not being able to do anything. She seems so angry all the time and, yet, I don’t know what about. But I keep making the effort because, essentially, I miss her.
I call her as I’m walking home from the Tube. I’m thinking, perhaps the whereabouts of the ashes is something we can bond over, at least.
She picks up after two rings,
‘So, can you believe it, Lee, they’ve lost our mother’s ashes?’ I said. ‘They’re still not on the mantelpiece. I reckon Denise is behind it.’
‘Oh, really?’ She was driving, and on the hands-free, but still, she sounded distracted, unfussed. ‘Could we chat about this later? I’m trying to get home at the mo, kids going mad in the back …’
I couldn’t hear any kids, which was odd. Also, it wasn’t like Leah not to be outraged with Denise, which is her default setting at the best of times. ‘I’m seeing you soon, aren’t I? We can talk about it then.’ Then she said she had to go.
Nobody talks about how Leah had a massive go at Denise in front of everyone at the funeral. It made no sense at all. Denise and mum were friends from the badminton club, so she had every right to be there. Nothing was going on between her and Dad at that point, and yet Leah just laid into her, shouting, ‘Jump in your own grave so fast, would you?’ God, it was like a scene from Eastenders and Leah and Dad have never really talked since, and us three girls don’t talk about Mum much either, because of what happened, which I find really sad.
I arrived home, having made Leah, before she hung up, promise on her life that we’d discuss the ashes when I next went round. Then I made myself some soup and settled down to watch re-runs of some seventies sitcom … I felt calmer now the hangover had subsided and I was back in my own space. I felt like what had happened in Kilterdale was a dream; that it had happened to somebody else, in another life.
Then, the next day, Joe sent me an email: distinctly flirtatious and with a photo of me that made me actually gasp. I knew I couldn’t do this with Joe. I had to nip it in the bud.
4 April 2013
From: [email protected]
Dear Joe, thanks for your email. I particularly enjoyed the picture of me wielding the bottle of JD and Miss No Knickers – just how one should behave at a funeral.
I’ve been thinking of you often. I found those days following my mum’s funeral really tough, so I hope you’re taking it easy and being extra nice to yourself. Did you manage to watch a good horror? I recommend it. I found it to be a bit of escapism, if any escapism is possible at the moment.
Joe, I want to apologize. As wonderful as it was to see you, I shouldn’t have got so carried away and drunk. (It was your mother’s funeral, for God’s sake!) You’ve no doubt got all sorts of emotions going on at the moment and me just unleashing myself on you like that can’t have helped. So, I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me. We can never talk of this again, and be friends. It’s so great to be back in touch. Call me any time. R xxx
‘Right, Kingy, do you want to come in?’
Just as I often thank the lord for London and its ability to swallow me up and allow me to disappear, so I am thankful for my job. After my eventful weekend, I didn’t have a chance to stew in a pit of self-loathing, because immediately I got to work, Jeremy called me into his office.
He wanted to talk to me about Grace Bird, a forty-one-year-old woman about to be discharged from hospital, who had specifically requested me as her CPN. I felt rather special, especially since, apparently, she’d based her decision on watching me with other patients at Kingfisher House Psychiatric Unit, where she’d spent the last two months. I also knew this irked Jeremy, because Jeremy is the sort of man who can even make providing mental-health services a competition.
He gestured to the only spare seat in his office, one of those low chairs, the colour of Dijon mustard, with wooden arm rests mental-health services are full of them – and shut the door. ‘So, shall we talk Grace Bird?’ he said. The office smelt of a mixture of the egg sandwich he was eating and TCP. He gargled with it every morning, with his door wide open. ‘How are we feeling about meeting her?’
I felt like Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs, being prepped before meeting Hannibal Lecter, the way he was going on. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a word with me about the infamous Grace.
‘Um, fine, I think,’ I said. Grace had schizophrenia, and a history of hearing persecutory voices. ‘I’ve read Grace’s case notes and chatted to people. I’m looking forward to meeting her. I think we’ll get on.’
Jeremy nodded and excavated a bit of egg sandwich from his back molar.
‘You know, she has got a challenging background, although nothing out of the ordinary: years of sexual abuse by her stepfather sent her over the edge – nasty piece of work by all accounts, he was. She was brought up in a hotel, and the stepfather was the manager, apparently. Used to abuse her in the guest bedrooms.’ He made a face, as if he was describing a disgusting meal he’d had.
‘Horrible,’ I said. Jeremy was harmless and also quite passionate about his job in his own (his very own) way. But there was sometimes a salacious tone in his voice, when he talked about patients, that didn’t sit well with me, like he enjoyed the drama.
‘You do know she’s had three CPNs beforehand who she’s not got on with?’ he said (you had to love his management style – so encouraging).
‘Yes. I think I did know that.’
‘Although, she’s particularly requested a woman this time, so, you know, you might be okay.’
He told me how he’d been Grace’s CPN for years; that they went back to the year 2003, when she had her breakdown and came into the system.
‘Oh, so you know her well, then?’ I said.
‘Yes. And I can tell you, she has a very definite cycle.’
I laughed. ‘A cycle? That makes her sound like a washing machine.’
He frowned, a bit affronted.
‘What I meant was, if you would just let me finish, is that she runs like clockwork. She has …’ He paused, belching quietly into his hand. ‘And no, I won’t make any apologies for this, ’cause it’s true. She has a very definite “cycle” of behaviour.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘So what does this cycle consist of?’
‘Well, she has an episode every May, without fail, like we’ve just seen now, when she’s generally found wandering the streets at night, starts hearing voices, saying people have broken into her flat at night. Then June, we’re not usually too bad, but come August and we’re downhill again. Always mid-August. Always the same time.’
‘Is she not on a CTO this time?’ I asked. It would make sense after so many admissions. A Community Treatment Order meant she’d have to sign a form to say she’d come into hospital for an injection, because she couldn’t be relied upon to take her medication herself.
‘I don’t know,’ Jeremy said, a bit defensively, like I was trying to get one up on him, which
