From a Safe Distance (2 page)

I turned, with the intention of going to comfort my mother, but everyone had gone.

I have always hated going up in the attic. I don't like spending any length of time in the same room as cobwebs and seldom used things. On this occasion, I wanted to find some old photographs as well as getting the Christmas decorations down, aiming to grab everything and leave without delay.

I found the boxes I was looking for, and handed them through the hatch to Matthew. Then I noticed that lying on top of the last one was something else: the book Abbie had written, in a thick brown folder, already dusty. I was ashamed to realise that I had forgotten all about it. Crouching under the lamp, I flicked through the typescript, noticing several crossings-out and handwritten changes. I suddenly remembered the day she had given me the book to read, back at the start of the summer, and how I had skimmed through it without really understanding. I should try again now, I thought. Her death had changed things.

In the dim light, I noticed Abbie's original title:
Doors Closing
which, when I thought for a moment, I realised was the voice of the hospital lifts.

‘Come on Dad! There's still one more lot of stuff to come yet!' Matthew was still waiting. ‘And did you find the photos?'

If I was aiming for publication on Abbie's behalf, a less depressing, more positive title would have to be found. I would give it some thought. As I passed the last box down to Matthew and took the folder with me, I knew that questions were about to be asked. I was right.

‘Dad, are you ever going to tell me about Auntie Abbie? I mean, I think I'm old enough to understand. I know what happened to Mum, so can it be any worse than that?'

We sat in the lounge. Matthew began opening the boxes and stretched out a length of tinsel.

‘Yes, I think you probably are old enough, and I do intend
to tell you – I hadn't forgotten, son. It's just that I don't really know the whole story myself yet.'

‘What, even after all this time?'

‘Well, she only died a few months ago; I'm still finding things out.'

‘Is that hers, that folder you're holding?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can I look at it?' Matthew came towards me.

My son deserved a proper explanation, but not right then. And it was not going to be straightforward.

‘As soon as I have the full picture, I'll tell you all about her. Then you can look at this. But I've got one or two photos of her. Will that do for now?'

I was used to making this kind of “when-should-he-be-allowed-to” decision on my own, since his mother's death when Matthew was only three. He seemed satisfied with my conditions and studied the photos.

An introduction should set the scene and explain a few things. In her book, Abbie has two aims. Firstly, she wants to tell her story, which she felt unable to express in any other way. And it
needed
to be expressed, in order to render it less threatening to Abbie herself. Talking about her illness was difficult for her, as I know first hand. While I accept that it wasn't like discussing what to wear, she seemed to think that talking somehow tended to invite criticism and prejudice.

So instead of talking, she wrote; in this way, she avoided an immediate challenge. It gave her the chance to put down the facts and the chance to be
believed
. Being believed and being accepted were vital. Not being believed or accepted made her feel suffocated. I don't know what that feels like.

Once the thoughts, the experiences were liberated by being written down, they might reach others as well. By doing this, she could both convey her story and correct any assumptions we might have made. It was just sad she had to die first.

Her second aim is to expose and deal with an injustice which affected her profoundly. I am no philosopher or
psychologist, but I know perfectly well that our experiences change us, even if we want to forget the bad times. I know that especially from losing my wife. At the same time, I admit to having had great difficulty in understanding both the nature and the effects of my sister's illness, which may have meant that I was sometimes less than sympathetic. I couldn't accept that the thing would keep coming back, so I couldn't understand why Abbie didn't just go out and find a new job, when she was fit and well. Why wasn't she making any effort? It wasn't her usual approach to a challenge. I was keen to get her to justify her behaviour. She mentioned “stigma”, and having “a history”, but I thought she was looking for excuses, even making the most of it.

But then what do I know? If it wasn't that bad, why did Abbie kill herself? She's not here any more to explain things to me, but her death has rendered my assumptions, my irritation, trivial. There is a tendency for people to be less sympathetic towards those they are close to. I come up against that every day at work. It must be because emotional attachment brings with it a kind of “expectation of competence”. And that works both ways.

If I have learnt anything from Abbie's death, it is that, family or not, if we deride or punish, then we are just as much to blame as this destructive illness. While it might seem to have a mind of its own, an illness, however, has neither mercy nor conscience.

It was one of those bright, cold January days when the wind parts your hair in unexpected places. I was no stranger to the hospital because of my work, but as I was early for my appointment with Roy Goodfield, I stood looking down over Howcester, its grey and red buildings strewn across the valley.

The steep hospital road was lined with short bushes which strained in the wind. It was not long before I decided to go indoors. This building, the Porteblanche Unit, was the newest part of the hospital and a marvel of architectural
design. Outside the main entrance the hard standing was protected by a roof extension for people arriving in bad weather. The automatic doors opened on to a spacious reception area, which had been refurbished since my last visit, with comfortable chairs, small tables, posters and racks of leaflets on the walls. About half a dozen people were waiting. At the far end, to the right, was the desk, sealed like a bank window.

‘Hello, Newman.' Roy had come in just behind me. I realised how much taller I was than him.

‘Oh, hello, Roy.' We shook hands. ‘Cold, isn't – '

‘– Hey, it's you, fuckin' Goodfield. I'm in 'ere again ‘cos of you, you bastard!' The loud voice which had interrupted me belonged to a young man who was now walking towards us in determined fashion. He was unshaven, with long greasy hair and a hole in his green sweater.

There was a sound of vacated chairs as the other people, anxious, gathered by the opposite wall. I noticed that the receptionist was making a call. The young man was standing quite close to us now, breathing heavily and trembling. Moments later, two large male nursing assistants burst through the double doors to the left of reception and came over to escort the patient back to his ward. He did not resist. In fact he began to weep, and walked quietly away with the nurses.

Roy seemed unperturbed, keeping his dignity, in his neat black cashmere overcoat, all the while clutching a fat brown folder under his arm. He had a quiet word with the receptionist, then we made our way through the same double doors, Roy using his key card, down to his office.

‘Good journey?' Roy asked.

‘Fine thanks.' Our voices echoed and the heavy fire doors creaked. ‘Thanks for seeing me.'

‘Not at all. I just had to go out to the car for something. Been here all day, but I couldn't expect you to find my office, so we timed it perfectly.' He smiled.

A smell of disinfectant mixed with tobacco pervaded the top corridor, full of sunlight. After two more sets of doors,
the sound of our footsteps was suddenly muffled as we reached the carpeted area. As Roy opened his office door, I saw a young woman sitting reading a document. She stood up, and Roy introduced us.

‘This is Sonya, Abbie's CPN. Newman, Abbie's brother.' We shook hands and a silver bracelet slid down her arm. She had thick black hair and large, thin loop earrings. Her dark eyes showed compassion for the loss of my sister.

Roy wanted to explain his behaviour in reception.

‘That business back there – it might have looked callous', he said, placing the brown folder next to his rather scruffy briefcase on the end of the desk and taking off his coat, ‘but my policy is never to engage with a patient when they first come in, until they have been assessed by the nursing staff – and given some meds if necessary.'

‘I see. Sounds fair enough. I mean, not callous at all.'

I took off my coat and scarf, draped them over a spare chair and we sat down.

‘I'm not stopping', Sonya said. ‘I just had to pop in to give Roy some notes after he'd seen his last patient. Then he said you were coming, so I thought I'd stay and meet you.'

It was a functional, plain room. There was no couch, as people imagine; just reasonably comfortable chairs, magnolia walls, a computer desk with swivel chair tucked away, shelving above the main desk with drawers, and a small low table in the middle where Carol, Roy's secretary, placed a tray of coffee and biscuits. This was a welcome sight. The door clicked shut behind her.

‘So,' Sonya asked, ‘what do you do for a living?'

‘I'm a social worker', I replied, ‘over in Oxford.'

‘Oh, yes. Abbie did say, but I'd forgotten. So you must be used to hospitals and care homes.'

‘Well, yes, but each has its own character.'

‘Have you ever been to the residential centre called Squaremile?' Sonya glanced at Roy, who sat quietly in front of the main desk, then looked earnestly at me, leaning forward slightly, both hands in her lap.

‘Only once, for work.'

‘What did you think of it?' She leant forward to pick up her cup.

I chose my words carefully. ‘Well, I didn't know what to make of it. Have you got any connection with the place?'

‘No, it's just a coincidence that Abbie worked there, so I visited quite regularly.'

‘Yes, of course.' I suddenly felt guilty.

‘And I know what a hard time she had. They were really rough on her. Huge place, though, isn't it? Roy works there one day a week, don't you?'

Roy nodded.

Then, with a short gasp, Sonya realised the time. ‘Oh, but look, I must get going now, and let you both talk. Bye for now.' She picked up her belongings and left.

‘So how can I help?' asked Roy.

‘There are two things I just can't get my head round.'

‘Go on.'

‘The first one is obvious: why did Abbie kill herself?'

‘It has to do with being bipolar – or as they used to call it, manic depressive. You know I can't discuss Abbie specifically, but she is typical. Some people reach a point where they feel they simply can't bear it any longer. That's it in a nutshell. Of course I can't begin to imagine what that
feels
like but it's a fact.'

Roy stood up and walked over to the window. Neither of us spoke for a few moments. Then he returned to his seat opposite me, his clear blue eyes and silver hair catching the low afternoon sunlight. He cleared his throat. A subtle change had occurred in his expression, which I couldn't account for, unless what Abbie had written was true? His voice was slightly hoarse too. ‘What was the second thing on your mind?'

‘It was … well, it doesn't really matter, now she's gone, but I could never understand why she gave up looking for work.'

‘Before I answer that, can I ask
you
a question?' Roy appeared to have recovered now.

‘OK.'

‘Was it important for
you
that she had a job?'

‘Um, only for her well-being and sense of worth. I would feel happy if she was happy.'

‘I see. No other reason?'

‘Not that I can think of, no.'

Roy smiled an enigmatic smile which was slightly unnerving. He crossed his legs. ‘Sorry. Old habits and all that. Anyway, as for why Abbie, and many others, stop looking for work, there are two main reasons. Firstly, there is the dragon called stigma. At the time when Abbie was applying for jobs, she knew she had to declare her illness – .'