I want my nice Fentazin syrup.” Tranquillised, she would lean against the wall, her face serene again; only a blink of the eye, only a minute parkinsonian quiver of the extremities, to show that she was alive at all.
“I make no showing,” Crisp said, petulant. “I’d better get a delusion. I hope to become a public man,” he told Dr. Battachariya. “I hope to be appointed Ambassador to St. Petersburg. Or Governor of the Bank of England.”
Dr. Battachariya sucked his pen. He questioned him closely. “What is the difference between a ladder and a staircase?” he asked him.
Crisp smiled. “A ladder is a series of portable gradations,” he suggested, “of either metal or wood; sometimes rope. It consists of two uprights, with steps, called rungs, between them. It serves as a means of ascent, as does a staircase; but a staircase, designed on the same principle, is a fixed internal structure. Suppose for the sake of argument that you were a window cleaner—and some honester men than you or I, Battachariya, do in fact earn their living in that fashion—then taking stout cords, you could bind the ladder to your vehicle’s roof, and thus transport it; which you could by no means do with a staircase.”
Dr. Battachariya toyed with his ballpoint. He was determined to fault it. “Don’t you think your explanation is rather over-elaborate?” he asked. Crisp smiled again; his dry, remote, ecclesiastical smile.
Muriel sought him out. “Crisp, give me a book,” she said. “A book of sermons. Anything.”
“What do you want a book for?”
“I want words. I’ve got to have more words. I was kept stupid on purpose. I want some like yours.”
“Listen,” Effie said sharply, “this is the bloody Savoy. Do you know what we had where I was last? No doors on the lavatories, pardon me. One toothmug per seventeen imbeciles. Crisp, you don’t know you’re born.” Recovering herself, she added, “Balmoral is no better.”
But next day Effie went on the rampage. She had a filthy tongue in her head when she wasn’t giving regal addresses. She ran screaming and cursing down Greyshott Ward and out into the corridor.
“I don’t need hospital,” she shouted. “I don’t need nurses. I’m not sick. I may be daft but I’m not sick. I don’t need getting up at six-thirty every day, Christmas Day, birthday, Queen’s official birthday and every bleeding Sunday. I need to get up when I want and make myself a little cup of tea.”
Two stout male orderlies got Effie by the arms and brought her back to Greyshott. They argued with her as they dragged her along. “And how would we get your breakfast, if you got up any old time you felt like it?”
“I’m not here to have breakfasts. I could get my own.”
“Go without is what you’d do. And if we didn’t get you up, what’s to say you’d ever get up at all? What’s to stop you lying in bed all day?”
Sholto stood by, scratching his head and looking on.
“The patients for the shifts,” he remarked, “or the shifts for the patients?”
Dumping Effie on her bed, reaching for the screens to pull around her, the orderly stared at Sholto; his face crimson, his breathing heavy. “Get your frigging ugly face out of here, Sholto Marks,” he bellowed.
Effie subsided. She began to cry, her chest heaving with the shock and horror of her outburst.
I’ve killed a psychiatrist…I pulled all the stuffing out of the doll…they put gunpowder through my letter box…they sang in the streets outside my house…a strange letter came, postmarked Scarborough.
Philip had the secret of perpetual motion. Chug, chug, chug. I am a tractor. I am a Centurion tank. I am a shiny red new Flymo. Otherwise sensible, Philip oils his moving parts each morning.
Crisp attributes it to the decline of faith. You may hear it, he says, as Philip garages himself for the night: the melancholy long withdrawing roar. In days gone by, Philip might have believed he was possessed
“I make no showing,” Crisp said, petulant. “I’d better get a delusion. I hope to become a public man,” he told Dr. Battachariya. “I hope to be appointed Ambassador to St. Petersburg. Or Governor of the Bank of England.”
Dr. Battachariya sucked his pen. He questioned him closely. “What is the difference between a ladder and a staircase?” he asked him.
Crisp smiled. “A ladder is a series of portable gradations,” he suggested, “of either metal or wood; sometimes rope. It consists of two uprights, with steps, called rungs, between them. It serves as a means of ascent, as does a staircase; but a staircase, designed on the same principle, is a fixed internal structure. Suppose for the sake of argument that you were a window cleaner—and some honester men than you or I, Battachariya, do in fact earn their living in that fashion—then taking stout cords, you could bind the ladder to your vehicle’s roof, and thus transport it; which you could by no means do with a staircase.”
Dr. Battachariya toyed with his ballpoint. He was determined to fault it. “Don’t you think your explanation is rather over-elaborate?” he asked. Crisp smiled again; his dry, remote, ecclesiastical smile.
Muriel sought him out. “Crisp, give me a book,” she said. “A book of sermons. Anything.”
“What do you want a book for?”
“I want words. I’ve got to have more words. I was kept stupid on purpose. I want some like yours.”
“Listen,” Effie said sharply, “this is the bloody Savoy. Do you know what we had where I was last? No doors on the lavatories, pardon me. One toothmug per seventeen imbeciles. Crisp, you don’t know you’re born.” Recovering herself, she added, “Balmoral is no better.”
But next day Effie went on the rampage. She had a filthy tongue in her head when she wasn’t giving regal addresses. She ran screaming and cursing down Greyshott Ward and out into the corridor.
“I don’t need hospital,” she shouted. “I don’t need nurses. I’m not sick. I may be daft but I’m not sick. I don’t need getting up at six-thirty every day, Christmas Day, birthday, Queen’s official birthday and every bleeding Sunday. I need to get up when I want and make myself a little cup of tea.”
Two stout male orderlies got Effie by the arms and brought her back to Greyshott. They argued with her as they dragged her along. “And how would we get your breakfast, if you got up any old time you felt like it?”
“I’m not here to have breakfasts. I could get my own.”
“Go without is what you’d do. And if we didn’t get you up, what’s to say you’d ever get up at all? What’s to stop you lying in bed all day?”
Sholto stood by, scratching his head and looking on.
“The patients for the shifts,” he remarked, “or the shifts for the patients?”
Dumping Effie on her bed, reaching for the screens to pull around her, the orderly stared at Sholto; his face crimson, his breathing heavy. “Get your frigging ugly face out of here, Sholto Marks,” he bellowed.
Effie subsided. She began to cry, her chest heaving with the shock and horror of her outburst.
I’ve killed a psychiatrist…I pulled all the stuffing out of the doll…they put gunpowder through my letter box…they sang in the streets outside my house…a strange letter came, postmarked Scarborough.
Philip had the secret of perpetual motion. Chug, chug, chug. I am a tractor. I am a Centurion tank. I am a shiny red new Flymo. Otherwise sensible, Philip oils his moving parts each morning.
Crisp attributes it to the decline of faith. You may hear it, he says, as Philip garages himself for the night: the melancholy long withdrawing roar. In days gone by, Philip might have believed he was possessed
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