From a Safe Distance (6 page)

Max too stood up and began to get dressed. He decided that today would be the day he started reading Vee's book from the beginning.

Helen embraced her husband. ‘I love having you all to myself. We don't need anyone else, do we? We've got two lovely daughters.' She smiled. ‘And they all lived happily ever after,' she went on, musically, waving her index fingers as if conducting. Stopping abruptly, she added, ‘Which reminds me, Mum wants to go to that concert after all, so –.'

‘– Darling,' he interrupted, suddenly wanting to be serious. He still had to get her help.

‘Yes? What's up?'

‘Er … have you found out yet if you can go part-time?'

‘You stopped the romantic mood to ask me
that
?'

‘Sorry, but there's something I want to – ‘.

‘ –Don't tell me you've got a mistress, some nubile young patient?'

‘Oh no, nothing like that. I wouldn't have the time or the
energy, now would I, with all the demands
you
make in that department!'

They laughed, then kissed. He decided it was a good time.

‘I need your help with something very important. And about that first girlfriend … '

Eventually, after reassurance that there had been nothing untoward – that is, recent – in their relationship, Helen was prepared to accept that Vee and Max had once been together, and she agreed to help him in whatever way she could. A few things now made sense to her about her husband's behaviour of late, and Max was contrite.

While neither of them knew precisely what Vee's demands might be, Helen was prepared for some kind of undercover work at Squaremile. At the end of their long discussion, which took the rest of that morning, they decided that they would
both
read
Doors Closing
.

‘How about if I read one chapter, then pass it on to you?' Max sipped his coffee and Helen joined him in the conservatory.

‘That sounds fine. Then, depending on what Vee has to say about Squaremile, we might be able to work out what to do. Her time there must feature in it. It must be one reason for her to write, don't you think? Oh, but Max, you'll never guess what … '

‘What, my love?'

‘They've told me I can't go part-time yet because they want “my experienced hand on the tiller” of Grove House, as they put it, in the not too distant future.'

‘Why's that then?'

Helen gave a short, exasperated sigh. ‘Sandra, the manager there at the moment, has somehow wangled a month's holiday.'

‘A month? How come?'

‘Lord alone knows. I'm afraid I don't have much time for
that woman.' Helen's Scots accent had become more noticeable, as it often did when she was annoyed or stressed. ‘She's also tipped for promotion.' Helen slapped her thighs and stood up. ‘Don't get me started about Sandra.'

They had a quiet lunch together.

‘I'm glad you've told me about your time with Vee,' Helen said. ‘I was worried about you.' She handed him an apple.

‘There might be other things I've forgotten to tell you, or even that I didn't know, in connection with Vee. We'll find out soon enough.' With that, Max headed off to the attic.

He had just picked up Vee's book when there was a knock at the front door. Helen called him back down. He sighed with frustration. To his surprise, it was Simon, pale.

‘I'm in a bit of a state, Max.'

They went into the sitting room and Helen decided to make some coffee.

‘The truth is, Mark – that's my brother – has chucked us out. Jackson's waiting in the car. Is there any chance we might stay here for a while? I'll pay you some rent, of course.' Simon gave a brief account, then fell silent. His usual exuberance had evaporated. Max felt sorry for him.

Helen brought in the tray of coffee and Max put her in the picture.

‘Well,' she said, ‘you can sleep in the girls' rooms until they come back at the end of term, but then you'll have to make other arrangements. Is that OK?'

Simon was grateful and fetched his son. Helen and Max helped them in with their belongings. Jackson was fifteen with a sullen expression, a spiky haircut and a t-shirt over his sweater. When they saw the sound system, husband and wife exchanged anxious glances. Helen went to change the sheets; when he was sure Simon and Jackson were settled, Max went to his attic office and opened Vee's book at last.

There was never going to be a “right” time for this and he didn't want Simon to feel he was being watched either. He thought about Vee, slipping over what might have been, and
turned to the first page. He lost himself in her story for a while.

Introduction

The story about Dad came a long time before the black wave that ripped my life apart. But I knew I had to write about it, how it all started, with the first bad thing in Granny's house.

I felt a sense of urgency; I had to write
now
, to avoid being stranded in hell by the next black wave; I couldn't afford to leave it too late, or I might not be able to do it. The problem is that I have no guarantee of complete recovery; when it comes, the black wave means I can't make sense of anything, or describe it to anyone, let alone remember where I'd got to in the story. And the treatment takes out memories.

After Dad, I kept writing, on and off for a few years in the end, and then realised I had started this book. I kept the diary separate; it was a place where I didn't have to be in control. Anyone can read the book. The diary, on the other hand, is for nobody but me.

I got over my homesickness at university – I was the first Gates to go there – by making new friends. There was one particular lecturer I admired, too, marked out by his incredible enthusiasm and knowledge of the subject. Mr Black could be sent into raptures by a passage from the French text we were reading; he would stride about the room, pausing only to scribble important points on the board, the sleeve of his gown flapping wildly. If we could not keep up and answer the questions he fired at us from time to time, he would get very annoyed. And then, for the whole of one term, he was simply not there. When he came back he looked pale and thin.

I noticed that my friend Debbie had also lost weight during this period but she didn't want to talk about it. On the first day of Mr Black's absence, she told me he was very ill and in hospital. She looked as if she hadn't slept, but she
wouldn't say any more. I couldn't help wondering how she knew about him; I wasn't going to put pressure on her, however.

As for me, I was coping, but I confess that as the first year progressed, there were times, each lasting a few days, when I found it almost impossible to get out of bed. Everything was in monochrome. It was what I started to call the black wave, but as yet it was still not powerful enough to take me all the way to hell. Nevertheless, I knew that was its destination. I didn't feel I could tell Mum about this, so I went to talk to Debbie. I knocked on the open door of her room, one floor below me in the Hall of Residence. It was a typical study-bedroom. As I sat in the single armchair, Debbie tidied the books on her desk then sat on the bed.

‘What's up, Vee?'

‘Do you ever get days when you can't do anything and the world seems to be meaningless and grey?'

‘Actually I do. I think I know what you're talking about. When it happened to me, I went to the doctor and he gave me those.' She pointed to a small bottle of pills next to the books. ‘They have helped.'

I was in uncharted waters here. ‘What are they?'

‘Antidepressants.' There was a pause.

‘But you don't need
tablets
, do you? I mean, I thought it was a case of, well, getting through it – pulling yourself together!'

‘Oh, come on Vee, not that old chestnut! You know as well as I do that it's not as simple as that. Having mental health problems is not a sign of weakness!'

‘Mental health – ? Yes, but it still feels like giving in!'

‘Look, I'll lend you a book about depression and then you'll be able to form a proper opinion.'

‘OK. Thanks.'

A moment later, she added, ‘I know someone who is
manic
depressive.'

‘What's that then?'

‘It's when you have high moods as well as low. In other words, you can be full of enthusiasm and energy for a period
– more than normal – and you have lots of ideas crowding in. You might spend too much money, make extravagant plans, or even think you are someone with special powers. Mania can disrupt your life. But then you become the polar opposite, suicidally depressed. These moods can just come out of the blue.'

‘I don't suppose you're going to tell me who it is that's got it?'

Debbie looked down. A secret smile was just visible between the curtains of her hair. ‘No, but he's a lovely man.'

I have to admit I thought less of Debbie after that: she was weak, she had given in.

Even when someone was threatening to jump off the tallest building on campus, and I was in the crowd he attracted; even when I'd read Debbie's book and even when she wrote to me after we'd graduated to tell me Mr Black had committed suicide – not once did I think that my own problems were anything like this, or that other people knew about the black wave.

But then there was Aunt Mary … Mad people were all locked away though, weren't they? I reasoned, though, that I couldn't go on thinking Debbie was weak when I'd admired my lecturer so much. And I recognised, finally, that the student about to jump must have been tormented. Just around the corner was the connection I did not want to make.

I first met Aunt Mary at Granny's. Well, I didn't
meet
her exactly, but I probably got to know more about her than if I'd spoken to her.

Granny's telephone was ringing. When I was ten, it was kept for best with the piano in her front room. Jim and I were not allowed to play in there on our own. We didn't have a telephone or a piano at home, so Granny's rules were different. And she didn't want ink on the carpet.

‘Hello. Mrs Wheeler speaking.'

That was the way you spoke to a telephone. When it rang,
it usually had bad news, so it was as well to be polite. Granny beckoned to Mum, who had to step over our toys to get to the doorway. Through the glass door I could see Mum's face change and Granny put her arm round her. Mum was upset. All this while Jim was making loud aerial bombing noises.

The news that we were to stay longer with Granny had been an exciting prospect. But even though we focused on visits to the sweet shop, with a whole shilling each, we were glad to hear the car. The Morris Minor engine stopped outside with a relieved rasp.

‘Mummy, Mummy!' We rushed to the front door.

Good job she was back. We'd started to get bored and any day now we'd stop being good and let it show.

‘Where have you been, Mummy?' asked Jim wearily. ‘Have you brought us any presents?'

But Mum had brought us the first bad thing. I could tell that behind the control in her voice, something very bad was lurking. The words were like stilts wading precisely through deep, dark water. Jim was only six, too young to notice the significant looks which passed between the grown-ups; I never missed these looks, even though I knew I was meant to, because they came in little parcels of silence.

‘Vee, Jim, come here and sit down.' She had to sound cold in order to keep talking, survive.

Even Jim was quiet then, sitting on the floor next to Granny's chair.

‘Daddy won't be coming home.'

‘Why not, Mummy? Where's he gone?' Jim frowned and fidgeted.

I could feel her suppressed sobs and wanted to cuddle her, make it stop. At the same time I knew that would be too dangerous for her.

‘He's gone to … heaven.'

Jim was mystified.

‘Now, you two,' said Granny, ‘be good for your Mummy and go and pack up your things in the bedroom. Come on.' She was calm, but she meant it. She closed the bedroom door, then the hall door behind us while we listened. Then
we heard a terrible, wounded animal scream and Jim tried to get out of the room. I stopped him, and he went and curled up on the bed instead, pretending not to cry.