‘No more,’ gasped Burgess. He wrenched one of his hands free and clawed at the mask. ‘Please. No more.’
‘There is no escape,’ Maitland repeated.
I recovered Burgess’s flailing arm and crossed it over the other, which I was already holding against his chest. He tried to heave me off, but the effort seemed to drain some last reserve of strength, and suddenly he became limp and his eyes closed. We lifted him up from the floor and carried him over to a rest bed, where we tried to make him comfortable by supporting his head on some pillows. Maitland removed the mask and wiped away two threads of mucous from beneath Burgess’s nose.
‘Typically, patients lie quietly for one or two minutes, and when they come round their manner is composed and rational and there are no signs of persisting excitement or intoxication. If the treatment has been successful, Mr Burgess will be able to tell us immediately.’ Maitland adopted a more familiar tone of voice, ‘James, would you mind awfully if I asked you to fetch some tea from the kitchen?’ When I returned Burgess had regained consciousness. He looked very tired but his manner was curiously calm and untroubled.
‘How are you feeling?’ Maitland enquired.
‘Better. More myself.’ Burgess looked puzzled, perplexed. ‘Everything feels different.’
‘Do you remember what happened on the front line?’
‘Yes, of course. Jack – the hole in his head – and Harry – the legs and arms in the trees. Even so . . .’ He produced a lengthy sigh. ‘It’s sort of lifted. It’s lighter. I feel unburdened.’
‘Good,’ said Maitland, ‘very good.’ He was smiling, but his smile was a little too self-satisfied to give off any warmth. ‘I want you to rest for a couple of hours. Then, if Dr Richardson has no objection, you’ll be free to go home.’
After lunch, I found Burgess standing by the window. He had put on his tie and jacket and he was looking up into a sky of bright white cloud. He glanced at his wrist-watch. ‘Half past one already. I came with a driver. He’s been waiting for me outside.’
‘Perhaps we could meet again in a fortnight?’
‘Thank you,’ said Burgess, studying his reflection and tightening the knot of his tie.
Later that same day, I encountered Maitland in the vestibule. He was carrying a briefcase and I guessed from his ink-stained fingers that he had been writing. We swapped a few remarks about Mr Burgess and then I accompanied Maitland outside. The heath was unusually still. Dusk had decanted pools of darkness into the hollows and even the sea was silent. Maitland opened the nearside door of his car and tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat. Looking at me across the roof, he said, ‘James, I’d like to propose something. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Obviously, you’ll want to think about it first. The second edition of my textbook was published in the spring, but Churchill-Livingstone are already asking me when they can expect the third. Producing such a comprehensive review of the literature is very time-consuming – too much really for one man. I was wondering, would you be interested in helping out with the next edition? Naturally, you’d be credited. You would be joint-author.’
It was an extraordinary offer.
‘Why, yes, of course I’d be interested.’
‘It’s a considerable undertaking.’
‘Indeed, but I can tell you right now, even after I’ve thought about it, my answer will be yes.’
Maitland walked around the front of the car and said, ‘Excellent.’ Before I could express my gratitude he was behind the steering wheel and the engine had begun to purr. I watched him drive off, and as was his custom he hooted his horn just before the road descended and the Bentley disappeared from view.
I was due to drop in on the sleep room, but instead I ascended the stairs to my apartment and found my copy of Maitland’s textbook in the bureau. Sitting down, I balanced it on my knees and stroked the dust jacket. I formed a mental image of how the cover would appear in future, the simple black font on the pale-blue background:
An Introduction to Physical Methods of Treatment in Psychiatry, Third Edition, by Hugh Maitland and James Richardson
. Something like an electric charge of excitement seemed to travel up and down my spine. In another few years I could reasonably expect offers of employment from prestigious institutions, early promotion and a much better salary. Life would be very different.
It is a measure of how my feelings towards Jane were deepening that I immediately thought of her. I drifted into a kind of daydream and pictured us living together in London, somewhere genteel, like Hampstead. I saw us ensconced in a spacious mansion flat with tall windows through which the distant city could be seen over tree-tops. I saw us going into town to see films, frequenting jazz clubs and catching the last bus home. And all the while I was conscious of the fact that in this fantasy all of the usual social conventions, such as proposal, engagement and marriage, had already been observed.
I told Jane about Maitland’s proposition and she was very happy for me. ‘How wonderful,’ she said, squeezing my hand. I explained how joint authorship of the textbook would greatly improve my prospects and I was disappointed when she didn’t reflect on what this might mean for her too. A regrettably mean-spirited response on my part because in actual fact I should have applauded her lack of self-interest.
It was about this time that a particular issue began to surface during the course of our conversations: whether or not we should make it clear to our colleagues that she and I were going steady. Apart from Lillian, no one was supposed to know, although I was sure that at least two of the nightingales suspected that there was something going on between us. Fortunately, they had chosen to be discreet. I was tiring of all the secrecy and felt that our lives would be a great deal simpler if we were more transparent. Jane was less keen. She was concerned about how Sister Jenkins and the other nurses would react. I didn’t foresee any problems, but Jane was fairly resistant to the idea and I didn’t want to pressure her. It occurred to me, somewhat belatedly, that Jane might have another, quite straightforward reason for being cautious. Men and women are judged according to very different standards of morality and perhaps I was being a little naive. If we made it known that we were a couple then, inevitably, there would be those who would see fit to ask how it was that, under such unpromising conditions, we had found opportunities to become intimate? The thought of clandestine meetings in the hospital would, no doubt, cause some to voice their disapproval. Old slurs were easily aired when it came to the conduct of women.
The fantasy of our life together in London became a persistent part of my mental activity. I had even begun to calculate the time it would take to make my dreams a reality: a year or two to complete the textbook, then publication, then another six months before taking up a hospital appointment with academic affiliations.
When I held Jane in my arms and she nestled against my chest, I was tempted to share my thoughts with her, to describe my vision. I had even started to imagine the interior decor of our Hampstead abode: art nouveau lampstands, a rug by the fire, a chintz settee. But I didn’t say a word. I didn’t want to frighten her off.
Too much, too soon
, I chastised myself.
Not yet. Not now.
It is difficult to account for this failure of confidence. Jane was a demonstrative lover. She would dig her fingers into my flesh and repeat the words ‘I love you’ again and again, until mounting waves of pleasure made her breathy and inarticulate.
Eventually I would muster enough courage to tell her of my hopes for our future – or so I thought. As it turned out, she never got to hear about the mansion block, the view, or the chintz settee.
Mrs Matilda Mason
88 Lordship Road
Stoke Newington
London N16
2nd June 1955
Dr H. Maitland
BBC
Broadcasting House
Portland Place
London W1
Dear Dr Maitland,
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you like this and I am sorry if I have done the wrong thing. I know you must be a very busy man and that you must get many letters like this one. If you don’t have time to answer then I will understand. I was listening to the wireless last night and you were on a programme called
What is Madness?
You mentioned a new sleeping cure and I was wondering how I can get this treatment for my daughter, Elizabeth. She hasn’t been well for many years and our doctor, Dr Stott, says she has had a psychotic breakdown. It all started when something terrible happened to her. She was jilted on her wedding day and the man who was going to be her husband ran away and he hasn’t been seen since. Lizzie loved him very much and it’s so sad, because she wanted to get married more than anything and start a family. All she talked about was having kids. Lizzie wouldn’t take off her wedding dress. She kept it on for months. She was like the old lady in that film with John Mills and Jean Simmons. The dress got so dirty we had to cut it off her body when she was asleep. When she woke up she was livid and smashed the furniture in her room. The landlord threatened to throw us out when he saw what had happened and I had to sell my grandmother’s silver brooch to pay for the repairs. I don’t know why Mick, the man Elizabeth was supposed to marry, jilted her. His uncle said it was because he saw some awful things during the war. But we all did. I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. It was probably the usual story and there must have been another woman. My friend Doreen thinks he got someone in the family way.
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.