The Story of You

It was so good to see your dad! It was wonderful. I felt like how I used to feel, before I lost Mum, and we lost you and I somehow lost myself. I felt like I was THAT girl I used to be, who I never thought I’d find again, and this horrible emptiness, which I realized is always with me, wasn’t there any more.

And yet, I was so reckless, Lily. I can’t believe how reckless I was. What was I thinking of?! What if I am pregnant? My God. I would never ever forgive myself.

*

As soon as I reached civilization at Euston Station the next day, I went to Boots and got the morning-after pill. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. It was like I’d been under a spell, lawless for a moment. I decided to put down what happened to anxiety at being back in Kilterdale and total excitement at seeing Joe again, and resolved to get on with normal life as best I could.

I was still anxious about the ashes, however. Despite Dad searching high and low, he hadn’t been able to find them, and I could tell he’d begun to panic himself. Denise was making a good show of acting concerned but I wasn’t buying it. She was acting shifty, if you ask me, staring out of the kitchen window as Dad and I ransacked the place, as if she knew something we didn’t.

It made me feel a bittersweet camaraderie with Leah, who would definitely hold Denise up as prime suspect. Sweet because I treasured any chance to feel bonded with my eldest sister these days, I suppose, and bitter because it took losing our mother’s ashes and suspecting our stepmother had taken them, to do it.

Growing up, Leah and I had the classic big sister/little sister relationship: we hated and loved one another with equal fury. We knew one another better than anyone else. Then Mum got diagnosed with cancer in January 1995 and died in October 1996 and it felt like I lost not just Mum, but my big sister too. Not only did Leah behave outrageously at the funeral (turning up, just as they’d closed the curtain on the coffin, with her boyfriend at the time, who’d never even met our mother, and was wearing a back-to-front baseball cap – small detail, but I’ve never forgotten it), but she then proceeded to get off her head at the wake, shout at Denise and then leave to go back to university two days later, leaving me and Niamh to pick up the pieces. Our relationship has never really recovered from that. Sometimes, I wonder if I’d even see her much at all if it wasn’t for her kids, who I adore. I feel like sometimes she uses them as a barricade; an excuse for not being able to do anything. She seems so angry all the time and, yet, I don’t know what about. But I keep making the effort because, essentially, I miss her.

I call her as I’m walking home from the Tube. I’m thinking, perhaps the whereabouts of the ashes is something we can bond over, at least.

She picks up after two rings,

‘So, can you believe it, Lee, they’ve lost our mother’s ashes?’ I said. ‘They’re still not on the mantelpiece. I reckon Denise is behind it.’

‘Oh, really?’ She was driving, and on the hands-free, but still, she sounded distracted, unfussed. ‘Could we chat about this later? I’m trying to get home at the mo, kids going mad in the back …’

I couldn’t hear any kids, which was odd. Also, it wasn’t like Leah not to be outraged with Denise, which is her default setting at the best of times. ‘I’m seeing you soon, aren’t I? We can talk about it then.’ Then she said she had to go.

Nobody talks about how Leah had a massive go at Denise in front of everyone at the funeral. It made no sense at all. Denise and mum were friends from the badminton club, so she had every right to be there. Nothing was going on between her and Dad at that point, and yet Leah just laid into her, shouting, ‘Jump in your own grave so fast, would you?’ God, it was like a scene from Eastenders and Leah and Dad have never really talked since, and us three girls don’t talk about Mum much either, because of what happened, which I find really sad.

I arrived home, having made Leah, before she hung up, promise on her life that we’d discuss the ashes when I next went round. Then I made myself some soup and settled down to watch re-runs of some seventies sitcom … I felt calmer now the hangover had subsided and I was back in my own space. I felt like what had happened in Kilterdale was a dream; that it had happened to somebody else, in another life.

Then, the next day, Joe sent me an email: distinctly flirtatious and with a photo of me that made me actually gasp. I knew I couldn’t do this with Joe. I had to nip it in the bud.

4 April 2013

From: [e-mail]

To: [e-mail]

Dear Joe, thanks for your email. I particularly enjoyed the picture of me wielding the bottle of JD and Miss No Knickers – just how one should behave at a funeral.

I’ve been thinking of you often. I found those days following my mum’s funeral really tough, so I hope you’re taking it easy and being extra nice to yourself. Did you manage to watch a good horror? I recommend it. I found it to be a bit of escapism, if any escapism is possible at the moment.

Joe, I want to apologize. As wonderful as it was to see you, I shouldn’t have got so carried away and drunk. (It was your mother’s funeral, for God’s sake!) You’ve no doubt got all sorts of emotions going on at the moment and me just unleashing myself on you like that can’t have helped. So, I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me. We can never talk of this again, and be friends. It’s so great to be back in touch. Call me any time. R xxx

‘Right, Kingy, do you want to come in?’

Just as I often thank the lord for London and its ability to swallow me up and allow me to disappear, so I am thankful for my job. After my eventful weekend, I didn’t have a chance to stew in a pit of self-loathing, because immediately I got to work, Jeremy called me into his office.

He wanted to talk to me about Grace Bird, a forty-one-year-old woman about to be discharged from hospital, who had specifically requested me as her CPN. I felt rather special, especially since, apparently, she’d based her decision on watching me with other patients at Kingfisher House Psychiatric Unit, where she’d spent the last two months. I also knew this irked Jeremy, because Jeremy is the sort of man who can even make providing mental-health services a competition.

He gestured to the only spare seat in his office, one of those low chairs, the colour of Dijon mustard, with wooden arm rests mental-health services are full of them – and shut the door. ‘So, shall we talk Grace Bird?’ he said. The office smelt of a mixture of the egg sandwich he was eating and TCP. He gargled with it every morning, with his door wide open. ‘How are we feeling about meeting her?’

I felt like Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs, being prepped before meeting Hannibal Lecter, the way he was going on. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a word with me about the infamous Grace.

‘Um, fine, I think,’ I said. Grace had schizophrenia, and a history of hearing persecutory voices. ‘I’ve read Grace’s case notes and chatted to people. I’m looking forward to meeting her. I think we’ll get on.’

Jeremy nodded and excavated a bit of egg sandwich from his back molar.

‘You know, she has got a challenging background, although nothing out of the ordinary: years of sexual abuse by her stepfather sent her over the edge – nasty piece of work by all accounts, he was. She was brought up in a hotel, and the stepfather was the manager, apparently. Used to abuse her in the guest bedrooms.’ He made a face, as if he was describing a disgusting meal he’d had.

‘Horrible,’ I said. Jeremy was harmless and also quite passionate about his job in his own (his very own) way. But there was sometimes a salacious tone in his voice, when he talked about patients, that didn’t sit well with me, like he enjoyed the drama.

‘You do know she’s had three CPNs beforehand who she’s not got on with?’ he said (you had to love his management style – so encouraging).

‘Yes. I think I did know that.’

‘Although, she’s particularly requested a woman this time, so, you know, you might be okay.’

He told me how he’d been Grace’s CPN for years; that they went back to the year 2003, when she had her breakdown and came into the system.

‘Oh, so you know her well, then?’ I said.

‘Yes. And I can tell you, she has a very definite cycle.’

I laughed. ‘A cycle? That makes her sound like a washing machine.’

He frowned, a bit affronted.

‘What I meant was, if you would just let me finish, is that she runs like clockwork. She has …’ He paused, belching quietly into his hand. ‘And no, I won’t make any apologies for this, ’cause it’s true. She has a very definite “cycle” of behaviour.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So what does this cycle consist of?’

‘Well, she has an episode every May, without fail, like we’ve just seen now, when she’s generally found wandering the streets at night, starts hearing voices, saying people have broken into her flat at night. Then June, we’re not usually too bad, but come August and we’re downhill again. Always mid-August. Always the same time.’

‘Is she not on a CTO this time?’ I asked. It would make sense after so many admissions. A Community Treatment Order meant she’d have to sign a form to say she’d come into hospital for an injection, because she couldn’t be relied upon to take her medication herself.

‘I don’t know,’ Jeremy said, a bit defensively, like I was trying to get one up on him, which I wasn’t. ‘But this will be something you can discuss up at the hospital.’

He bit into his sandwich and chewed, breathing noisily through his nose. ‘Sorry, you don’t mind if I eat this now, do you? Molls is potty training – we had several accidents this morning, including a number two, and I didn’t get time for breakfast.’

‘No, not at all,’ I said, although ‘breakfast’ and ‘number two’ in the same sentence made me gag.

‘So, has anyone got to the bottom of Grace’s … “cycle”? Why episodes happen at certain times?’ I asked.

Jeremy carried on chewing. ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, the summer – like Christmas – can be a very alienating time for people like Grace. Everyone’s having barbecues, going on holidays …’

This seemed tangential but I nodded anyway.

‘And also she’s got this thing with taking people’s photos – I’m sure they’ll fill you in when you get there. Needless to say, it gets her into trouble on the ward. She’s got no idea of personal boundaries.’

Having finished his sandwich, he started applying some cream to a flaky red patch on his elbow.

‘Sorry,’ he said. He made a wincing noise as the cream touched his skin. ‘Psoriasis. It’s really flared recently.’

I couldn’t wait to meet Grace now. I’d read her case notes and there were things that chimed with me, things people had said to me about her, that reminded me of things people said about me, when I was younger, before Mum happened and that summer happened, and I probably grew up ten years in one: ‘She’s a handful, that Robyn King’; ‘She’s not at all as sensible as her big sister.’ It made me want to rise to the challenge of her. To show Grace what I was made of.

When a patient was about to be discharged to the homecare team, us CPNs often went along to the hospital for ward round and what was called a ‘discharge planning meeting’, so we could meet the patient beforehand. As discharge planning meetings went, Grace’s was pretty painless. Dr Manoor was Grace’s consultant, which made things easy, because we’ve got quite a rapport going now, Dr Manoor and I. Whenever he calls me up to come in and assess, we always have a joke: ‘Who’ve you got for me this time, Ramesh?’; ‘Are we going to need a stiff drink after this?’

As well as Dr Manoor, there was Michelle, the OT – occupational therapist – who never seems as frazzled as the rest of us. I like Michelle. It was the senior nurse I didn’t take to – someone called Brian Hillgarth, who I’d never dealt with before. He had dandruff and this off-putting habit of never meeting your gaze when he was talking to you. I didn’t like the way he spoke about Grace either. He kept saying things like, ‘Like all chronic schizophrenics, she has fixations about things …’ What did he mean, ‘Like all schizophrenics?’ (Like all people called Brian, you never meet people’s eyes when you’re talking to them.) I felt like he spoke about her as if she was beyond help, beyond hope.

There was also this matter of her taking photographs.

‘The problem is, she was putting that camera in patients’ faces,’ Hillgarth was saying. (I couldn’t help thinking there were worse places she could have been putting her camera.) ‘Taking pictures of them brushing their teeth, or in the art room. I mean, these patients are paranoid enough.’ There was a pause during which everybody looked at one another as if to say, We know, Brian, it’s a mental hospital.

‘So, can I ask, what’s with the photography in the first place?’ I said. I was curious. ‘Is Grace generally interested in photography? Is it something she does as a hobby?’

This seemed to completely confuse Brian, who said, ‘I think my point is, she’s abusive with it.’

‘Abusive? What, with a camera? How do you mean?’ Everyone sort of looked at the floor. As CPNs went, I was probably quite outspoken.

‘She gets a bit upset, I think,’ said Michelle, ‘when people don’t want their photo taken, you know.’ Michelle was such a softy; if Grace had been beating people over the head with a mallet, she’d have put it down to her just being ‘a bit upset’.

‘No, I’d definitely say, she’s abusive,’ Brian said. ‘Personal and insulting when people don’t want their picture taken. She told one rather large patient that they were supposed to “eat what’s in the fridge, not the fridge itself”.’ I had to bite my lip so I didn’t laugh. I’ve always liked the naughty ones.

The meeting went on for forty-five minutes. It seemed Jeremy was right about one thing at least: there was a pattern to Grace’s admissions (May and August figuring strongly), but nobody had got to the bottom of why.

‘So she’s not on a CTO?’ I asked.

‘She was trialled,’ said Dr Manoor. ‘But there were side effects with the injections: tremors, weight gain …’ Often the side effects were worse than the mental illness itself but, without the CTO ensuring Grace would agree to come into hospital to have her injections, I’d have to work hard to keep her compliant.

Eventually, they called Grace in. She was tiny and ever so sweet-looking, with this delicate, fawn-like face and these big brown eyes shining out from beneath the Yankees baseball cap she was wearing. The skin on her face had been ravaged by fags and booze and emotional pain, but there was still a girlishness to her; then, she spoke.

‘Wotcha?’ she stuck a tiny hand out and I shook it. ‘I’m Grace, and you are …?’

‘Robyn.’

‘Robyn,’ she said, screwing her tiny nose up. ‘Isn’t that a boy’s name?’

‘And a girl’s,’ I said. ‘Although, my theory is, my parents wanted a boy and so didn’t really have any proper girls’ names on their list.’

She laughed, but like it was an afterthought, then carried on staring at me, quite intently.

‘You’re pretty, ain’t ya?’ she said, eventually. ‘She is, she’s pretty, i’n’t she?’ she said to the rest of the room. I could feel myself glowing beetroot. ‘It’s the eyes – you’ve got lovely brown eyes. And great bone structure. Have you got Slavic in your blood?’

‘I’ve got Cumbrian, does that count?’ I said, and everyone including Grace laughed – although Grace a little later than everyone else. She swung a leg over the chair and almost bounced into the seat. She was wearing a grey poncho with reindeers on it, rust-coloured trousers, white trainers and the cap.

‘I’m glad I demanded a girl,’ she said. ‘They normally give me smelly old men to look after me. One before last, looked like a massive strawberry,’ and I smirked, because I knew exactly who she meant (Jezza – Jeremy), and he did, he looked exactly like a massive strawberry. ‘He had this big fat red face with pits all over it, and this hair, sitting like a toupee on top …’

‘Grace …’ Michelle was laughing too but had her hand over her eyes, shaking her head. ‘We’ve talked about being personal, haven’t we? Sometimes you’ve got to think before you speak.’

‘Oh, I know, I know,’ Grace said, ‘That’s my problem, innit?’ I never think before I open my big mouth.’

We had to get some of the big questions out of the way: likelihood of her topping herself after discharge from hospital, for example (low, she assured us, the council were coming to do up her flat if she could stay out of hospital – and alive – long enough), and whether she promised to stick to taking her medication.: ‘Well if it’s that or a needle in my bum, then I’d better be a good girl, hadn’t I?’

‘And would you like to see one of the crisis team, Grace?’ Dr Manoor asked. ‘For a while, after you’re discharged?’

‘No,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘I just want to see Robyn.’

I felt this little bubble of pride.

Then, the most bizarre thing happened. Brian reached behind him, brought out something and held it out to Grace. ‘My camera!’ she gasped, turning it around in her hand, as though it was her engagement ring that had been found. ‘I thought it was gone forever!’

‘We had to pretend it was lost,’ Brian said to me, like it was a dummy and she was two years old. ‘She was just driving everyone mad.’

‘Got time for a chat, Grace?’ I said, as we were all getting up to leave. ‘Just the two of us?’

She looked at me, a little suspiciously, before breaking into a gap-toothed smile. ‘All right,’ she shrugged. I followed her out of the door.

We went to Grace’s room to collect her cigarettes.

‘We’ll have to freeze our bums off outside,’ she said, rummaging around in her coat pocket. ‘No more smoke rooms. As if they could make these places any more bloody depressing.’

We had to walk around a zigzag of corridors, before we got to the lift that took us to the main entrance outside. The walls were filled with pictures of dodgy, replicated beach landscapes, in an attempt to brighten the place up. Grace gave me the lowdown as we were walking.

‘Room Five. That’s Harry. Hasn’t said a word in two months. Spends all day watching DVDs about polar bears … All right, Harry?’ She popped her head around the door. I could just see a large, white-haired man, sitting in a chair, staring straight ahead. ‘Those polar bears behavin’ themselves?’

I waved at Harry but he didn’t wave back.

‘Room Seven, Winnie – conked up to the eyeballs, bless her. Tried to hang herself on a curtain last week.’

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