Read Online The Sleep Room by F. R. Tallis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: F. R. Tallis
Ads: Link
dapper and tanned. The other man was much younger, square-jawed, athletically built, and with hair cropped so short that it was little more than a shadowy cap of stubble. I was introduced to Walt Rosenberg first, and then to his companion, Buck Stratton, whom I later discovered was an employee of a US drug company.
Maitland and Rosenberg talked incessantly. Yet, I did not feel excluded. I was quite content to sit quietly and listen. Indeed, I considered it a privilege to be a spectator as these giants of psychiatry sparred and floated ideas. At one point I went to Maitland’s desk to get Rosenberg an empty ashtray. The bottom drawer of the grey filing cabinet had been left open and I saw that it contained some files. I only had a moment, but it was enough to read one of the names. The bold capitals spelled out the name ‘Kathy Webb’.
Rosenberg was an amusing raconteur, with a comedian’s sense of timing, and I was still laughing at one of his jokes when, unexpectedly, Maitland asked me to summarize the results of my Edinburgh research. He was particularly keen for me to discuss my final study – a demonstration that the sleeping brain can still respond to emotionally meaningful stimuli. I had discovered that whispering the name of a person’s wife or husband was all that it took to produce a surge of EEG activity, irrespective of how deeply they slept. Stratton, who had been silent until that point, suddenly sat up and asked me some very technical questions. I thought it odd that a drug company representative should be so well informed about sleep research.
‘Is this study published yet?’ asked Rosenberg.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’m writing it up now.’
‘Sir, I’d be grateful for an offprint,’ said Stratton, who reached into his pocket and produced a business card. I was not accustomed to being addressed so respectfully by someone of my own age and felt a little awkward. The card showed only his name and an address on East 42nd Street, New York.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Maitland, clapping his hands together, ‘shall we proceed?’ There was a hum of general agreement and we followed him to the door.
We walked out onto the landing where Maitland halted and stroked the carved banisters. ‘These charming woodland creatures are believed to be the work of Robert Greenford, a friend of William Morris and an associate of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.’
On the way down we found Hartley treating the banisters with a clear, oily fluid. He was on his knees, with a rag in his hand, but as we approached he stood, almost to attention, and inclined his head as we passed. When we reached the ground floor, Maitland indicated the suit of armour and claimed that it was early fifteenth century. We visited the men’s ward first, and then the women’s ward, but it was the sleep room where we tarried longest. Over an hour, in fact.
Rosenberg asked numerous questions about our drugs, vitamin supplements, and whether or not we used insulin to stimulate appetite. He circled the beds, studying the faces of the sleeping women, occasionally listening to their hearts with a stethoscope. I felt possessive and wished that he would leave them alone. Stratton had positioned himself near one of the walls, deep in shadow, his legs slightly apart and his hands behind his back. It was one o’clock, and the nurses were preparing to wake and feed the patients. Rosenberg wanted to stay and watch.
Sister Jenkins managed the complex choreography of waking, feeding, administering drugs, voiding and exercising with her usual brisk efficiency. While the patients were eating, Rosenberg tried to engage Kathy Webb. He introduced himself and asked her to perform some simple arithmetic, but the young woman only sucked on her fork and stared into the distance.
‘Yes,’ Rosenberg said, looking up at Maitland. ‘Ours are much the same.’
‘How long have your cohort been asleep now?’ asked Maitland. It was an unusual choice of word
Maitland and Rosenberg talked incessantly. Yet, I did not feel excluded. I was quite content to sit quietly and listen. Indeed, I considered it a privilege to be a spectator as these giants of psychiatry sparred and floated ideas. At one point I went to Maitland’s desk to get Rosenberg an empty ashtray. The bottom drawer of the grey filing cabinet had been left open and I saw that it contained some files. I only had a moment, but it was enough to read one of the names. The bold capitals spelled out the name ‘Kathy Webb’.
Rosenberg was an amusing raconteur, with a comedian’s sense of timing, and I was still laughing at one of his jokes when, unexpectedly, Maitland asked me to summarize the results of my Edinburgh research. He was particularly keen for me to discuss my final study – a demonstration that the sleeping brain can still respond to emotionally meaningful stimuli. I had discovered that whispering the name of a person’s wife or husband was all that it took to produce a surge of EEG activity, irrespective of how deeply they slept. Stratton, who had been silent until that point, suddenly sat up and asked me some very technical questions. I thought it odd that a drug company representative should be so well informed about sleep research.
‘Is this study published yet?’ asked Rosenberg.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’m writing it up now.’
‘Sir, I’d be grateful for an offprint,’ said Stratton, who reached into his pocket and produced a business card. I was not accustomed to being addressed so respectfully by someone of my own age and felt a little awkward. The card showed only his name and an address on East 42nd Street, New York.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Maitland, clapping his hands together, ‘shall we proceed?’ There was a hum of general agreement and we followed him to the door.
We walked out onto the landing where Maitland halted and stroked the carved banisters. ‘These charming woodland creatures are believed to be the work of Robert Greenford, a friend of William Morris and an associate of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.’
On the way down we found Hartley treating the banisters with a clear, oily fluid. He was on his knees, with a rag in his hand, but as we approached he stood, almost to attention, and inclined his head as we passed. When we reached the ground floor, Maitland indicated the suit of armour and claimed that it was early fifteenth century. We visited the men’s ward first, and then the women’s ward, but it was the sleep room where we tarried longest. Over an hour, in fact.
Rosenberg asked numerous questions about our drugs, vitamin supplements, and whether or not we used insulin to stimulate appetite. He circled the beds, studying the faces of the sleeping women, occasionally listening to their hearts with a stethoscope. I felt possessive and wished that he would leave them alone. Stratton had positioned himself near one of the walls, deep in shadow, his legs slightly apart and his hands behind his back. It was one o’clock, and the nurses were preparing to wake and feed the patients. Rosenberg wanted to stay and watch.
Sister Jenkins managed the complex choreography of waking, feeding, administering drugs, voiding and exercising with her usual brisk efficiency. While the patients were eating, Rosenberg tried to engage Kathy Webb. He introduced himself and asked her to perform some simple arithmetic, but the young woman only sucked on her fork and stared into the distance.
‘Yes,’ Rosenberg said, looking up at Maitland. ‘Ours are much the same.’
‘How long have your cohort been asleep now?’ asked Maitland. It was an unusual choice of word
Similar Books
