Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [11]
Occasionally my bitterness comes to the surface – it has been hard to stomach so much derision, especially if prompted by what I hope are altruistic aims. I wondered again if I had overstepped the mark, but was gratified to see Mr Sands nodding in agreement. ‘It is most regrettable,’ he said.
‘In a civilised society? Yes, I believe it is. But enough of such blabber. Do you wish to see your uncle now?’
‘Indeed.’ Mr Sands stood, slightly ill-at-ease. ‘You must appreciate, Dr Christie, that I have no training in lunacy or madness. People such as I find these things most difficult to deal with. I have many affairs that demand my attention and I know it has been almost a year since –’
I sought to shake the man’s hand, to reassure him. ‘My dear fellow, you don’t have to explain a thing to me. I sometimes find myself wondering if working with such people will one day make me mad!’
‘I am sure we need not worry about that,’ said Mr Sands with a nervous laugh.
19
I informed Mr Sands that Charles Torby would accompany us. ‘You may have met him previously,’ I said. ‘He is a tremendous fellow – hard-working, compassionate, dedicated. Had circumstances been different I feel he would have made an excellent doctor.’
As I have recorded in this journal before, this much I know to be true. With his usual impeccable timing, Torby chose that moment to knock upon the door, and Mr Sands the younger proceeded to the next stage of his yearly ritual.
Though we three walked directly to the room occupied by Mr Samuel Sands, it gave the nephew time enough to comment on the apparent state of Mausolus House under my governorship. He stated that the walls were cleaner, the rooms and cells slightly better lit. (‘This is a tomb of the nearly dead,’ Porter is supposed to have intoned on one melodramatic occasion. ‘That’s what the name means! And tombs, I am afraid, are dark and dirty.’) Doubtless, if Mr Sands had glanced into the cells as he passed, he may have noticed that most still had their chains in place, but one has to take pride in the small steps forward, as well as the great.
(I am, in some senses, the governor of this place in name only. In turn I answer to a council of trustees – with not a medic amongst them! – and they have released to me only a tenth of the money that I earnestly seek for such improvements, and that only after endless discussion and prevarication. As Longfellow would doubtless observe, their mills grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small. Though I remain steadfast in my opposition to purging and vomiting, one is entitled to ask what treatments may take their place. Mausolus is no modern Bedlam – the discreet money that we receive from ‘respectable’ families ensures that the lunacy of the well-to-do will never again be seen by the public – and yet I am still some way short of achieving my goal: the creation of a hospital in which the very atmosphere of the place helps to make poor souls well, not worse. Even if they cannot be cured, these wretches should not simply be allowed to die in chains.) But I digress. Mr Sands was very interested to learn of his uncle’s state of mind. As Mr Torby unlocked the door – alas such trappings of incarceration are still needed, even in the early years of this great twentieth century – he was able to offer some words of reassurance. Mr Torby said that Mr Samuel Sands had not improved; if anything, his condition had worsened (Torby’s relentless yet cheerful honesty is an inspiration to me!). However, Torby was adamant that Mausolus does more good than harm. Samuel Sands is not one of our most disturbed patients – by many measures he is as sane as Mr Torby or myself!
I had asked Mr Torby to come with us as he has great everyday knowledge of all the patients here; I was thus not surprised to hear him say that he liked the old fellow a good deal. ‘For