Wish Her Safe at Home (27 page)

“We’re off to see the wizard,

The wonderful wizard of Oz!

“—and do you think,” I asked, “that if the wizard had four sons, and one of them suffered unbearably, he wouldn’t still want to see the others happy?”

This I addressed equally to the pair of them; but neither seemed to have any deep thoughts upon the subject. In the end I felt obliged to answer my own question.

“It would definitely even things out somewhat and I do believe things need to be evened out, don’t you? Possibly that’s one of the main purposes of heaven?”

But, no, I couldn’t get them going. I just couldn’t get them going.

That was such a shame. I myself had found it helpful.

I mean—amazingly helpful. For I saw now that, after all, the path we might have been skipping along (but you have to make allowances for people) didn’t show so much as a blister, not so much as a blob, of tar or asphalt or macadam. Oh, I should have realized! I felt so guilty; so ungrateful. How could you not notice a thing like that? How could you not notice the sheer lightness and pleasantness of shiny yellow brick?

“Oh,” I cried, “will he have a heart on hand to give me? Or a brain? Or the noive?”

I accompanied this with my usual ripple of gay laughter.

“And which do you think I am going to need the most?”

Yes,
ungrateful
! The sky was certainly a little cloudy but at least it showed sufficient blue to make a suit for a sailor; or, at any rate, to cover any coffee stains. All right, so people shrieked in the darkness—probably thousands of small children there amongst them—but though I must never forget any of those poor suffering souls, though I must never stop trying to reach out to them in prayer, this was no reason for
me
not to attempt to sing in the sunlight. What kind of series was I going to write for them anyway?
All is doom, doom, doom; we must hang up our handbags and howl
!

No, they didn’t want anything lugubrious. They wanted to hear about cheerful things; well, naturally they did; everybody did.

“Shall we sing as we go?”

“You sing,” said the woman. (He merely grinned. My word, he
was
the strong and silent type!)

“What shall it be, then? Oh, I know what it
ought
to be. ‘We’re busy doing nothing, working the whole day through, trying to find lots of things not to do...
’ Me as Bing Crosby, you two as William Bendix and Sir Cedric Hardwicke. Oh, I wonder how
that
name originated, don’t you?” No response. “I mean, one can understand, quite easily, how something like ‘Armstrong’ would have first got going.” To illustrate, squeezed my escort’s bicep—“Oh, my!” I exclaimed. “But...
‘Hardwicke’? I suppose that’s why they added an ‘e’ to it? What cowards!” But it was a happy little conundrum.

In the car, my companions sat warmly pressed on either side of me—for, as I had foreseen, they had a chauffeur. I felt so cosseted. The journey took about ten minutes. We drove to a large grey house hidden behind high grey walls. It was an imposing place in which to have a branch office—imposing if not pretty. “Have you driven all the way from London? I
am
grateful. How early you must have started! Long day’s journey into night, indeed!”

I amended this, still doing my best to entertain.

“No, long day’s journey into sparkling morn! The grass all dewy beneath the apple trees. A real success story!” I let them think about the loveliness of it all: the mushrooms ready to be picked, the windfalls lying in the orchard, the housewives running to the market. “In fact, my dears, I’ll let you both into a very tiny secret. If I should ever write my memoir, that’s exactly what I’m going to call it.
Success Story
.”

Unfortunately, though, I was being a spot
too
entertaining. I missed what was written on the board by the gates. I hadn’t wanted to miss anything.

We went inside. It was by no means as luxurious as the London office would have been.

There was a long bare corridor and people in white overalls. You’d have supposed that even in the provinces there would be
some
attempt at fashion. As for myself, I think I’d have felt quite out of place in all my finery if I hadn’t remembered that this was just my ordinary humble workaday wear—not donned specifically to impress.

My two friends now left me in charge of another woman, a woman who had thick, unfortunate ankles. I was taken into a reception room with unpleasant brown lino. Somebody brought me a cup of tea. It was strong and sweet (I don’t take sugar), served in a thick white cup with a generally grubby appearance. I took no more than just a sip—having carefully wiped the tiny portion I was brave enough to set against my lips—though, in the process, bequeathing it a vividly scarlet smear: perhaps more of a dynamic symbol, however, than merely an irritating waste of Max Factor. Yes! I felt like Virginia Mayo! I was painting the clouds with sunshine!

But anyway.

“Please,” I said, “I think I should now like to be driven home.”

I stood up and adjusted my hat and gloves; even in retreat a lady had to look her best. Exits were every bit as important as entrances.

Naturally it was to my new companion that I had turned; there was no one else in the room. She sat stolidly beside the closed door.

Then I picked up my parasol and reticule—I always refer to one particular handbag as my reticule, although it’s made of leather and is really quite capacious. I smiled as brightly as I could...
and just as if I hadn’t been affected by the depressing chill of institutional walls (for that is what in all honesty they now felt like:
institutional
!) or as if I hadn’t been made sick, almost literally so, by that cup of tea-infused molasses. I told her that it wasn’t her fault; no, not at all; but that—how could I put this?—the
ambience
wasn’t right: not exactly one the Queen or Mrs. Thatcher might feel thoroughly at home in. I pointed out that for anyone to benefit from our discussions we should have to be sitting in far softer and more conducive surroundings; and I mentioned that my instincts about such things were simply never wrong.

But attitudes seemed to have changed a little.

Perhaps, I thought, it hadn’t been tactful of me to display my own neat ankles. I could so easily have kept them covered by my dress.

“Yes, I’d like to go now,” I reiterated.

“Only a little more patience, dear. Doctor will be here at any moment. While we wait, why not just finish the rest of your nice tea?”

“Doctor?” I asked.

She nodded.

“You mean, about the baby?”

“I mean about anything you’d like to discuss with him.”

“That’s very thoughtful—very thoughtful indeed; an attention which I really hadn’t expected; I can see that
Feminist
looks after its employees. Yet between ourselves I should so much rather talk to my own physician. I was planning to, anyhow, within the next few days; but I didn’t want to rush off and bother everyone the
instant
I found out. I refuse to be a fusspot.”

“Doctor will be here at any moment,” she said. She was probably well-intentioned but it was as though she hadn’t listened to a word. My goodness, maybe I ought to apply for the position of Personnel Chief: how I should insist on proper training, on stamping out ineptitude! But that was for the future. In the meantime I began to grow impatient.

I said: “I know I shall be writing a series of articles on motherhood and marriage and what to do if one breast hangs lower than the other, which I appreciate is quite a problem for the vast majority of women. But I’m afraid I don’t altogether see why
I
should need a checkup on account of it. My own tits are enviably symmetrical.”

I avoided glancing at hers.

“Besides, they should have given me some warning. They probably have no idea how difficult it is to perform your ablutions in a wedding dress!”

What’s more, I had no intention of letting them find out. But I didn’t tell her that.

“May I get past you, please?”

“Sorry, dear. You’ve got to stay here until the doctor comes. Then they’ll take you up to bed.”

“
Bed
?”

And suddenly I understood.

“I’ve come to the wrong place, haven’t I? This isn’t a publishing office!”

“No, dear.”

“You make it sound like a hospital. Now, why in the name of holy shit have I been brought to a hospital?”

“Well, it’s far better that—”

I hit her with my reticule. I swung it with every ounce of energy I had; and caught her squarely on the chin.

My tome on King David was probably what did it. I’d been saving it up, yet luckily, only the day before, I had decided to make a start on it—normally the only book I carried was
Pride and Prejudice
. But it seemed right for King David rather than Mr. Darcy to keep himself in trim by flooring latter-day Goliaths. (And had he been looking at her ankles he would scarcely have noticed the difference.) She only swayed for a second or two; but this appeared to be enough. In no time I was out through that door and running down the corridor.

And God
was
listening. There was nobody in sight.

As I ran, the truth occurred to me. There had simply been a most appalling error. A case of mistaken identity. Totally horrific.

This was a lunatic asylum.

It flashed upon me in all its dreadful clarity. Some poor soul had been certified; and her physical description couldn’t have been a lot dissimilar to mine.

Which meant she must be fairly young. Oh, sweet child, I felt so sorry. How unimaginably terrible to know that, somewhere out there, there could be people—your own family perhaps; your own good friends (as you had thought!)—people ready to put their names to any deed so unspeakably shameful and wicked and self-serving. So utterly lacking in compassion or empathy. How you must feel! Oh, dear Lord. Yes, how you must feel!

But I would discover who she was and I would visit her regularly. I would strive to restore her confidence, her self-respect, her capacity for trust.

I knew that if at present she was feeling frightened she’d think she would
always
be feeling frightened. I should try—oh, how I’d try—to soothe away those fears.

Had I said that it was unimaginable? I now found out it wasn’t, not in the slightest. I found I could imagine it only too easily.

Yet in the meantime I still had my own predicament to consider—no one could deny that, for the moment, I had got myself into a bit of a pickle. (No, not I; circumstance!)

Fortunately it wasn’t any more than just a bit of a pickle, but even that could be degrading—not instantly lending itself to interpretation as a merry jape. “
Oh, guess what happened to me this morning? I do hope you’re not going to believe it! I was carried off to the loony bin!
”

No, of course I could pass it off as a joke. Almost anything could be appropriated to make an entertaining story.

Besides
,
this one was really very funny.

But, even so, that didn’t stop me running. I don’t know why I ran. I ran instinctively.

Out through the entrance hall, out through the open gates, out onto the main road.

There was a bus approaching and there were people standing at a reasonably nearby stop. It must have helped that I had King David as an intermediary. A man after God’s own heart!

I heard impassioned shouts. With both hands lifting my dress, despite the parasol I held in one and the reticule I still clutched in the other, I ran after that bus in my flying pink satin slippers—and thanked heaven it was all downhill! “Hold on, little one.” I had no option but to pray that telepathy would work. “Mama doesn’t mean to harm you. It’s a bumpy ride but it’ll very soon be over.”

I could imagine him standing there, red-faced, thumping his little fists against the walls of my stomach, desperate only to get out and climb into my arms for loving reassurance.

Naturally the three or four who had been standing at the stop were the first to board the bus. I awaited my turn in anxious suspense, not daring to ascertain the progress of my pursuers. The conductor helped me on: a coloured man and such a gentleman.

But most of the passengers at once moved further down inside, as though even in so short a time something of those bare stone-floored corridors had managed to rub off on me.

Three schoolboys from the upper deck came jostling and gawping on the bottom stairs.

And the bus would not set off.

“Please ring the bell,” I said to the conductor. “There’s no one left to come.”

But still I was so breathless that I wondered if he’d understood.

Apparently he had. “We’re a few minutes early, madam.” He glanced uncertainly towards the front and then I saw that the driver was getting down from his cab.

Oh, God, I thought. Dear God. Please help.

I watched the driver and conductor conversing on the pavement. I saw the passengers—both those who’d backed away and those who had stayed put—looking curious or impatient or embarrassed. A few were sniggering. I saw men in white coats running down the hill. One of them carried something which I thought might be a straitjacket.