From a Safe Distance (12 page)

January brought gales and sleet. I looked out of the staffroom window at the moorland sky. Clouds trailed their unstitched hems over the city, the grey sustained by the granite and concrete of its post-war reconstruction. In the distance, beyond the rugby pitch, condensed rows of houses were interspersed with the black trunks and branches of leafless trees.

Mr Green came in at the start of my free lesson and set all the notices on the board fluttering in the draught. ‘Rachel Mills is downstairs for you, Vee.'

I put my coffee on the table and moaned. ‘She's probably forgotten her book or something.' Hail was rattling on the roof and bouncing on the grass. Rachel did not look at me properly when I went down the stairs. Instead she turned away, her head down, her long dark hair falling loose in its band and her arms folded. ‘Rachel?'

‘Miss.' She was trying not to cry.

‘What's wrong?'

‘Can I … can I talk to you? I mean, is it OK now?'

‘Let's find a free room.' We waited for the weather to ease a bit, then dashed across to the next building. Room 7 was empty. There was a long silence while Rachel composed herself. I gave her a tissue, then attempted to reduce the noise of the weather by closing the sash window. We sat on grey plastic chairs and our voices echoed slightly because of the high ceiling.

‘Miss, it's my mum. She's ill. They took her away last night. She had to be … sectioned, I think that's what they called it. She's been acting really strange for a while, but Dad and I didn't know what was wrong. We were so frightened. My little sister locked herself in her room … '

‘Oh, Rachel. I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?'

‘I don't think so Miss. I just needed to talk to someone, you know. You won't tell anyone else, will you? Only if it gets out my Mum is a nutcase, my life won't be worth living.'

‘I won't say anything if you don't want me to – and I certainly wouldn't use that kind of word. If there's a problem, I'll say you're not feeling well or something. But just remember, Rachel: she's still your mum and she will get better.'

I had to move to a different flat for the third time in two years. Patrick helped me on this occasion (not that I had much to move) because the new place, number 79, was only ten minutes' walk from Arnold College.

We were seeing each other more often outside school. I pressed the button on his entryphone and announced, ‘C'est moi!' as usual. The door buzzed and I went in. Sitting on the steps in front of Patrick's door was Leo McPherson, head in hands.

‘Did you want Father Collins?' I asked.

The young boy nodded. When Patrick came to his door, combing his hair in apparent anticipation of our Indian meal in town, I drew my hand silently across my throat and grimaced, pointing to McPherson.

‘Hello, Mac. Do you want to come in?' McPherson stood up without a word. He looked pale and tired.

‘Come in and tell me what's happened.' Patrick's voice was warm and he showed the boy into the small living room with its old-fashioned furniture. I sat next to Leo on the sofa.

‘Sir … Miss,' came a tiny voice. ‘It's my dad. He had an accident and … ' At this point Leo burst into tears and screamed: ‘He's dead!'

I put my arm round the boy. Then Patrick indicated, with his eyebrows and a jerk of his head, that he wanted a word outside. ‘I'm really sorry about this, Gatters,' he murmured. ‘But just before all this I had a phone call from a friend who's in trouble and I said I'd call in. So we'll have to forego supper this time and … will you be alright to stay with Mac for about an hour?'

‘Yes, OK.'

He smiled and squeezed my hand. ‘If you get hungry there's stuff in the fridge.'

I made us a sandwich at some point and I sat with Leo until ten o'clock, when his housemaster rang, anxious. I put him in the picture and sent the boy downstairs. His mother was going to collect him in the morning. Shortly afterwards, Patrick returned. He poured us a glass of wine each and flopped into the sofa next to me with a sigh of exhaustion. A few moments passed. He ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Makes you think, Vee, doesn't it, about taking your parents for granted. What I need is a wife. You could be Mrs Collins, then … '

I cut him short with a passionate kiss that had been waiting for months. But he sat up and gently pulled away from me. I ran out of the flat. Patrick and I did not speak for several months. When we eventually rescued our friendship, it was subtly changed, like a fine plate with a chip which we couldn't help noticing.

Spring: the earth was waking up, delicately green. But I was spending more and more time in my own private weird season. Spring was too industrious for me and sent a kind of muted panic through my bones. I could hear the exam bird, the chaffinch, growing ever more insistent. I was angry with myself because I kept getting things wrong; this feeling would then fade into a grey apathy, because nothing could be done about it.

I know I must have interrupted other teachers talking about me when I went into the staffroom. The slight turn of their backs and the repeated parcels of silence gave it away. Some of my classes were misbehaving and I couldn't keep up with the marking. I never knew which teacher had been in the next room at any given time; this undermined my confidence. The senior staff were beginning to ask questions. The black wave was threatening. I remembered my first job, but no amount of determination could change the way I felt.

I spent days in bed. I didn't clean the flat at the weekend as I normally did. It was the monochrome, the black threat, the weakness of university. I think Aunt Mary was awake. When I did manage to go into work, sometimes it felt as if I was just a mask walking along and trying to teach. If the mask were to fall off, there would be nobody behind it. And it was a poor, brittle mask. Then suddenly my lessons would go brilliantly, the world would be wonderful, full of light and energy. I'd hardly need any sleep and my thoughts and ideas would come so, so easily. It was a shame my classes did not share my enthusiasm: I was angry at this. Then came a phase when all I wanted to do was drive off a cliff or take
an overdose. Either this notion would fill my head, or my mind would be empty and dark. Whichever it was, I would sit in front of my students and not engage with them. How they could be expected to tolerate this erratic behaviour I don't know; right then, however, their welfare couldn't have been further from my mind. And now it had all ground to a halt. The urge to end the moods once and for all was still there but I hadn't the strength to see it through.

I didn't know how long I'd been alone in the flat. One moment I'd been trying to get people at school to sponsor me for a Channel swim, the next I couldn't even get in the bath.

A sharp knock at the door broke into my curtained world.

‘Oh … Gatters!' Patrick was looking at a face I hadn't seen for a while and he had to smile quickly to hide his reaction. ‘Can I come in?'

He followed me along the passage to the kitchen. Until then, I had not let anyone see me without make-up, but now I didn't care. Everything had sunk inside me to its lowest level. I had no resistance, no opinion, no emotion. Patrick coughed and we sat on the pine chairs. His jacket sparkled with drops of rain and he brought a school smell with him which sent a wave of guilt and anxiety through me. He took off his glasses and wiped them clean. There was concern in his voice.

‘Have you been to see Keith?' We had the same GP.

I shook my head. Speaking was an effort.

‘Only … ' He coughed again. ‘I think you should, my dear. Because I think you're depressed.' There was that word. I hadn't heard it for a while. ‘Do you want me to come with you?'

‘Across the Channel?'

‘No, Vee. To see the doctor.'

‘I don't know.'

Patrick sighed. ‘They're worried about you at the College. Please let me drive you down to see Keith.'

His will was there, still strong; mine had evaporated.
There was only his to follow.

‘It would be a good idea if you had a bath before we go, I think,' he said kindly. ‘I'll wait in the living room, shall I, while you do that, yes?'

A moment later, as I went towards the bathroom, I heard curtains being jerked open.

We sat in the dimly-lit cell that was the doctors' waiting room.

‘Vee Gates?' came a voice. It was becoming more and more difficult to move, but I stood up and managed to get into Dr Mann's room with Patrick's help.

‘Hello, Vee.' Dr Mann shone his grey eyes at me over his glasses. His gaze was almost painful and I looked at my knees. He must be able to see into me, see what a weak person I am. ‘Do you mind Patrick being here?' I shake my head. I sense that Dr Mann and Patrick are looking at each other, because I recognise a parcel of silence despite the blackness.

‘How do you feel?'

It is like being asked to speak a foreign language. ‘Can't … describe. Grey.'

‘Do you think you are depressed?'

That word again. I nod. ‘Worse … than at uni … '

‘Would you like to see a psychiatrist?'

Something melts in me and I want to cry, but I can't. The only psychiatrist I want to see right now is Max. But the word “psychiatrist” tells me it is the beginning of the end. I am worthless. I'm not even worth all this effort from them. Patrick moves his hand as if he is about to put it on my arm, then thinks better of it. He mutters something about letting Mum know, then he and Dr Mann have a short conversation.

Not caring what they say is a bit like being a child again.

‘I think you should go into hospital, Vee,' Dr Mann says in the end. ‘I'll make the arrangements. You go home and put a few things in a bag. Patrick's offered to drive you over there.'

‘Not … like a dog … on a lead!' It is the old nightmare and I am Aunt Mary. I am afraid and intensely fragile. I don't know what to expect or how I am going to deal with this. I haven't mentioned Aunt Mary to Patrick. Why are they being so nice to me? I am angry because I am failing, so why aren't
they
angry with me? Then I see it. The white door is swinging open, the padlock hanging by a curved metal finger, and a black tunnel appears; I can hear the echo of rows of black doors closing sharply along it, like an old train about to leave. An angry voice repeats that I am useless. The white door, the whole building, seems to be moving slightly, up and down, and getting larger, filling the world. The ivy is now blue, sparking, electrified.

Then I realise that I am the one who is moving towards it, towards its black tunnel, but I am beyond fear. I am powerless, as in a dream, pulled in and pushed along by the black wave. A face appears, speaking, but I cannot understand the words. The tunnel opens out inside and there are people walking and sitting. The carpet is stained and I can smell tobacco and disinfectant. Someone is asking me questions in a quiet place with soft chairs. I try to answer, but my voice is slow and old. Then I hear a different voice which leads me along a corridor with a lot of noise. Walking is difficult. I follow a pair of shoes which has to slow down. An arm points to a bed in a small room.

The first night, everything moved into a different perspective, a kind of flat inevitability. Resignation, surrender, but without effort. All the possibilities of my life were reduced to a black dot, a single point in time, where I was completely and inescapably alone.

I am a grey slab floating on a dark sea. I can see nothing, feel nothing except a warm rush sometimes between my legs. I am not asleep, nor am I awake. The black wave takes me along and I cannot move, cannot choose where I am going. My head is a black screen and I cannot tell if I have a body. There seems to be some kind of awareness behind the screen, but I don't know if the awareness is part of me. Sometimes I think I hear a voice in the distance and
sometimes it seems possible that people are touching me, but then I am alone again on the dark sea for an eternity.

A crack appears to the right of my black screen. One eye has opened and light is coming in. Like tuning an old TV set, both eyes then try to adjust to a different channel, a different reality. The picture is blurred and I remember my glasses, but I have no idea where they are.

This is not my bedroom. My head aches. I don't know where I am or how long I've been here. Somebody is sitting in a chair outside the door; she gets up when she hears me try to speak. I cough, then feel weak and lie staring at the irregular pattern of the ceiling tiles. The person has disappeared. I sleep for a while. When I wake up, everything is still grey and grainy, but I think I hear Max's voice. Or is it Jim's? Someone is sitting in the chair by my bed. I still find it hard to understand what he or she is saying, but I pick out the word “water” and nod my head. The liquid is passing through my mouth and throat as if it were my first ever drink.