chapter thirty-seven

Taylors Hill

Kay’s mother’s form was framed by the reception hatch, her black raincoat and matching wide brimmed hat, already slightly dated, but purchased from Harrods so therefore to be worn at any hint of precipitation. Kay let her gaze flutter over the comics and infantile crayonings on the coffee table. She noticed a paperback amongst the copies of Beano and Bunty and extracted it: “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader”. Comforting, but read at least twice already. She felt like Eustace, imprisoned in a monstrous body for doing something of which she was unaware, and she supposed she felt a certain hope that this clinic might help her in some way. Pages flew from the table as her mother settled onto the undersized seat beside her.

“The doctor is sending his nurse down to collect us. How are you feeling now?”

Kay’s eyes met her mother’s, which tried to flicker away, but then, through an effort of will, returned, almost nervous, as if she were the child and Kay the adult. “I’m hopeful,” said Kay, with little conviction. To the relief of both the nurse arrived, the uniform like the dragon’s skin, concealing the person within, producing a function alone.

They ascended the wide staircase, which may once have been almost stately, the windows on the Western walls giving increasingly panoramic views of Salt Hill; the church tower, the amusement arcades and the sea beyond; even the faint humps of the Aran Islands. “The doctor would prefer to talk to you first,” said the nurse, addressing Kay’s mother. “Kay can wait here,” and she indicated a long bench with another coffee table, this time loaded not with comics and drawings by children, but with medical journals and copies of National Geographic Magazine. This was much better. Kay settled to an account of a sailing trip around the Arctic Sea while her mother entered the office. She was examining a grey photograph showing a hill on the Island of Edgeøya when the sub-zero temperature seemed to ooze out of the page and squeeze her heart. It was an anxiety threatening to spill over into blind terror.

The voices came from within, one calm, male yet light, accented strangely, doing most of the talking; her mother almost whispering, far from her normal strident, gin-tinged overconfidence. The voices were from within both the room and Kay’s own head; so deeply within that they had almost no objective claim on reality, but she listened, freezing.

“..that these dreams, well, they are always nightmares, are taking over her life completely.”

“Such dreams do have the power to do this; to send your daughter mad. Freud has written much on this as you may be aware. In fact it is probable that your daughter is already mad, in a clinical sense; but do not despair, Mrs Macnamara; it is for this reason that the Taylor’s Hill Centre exists. I am sure my colleagues and I will be able to halt this distressing slide into the abyss and restore to you the lively, happy girl you once knew.”

“I’m not sure I ever did know Kay as that, but it would be wonderful. My husband and I are so worried.”

“I must warn you that sometimes the idea of admission to such a hospital facility as this can upset a person, especially a child of only nine years. She may even lash out or make ridiculous claims, so my nurse will sedate her if this should happen. You don’t have to be here if that would upset you.”

“I think I’ll be alright... Do you want to see her now?”

The door opened and the nurse presented an empty functional smile and led her into the office. Three tall windows filled the wall behind the desk and Kay was dazzled by the assault of light. The thin figure of the doctor coalesced from the brightness, assuming breadth and detail. It was at that moment that she burst like a cloud, flinging herself at the desk in an effort to attack before it was too late, but it was already far too late. Frank smiled as he watched her mother hold her down while the nurse administered the sedative. The treatment had begun.