With Sister Jenkins’s assistance, I administered the shock – 110 volts for almost half a second – and then turned my attention to Elizabeth Mason, who was scheduled for a routine EEG. I fixed the electrodes to her skull and watched as the jittery pens scribbled slow wave patterns. After a minute or so, the peaks and troughs became less pronounced. A transition was taking place. These new, low amplitude waves were similar to those associated with wakefulness; however, Elizabeth Mason was most definitely still asleep. She had started to dream, and her eyes were darting from side to side as if she were tracking the movements of a tennis ball.
It was then that I noticed, for the very first time, an interesting phenomenon. Although, on this particular occasion, it was not something that I dwelled upon. Indeed, it was only after I had seen it happen several times that I realized I was witnessing something out of the ordinary, something that merited special consideration. A single instance of the phenomenon was not, of itself, noteworthy and might be expected to arise by chance. What alerted me to its significance was the frequency with which it subsequently occurred.
The patient sleeping next to Elizabeth Mason was Celia Jones. She had started to dream too. Then I noticed that Sarah Blake was dreaming – as was Kathy Webb. In fact, apart from Marian Powell, they were all dreaming.
Stewart Osborne arrived on Saturday morning and was even more irritating than usual. He had bought a new car and insisted that I go outside and see it. I followed him through the porch and immediately understood why he was so pleased with himself. Parked on the drive was an exquisite red convertible. The hood was down and the chrome lamps and bumper seemed to shine with unnatural brilliance. ‘It’s a Midget,’ said Osborne proudly, ‘a TF fifteen hundred. The engine’s bigger than earlier models and the cooling system has been thoroughly revamped. You just have to touch the accelerator and you’re away.’ He stroked and patted the bonnet as though he were grooming a thoroughbred mare. ‘Take a look at the radiator grille. Stand by the side and crouch down a bit – notice how it slopes.’ In order to ensure my full appreciation, he sliced a diagonal through the air with his open hand.
I must confess, I felt exceedingly jealous. It would be many years before I could afford anything quite so exciting. Where did he get the money to buy a car like that? In the end, I came to the conclusion that Osborne must be a man of independent means. A junior psychiatrist’s salary did not stretch to sports cars.
‘Very impressive,’ I mumbled, ‘very impressive indeed.’
Osborne winked at me and responded, ‘No offence, old boy, but it wasn’t you I was hoping to impress.’ Nodding towards the building he added, ‘Who’s on this weekend?’ He bent down to look at his reflection in one of the wing mirrors, repositioned some loose strands of hair, and brushed his moustache – two quick movements – with his fingertip. ‘Nurse Gray? Nurse Turner?’
‘I think Nurse Turner is away.’
‘Really? Where’s she gone?’
‘I believe she has a mother in London.’
Osborne made a scoffing noise and brayed, ‘A boyfriend, more like!’
‘Possibly. I really don’t know.’
‘Aren’t you interested?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Aren’t you curious?’
‘Not really.’
Osborne looked at me with an exaggerated expression of disbelief. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that, Richardson.’
I shook my head and said wearily, ‘If you’re quite finished checking your lipstick, perhaps we could get on with things?’
Osborne laughed. ‘Very droll, Richardson! There’s hope for you yet! So, what are you going to get up to this weekend? Made any plans?’
‘Actually, I’m going to undertake an assessment: a local woman called Hilda Wright.’ Maitland had left me some paperwork after Rosenberg’s visit.
‘I thought you had weekends off,’ said Osborne, adjusting his cravat.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘so did I.’
By mid-morning I was cycling to Dunwich, a tiny coastal village situated a mile or so north of the heath. On the way, I passed the ruins of an old abbey and stopped to investigate. There wasn’t much left of the original edifice and what had survived looked functional. I guessed that I was viewing what might have once been a refectory. The roof and upper floor had fallen in, but the high walls still remained. I stepped though an arched opening and noticed some horses grazing at the far edge of the field. It was a romantic location: the land was elevated and a short walk brought the sea into view. I might have stayed there longer, had it not been for the punishing wind.
When I arrived in the village, I couldn’t find Hilda Wright’s cottage and I had to ask for directions at an inn. The landlord was surly and evidently suspicious of my motives. It wasn’t until I declared that I was a doctor and held up my black bag for him to see that his manner changed and he spoke more freely. To make amends, perhaps, for his earlier recalcitrance, he obligingly sketched a map on a scrap of paper and marked my destination with a cross.
The cycling had made me thirsty and although, strictly speaking, I was at work, I found myself ordering a pint of bitter. It was a mellow brew that gave off a comforting, malty aroma. After a few minutes, spent in a state of meditative vacancy, my attention began to wander, and I noticed a sequence of sepia photographs hanging on the wall. They showed the gradual destruction of a church through coastal erosion. In the first photograph, the building was perched proudly on the edge of a cliff, but as the series progressed, and the cliff crumbled away, the knave was shortened – window by window – until eventually only the tower was left standing. The final photograph showed only a finger of stone, pointing up into a forbidding sky. I rose from my seat in order to inspect the images more closely.
Noticing my interest, the landlord explained that in medieval times Dunwich had been a thriving seaport and one of the largest towns in England. The coastline had gradually receded until its harbour, warehouses, merchant palaces and market place were all lost to the sea. It seemed inconceivable to me that so great a catastrophe – a catastrophe of almost biblical proportion – should have befallen the people of Dunwich. The landlord assured me that everything he had said was true. He then told me that the bells of the submerged churches (of which there were once many) could still be heard in the dead of night. At which point I drained my glass, thanked him for his assistance, and made a speedy exit. I was not in the mood for old wives’ tales.
With the aid of the landlord’s map, it was relatively easy to find Hilda Wright’s address. The door was opened by Mrs Baines, the patient’s sister, who escorted me up a narrow staircase and into a bedroom with a low, beamed ceiling.
‘Hilda,’ said Mrs Baines, addressing a painfully thin woman whose head was supported by a pile of pillows. ‘This is Dr Richardson. He’s come to examine you.’ Mrs Baines turned to me and said, ‘I still talk to her. Even though she never answers.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I am sure the sound of your voice is a great comfort to her.’
‘We were very close, you know,’ Mrs Baines continued. ‘Well, we still are – although it’s different now, as you can imagine.’ I nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s terrible what’s happened. I hope you can do something to help her.’
Like many catatonic schizophrenics, Hilda Wright refused to eat, which meant that she had to be fed artificially. I asked Mrs Baines to demonstrate how she did this. Subsequently, she removed all the pillows and made sure that her sister was lying flat on the mattress. With great care, she inserted a rubber tube into Hilda’s nose and kept pushing, until she was sure that it had passed all the way down the gullet and had reached the stomach. Then she poured a jug of gummy liquid into a funnel attached to the exposed end of the tube.
‘What do you give her?’ I asked.
Mrs Baines looked up, her brow still furrowed with concentration. ‘Powdered vitamins, Horlicks, three eggs and two and a half pints of milk. Nurse Pirie told me how to make it up.’
When I examined Hilda Wright, I discovered that she was not in very good health. Indeed, she had symptoms of what appeared to be tuberculous peritonitis. Even so, I was confident that we could manage her condition at Wyldehope and told Mrs Baines that I would be recommending her admission.
‘What are her chances, doctor?’ asked Mrs Baines. ‘Could she get better?’
‘Catatonic schizophrenia is a very serious condition,’ I replied. ‘However, Dr Maitland has devoted his life to the development of revolutionary new treatments. Patients previously considered incurable have recovered in his care. I cannot make any promises, Mrs Baines. Psychiatry is an inexact science. But I can assure you that, at Wyldehope, Hilda will receive the very best that medicine has to offer.’ It was difficult to read her expression, which seemed to blend fear with gratitude. I didn’t want to alarm her by mentioning the peritonitis, but at the same time I thought it wise to give her some indication that her sister’s physical health was failing. ‘Mrs Baines, Hilda is very weak. She’s running a slight fever and there is some abdominal swelling. If her transfer to Wyldehope is delayed, then I might have to come back again, just to see how she’s getting on. Would that be all right?’
Mrs Baines thanked me for my assistance and I made my way back to the hospital. I had a late lunch (brought to my rooms by the kitchen girl) and wrote Hilda Wright’s report, mentioning the peritonitis and recommending her prompt admission. I wasn’t expecting to see Maitland again until the following Wednesday, so I left a message for him at St Thomas’s, explaining what had transpired and summarizing my conclusions. The remainder of the weekend I spent writing letters, although I had to cease this activity because of another bad headache. I thought I might be developing a cold, but it amounted to nothing, and later I was well enough to go for a short walk on the beach.
On Monday, Jane was back at work, but Sister Jenkins chose to hover around the nurses’ station and we didn’t get a chance to speak. Then, just before lunchtime, Maitland made a surprise appearance. He gave me no explanation for his sudden arrival and I had to spend most of the day acting as his personal secretary. Eventually we went down to the men’s ward where Jane was still on duty. Almost at once I was aware of a certain awkwardness. The fact that Jane and I had become intimates introduced tensions into what would have otherwise been a very ordinary situation. I found myself resenting Maitland’s authority: the necessity to respond to his every word with deference, the obligation to laugh at his jokes. Jane also seemed uncomfortable and spent most of the time looking down at her feet. Obviously I was suffering from an inexcusable attack of masculine pride. I wasn’t happy having a woman with whom I was now ‘involved’ seeing me being ordered about; however, I couldn’t understand why Jane appeared so uneasy.
All I had wanted was an opportunity to be alone with her. Even a few minutes would have sufficed, but any hope of achieving this end was utterly dashed when Maitland announced that he was going to postpone his departure until the next day. Apparently a publisher’s deadline was approaching and he needed to finish writing a chapter for a new book on the treatment of addictions. As far as I was aware, Maitland didn’t have a bedroom at Wyldehope, which led me to suppose that he intended either to work through the night or to sleep on the Chesterfield in his office. At any rate, the following morning he was up early, looking spruce and showing no signs of fatigue. I joined him for breakfast. He was brimming over with muscular vitality and eager to share his thoughts concerning emetics and how they could be employed to create an aversion to alcohol – a conversation which, to say the very least, I found quite wearing at that delicate hour.
When we had consumed our eggs and bacon we proceeded to the sleep room and I helped him to administer ECT, after which we went directly to the pharmacy to inspect a recent delivery of drugs. He drew my attention to some trade names that I was unfamiliar with. ‘New,’ he said. ‘From America.’ Subsequently, he gave me a pharmaceutical company brochure which described how these novel compounds worked on the brain. It wasn’t until twenty past five in the afternoon that he finally left.
I searched for Jane the instant he was gone and couldn’t find her anywhere, but I did discover Lillian in the dining room, who told me that Jane had already finished her shift. It seemed to me that the fates were conspiring against us. Disappointed, I scribbled a note, expressing how much I was missing her. I put it in a sealed envelope and asked Lillian to give it to Jane when she next saw her (which was going to be later that evening). Afterwards I felt rather foolish and regretted my impulsivity. I did not want Jane to think me desperate.
That night, I read through the brochure Maitland had given me and went to bed early. I did not go to sleep, but instead sat up listening to a performance of Bach’s
Goldberg Variations
on the Third Programme. The music was quite exquisite and was played on a harpsichord with great sensitivity. I was just about to turn the lamp off when I heard a tapping sound. It came in short bursts: groups of four separated by long pauses. I kept still and strained to hear more. There was the sea, of course, ever-present, and the wind moaning intermittently in the chimney flue, but nothing else. Then it started again.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Pause.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
I got out of bed and put on my dressing gown. The sound seemed to be coming from within the building. Somewhat apprehensive, I entered the hallway and glanced up and down its length. Silence. Then again, the same rhythm. The quality of the sound had changed and I realized, with some relief, that someone was outside on the landing, knocking, but so ineffectually it might have been a child. I walked into the shadows, took the key off its peg, and opened the door. A meagre light spilled out of my bedroom, but it was enough to reveal the figure of a nurse. She raised a finger to her mouth, glanced down the stairs, and stepped towards me. It was Jane. I shut the door behind her and turned the key.