The Things We Never Said (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

The day room is really filling up now. More patients are herded in, overdressed and over-made-up, and Maggie recognises hardly any of them. It occurs to her that she has no idea how big this hospital is. ‘Ah, Margaret!’ The familiar voice of Dr Carver cuts through the general hubbub. ‘Glad you made it, well done.’ His big bear-face grins at her. ‘Having a nice time?’

She is about to say that she’s not sure how she feels just now, when he nods encouragingly. ‘Good, good. Try and make sure you mix with the other patients; don’t want to be a wallflower, do we?’

Maggie smiles back. She doesn’t want him finding someone for her to talk to. ‘I’m just going to get myself a drink,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll have a wander around.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Dr Carver smiles, patting her on the shoulder. ‘Jolly good.’

She takes a paper cup of Pepsi-Cola from the long table just inside the door. She is still slightly shaken by her encounter with Norma – Norma whom she’d thought was ever-smiling; Norma who seemed so happy in her girlish world of curtseys and dancing and funny little tunes. Maggie sighs. There are so many unfamiliar faces; so many who are obviously a bit funny in the head. If only she could see someone she could talk to. There’s always Peggy, she supposes. Peggy is sitting on her suitcase in the corner, make-up all smudged and smeared as though applied by a chimpanzee. But if she goes over to Peggy, she’ll have to sit there and look interested while Peggy opens her suitcase and counts the thousands of bus tickets she keeps in it.

After a while, she begins to get used to the heat and the smell. She looks around. In some parts of the room there are little pockets of normality, people at tables playing cards or ludo, or standing in groups, talking and smoking like normal guests at a normal party – normal except for the paper cups and lack of anything interesting to drink. A little cartoon deer with a blue bow capers across her memory;
I’d love a Babycham
. . .

At last she spots Pauline talking to a thin, dark-haired man who looks a bit like George Harrison. She starts at the thought; how on earth can she remember the name of some man from some stupid pop group when she remembers so little of what’s happened to her in the last seven or eight months? Pauline, who looks more cheerful, is now beckoning her over. That picture of Pauline’s husband and daughter comes into her mind again, making her wonder whether . . . but no. She looks at her hand: no wedding ring; no mark where a wedding ring might have been.

‘Fancy a game of Monopoly?’ Pauline says.

The man looks at her and smiles. He doesn’t look too mad, so she pulls up a chair and joins them.

‘Sam,’ the man says, shaking her hand. His skin is warm and dry, and he has a gentle Scots accent, soft and dark, like damp earth. Maggie finds herself listening closely to the melodic rise and fall of his voice. As he sets up the game, the cuff of his shirt rides up, revealing a knobbly scar on the inside of his wrist. Maggie tries not to look. The three of them begin to play, talking generally about who’s gone home recently and who’s due to go. Soon, inevitably, they talk about their own breakdowns and treatment.

‘I can still hardly believe I’ve had ECT.’ Maggie rolls the dice and moves six spaces. ‘Regent Street, I’ll buy that.’ She counts out the money. ‘I vaguely remember going into the treatment room and them rubbing that stuff on my head, but I don’t remember the actual shock.’

Pauline sighs. ‘Sometimes, you don’t remember it at the time but then you start to have nightmares about it. Not as bad as the real thing, but you can still end up hanging onto your head and screaming. Then they give you another lot.’

‘Which makes ye scream again,’ says Sam.

Maggie can’t imagine Sam screaming, or even raising his voice.

‘It’s supposed to obliterate whatever horrible thing put ye in here,’ he says. ‘But it’s no’ that selective, is it?’ His hair is so long that it almost touches his collar at the back, and it moves as he shakes the dice.

‘I still don’t know what put me in here,’ Maggie says. ‘Odd, isn’t it? I can remember how to play Monopoly; I can remember all the words to “Love Me Do”; I can even remember the name of the cat I had when I was ten.’ She pauses to take her turn, moving the miniature rocking horse three places along the board. ‘But apart from blurry little glimpses, I can’t remember anything important.’

Sam is looking at her, as though he’s really listening. ‘That must be hard,’ he says. ‘I used to think I’d rather no’ remember anything, but some of them in here, they cannae even recognise their own families.’

‘You can remember, then?’

He nods, lights a cigarette. ‘I’m no’ saying ma memory’s intact – I cannae remember where I put ma socks or when I’m supposed to go to occupational therapy.’ He takes a long draw of his cigarette. ‘But I remember every detail of the day . . .’ His voice catches and he closes his eyes.

Pauline gently touches his arm. He shakes his head as if to dislodge something, while the fingers of his right hand twist his wedding ring round and round.

‘ . . . of the day I lost ma wife and ma wee lad. Every detail.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Maggie is aware that it’s something she must have said a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. But she is more sincere this time; she really wants to show her sympathy to this quietly spoken man.

‘Thanks,’ he picks up the shaker as though he’s going to throw the dice again, but then he pauses.

‘The sea took them; swept them off the pier. I jumped in, but I couldnae find them. Next thing I know, the lifeboat is there, and they’re pulling me out.’ He shakes his head as though that is the worst part of the memory. ‘I should have gone straight in after them, but I threw her a rope instead.’

‘But that’s
right,’
Maggie says. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to do.’

‘Aye, but the rope was rotten; it snapped.’

Maggie lays her hand on the back of Sam’s. She’s not sure whether it’s acceptable to touch a man you’ve just met, but there are different rules in here. Sam’s wrist is bony and the skin is warm and dry; she can feel the little hairs under her fingers. Surprised by the intensity of the sensation, she withdraws her hand, but he turns his over and catches her fingers briefly in his own.

The music is getting louder. They manage to sing along to ‘She Loves You’ while continuing their game. No one except Peggy and a few of the nurses join in with ‘Summer Holiday’ because the idea of going on holiday seems so far removed from their daily existence that even thinking about it is too painful. For Maggie, the song is also a reminder of home – she misses the sea and is about to say so when she remembers what Sam has just told her about his wife and child.

After ‘Glad All Over’ and ‘Devil in Disguise’, there’s a pause in the music. Maggie glances over to where the record player is set up. A group of nurses are looking through a pile of 45s, then one of them selects a record. ‘How about this?’ she grins.

‘Couldn’t be more perfect,’ says Julie, the skinny, spotty nurse who’s always so horrible to Pauline. ‘Put it on,’ she orders, then she leans back against the wall, folds her arms and smirks as the air fills with a voice Maggie recognises: Patsy Cline singing ‘Crazy’. The nurses try to stifle their laughter.

Sam shakes his head. ‘Ignore them. Let them have their silly wee games.’

‘Wait, I’ve got one!’ One of the male nurses pulls the record off abruptly and puts another on the spindle. Patsy’s voice rings out again, this time with ‘I Fall to Pieces’. The nurses are still laughing, but Sister is marching across the room, her tree-trunk legs moving like pistons. Maggie would not want to be on the wrong side of Sister. A few patients, apparently oblivious, sing along to the song, encouraged by the nurses; others have made their way to the middle of the room and are trying to dance. There is another tremor in Maggie’s memory, something deep. She remembers this song, people dancing and smoking cigarettes. For a moment, she has a vision of her real self: she is at a party, standing in the middle of the room, dressed up, smiling. The man is on his knees, singing along, singing to her.

The black hole is opening up inside her again, that aching, hollow emptiness; then Pauline and Sam start to fade, the day room disappears and Maggie starts to shiver. She is outside, in the cold, in the dark; there is a buzzing in her ears and then the blackness rushes in. Her legs give way beneath her.

When she opens her eyes, she sees her legs stretched out in front of her and her feet in their flat black pumps, tilting sideways and making a ‘V’ shape. She is glad she’s wearing slacks rather than a dress.

‘Will ye stand back and give the lass some air!’

She can feel an arm supporting her head, and she tries to twist away, but then she realises where she is, and who is holding her.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Sam says. ‘Och, hush now; no need to cry.’

*

Back on the ward, she pulls the covers over her head and pretends to be asleep. She hears the others come back from the day room, the drugs trolley being wheeled through the ward and the nurses reading out each patient’s name and the details of their medication. She tries to blot out the sound of their voices because she wants to concentrate on what she’s remembered. She thinks about the George Harrison man, Sam, but then pushes him to the back of her mind – she can think about him tomorrow. The night nurses are talking about someone needing medicine for a chest infection.
Infection.
The word catches on a ragged edge of memory. She needs to think about that, too, but she is more tired than she’d realised, and soon the thoughts and words and pictures begin to jumble and tangle as she sinks into sleep.

*

Just after midnight, she sits up in bed with a gasp, eyes so wide they feel like they’ll never shut. Now she remembers; now she knows why she’s here.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A glimmer of winter sunlight forces its way through the clouds, briefly turning the wet playground silver before disappearing back into the greyness of the afternoon. Jonathan braces himself as he walks towards the prefab classroom. He’s teaching a challenging Year 10 group next period, and again it flits through his mind that he could have taken more time off. He’s not sure whether it’s his father’s unexpected death that’s shaken him up or his mum talking about the baby that died: his brother. He still doesn’t understand why she hasn’t told him before.

The classroom smells of nylon carpet, damp plasterboard and unwashed adolescent. A faint trace of dope hangs in the air, but with no evidence of anyone actually smoking, it’s probably safe to ignore it. He rubs his hands together. It’s like a bloody icebox in here.

‘Come on, you lot, settle down. We’ve got a lot to get through. Amber, stop chatting and turn to the front please.’

Amber turns around, her face screwed up in a sulk. The others keep talking. ‘Can everyone pay attention please.’ He claps his hands loudly. ‘Come on now, that’s enough.’ Gradually, the noise dies down.

‘Right,’ he says, ‘let’s get back to
The Woman in Black
—’

‘Why ain’t we going theatre, Sir?’ Amber folds her arms across her chest. She looks furious. ‘The Fawcett says we ain’t allowed.’

His heart sinks. ‘
Mrs
Fawcett. Now, what do you mean you’re not allowed?’ They all start speaking at once. ‘Hang on, hang on. One at a time. Amber, what’s all this about?’

‘Fawcett, right, she comes into Business Studies yesterday, and she’s like, you lot can’t go “Woman in Black” now, and we’re like, why not, Miss? And it’s because some dude from the business and industries thing was supposed be giving us a talk on Wednesday, but now he’s coming Thursday instead and she’s like, “You can’t afford to miss this excellent opportunity, blah blah”.’

Jonathan sighs. ‘How many of you does this affect?’ Nine hands go up; almost half the group. He sighs again. This lot would get more out of one trip to the theatre than half a dozen visits from some fat-bellied, shiny-suited businessman.

‘You said we was allowed, Sir. How come she says we ain’t?’

‘I don’t know, Daniel,’ he says. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of it.’ He drums his fingers on the desk. ‘Look, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll speak to Mrs Fawcett to see if it’s possible to rearrange things.’ But as he speaks he remembers what Malcolm said about this new deputy head:
Fawcett? About as flexible as a bloody crowbar.

The door opens and Ryan Jenkins saunters in. Great. Ryan bloody Jenkins, back already. The boy starts high-fiving his mates as he makes his way to a seat.

‘Come on, Ryan,’ Jonathan says. ‘Hurry up and settle.’

A week ago, he’d had to physically stop Ryan from pummelling the head of a Year 8 kid during morning break. Ryan was bright, but incredibly disruptive. Most of the teachers turned a blind eye rather than deal with him, but that made him think he was untouchable, and Jonathan certainly wasn’t going to walk past while Ryan beat the younger boy to a pulp. He’d hauled him up to the Head’s office and Ryan had been promptly suspended. Now here he was again.

‘Ryan, sit down now, please.’ He keeps his voice level, but he can sense trouble already. Ryan leans across the desks to talk to Chloé Nichols, who is still scowling at Jonathan, probably because he told her off in the previous period – a geography lesson he’d had to cover at the last minute. Chloé turns her attention to Ryan and gazes at him with rapt attention, then she and the other girls laugh at something he tells them.

‘Okay, everyone.’ Jonathan still tries to keep it light, lets the boy have his moment. ‘I know Ryan’s far more entertaining than I am, but we’ve got to get on now. So, if you don’t mind, Ryan.’ He gestures to a seat and, miraculously, Ryan sits. ‘Okay, let’s make a start. Who can tell me—’

‘Look!’ Ryan points at Jonathan’s knees and he looks down automatically. ‘You’ve pissed yourself, Sir.’

There’s an eruption of laughter and he curses himself for the reflex action.

‘Made you look, Sir!’ Ryan rocks his chair back on two legs, grinning, emboldened by the obvious admiration of the girls. The whole group is talking again now.

‘Okay, everyone, very funny. Now let’s have some quiet, please. Come on, Ryan, stop behaving like a two-year-old and concentrate on what we’re supposed to be doing.’

Ryan yawns and stretches expansively. Jonathan ignores it, but Ryan yawns again, loudly this time. ‘Ryan, do you want me to write on your report card?’

Ryan shrugs. ‘You can’t, Sir. Ain’t done nothing, have I?’

‘He was only saying, Sir.’ Daniel; usually a good kid, but easily led.

‘Yeah,’ Craig Willis chips in. ‘That you’d, like, pissed yourself, Sir.’ He turns, grinning, towards Ryan. ‘Innit?’ Laughter spatters around the room.

‘It’s not piss.’ A girl’s voice from the corner. ‘It’s jizz!’ Another burst of giggling. Lauren? He can’t be sure. Eight or nine girls clustered together, all looking at the boys for approval. He hesitates; fatal indecision. They’re revving up now, gathering power.

‘Mr Robson, did Chloé’s tits make you dribble?’

Don’t react, he tells himself; just don’t react. They’re all paying attention now, watching to see what he’ll do. He used to be able to distinguish the good kids from the troublemakers, but they seem have merged now into a single unit, a pack. He hears his father’s voice: ‘
Savages, most of them
’. No. They’re just kids; difficult kids.

‘Perhaps him like boys, innit? I bet him want to get in Kieran’s arse.’

‘No, he ain’t no batty boy,’ Craig calls across the room. ‘Me seen his wife.’

‘Bet she’s a dog,’ Lauren chimes in. Chantelle jumps to her feet and starts barking. The class erupts in more laughter; they’re all at it now.

‘Quiet!’ he yells, banging his hand down on the desk. ‘Or each and every one of you will stay behind at the end of the day.’

A brief hush falls over the room, and for a blissful moment he thinks he’s got away with it. Then Ryan turns to the others. ‘Yeah, shut it, you lot. Mrs Robbo’s well fit.’

Craig grins. ‘Innit? I’d give her one.’

‘That is
it
! Craig,
ou
t! Lauren, Chantelle, this is your last verbal warning. And unless the rest of you want a detention at three forty, I suggest you put a sock in it –
now
! Ryan, bring me your report card.’ His throat aches from shouting; he’s cocked it up – badly.

Lauren starts to cry. Chantelle puts her arm around Lauren and looks at Jonathan as though he’s just strangled a kitten and stamped on its head. Ryan sits down and leans back, looking at the ceiling with exaggerated boredom.

‘Ryan. Report card. Now!’

Ryan makes a big deal of searching through his rucksack, taking out every item and examining it closely before showing it to the class.

‘Get on with it!’

‘I
am
,’ Ryan says, facing Jonathan and rolling his eyes theatrically before turning back to his mates. The noise is dulling now as the rest of the group, sensing fresh sport, watch to see who’ll back down first.

‘Found it, Sir.’ Ryan holds the card up and waggles it back and forth. He turns to grin at the class, and then he begins to walk towards Jonathan, slowly, ostentatiously – and backwards. As he gets to the front, he spins on his heels and follows it up by moonwalking towards the door.

‘Ryan Jenkins,’ Jonathan says steadily. ‘Do not even think about leaving my classroom without permission.’

‘I weren’t, Sir,’ he says, in mock outrage.

Jonathan takes a breath. Maybe he can still save this. He tries a conciliatory tone. ‘Come on, then. Let’s have that report card please.’

Ryan offers the card. But just as Jonathan is about to take it, the little shit jerks it up out of his reach. Briefly, Jonathan considers sending him over to Malcolm or to one of the assistant heads. But what sort of teacher is he if he can’t deal with this himself? He makes a grab for the card, but the boy whisks it behind his back, swapping hands before holding it up again. Jonathan moves fast but his fingers fail to grasp it before Ryan yanks it away again. He can hear the other kids laughing; he knows he’s not thinking straight now, he’s just reacting. The card flashes up in front of him, then vanishes; it appears to his right, then is gone, to his left, then disappears; now you see it, now you don’t; his face is too close, the smell of bubble gum is too near . . .

He is aware of the silence before he registers the gasp that precedes it. Ryan is standing still now, an unmistakable air of smugness beginning to settle around his features. The kids are whispering. There’s a dent in the plasterboard wall, and tiny drops of blood are blooming from the grazes that are beginning to smart on Jonathan’s knuckles. His fist had seemed to move independently, smashing into the wall just inches from where Ryan was standing – how he’d not punched the little sod on the nose he’d never know.

‘Sit!’ he tells Ryan, then he walks out of the classroom, closing the door behind him as quietly as he is able.

*

There are piles of blue exercise books all over the floor of Malcolm’s office. He leans back in his chair and sips coffee from his
World’s Best Dad
mug while Jonathan goes through what happened.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt so close to thumping a kid before,’ Jonathan says. ‘I
let
him wind me up. Oh, and did you hear that Fawcett woman’s cancelled the theatre trip? So they were pretty unsettled before we even started. Then Ryan comes in and, well, that was it. Why’s he back so soon, anyway? I thought he’d be excluded for at least another week.’

‘I know,’ Malcolm sighs. ‘Not much of a deterrent, is it? Look, don’t worry too much. I’ll have to put in a report, and you’ll get a ticking off from on high, but everyone knows what an arrogant little tosspot Ryan Jenkins is. He’d probably benefit from a bloody good hiding.’ He pauses. ‘How was the funeral?’

‘It was fine. Well, as fine as a funeral can be, anyway.’ He doesn’t add that he’d managed to upset his mum
and
Fiona straight afterwards.

‘Everything else all right? Fi okay?’

Jonathan hesitates for a millisecond, then nods. Malcolm’s a good friend, but talking to him about their marriage doesn’t feel right. ‘She’s fine. We’re both a bit tired, that’s all.’

Malcolm nods. ‘Cass was tired in the first few months. Fiona’s about the same age as Cass was when we had Poppy, isn’t she?’

‘She’s thirty-nine.’

‘Yeah, Cass was forty. The tiredness goes off a bit after the first few months and they have a burst of energy. Then once it’s born, you’ll both be exhausted. And you can say goodbye to a good night’s sleep for at least two years.’

‘It’s been a while since I’ve had one of those anyway, to be honest.’

‘No wonder you look like shit. I prescribe a large Scotch before bed.’ Malcolm stands up and takes his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Seriously though, I’m sure this’ll all blow over, and I know you’ve just had the funeral and everything, but you need to watch yourself. I wouldn’t be a mate if I didn’t mention it. I reckon our Mrs Fawcett wants to put a few heads on spikes to justify her existence.’

Jonathan nods. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ He stands up.

‘No, you stay there. I’ll go and have a word with those charming young ladies and gentlemen while you chill out here for,’ he looks at his watch, ‘a whole fifteen minutes before period seven.’ He slaps Jonathan on the back as he opens the door and disappears, whistling, into the corridor.