From a Safe Distance (15 page)

At my appointment with Dr Wilson, he said I should stay on lithium, with regular blood tests which I had to arrange. Then a letter came about a course I was required to attend to get me back to work. Such things were in their infancy.

Charmian Davies ran the course, held weekly in a dingy office in town. There were about eight of us, mostly men, in the cramped room. It didn't take me long to realise that the course was designed for people with poor literacy skills, who didn't have the first idea about how to apply for jobs or speak on the phone. Although unimpressed by the first session, I decided to give it another week or two, in case I missed something useful. But the content of Charmian's next two stints left me cold. In fact, I was angry, because she used me. She had recognised that I didn't need to be there. So she used me.

‘I'm not coming back!'

Charmian looked at me in alarm, her painted eyebrows resembling a clown's. I heard the door creak as the others left. ‘But Vee … you've got to!'

‘Look, I know how to write a letter and speak on the phone, as you well know. I came here to get help, but so far I've just been helping
you
to help those other people. And I'm not even getting paid for it! Besides which, it's insulting. Just because I'm unemployed doesn't mean I can't think!' With that, I stormed out and walked the mile back to number 79 in the rain and the wet leaves.

The next day I bought newspapers, writing paper, envelopes and stamps. This was in the days before the
Internet. Just me and the kitchen table; so, the great task began. It seemed I would have to do it on my own, as Charmian wasn't much use.

Every day without fail for the next two years I wrote and sent off at least two applications. There was no proper system for finding work in those days. You signed on and were left to your own devices.

I took the whole thing seriously, starting by looking only at jobs for graduates, but I quickly formed the impression that employers had closed ranks on me. At the same time, I realised that I didn't have to be quite so honest about my problems on paper. But even then, the watered-down “occasional depression” on medical questionnaires was enough for a rejection. Time was passing, the money was running out, I'd only had three interviews in eight months and I knew I'd have to start applying for jobs which did not require a degree. Getting a job had been a simple task before and I couldn't understand why it was suddenly so difficult. Then I realised that this was stigma in action, and it hurt.

Meanwhile I wanted to find out about manic depression as well. It seemed that most people diagnosed with it had a sustained episode of one mood or the other. There were dozens of different medications; new types appeared every so often. The discovery that I was in good company – a large number of artists, writers and other famous and creative people had this diagnosis – was cold comfort in my present circumstances.

The person I really needed to know about was Aunt Mary. Mum said she'd been in hospital in Oxford, but that's all she knew. Things like this just weren't discussed at the time, and the Wheeler family would have been in disgrace socially if anyone had found out. Mum had obviously done some research of her own. Did I realise, she asked, that unmarried mothers were incarcerated for years too? Prejudice against women was nowhere near as bad as it used to be, she thought. In her view, I should count myself lucky
that we lived in more enlightened times; I had no evidence that we did.

I made some phone calls and discovered that Mary Wheeler had been admitted to George ward in 1912, aged twenty, with “acute delirious mania”. She had three further episodes of illness. Then, in 1939, she committed suicide.

I looked into my mind: the white door had closed again, but the padlock had disappeared. Whether this was dangerous remained to be seen.

When Max came out of hospital – he didn't remember much about the heart attack except the pain – he was under strict instructions not to overdo things and take gentle exercise. Helen had of course been reading the book; she was surprisingly calm. She came and sat on the bed. He was allowed to get up late nowadays. At Helen's urgent request, Simon had given Jackson a good talking-to at last it seemed, about the noise at night. Helen really wanted the two of them out.

There were two get-well cards, from Grace and Anna. Helen had phoned them when he went in, and they had been ready to come home if necessary, as Helen put it.

‘But hey! Max, you really loved Vee, didn't you?' She smiled. ‘I know you told me about her, but it was still interesting to read Vee's version.'

He felt she deserved an explanation. ‘Helen, I want you to understand that I swear I knew nothing about the pregnancy until I read that chapter myself.'

She stroked his head. ‘I know, darling. I believe you. Your heart attack was proof enough of that. I'm just glad you're OK. And now I've gone on ahead of you with the reading, so you've some catching up to do!'

That was the only thing he really felt like doing. He didn't think there could be any more surprises concerning him in Vee's book. He asked Helen what she thought had driven Vee to suicide.

‘Hold on. I need to get things clear in my mind. First, Max, I never did ask you properly what your motives are for
doing this. I mean, you're retired, we could be on holiday, cough, cough, hint, hint. Vee's dead … Why do you, specifically, need to go into what happened at Squaremile? Because it looks as though that's where we're headed. Yes, I said I'd help, but – .'

‘– I want to do something to help people like Vee in the future. And I abhor stigma and discrimination. That's my motivation. I'm still a doctor really. It's often quoted, and I'm sure you've heard it, but Burke was meant to have said something like, “It is necessary only for the good man to do nothing for evil to triumph”. You might have got there, but I haven't reached the point in her book when she became my patient; I saw the damage the illness did to Vee and the changes it brought about in her life. It may never be possible to know the full extent of someone's suffering, but I believe Vee did ask for my help.'

‘And you felt guilty. I know that. I remember working that out at the funeral.'

‘I did feel guilty. So, what drove her to commit suicide?'

Helen thought for a moment. ‘Vee lost things. Important things.' She paused to stroke his head again. ‘People and things she'd loved or put effort into. In the end, she must have thought she'd lost everything. That's the answer to your question: loss. The rest of her book will bear this out, I'm sure.'

During the two years in West Pluting I spent looking for work, I got to know every knot, ring and repair in that kitchen table. It was the scene of triumph and despair (mostly the latter), of hours of careful writing rewarded by a standard letter of rejection – or, frustratingly, by no response at all, which at first I considered rude, but then became resigned to. I kept a careful written record.

As I said, this was before the Internet. The post usually brought disappointment. An invitation to interview was an excuse to open a bottle of wine, but stigma usually won the day, even if I did get an interview. I never went into detail about my illness, but if the subject came up, the look in people's eyes told me that it was all over; they hardly needed to say anything. A kind of shutter descended and I knew that was it. Sadly, the law which requires you to declare your disability is the very one which seals your fate. Discrimination has the last word when, having exhausted all possibilities for employment, you are likely to be looked down on,
blamed
for not working; people don't see the connection with their own attitude: “You ought to be working. You're just lazy. But
we
won't employ you. And nor will anyone else”.

At the end of May, however, I had two phone calls, both with some good news. The first was from Lexby: a proud Jeff announced that mother and son, all 8lb 10oz of him, were doing fine, and so I decided to visit Diane again while I still had a car. But I felt as if we had all moved on, as if I had picked up a handful of sand and it had run through my
fingers, with a sagging, mocking, trombone diminuendo in my head which told me I should really be aware that things had changed, that I shouldn't have been “had”, that I ought to know better by now than to think I could simply go back and expect things to be as I left them. I didn't tell Diane how I felt, of course, because she made me very welcome, and the baby was sweet, but I knew that this would be my last trip to Lexby.

The second phone call was from Mum.

‘Hi Mum.'

‘I've got the news you've been waiting for. Ron and I and Jim and Sophie are having a joint wedding at Christmas!'

‘That's wonderful. I haven't met Sophie yet. What's she like?'

‘She's tall and slim and she's good for Jim – that's all that matters really. We're all invited to spend Christmas at Jim's new place in Coston, so you'll meet her then, if not before.'

I hadn't spoken to Max for nearly a year. In fact, whole weeks had passed without my even thinking about him. I used to go to Patrick's flat about once a fortnight after I'd left Arnold College, before he moved away, but recently, since everyone seemed to know I'd been in hospital, getting to see him meant running the risk of meeting groups of boys in the driveway. When they saw me coming, they would make noises they thought mad people made. Whoever had told them about me had obviously thought them mature enough to accept it; I just had to try and remember it wasn't their fault. I would probably have behaved in the same way at their age. In fact I know I would. I wondered how the subject had been introduced:

“Sir, has Miss Gates had a breakdown?” Perhaps this was in the middle of a fourth form lesson where I should have been, and where they were allowed to do their geography homework while a bored young maths teacher sat with them.

“As a matter of fact … Listen, all of you.” Talking about it probably brightened up his day a bit. “You'll find out
sooner or later anyway. Miss Gates
has
had a breakdown.” There were sniggers I expect. “She was in hospital for a while, but I'm told she's much better now, although she won't be coming back. I hope I can rely on you to be sensible and not spread stupid rumours now you know the truth. It's an illness. We don't make fun of illnesses, now do we.” Well, the way they heard it doesn't matter, but they weren't being very sensible or tactful when they saw me on my way to Patrick's.

‘Gatters, can you pop to the offy to get a bottle of Fino?' He held out five pounds.

‘Oh, Patrick, I don't want to go out again. Can't we make do with that bottle of red?'

‘Oh, OK then.' He was surprised, but didn't ask why. And I was too embarrassed to give a reason.

When he left Arnold College, I knew I would never see him again. I felt it should have been I who was leaving first, because he was part of West Pluting and my memories of this school. Patrick moved up north to be nearer his ageing mother whom in the end he predeceased a few years later, at only fifty.

I went to his funeral, on a bleak November afternoon. It was two hundred and fifty miles from where I was now living. I sat staring at the coffin, decorated with a simple arrangement of white lilies. Strangers had gathered to say goodbye, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the dimly-lit chapel. The only man I recognised from Arnold College was the headmaster. We knelt to pray, each person wrapped in heavy coats and private memories. But I could not pray to a hostile God.

Patrick was taken back out to the hearse and tears stung my eyes. This was all there was. People filed out. I decided not to go on to the crematorium. Then I heard a voice behind me and turned round.

‘Miss … Miss Gates?' A young woman with long dark hair was standing there, in a black coat. I hadn't been called Miss Gates in this way for a while.

‘I'm sorry … do I know you?'

‘It's Rachel, Miss. Rachel Mills. I was at Arnold College; you helped me.'

‘Oh!'

She hugged me. We shared a taxi to the station, not daring to talk too much about the past. We left on separate trains.