Mad Worlds Read online

  Friday 20th April 1956 – in Aversham.

  Natalie and Dave run hand in hand to the river and jump in. They’re sinking. Natalie screams, “Sir.” John, strapped into a wheelchair, watches – helpless. Natalie flies from the water, straight at him, cawing, pecking his shirtfront. Dave’s blowing bubbles up from under the water and mouths, “Bruv, bruv.”

  John struggled towards a waking state. That noise – the alarm. He stretched across the empty space and crumpled nightdress to stop the racket.

  He tugged off his drenched pyjama top and caught his own stink. He swung onto the edge of the bed, leaning forward on his elbows, digging fingers into his scalp.

  A hellish night. Heather’s snoring wasn’t the problem – rather, a welcome distraction. In and out of consciousness, he’d kept re-living yesterday’s horror.

  Stupid kids. But the Head’s tirade – “You, John Chisholm, are responsible… in disgrace” – blared like a record stuck in a groove.

  He’d kept going to the lav and sat there, ruminating. Daybreak, he’d thought of getting up – and must have dozed off.

  He dressed slowly. He did not want to go into work. Not that he was ill. That essay for his Diploma in Education on ‘school refusal’; couldn’t the term apply to teachers? Having to see the Head after Assembly would be bad enough – could even mark an end to his embryonic teaching career. But having to face the kids…

  Still, he’d go into school, meet things head on. The way he approached tough situations. And he must keep this job. Teaching was what he wanted to do.

  What happened to that zest for inspiring children? Halfway through last term, he began to struggle. ‘Sort yourself out’, he’d told himself, and spent evenings and weekends poring over lessons and marking. Like on a treadmill with the ‘stop’ button jammed. In class he’d sometimes lose track of what he was saying. The kids would gape at him like he was an alien; to keep control, he’d shout at them.

  At night he’d lie awake, troubled about his teaching, and about Heather. And memories of the day that Dave vanished were powerful. Not that he’d want them to go away; they were part of his heritage, his being. But they’d begun to gnaw at him more – maybe because Dave drowned on a school trip.

  In the Easter vacation he’d re-energised, with workouts at the YM and going for runs. He’d kissed the wobbles goodbye – till yesterday.

  He wrestled into his sports jacket as he plodded downstairs. He could hear the radio – the news on the Home Service. Something about Grace Kelly and Monaco.

  “Do we have to listen to that?”

  Heather, emerging from the kitchen, turned the knob and there was silence. “Thought you liked the news.”

  He sat down at the breakfast table. Becky, propped in the high chair, was staring at him almost accusingly.

  “Hey Becky,” he mumbled, and waved at her. He picked up the Aversham Times and opened it wide to block the infant’s line of sight. The local rag was not a great read. It was, though, a great protective shield, helping him dwell undisturbed in his rich tormented inner world.

  Becky’s crying was even more disturbing than the stare. Heather knelt beside her. “There, Daddy doesn’t mean it.”

  No, he didn’t mean to hurt the infant – just keep her from gaping at him. Heather, putting the bottle into Becky’s mouth, soon produced contented gurgles.

  He laid down the paper and shook cornflakes into a bowl. They looked like bits of brown paper. He shoved the bowl away.

  “Happy birthday, John.” Heather was beside him, kissing his cheek. He coughed as the mesmerising scent hit his nostrils. Her best perfume!

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re twenty-six years old. You heard that – old?” She was smiling.

  He grunted. Twenty-six going on sixty.

  “Bacon and egg?”

  “I’m not hungry.” He caught the aroma of his favourite coffee beans from the steaming mug she set down in front of him. “Thanks, Heather.” Nice. But why was she suddenly like this – trying to butter him up, as Da would say about Ma? Well, it was his birthday.

  “Okay, scarecrow.” She laughed.

  At him? He sipped more coffee and peered over the rim of his mug. Hair done up, her ‘Sunday best’ costume on, reeking of the special perfume he gave her every Christmas. She looked fabulous. When did she last dress up like this? Scarecrow, eh! Maybe he wasn’t as amply endowed as the boyfriend.

  Becky gurgled as she finished the bottle. Precious Becky. He pulled a funny face, and the babe squealed with laughter. He picked up the paper again, but held it low so that Becky could see him.

  Things weren’t brilliant at home either. The worst thing was a suspicion growing this few weeks that Heather was having an affair. No proof, but she’d been icily distant. Trying to tell her about the kids and his problems at school, had felt like delivering a monologue. Not the loving, good-humoured soulmate he had married.

  “Why are you staring?” Heather’s concern startled him.

  He had been staring – feasting his eyes. Admiring her graceful gentle almost Hispanic beauty, with soft brown eyes that, when she smiled, could surely melt granite… “Sorry, nothing,” he mumbled. He gulped more coffee, and held the paper up again. Heather was looking her sexiest. They hadn’t had sex for ages. Easter after a run, he’d lusted for her. But she gave him the shove-off – pleading tiredness and her need to be alert for Becky. Yet Becky was a healthy babe, not over-demanding.

  Okay, drained after the birth trauma, Heather seemed mostly in a wretched inner hell – uncommunicative, listless. Efforts to cheer her produced at best wan smiles a bit like grimaces. At worst she’d cry, say “I don’t deserve you,” resist cuddles. With Becky she was clinical – seemed to lack warmth. “Know I love her… can’t feel or show it…” After three weeks, he figured all this wasn’t just exhaustion.

  “Baby blues, I’d say,” the doctor stated. “Could be a postnatal depression.”

  Heather shook her head at mention of a psychiatrist. And when John asked how long it might take her to recover, the reply was, “Weeks, possibly months.”

  For several months now she’d been active – doing housework, fielding the night-time baby care – and was clearly fit again. So what could explain her not wanting to hear about his troubles at school? Or giving a frosty ‘no’ to sex?

  Becky shrieked. He laid down the paper and slurped the dregs of his coffee.

  “John, how about a birthday kiss for our daughter?”

  He walked round the table and planted a gentle kiss on the top of Becky’s head. “Must go,” he muttered, and made for the front door.

  “Your briefcase.” Heather was holding it up for him.

  He turned to take it, but she held it back. Bending forward, he felt a kiss on the cheek. A tease? And that beguiling perfume! He snatched the briefcase.

  “’Bye,” he yelled over his shoulder as he set out for the bus stop. To school.

  *

  Half-dreaming, John boarded the bus and stumbled into the nearest seat.

  “All right, mate?” His new companion was eyeing him quizzically.

  He grunted, rose and moved to an empty seat.

  “Wood Road,” the conductress shouted. His stop. Kids were yelling as they clattered down from the upper deck. He stood up. He’d go into Assembly, see the Head after and explain.

  He looked through the window at the playground. Swarms of kids and parents were arriving… He slumped back into the seat and his journey continued.

  Horror images flooded his mind. Natalie’s head bobbing in the water; kids screaming – at him, their teacher, immobilised, his mind seized by a real-life replay of the kind of accident that must have befallen his bruv.

  “Terminus.” An unreal-sounding voice. “Time to get off now, Sir.” The spare figure of the conductress loomed, her sharp features creased in a frown.

  “Sorry.” He rose.

  “Your briefcase, Sir.”

  “Thanks.” He rushed to jump off
into the sunshine. For once, he’d scarcely noticed the stink of diesel and fags.

  He doffed his jacket, thrust it over a shoulder and loosened his tie. He strode down the lane towards the river. Nowhere near yesterday’s debacle. Between two trees short of the riverbank, he stopped and looked around. At last – solitude. Except for the midges, and they were innocuous company. He sprawled onto his back.

  Unwelcome thoughts invaded his mind. Heather used to say she loved him, but she didn’t now. He was a teacher, but with yesterday’s calamity, would he still be? A fighter, resolved to champion the weak? Tosh! Yesterday and today he’d been a miserable coward.

  His eyes were moist. He tugged out a corner of his shirt to wipe them. A loser, with fog swirling in his head! Thoughts came, and evaporated.

  He sat up, trying to clear his head by shaking it. That scent, powerful in his sensual memory. From his earliest days with Heather, it could turn him on. And sure as hell he shared it, and Heather, nowadays with some guy she’d be seeing daytimes.

  Nowhere to go. Home and school bad places. Ma, Da and bruv dead. Today, for the first time ever, he’d ducked shitty consequences.

  His eye caught a ripple on the water surface. Suddenly he knew what to do. He stood up and thrust off all but his underwear. He straightened his shoulders and yelled, “Dave, here I come.” He bounded to the grassy edge and leapt in.

  The river’s chill was okay. But the water stopped at his armpits! He crouched to submerge his head, open-mouthed and choking but determined.

  He was floating. Of course – he had no shoes on, nothing to weigh him down. And an icy shaft was clearing the muddle in his brain. Well – not yet, bruv! He made for the bank, scrambled out and paused to stand, stretching his arms and legs.

  It began as an inexplicable giggle and ended as a roar. What a fiasco – great slapstick! Crazy – him laughing. Miserable as hell and just messed up on suicide!

  And as he donned the dry clothing over the wet, positive thoughts came. He must talk with Heather about his suspicions, and go face the Head (a guy who wasn’t a monster – just got angry). He’d have been the envy of his old mates – with a luscious wife, baby daughter, council house, and a teaching job he wanted.

  His mind went back to Heather’s hellish birth ordeal. An age into her struggling agony of labour and non-birth, the doctor commanded, “A caesarean.”

  Heather shook her head.

  Must back her up. “No. We want a natural birth.”

  “Without a caesarean now, both your wife and baby could die.”

  After minutes that felt like hours, he and Heather gave way. He was sent to the canteen, the baby was delivered safely, and Heather survived.

  After the two were discharged, he’d happily embraced fathering – changing nappies, making up bottles and soothing Becky in the night. He swore a lot. Silently. Except one night he dropped the bottle in the sink, where it smashed and he lost the milk. Then he stood and bawled out curses – at the Almighty and the world – right through Becky howling. Eventually, with a mix of rocking and humming, he got the babe to sleep. When he’d climbed into bed, Heather’s face was sunk into her pillow.

  Tie adjusted, jacket on, he was dressed and ready. Next moves were clear. No watch, dammit, but it must be nearly midday. He’d go home, talk with Heather, and get a message to the Head that he’d been sick.

  Uncomfortably soaking, but helped toward respectability by dry outer clothes, he was glad to find the bus stop empty. Dripping water and holding his briefcase, he must look weird. On the bus he elected to stand, shifting his feet to try and hide an embarrassing wet patch appearing. The conductress was preoccupied – chatting to the driver – and he successfully out-stared his two fellow passengers.

  He alighted, a man with a mission. He walked slowly, rehearsing how to tackle Heather. Was this really a great idea? What if lover boy was there? Well, he’d teach the swine a lesson for messing with his beautiful wife.

  He turned into his street. In the distance, a man in a suit dashed across the road from outside his – John’s – house and into a blue car. The lover!

  He sprinted after the mystery third party, who roared off down the street and disappeared round the corner in a cloud of mucky exhaust fumes.

  He stopped, panting, by his house. He hadn’t caught details of the car or the driver.

  He raked his pockets. No key. He rapped on the door.

  The door opened and Heather, cradling Becky with one arm, stared at him.

  He brushed past them, catching the scent and noting her dishevelled hair. The dining room was the place to talk. He stood by the table. It hadn’t been cleared since breakfast. What had she been doing?

  Heather followed. “Why are you back, John? What’s happened?”

  Cool it. Inject some humour? “I fancied a swim.”

  “A swim – where?” She advanced towards him. Becky was moaning.

  “The Yangtze River. Nice and warm.”

  “The what river? And why?”

  This humour was sick! “Never mind, Heather – who was that?”

  “What?”

  “Lover boy – who is he?”

  Her face crinkled up. “What do you mean?”

  Lousy acting, Heather. “Just left – in a blue car.”

  “It’d be next door. Their front door slammed and I saw a man run to a car.”

  “A fib, Heather?” He banged the table and something fell onto the carpet.

  He heard her shout “No” above Becky’s screaming. She looked scared. He’d lost it, and he felt a mix of deep regret and not caring.

  He glanced at the fallen item. The breadknife. He picked it up. “Who is it?” he asked quietly.

  He glimpsed terror on Heather’s face as she turned and ran out the front door.

  2

  Thursday 19th April 1956 – in and around Aversham and Springwell.

  Sam Newman needed this fag. Leaning back from his office desk into the upholstered chair, he drew deeply, then exhaled in gentle short puffs, delighting in his blue smoke-ring creations as they drifted upward to join the cloud near the ceiling.

  Last night had been hellish. Folk on his patch seemed to have conspired in a ‘let’s go crazy’ jamboree. As the sole mental health officer authorised to get mad folk from the borough of Aversham into Springwell Mental Hospital, he’d had to sort out the lot. Maybe wouldn’t have been so bad if Springwell had been nearer. It was a good eight miles out, built well away from the gentrified folk of Aversham, who didn’t want to be too near their local loony bin. And much of the journey was along twisting country roads.

  Seven damn phone calls from GPs. Three ending up call-outs! The first, triggered by an over-wrought husband hounding a panicky GP – to see a perfectly sane woman – took into the early hours. A bit of first-aid marriage guidance smoothed things. And he’d smiled as, home again, he rang a crusty, sleepy-sounding GP back at two a.m. to advise that the woman’s hubby felt in need of a sedative.

  While he’d lain unable to sleep, a second call-out came – then another as he was labouring to crank up his precious Morris Minor engine. He went to the latter call-out first, to find an agitated, depressed middle-aged woman being dissuaded by her daughter from taking an aspirin overdose. Sighing heavily and suicidal, the woman was certifiable. Her GP was there to sign the form and administer sedation, and the magistrate and duty psychiatrist complied in the certifying. After pleas from the exhausted-looking yet compellingly attractive and persuasive daughter not to involve the police, he drove her and mother – huddled together in the back seat – the few miles to Springwell. The relieved-looking daughter hugged him – ah, the promise of that moment – but insisted on getting a taxi home.

  “Damn!” A sharp familiar pain as the fag end singed the tips of forefinger and thumb. He re-opened the packet. Two fags. Better stock up soon as possible.

  To get to the remaining call-out, he’d navigated the country roads speedily as he dared. He arrived outside a Georgian mansion
to see an unconscious youth on a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance and an older man and woman climbing in.

  He could still hear the ambulance-man yelling. “Casualty. Lad’s lost gallons o’ blood. Ran through glass. His folks are goin’ too.”

  Following the blue-light-flashing ambulance on a five-minute drive to Casualty at the Infirmary, he had a thought. If he’d been there earlier, could he have prevented this? He rehearsed an explanation to the parents. At the Infirmary, he’d found them sitting in the waiting-room, looking stunned.

  “Sam Newman, Mental Health.” He flashed his card.

  “We’re Mark’s parents,” said the mum.

  “Look, I’m sorry –”

  “Spare us the drivel. What can you do to help our son?” The dad got up from the chair. A beer-bellied giant, eyes popping – in his face and ready for a punch-up.

  “Cecil, tell the man what happened.” From the mum, a command.

  “Yes, it would help us find out what’s wrong with your son.”

  The dad stepped back and puffed out his red cheeks. “In the night I heard thuds and shot downstairs. Our boy – he’s seventeen – stood there in his pyjamas, with books all over the floor. I asked him what he was playing at, and he shouted ‘the voice told me’. He was staring, like into outer space. Then he flung himself into an armchair and just lay there, in a funny position, with his eyes staring.”

  “Has he behaved like this before?” asked Newman.

  The dad ignored the question. “I bawled at him, but couldn’t get an answer. It was like I wasn’t there. I got desperate, rang our GP – he’s a personal friend – and he promised to send help right away.” The dad paused, drawing breath. “I went back and Mark was still in that same damn position. Bloody weird. Mother came down and tried talking…”

  “It was as if Mark had frozen into a statue,” said the mum. “We didn’t know what to do. We sat watching, and waiting for help.” Her eyes were moist.

  “In the end I grabbed his arm to get sense out of him. And…” The dad’s voice was breaking.