Poppy Shakespeare (6 page)

We was halfway up the stairs to the first-floor landing. The fag smoke funnelling down from the common room, it made like
this tunnel around us and in the tunnel everything seemed echoey and louder. I could hear Poppy's breathing next to me, and
the tap-tap-tap of her snakeskin heels on the stairs.

'It ain't much further now,' I said. But Poppy didn't say nothing.

'I'll take you to meet Tony first,' I said. 'He's the manager. Then probably you'll see the doctors.'

'I don't care who I see,' said Poppy. I've just got to get this sorted! I've got a fucking kid, do you know what I'm saying!'

'You got a kid?' I said.

'I just said so, didn't I?'

'Alright,' I said. We gone on a bit in silence.

'So you neurotic, psychotic or what?' I said, like just making conversation. Ask most dribblers what's wrong, they's that
fucking grateful, they'll talk till their throats is raw, but Poppy just stopped where she was, head down, not moving so much
as a muscle and she didn't say nothing for maybe a minute then, I can't describe it like anything else, she turned to me and
she give me this look like I'd pissed on her mother's grave. 'Let's just get one thing straight,' she said. 'I Am Not A Nutter.
There Is Nothing Whatever Wrong With My Head! Alright?' She spelled out the words like I was foreign or stupid, tapping her
head to make sure I got the point. Then she pulled out her Bensons, lit up a fag and carried on climbing the stairs.

Now it weren't like I hadn't met dribblers before made out there was nothing the matter, but they made sure everyone realised
it was just on account they was mad. Like Candid Headphones said she was normal then got so worried case someone believed
her, she slashed her throat with a sweet-pickle jar; took thirteen stitches to sew her back up, left a scar like a great jagged
grin. There was plenty like that, do you know what I'm saying, but this was something different. I mean, the clothes she got
on, the whole way she come over; not being funny but you couldn't help thinking, like watching her striding up the stairs
with her shoulders pushed back and her tits stuck out, you couldn't help thinking unless this Poppy got something like
mental
hid up her sleeve, the most yours truly be showing her was the way back down Abaddon Hill.

I ain't sure if I was more relieved or more disappointed to tell you the honest truth. She was arsey as fuck, no doubt about
that; weren't going to be no walk in the park showing this dribbler round but, at the same time, there was something about
her you just sort of felt you'd be missing out if she left.

You never seen nobody smoke a fag as fast as Poppy Shakespeare. Seemed like she sucked them straight down to the butt with
a single drag of her perfectly lipsticked lips. And before the one butt had hit the stairs, she'd lit up again and was halfway
down through her next. By the time we reached the first-floor landing she was on to her second pack, and as we turned into
the corridor, where if anything she begun to speed up, I reckoned I got to say something.

'I'm not being funny, Poppy,' I said. 'But you's not s'posed to smoke down here. I'm not being funny; it's just staff don't
like it.

'You can smoke in the common room,' I said. 'I'll show you after. You can smoke in there.

'Everyone smokes in there,' I said. I kept on saying 'cause it was like she hadn't heard. Every time I opened my mouth another
butt hit the floor. 'I'm not being funny,' I said. 'I'm just saying.' And I kept on till I ground to a halt like a car run
out of petrol.

Poppy waited a bit, then she started laughing. 'So what you going to do?' she said. 'Chuck me out?' She lit up another, smoked
it down in one long drag then crushed it under her heel.

'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm just saying.'

She stopped laughing then, stood and frowned at the floor. A molehill of fag butts appeared by her shoe. 'Hang on,' she said.
'Who
was it you said you were?'

So I told her again about me being a guide. And how Tony had asked me special. And I told her how Astrid weren't even a guide,
and neither was Middle-Class Michael. And I said how they'd thought it would do me good and help me with some of my issues
and stuff, which I weren't going into I said, but they weren't nothing minor. 'Cause I'd been a dribbler all my life, I said,
since before I was even born, and as I begun to tell her about it, I seen her face clear like the frown just melted. And by
the time I'd finished she was smiling ear to ear.

'I'm sorry,' she said, and she shaken her head. 'I thought you were one of the
staff!'
she said and she carried on smiling and shooking her head like ain't
I
got shit for brains.

'The what?' I said. I didn't get it. I'm stood there staring back at her, shooking my head and smiling like a reflection.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't realise. I thought you were one of the
staff!'

'What,
me?'
I said. 'Like a
nurse,'
I said. 'You thought I was a
nurse?'
I said.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

'It's alright,' I said. 'I don't take the hump
that
easy.'

'Shit!' she said suddenly. 'That thing I said on the stairs I'm really sorry.' I stared at her. 'About not being a nutter?
I didn't realise; that's all.'

'You thought I was a
nurse?'
I said.

'Well maybe not a nurse,' she said. 'Maybe some sort of assistant or something.'

'Fuckin'ell!' I said.

Then suddenly Poppy started laughing and before I know it
I
was laughing and both of us stood there just laughing and laughing
like we'd known each other for years.

'You
can talk,' I said.

'How d'you mean?' she said.

'Well,' I said, but I couldn't think how to put it.

'It's not that I've got a problem with mental illness,' Poppy said. 'It's just there's nothing the matter with
me.
Do you know what I'm saying?'

'I wouldn't worry 'bout that,' I said.
'They
must think you's mad or you wouldn't be here. Candid Headphones don't reckon
she's
mad. Never stopped her,' I said. 'Schizo Safid don't reckon
he's
mad -
Schizo Safid,
do you know what I'm saying! At the end of the day it don't matter,' I said. 'It's what
they
think that matters,' I said. 'Least you's here,' I said. 'That's a start.'

We set off walking again in silence. A couple of times she glanced at me and taken a breath like to speak but she changed
her mind.

'Poppy?' I said, 'cause I got to say it. Be like watching a blind man walk under a bus. 'You know what you said 'bout not
thinking you's mad?'

'Yes,' she said, like what of it?

'Well I wouldn't say nothing to them about that,' I told her. 'Not at the moment. I mean, don't get me wrong, I ain't
saying
nothing. It's just the doctors, you never know. They might decide to pick up on it. I mean, it's up to you, do you know what
I'm saying, but maybe if you stick to your other symptoms.'

'Alright,' she said.

'Not being funny,' I said. 'I just thought I should warn you, that's all. They're really weird, the doctors here.'

'No,' she said. 'Thank you. That's useful to know.' And I seen she was grateful I'd told her.

'Anyway,' I says to her, and I give her a nudge with my elbow. 'You must be pretty mad,' I says, 'if you reckoned I was a
nurse!'

It was then we reached the end of the corridor; I'd seen it coming and everything. I knew as the staff-room door gone past
I was going to have to turn us around but the fact is I'd been enjoying myself and I couldn't help thinking this might be
the last I'd be seeing of Poppy Shakespeare.'Cause even with what I'd warned her about I didn't hold much optimistic. I'd
only ever met one dribbler ever could pull off a look as glossy as that and that was my mum which, like I say, my mum was
in a class of her own.

'In here?' said Poppy and she reached for this door and almost walked straight in the doctor's room without even knocking
or nothing.

So then I had to explain how we'd come too far. 'Least we had a good chat,' I said. And Poppy said yes, least we'd had a good
chat, but now she'd best get to Tony 'cause she'd got some stuff to sort out.

As I gone back to the common room, I gathered Poppy's butts up. And they filled my backpack right to the top and the pockets
too and the pack was so heavy I couldn't hardly walk.

16. How Middle-Class Michael should of
got in the
Guinness Book of Records

I hadn't been sat in my chair ten minutes, and all of them burning to know what had happened, and what Poppy looked like and
what was her problem and was she the same one who fancied White Wesley or the black girl Rosetta had seen down the church
who needed the help so desperate, when suddenly the doors burst open shooking the room like a cardboard box, and the cups
on the tables slopped over their sides, and one of the windows gone CRACK, right across, snapped Canary Wharf like a twig.

You never seen nobody move so quick as Elliot, reckoned the snipers had started. Inside of a half a millisecond he was under
his chair and didn't come out for a fortnight. The rest of us, we all looked up and everyone gasped, all exactly together
as we seen Security Sharon come in, ducking his huge head to fit through the doll's house doorway. And there on his shoulder
this tiny speck like a flea on the coat of a dog, and as he come closer I seen the speck got legs and the legs was kicking,
and closer still and I seen the legs got snakeskin heels on the end.

Security Sharon come over our end and he set Poppy down and give her her bag, what he'd stuffed in the pocket of his jeans.
Then without saying nothing he turned and gone out and everything trembling behind. There was total silence.

To say she weren't looking best pleased is putting it mild. Where her eyes should of been was balls of flame and the smoke
come puffing out her perfect ears in rings. As we sat there staring, Poppy fished in her bag and pulled out a packet of Bensons.
She ripped off the wrapper with one angry swipe, taken one, lit it, and started to pace in circles. Round and round and round
she paced in front of the canteen doors, fag after fag sucked down to the butt. Round and round the small group of flops already
stood waiting for dinner, and they huddled together like nervous sheep, as Poppy kept pacing and smoking and it was like the
pack didn't got no bottom as fag after fag come out of it, and soon the sheep was stood in a pen of butts.

Well I weren't sure what to do, to be honest, like go and say 'Hi' or leave it or what. I couldn't work out what the fuck
had happened and why was Poppy so pissed off and was it something to do with me, which I didn't see how but I felt a bit sick
all the same. All I could think was they must of said she wasn't mad enough, which at least I'd warned her, do you know what
I'm saying. But then what was Sharon doing fetching her through? It didn't make sense, nothing didn't make sense; and the
more I thought the less sense it made, till in the end I got so confused, my mind just crashed like a DSS computer. 'Poppy!'
I said.

Now every head in the common room been following Poppy round. But the moment I spoke, it was like a hypnotist snapped his
fingers or something. 'Cause they all spun back and stared at me and you heard like this gasp as the bolt gone home: 'You're
telling us
that
is
Poppy!'

'Funny sort of dribbler,' said Astrid, and Sue the Sticks giggled and so did Candid, and Wesley as well though he sworn he
never; I
seen
him, stupid wanker. And Omar Bombing laughed so hard a mouthful of half-chewed pic 'n' mix come flying out his mouth and stuck
upside down on the ceiling.

'Hadn't you better introduce her?' Middle-Class Michael said. And he got to his feet like
he
was going to, fucking cheek of it, so that's when I got up and gone over, almost trod on Elliot's head, peeping out from under
the chairs.

Now either Poppy was so took up with being pissed off she never seen me or else she was one of the rudest dribblers you ever
met in your life. Either way she just keeps walking and all I can do is like follow behind, asking her how it gone with the
doctors and whether she's alright and stuff and she never even replies or nothing, just keeps on walking round and round like
we never known each other. And I ain't even looking where everyone's sat but that don't mean I can't hear them sniggering
and one time Astrid catches my eye and gives me a wink and a thumbs-up.

Then Middle-Class Michael cleared his throat — you'd of known him a mile off, weren't nobody cleared his throat like Middle-Class
Michael. 'Ladies and Gentlemen, fellow patients, service users, comrades in the struggle . . .' He done it so professional,
you couldn't help but stop, even
Poppy
stopped and turned and I had to step round and stand next to her on account she was blocking my view.

Middle-Class Michael had stood hisself on one of Dawn's coffee tables. Though you'd hardly of known it was one of Dawn's tables
'cause all the crap been cleared off, and he'd covered it in this red tablecloth and that was what he was stood on. I'd never
seen he was wearing a suit, but he was and a waistcoat and tie, and in his hands he was holding this stack of white cards.
And as he finished reading a card he'd put it to the back and start on the next one and I kept on thinking this must be the
last but then he begun on another. And it seemed like the speech never ended, just kept on going round. But this is what he
said anyway 'cause he published it after in
Abaddon Patients' News.

'It gives me great pleasure to welcome Poppy on behalf of the Patients' Council.' I glanced across; I couldn't resist it.
Fat Florence was shooking her head so hard her chins swayed side to side like sailors' hammocks, and beside her sat Paolo
with his arms tightly folded, scowling down at the carpet. Michael coughed and started to clap, holding the cards in one hand.
I seen the top one was covered in tiny black writing. Some of the dribblers begun clapping too, slowly at first, then more
and more till pretty soon everyone was clapping - everyone except for Fat Florence and Paolo - and even the flops too out
of it to know why they was clapping, and some of the flops kept missing their hands so they stamped their feet instead. Made
a fucking racket.

When he reckoned they'd clapped enough, Middle Class Michael raised his hand like a copper holding up traffic, but everyone
just carried on, they was all enjoying it so much, and Schizo Safid was up on his feet clapping away and whooping, and it
taken about ten minutes of shushing to get them to quieten down, and after that each time Michael paused, just to take a breath
or start the next card or something, Schizo Safid would jump to his feet and set them all going again. Even Paolo had to sit
on his hands, 'cause he kept forgetting and joining in, earning hisself a nudge in the ribs from Fat Florence.

'I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome Poppy on behalf of the Patients' Council. However long your stay with us, I
hope you will find it a useful and beneficial one. I don't know how much you already know about the Abaddon Unit. The date
of the building is uncertain, but it seems highly probable that even before this splendid structure which houses the unit
today, there were earlier buildings standing on the site. Victorian patients speak of a ballroom where weekly dances were
held, though, sadly perhaps, no trace of this remains. The land now covered by the Darkwoods Estate used to be cultivated
by Abaddon patients growing vegetables for the hospital. It may be hard to imagine beneath all the concrete today!
[pause]
There was also a farm producing eggs and milk the excess of which was sold to provide an important source of income. The Gatehouse
pub next door occupies what used to be the hospital laundry where patients were put to work washing and mending for their
fellow inmates and also the public at large. Indeed the Abaddon was much admired as a model of Moral Management, a self-sufficient
community, restoring the mad through a combination of discipline and productive employment. Treatment of the insane was seen
as a measure of the new, enlightened society and Londoners would come out from the city specially to visit the Abad­don and
observe the patients at work and leisure. Charles Dickens attended an Abaddon Ball, who knows perhaps on this very spot where
we find ourselves now assembled!
[pause]

'In previous eras the focus was more upon physical restraint and containment. Before the relatively recent advent of anti-psychotic
medication, many were shackled and held in chains to prevent them committing acts of violence towards themselves and others.
Strait-jackets were frequently used, the arms crossed over in front and secured behind.' (Middle-Class Michael shown us how.)
'Patients were muzzled and locked into chairs; whips and chains were frequently used to beat them into submission. Treatment
was often punitive: bleeding, purging, half-drowning patients whose conditions failed to improve. Diagnoses were often arbitrary,
reflecting the patient's social background and gender more than anything else, but of course things have moved on!
[pause]

'I shan't go further into our history now, but if you are interested I would warmly recommend the work of my good friend,
the medical historian Professor Max McSpiegel, currently occupying the 'M' bed on the second floor. Max is in the process
of researching his definitive history of the Abaddon, in which, he tells me, the name of every patient past and present will
be listed with diagnosis, physical description/photograph where possible, and brief biographical details, in his exhaustive
"Appendix C", which is expected to run to seventeen volumes alone,
[long pause]

'The Dorothy Fish is a somewhat newer institution. For indeed it is only relatively recently that patients have been encouraged
out of the asylums and with the help of medication, community-based resources and day hospitals such as this one, enabled
to live as part of a wider society Established in 1983, seven years before the MAD act of 1990, the Dorothy Fish very much
sets the standard for a client-centred, user-led approach to psychiatric treatment.
[pause]
We have twenty-five patients, from Astrid to Zubin (the "X" chair is currently vacant) drawn from every sector of society
and representing a broad cross-section of the multi-cultural community from which our client group is drawn.

'Day patients at the Dorothy Fish have often moved down from the wards. And the day hospital forms part of a programme of
rehabilitation and reintegration back into the community. This can take time, especially for those who may have spent much
of their lives in institutions. For others, the day hospital represents a move in the opposite direction. People who find
themselves shipwrecks in the storm of life, washed up on a desert island perhaps or drifting aimlessly across an unresponsive
sea. For such as these the Dorothy Fish provides much-needed rest and water, an opportunity to rebuild one's ship, to catch
up the log books and take on fresh supplies for the voyage ahead.' ('That'll be peas then,' said Astrid and everyone laughed.
Middle-Class Michael been doing pretty well but he gone a bit red in the ears at that, and he pulled at his nose and coughed
and looked down, and Schizo Safid leapt to his feet, begun, 'Three cheers for Middle-Class Michael.''Please,' said Michael.
'Please!' and he held up his hand but they just give him three cheers more. 'Please,' he said, coughing. 'I'm really . . .
I'm just doing my job.')

'However you use your time here, there's one thing of which I am certain. And that is that we will all do our best to make
you feel a valued part of our therapeutic family.
[pause]
And the Patients' Council, of which I am an elected representative, sits very much at the heart of that family.
[pause]
Our sole and exclusive purpose is to represent the interests of every Abaddon patient,
[pause]
And as a patient you are automatically entitled to have your views and opinions respectfully expressed at a twice-yearly forum
of Patients' Council members, members of staff and representatives from the medical profession. We also provide an award-winning
patients' advice service, Abaddon Patients' Rights, which is staffed entirely by users and can offer help and advice on all
practical matters from housing to benefits as well as referring patients where necessary for legal representation. Your guide
will I'm sure be more than happy to show you to our office.' (The flops was all clapping and cheering again; I couldn't help
smiling a bit.)

'On the subject of the Patients' Council, I have an announcement to make. You have all heard, I know, of the tragic death
of Pollyanna Pleasance. Not only was Pollyanna a close friend of mine and a much-loved member of our community, her premature
discharge offers a warning to us all.
[long pause]

'We are witnessing a critical time, a decisive time, a dangerous time for all psychiatric patients, a time in which the role
of the Patients' Council has never been more crucial,
[pause]
You will be aware from reports in the press and perhaps on television, of government proposals to privatise our mental health
services. Veronica Salmon, the Minister for Madness, has commissioned a number of feasibility studies, and at least two of
our largest pharmaceuticals companies have already expressed an interest. The treatment and care of the mentally ill, a yardstick
by which, as has sometimes been noted, a civilisation may measure itself, is now to be viewed as nothing more than a commercial
enterprise. Already evidence suggests that hospitals are feeling the pressure and being forced to improve their discharge
figures or withdraw from the marketplace. The message is simple: Madness Must Pay and anything which stands in the way of
Profit must be dispensed with!

'As patients we have an obligation to fight these proposals with every resource we can muster,
[pause]
We have the right to demand the services we need, services based on our requirements and not on the greed of avaricious shareholders!!!!
[pause]
Madness is our heritage, our cultural identity, our bond, our common struggle.
[pause]
It is not to be traded on the stock exchange by men in suits commuting from the home counties! It belongs to us, the service
users;
[pause]
it belongs to us, the underclass;
[pause]
it belongs to us, the madmen,
[very long pause]