From a Safe Distance (19 page)

‘Come in!' Max got to his feet. We stood for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then, resisting the urge to throw myself forward and embrace him, I sat down. ‘How are you, Vee?' It was that quiet, gentle voice which I had tried so hard to forget. He sat in the other armchair and crossed his legs.

‘Fine.' I didn't know where to start. ‘I thought you were in Edinburgh.' For a second, I felt deceived.

‘I was, but … well, a lot's happened since then.' He straightened his jacket. ‘When I saw your name on one of the files, I was … surprised. I mean I knew you'd been a bit down when we spoke on the phone, but – .'

‘– How d'you think I felt when I walked into that ward round?!' A burst of indignation got the better of me. ‘I'd only just heard your name, for God's sake!'

‘I'm really sorry about that, Vee, believe me. It wasn't very fair. But I couldn't see any other way. As you gathered – and I knew you would – if either of us had revealed that we knew one another, I would've had to pass your case on to a colleague. And I wanted to – .'

‘– Is that all I am now, just a “case”?'

‘No, Vee. That's the point! I wanted to see you again and talk to you, and I wouldn't have been able to if – .'

‘– Why didn't I get to see you before that, though?'

‘Because you were too ill. I was there … I saw you, but you might have blurted something out if you'd seen me. It would have been hard to explain to others.' He rubbed his forehead.

‘Supposing I'd
wanted
to see another doctor? Had you thought of
that
?' I slammed my fist down on the arm of the chair. We sat in silence for a moment, while the rain rattled on the window.

‘Look, you can if you … ' He sighed. ‘I can understand your embarrassment, Vee, but you have to believe me when I say that I don't think any less of you. There is … one thing I should mention though. Something important.' I could see the anxiety in his eyes. I struggled to calm down.

‘What is it, Max? I can still call you that, at least, can't I?'

‘Of course – in here.' He grimaced. ‘Vee, I'm … married now with two young daughters.'

It was not as painful as I'd feared, but I had to strengthen my voice as I remembered our lost baby. I couldn't tell him now. Something, a knot somewhere, untied itself because it needed to be free, to escape for ever.

‘The nearest I've got is becoming an aunt. Yes, Jim's a dad now.'

‘Oh, pass on my congratulations, won't you.' Max smiled.

‘So, where did you meet your wife?'

‘In Edinburgh. She's a nurse. I know! Corny, isn't it, doctors and nurses!' He was trying to lighten the atmosphere.

‘And how old are your daughters?' I smiled politely.

‘Grace is nine and Anna is nearly eight. Vee, I'm still here to help you, but I had to tell you that in case – .'

‘– It's OK, Max. I understand. I know that this is a doctor's appointment and nothing else. But there is one thing you haven't told me yet, and that's why you came back down here.'

‘My parents lived a few miles from here and my father became very ill. My mother couldn't look after him. I was lucky to get this job. With consultant posts, it's very often a case of waiting for dead men's shoes, but Porteblanche was a new department. Then dad died and I had to make arrangements for mum to be looked after, until she died the following year.'

‘Thank you for telling me, Max. Now I want … I think we need to close off our private lives. Unless you want to ask me anything.'

He had been leaning forward for a while. Now he sat back and crossed his ankles. ‘OK, Vee. Shall we spend a few minutes looking at how things are for you these days? Bella's filled me in on how difficult work's been. I think it's outrageous that you should have been put through a disciplinary hearing. Outrageous. Anyway, how are your moods?'

‘OK. The memory blanks are the big thing. But I still get
the occasional “up” swing. That's when I write my best stuff.'

‘Really? I didn't know you wrote! How come you kept such a big secret from me? What are you working on at the moment?'

‘Max, I thought we'd separated off
now
from
then
. Please don't make it more difficult than it already is for me to see you as my doctor!'

‘Sorry. Even trained psychiatrists get things wrong, you know.' He uncrossed his ankles and, his elbow on the arm of his chair, rested his chin in his hand, looking at me intently. ‘Go on.'

‘I write mostly poetry. If I'm high, poems can burst out of me, ready made, on to the paper. I can write when I'm OK, too. It's a good way of escaping, but it doesn't have quite the same magical quality as when I'm high.'

‘I'm glad you're not high – or low – at the moment anyway. Look, this isn't necessarily connected with what you've just said, but our time is running out and I want to make some adjustments to your medication.' He stood up for a moment and reached for my file on a shelf. Then I listened as he instructed me in the dose change of one type of tablet, the stopping of another and the introduction of a new one. ‘Anything else you want to talk about while you're here? You seem to be coping quite well.'

‘I'll be alright.'

‘So, shall we meet in three months' time? No, it'll have to be at the end of August, I think. Yes, because I'm away for part of September. Then if everything's OK, we can make it a six-monthly appointment.'

In the ten years that I worked at the Squaremile Centre, I had to go into hospital five times. Actually it was six, if I count the operation on my feet. Diane and Jeff got married during my third spell, as I found out too late, and Granny Wheeler died during the fourth. Something of significance to me or my family always seemed to happen when I was not able to participate.

Concerning my feet, time off for an operation was regarded as
proper
sick leave, so there was no disciplinary hearing or warning. What a difference it makes when you can
see
something's wrong; that must be the criterion for acceptable incapacity.

Mr Montgomery, the Chief Executive of Squaremile for the last twenty years, was present at my fourth hearing. He admitted that “disciplinary” was probably an inappropriate label for these hearings when they related to ill-health. A bit late, I thought. Whatever the title of the meeting, though, it didn't stop them from giving me a first and final written warning. I couldn't understand how I was supposed to heed the warnings and improve; the whole warnings process implied that my illness was as much under my control as a conscious act.

Monty, as he was known – though with what affection I hadn't a clue – had scarcely looked at me directly at that last hearing. When he did, his eyes seemed clouded with boredom. It was just another rubber stamp to him. But what use were warnings now? All they did was add official disapproval to something I didn't much like anyway. And the worst of it was, I could be out of the door if there was even the slightest suspicion I had made a mistake at work.

Then came terrible news. Mum rang me in tears to say that Sophie had died in a car accident. I rang Jim but there was no answer at home or on his mobile. Mum told me later that she and Ron had driven to Coston to be with him and little Matthew, who couldn't understand where Mummy had gone. I remembered Dad.

Sophie had been expecting a baby sister for Matthew. After a few days, I spoke to Jim, but I didn't know how to console him.

I had been at Forest House for seven years, and was frequently left as “senior-on”, as they called it, when there was nobody else to take charge. Although I was in Squaremile's bad books, with all the hearings and warnings, I was still expected to run a house when it suited them, even as a mere Second Grade. I had to be reliable when they needed me; I suppose they thought I'd be too flattered to mind that no extra money came with the responsibility.

I began to think it was high time I tried to get the pay I'd been missing out on. Young girls with no qualifications were being promoted over me when they had been there two years or less. After a couple of attempts, my luck changed. There was a vacancy for a Sub-Deputy in Birch House. JD wheeled himself over to me.

‘Why goin', Vee?'

‘I've been promoted. It's good!'

‘Not good for me. Don't go!'

I crouched down and looked at him. There were tears in his eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder. I told him I wasn't going far and that I'd still come and visit him, and do overtime shifts there.

‘Oh? When?'

‘I don't know yet, but I'll try to come as often as I can.'

‘OK.' JD sped off howling, in search of a tissue, nearly colliding with another resident.

It was a relatively recent condition that you had to be a qualified nurse to run a house, so at this time there were still managers who had not done the training. Bill, the manager
on Birch, was one example. When the time came for him to retire, he would be replaced by a nurse. Brendan had painted a grim picture of Bill, formerly a plumber, and it wasn't long before I found out why I had been the only one to apply for the post on Birch.

I wanted promotion so badly that I ignored the lack of competition for the job, just as I ignored Brendan's warnings. I wanted to prove that I could cope with more responsibility, while proving to myself that being bipolar did not diminish my ability. I had been patient. Now I wanted some action. I soon discovered, however, that my optimism and ideas got Bill's back up. He wanted to sail quietly into retirement, but then I came along to rock the boat. I had not set out to change his little world, just to do my best, but after two weeks of mounting tension, Bill exploded.

‘Why did you put this up on the board?' he fumed, closing the office door sharply and waving my notice about laundry procedure in the air.

‘People were putting things in the wrong colour bags,' I answered, honestly. Bill sat behind his desk, but I had a feeling he would not be there long.

‘For one thing, I don't believe you and for another, couldn't you just have
told
them? You didn't need a notice!' The temperature was rising; an outburst was imminent.

‘Yes, but it seemed easier, as I don't see everyone on every shift.'

‘And what's this?' His anger reached boiling point. He was red in the face and stood up suddenly, large and threatening, pushing the chair away behind him with his legs. He was referring to a note I had left myself; he had assumed it was for him because I'd left it in the wrong place. The brevity of the note had made him jump to the wrong conclusion. I tried to explain, but by now he was in full flow.

‘You have no respect for me!' he bellowed. ‘I should never have agreed to your coming here. You come in, with your degree and your fancy ideas, trying to take over the place!
Never mind what
I've
done to get this house to where it is now!'

The thunder rolled on and I resigned myself to not getting a word in. I felt sick. Bill was not going to listen to anything I had to say anyway. He was the House Manager and woe betide anyone who challenged a single one of his decisions or procedures. When the storm was over, I opened the office door calmly, to find two junior staff looking rather sheepish. I did not make eye contact.

There was one faintly amusing aspect of Bill's behaviour, however: about a week after he'd dismissed one of my ideas out of hand,
he
would think of it, so that it became acceptable – good, even, something to point out and be praised for, when senior management came to call.

Pride is a strange thing if it is at another's expense. So is jealousy of someone with bipolar disorder, when you don't know the first thing about it. Normally jealousy, which can never hide for long, strives to make someone feel ashamed of something they would usually be proud of. In this case, fear was mixed with it. Bill had made this plain. He really didn't know what to make of me but at the same time he obviously felt threatened. I was better educated, but I was also a woman, and in his little world, Birch House, I should know my place. But then there was this strange illness; what might she do?

My reaction to this was to stay as calm and distant as possible; I had nothing to prove. This change of tactics however made Bill suspicious of my sudden desire to be part of the furniture and he began to push a bit, do things which he knew would annoy me. It was as if he
needed
an adversary. For instance, he kept giving me only two days off after a ten-day stretch, changing the rota in very bad grace when I pointed out, quietly, that this wasn't fair.

I was relieved that the situation was in the end short-lived. I was in sole charge one day and was expected to make a decision – I can't even remember what about now – but it was quite important at the time. Needless to say, it was the wrong decision for Bill when he came back. There was a
showdown with senior management, my quiet protestations carried no weight and I was moved promptly to Alder House as an extra to be observed, under threat of demotion if I “caused any further problems”.

Alder House residents were female and over fifty. Age did not, however, prevent them from being very much more vocal than their male counterparts about whether or not they should have a bath and what they should wear.

The House Manager was a woman called Sandra, who looked two or three years older than me, with short fair hair and darting brown eyes. Jean, her deputy, who agreed with everything Sandra said, was about sixty with a grown-up family. Sandra had no children, and seemed bitter about this. In normal mode (and she had several modes), there was a certain cynicism which tainted her dealings with others; the attitude of the House Manager is crucial and she had no idea that the way she coped with her own circumstances could have a significant effect on those she worked with. That was normal mode. I experienced others as time went by.