8

We took pills after breakfast and pills after dinner and pills after tea, blue pills and white pills and green pills and yellow pills and red pills and many permutations of parti-coloured pills. I took blue pills. I had just taken my after-dinner dose when a young male nurse came into the ward and called out, ‘There’s a visitor for Mr Clark.’

I got up.

It was Shirley.

My sister looked as though she was frightened at being in a mental hospital. Perhaps she thought that a lunatic might rush out on her. But when she saw me she seemed reassured.

She was very like me. In heels she was as tall as I was, but if we were both wearing heels, I would be the taller. I was five foot seven. When I had had the chance to wear her clothes they had fitted me, except that I had not been able to wear her shoes since I was about fifteen.

Her hair was the same colour as mine, between fair and brown.

She was wearing a dark grey suit and looking smart. Besides her black handbag she carried a shopping bag of yellow leather.

‘I’ve just come to see how you are. I didn’t know you were in hospital till last week. I went round to see Dad, and he told me. I couldn’t come before today. I had to get the woman next door to look after Gwen. I didn’t want to bring her with me. Dad says you’ve been in here about ten weeks. I didn’t know anything about it till last week. Dad didn’t say whether he’d been to see you or not.’

‘No, he hasn’t been.’ I thought, If Shirley were in hospital my father would visit her every week.

‘He’s been too busy, I should think,’ she said.

‘Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, he sends me money.’

‘That’s good. And are you getting any better?’

‘I’m all right. It’s very nice here.’

‘I’ve brought some things for you.’ She opened the leather carrier bag. She gave me three large bars of chocolate and two paper-backed novels.

I thanked her. I took the things and put them in my locker. Then I introduced her to Jim.

They shook hands.

Jim was nervous. ‘I didn’t know Roy had a sister. He’s a very quiet lad.’ He grinned foolishly.

I said, ‘Would you like to go to the cafeteria, Shirley? We can get a cup of tea.’

The cafeteria had pale green walls. It was in the centre of the hospital, between the male and the female wings. I thought that the room must once have been a large store-room, for there were no windows. Neon lights shone all day. It was like a railway station buffet. Patients sat at small tables drinking tea or coffee out of coloured plastic cups.

Shirley said that the cafeteria was very nice. Then she said, ‘Dad’s very well. He was cutting fish when I was there. He can cut as fast as ever.’

To me it seemed strange that, though Shirley had married an architect and left the fish-and-chip shop, there was never any stiffness between her and our father. I lived with him and worked with him, but I was never as close to him as she was when she came to see him. It was not easy for me to under­stand how she could come from middle-class Cottingham to the part of Hull where we lived and not have any difficulty in talking to our father.

I supposed I was a snob.

She said, ‘You must get yourself a better job, Roy. I said so to Dad, and he agreed. He said that when you get better you can go back to working for him if you want to, but he agreed with me that you ought to try to get something better.’

‘I thought that he wanted me to work for him,’ I said with pretended sulkiness. ‘That’s why I had to leave school.’

‘That was a mistake, Roy. But it’s no use worrying about what’s past. You’re still a boy, you’ve got your whole life to make. You can study. You’re clever. If you set out to do it, you could get yourself to a university even now.’

‘It’s no use. I’m a lunatic.’

‘Of course you’re not a lunatic. Lots of people have psycho­logical trouble. You’ve got your whole life before you. You’ll get over this. What you did wasn’t so shocking.’

‘Did Dad tell you about it?’

‘Yes, he told me.’

‘All about it?’

‘Yes.’

‘About his hitting me?’

‘Yes. He said he couldn’t help it. He said he was sorry that he did it. You must try to understand how he felt, Roy. He was brought up in a hard world.’

‘Did he tell you about what I did?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I thought that you had been very foolish. But I did think that you must have been under some kind of strain and had a breakdown. I suppose it just came over you. It isn’t unusual for a young person to have trouble of that kind.’

I said, ‘Do you mind if we go for a walk outside? I’m feeling a bit sick all of a sudden.’

Behind the hospital there was a rose garden with gravel paths and rose beds enclosed by grass verges. The red and white roses climbed on rustic frames. Here and there along the paths there were park benches. The roses were well trained and the grass verges were closely shaved and cleanly edged. It was a place for visitors to see. The less reliable patients were kept out, lest they pick the roses or lie down on the grass. It was a formal garden for formal people.

Shirley said that the garden was very nice. She asked me if I was feeling any better. I said that I was. We sat down on a bench.

‘Don’t you think you ought to get yourself a better job?’ she asked in a tone that made the question mean that she was convinced that it was my duty to find myself better employ­ment.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘Of course Dad had the idea that you’d take over the shop after him. But I think that he understands now that that wouldn’t really suit you. There’s a good living to be made out of fish-and-chips, but I don’t think that you ought to spend your life in the shop. I think that the cause of your trouble is lack of opportunity for self-expression. You’re too much shut in on yourself. Don’t you think that might be the case, Roy?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Working with your father is all right, but you don’t meet anybody. And you’re very different from Dad.’

‘I don’t punch people in the face.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘It’s true.’

‘You mustn’t feel bitter against your father. He lost his temper. It’s not easy for people of his generation to understand things. You must realise that some people are very afraid of anything that might seem abnormal. He was very upset. After all, it could have been worse. If that woman had gone to the police. . . .’

I did not say anything.

‘What’s the food like here?’ she asked.

‘Not too bad. It’s all rather heavy stuff. I think they want to fatten us up so that we look well-cared-for.’

‘What treatment are you having?’

‘Pills.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I go to see Dr Strickland sometimes.’

‘Is that doing any good?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must have some idea.’

‘I don’t think it’s doing anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s not possible for it to do anything.’

‘You mustn’t talk like that. I understood that they could cure trouble like yours quite easily. If you cooperate, they’ll be able to help you.’

‘I don’t really want to cooperate.’

‘Why not?’

‘I want what I want, not something else.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I want what I want, not what other people think I ought to want.’

‘But you have to behave reasonably.’

‘Why?’

‘We all have to behave reasonably.’

‘Nobody behaves reasonably.’

‘Of course they do.’

‘Of course they don’t. If everybody behaved reasonably, every­thing would stop.’

‘That’s just talk, Roy.’

She had always been able to dismiss my arguments before they were developed.

She went on, ‘Of course you should never have left the grammar school when you did. It was bound to upset you. But you know, Roy, you could still catch up. There’s that money Mother left you. You’ll soon be twenty-one, and then you can use the money to do some private studies. I’m sure that Bill would help you in any way he could. With the interest that’s built up, you should get well over five hundred pounds. You can do quite a lot with five hundred pounds.’

‘It would cost nearer five thousand pounds.’

‘What would?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It sounds a very expensive nothing.’

‘It is. It’s a very expensive nothing.’

‘Well, I think that five hundred pounds spent on your educa­tion would do more good than five thousand pounds spent on nothing.’

‘You think I ought to be like Bill.’

‘No, you don’t have to be like Bill.’

‘You think I ought to be like Bill and smoke a pipe.’

‘You don’t have to be like Bill—and you certainly don’t have to smoke a pipe.’

‘Thank you for that.’

‘I don’t understand you, Roy. What have you got against Bill?’

‘Nothing. I like him. But I don’t want to be like him.’

‘You don’t have to be.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Am I upsetting you?’ she asked.

‘No. I’m sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me.’

We did not speak for a while. Somewhere around the male side of the hospital a motor mower was droning about its business.

I said, ‘They’re always cutting the grass here.’

‘They keep it very nice.’

We sat without speaking again.

I said, ‘Does Bill enjoy smoking his pipe?’

She was surprised by the question. She smiled. ‘Yes, I think he does. Why? Are you thinking of getting one?’

‘No. I just wondered if he enjoyed it.’

‘He seems to.’

‘Perhaps he only pretends to enjoy it.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘Because he thinks he ought to enjoy smoking a pipe.’

‘Instead of cigarettes, you mean?’

‘No, because he thinks it’s the moral thing to do.’

‘You’re being silly, Roy.’

‘Then I’m in the right place.’

‘I didn’t mean anything like that.’

I said, ‘Were you upset when Dad told you what I’d done?’

‘Naturally I was upset.’

‘Didn’t you know I was like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like that.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Didn’t you know I was mad?’

‘You’re not mad.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘No, you’re not, Roy.’

‘I’ve been mad ever since I was little, ever since I can re­member. Do you know what Dr Strickland said to me?’

‘No.’

‘He said, “We are born mad, we grow old and miserable, and then we die.” It was what some German had said.’

‘That doesn’t sound very well calculated to cheer anyone up.’

‘I was born mad.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Yes, I was. I’ve always been the same as I am now. And I don’t see why I should have any desire to grow old and miserable.’

‘We all have to grow old.’

‘But we don’t have to pretend to like it.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I mean that I don’t want to be cured. I want what I want, not what other people think I ought to want.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to be a woman.’

‘That’s just your illness, Roy.’ Her voice was at its most soothing.

‘That’s what other people call it.’

‘That’s what they must call it. Obviously it’s an illness.’

‘But I’ve always wanted to be a girl, ever since I can re­member.’

‘I’m sure you’re mistaken. You haven’t always had that thought. It’s just come on because you’re not very well.’

‘I’ve had that thought ever since I can remember.’

‘But you won’t think like that always. You’ll get over this trouble and you’ll meet someone and fall in love with her.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Don’t you like girls?’

‘Yes—but not like that.’

‘You’re not a homosexual, are you?’

‘No, I’m not. I would never do the horrible things they do. I hate homosexuals. The thought of them makes me feel sick.’

‘Then, if you feel like that, you’ll certainly be cured. It’s just a phase you’re going through. I’m quite sure you don’t want to be one of those revolting creatures that change sex.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true.’

‘It can’t be true. Everyone regards them as a joke. You can’t seriously mean that you want the whole of your life to be a dirty joke?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Well, I care.’

‘I can’t be respectable just for your sake.’

‘There is such a thing as self-respect.’

‘How much self-respect can I have as I am now?’

‘I’m sorry, Roy, but I was rather taken aback. You mustn’t feel too badly about being in a psychiatric hospital. Lots of people have psychological illnesses.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘What did you mean?’

‘I meant that, if I were a woman, I wouldn’t be stealing women’s­ clothes.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Did you know that I used to wear your clothes when you and Dad were out? And I’ve stolen things of yours.’

‘Yes, I knew. I didn’t say anything because I thought it would pass off.’

‘You can never hide things from people. What you mean by self-respect is only trying to hide things.’

‘No, it isn’t. You ought to be able to see your illness as an illness. I don’t believe that people with sexual peculiarities should be punished, but it’s impossible to pretend that they aren’t ill. The trouble is that these things are glamourised nowadays. The cheap Sunday papers get hold of a story, and they make out that somebody who ought to be confined in a place like this has done something wonderful. It’s sick. But, anyway, you’re not like that. You’ll get better. And then you’ll go on and get married and settle down, and you’ll forget all about this nonsense. Because it is nonsense, Roy. . . .’

She went on for some time telling me that it was nonsense. But I was thinking that, all the time she was telling me, she was a woman. I thought how much sweeter her life was than her husband’s. I thought of Bill’s pipe. How harsh and dull his pleasures were, and how tender and bright her pleasures were. As I sat there I could not feel that there was no sense in wanting what I wanted. I thought that every man, in his heart, must wish that he were a woman.

I went with her to the front gate to say goodbye. She said that she would come again.

I knew that she was right in the way that I knew that Dr Strickland was right. But their right was outside of me.

Shirley was sure that the world was as orderly as the rose garden. For her a system of behaviour had brought desired results, and thus she was secure in the illusion that two and two made four outside her head.

I felt that, if I could be a woman, I could believe in the world. I would be part of the world, like Shirley.

When I got back to the ward Jim said, ‘It’s easy to tell you’re brother and sister.’

He was busy setting out the tea things. I helped him.

The hospital lumbered on with me inside it.