Part 3 (1/2)

When the car stopped, Muriel scrambled out. ”Hang on a minute,” Miss Tidmarsh called. She took her by the elbow. It reminded her of Mother.

The paths were dotted with little signposts: Hunniford Ward, Greyshott Ward, Occupational Therapy. She did not have time to read them all, but she could read much better than they thought. She craned her neck, straining back over her shoulder. ”Come on, my dear,” the woman said. My dear; for the second time. Mother never said it, only ”You useless lump.” Useless lump or my dear, the meaning was the same.

Inside the big building the tiles were cold underfoot. Another woman came out, wearing a blue and white check garment. She had an elastic belt and a paper hat. ”Oh h.e.l.lo, Miss Tidmarsh,” she said. ”And how are we today? Got another customer for us?”

She had a special way of looking at Muriel, as if she looked straight through her and around all the edges to a.s.sess her size and shape. She s.h.i.+fted from one foot to the other, a little self-consciously, and tw.a.n.ged at her elastic belt. ”We're supposed to be going into mufti soon,” she said. ”What do you think of that?” The woman made some reply. Muriel looked around the entrance hall, up at the ceiling. The nurse asked, ”How about a cup of tea?”

”That would be brilliant,” Muriel said.

The nurse gave her a queer look. ”Not you, dear. Patients' tea comes at ten-thirty, you've missed it.”

”I'll have coffee,” Muriel said. ”Jam, ham, Spam, roast beef, cornflakes, and Ovaltine.” Miss Tidmarsh laughed.

They followed the notices that said ADMISSIONS. The ward had thirty beds. This is your locker, this is your orange bedspread, this is your bedside mat, this is where you will live. ”And then, dear, in a week or two, when Doctor has had a talk to us, we'll be moving on.”

Muriel sat on her orange bedspread. ”My head hurts,” she said. The nurse took away her dress. She took away her knickers. She gave her a thin cotton gown.

”Don't you wear a bra?” she said. Muriel shook her head. The nurse smiled. ”We don't want to droop, do we?”

”I don't know what we're talking about,” Muriel said. ”Our head hurts.”

”We mustn't be cheeky. We'll learn that soon enough, dear. Haven't we got slippers?” Muriel shook her head again. ”You'll have to get your visitors to bring you some.”

”Will I get visitors?”

”You'll get your family, won't you, dear?”

Muriel thought this over. Baby: drip, drip. Mother. She closed her eyes tiredly. Mother always said she would haunt.

”Pay attention, dear,” the nurse said sharply. Muriel slapped the palm of her hand against her head. ”That won't help,” the nurse said. ”I can't give you any medication. Not till you've seen the doctor.”

”When will that be?”

”That will be on the ward round. Tomorrow.”

When Muriel was left alone, she sat on her bed and dangled her feet. She examined them, hanging there on the end of her legs, her fat red toes. She had done a lot of talking since Mother died. Before, days had gone by without speech; weeks, months. Except for rhymes. She'd not give up making those rhymes, she enjoyed them. They were all she remembered from St. David's School. Sing a song of headache, holler scream and cry, Four and twenty nurses, baked in a pie. She would not cry; she could not be bothered. She scratched her knee instead. A blind was drawn at the window, and the ward was in semi-darkness. She felt the walls close in on her; safe again. Back in the prison of her body, and back in the prison routine with its sights and smells and noises; rumbling tummy, creaking ankles, the steady beating of the heart.

The first person Muriel met was Sholto. He stood in the long corridor blocking her path, a sinister dirty little man with bow legs. ”Are you mad, or stupid?” he enquired.

”Both,” Muriel said promptly.

”Join the elite corps.” Sholto sprang forward and pumped her hand.

Country life. The birds woke her up at four o'clock. She struggled out of her dreams and threw back the bedclothes. She put her feet on the cold floor; head down, she blundered to the window. It showed her a pale milky light and her own pale reflection; the features blurred, amorphous, underwater. She rubbed her right hand down her nightdress, thinking of the clinging green weed.

”Come on, dear, back to bed,” said a voice behind her. ”What are you doing up at this time? Didn't you have your pill?”

Muriel nodded. ”I swallowed it.”

Early morning waking, said the nurse to herself, a sign of clinical depression. ”Back you go,” she said.

”Those d.a.m.n squeakies in the trees,” Muriel muttered. She glared at the nurse.

”Six thirty you get up,” the nurse said. ”Not four. We've got to get ourself into a routine.” She watched Muriel wiping her hand down her nightdress. Obsessive-compulsive behaviour, she said to herself. Tics.

In the country the medical care was under the supervision of Dr. Battachariya, a plump smiling little man; fat eyes, like disappointed raisins, were studded into his golden face. She screamed when he tried to examine her.

”You have had a baby, Muriel?” he said shrewdly. A rude, unmannerly man, prying about like that with his plastic gloves. ”When was that?”

She mumbled something.

”Where is the little blighter?”

”With my mother,” she said.

The first week pa.s.sed. Now who was mad? Who was bad? Who was stupid?

If they had been florid, talkative, and lively with delusion, the long years of Largactil and dormitory wards had made them vacant and pa.s.sive. If they had been blundering, inadequate, and lost, the pa.s.sage of time had taught them cunning, the thousand expedients of inst.i.tutional life. A breezy humorous disregard was their att.i.tude to the doctors; the doctors sat with downcast eyes, their voices droning, their thought processes slowed.

Day room. People sit about on vinyl-covered armchairs. None of the furniture here has any resemblance to the furniture used outside. They are not things that people would have in their houses. Jaws move, champing on nothing. Cigarette smoke curls up. My mother died...I had this accident...I worried all night because I hadn't done my homework...I should never have got married. Hum, hum, hum. Questions are meaningless when you can't sit still in your chair. They are like bluebottles buzzing round your head: hum, hum, hum. I had no idea there was such filth in the world...At this point there was no food left in the house...I knew he had got a knife...I knew that if I allowed myself to go to sleep I should die during the night. Each night in the six o'clock news there is a special message for me. People stare at me whenever I set foot in the street. Someone had broken my gla.s.ses/started a fire/informed on me, hum, hum, hum. Marilyn Monroe stole my giro. I went to the cafe till my money ran out.

Can you name ten cities? Can you tell me the name of the Prime Minister? Manic motion, impelled to tread, tread, tread along the corridors, hands flying about face and ears.

You must have some feelings about yourself? Stare. A slow shake of the head. Shoulders held rigid, gaze rigid, face and hair grey. A certain rigidity of posture, says the doctor. Seemingly negativistic. How long is it since we first saw you now? No reply.

An affective problem...semi-aggressive...schizophrenic excitement...marked thought disorder. What about a little injection? You aren't afraid of a little injection, are you?

These were Muriel's best friends: Sholto, and Emmanuel Crisp. There were a few hangers-on; Philip and Effie. At first she had been a lost soul, wandering around the day room was.h.i.+ng her big red hands together. She had missed her mother, in strange ways; Evelyn with her chattering and her nagging and her little ruses to defeat persecutors and spies. It was a fair bet that Evelyn had taught her a thing or two, and unless in fact she were missing her it was impossible to account for the hollow feeling that she carried around inside. At the same time, she was growing a little garden of resentment and speculation, watering her weeds in the small hours when she lay staring into the darkness, wide-eyed despite her sleeping pill. The Welfare did things for people, she now learned, got them money so that they could live on the outside, got them gas fires and shoes. They had never got anything for her. Even when Evelyn let them in, she wheedled around them and said that everything possible was being done. Pretending to be sane was a great strain on Evelyn, and this strain was the origin of many of the stand-up fights they had after the Welfare had gone. Sometimes she said to herself, Mother should be here, not me, left in this homely home-from-home to pursue a career as a lunatic. She was told that in pursuance of the truth about her mother's life they had sliced open her body, peered into it, and pulled out her insides. She thought back on the process with satisfaction.

Now that she knew more about other people and their way of life, she often wondered if her crimes ent.i.tled her to some sort of record. She could read properly now; there was a book, in great request among her friends, which had records of everything under the sun, and most of these activities-county cricket, nonstop dancing-seemed less interesting than her own. Ought she to put pen to paper about it?

Sholto advised caution. Was the baby found? he asked. No; or she would be in a prison. Still in the ca.n.a.l then; sunk into the soft mud at the bottom, strangled by green weeds, trapped under the rusting wrecks of bedsprings and fridges. He offered to consult Emmanuel Crisp, who with his church connections was an expert on all matters charnel.

Emmanuel thought. A peat bog will preserve anything, he said. That is not in question. Mud; soft mud, still water. And, a ca.n.a.l: acid in the water, surely. There's not much to infant bones-”but what you have there, Muriel, is perhaps a skeleton.”

Sholto asked more questions. Was she blamed for her Mother's demise? No. Foul play was not suspected, Crisp put in. Could she handle the scepticism her claims would provoke? They were pernickety, the publishers of this record book, they did not entertain idle claims, they might want her to repeat her feat under test conditions. You can get another child, said Sholto, winking lewdly so that she would grasp his meaning, but you cannot get another mother. Keep it to yourself, he advised. The fact is, Muriel, that you can't prove a thing.

”I could, though,” she said. ”If I found the bones.”

Crisp was a tall man, pallid and spare. He had a precisian's lip, a cold eye; his hair was coiled about his dome like a woolly snake. Wherever did he get his wing collars, Sholto asked him.

”Charity,” said Crisp briskly.

”Myself I have fits,” Sholto explained. ”Crisp's life has been different. He was the verger once at St. Peter's.”

Crisp cleared his throat. ”I left undone those things that ought to be done.”

”What things?”

”My flies. Later, a gas tap.”