Barbara Vine - The Minotaur

‘They are very expensive, you know. They can't just be written off like that.’

Surely Mrs Cosway obtained them on the National Health Service? I thought it wiser not to ask. Winifred and Ella came downstairs together, as they often did, though on no less prickly terms than they usually were. Hospitals had quite rigid visiting hours in those days and Ella wanted to know when these were. No one could tell her, Winifred reminding her that finding out this sort of thing was what the phone was for. Ida cut into the ensuing argument by telling them of John's failure to take his pill.

‘It's useless telling me,’ said Ella. ‘I know nothing about it.’

‘You don't suppose I do, do you?’ Winifred gave her elder sister a bleak look. ‘That sort of thing isn't my province. I am nearly out of my mind with worry about my mother, which doesn't seem to concern the rest of you at all.’

Eventually it was she who discovered from the hospital that visiting was from six-thirty to eight every evening except Sundays. Mrs Cosway was ‘quite comfortable’. While they argued about who should go to see her that evening and whether taking Eric along would be too much for her, I made bread and marmalade triangles for John. He took them and said, to my astonishment, ‘I could do that myself, Shashtin.’

His sisters looked at him as if he had committed some social solecism.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘You can do it tomorrow.’

Dr Lombard's morning surgery ended at ten and I was about to leave the house and walk down to see him, when he arrived. His last patient had gone and no more were expected.

‘Ah, the very one I wanted to see,’ he said when I opened the door to him. ‘I'd like a word with you, young lady.’

He seemed tired and it occurred to me that he was a very old man to be still running a GP's practice but perhaps he had a partner. Either Ida or Winifred had told me he was a few years younger than Mrs Cosway, so probably he was getting on for seventy-five. I realized he looked younger than he was because, as it does in some rare cases, his hair had remained copious and dark, scarcely touched with grey. The great hooked nose gave him the look of an old eagle, predatory and irritable.

He knew better than to attempt touching John's hand. Most of the things I wanted to say and ask could hardly be brought out in John's presence and Selwyn Lombard seemed to know this too for, after greeting him and asking him if he was all right, he led me with a proprietorial air into the dining room.

‘Now Mrs Cosway is temporarily away,’ he began, seating himself in a chair at the table, ‘I should like to give you some instructions regarding John's tablets. Sit down, sit down.’

I sat.

‘The tablets labelled phenobarbitone you will find in Mrs Cosway's medicine chest – in her bedroom, that is – are administered to him one at a time at bedtime. The Largactil or chlorpromazine are the ones I believe Mrs Cosway gave you. Exactly seven, one for each day she expects to be in hospital. If she should be there longer I will come and allot you any further tablets you need. Now is that clear, young lady?’

‘It's perfectly clear.’ You wouldn't like me to call you old gentleman, I thought. ‘My name is Shashtin, Dr Lombard.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Kerstin, as you say.’

I had expected him to object to my correcting him but he showed no sign of offence. ‘Dr Lombard?’

‘Yes, yo – Kerstin?’

‘What exactly is wrong with John?’

‘Ah. It started with something we call childhood schizophrenia, the result of brain damage brought about by a shock. An emotional shock, that is.’

I looked inquiring but he had evidently decided not to enlighten me on the nature of this shock. ‘Since then, it has developed into a full-blown psychosis. The result is that he may be violent, harming himself and others. No doubt, he hears voices telling him how to react against his nearest and dearest. It is likely he suffers from all kinds of delusions as to who he is and who they are and possibly from hallucinations. There, does that satisfy you?’

I nodded, though it didn't. Later on I found that in every respect Selwyn Lombard's diagnosis and catalogue of symptoms were wrong and his recommended palliatives ill-judged and harmful. Even then I recognized obvious inaccuracies but I was no further towards understanding what was wrong with John.

‘Swedish, aren't you?’ Dr Lombard said suddenly.

‘That's right.’

‘Descartes spent a long time with Queen Christina of Sweden. René Descartes. He was a French philosopher, you know. Well, there's no reason to think you do know, is there? He felt the cold up there, poor thing, spent most of his time in an airing cupboard.’

This was the first anecdote I ever heard him tell that was apropos of something under discussion. Inevitably, I knew what would come next and it did. ‘“I think, therefore I am”’ he said. ‘A bit above your head, I expect. I must be off. Don't hesitate to phone me if you have any problems with John.’

I thought of the problem Ida and I had already had. Should I tell him? Perhaps wrongly I decided not to. But I had an unpleasant feeling, possibly quite unfounded, that he might try to force that Largactil down John's throat. I saw him to the door and because the sun was shining and the day was milder than of late, I went outside with him, avoiding the puddles which were all that remained of the previous evening's deluge, and stood for a moment in the sunshine. Together we looked back at the house and its covering of crimson leaves.

‘Extraordinary sight,’ he said. ‘They'll all drop off, you know, and a fine mess they make.’

For the rest of that day I watched John to see if he suffered any adverse effects from being deprived of his chlorpromazine but there seemed to be none. Beneficial effects there were in that he was more alert and while out with me seemed to enjoy his walk, taking an interest in his surroundings, though speaking no more than usual. He prepared his tea in his usual way, covering each quarter slice of bread with a different spread and, to my surprise when I handed him his teacup, said, ‘Thank you very much, Shashtin,’ pronouncing my name correctly as he invariably did.

From what I had seen since my arrival at Lydstep Old Hall, I had decided that Ida was Mrs Cosway's favourite child. Apart from the fact that she was the eldest by several years, I had no idea why this should be. Winifred and Ella looked more like their mother and talked more like her, both in their ways having a similar ruthless attitude to life, a talent for snapping and a rude manner when they chose to show it. Ida's was a much weaker character. She was dull and never had much to say for herself, her reproofs seldom going beyond an ‘Oh, Mother!’ She was untidy in her person and, I suspected, none too clean, but Mrs Cosway loved her best – if she loved anyone apart from Dr Lombard. Still, it was Winifred and Ella who went most often to see Mrs Cosway, coming back with stories about the ghastliness of the food, the awful hospital smell and the ‘lower-class' people with whom their mother had to share the small ward.

‘I wonder if she would like to see Eric,’ said Winifred. ‘It might be a comfort to her.’

Ella sniffed but said nothing. While they were out and I was with John, in his bedroom, Zorah had appeared and was sitting in the drawing room, her expression one of acute boredom.

‘I suppose you'll go in tomorrow,’ said Ella, supposing no such thing.

‘I've had flowers sent.’

Once I knew Zorah's story, it was interesting to observe the enjoyment she apparently took in being as rude and provocative as she liked while knowing that offending other members of this household could harm her not at all. I imagined her feelings on her husband's death, if not before, when she must have realized that the people who had treated her with dislike and contempt were now in her power. She had judged that their greed would overcome any principles they might once have had about taking charity or flattering her for the largesse she could give them. Watching their faces and hearing them wheedle must have been like a stimulating drug to her, particularly when she heard and saw Winifred's reaction to the offer of £300-worth of kitchen equipment.