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  After his sister Abbie’s suicide, Newman rediscovers her unpublished manuscript, forgotten in his loft. Considering publication he decides to write an introduction to the novel, whose main character is Vee, a teacher. Vee was previously in love with Max, a psychiatrist, but the relationship was short-lived. Childhood nightmares about her long-dead Aunt Mary’s mental illness lead Vee to create a “door” in her mind to shut her out. But Aunt Mary’s door is not enough to withstand a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, which ends Vee’s teaching career. Some time later Vee gets a job at Squaremile, a centre for disabled people, but she soon realises that stigma is not just confined to job applications. Once, when she was a teacher, she was believed and trusted. Now, suffering from bipolar disorder, she is doubted and bullied. Vee meets Max again, but this time as his patient. Max is unable to prevent Vee’s suicide, and feels intolerable guilt, in part because of his earlier relationship with her. Max hopes to find answers in Vee’s novel, a copy of which she gave him at their last appointment before her suicide. Max, and his wife Helen, who works at Squaremile, are shocked to read of how Vee and some of the residents there have been treated. They investigate the allegations of bullying and neglect and prepare a report, presenting it at a meeting in the boardroom at Squaremile, attended by the chief executive officer of the centre. The atmosphere is tense, particularly as both Max and Helen have health problems, and because of attempts by Sandra, the chief bully at Squaremile, to sabotage their efforts to unmask her. However, as the story reaches its climax, it is Abbie who will have the last word.

  Born in Henley-on-Thames, Julia Bishop studied languages at Exeter University and qualified as a teacher at Leicester University. Recently she gained an MA in Philosophy with the Open University. This is her first novel.

  In memory of Philip and Paddy.

  Dear friends; I think of you every day.

  Mais les souvenirs cheminent en nous alors que nous croyons les avoir fermement rélégués dans l’oubli.

  JACQUELINE DE ROMILLY

  Copyright © Julia Bishop, 2016.

  Published in The Alpha Press e-Library, 2016.

  THE ALPHA PRESS

  PO Box 139

  Eastbourne BN24 9BP, UK

  and simultaneously in the United States of America and Canada

  All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Applied for.

  ISBN 978-1-898595-70-0 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-898595-71-7 (e-pub)

  ISBN 978-1-898595-72-4 (e-mobi)

  ISBN 978-1-898595-73-1 (e-pdf)

  This e-book text has been prepared for electronic viewing. Some features, including tables and figures, might not display as in the print version, due to electronic conversion limitations and/or copyright strictures.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Cast List of the Chief Characters

  PART ONE: Amen

  1 Newman Explains

  2 A Toe in the Water

  3 Simon

  4 Turning a Page

  5 Questions

  6 Schools

  7 A Mind for Change

  8 Affairs at Lexby

  9 Party and Parting

  10 Arnold College

  11 Falling

  12 Moods

  13 Aftershocks

  14 Squaremile

  15 Porteblanche

  16 Cakes, Sophie and Max

  17 Promotion

  18 Nancy

  19 Trial

  20 New Home

  21 Helen

  22 Anne

  PART TWO: Amends

  23 The Vee Project

  24 Dr Conway

  25 Dick Montgomery

  26 The Girls

  27 The Boardroom (1)

  28 The Boardroom (2)

  29 Anxiety

  30 Abbie’s Confession

  Translation of French Used in the text

  Author’s Note

  While the people, events and most of the places in the novel are fictitious (with at least two obvious exceptions, e.g. Edinburgh and Oxford), I have some real people to thank: Mum, Dad, Nick and Nev (Prof. N. G. Brown) for their constructive criticism, Fiona, Paddy for putting up with different versions and my bad moods, Donna, sorely missed, for her support in difficult times a few years ago, Steve and Claire for reading one draft along the way and Louise for proof reading and valuable comments. Dr Bob Fieldsend gave some useful insights. Finally, I thank Anthony Grahame and all at The Alpha Press for being patient with a novice.

  J. D. BISHOP

  Cast List of the Chief Characters

  The following is not a comprehensive list; it is merely a guide.

  • Main characters in the “real” world:

  Abbie, her brother Newman

  Roy Goodfield, a psychiatrist

  • Others

  Matthew, Newman’s son and his mother Sophie Sonya, Abbie’s Community Psychiatric Nurse (CPN)

  Len, Abbie’s uncle and stepfather

  • Main characters in Abbie’s book Doors Closing:

  Vee, her brother Jim

  Max Greenwood, a psychiatrist and his wife Helen

  Vee’s mother and Uncle Ron

  Sandra, a House Manager at Squaremile

  • Others

  Bella, Vee’s CPN

  Simon, Max’s colleague

  Jack Marshall, Senior Care Officer at Squaremile

  Squaremile’s CEO, Dick Montgomery

  Study me then, you who shall lovers be

  At the next world, that is, at the next spring:

  For I am every dead thing,

  In whom love wrought new alchemy.

  For his art did express

  A quintessence even from nothingness,

  From dull privations, and lean emptiness

  He ruined me, and I am re-begot

  Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

  From JOHN DONNE, A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day

  PART ONE

  Amen

  1

  Newman Explains

  How can a person have dark brown hair and not be aware of this until it starts to turn grey? Abbie was like that – more in tune with what was happening in her mind than with her appearance, or events around her. You might say my sister was a dreamer. But that didn’t stop life from having an effect on her. When I read her book again over Christmas, I realised that if I tried to get it published, as I think Abbie would have liked, it would benefit from an introduction – so here it is.

  Abbie wanted to tell her story. But there are parts of that story which she cannot, in reality, tell for herself. The most obvious of these is describing her own funeral, at the end of September last year.

  My mother, Len and I got out of the first black car. I remember trying to focus on mundane things to avoid the reason everyone was here. Details, distractions, like how cold it was for the time of year; whether I had my gloves with me – even whether I had detected a flake of snow on the breeze. The effort I put into these preoccupations had a single purpose: to keep me ready for my speech.

  Other people were arriving, looking for parking spaces, dressed for paying their respects and for warmth. I greeted a few family members who were waiting to express their sympathy. A short way off, near the chapel, I saw my mot
her march up to a man I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Dr Goodfield?’ she asked. She sounded stressed.

  The man looked uncomfortable, guilty even. He was in his fifties, of average height, with receding grey hair. A slim woman of about the same age stood next to him, holding the collar of her coat together at the neck.

  ‘Yes, I’m Dr Goodfield. Ah, you must be Abbie’s mother.’

  ‘That’s right, I am … ’ Mum was battling tears and anger. Dr Goodfield put his hand across his mouth and bowed his head as if trying to conceal his emotion. Len held Mum’s arm, murmuring something. But she went on, ‘So glad you saw fit to come today. It’s a bit late for my Abbie, though.’

  Turning to Len, she allowed herself to be led away. She was sobbing now, but she needed Len rather than me at the moment. Dr Goodfield. I knew the name … Abbie’s psychiatrist, that was it.

  The hearse pulled up quietly. My sister. I glanced at the coffin. But then I had to focus again on simple things, divert my attention: the footsteps of the people moving towards the chapel, the first wet, brown leaves underfoot, and putting my gloves into the pocket of my overcoat. We took our seats at the front. My speech was in my inside pocket.

  About twenty people had assembled in the chapel. The coffin was brought in, to quiet organ music. Then the priest spoke the usual comforting phrases, his voice coming out of the depths of this dark, old-fashioned building. After the single hymn, there were sombre prayers. Then it was my turn. It seemed to take me a very long time to reach the lectern, in the brittle silence which enveloped me.

  ‘I am Newman, Abbie’s brother.’ I felt a tightening in my throat. ‘Most of you know that already.’ A few moments passed before I could continue, and I was aware that my piece of paper was shaking. ‘A terrible illness, a long struggle, is over.’ I swallowed. ‘Abbie was a very private person. I remember how, when we were children, she would spend hours in her room … ’ I hesitated, then went on, ‘She would spend hours reading, or writing poetry. She used to win competitions!’ I felt this moment of lightness die on my lips. ‘She carried on writing to the end. To finish, I would like to read a poem she wrote a couple of years ago, which is dedicated to her psychiatrist.’ Despite the groan from my mother, and a vague sense of being tactless, I felt I had to finish what I had started. I cleared my throat. ‘It’s called, “The Man in the Office”.

  “It is easy to forget her –

  The nurse by the door – as

  Your shoes are all I can see,

  Your chair in front of mine.

  You cross your legs, waiting, as if

  Time has no meaning. You speak gently, but

  Can’t you hear the crashing waves?

  We are not in the same storm.”’

  Returning to my seat, I felt a sense of relief. All that could be heard for a short while was the creaking of wooden pews and one or two coughs. I could not bring myself to look at my mother, as my own grief was enough. Nor did I pay attention to the priest’s closing words; all I could do was stare at the coffin as the curtains closed, aware as the finality pierced my being.

  Outside, I wanted to catch Dr Goodfield, who was just getting into his car. He looked surprised when I called out to him.

  ‘Thank you for coming, doctor. I hope – ’

  ‘– Roy: call me Roy, please. And this is my wife, Madeleine.’ She was already in the passenger seat, but leant forward to say hello. She had an attractive smile.

  ‘Will we see you at the pub?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’m afraid we’ve got to get back.’ He looked anxious.

  ‘Ah, I see.’ I hesitated. ‘Roy, can I come and see you, to … talk about things?’ Seeing his pallor, I added, ‘Please don’t think I blame you. I mean, I’m not angry.’

  He seemed to respond to this reassurance. ‘Well, yes. If you want to talk. I mean, yes, of course.’ He fumbled for his wallet. ‘Here’s my card. Oh, actually – I’ve got something of Abbie’s you should have, so it would be a good idea to meet. Give me a call when you’re ready.’

  I turned, with the intention of going to comfort my mother, but everyone had gone.

  I have always hated going up in the attic. I don’t like spending any length of time in the same room as cobwebs and seldom used things. On this occasion, I wanted to find some old photographs as well as getting the Christmas decorations down, aiming to grab everything and leave without delay.

  I found the boxes I was looking for, and handed them through the hatch to Matthew. Then I noticed that lying on top of the last one was something else: the book Abbie had written, in a thick brown folder, already dusty. I was ashamed to realise that I had forgotten all about it. Crouching under the lamp, I flicked through the typescript, noticing several crossings-out and handwritten changes. I suddenly remembered the day she had given me the book to read, back at the start of the summer, and how I had skimmed through it without really understanding. I should try again now, I thought. Her death had changed things.

  In the dim light, I noticed Abbie’s original title: Doors Closing which, when I thought for a moment, I realised was the voice of the hospital lifts.

  ‘Come on Dad! There’s still one more lot of stuff to come yet!’ Matthew was still waiting. ‘And did you find the photos?’

  If I was aiming for publication on Abbie’s behalf, a less depressing, more positive title would have to be found. I would give it some thought. As I passed the last box down to Matthew and took the folder with me, I knew that questions were about to be asked. I was right.

  ‘Dad, are you ever going to tell me about Auntie Abbie? I mean, I think I’m old enough to understand. I know what happened to Mum, so can it be any worse than that?’

  We sat in the lounge. Matthew began opening the boxes and stretched out a length of tinsel.

  ‘Yes, I think you probably are old enough, and I do intend to tell you – I hadn’t forgotten, son. It’s just that I don’t really know the whole story myself yet.’

  ‘What, even after all this time?’

  ‘Well, she only died a few months ago; I’m still finding things out.’

  ‘Is that hers, that folder you’re holding?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I look at it?’ Matthew came towards me.

  My son deserved a proper explanation, but not right then. And it was not going to be straightforward.

  ‘As soon as I have the full picture, I’ll tell you all about her. Then you can look at this. But I’ve got one or two photos of her. Will that do for now?’

  I was used to making this kind of “when-should-he-be-allowed-to” decision on my own, since his mother’s death when Matthew was only three. He seemed satisfied with my conditions and studied the photos.

  An introduction should set the scene and explain a few things. In her book, Abbie has two aims. Firstly, she wants to tell her story, which she felt unable to express in any other way. And it needed to be expressed, in order to render it less threatening to Abbie herself. Talking about her illness was difficult for her, as I know first hand. While I accept that it wasn’t like discussing what to wear, she seemed to think that talking somehow tended to invite criticism and prejudice.

  So instead of talking, she wrote; in this way, she avoided an immediate challenge. It gave her the chance to put down the facts and the chance to be believed. Being believed and being accepted were vital. Not being believed or accepted made her feel suffocated. I don’t know what that feels like.

  Once the thoughts, the experiences were liberated by being written down, they might reach others as well. By doing this, she could both convey her story and correct any assumptions we might have made. It was just sad she had to die first.

  Her second aim is to expose and deal with an injustice which affected her profoundly. I am no philosopher or psychologist, but I know perfectly well that our experiences change us, even if we want to forget the bad times. I know that especially from losing my wife. At the same time, I admit to having had great difficulty in understa
nding both the nature and the effects of my sister’s illness, which may have meant that I was sometimes less than sympathetic. I couldn’t accept that the thing would keep coming back, so I couldn’t understand why Abbie didn’t just go out and find a new job, when she was fit and well. Why wasn’t she making any effort? It wasn’t her usual approach to a challenge. I was keen to get her to justify her behaviour. She mentioned “stigma”, and having “a history”, but I thought she was looking for excuses, even making the most of it.

  But then what do I know? If it wasn’t that bad, why did Abbie kill herself? She’s not here any more to explain things to me, but her death has rendered my assumptions, my irritation, trivial. There is a tendency for people to be less sympathetic towards those they are close to. I come up against that every day at work. It must be because emotional attachment brings with it a kind of “expectation of competence”. And that works both ways.

  If I have learnt anything from Abbie’s death, it is that, family or not, if we deride or punish, then we are just as much to blame as this destructive illness. While it might seem to have a mind of its own, an illness, however, has neither mercy nor conscience.

  It was one of those bright, cold January days when the wind parts your hair in unexpected places. I was no stranger to the hospital because of my work, but as I was early for my appointment with Roy Goodfield, I stood looking down over Howcester, its grey and red buildings strewn across the valley.

  The steep hospital road was lined with short bushes which strained in the wind. It was not long before I decided to go indoors. This building, the Porteblanche Unit, was the newest part of the hospital and a marvel of architectural design. Outside the main entrance the hard standing was protected by a roof extension for people arriving in bad weather. The automatic doors opened on to a spacious reception area, which had been refurbished since my last visit, with comfortable chairs, small tables, posters and racks of leaflets on the walls. About half a dozen people were waiting. At the far end, to the right, was the desk, sealed like a bank window.