I Looked Away, page 18
ECT is frowned upon now, and even back then many professionals had stopped using it. But this was a private institution, and the people who ran it were a law unto themselves.
We were in a different part of the San. This part looked like an operating theatre, just like the one in Angels, which I used to watch on television with Grandma Greenway long before Michael changed everything. The walls around me didn’t have any pictures. There was a light blaring down on me. I was lying on a raised bed. A man in a white coat who said he was an anaesthetist was there, and also Cornelius.
One of the nurses was holding my left hand. Another, my right. There were straps across my chest to restrain me. I could feel something on my head too, rather like a helmet. There was no way I could make a dash for it.
‘Start counting backwards,’ said Cornelius. ‘Ten, nine, eight …’
When I opened my eyes, I thought for a minute that I was back in my old bedroom with its pretty blue-and-pink-flowered curtains and the bed that my brother Michael liked to jump on.
‘Ellie? Can you hear me?’
My father! He’d come to get me out of bed for school. Afterwards, we might go to the park. Michael would want a swing. ‘Push me, Ellie. Push! Higher! Higher!’
‘Ellie?’
This didn’t sound like my father’s voice, I realized. It was much deeper. And he couldn’t be getting me out of bed for school because I was at boarding school, wasn’t I? Maybe there’d be a letter from Peter in my pigeonhole and a drawing from Michael with a big red crayon cross for a kiss at the bottom.
‘How do you feel, Ellie?’
A man was looking down at me. His piercing blue eyes seemed familiar but I couldn’t quite place him.
‘What’s my name, Ellie?’
I tried very hard but I just couldn’t remember. Saliva was drooling down my mouth. It felt wet and nasty.
‘Do you know where you are?’
I started at the white walls and the lights. It didn’t look like boarding school after all.
Suddenly I felt sick. I retched violently into a bowl that someone was holding out for me. And then I fell asleep again.
The experience was repeated several times. It must have gone on for months because when we began, there were leaves on the trees outside. When it finally finished, the branches were bare. But it’s hard to be specific, because the ‘treatment’, as they called it, affected my short-term memory. I was also very tired. No longer did I struggle when they said it was time for ‘another session’. I allowed them to strap me to the bed. I just didn’t have the energy to fight back.
I even began eating again, opening my mouth obediently when one of the nurses spoon-fed me porridge. ‘Good girl,’ they’d say when I started to do it myself. Before long, my waistbands got tight and my cheeks grew puffy.
I stopped trying to hurt myself too. In fact, I couldn’t remember why I’d begun to do it in the first place. When it was family visiting day, I no longer hit my head on the wall simply because no one had come to see me. Instead, I helped to hand round little sponge cakes with a fixed smile. ‘How very kind,’ gushed one of the mothers.
It made me feel good.
Then I heard her whisper something. ‘I’ve read about her, I think. Isn’t she the girl who …’
I didn’t hear the rest. But it didn’t matter. I was happy here.
One of the other good things about the ECT was that they stopped asking me what had happened that day. In fact, I couldn’t really remember it myself any more. It became like a black hole in my mind. Erased like the drawings I screwed up in art class even though the teacher told me they were good.
It was spring when I began to start proper lessons. There weren’t many of us. Not everyone was ‘able’ to reach this stage.
‘You’ve done very well,’ Cornelius told me.
My desk was near a boy of about my age who kept passing me notes. They always had the same five words.
I want to fuck you.
I felt sick. Hot. Then cold. What if he came into my room at night? Our doors were locked but supposing he got through the window?
So I took the note to Cornelius and the boy no longer attended my classes.
‘He’s been moved somewhere else,’ I was told.
Good. The last thing I wanted was to get pregnant and be responsible for a child. What if I hurt it by mistake? Mind you, I hadn’t had periods since the accident, and the one thing I did remember from reproduction at school was that you needed them to have a baby.
The days came and went. It was hard to keep track of time. But I was – or so I was told – making good progress. I no longer needed ECT. Instead, I was on a cocktail of different-coloured pills and attended daily therapy sessions. I was also doing well in my lessons and won a silver fountain pen as a prize for being the ‘most promising’ student.
When I’d first come here, I might have used it to cut myself. But now I couldn’t wait to write my next essay with it. The teacher said I showed ‘exceptional talent’, especially in English. There were, apparently, special circumstances in which universities would accept ‘people like me’. I just had to work very, very hard.
Cornelius said we would have to ‘wait and see’ how I got on. But Julia was more encouraging.
‘You can do this,’ she said. ‘It’s your opportunity for a new start.’
Her confidence gave me an excited thrill. When the others were glued to the television in the lounge, I stayed in my room, studying. Sometimes I’d feel a small fragment from the day of the incident floating into my head while I was working. But then I would let it float right out again, just as they’d told me to.
I did so well that they moved me to a different part of the building. There weren’t any bars on the window any more. I could have just opened them and run away. But I didn’t want to. We also had what were called ‘group sessions’, when we talked about how we felt.
‘Happy,’ I always said when it was my turn.
‘Do you want to hurt yourself?’
I frowned. ‘Why would I?’
On my eighteenth birthday I was allowed to have a mirror in my room. Glass was no longer considered a safety risk for me. I looked more like my old self. Was that good or bad? I wasn’t sure.
I joined in the singing sessions, although sometimes I had to mime the words – any line that included ‘mother’, ‘father’ or ‘brother’ made me sick inside, even though I took care not to get upset in case they made me have the ECT treatment again. When I was allowed into town I tried to disguise from my carer the fact that I avoided the pavement cracks. I concentrated really hard on my studies and passed three A levels. I was the first one at Highbridge ever to do that.
Soon I was packing my bags. I was going to university to do a degree in English Literature.
And to meet a man who would change the course of my life.
34
Jo
It’s still black outside. I heard someone in the pub last night saying it wouldn’t be long until the clocks changed. A seagull screams overhead. Makes me jump. There’s one now, fighting with a pizza packet on the pavement. A crust is hanging out of its mouth and the creature eyes me triumphantly. ‘This is mine,’ the look says.
Just as well I’m not hungry. After last night’s dinner, my stomach is still fit to burst. My plastic bags – one in each hand – are heavier too, thanks to the two rolls of posh bog paper I took with me from the hotel room.
I walk along the harbour, watching a fisherman getting his boat ready. He nods at me and then goes back to wiping down the sides. I remember the fun Tim and I had in the sea. I get a twinge of guilt.
‘Don’t get soft,’ I tell myself. ‘Get a move on.’ I glance behind me. No one. I realize that when Tim was with me, I wasn’t so scared, constantly on the lookout for danger. But all my old fears are crowding back.
I’m walking down a narrow cobbled street now. The tall, thin houses are painted in blues and pinks. What I’d give to live in one of them. The curtains are closed. Some have shutters, firmly secured to keep the likes of me away. I pass a shop selling paintings. There’s one in the window of kids running along a beach, laughing like everything is happy in the world.
I stare at the price. Two thousand quid. Bloody hell! This world is crazy.
I’m at the end of the village, and there’s a big road ahead with no proper pavement. A car goes past, scarily fast. The bastard almost hits me. I could still be in that warm safe hotel room if I’d stayed put. When was the last time I’d fallen on my feet like that? Had I been a bloody idiot to leave it behind?
That reminds me. The envelope. I take it out and count again.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty … fifty quid. There’s a message I hadn’t noticed before, with pretty writing. Hope this will help for a bit.
My eyes feel wet. What the hell are you doing crying? I think to myself. This is your lucky day. I stifle the feeling of guilt.
Behind me there’s the sound of an engine. It’s not a car this time. It’s a bus. I put out my hand, expecting it to go past because I’m not at a proper stop. But it pulls up.
‘Get on, love,’ says the driver. He has a friendly burr to this voice. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Tintagel.’
For some reason, the name jumps out of my mouth. I’d seen it on a leaflet in the pub last night when the American couple were talking about places they wanted to visit. There had been this picture of a steep path leading up to some old ruins and another of caves.
‘Going a long way, aren’t you?’ says the driver. ‘You’ll need to change a few times to get there. But I can put you right when we get to the depot. Single or return?’
Lives like mine are a one-way ticket. ‘Single.’ I hand him one of the tenners.
‘Got a fiver instead?’
If I was still in my old stuff with grime on my face, I bet he’d have been less friendly. But it’s amazing what a set of new clothes and a clean body can do. I try to make my voice sound a bit posher too to go with it.
‘Sorry,’ I shrug. ‘Just been to the cashpoint. They didn’t do anything smaller.’
He makes an ‘I know what you mean’ expression and then gives me the change. I go to the back of the bus and count it carefully. I mustn’t trust anyone.
Especially not myself.
1.30 p.m., 17 August 1984
The Daniels live in an enormous house with wisteria climbing up the front and a massive gravel drive where other cars are also parked. It looks like we’re not the only ones to be delayed by the traffic, as others are still arriving. ‘You go in while I find a space,’ says my father to us all.
I spot Peter immediately as we go inside. We both flush. He’s taller than I remembered and is wearing fashionable skinny jeans. I feel horribly self-conscious about my too-tight dress. Peter, I notice, has also grown a proper moustache since I’d last seen him. It’s a bit wispy but it makes him look like a man. I begin to feel even more nervous.
His mother gives me a warm hug. It reminds me of the days when she and my mother would take Peter and me out on picnics in the summer before she became ill. ‘Lovely to see you again, dear. How is boarding school? I know Peter’s missed you. He only came along today because you were going to be here.’
Peter goes a deep red and shuffles from one foot to the other, throwing me a ‘Sorry my mother is so embarrassing’ glance. It makes me feel a lot better. I’m not the only one with nerves.
Meanwhile, Sheila has taken one look at Peter’s mother and, recognizing her as one of my mother’s old friends, walks on, her head held high. How rude. It makes me hate her even more.
‘I can’t wait to spend some time with you,’ whispers Peter.
I can’t believe it. Perhaps he really does like me!
But Sheila has already ruined it. ‘I’ve got to look after my brother,’ I say, glancing down at Michael, who’s clinging to my dress.
He looks disappointed. ‘OK. You’d better bring him along too, then.’
35
Ellie
His name was Roger. He was thirty-four. Young enough to be mistaken sometimes for a student but old enough to be my tutor.
I’d chosen Reading University. It was what was known as a ‘red-brick university’. It wasn’t ancient like Durham but it didn’t have the stark modern architectural features of, say, York. I had visited them all but chose Reading because it felt safe with its pretty green campus. I liked walking. Highbridge had had beautiful grounds. In the last two years, I’d been allowed to wander round them on my own. They helped me feel I was free.
I’d fallen in love with a particular hall of residence which I’d spotted in the university prospectus. It looked just like an Oxford college with its beautiful leaded windows and entrance arch – and, as it turned out, the building had indeed once been owned by that prestigious university.
The only drawback was that I had to share my large Victorian bedroom with another girl. I’d hoped for a room of my own for privacy’s sake. She was from Newcastle and I found it hard to understand her accent. When she said ‘bath’, she pronounced the ‘a’ like ‘a’ in ‘apple’. But at the same time, the place was warm and chummy. My roommate played lots of songs by a band called The Pet Shop Boys – she was amazed I hadn’t heard of them before but I could hardly tell her about Highbridge, where popular music wasn’t big on the agenda. She was very friendly. Too much so. I often had to deflect her questions about my home life or lie, and then hoped I would remember exactly what I’d said. Instead of going out with her crowd I threw myself into my studies again.
Victorian literature was my favourite subject. The lecturer was called Roger. He didn’t know about my past. Cornelius and Julia, who had helped me fill in my admissions form, had explained that certain staff at the university needed to be aware of my ‘background’. But they also promised that this was confidential. It would be a clean start.
‘Forgive me,’ Roger said in one of our private tutorials when we were halfway through the first term. ‘But I can’t help feeling that you would have been a perfect extra Brontë sister.’
I wasn’t sure how to take his words. Was he commenting on my writing?
‘Well, I’m certainly not Branwell,’ I said quickly. I wasn’t trying to be smart. I just wasn’t sure what to say and that was the first thing that came out.
But Roger seemed impressed with my reply. ‘That’s very true.’
Then he inhaled his pipe and leaned back in his chair before blowing out the smoke in small puffs. I liked the smell. And I enjoyed the fact that he looked quite comfortable in my presence. I wasn’t used to that. At Highbridge, the staff had pretended we were ‘normal’ but I knew they didn’t think so underneath. It was as though they were always on the lookout for one of us freaking out again or doing something crazy.
‘Ah, Branwell,’ Roger repeated, bringing me back to the present. ‘Now there’s a character. He couldn’t have been easy to live with. How do you think he affected Emily’s writing?’
‘Perhaps she wrote to shut him out of her head,’ I shot back. The craft sessions at Highbridge had helped me do that. Concentrating on small things helped you forget the big ones. Thinking about it made me edgy, hence my sharp reply. But Roger didn’t seem perturbed.
‘Do you think so?’ He frowned but not in a disapproving manner; more as if he was interested in my point.
‘Perhaps.’ Swiftly I changed the subject. ‘Have you been here long?’
He turned to face me. Instantly, I wondered if I’d been too familiar. But I wanted to stop him from prying into my own circumstances like my roommate was always doing.
‘No.’ He blew out another curl of smoke. ‘I’m new. Like you.’
Then he looked as though he was going to say something but stopped. ‘For your next essay, I’d like you to discuss whether Mary Ann Evans would have been equally famous if she had written under her real name.’
Goosebumps broke out all over me. I’d insisted on legally changing my surname when applying for university. I was scared someone might recognize it from the newspapers. Cornelius had advised against my decision, declaring that part of my recovery process was to ‘own’ what had happened. But I’d turned eighteen by then and was entitled to do what I wanted. Mary Ann Evans had been thirty-seven when she adopted the nom-de-plume George Eliot.
‘Fine,’ I said, gathering my books.
Normally I would go straight to the library after a tutorial, but our conversation had unsettled me so I caught the bus into Reading instead. It was still a novelty to be able to do this. In the last year at Highbridge, those of us who were preparing to leave had been allowed to visit the local town on our own. But it was much smaller than Reading and, as I now made my way to the shopping centre, I started to feel closed in. Squashed. Threatened. One woman glared at me for treading on her toes. Her angry eyes reminded me of Sheila’s. Her hand raised to my face on that final day …
Shaking, I headed for a small coffee shop, where I concentrated on my breathing – a technique that Julia had taught me. ‘Inhale from the bottom of your solar plexus. Hold for a count of seven. Breathe out for two. Hold for a count of five. Breathe out fully.’
I was doing fine until my eyes fell on a copy of the Daily Mail that the previous occupant of my table must have left behind.
The headlines leapt out at me. FAMILY WIPED OUT IN HORROR CRASH BY TEENAGE DRUNK DRIVER.
The bitter taste of bile rose into my mouth. I pushed the paper away. But the photographs of the victims still grinned out at me in my head. I stood up to go – luckily I hadn’t ordered – but as I did so, I spotted a familiar figure coming in. I put my head down, hoping Roger hadn’t seen me, but it was too late.
‘Ellie,’ he said warmly. ‘Twice in one day. What a pleasure.’
I presumed he was just being polite. I knew nothing of flirting in those days.
