Michael Ridpath: Amnesia

Sunday 14 March 1999, Raigmore Hospital, Inverness

‘Who the hell are you?’

The old man’s brown eyes stared up at her, shrewd, angry but also unsure. Vulnerable.

‘Clémence,’ she answered, in as encouraging a tone as she could muster.

‘Do I know you?’

‘No. I mean yes. Sort of. We met when I was little. In Morocco. But not since then.’

The old man took in the information from his position propped up in the hospital bed. He looked a tough old bird: firm wrinkles, a square jaw with a cleft chiselled at its centre, a thinning grey buzz-cut mocked by dense shaggy eyebrows. His eyes were sharp. Demanding. But unsure.

‘Are we related?’

‘No,’ said Clémence. ‘I’m Madeleine’s niece, or rather great-niece. Madeleine Giannelli? A French lady? An old friend of yours?’

‘I know who Madeleine Giannelli is,’ said the old man, with a flash of irritation.

The nurse, an Irish woman who had been hovering behind Clémence’s shoulder, leaned forward. ‘Be nice to the girl, Alastair. She doesn’t know what you can remember and what you can’t.’

The irritation switched from Clémence to the nurse. Then the old man grunted. ‘They tell me Madeleine is an old friend,’ he said. ‘I have to believe them. So far she is the only friend of mine they have discovered. I have no family, apparently.’

Clémence glanced at one end of a neat scar, the stitch marks still visible, that sneaked up the side of the old man’s skull from his pillow.

‘She’ll be here as soon as she can,’ said Clémence. ‘She lives in America. I’ll bring you home and take care of you until she arrives.’

The old man looked Clémence up and down doubtfully and grunted. The nurse clucked her disapproval.

Clémence thought the old man had a point.

‘Ah, here’s Dr Stenhouse,’ the nurse said.

Clémence turned to see a small dark-haired woman in a white coat moving towards her briskly.

‘Are you here to take Dr Cunningham home?’

It took a moment for Clémence to realize that the doctor was talking about the old man, not one of her colleagues. ‘Er, yes,’ she said.

‘Can I have a word before you go?’

‘Of course,’ said Clémence.

‘I’ll get Alastair ready,’ said the nurse.

Clémence followed the doctor away from the beds to a quiet corner beyond the nurses’ station.

‘I’m very glad you can do this,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s not just that we need the bed. Dr Cunningham may be eighty-three, but he was a very fit man when he came in here, and if we keep him in too long, his muscles will atrophy and we’ll never get him out of bed.’

‘Has he recovered fully?’ Clémence asked.

‘Physically, yes,’ said the doctor. ‘He fell on the stairs and the trauma was quite severe. He was unconscious for several hours and, as you can see, he has suffered severe memory loss. He had a subdural haematoma which we had to drain surgically. An MRI showed that he had sustained at least two previous head injuries in the past; your aunt says he used to play rugby, which might have been responsible. He was admitted nine days ago, but he hasn’t complained of a headache for three days.’

‘What about the wound?’

‘It’s healing nicely. Bring him back next week and we’ll take the stitches out.’

‘Can he remember anything at all?’ Clémence asked.

‘He has retrograde amnesia, which means he has lost the ability to recall events in his past dating back to his childhood. He can remember his parents, but not his late wife, for example. But he can remember everything required for day-to-day life. He could probably drive a car, although I don’t recommend you try that one out. He doesn’t remember going to medical school or being a GP, but he has a detailed knowledge of medicine.’

‘Could it be Alzheimer’s?’ Clémence asked.

‘No, it’s definitely trauma. Alzheimer’s doesn’t show up in scans, but Mrs Giannelli said he was alert mentally the last time she spoke to him, and showed no sign of memory loss. Although, if he did have incipient Alzheimer’s, then a head injury could easily make things worse.’

‘Will he get any of these memories back?’

‘Probably. That’s where you come in. Jogging his memory is the best way to encourage recall, but that’s difficult when there seems to be no one in this country who knows him. But do the best you can. That’s why it’s important to take him back to his home. He moved into a cottage on the Wyvis Estate up by Loch Glass last year and shut himself away. The stalker’s wife up there, Sheila MacInnes, is responsible for renting out the cottage and cleaned it for him once a week. Fortunately, she pops in almost every day to check on him, and she discovered him at the bottom of the stairs.’

‘That is lucky.’

‘She says there are plenty of papers there and photos; she found your aunt’s address on a letter on his desk. Try to talk through those with him. Do you know much about him?’

‘Almost nothing,’ Clémence said. ‘Only the little bit my great-aunt has told me.’

‘Well, phone her and find out what you can. When your aunt gets over here in a few days, I’m sure she will be able to help a lot. Now, make an appointment with me back here for early next week, and we will see what progress he has made and take care of those stitches. The district nurse will check in on you to make sure he’s all right, but I don’t anticipate any problems.’

She might not, but Clémence did. Stuck in a cottage with a grumpy old man who could barely remember his own name suddenly seemed like a big responsibility for a twenty-year-old. It scared her. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

The doctor seemed to sense her doubts. ‘Mrs Giannelli said you had experience working with old people?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Clémence, smiling. ‘Yes, I do.’ Reading to them. Not feeding them or wiping their bums or washing them.

No. This wasn’t going to work. ‘Look. Can’t he just stay here for a few days until Madeleine arrives?’ Clémence said. ‘It might be better for him in the long run.’

Dr Stenhouse’s lips pursed. ‘When fit and healthy old people have severe injuries one of two things can happen. Either we and they give up and they spend the rest of their life in a bed in a home somewhere, or we pull our fingers out and help them and they recover. I’ve seen people take the easy option too often, not just doctors, but relatives and the patients themselves. You can never be sure in these cases, but in my judgement, there is a chance that if you take Dr Cunningham back to his home and talk to him and jog his memory, he might recover. That’s not certain by any means, but it’s a possibility. He’s a brave man, not the kind of person to take the easy way out. But if you leave him here to rot, he will do just that. That is for sure.’

Pull yourself together, girl, the doctor was saying. Fair enough, thought Clémence. She didn’t know the old man, but he needed her help and she should give it.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it. Let’s go back and get him.’

Clémence drove north out of Inverness, the old man silent beside her. They were soon on the high modern bridge crossing the Moray Firth, with the jumble of the port of Inverness beneath them on one side, and an oil rig lurking in the firth on the other. In the distance, to the north-west, stood a broad-shouldered, white-caped, mountain.

‘Is that Ben Wyvis?’ Clémence asked.

‘How should I know?’ said the old man. ‘I didn’t even know I was in Scotland till they told me.’

‘Take a look at the map,’ said Clémence. ‘It’s on the back seat.’

The old man hesitated, and for a moment Clémence thought he would refuse, then he twisted around, retrieved the map and examined it. She suddenly had an awful thought that his reluctance might be because he had forgotten how to map read.