John Harding - The Girl Who Couldn’t Read

More rapping at the door, fast and impatient this time. ‘Coming!’ I shouted, in what I hoped was a light-hearted tone. I opened the door and found the same woman as before. She stared at me with a look that suggested surprise that I had spent so long to accomplish so little.

I found Morgan in his office, seated at his desk, which faced a large window giving onto the spacious front lawns of the hospital. I could well understand how someone might like to look up from his work at such a capital view, but it struck me as odd that a man who must have many visitors should choose to have his back to them when they entered.

I stood just inside the door, looking at that back, ill at ease. He had heard the maid introduce me; he knew I was there. It occurred to me that this might be the purpose of the desk’s position, to establish some feeling of superiority over any new arrival; the man was a psychiatrist, after all.

A good minute elapsed and I thought of clearing my throat to remind him of my presence, although I know a dramatic pause when I come across one, and to wait for my cue before speaking out of turn, so I held my position, all the while conscious of the sweat leaking from my armpits and worrying that it must eventually penetrate my jacket. I did not know if I had another. There was complete silence except for the occasional echo of a distant door banging its neglect and the leisurely scratch of the doctor’s pen as he carried on writing. I decided I would count to a hundred and then, if he still hadn’t spoken, break the silence myself.

I had reached eighty-four when he threw the pen aside, twirled around in his swivel chair and propelled himself from it in almost the same movement. ‘Ah, Dr Shepherd, I presume!’ He strode over to me, grabbed my right hand and shook it with surprising vigour for a man who I saw now was dapper, by which I mean both short in stature and fussily turned out; he had a thin, ornamental little moustache, like a dandified Frenchman, and every hair on his salt-and-pepper head seemed to have been arranged individually with great care. He had spent a good deal more time on his toilette than I had had means or opportunity to do on mine and I felt embarrassed at the contrast.

‘Yes, sir.’

I found myself smiling in spite of my trepidation at the coming audition, my sodden armpits and the state of my face. It was impossible not to, since he was grinning broadly. His cheerful demeanour lifted my spirits a little; it was so greatly at odds with the gloominess of the building.

Finally releasing my hand, which I was glad of, as his firm grip had made me realise it must have been badly bruised in the accident, he stretched out his arms in an expansive gesture. ‘Well, what do you think, eh?’

I assumed he was referring to the vista outside, so, casting an appraising eye out the window, said, ‘It’s certainly a most pleasant view, sir.’

‘View?’ He dropped his arms and the way they hung limp at his sides seemed to express disappointment. He followed my gaze as if he had only just realised the window was there and then turned back to me. ‘View? Why, it’s nothing to the views we had back in Connecticut, and we never even looked at them.’

I did not know what to make of this except that I had come to a madhouse and that if the inmates should prove insane in any degree relative to the doctors, or at least the head doctor, then they would be lunatics indeed.

‘Wasn’t talking about the view, man,’ he went on. ‘You’re not here to look at views. I mean the whole place. Is it not magnificent?’

I winced at my own stupidity and found myself mumbling in a way that served only to confirm this lack of intelligence. ‘Well, to be honest, sir, I’m but newly arrived and haven’t had an opportunity to look about the place yet.’

He wasn’t listening but instead had extracted a watch from his vest pocket and was staring at it, shaking his head and tutting impatiently. He replaced the watch and looked up at me. ‘What’s that? Not looked round? Let me tell you you’ll find it first class when you do. Adapted to purpose, sir, every modern facility for treating the mentally ill a doctor could wish for. Couldn’t ask for a better place for your practical training, sir. Medical school is all very well but it’s in the field you learn your trade. And believe me, it’s a good trade for a young man to be starting out in. Psychiatry is the coming thing, it is the way—’ He stopped abruptly and stared at me. ‘Good God, man, what on earth has happened to your head?’

I reached a hand up to my temple, my natural inclination being to cover it. I had my story ready. I have always found that the extraordinary lie is the one that is most likely to be believed. ‘It was an accident in the city on my way here, sir. I had an unfortunate encounter with a cabriolet.’

He continued to stare at the bump and I could not help arranging my hair in an attempt to conceal it. Sensing my embarrassment, he dropped his eyes. ‘Well, lucky to get away with just a mild contusion, if you ask me. Might have fractured your cranium.’ He chuckled. ‘Let’s hope it hasn’t damaged your brain. Enough damaged brains around here already.’

He walked back to his desk and picked up a piece of paper. ‘Anyway, looking at your application, I see you have an exceptional degree from the medical school in Columbus. And this is just the place to pick up the clinical experience to go with it. Hmm …’ He looked up from the paper and stared at me quizzically. ‘Twenty-five years old, I see. Would have thought you were much older.’

I felt a sudden panic. Why had I not thought about my age? What a stupid thing to overlook! But at least twenty-five was within the realms of possibility. What if it had been forty-five? Or sixty-five? I would have been finished before I started. I improvised a thin chuckle of my own. It’s a useful skill being able to laugh on demand even when up against it.

‘Ha, well, my mother used to say I was born looking like an old man, and I guess I’ve never had the knack of appearing young. My late father was the same way. Everyone always took him for ten years older than he was.’

He raised an eyebrow and peered again at the paper he was holding. ‘I see too you have some –ah – interesting views on the treatment of mental illness.’ He looked up and stared expectantly at me, a provocative hint of a smile on his lips.

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. The bruise on my forehead began to throb and I imagined it looking horribly livid, like a piece of raw meat. I began to mumble but the words died on my lips. Fool! Why had I not anticipated some sort of cross-examination?

‘Well?’

I pulled myself upright and puffed out my chest. ‘I’m glad you find them so, sir,’ I replied.

‘I was being ironic. I didn’t intend it as a compliment, man!’ He tossed the paper onto the desk. ‘But it doesn’t signify a thing. Forgive me saying so, but your ideas are very out of date. We’ll soon knock them out of you. We do things the modern way here, the scientific way.’

‘I assure you I’m ready to learn,’ I replied and we stood regarding each other a moment, and then, as though suddenly remembering something, he pulled out the watch again.

‘My goodness, is that the time? Come, man, we can’t stand around here gassing all day like a pair of old women; we’re wanted in the treatment area.’

At which he strode past me, opened the door and was through it before I realised what was happening. He moved fast for a small man, bowling along the long corridor like a little terrier in pursuit of a rat.

‘Well, come along, man, get a move on!’ he flung over his shoulder. ‘No time to waste!’

I trotted along after him, finding it difficult to keep up without breaking into a run. ‘May I ask where we’re going, sir?’