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Authors: F. R. Tallis
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sunglasses. The vivid green of her irises had the translucent depth of stained glass.
Ordinarily, some outmoded idea of gentlemanly conduct might have induced me to say, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take advantage,’ or some other expedient that allowed her to demur. But there was little point. The situation that we found ourselves in had been so obviously engineered that to pretend otherwise would have been insulting. We kissed again, and carried on kissing, until Jane glanced at her wristwatch and said with a sigh, ‘Lillian.’
We walked along the promenade, past brightly coloured beach huts, hand in hand. It was only when we were close enough to the stunted pier to appreciate its decrepitude that the sense of a greater world beyond our mutual self-absorption impinged upon our senses. A little girl with blonde hair passed us by, holding a toffee apple which seemed to glow from within like a gemstone. On the horizon, I could see two large tanker ships.
‘There’s Lillian,’ said Jane.
She was standing with her back to us.
‘Do you think perhaps . . .’ It was not necessary for me to say any more.
‘Yes, of course,’ Jane replied, releasing my fingers.
On Monday night, Maitland telephoned.
‘James? It’s Hugh.’ I can’t remember when, precisely, but we had started to use each other’s Christian names. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘No problems.’
‘None at all.’
‘Good. Listen. I’m coming up early tomorrow morning. Walter Rosenberg is in London this week and he wants to see Wyldehope.’
‘Walter Rosenberg?’
‘An old friend.’
The name was familiar. ‘Didn’t he work with Kalinowsky?’ Kalinowsky had championed the use of ECT in the United States.
‘They published several important papers together.’ Maitland paused and I heard him light a cigarette. ‘I’d like you to be present when I show him around.’
We talked briefly about Rosenberg, who was in charge of a massive asylum on Long Island. ‘Fifteen thousand beds!’ Maitland exclaimed, permitting himself a dry chuckle. ‘They do things differently in America. I’m afraid that British psychiatry will be left behind if the authorities don’t learn from the American example.’ Then, in a more lively tone: ‘Good God! Is that the time? I was supposed to be dining at my club tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
When I got out of bed the following morning, I crossed the corridor and looked out of one of the west-facing windows. Maitland’s Bentley was already parked on the drive. I ate breakfast in the dining room and performed a quick circuit of the two wards and the sleep room to ensure that everything was in order. By half past ten a Jaguar – as long as a hearse – had appeared beside Maitland’s Bentley. A chauffeur was standing next to it, holding a transistor radio up against his ear.
I had returned to the men’s ward and was reading through the notes when I realized that Sister Jenkins’s wedding ring had still not been recovered. The job of sifting through Alan Foster’s faeces was, understandably, very unpopular, and I wondered if the trainee – eager to get the noisome task completed as quickly as possible – had failed to exercise due diligence. In which case, Sister Jenkins’s precious ring would now be lost in the sewage system. As I contemplated the absurdity of the situation, a new nurse – just up from London – sidled up to me and said, ‘Excuse me? Dr Richardson? Dr Maitland would like to see you in his office.’ I hastily put the notes back in the filing cabinet and made my way upstairs.
Maitland greeted me with his characteristically firm handshake. ‘James, do come in.’
I had expected to see only one guest, but when I entered I saw two men seated on the Chesterfield. The older of the pair I immediately recognized; he was one of the three ‘American colleagues’ in the framed photograph on Maitland’s desk – ten years older, perhaps, but still slim,
Ordinarily, some outmoded idea of gentlemanly conduct might have induced me to say, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to take advantage,’ or some other expedient that allowed her to demur. But there was little point. The situation that we found ourselves in had been so obviously engineered that to pretend otherwise would have been insulting. We kissed again, and carried on kissing, until Jane glanced at her wristwatch and said with a sigh, ‘Lillian.’
We walked along the promenade, past brightly coloured beach huts, hand in hand. It was only when we were close enough to the stunted pier to appreciate its decrepitude that the sense of a greater world beyond our mutual self-absorption impinged upon our senses. A little girl with blonde hair passed us by, holding a toffee apple which seemed to glow from within like a gemstone. On the horizon, I could see two large tanker ships.
‘There’s Lillian,’ said Jane.
She was standing with her back to us.
‘Do you think perhaps . . .’ It was not necessary for me to say any more.
‘Yes, of course,’ Jane replied, releasing my fingers.
On Monday night, Maitland telephoned.
‘James? It’s Hugh.’ I can’t remember when, precisely, but we had started to use each other’s Christian names. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘No problems.’
‘None at all.’
‘Good. Listen. I’m coming up early tomorrow morning. Walter Rosenberg is in London this week and he wants to see Wyldehope.’
‘Walter Rosenberg?’
‘An old friend.’
The name was familiar. ‘Didn’t he work with Kalinowsky?’ Kalinowsky had championed the use of ECT in the United States.
‘They published several important papers together.’ Maitland paused and I heard him light a cigarette. ‘I’d like you to be present when I show him around.’
We talked briefly about Rosenberg, who was in charge of a massive asylum on Long Island. ‘Fifteen thousand beds!’ Maitland exclaimed, permitting himself a dry chuckle. ‘They do things differently in America. I’m afraid that British psychiatry will be left behind if the authorities don’t learn from the American example.’ Then, in a more lively tone: ‘Good God! Is that the time? I was supposed to be dining at my club tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
When I got out of bed the following morning, I crossed the corridor and looked out of one of the west-facing windows. Maitland’s Bentley was already parked on the drive. I ate breakfast in the dining room and performed a quick circuit of the two wards and the sleep room to ensure that everything was in order. By half past ten a Jaguar – as long as a hearse – had appeared beside Maitland’s Bentley. A chauffeur was standing next to it, holding a transistor radio up against his ear.
I had returned to the men’s ward and was reading through the notes when I realized that Sister Jenkins’s wedding ring had still not been recovered. The job of sifting through Alan Foster’s faeces was, understandably, very unpopular, and I wondered if the trainee – eager to get the noisome task completed as quickly as possible – had failed to exercise due diligence. In which case, Sister Jenkins’s precious ring would now be lost in the sewage system. As I contemplated the absurdity of the situation, a new nurse – just up from London – sidled up to me and said, ‘Excuse me? Dr Richardson? Dr Maitland would like to see you in his office.’ I hastily put the notes back in the filing cabinet and made my way upstairs.
Maitland greeted me with his characteristically firm handshake. ‘James, do come in.’
I had expected to see only one guest, but when I entered I saw two men seated on the Chesterfield. The older of the pair I immediately recognized; he was one of the three ‘American colleagues’ in the framed photograph on Maitland’s desk – ten years older, perhaps, but still slim,
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