Eighty Not Out (35 page)

At evening gatherings several nurses, and a trainee counsellor, sat on the sidelines observing the behaviour of the animals in the zoo. I was not alone in resenting this, as it was clear that among them, a few saw us as inferior specimens of the human race. Their observations were passed to the counsellors, who would discuss them in group the following day. It was not long before I came under fire for having stuck throughout the evening with an all-male group, perceived to be my social equals. In fact, we had discovered many common interests. As for social exclusivity, I had little in common with the hunting, shooting and fishing females. The women belonged to the landed gentry, with few interests outside shooting parties and the sporting achievements of their husbands. Talk was of house parties, dogs, horses, estates, boarding-school holidays, and periodic forays to Ascot, Henley and Cowes, who had married whom, and whose marriage appeared to be on the rocks. Passing reference was made to stately homes and members of the aristocracy whose exploits had exposed them to the savagery of the tabloid press. A subtle form of name-dropping prevailed – ‘When I was a page at the Coronation', ‘When we attended my brother's investiture at Buck House', ‘My uncle, the High Sheriff', and so on.

Periodically minor royalty appeared at the clinic, supposedly incognito, as did pop idols: it was emphasised that these individuals suffered the same affliction as ourselves, and their anonymity must be respected. Particularly poignant was an ashen-faced withdrawn young woman, wearing a shabby raincoat, nondescript jumper and skirt, with shoes so worn the soles were holed. She scarcely exchanged a word with any of us and was transferred to a more exclusive retreat within a few days. There was much whispering among the county set that she came from the Scottish Borders, and was a distant relative of the queen.

Twice during my stay house rules were seriously breached. The first incident was the discovery of an empty vodka bottle in a flowerbed under a window in the men's dormitory. An emergency meeting was convened, at which my counsellor, slamming the offending bottle down on his desk, demanded that the culprit confess. There was no point, he added, in keeping quiet, as the staff knew not only his identity, but how and where the bottle had been obtained, as did several of his room-mates, a few of whom had taken a swig. This was also an exposure of group guilt, and the chief culprit was told to leave within two hours.

The next incident involved a young woman I had got to know quite well. A heroin-addicted, alcoholic, chain-smoking call girl from London, she confided to me what had triggered her deterioration. I was appalled when she showed me the extent of scarring on her arms and inner thighs – a preferred injection site. Some male patients took a delight in exhibiting their scars, but it seemed bizarre in a woman who had not yet lost all interest in her appearance. She told me the cost of her treatment was being borne by an Arab benefactor in the hope that she would soon be well enough to join him in Saudi Arabia. (I have to admit that I rather doubted this part of her story.) She confessed to having been on the game, but now intended to go straight. I was therefore further shattered when four patients, who had been out on day release, reported seeing her, carrying nothing more than a handbag, trying to hitch a lift from drivers heading in the direction of London.

At the end of three weeks I had completed the written part of Steps 1 and 2, but was firmly mired in the third, which required me to hand my life over to the care of God, as I understood him. Ed told me how he, too, had been stuck on Step 3, but had been ‘enlightened' while sitting under an apple tree in the grounds at Broadway. This was so preposterous that I had difficulty suppressing a giggle; given Ed's down-to-earth personality, this revelation was hard to credit.

At this point in my recovery I broke the house rules. I decided to telephone Fergus. Early one morning I crept furtively from the dormitory, and down to the telephone in a niche near the kitchen. He answered immediately, shocked that I had broken the rule he too found hard to observe. I told him I was genuinely stuck in the programme, and felt I could make no further headway. A male patient, up equally early, was in the kitchen and overheard the call; no doubt in a spirit of love and helpfulness, he reported my transgression. I was given the statutory two hours in which to find a room at a nearby guesthouse, and leave. After a late breakfast at my new abode, I met a couple who mentioned they had come to visit their son who was in a nearby clinic. From what they said, I deduced it was the one I had just left. I told them what a good reputation it enjoyed, and how its success rate was above average. ‘Honest with themselves and others'?

Ed did not delay in telling Fergus that I had not ‘reached bottom' and warned him of worse to come, expressing sincere regret that he and our children would continue to suffer. Almost word for word what Ted, now back in Canada, had foretold. Ed wrote a long letter to Fergus stating his opinion that I would ultimately come to accept the fatal nature of the disease, and abandon all reservations about the Twelve Steps. He hoped only that my mind and body could withstand further punishment, writing: ‘Unbelievable as it may seem, she's not yet ready.'

That hot, dry summer was almost at an end. The girls had coped well in my absence, and would soon return to school, while Michael would start his O-level year. I was ashamed, subdued and withdrawn when I got back. My mind had cleared to the extent that getting a flight back to Geneva had gone smoothly, despite my now more restrained need for the odd fix. The children must have longed for those happier times when I had been stimulating company, before I began to see myself as little more than a domestic drudge, before I had hurled an iron casserole from the terrace into the garden, narrowly missing a car, screaming, ‘Food, food, fucking food!' They were glad to see me, but conversation was guarded – there were too many unspoken fears for it to be otherwise. Fergus sought refuge after work in his garden, and I resumed the role of housekeeper. We still attended meetings, but I did not speak openly about what had happened during my treatment, nor could I bring myself to share my impasse at Step 3. Had I done so, it might well have helped me, and other defiant individuals new to the
AA
programme of recovery. Sober
AA
members sensed that I was still drinking furtively, and that it was just a matter of time before there would be a serious incident.

Mary invited a boyfriend to stay for the last week before the autumn term began. My reaction to this young man was one of scarcely concealed horror. Unhealthily pallid, James was tall, lanky and unkempt; he had a Mohican haircut with a thin pigtail, wore grimy plimsolls without socks, and the rest of his clothing was greenish-black, reminding me of Oxfam shops or the
RUC
uniform. One fingernail was repulsively long, arousing the unspoken question – was it for scratching the Mohican or plucking an instrument? In his favour, he spoke well and was mannerly. Fergus better concealed his dismay, enquiring what subjects James studied, but found himself lost for comment when the answer was Caribbean poetry and music.

I went to Nyon in search of fresh fish for our evening meal. Despite all I had heard about the risk of mixing drugs at times of particular emotional stress, I occasionally took some Librium capsules prescribed for Fergus (which he never took), in the hope that they would calm me and lessen the urge to drink. On this day I mixed them with vodka. Emerging from a side road near the frontier post at Crassier, I put my foot on the accelerator instead of the brake. The Volvo shot into the path of an oncoming vehicle driven by a Swiss woman who had been speeding. Neither of us was injured, but the passenger side of our car was crumpled, and the bonnet of her tinny Fiat concertinaed. The gendarmerie was quickly on the scene to take measurements, and a statement from the Swiss woman, who stood fulminating by the roadside. I was driven to the police station in Divonne, to be cross-questioned by the officer in charge. On his desk stood the half-bottle of vodka they had found on the passenger seat of the Volvo. Incriminating evidence, if ever there was, making my protest that the other driver had been speeding inconsequential. A blood test was taken. When Fergus came to collect me, the officer told him the law would take its due course. We drove home in a silence rare between us. Negotiations ensuing from the accident involved both insurance companies. Despite looking all right, our Volvo's chassis was said to be so distorted the car was deemed a write-off.

I watched our postbox for weeks, waiting for a letter summoning me to appear in court at Bourg-en-Bresse, but when at last an official letter came, it contained only the results of the blood test, sent to me in error. After some deliberation, I burned the evidence and was never called to court. The Swiss woman got a new car to replace her ancient Fiat and was placated. Fergus ordered a replacement for ours, which would not be available for some weeks, so I was reduced to a bicycle, a sedate model with a wicker basket, unearthed in the basement when we bought the house. Its brakes were worn, and it was heavy, reminding me of the Hercules I rode to school during the war. It was a two-mile downhill run to central Divonne, but a stiff climb back no matter which route I chose. Michael went to school with Fergus and got a lift home with a family recently moved to the town, whose children attended the same school. For large scale shopping I could hire a taxi once a week, but this imposed a limit on the number of bottles that could be bought without arousing comment. Disposing of empties was now even more difficult: it looked odd taking a clanking bag with me on walks with Oscar to the nearby quarry, where there was a small lake. It was a popular area with local people, so the likelihood of being seen flinging bottles into the water was high. It did not occur to me that the water level was seasonal, and in spring, as millions of tadpoles lost their fight for survival, many bottles would be exposed when the water dried up. There was a bottle bank on the road between Villard and the town centre, but a limit to how many I could take on the back of my bike, and any passing car or pedestrian would spot me. My life had become little more than a haunted existence – an insult to the many people who cared for me.

One bicycle trip to town was particularly eventful. On the way down I managed to let a deep pothole unseat me, and on the way back I subsided into a ditch to escape a speeding lorry which passed perilously close. Neighbours rushed out having seen the incident, unanimous in loud condemnation of the driver. My bicycle was slightly damaged, the contents of the basket – including two bottles of vodka – were strewn at the roadside, and I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder. Michael, who was studying at home, was summoned to the scene. From his expression it was clear that, while concerned, he knew the real purpose of my shopping expedition. He escorted me home, where I collapsed shocked and exhausted on our bed. Then he put the sensible purchases away and hid the bottles, in contravention of all he had been told about the ineffectuality of trying to control an alcoholic's drinking. In truth, he was nearing the end of his tolerance, and later confessed that despite his love for me, he could have wished me dead rather than witness the protracted destruction of his mother and family.

The shoulder was broken, though this was not confirmed for several days. It was a complicated break requiring an operation to knit it together with metal pins; this was done at Nyon hospital, where I was known, having had liver tests and a dryout. Several
AA
members visited me; they did not mince their words and some were running out of patience. Now, when Fergus was away, I had to ask an
AA
friend to drive me to meetings. Once, after a meeting at which I had not spoken, my withdrawal symptoms were so severe I was shaking by the time we got home, and was sick on getting out of the car. My driver was sympathetic, having been at that stage himself, despite the example of two alcoholic parents, both of whom had died in their mid-fifties.

My behaviour had become more bizarre, particularly when Fergus had to leave on an overseas tour. I knew his absence was inevitable, and that he enjoyed visiting such places as St Lucia, the Philippines and Beijing. I was also aware of his concern that I was an unfit guardian of Michael, now fourteen, while he was away. One winter evening I threw his briefcase containing travel documents and passport out of the kitchen window. Worse, another time I stuck hairpins in the locks of his car, before hiding in the back of the other one in the car port; I was not far from hypothermia when Fergus found me, drowsy and incoherent, curled up on the back seat. The following morning he took a taxi to the airport rather than risk being driven by me. Full of remorse, I vowed never to behave so badly again. When he rang from Beijing, the call came late at night, and he knew instinctively that I had been drinking. I had sounded insouciant, assuring him we were both well, missing him, and looking forward to his return and the arrival of Katharine and Mary for the Easter holidays.

The shooting of Oscar triggered probably the most deranged act of my drinking career, leading me, much later, seriously to question my sanity. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in early summer. I was sober and busy preparing our midday meal; Fergus was working in the garden with Oscar as company. Only when the dog appeared beside him wounded and bleeding did he realise that he had sloped off in pursuit of Vinette, M. Ganeval's bitch, with whom he was wont to take off into the forest. M. Ganeval, a retired
chasseur
, and his tiny crippled wife lived in a roadside farm, just over the hill from us. Marc-Joseph feared him, saying he was a trigger-happy alcoholic, and that he never went near that house. We had not taken much notice of this, as Marc-Joseph himself spent every weekend boozed up with his card-playing mates. Fergus telephoned the vet, who knew Oscar well, and was told to bring him straight to the surgery. I sat in the back of the car with Oscar, now in shock, cradled in a blanket. I do not remember where Michael was, but we were glad he was not there. They sedated Oscar and told us to ring in the afternoon when they would know the extent of his injuries. He had been shot through the bladder, and never regained consciousness. I insisted on going to see him, curled up like a hedgehog, and broke down hysterically in the surgery. Michael was devastated; he adored that dog.