The Ballroom (11 page)

According to a very brief interview conducted with Mulligan at the time of his admittance, the only words he spoke were that he felt ‘there was a great curse upon him’. He had been living outside for weeks before he turned up at the workhouse, and was ‘emaciated, destitute’.

Destitute
: the phrase rang a bell. There had been a recent article on the dangers of the destitute in the
Review
; it had been a striking piece, and he had copied sections of it out; he flicked back through his notebook with eager fingers:

It is the view of the Eugenics Society that destitution, so far as it is represented by pauperism (and there is no other standard), is to a large extent confined to a special and degenerate class. A defective and dependent class known as the pauper class.

Lack of initiative, lack of control, and the entire absence of a right perception are far more important causes of pauperism than any of the alleged economic causes. How do you propose to deal with it?

Charles looked up. It hadn’t seem so when he had written it down, but now this last seemed to be a challenge directed solely at him.

How do you propose to deal with it?

He underlined the phrase. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘At least, not quite yet.’

There was a last paragraph:

The pauper is shown to be a person outside the considerations which move the normal person. As Dr Slaughter has said, ‘He was born without manly independence … he came into the world with his mainspring broken.’

Charles clicked his tongue against his teeth. Again, it was the
pessimism
that jarred. If the article was right, and pauperism was indeed hereditary, then it was impossible for a man like Mulligan to change. Mulligan did not
look
like a man with his mainspring broken, but, then, it was impossible to tell. And the facts of the case were so scant! It was like reading the first chapter of an intriguing book but then realizing it was out of the library on indefinite loan. It seemed belligerent, somehow, to give away so little of oneself.

There had been a recent incident between Mulligan and an attendant. A rather nasty piece of work: Jim Brandt. An ex-patient with a propensity for violence, kept on to keep the chronics in line. Apparently Mulligan had attacked him, though Charles was sure it was not unprovoked. He had taken it upon himself to look into the case, but had yet to decide what an appropriate punishment might be.

His eyes flicked back to Mulligan’s – those twin shards of flint. Was not flint the precursor to fire? It was clear from the incident with Brandt that the man might be roused, with little kindling, to a blaze. If it were true of his violent side, might it also be true of his finer side? What of his face, that afternoon, listening to the G flat major? What if his response to the Schubert was the first green showing of a crop in spring? The man obviously had a feeling for music, but he had never, or not as far as Charles could remember, attended the dances on a Friday evening.

What if this Mulligan, rather than being consigned to the chronic ward, might be shown to
improve
?

Appeals to his manliness, his courage, or his self-respect will fall on barren ground, because there is nothing in him to respond.

Had anyone yet appealed to Mulligan’s manliness? To his courage or his self-respect? Man to man, as it were? Charles wrote this down, underlining it,
man to man
.

‘Sir?’ The librarian was standing behind his desk. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I have to close up now.’

Charles took out his watch – a quarter to six. The orchestra were due to gather at half past, and it was a long walk back up to his room to fetch his violin. ‘Thank you.’ He carried the two large books back over and set them on the librarian’s desk, drumming his fingers against the wood. As he did so, he began to smile: an idea was forming, beautiful in its simplicity. Here they were, working all hours to offer enlightened care, and here was this stubborn man
refusing
to participate in his own recovery. Mulligan had been in the chronic ward for months – presumably no one cared whether he recovered or not. Well, Charles cared. And he was not an advocate for letting someone rot. Not at all.

Mulligan would dance! And Charles would write about him for the Congress. He would make a case study of the man’s redemption!

H
IS WORK HAD
changed. With no warning, he and Dan had been moved. No longer digging graves, they were out in the fields instead.

The weather had softened; it still rained, but the cold had lessened now and the earth smelt damp, of stirring things. Daffodils were blooming in great clusters in the beds. He tried not to look at them as he passed. There was something about them, the way they pushed up from the earth, reaching out to the light. The blind hope of them. It made him uneasy, that was all.

To reach the farms, the men walked a path that ran from the chronic blocks between paddocks and a belt of woodland, where trees were coming into bud, their branches covered with a light furring of green. A large old oak marked the corner of this wood, and each time they passed it Dan would salute, as though it were a general or priest. The land was more open here, at the west of the grounds; with the wood behind, you could see the crop fields stretching ahead, giving way to pasture and then the low tussocky rise of the moor. The fields had been ploughed and harrowed and spread with dung, and the dung had been dug in, and now the men walked in lines for the planting, each with their share of seed to spread.

As a child in Ireland at this time of year, John had watched his parents sow, an apron tied around each of their waists, held and heavy with seed. He would watch each dip into the apron, each toss of the wrist, and pray the harvest would be good, that they would have enough. He did not pray to the Virgin, or to God, but to the earth, since it was clear the dark earth itself was the thing to wrangle with. But the earth was fickle, and though some years she was generous, often she was not, and did not respond to his mother’s cajolings, or his father’s hours bent in ministration to her sod.

Now, standing in a line with the other men, casting his seed to the ground, he prayed for nothing. Between digging holes for death and sowing life, he did not know to which he belonged.

He was called in to see Dr Fuller: a visit that was not in the ordinary way of things, since they were only seen every three months or so in the chronic wards.

‘Mr Mulligan!’ The man’s arms were open and he was smiling. ‘Do sit down.’ The doctor looked over to the window, where the rain had begun a fresh, battering assault. ‘I expect you’re used to it.’ He gave a brief grimace. ‘Coming from Ireland and all that. How are the natives this morning? Restless?’

‘Restless enough,’ said John, taking his seat.

‘You’ve finished the planting now?’

‘Aye.’

‘And you’re … enjoying your work in the fields?’ The man looked eager. He had the big book open in front of him, the one they wrote everything in, and John could see his own photograph, upside down. He remembered when that picture was taken: the first day he arrived. They had held him on a chair while a light exploded in his face, and it had felt like the end of the world.

‘Now, ah, Mr Mulligan.’ Fuller tapped his pencil on the dark wood of the desk. ‘There has been some …
disquiet
… about the incident with James Brandt.’ He put the pencil down flat. He seemed nervous. It made the air strange. ‘Would you like to smoke? I’m going to smoke. You’re welcome to join me if you like.’

John pulled a twist of shag and paper from his pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. Fuller lit a match and the smell of sulphur filled the room.

‘Here.’

John leant to his flame. The doctor’s fingernails were clipped and clean. A sharp smell of soap hung about his hands. Fuller shook out the match and it fell with a clatter into the ashtray. He sat back, puffing on his pipe, and pulled a single sheet of paper towards him.

‘According to Mr Brandt,’ he read, ‘
If he had not been stopped in the act, John Mulligan would have strangled me.
’ The doctor looked up, an eyebrow raised. ‘Is this so?’

John felt it again – the twist of the shirt, the man’s face changing – as though his own darkness might swallow him.

He had wanted to do it.

Fuller frowned. ‘I’m sure you realize this is a very serious allegation?’ He put down the paper and leant forward. ‘Mr Mulligan, between you, me and these four walls, James Brandt is as nasty a piece of work as we have here, and I’m sure whatever occurred was not unprovoked. But when anyone makes a complaint, we must take it seriously.’ He opened his hands. ‘So here I am. Taking it seriously.’ He hooked his pipe between his teeth and smiled.

Something in that smile made John think of the music. The doctor’s face when he had opened his eyes. As though they had shared something. As though he had been seen. He wanted to share nothing with this man.

‘Mr Mulligan, I would like to help you, but I cannot do so unless you also want to help yourself. Do you see? And to that end, I really cannot stress enough how important it is that you try to talk.’

When John stayed silent Fuller brought his hands to the table and looked at them, frowning now, as though the answers to his questions might lie in his knuckles or his wrists. Then he looked up, saying in a softer voice, ‘I read your notes recently, Mr Mulligan. I was interested to learn more about your case. I read about your … tragedy.’ His eyes were wide and slightly watery.

John took a long, slow drag of his cigarette.

‘But to speak the truth, Mr Mulligan, I was a little surprised.’ Fuller smoothed his moustache. ‘I understand that life can … mark us. But you are a fine, strong man. Tell me, how did you let yourself be so cast down? Hmm? Don’t you think the world needs fine strong men in it?’

Smoke hazed the air between them.

‘All right, Mr Mulligan.’ Fuller sighed. ‘Since you’re here, I might as well give you your examination now. It’ll save time later in the wards.’ He stood and crossed around his desk, so he was leaning against it and John’s eyes were level with his waist, where the doctor’s stomach bulged slightly over his belt and seemed to pulse with the beating of his heart. ‘Tongue.’

John put out his tongue. Fuller nodded, then leant forward and placed his fingers either side of his neck, pushing slightly into the skin, before, ‘Take off your shirt, Mr Mulligan,’ he said, his voice low, as though he did not want to be overheard.

John shrugged off his jacket, then unbuttoned his waistcoat and overshirt and pulled them off until he was sitting in his vest.

‘You might as well take that off too.’ Fuller gestured to the vest. ‘I’ll need to listen to your lungs.’

John did so. There was a short silence in which he caught Fuller’s gaze – saw a look there, the same he had seen on farmers back home when the cattle were brought into the ring, before the doctor turned and fiddled with his stethoscope, looping it over his ears and sliding the cold metal round on to John’s flesh. The man was close now. John could see the hairs on his skin, a thin pasting of sweat over the bridge of his nose, the nostrils of which flared with his breath. A faint trace of yellow stained the edges of his moustache. Outside, the weather had changed. The rain had stopped and a bright sun shone through the clouds.

‘Good,’ Fuller murmured. ‘Very good. You really are in perfect health.’ He straightened up and moved behind. John closed his eyes, feeling the sun on his lids, the beating of his heart against the skin-warmed disc that Fuller held to his back. ‘I should like to see you at one of our dances, Mr Mulligan,’ came the doctor’s voice.

A clenching in him. John opened his eyes. ‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’ The stethoscope was jerked away.

‘I won’t go there. No.’

There was a small, incredulous laugh from the doctor as he moved back to face him. ‘You seem a little unsure of your status here, Mr Mulligan. You are a patient. I am a doctor. I am inviting you to attend the dance for your
own good
. The invitation could easily be an order. Would you prefer that? Besides.’ He frowned, moving back to his side of the desk and packing his instrument away. ‘I wouldn’t want to revoke any of your privileges. I certainly wouldn’t want to see you confined to the day room for the duration of the summer.’ He snapped shut his case. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like that much, would you, Mr Mulligan?’

John was silent. What could he say? That this not going was the only choice he had left?

‘Mr Mulligan?’

‘No.’ He pushed his cigarette out in the ashtray with his thumb.

‘No. Good. Well, I’m glad we can agree on that at least.’

Fuller bowed his head, began writing in his book. ‘Thank you, Mr Mulligan.’ He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘That will be all.’

But when John stood, Fuller was looking up at him again – the sort of look people have when they think they’ve done you a favour. The sort of look Annie would have towards the end, if she condescended to look at you at all.

He knew what was required. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

Fuller’s face softened. He was eager again now. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Mulligan. Quite all right. Do you know, I think, perhaps, you might surprise yourself. Who knows, you might even enjoy it.’ The doctor grinned. ‘I only hope our little band will not disappoint.’

He stared at his face in the speckled washroom mirror.

Another dance then.

There was a time when dancing had been easy enough: on summer Friday evenings, when the cows had been brought back into their byres, when he would drag an old bucket from the stream and wash at the back. Change his shirt and walk the few miles to Claremorris with his friends, elbowing and pushing each other along the road, faces eager and smooth and awkward, their shadows long behind them in the evening light.

There was a hall there, plenty of fine musicians, and they would dance polkas and lancers and reels until they were footsore, and all the talk was of America, and who was going, who had gone, and who was coming back. There were plenty of women too, younger women, those that had not gone yet to America, or were too shy to go, and some of them lovely enough.