When Daddy Comes Home (19 page)

Our arrival in the ward was greeted by the eerie silence that lingers for a few minutes as the soul departs.

My father had died alone after all.

T
he short journey from the psychiatric ward to the main building passed in silence. Antoinette, bundled in the back of the ambulance, sat shivering more with fear than with cold as she stared blankly out of the window.

The ambulance drew up in front of the building; the doors opened, the orderly leaned in and she felt her arm being taken.

‘We’re here, Antoinette,’ said one of her escorts.

Still without speaking, she climbed out of the vehicle. The two male nurses walked on either side of her as they led her through the massive wooden doors into the main building. The ever-pervading smell of a badly ventilated old building hung in the air as they walked down cheerless, grey-floored corridors. Their monotony was broken only by dark wooden doors that led into the secured female wards.

There was no sign that any effort had been made to improve the building since its transformation from poorhouse to mental hospital. Nothing had been done to soften its austerity – there were no potted plants or pictures on the walls. Nothing relieved the long corridors that stretched for yards upon yards; they were as grim then as they must have been in Victorian times when the destitute had first occupied the place.

Only the faint sound of her escorts’ shoes broke the eerie silence that hung over the sleeping building. Antoinette hardly heard it as she concentrated on counting the doors that led to the female wards until she knew they had arrived at F3A.

As soon as the guard knocked lightly on the door, it swung open. The night sister in charge had obviously been waiting for them and no sooner had she ushered Antoinette in than the door was closed firmly behind her. She heard the rattle of the keys and then the click as the lock turned – and she knew that it was the sound of her being separated from freedom.

Events had moved so fast that Antoinette had barely enough time to take in what was happening to her. She had a fleeting impression of dark walls, small, high-set barred windows and hard concrete flooring before the night sister touched her gently on the arm and indicated that she was to follow her.

She quickly led Antoinette to the dormitory. Following in her wake, Antoinette clutched her few possessions and felt her fear intensify. If the sister noticed, she gave no response. To her, Antoinette was just another patient transferred at night, to be put to bed as quickly as possible.

‘Don’t make a noise. The other patients are sleeping,’ she said as they entered another room where dim lights cast shadows over rows of sleeping forms huddled in narrow metal beds.

Without curtains pulled around them to preserve a semblance of dignity, the inmates had no illusions of having their own room. Instead the beds were close together with only a small metal locker separating each from its neighbour.

The nurse stopped at one covered with a grey blanket. ‘That’s your bed,’ she said. ‘I’ll put your case under it and you
can sort your things out in the morning. Just take out your nightdress for now.’

Antoinette felt her skin prickle as goosebumps rose on her arms and she hastily pulled off her clothes and replaced them with her pyjamas. When she was finished, the sister took her to the washrooms. Large white baths stood in the centre of a room; at the side of each was a small wooden chair. Against one wall were uncurtained tiled showers where black hosepipes hung, coiled like slumbering snakes. She had heard about the hosepipes and how they were used on the patients by the orderlies: after stripping, the naked women were herded into the open showers and hosed down with cold water. This served two purposes – it subdued the unruly ones and bathed the lot of them all the quicker.

Next to the showers were rows of wash basins and on the opposite wall were the toilets. She looked at their doors with mounting dismay and when she went inside the cubicle, her fears were justified: they hardly hid her. They stopped at her knees and the top was cut so low that her head could be seen when standing, and there was no way of closing them firmly as there were no locks. Antoinette realized that even the most private part of life would be observed.

It was not until she climbed into her bed that the reality of where she was finally penetrated her consciousness. Now waves of anxiety rolled over her and her hands grew clammy as they clutched the bedclothes for comfort. Feelings of bewildered abandonment were threatening to overcome her. Surely her parents must know what had happened to her. They couldn’t let her stay here, could they? Even if they did not love her, they could not hate her that much. Round and round the thoughts scurried in her brain, making it impossible to sleep.

In the gloom, she could make out the indistinct shapes of the other women all around her, hear their deep breathing and their childlike cries as they tossed in their sleep. The sound of grinding teeth came from a nearby bed, snores punctuated by mutterings from another. Antoinette lay with her eyes wide open, wondering what the following day would bring.

Morning came and with it the noise of the day staff arriving. Antoinette rose, collected her clothes and took herself to the washrooms. She wanted to use them before the other patients got up, feeling it was her only chance of preserving her privacy. She hurriedly washed, put on the same clothes she had been wearing the night before, and then returned to her bed.

Knowing that the nurses disliked having to straighten the bedclothes of physically healthy people, she quickly made hers and then sat on the end of it, waiting to be told what to do. She did not have to wait too long. The ward sister sent a young nurse to fetch her.

‘Sister wants you to come with me,’ she said shortly, without pausing for introductions. ‘She’s waiting for you.’

Only a few yards separated the dormitory from the ward sister’s office. They passed through a large room where the patients spent their days. It was bleak, with basic wooden furniture and barred windows, but Antoinette barely noticed. All she registered was the jangling of the large bunch of keys that hung from the nurse’s belt, and the ceaseless babble of background noise coming from the patients with its low note of desolation. Later, she would not only see the grim bareness of her surroundings, she would also feel the hopelessness and the raw despair that permeated the atmosphere.

Entering the small room which served as the sister’s office, Antoinette noticed its internal windows gave a clear view of
the ward and the desk inside was positioned so that the ward sister could watch the activities in it. The sister, a small dark-haired woman, was sitting at her desk and she rose up to greet Antoinette as she came in.

‘Hello, you must be Antoinette,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Please, take a seat.’

Antoinette was surprised. She had been expecting at least some degree of sternness and was taken aback by the sister’s open, friendly face and kindly smile.

The sister pointed to the tray with teapot and two cups. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

Antoinette nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and watched as the sister poured out a cup of tea for each of them. She murmured ‘Thank you’ when it was given to her, and curled her fingers round the cup, taking comfort from its warmth. She waited apprehensively for the sister to begin. Now, surely, she would learn her fate.

After a short pause, the sister said gravely, ‘Antoinette, what do you know about this ward?’ Without waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘This is not a place where people get the same treatment as you received where you were before. This is where patients are tranquillized if they cause trouble. We do not have the allocation of staff here to be able to cope if we did not do that. Do you understand?’

Antoinette understood. She recognized that a warning, carefully wrapped and prettily presented, had just been given. She said nothing.

The ward sister opened a brown folder, the only one on her desk, and Antoinette realized that it was her case history.

‘Should the women here become uncontrollable, they are given electric shock treatment.’ The sister sighed wearily. ‘We try and look after them as best as we can. Hardly any patients
here receive visitors and they are beyond the help of therapy. But in your case, I’ve arranged for you to see a psychiatrist weekly. From your notes, it seems that you were beginning to respond to the one you were seeing on the psychiatric wing but unfortunately she does not treat patients in the main building. I also see from your file that you were uncooperative with the senior psychiatrist who assessed you. Well, the one I have arranged for you to see is also a man, if that was the reason you found it difficult, but I think you will like him.’

Antoinette looked at her directly at this last comment. Did this mean that in some way this woman wanted to help her?

The sister ignored the questioning look and continued, ‘The only time patients leave this ward is when they are taken to the dining room for meals. There they eat in a separate section so there is no mixing with the other wards. The rest of the time, apart from when they are sleeping, they stay in the communal room you have just walked through. Did you notice the locked chairs?’

Antoinette nodded. The sister meant the wooden chairs that were fitted with a small table that locked into place and stopped a patient from moving about. For a moment, she had the impression that the lack of expression in the ward sister’s voice covered up feelings of disquiet at some of the treatment given in those wards.

‘Some of our patients spend nearly all their time in them. You might find that sight distressing and think it’s cruel – but we’re not being unkind to them, you know. Some of the women here were born with problems and have the mental age of a toddler but the strength of an adult. If they were not restricted, they could hurt each other as well as themselves. Some have been so damaged that long ago we knew they would never recover. They would never be capable of coping
with the outside world. There are others who are dangerous. Two have been sectioned for murder. The more normal they seem, the more dangerous they are. So you will have to be careful of them. They have attacked nurses and other patients.’ She paused for breath and gave Antoinette a reflective look. ‘Others, like you, have simply not been able to cope with the tragedy of their lives.’

Now Antoinette felt the whole point of this interview was going to be revealed. A small glimmer of hope flickered in her. Surely this woman would not be so nice to her if she felt there was no hope for her? Perhaps things were not as bleak as she had feared.

The ward sister sighed and closed the folder. ‘I’ve read your file and your case is a tragic one. But there are so many sad stories we hear in this place and yours is just one of them, even if to you it is everything. I believe that when you are able to realize that there are people who have suffered even more than you, you will start to get better. I know it is too soon for you to accept that but I hope that you are going to be one of my success stories.’

Antoinette blinked in surprise – nobody had ever said that to her before. Still she said nothing.

‘Don’t worry about the locked chairs. They’re for the worst cases, not for you. There is absolutely no reason for you to be restrained in one and I hope you never give us one.’ And again Antoinette felt the warning underneath the reassurance. ‘Now, the treatment that has been recommended for you is a course of Paraldehyde, to be taken in liquid form.’

The fear came back again. Antoinette had seen the effects of those heavy drugs and she dreaded them. Visions of the convoys of shuffling inmates with blank faces and downcast eyes sprung into her mind and her hands clutched the tea cup
tighter. Nothing except excessive doses of electric shock treatment could turn someone into a zombie quicker, and zombies did not recover.

The sister saw her alarm and quickly continued, ‘However, the psychiatric ward can only recommend treatment given in this section of the hospital. I have insisted that you are first placed under observation and assessed by one of our psychiatrists.’ She smiled. ‘You have been diagnosed as suffering from acute paranoia. The sister from your last unit has stated in her report that you attacked a patient who gave you no provocation. In her opinion, you are dangerous. Well, that is her opinion. I have to form my own.’

Antoinette began to relax. Although she had learned never to trust anyone in a position of authority, she was feeling more at ease with this woman. Despite her veiled warnings, she appeared to be on her side. The fact that she would not begin the doses of Paraldehyde that the ward sister had decreed seemed to offer Antoinette a chance.

‘It is imperative that you co-operate both with my team and with the psychiatrist I will arrange for you to meet,’ the sister said finally as she concluded the meeting. She rose and, telling Antoinette to follow her, led the way into the unit’s main room.

As they went, Antoinette wished she had been able to say something to explain herself and to reassure the ward sister that she did not need to be tranquillized into submission, but she had been unable to find her voice. It had been the same with the psychiatrists in the other ward. She had longed to be able to tell them more but so much was in a tangle locked within her head. Inside, there were suppressed memories that she was too scared to look at and thoughts and feelings that were too awful to put into words. There were the days when
she simply could not release the words necessary to communicate even the most basic idea, let alone the trauma of her past.

It was that inability that had given the ward sister a free hand when she wrote that report.

A
ntoinette stood in the room, surrounded by women who showed no interest in the arrival of a new patient, trying to take in her surroundings. Dirty green paint covered the walls and the windows, whose black-painted bars she had seen from the grounds outside, were set well above head height. In one corner were two comfortable chairs with cushions – those were for the nurses on duty. The rest of the unoccupied seats were of dark, hard wood with no concession to comfort.

The room was full of women, patients from whom all traces of individuality had been drained away. Dressed in the hospital uniform of shapeless faded paisley dresses and grey cardigans, the inmates wore the expressionless look of the heavily sedated. Some were muttering to themselves while others just stared mutely at the bare walls. Antoinette felt her eyes widen in shock as she realized that nearly every one of these women were locked into a chair. It was the first time she had seen these contraptions in use and the sight of them revolted her.

At first glance, they looked like any other wooden chair with arms and a small shelf that doubled up as a table, but when those trays were locked into place, the person sitting inside was trapped, with only their arms free.

But these are human beings, she thought, appalled, as she saw how many women were imprisoned where they sat, unable to stand up or walk. Humans who are ill. It can’t be right to treat them like this.

Some patients sat quietly in their chairs, others rocked with so much force that they pushed their chairs backwards and forwards as they did so. Some who were not locked into place crouched against walls, their hands covering their eyes, lost in a fear that Antoinette recognized without understanding why.

The sound of wood knocking against walls or bouncing on the floors combined with the continuous babble of senseless words, moans and shrieks was so full of hopeless misery that Antoinette recoiled.

She pulled herself together before she gave away the horror she felt. She did not want the nurses to see her feelings reflected on her face. She wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible. Taking a book from her bag, she sat on one of the chairs and put her head down, trying to look fully absorbed. She found that she had read a page without remembering one word and again looked round the room.

Her eyes were drawn to a girl who looked to be no more than thirteen years old. Locked into one of the chairs, she lolled over its wooden arm, lank hair hanging around a face devoid of all expression. Her tongue protruded from a loose mouth while her glazed eyes stared unseeingly at the floor.

At that moment, one of the nurses went over to her and said in cheerful tones, ‘Time for your walk, Mary.’

Where are they taking her, wondered Antoinette. She watched the nurse unlock the wooden tray, put her arms under the girl’s shoulders and heave her into a standing position. Mary set off across the room, her eyes still staring at the
floor but her legs moving in a jerky rhythm. She tottered along until she hit the wall on the far side, but that did not deter her. She kept walking, going nowhere, her body knocking on the plaster until another nurse pulled herself out of her chair, walked leisurely over and turned her around, setting her off towards the other side. Mary’s walk was twenty minutes of crossing a room over and over again. Once the nurses were bored with the effort of turning her around, they placed her back in her chair. There she lolled over the arm again and resumed staring blankly at the floor.

Mary was so young – what had happened to her? Why was a girl who was scarcely more than a child in a place like this? Antoinette found out later that the girl had been a victim of meningitis. Once a bright child, she had contacted the virus when she was eleven. There was little treatment and nearly all who caught it died. Mary survived but with permanent and irreversible brain damage. When her parents had realized the dedication required to look after a handicapped daughter, they had signed the consent forms to have her admitted to the hospital. She had been there for two years and without individual attention or even having one person visit her, she had deteriorated to such a degree that she would never leave. Now she was incapable of recognizing anyone.

Antoinette felt an overpowering pity at the sight of that skinny form imprisoned in a chair; a forgotten girl who once had run and played and never would again.

A voice broke into her thoughts. It was a woman asking, ‘Don’t you love my baby?’

She looked up and saw a small woman with the face of a fifty-year-old and the guileless smile of a child. In her arms she cradled a doll which she was holding up for Antoinette’s
inspection. ‘Don’t you love my baby?’ she asked again, looking at her intently.

‘Yes, she’s very beautiful. What’s her name?’ She smiled back. She couldn’t help responding to such a childlike person and the large blue eyes that looked at her so hopefully.

The little woman beamed back and then trotted off to ask the same question of someone else.

‘She lost her baby a long time ago,’ muttered one of the nurses. ‘Her name’s Doris. She’s no trouble. She never says anything except that. A hundred times a day or more.’

‘What happened to her?’ asked Antoinette timidly. She wasn’t sure whether it was the done thing to ask about other patients’ histories, or whether the nurses were allowed to tell what they knew. It didn’t seem to bother this one. She seemed glad of someone she could hold a reasonable conversation with.

‘Oh, I don’t think Doris was ever the brightest of sparks,’ she said with a shrug. ‘She got herself pregnant, anyway, when she wasn’t married. So they put her in a home for unmarried mothers and took her baby boy from her when he was six weeks old. She got very down after that – you know, depressed – and in the end, she shut herself off completely so her family seized their chance, signed the papers and had her committed.’

‘Was she always like this?’

‘Not at first. But she’s had electric shock treatment and she takes the medicine that keeps her calm and quiet. It’s been ten years now that she’s been here and she’ll never leave.’ The nurse looked at Antoinette warily. ‘But she’s not unhappy, you can see that. And she’s got what she wanted. Her baby’s with her all the time now, isn’t he?’

Antoinette tried to hide her shock. She had seen many patients with little wrong with them living in the hospital but
this was the first time she had been so close to people who had been destroyed by lack of treatment and abandonment.

She resolved that she was not going to lose herself in this ward.