When Daddy Comes Home (17 page)

T
im tapped his feet and spun the heavy swivel chair round and round to the sound of the music in his head.

Antoinette’s gaze never left him as she followed his movements. As the chair rotated again and again, she stared at him. When the chair’s back hid her view of his face and only a glimpse of a thin shoulder could be seen, she waited for the chair to complete its turn so that she could see him again.

Behind his wire-framed glasses, his eyes glinted.

He sees into my head, thought Antoinette. He can trespass into my thoughts. She covered her eyes with her hands. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me, she thought desperately. But almost at once, she stopped believing it and she couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘Stop. Stop what youDre doing.’

They were the first words she had spoken for over a week and they were strangely expressionless. The total lack of feeling in them carried a warning and the patients’ sitting room became silent.

Antoinette felt her body become rigid with concentration as she stared unwaveringly at the boy in the swivel chair. She was vaguely aware that the male nurse in the room half stood up as if sensing trouble but her gaze remained fixed on Tim. Lost in his own world and at the mercy of his own memories,
he spun the chair once more. For a split second their eyes met. Tim giggled.

And she heard its mocking sound coming from a thousand throats and it seemed to vibrate all about the jumble inside her head. Unable to stop herself, she screamed and then a snarl of rage tore out of her throat. Her only desire at that moment was to tip him from the chair, bring its metal base down on his head and stop the derisive laughter for ever.

She darted forward and grabbed the chair so that the boy was thrown to the ground and, with a strength fired by her enormous rage, she began to lift it. She knew that she would pick it up and then dash it down on top of him – but before she could do anything else, the male nurse moved and grasped her by the arm.

‘Let it go,’ he commanded. ‘Put it down now.’

Her strength was no match for his, and he prized her fingers from it easily. She felt herself shake as though every muscle in her body trembled. The nurse guided her carefully into the chair.

The rage which had lain dormant for so many years had finally surfaced and the force with which it had burst out of her started clearing the fog from her mind. As they receded, she saw a skinny form lying on the floor. Tim lay where she had thrown him, lost so deeply in his own world that her fury had not even penetrated it.

The lounge was in an uproar. Antoinette sat bewildered, hardly remembering what she had done.

The male staff nurse put his hand on her shoulder, then looked for a female patient he could safely entrust her with so that she could be kept calm until the ward sister came on duty.

‘Dianne,’ he said, ‘could you take Antoinette for coffee and sit with her?’

Dianne was a woman in her mid-thirties who had improved steadily since she had entered the hospital and the nurse obviously thought that her motherly aura would keep Antoinette steady.

Dianne did as she was told, took the shaken girl by the hand and led her to the canteen. She sat Antoinette in a chair, made two coffees, then returned quickly to the table.

‘Come on, drink that up,’ she said kindly. Then seeing that the teenager still seemed to be locked in a world of her own, she lit two cigarettes and passed one across the table. ‘Have one of these.’

Antoinette did not smoke but she took it gratefully. If nothing else, it gave her something to do with her hands.

Diane looked at her sympathetically. ‘I think you’ll start to get better now, if you want my opinion. All that anger that you must have had inside had to come out, you know.’

Antoinette remained silent, her body still shaking as tremors ran through her. Gradually the mist that had clouded her mind for so many weeks was beginning to recede. She looked blankly at the older woman without recognition.

‘We’ve talked before,’ said Dianne, noticing her bewilderment. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

Antoinette shook her head, feeling even more confused. She wanted to remember, for there was something about the older woman she felt she could trust. Something about the face and its sympathetic expression radiated more warmth and understanding than she had ever seen in her mother’s. She knew that Dianne was the kind of woman her mother would scorn as common – her accent showed she came from a rough part of town – but Antoinette already knew that her own values were different from her mother’s. She had learnt that it is who you are, not where you come from, that counts.

Dianne took a drag on her cigarette. The deep lines etched on her face and the badly styled hair streaked with grey made her look older than her years. Antoinette suddenly realized that her companion was wearing the uniform of a different ward, a fact that momentarily disconcerted her.

Seeing the puzzled expression on the girl’s face, Dianne said gently, ‘I’m in Ward F1 and I was there when you were a patient there nearly three years ago. I can tell you don’t remember. You were such a lonely confused girl then, I felt so sorry for you. But when you left, I hoped you would stay away. What happened?’

Antoinette struggled to remember the woman sitting opposite her. She had met people from that ward before. It housed the milder cases of sectioned patients, some of whom were placed there instead of serving a short prison sentence. Certainly it was not home to anyone dangerous and when patients were considered to be on the road to recovery, they were often allowed to visit the psychiatric ward with its coffee lounge and generally relaxed air.

‘We talked the last time you were in,’ said Dianne. ‘Danny was worried when they released you – he thought it was too early. Tell me what brought you back here.’

Not remembering any conversations between Dianne and herself, Antoinette had no idea what the older woman knew.

Ignoring Antoinette’s silence, Dianne continued as though there were two people taking part in the conversation instead of just one. ‘You told me about your father, how he had gone to prison for what he did to you, then you left here to live with your mother.’

‘And my mother told me I had to leave.’

Dianne didn’t need to be told more and gently touched her on the hand. ‘You’ll get better, you’ll get over them. You must.
Don’t let them win.’ She drew on her cigarette and looked at the younger girl reflectively. ‘You might not believe me now but one day you will be happy.’

She’s right, Antoinette thought grimly. I don’t believe her. Happiness was not something she could imagine ever feeling again. She tried to think of something to say. She had no desire to talk about her parents but she knew Dianne was not going to allow her to slip away into silence. Hoping to shift the conversation away from herself, she said at last, ‘Why are you here?’

‘I killed my husband. You’d read about it in the newspapers when you were here before. Remember? I stabbed the bastard to death.’

‘Why?’ asked Antoinette, with the first glimmer of interest.

‘Usual story. He beat me when he was drunk and he was always drunk. I would look in the mirror and see a woman I no longer recognized – one with a black eye, a split lip, or both – then I would be stupid enough to wonder what I’d done wrong. You know, love, you might not believe it now but when I met him I was a pretty girl. I had plenty of boyfriends then but I had to choose a no-good bastard like him.’

‘Why did you stay?’ Antoinette knew her mother never would have. She would have left her husband if he had ever laid a finger on her, she thought bitterly. It was only me she didn’t mind him hitting.

‘Because every time he hit me, the next day he was so apologetic, he would beg me not to leave him and then the next few months were honeymoon time again. I fell in love, if that is what you want to call it, eight times in as many years and every other year got a child from it. But then, when the kids were older he went for them with a belt. No one goes for my
kids. So I left him and we went to stay with my dad.’ Dianne saw she now had Antoinette’s complete attention and continued with her story. ‘Well, he came round, didn’t he? Drunk, he was that night. Pushed right past my dad and knocked my little one over. I picked up the bread knife and stuck it in him. And you know the worst thing? I enjoyed it. That red mist came down, I saw the fear on his face when I went for him and I felt great. It was only when the police came that I felt sorry.’ She paused and then added, ‘But not sorry for doing it. Sorry that my kids had to be taken into care.’

‘Why did they put you in here?’ Antoinette knew that in her previous life she had read somewhere of a case where the woman had killed an abusive husband. The barrister had pleaded a case of self-defence and she had been acquitted.

‘Because once I started, I couldn’t stop. I enjoyed it that much. They said I’d put wounds in him after he was dead. But he had gone for my kids and no one was going to harm them.’ She suddenly realized who she was confiding in and placed her hand over Antoinette’s. ‘Sorry, love. Everyone’s different.’

But Antoinette didn’t even understand what she meant.

I
n 1961, paranoia was seen as dangerous. Antoinette had attacked Tim with no provocation but no account was taken of the fact that she had been given an electric shock treatment that morning and neither was any notice given to the opinion of the psychiatrists who had already questioned the suitability of that particular treatment for her. It only took a few phone calls from the ward sister – a woman of the old school who had little time for the freedom given to patients on the new psychiatric wing – for a transfer to be arranged.

Antoinette watched while a nurse packed her few belongings. ‘Where am I going?’ she asked.

The nurse did not reply but kept her head bent as she finished her task.

Frightened, Antoinette repeated the question. ‘Where am I going?’

‘Somewhere where they can look after you better.’

The icy clipped tones came from behind her. Antoinette spun round to see who had spoken. The ward sister was standing a few feet away, watching her. A woman in her early thirties whose thin hair was worn scraped back in a tight knot, she held her body so stiffly that she seemed to be encased in steel under her blue uniform. From the day she had arrived,
Antoinette had always thought there was a cold antipathy from the ward sister that was more than simple dislike. Every member of staff was privy to a patient’s case history and she had felt instinctively that the ward sister had very little sympathy for hers. She had felt her eyes follow her when she walked about and had seen a smirk cross her face when Antoinette talked to male nurses or patients. Somehow Antoinette had always felt that the sister was looking for her to make a mistake, something she could pounce on. Now she finally had the excuse she needed and Antoinette saw the flash of satisfaction in her eyes as they met hers. But it was the other who looked away first.

Antoinette was to be moved early that evening, at a time when the other patients were busy with their visitors. The sight of a patient that they had known being transferred to the long-stay section of the hospital was upsetting for everyone, including the staff.

Once her locker was emptied, she sat on her bed with the curtains drawn. Her tea was served by nurses who hastily placed a tray by her side and then left as quickly as possible. Each time one appeared, Antoinette asked the same question.

‘Where am I going? Where are you sending me?’

But nobody wanted to tell her.

The other patients avoided her; they knew without being told that Antoinette was being sent to the place they feared most. Everyone knew that those who didn’t recover would share her fate – a transfer to the main building.

When the evening drew in they came for her.

The ward sister and two male orderlies stood by her bed and one of the men picked up her case. Their grim faces told
her that patients who kicked and screamed and protested against their transfer would be quickly subdued. Antoinette had no intention of giving the ward sister the satisfaction of crying but she still summoned up the strength to ask her question again.

‘Where am I going?’

This time, she did not bother to avoid her gaze. Instead she said, with a smile that almost looked triumphant, ‘You are going to be transferred to ward F3A.’

Antoinette felt her body go icy cold. Ward F3 was where the hospital put long-term patients whom everyone believed had no hope of recovering. It was the ward where women were shut away and forgotten. They wouldn’t leave until they grew old and feeble or died. Everyone knew where in the main hospital that ward was. It was hidden from curious eyes behind doors that were firmly shut but the barred windows could be clearly seen from the grounds. Although no patient in Antoinette’s unit had ever caught a glimpse of the inside, they had all heard stories of how it was in there.

In those dark rooms, it was said, as many as thirty women were left in the care of only two nurses. Locked into specially designed wooden chairs for hours at a time, they would sit staring blankly into space. It was in there that drugs were given not to heal but to keep the inmates docile, and to ensure their passivity, indiscriminate courses of electric shock were administered. The woman in these wards could never complain. They had no one to complain to. These wards were inhabited by people who had long ago forfeited their rights when they had been abandoned by their families. They were the lost people, forgotten by the outside world.

The inmates of ward F3 were rarely seen. Not for them escorted walks in the spacious grounds or mingling with
other patients in the canteen; they were marched three times a day to their own area in the main dining room and when their meal was finished, they were marched back again. Once, when she was in the main building, Antoinette had seen a straggling procession of women from that ward: shapeless uniforms hung slackly on their drooping bodies as two nurses armed with batons escorted them to their section of the dining room. With downcast eyes and in silence, they had shuffled past Antoinette like thirty grey ghosts. The only sound was the flapping of loose slippers.

As well as women who were considered to have no hope of ever being able to leave the hospital and resume a normal life, Ward Female 3A also housed at least two convicted murderesses. They had been judged criminally insane and sentenced to a life in a mental hospital. It was not a fate to be envied. At least in prison, there was hope of remission. But not here.

Antoinette had guessed that her transfer would take her to the main building but this ward was worse than she had ever imagined.

Surely it will only be for a short time, she thought. They just want to punish me. Then I’ll be allowed back. ‘How long will I be there?’ she asked timidly.

‘You are being transferred permanently,’ was the reply.

Antoinette retreated into silence. It was all she could think of, and she hoped it would protect her. She hid the fear that was beginning to break through her numbness behind an impassive face and waited for the orderly to lead her from the ward.

Outside, the rain fell; it was a gentle spray that Antoinette held her face up to. She felt the damp coolness on her cheeks and thought that if she cried silently, they would think her tears were raindrops. The ambulance which was to transfer
her was waiting outside. The orderly helped her in, placed her case beside her, then, refusing to meet her eyes, closed the doors. Antoinette watched the light disappear as they slammed shut on her. Placing her hand on her case for support, she sat upright on the plastic-covered seat.

The engine started and the ambulance rolled along the driveway that took her to the main building.

It was the early part of the year, before the coming of spring brought longer days and warmer nights. The cold penetrated her thin coat but whether it was the damp evening or her fear that made Antoinette shiver, she did not know. All she understood was she was being punished and that finally the words that the voices tormented her with were coming true. In Ward F3A, she would disappear.