The Girl Who Couldn’t Read. John Harding
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to do on mine and I felt embarrassed at the contrast.
‘Yes, sir.’
I found myself smiling in spite of my trepidation at the coming audition, my sodden armpits and the state of my face. It was impossible not to, since he was grinning broadly. His cheerful demeanour lifted my spirits a little; it was so greatly at odds with the gloominess of the building.
Finally releasing my hand, which I was glad of, as his firm grip had made me realise it must have been badly bruised in the accident, he stretched out his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘Well, what do you think, eh?’
I assumed he was referring to the vista outside, so, casting an appraising eye out the window, said, ‘It’s certainly a most pleasant view, sir.’
‘View?’ He dropped his arms and the way they hung limp at his sides seemed to express disappointment. He followed my gaze as if he had only just realised the window was there and then turned back to me. ‘View? Why, it’s nothing to the views we had back in Connecticut, and we never even looked at them.’
I did not know what to make of this except that I had come to a madhouse and that if the inmates should prove insane in any degree relative to the doctors, or at least the head doctor, then they would be lunatics indeed.
‘Wasn’t talking about the view, man,’ he went on. ‘You’re not here to look at views. I mean the whole place. Is it not magnificent?’
I winced at my own stupidity and found myself mumbling in a way that served only to confirm this lack of intelligence. ‘Well, to be honest, sir, I’m but newly arrived and haven’t had an opportunity to look about the place yet.’
He wasn’t listening but instead had extracted a watch from his vest pocket and was staring at it, shaking his head and tutting impatiently. He replaced the watch and looked up at me. ‘What’s that? Not looked round? Let me tell you you’ll find it first class when you do. Adapted to purpose, sir, every modern facility for treating the mentally ill a doctor could wish for. Couldn’t ask for a better place for your practical training, sir. Medical school is all very well but it’s in the field you learn your trade. And believe me, it’s a good trade for a young man to be starting out in. Psychiatry is the coming thing, it is the way—’ He stopped abruptly and stared at me. ‘Good God, man, what on earth has happened to your head?’
I reached a hand up to my temple, my natural inclination being to cover it. I had my story ready. I have always found that the extraordinary lie is the one that is most likely to be believed. ‘It was an accident in the city on my way here, sir. I had an unfortunate encounter with a cabriolet.’
He continued to stare at the bump and I could not help arranging my hair in an attempt to conceal it. Sensing my embarrassment, he dropped his eyes. ‘Well, lucky to get away with just a mild contusion, if you ask me. Might have fractured your cranium.’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s hope it hasn’t damaged your brain. Enough damaged brains around here already.’
He walked back to his desk and picked up a piece of paper. ‘Anyway, looking at your application, I see you have an exceptional degree from the medical school in Columbus. And this is just the place to pick up the clinical experience to go with it. Hmm …’ He looked up from the paper and stared at me quizzically. ‘Twenty-five years old, I see. Would have thought you were much older.’
I felt a sudden panic. Why had I not thought about my age? What a stupid thing to overlook! But at least twenty-five was within the realms of possibility. What if it had been forty-five? Or sixty-five? I would have been finished before I started. I improvised a thin chuckle of my own. It’s a useful skill being able to laugh on demand even when up against it.
‘Ha, well, my mother used to say I was born looking like an old man, and I guess I’ve never had the knack of appearing young. My late father was the same way. Everyone always took him for ten years older than he was.’
He raised an eyebrow and peered again at the paper he was holding. ‘I see too you have some –ah – interesting views on the treatment of mental illness.’ He looked up and stared expectantly at me, a provocative hint of a smile on his lips.
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. The bruise on my forehead began to throb and I imagined it looking horribly livid, like a piece of raw meat. I began to mumble but the words died on my lips. Fool! Why had I not anticipated some sort of cross-examination?
‘Well?’
I pulled myself upright and puffed out my chest. ‘I’m glad you find them so, sir,’ I replied.
‘I was being ironic. I didn’t intend it as a compliment, man!’ He tossed the paper onto the desk. ‘But it doesn’t signify a thing. Forgive me saying so, but your ideas are very out of date. We’ll soon knock them out of you. We do things the modern way here, the scientific way.’
‘I assure you I’m ready to learn,’ I replied and we stood regarding each other a moment, and then, as though suddenly remembering something, he pulled out the watch again.
‘My goodness, is that the time? Come, man, we can’t stand around here gassing all day like a pair of old women; we’re wanted in the treatment area.’
At which he strode past me, opened the door and was through it before I realised what was happening. He moved fast for a small man, bowling along the long corridor like a little terrier in pursuit of a rat.
‘Well, come along, man, get a move on!’ he flung over his shoulder. ‘No time to waste!’
I trotted along after him, finding it difficult to keep up without breaking into a run. ‘May I ask where we’re going, sir?’
He stopped and turned. ‘Didn’t I tell you? No? Hydrotherapy, man, hydrotherapy!’
The word meant nothing to me. All I could think of was hydrophobia, no doubt making an association between the two words because of the place we were in. I followed him through a veritable maze of corridors and passageways, all of them dark and depressing, the walls painted a dull reddish brown, the colour of blood when it has dried on your clothes, and down a flight of stairs that meant we were below ground level, then along a dimly lit passage that finally ended at a metal door upon which he rapped sharply, his fingers ringing against the steel.
‘O’Reilly!’ he yelled. ‘Come along, open up, we don’t have all day.’
As we stood waiting, I was caught sharp by a low moaning sound, like some animal in pain perhaps. It seemed to come from a very long way off.
There was the rasp of a bolt being drawn and we stepped into an immense whiteness that quite dazzled me after the dimness outside. I blinked and saw we were in a huge bathroom. The walls were all white tiles, from which the light from lamps on the walls was reflected and multiplied in strength. Along one wall were a dozen bathtubs, in a row, like beds in a dormitory. A woman in a striped uniform, obviously an attendant, who had opened the door for us and stood holding it, now closed and locked it behind us, using a key on a chain attached to her belt. I realised the moaning noise I had heard was coming from the far end of the room, where two more female attendants, similarly attired to the first, stood over the figure of a woman sitting huddled on the floor between them.
Dr Morgan walked briskly over to the wall at the opposite end of the room, where there was a row of hooks. He removed his jacket and hung it up. ‘Well, come on, man. Take your jacket off,’ he snapped. ‘You don’t want to get it soaked, do you?’
I thought instantly that the armpits were already drenched, but there was nothing for it but to remove it. Luckily Morgan didn’t look at me, although as he turned toward the three figures at the far end of the room, he sniffed the air and pulled a face. I felt my own redden with shame, until I saw he wasn’t even looking at me and probably assumed the stench originated from something in the room.
Rolling up his sleeves, he strode over to the two attendants and their charge, his small feet clicking on the tiled floor. I followed him. The attendants were struggling to make the woman stand up, each tugging at one of her arms. At first I could not see the sitter’s