar with Westermarck’s theory that young children, brought up in close proximity, related or not, develop a natural taboo against incest. As Noor and I did not meet in childhood, there was no taboo. Or did we recognise, subconsciously, shared characteristics we were naturally attuned to, which is another theory about incest? How could any psychiatrist pass up the fun of exploring the dark secrets of our relationship?
But Ella is nothing if not reasonable. She seems chronically tired, but she is always patient and cheerful. She tells me again that it is highly unlikely I will have another episode, and that if I do I must go immediately for help, preferably here in the Warneford. She accompanies me on my obligatory walk. After just a few days of sedation I feel a bit shaky, and she takes my arm.
‘You said you would tell me about your wonderful marriage.’
‘Yes, I did. It is not so wonderful,’ she says.
‘Do you have children?’
‘No.’
We have swapped roles. She tells me that her husband has fallen in love with someone else. He believes that falling in love is not just an excuse; it’s an irresistible mystical event. Behind a yew hedge, I kiss her.
‘This is not very professional,’ she says anxiously.
‘No, but then I am not a professional.’
I hold her close for a moment. Obviously I haven’t quite moved to a higher plane.
‘Thank you, Ella, you have saved my life. Can we see each other, non-professionally?’
‘No. At least not in Oxford.’
‘Can I have another accompanied walk tomorrow?’
‘No. You are recovering well, I think.’
‘Yes, we non-professionals find the kissing cure works every time.’
Glancing around to make sure there are no gaps in the hedge, she squeezes my hand and slips her card into it.
‘Text me. My number is on the card.’
Her skin has surrendered some of that mortuary tone to the blush of sexual intrigue.
‘Ella, I honestly can’t imagine how any man could have left you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s true. I mean it.’
And I do. Patients often fall in love with their doctors.
When Ed comes for me – it comforts the administrators to know that you have at least one sane friend – his mind is on Lettie.
‘I spoke to Lettie last night, about our future or lack of it, but she asked me if my doubts were because she is seven years older than me, and of course I said no, no, no. Then she asked me what the problem was, and I said, which is partly true, that I needed to get back on my feet. And she said so I was just a little bit of light relief, fluff. Of course not, I said, no, not light relief; nobody could call you fluff, it’s not like that at all, but it wouldn’t be fair of me not to tell you the truth. It seems she didn’t want the truth.’
‘I kissed my psychiatrist.’
‘Where?’
‘Only on her mouth.’
‘I mean where in the hospital?’
‘Oh, we were behind a hedge in the garden.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Did you mean to use that word? The answer is “no longer”. I was certified sane, by Ella.’
‘After you kissed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus, as if your life wasn’t complicated enough.’
‘I’m fine.’
But then, as we get into Ed’s car, I begin to choke.
‘Don’t take me back, Ed. I am OK, really. It’s good to cry.’
‘I won’t take you back, Richie.’
Ed has a three-year-old Porsche, which the bank allowed him to keep. We roar away, although it’s difficult to roar in Headington. It is a stately sort of place.
15
My father’s admiration
for Richard seems to have been born out of legend rather than history. What was he proposing to do with the document that he left in the urinal in Paris? His shambolic notes – mine are heading in the same direction – claim that there was incontrovertible evidence that Robin Hood and Richard met. I wonder if my father’s pal, Huntingdon, is still alive. Google reveals that he is, and that he often pops into the House of Lords if there is any talk of the European Union, which he detests. I write to him explaining who I am, and to my surprise he answers my letter promptly and invites me to lunch at the House of Lords. He remembers my father with affection.
Ed is certain that I need a suit for the occasion. He comes with me to Ede & Ravenscroft, in the High Street, astonished to hear that I have never had a suit, in the sense that the top half matches the bottom half exactly, and he feels he should guide me. He thinks a blue shirt will go well with the suit. I consider myself in the mirror, and I do have a lordly look. Ed insists on paying the bill. I take him aside, while the lugubrious man who has congratulated me on fitting perfectly into one of his suits, no alteration required, waits, tape measure around his neck:
It doesn’t happen as often as you might imagine, sir
. He admires it so much he offers a free college tie to complete the ensemble. He likes my college tie, because it is simple.
Not too many griffins and escutcheons and so on, just a few subtle light blue stripes, sir.
‘Ed, I can’t pay you back, as you know. I had no idea a suit could cost so much.’
‘Pay me back when Richard the Lionheart comes in for you. Remember what you said, the genocidal, red-haired poofter was your meal ticket? Consider this an investment by me. By the way, the cuffs on the shirt are great, aren’t they?’
I haven’t noticed that they have some fancy detail on the inside which can be displayed by turning them back, to achieve the serious but informal look, that little touch of the dramatic. The atmosphere in the shop is equivocal: on the one hand the young gentleman must be accommodated, on the other, there is a suspicion that I may not be the sort of young gentleman they would like to serve, if they had a choice. The gentlemen they want, with their casually patronising self-assurance, have not been seen in numbers since my father’s day, but the myth of the English gentleman lives on. I feel they are looking right through my £800 suit and seeing the wee ghillie, his hands raw and his clothes smelling strongly of ash-smoked salmon. The scent clung to me for months.
The suit is placed within its own tent and handed to me carefully like a baby passed to the vicar at a christening. There is, it is true, something ritualistic about this suit buying and fitting.
‘He’s going to the House of Lords in this,’ says Ed, perhaps hoping to impress.
‘Good luck, sir.’
He says it as though he doubts that I will be well received.
Outside the peers’ entrance is the immense, rampant statue of Richard I. It is truly enormous, not just in the remembered impression of a boy. I imagine that every time Lord Huntingdon enters on important business, he basks in the knowledge that his unhistorical ancestor, Robin Hood, was a close chum of the Lionheart.