Fourteen miles away in Mercury Ward, Tessa lay curled on her bed. The cheap, thin, poor excuse for a duvet hardly covered her. She’d forgotten what her bed at home felt like. She only knew a single mattress, a pillow with no depth. She sat up. It was cold and no weather to go outside, but she wrapped her coat around her dressing gown and in slippered feet, went to the courtyard. The boy in the room next door had left, no voice at the grill when she whistled for him. If she was pregnant, they’d have to deal with it. Change her meds. With her fingers cupped over her roll-up as if it were a spliff, she smoked quickly in the rain. The glow of burning tobacco gave her comfort.
Fruit tea that went cold and stewed before she’d drunk it. Clive and Derek in the armchairs, Carrie by the window, Roger at the table, Ethel twisting string into a knot and arguing about milk at the hatch. There were new arrivals too, a flurry of them over the past week. A full moon always sent the crazies crazy and psychiatric wards prepared for them, tossing science aside like air traffic controllers when Mercury went retrograde. This Mercury was in retrograde all the time. Mercury Ward was one long backward step into oblivion. She’d heard the nurses discussing doubling up on shifts.
Shuffle-shuffle to the office, the 400mgs of Olanzapine had sent her crashing. Tearing up your house was not okay, but a woman dying quietly inside apparently was. Keep your death to yourself, that was the message. She’d intentionally not brushed her hair.
“Tessa!” said Dr Patel brightly. “And how are we?”
She wished health care professionals would have the decency to use correct personal pronouns. We weren’t anything. “Fine.”
Dr Patel looked at Tessa’s notes. “I wonder if we shouldn’t try you on something a little less heavy.”
Like a concrete hat. That’s what these drugs felt like. Like someone had come in the night and fitted a concrete hat to her head and poured lead into her feet.
“Do you feel you could cope with something lighter?”
Like a fedora? Or a Stetson? “I’d like to stay on longer.”
“On Olanzapine?”
“I want to see a gynaecologist.”
Dr Patel smiled.
“I mean an obstet, an obstret,” She never could pronounce it. When she was pregnant with Freddy, they’d said she wasn’t taking it seriously.
“Obstetrician?” corrected Dr Patel. She wore a shirt with small flowers on the collar. Tessa focused on them. Dr Patel adjusted her glasses. “Your son’s ten, isn’t he?”
Why did she have to mention Freddy. “I’m not ready to go home.”
“I know this is distressing for you, Tessa. But you must fit yourself back into normal life if you want to get better.”
But what if she didn’t want to get better? What if the exaggerated highs and death-defying lows were all she’d got? “My husband doesn’t want me home.”
“Now Tessa,” Dr Patel looked at her watch. “That’s simply not true. I’ve worked here a long time, and no one gets more attention than you. He comes in every week, doesn’t he? Didn’t I see him yesterday? Some of our guests have no visitors at all.”
He’d brought her a card from Freddy, and she’d hidden behind the yucca until Clive had started making ghost noises and Ethel had turned over a chair. She’d only taken him to her room to stop Clive asking if he wanted to see Act II. She’d told him she knew everything, there was no point in lying, but he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. He hadn’t wanted to talk about anything except when she was coming home, and did she want more cigarettes.
“He said as far as he was concerned, you could come home any time.”
He’d probably said, she’ll do anything to avoid getting up. “I’m better with Zoloft.”
“I don’t think Sertraline is the thing.”
But it was. She was depressed, not psychotic, why couldn’t anyone see that? Who wouldn’t lose their shit if nobody believed them? And antipsychotics were contra-indicated for pregnancy. Dr Patel should know that, but instead she closed her file, stood up and held the door for Tessa.
Shuffle-shuffle to the lounge where she found Derek moving chairs and Clive trying to convince Ethel to wear a tea towel on her head.
“Hold it on under your chin, lie on the floor with your feet up and start screaming.”
“Why do I have to scream?” said Ethel, twisting string through her fingers.
“Because you’ve seen a ghost,” he flicked through the pages. “Yes, here, they’ve all come for dinner, they’re having a seance and then you give a loud scream and fall off the stool onto the floor.”
“She has to end up with her feet on the stool,” said Roger.
Clive had a sheet wound over his clothes; it went around his waist and was tied in a knot over one shoulder. He swished about, trying it out. There was a stain where it bunched across his collarbone.
“Is it a Roman play?” asked Carrie.
“Stupid girl,” said Roger.
“I told you it looked like a toga,” said Derek. He’d turned a pillowcase into a cravat. “Tessa. There you are. You’ve missed scene one.”
“I read for you,” said Clive.
“I thought we weren’t allowed,” said Tessa. Her head hurt.
“Patel’s calling it drama therapy. Evening performances only.”
“Before cocktails,” said Roger.
“You’re on,” said Derek to Clive. He pointed at the dying yucca. “Get thee behind the fireplace.”
“How can he be behind a fireplace?” said Tessa.
“Because he’s a ghost,” said Roger.
“Ready?” Derek tipped a table on its side, sending old copies of National Geographic and TV Guide fanning out onto the carpet. Richard and Judy smiled up from 1989. “Give me perfectly strange and very charming.”
“Leave it where it is,” said Clive, rustling the yucca leaves.
“You sound like you’ve been at the nitrous oxide,” said Derek.
“Kenneth Williams,” shouted Ethel from the floor.
“I saw him at the Almeida,” said Roger.
“I’m not playing,” said Tessa.
“Oh come on, Tess,” said Derek.
“We need you,” said Clive.
“Let’s get to a good bit,” said Derek. “How about this: Elvira, you stay where you are. Dr. Bradman, come and wake Madam Arcati.”
“Am I supposed to be asleep?” said Ethel, kicking her legs in the air.
“Fainted,” said Roger, irritably. “You’ve fainted.”
“I can faint.” Ethel, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and flung her arms above her head. The armpit holes in her cardigan yawned.
“Charming,” said Roger.
“What am I supposed to do?” said Carrie from the window.
“Nothing,” said Roger.
“Keep practicing your curtsies,” said Derek. He knelt beside Ethel and waved his hands near her shoulders. “Pretend I’m shaking you violently. Wake up, Madam Arcati! Wake up!”
Roger coughed. “Here - go easy, old man!”
“Surprisingly good,” said Clive from behind the yucca.
“I played Richard III at The National,” said Roger.
“Is that what tipped you over the edge?” Clive rustled the leaves again.
“You’re not supposed to be talking,” said Derek. “Tessa, you go and pretend to get Madam Arcati a brandy. Ethel? You can get up now. Go and sit in that armchair. Me and Dr. Bradman will pretend to lift you.”
“I’d rather not,” said Roger.
“Just pretend,” said Derek.
Tessa got a cup from the kitchen hatch. She gave it to Ethel who smiled happily up at everyone from the deep, red, tattered chair that was usually Derek’s.
“Move it along,” said Clive. “Isn’t it time for my entrance?”
“What about me?” said Carrie from the window.
Derek sat down in Clive’s armchair. “Okay. All right. Big entrance.” He turned the pages. “Edith,” he pointed at Carrie without looking up, “you’ve done your bit, you can go.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
“You carried that tray beautifully,” said Derek.
“She was supposed to run,” said Roger.
“And Madam Arcati, you’re off stage too. You were marvellous.”
“Was I?”
“No,” said Roger.
“Elvira, you need to get yourself over to the window, that’s your entrance from the gardens.”
Clive moved out from behind the yucca and tiptoed across the room.
“I can’t look,” said Roger.
“Shut up,” said Derek and Clive in unison. “Now Tessa,” continued Derek, “you move around as if you can’t see her, pretend to light a cigarette, and settle yourself in one of these chairs.” I’m going to come back in, see her, and drop my glass of whisky and soda.”
“Are you going to break it?” said Ethel.
“I’m going to pretend,” said Derek. He strode purposefully to the kitchen hatch, picked up an imaginary glass, returned to the centre of the room, looked at Clive, and said, “My God!”
“So camp,” said Clive.
“Your turn, Tessa,” Derek pointed at her line.
“Charles.” She wanted to cry.
“Are you a ghost?” said Derek to Clive.
“I suppose I must be. It’s all very confusing.” Clive swished the bed sheet around his ankles.
“Up Pompeii,” said Roger from a table in the corner. He turned over a jack of hearts.
“Darling Charles – who are you talking to?” said Tessa.
“She’s missed a line,” said Roger.
“All right A. A. Gill,” said Clive.
Derek deepened his voice. “Elvira, of course. She’s standing a few yards away from you.”
“Yes, dear,” read Tessa, “I can see her distinctly - under the piano with a zebra.”
“Oh God,” Derek clutched his head, “she’s here, I tell you.”
“To hell with Elvira!” shouted Tessa.
“That’s my girl,” said Derek. “Right on the money.”
“She’s getting cross.” Clive swished his bed sheet coquettishly.
Tessa threw the script across the room. “I’m not doing this any longer.”
“Brilliant,” said Clive.
“Yes, bravo,” said Roger.
“Shut up!” said Derek.
“Fuck you all,” said Tessa.
“I don’t think that’s in the script,” said Roger.
"Shuffle-shuffle to the office, the 400mgs of Olanzapine had sent her crashing. Tearing up your house was not okay, but a woman dying quietly inside apparently was. Keep your death to yourself, that was the message". The energy of the writing draws me in and the pathos of it puts me through the emotional wringer. Another superb chapter.
I am growing rather concerned, if there is in fact a baby involved...