From a Safe Distance (26 page)

He asked if she thought Vee should come in, and Bella sighed. She said she was seeing her more often at the moment – the next day in fact – so she would keep him up to date. Three weeks later, Vee was dead. Filled once again with remorse at his delay, Max began reading the last chapter of
Doors Closing
.

Mum came over the next day, and I appreciated her continuing efforts to brighten up my flat. The trouble is, I can't seem to shake off the echoes of Squaremile, of black thoughts and bad experience. I went on writing about feelings like this in my diary.

Towards the end of my time at Squaremile, I got in touch with one of my former teachers, Mrs Sharp, who still lives in Howcester. Anne was very kind, and didn't judge me. Very soon she allowed me to put aside the outdated teacher-student relationship and we got together now and then for meals or walks. She visited me the last time I was in hospital. Today I wanted to put forward some ideas, think aloud with her before I finalised certain things in
Doors Closing
.

Anne is not very tall and has short, iron-grey hair. She welcomed me into her home made large by those absent. She is a widow, whose son and daughter are both married with families. In all the rooms downstairs, up the staircase, along the landing, in every bedroom, even in the cloakroom are books, so that each sound is muffled into a solidity of learning, a quiet dignity normally exclusive to second-hand bookshops. I am reminded also of my feelings when in France, the almost tangible breadth of the country, the heavy vastness. There is something about collections of books though that always makes me
feel
the august presence of knowledge, like a visit to an Oxford college. At Anne's house there is also a huge leafy plant in each main room. We sat in the living room with our coffee.

‘I want to write something about how things have changed,' I began. ‘I don't mean the obvious lack of a job. I
mean, well, changes in my life brought about by how other people see me.'

‘Does it matter to you what other people think?'

I needed to convey the importance and permanence of the changes. Anne was doing her best to understand, but her reply did rather suggest that for a moment, she saw me as a teenager in crisis. On the other hand, I could regard it as a simple acceptance of my situation, so I could not afford to sound hostile. I explained what I meant: until I got ill, people had taken my abilities for granted. So had I. Now, it seemed that having a breakdown meant I was weak through and through in their eyes. It is regarded as a terrible flaw in your very soul; even your moral standing is called into question. I hadn't understood this to start with, because I couldn't see anything wrong with my mind when I was well. Anne remembered how I'd been top of my year at ‘A' Level, and could see that nobody would expect anything less.

‘It must be difficult,' she said. ‘I can see that things are very different now.'

‘Yes, but it's not just that. It's to do with work, and people's attitudes. When I noticed the difference in the way people saw me, I was surprised at first, because in my head, nothing had changed. To me, I was the same person I'd always been – putting aside changes in my attitude, of course. Then I became frustrated at being treated differently. Now I'm resigned to a future without a job because other people have all the power.'

Anne came over and opened a window near me. It was a hot day and she didn't have a fan. ‘I'm listening,' she said.

‘That's a summary. Apart from my family, whose increased worry is the only change, I think I can identify two distinct attitudes towards me. I have to add that it's not really
me
any more that people are seeing, but a kind of walking illness with my face on it.'

‘That's good!' Anne laughed.

I attempted to describe the two attitudes. The first type made no allowances whatsoever. People would turn their
backs on me, scorning my weakness. They were the “pull yourself together” brigade. I felt the weight of their censure. With the second attitude, I went on, people expected
too little
of me, all the time, were too indulgent, even when I was well between episodes. In the past, when it was taken for granted that I was “normal”, expectations of me had always been high, and I usually delivered. But now the jury was out, I said. Anybody could be in either of these two camps: old friends, new friends, nurses – and even doctors.

‘I'd never really thought of it in that way,' said Anne, who had been clutching her coffee mug while she listened. ‘Then again, I have been lucky enough not to have to formulate my relationships quite so clearly. So, which group do I belong to?'

‘Oh, Anne! I count you as part of my family!'

She smiled. ‘Thank you. But Vee, there is something I know for certain: you have a mother who hasn't given up on you, and a good step-dad and brother.'

She was right, of course. I mustn't forget that I was lucky in that way. I'd also had a good CPN who'd made sure I got somewhere to live and sorted out my benefits. My family had made sure I'd got off to a good start in the new flat. But with these physical needs met, I had to think about where my life was going.

‘More coffee?'

‘Not just now, thanks.'

‘Let's go back to the Two Attitudes you were on about. Can you give me some examples. Only, I can't undo your summaries without a bit of help.'

‘Well, the “pull yourself together” brigade, the PYTB, are usually, but not always, people you don't know very well. They are dismissive; they might be employers. The soft ones, the people who expect too little, the wet “I understand” group, are generally viewing your future with so little hope that you become insignificant – just another sick person whose opinions can be ignored.'

‘Forgive me for saying this, Vee, but these two attitudes sound like two sides of the same coin. If you're not expected
to be able to do anything, then surely you're being dismissed, or have I overlooked something?'

I thought for a moment. ‘You see! This is why I needed to talk to someone with an unbiased brain! I think you're right.'

Anne smiled.

‘But I went to see Mrs Finn too, around the time I got in touch with you. I was trying to gather allies.'

‘Oh, yes, she taught English.'

‘I told her all about being bipolar and the problems at work. I had not been ill for a while. D'you know what she said?'

‘Go on.'

I tried to copy Leila Finn's note of weary cynicism: ‘“Oh, Vee! Don't you think it's high time you put all this behind you, for God's sake!” That wasn't all, but by the end of the conversation, I knew that Mrs Finn would never understand. She seemed to regard my eight bouts of illness as nothing more than an adolescent phase.'

‘But it
is
difficult to understand, Vee, if you've never had any problems of your own, or known somebody.'

‘Fine, true, but that's surely a first class reason
not
to be dismissive! I've never had appendicitis, but I still acknowledge that it occurs and that it's painful!'

Anne laughed.

‘There's one other important thing about the PYTB, which concerns work. They despise me for not having a job. I'm just lazy. But would
they
employ me? They see it as my fault I'm out of work, but they've got me labelled up.'

‘That's hypocrisy.' Anne stood up and took our mugs from the low table. ‘Would you like to stay for lunch?'

‘That would be nice. Thanks, Anne. Sorry to bang on, but – .'

‘– It's fine, it's fine. Don't worry! You obviously needed it! Come out and sit in the kitchen while I make a start.'

I followed her along the hallway, its pale green walls lit from behind us by the glass front door and then after a dark corner, by the huge kitchen window, adorned with a row of
herbs on the sill including basil and thyme. I noticed a tray of seedlings whose tiny pairs of leaves resembled tilted green chairs. Rows of small but mature trees, some with apples forming, stood on each side of the back garden, which was mostly lawn.

‘Shall we eat outside, Vee, as it's so warm?' Anne gave me various jobs to do as we went on with our discussion.

‘So, Vee,' said Anne, cutting up a tomato. ‘Why do you have to tell them at interview about your illness? Surely it would make more sense not to.'

‘Jim always says that I shouldn't tell, because I might never be ill again. But if I don't say anything, they're going to wonder about the gaps in my employment history – besides which, I have been ill eight times, so there's every chance of a ninth – and in the end, when I was applying for jobs, I had to declare it by law. At least that's changed now. Then quite often there used to be a medical questionnaire. And in those days, if an employer found out after I'd got the job, I could be sacked with no redress.'

‘Oh, Vee. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. It's diabolical!'

I told her that there were other things about employers and their practices which would make her hair curl, but the most important thing about my life now was that, denied a job, I had to succumb to the world's attitude and judgement a second time. What I meant was that, in order to get money to live on, I had to claim that I was “incapacitated”. The world had won again; everything has to be on
their
terms. There seemed to be no room for my free will.

We carried our salads and French bread out to the garden table. A blackbird flew away and sat in a tree at the far end, plinking his rapid alarm. Anne said she often had a green woodpecker on the lawn, eating ants. Then she said she felt sorry for me. She hoped talking to her had helped.

‘It is an illness which provokes so many reactions and emotions and causes untold problems. Do you think you can sort out your writing now?'

‘I think so. Thank you.' I breathed in the fresh, perfumed
air. ‘You know, Anne, I spent years of my life trying to fit in. Now, once again, I don't fit in. Somehow, the way I'm seen has become more important than who I am. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life applying for jobs, though. To be rejected non-stop for years would destroy my soul, as would getting a job and then having it taken away again, like Arnold College and then Squaremile. But, you know, one thing I find vaguely amusing – definitely inconsistent – is that I'm still allowed to vote. And another thing: when you get an ordinary doctor's appointment, you're expected to ring if you
can't
make it. But if you have a psychiatric appointment, you're asked to ring if you
can
make it!'

We laughed together.

‘So what are you going to do with yourself now?'

‘I'll do what I have to do.' I thought I'd better be more specific. ‘Write.'

‘At least nobody's in a position of authority over you. You've had to give up a lot, but you're probably freer now than you've ever been.'

I had a dream last night. I was alone on a vast beach of flat, wet sand. I felt small and light. The tide was so far out it was a dark blue line against a grey sky and I could only make out a couple of tiny white waves. In the other direction, just as far away, were grass-topped dunes. Then, as I looked straight ahead to where the land curved at the horizon and the blue line of the sea stopped, I saw a black dot, a solitary figure in the distance, walking towards me. I was not afraid; I was calm.

My new neighbours laugh at me now if I go outside, so I spend most of the time indoors. I must revisit the familiar country of the past – finalise the book – before it is too late. I think I know what to do then; the white door stands open. I hope the figure on the beach was Max. He always knows what to do.

Death hath a thousand doors to let out life: I shall find one.
P
HILIP
M
ASSINGER

Alone in the attic, Max closed Vee's book. Reading that final chapter, he felt as if he'd lost her all over again. There was an empty space. Then, his arms across the folder on the desk, he began to weep inconsolably. A few moments later, he felt a warm hand squeezing his shoulder.