Tommy Catkins

CHAPTER 1

Private Tommy Catkins curled into a ball as the noise of crows above hedgerow trees rose in a crescendo. He pressed his hands against his ears and closed his eyes.

Every caw of the din a detonation, every wing beat a ricochet, every black silhouette a spinning shell.

Rain fell from a blue sky. Slipping and sliding along the dusty country lane, the cart in which Tommy lay prone trapped him on all sides. He could not climb out without the crows seeing him; and they flew everywhere, as if exulting in the chaos they made. He lay back as the level of the straw rose, threatening to drown him, and – just for one moment – thought: if this is death it’s not so bad. Then straw and hay rained down on him as a dust devil crossed the field beside the lane. The stench of animals filled his nostrils: their bodies, their dung.

The cart halted. Tommy looked over the front to see the farmer’s broad shoulders, and the horse. He shrank back. That horse...

The farmer jumped down, then walked back and struck the side of the cart with the flat of his hand. Tommy peered out from beneath the straw.

Grinning, the famer said, This one’s not a-bed!

Tommy stared. The farmer stared back.

C’mon soldier, jump down now.

Tommy followed this order. Unable to bear the sight of the horse he turned his back on it, then inched around the cart until it stood behind him. He closed his eyes again, knowing the farmer was staring at him, but then clapped his hands over his ears, opened his eyes and ran down the lane, as a hundred-crow barrage hurtled through the air behind him.

As the gentle slope of the lane flattened out, he slowed. Turning a corner he saw the island and the river, all lit by the orange setting sun.

The Ferryman was expecting him. He walked on.

~

Salixbury Island lay amidst the smooth flowing River Avon, an ogee shaped islet of a few acres. Tommy walked on, turning another corner a hundred yards from the river. He halted.

He could see the island much more clearly now. Great willows fringed the northern banks on both sides of the river, their graceful, leaning forms clothed in green leaves. Birds twittered in the hedgerows. The breeze was spring soft.

He walked on a few steps, reluctant to approach, as anxiety bubbled up inside him. Now he could see a jetty at the end of the lane. A water meadow came into view, blue and sun-sparkling to his left, darker to his right. He glanced down: snails, slugs and water weeds. The land here lay at the same level as the river bank, sodden and trackless. No more hedges.

A movement at the end of the lane caught his gaze. He shaded his eyes with his left hand. The Ferryman.

He sighed. He felt his heartbeat begin to race.

He walked slowly, until the Ferryman saw him and waved his hand in the air, gesturing him forward. He halted a few yards from the jetty on which the Ferryman stood.

They were alike in stature: medium build and height, with short dark wavy hair, and dark eyes, although the Ferryman had a crooked nose and a beard. He wore a floppy hat with a goose feather stuck in it, his trousers held up with twine, his shirt sweat-darkened.

Come along, Catkins, he said. I’ve been waiting here half an hour.

Tommy nodded. Yeah, b-b-but the farmer who b-brought me was late.

Yeah, they’re like that. But you’re here now.

Tommy walked onto the jetty, which creaked below him. He closed his eyes and raised both his arms, as if balancing on a tightrope.

The Ferryman snorted. It ain’t that bad!

I... I... the river...

Just open your eyes and grab my hand.

Tommy did as he was instructed, shutting his eyes the moment the Ferryman grasped his hand. He felt his way into the boat, blind and frightened.

Yeah, you’re in a bad way, said the Ferryman. I’ve seen a few like you. ’Course, that’s why they all come to the hospital. Where’ve you come from?

My c-c-commanding officer t-told me not to speak about it except to hospital d-d-doc... d-d-doctors.

Nah, where’ve you come from?

Verdun.

Oh. Verdun. Catkins, you may notice a few odd things on the island – things of phantasy. Not everything is what it seems to be, so keep alert. Try and keep in mind who you are – your name, yeah? I just thought I ought to warn you.

Tommy heard the sound of oars splashing in the water. He grabbed the gunwales on both sides, his heart pounding. He felt his body begin to shake.

Hurry! he wailed.

We’re almost there, said the Ferryman.

"Go faster!"

The boat thumped into the island jetty. Tommy heard the Ferryman muttering to himself, then noticed a slithering noise. He half opened one eye to see the Ferryman tying the boat to a bollard. Closing both eyes he clambered out of the boat onto the jetty, feeling its edge with his left hand as he crawled away from the river. He did not look back.

Fumbling in his pocket, he brought out a copper coin, but his arms were shaking now and moments later he dropped it. Gasping, he fell to his knees, slapping the coin to stop it rolling, but in doing so he knocked it through a crack between the boards. It plopped into the river.

He sat up: eyes shut again. He heard a distant voice. Goodbye.

He turned around, crawling along the jetty until his hands slapped into mud. He opened his eyes.

The river bank lay a couple of yards behind him. To either side willow trees swished in the breeze, filtering the light of the sun across his eyes into a kaleidoscope of sparkles. He crawled forward until the noise of the river faded. Then he stood up.

He was on Salixbury Island – and alive. He had made it.

He looked around with more curiosity now. Ahead, the western parts of the island looked marshy, with no sign of people, the willow trees on the bank growing to great heights, their boles gnarly grey. He noticed long lines of bulrushes. To his left he saw the front elevation of the hospital – three quarters of the width of the island – to the west a red brick wall, to the east what appeared to be a vegetable garden. A path marked out with algae-sheened stones led to the centrally placed front door.

He strolled forward. So far he had seen nobody on the island. He started to relax.

A sense of lethargy began to enfold him. Sunshine beat warm upon him; a beautiful spring day. There was little noise, just birdsong and the swishing of trees... perhaps men’s voices in the far distance. Tranquillity.

He slowed as he approached the hospital entrance. He saw a sign, painted in cracked gold letters on a green oblong of wood: RECEPTION. He did not want to step inside. Bees buzzed around him, a pair of hoverflies right in front of his face, motionless in the muggy air as he stared at them.

He put his hands into his pockets, looking at the rows of windows to either side of the door. Then, through the nearest window, he saw a woman’s face; and she was staring at him. Frowning, she gestured for him to enter.

He opened the front door and stepped inside.

The quality of the air around him changed. He smelled cigarette smoke, sweat, warm dust and a hint of carbolic soap. He heard echoes, of doors closing, of voices.

To his right lay a wide, open window; behind it an office. The woman stood waiting, both her hands resting on the window sill, which was strewn with papers. She was middle aged, with fierce blue eyes, her greying hair piled into a bun.

Hullo, she said. What is your name?

T-Tommy.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, then took a pencil and ticked off a line in one of her ledgers. We were expecting you. One hopes your journey was pleasant?

Tommy gazed down at the floor, putting his hands back into his pockets; he could feel the shakes coming on again. Speech eluded him.

My position here is of general secretary to Salixbury Island Hospital. You may call me Secretary Philips. Your particulars were sent on by your C.O.

Tommy watched a beetle crawl over his boot. His arms were trembling now. A fit of the shakes... but he just wanted to be outside in the sun.

Follow me. You have a room, of course. One hopes your time here will be brief and restorative.

Tommy glanced up to see Secretary Philips standing in front of him. Though smaller than he, a repressed energy lay contained inside her upright, lean body. He took a step back. Her eyes glittered blue in the half light.

He looked around him. Wh-which way?

The hospital was arranged in a T-shape. Secretary Philips indicated as she replied, That is the west wing. That is the east wing. Your room is at the very end of the south wing. Number twenty-eight.

Th-th-thank you.

Hurry, now – follow me.

Taking a bunch of keys from a pocket in her dress, she strode down the southern corridor. Tommy glanced at the doors to the right. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen... then numbered rooms on both sides of the corridor, until ahead he saw a large wooden door, and to the left another: twenty-eight.

Secretary Philips unlocked the door and walked in, gesturing for Tommy to follow. The ghost of a smile brightened her face, but only for a moment. One hopes all here is satisfactory. Salixbury Island Hospital is a private institution, with forward-thinking values. You will receive help here, have no doubt.

Tommy glanced around the room. Faded framed prints hung on the walls: Bruegel, Rembrandt, Vermeer. They looked cheap behind cracked glass. A single bed stood beside the window, unmade, but stacked with sheets and a blanket. He took a corner of the linen and sniffed. Freshly laundered.

Secretary Philips uttered a yelp. "What did one tell you? This is no quack house."

Y-y-yes...

There was a desk with a leather upholstered chair, and a dilapidated wardrobe made of pine that oozed resin. He could smell that too.

Please sit down, said Secretary Philips.

Tommy pulled the chair aside then sat down. Silent, he put his hands back into his pockets.

Part of my responsibility here is to read the rules to all new patients. She gave the yelp of a laugh again. But when one has been employed by an institution for a great length of time, such rules burn into the memory. To proceed. One. No alcohol other than that provided by Salixbury Island Hospital may be acquired by any patient for any reason. Two. You are required to wear this blue armband for the duration. She took an armband from her pocket and handed it over. Put it on now.

Tommy did as he was told, pulling the blue band up his right arm.

"That armband designates you a patient. Keep it on at all times. Three. You may never, under any circumstances whatsoever, leave Salixbury Island, except with specific written permission signed by Dr Pender – who is the director of our hospital – and by your consulting doctor. If you are given such permission, you will only leave in the company of your doctor. Four. Any assault, fraud or delinquency will be dealt with by a Royal Army Medical Corps special board, chaired by Dr Pender. The rules therein will be a subset of standard military law."

Tommy nodded.

Is all that clear?

Tommy nodded again, then looked down at the floor. Something in her manner made him feel like a boy.

Secretary Philips glanced at her wristwatch. It is eleven ten. You have missed tea, which is at ten thirty sharp. However, luncheon will be at twelve. Wait here until then.

She turned around and departed, closing the door behind her.

Tommy made his bed, plumped up the pillows, then lay back. Soon he heard the clatter of bedsprings as his shakes returned.

He glanced up at the window, through which he saw the upper storey and roof of a large building, shaded to the west by a line of graceful silver birch trees, whose whip-like branches swirled in the breeze. The sky was cloudless blue.

The door handle rattled. He leaped up as a man walked in.

Calm down, greenhorn!

The man was tall, yellow-haired, rangy. Tommy felt his body shake as he shrank back to the rear wall.

The man raised both his hands palm out and continued, No cause for alarm mate. I’m your next door neighbour.

Tommy nodded. P-p-pleased to m-m-meet you.

Ah, I see you got the shakes. I had the shakes too, like we most did. But it does pass. Funny how it only comes on after you leave the Front, eh? My two hands won’t work – paralysed, both of them. Hope it’s not forever.

Tommy sank to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

Ah, I used to do that too, said the man. "You look like you seen a ghost, mate. In fact, you look like a ghost. What’s your name?"

T-T-T-Tommy.

Tommy! Well, you’ve not lost your sense of humour, mate. Mind you, so many of my pals signed themselves Tommy Atkins. I’m Pier Mulder. Been here a month. It’s a good place. What was your regiment?

The Cheshire Regiment, 1st Battalion.

Ah, good regiment, that. I was at Mons when things started, with the 4th Middlesex Regiment, against Von Kluck’s First Army. Got a dose of the war neurosis, then got invalided back here. You?

Tommy shook his head, an incoherent stream of staccato sounds emerging from his mouth. His tongue felt glued to his palate. Spit glistened on his trouser knees. His new neighbour knelt down beside him and patted him on the shoulder.

Take your time, mate. We’re all half shot here. You’ll be in a fearful state for a while, then the doctors will cure you good and quick.

Tommy nodded, staring down at his knees. T-T-T... Ca-Ca-Ca-Ca...

Don’t do yourself in on the first morning, mate! Here, listen, I’ll make you a cup of char. Likely somebody in the kitchen will have a pot on the go.

Tommy lay back on the floor as the door closed. For a while his body shook, and, knowing it was out of control, he let it. He felt wretched, his room now a gloomy cell, the solitary window a remote gate into the sunlight. News from his neighbour served to throw his mind back into the past. But he could only cope with the present.

The orange carpet of his room smelled of old dust, with a hint of wax furniture polish fragrancing the air. He watched an earwig crawl along the skirting board. High above him, the ceiling was mildew spotted.

A bedside clock tick-tocked – time passing. He felt each second as a scratch on his skin, prodding him, goading him.

The door opened and his neighbour walked in.

Oh, get up, mate! Can’t have you lying on the floor.

Helped to the bed, Tommy lay back.

See? It ain’t all bad. I got you a vase of flowers.

Tommy glanced across to the desk, where his neighbour set a vase of tulips. Th-th-they’re nice, he said.

And here’s your cuppa. I wangled it off cook. She ain’t so bad. Now I’ll leave you in peace.

But lu... lu... lu-lunch–

Ah, lunch. I’ll come and get you. We’ll sit apart. You want to take it easy awhile, like I did. I know that hang-dog look. You just rest up.

Tommy nodded, sitting up and taking the cup as it was handed over. Within seconds most of the tea had soaked into his trousers.

He sobbed, then lay back. From his pocket he took out a small piece of metal on a cord – the pull-through of his rifle. Despite its associations he felt it was his talisman, his surety of safety, an object tiny yet which had protected him to hell and back. He clutched it in his right hand as he lay quiet. He was already dreading the arrival of noon.

~

Next day Tommy woke just before dawn.

For much of the night he had cowered beneath his bed sheets as the noise of lost men treading the south wing corridor echoed in ghastly rhythm. Distant screams had reverberated through the hospital, awakened in cohort like roosting crows by a farmer’s gun; the wailing of wounded men; incoherent conversations carried out by one man to no other, in multiple unfinished sentences.

Night was the opposite of day. In daytime, the hospital was bearable, even friendly. In the dark it became a real nightmare.

Tommy could not summon up enough courage to close the curtains in his room. As dawn broke he welcomed new red light, kneeling on his bed so that he could in comfort gaze out at rosy clouds, as they turned orange, yellow, then white. The dawn chorus raised his mind out of gloom. He watched sparrows bouncing along the roof tiles of the building opposite, which his neighbour said was the Medical Centre. The birds focused on one task alone, the catching of insects, and their concentration and elegant briskness amused him.

He did not go to breakfast. His neighbour said there was a dining hall in another place, a building known to the patients as the Playhouse, but he dared not go there. Too many unknown faces. Too many dead eyes.

There came a knock on the door. Secretary Philips walked in.

Tommy stared at her. He remained in bed, dressed in vest and underpants. He pulled the sheets up to his chin.

Secretary Philips glanced down at her ledger. You are in with the doctors for your introductory session, she said. One is here to inform you on this first occasion. They will give you a schedule. Please do not stray from its timings.

Where d-d-do I g-g-g-g-go?

The Medical Centre. Next door.

She handed him a sheet of typed paper, then departed.

Although his right arm shook he was just about able to read the schedule, though some of the words remained a blur. Ten in the morning – Dr Snell and Dr Hendriks. He glanced at his alarm clock. Two and a half hours to go.

He waited. His stomach rumbled, but he could not face food. His shakes were bad. He coughed, and spume sprayed across the orange carpet. In the room next door he heard faint sounds of his neighbour weeping.

At ten he walked out of his room, closing the door behind him. There were no locks. Privacy was assumed, even respected, but not guaranteed. He paced down the empty corridor to the front of the hospital. Secretary Philips stood filing papers in the office opposite the reception room. She glanced at him – a singular flash of blue – then resumed her work.

Tommy stepped outside. The sun lay a little behind the great building, so he walked forward until he felt warmth play over him. Already the rays felt hot on the back of his neck. It was a summery kind of spring.

He turned, facing the hospital’s front elevation. There was a door out of the place adjacent to room twenty-four, but he preferred a circuitous route, so he walked along the east wing, turning the corner and strolling on, until he found himself at the vegetable gardens. They were much more extensive than yesterday he had realised, a great curve of cultivated land spreading between the east and south wings, shaded by willows to the north, to the south fading into a sandy strand made by the River Avon. A complex mesh of wire and wooden posts made a home for dozens of chicken.

Tommy stared. Real food grew here. In the distance, bent over like an ancient hawthorn tree, he saw a white-haired man.

He turned away at once. The Medical Centre was a large, square building occupying the land between the south wing and the chicken coops, and he ran towards it, opening the main door and entering.

He smelled antiseptics, carbolic soap, and for a second he was thrown back into a casualty clearing station... but the moment passed. He gasped for breath, confused. Yet the building seemed real enough. He slapped his hand against the wall, to find it good and tough: a real wall.

He glanced down at the schedule. Room 2. That stood before him, so he knocked on the door.

Enter!

He walked into the room, closing the door behind him.

Two men sat in chairs. The room was small, green-painted, desks littered with papers set at the sides. Lurid paintings by Van Gogh hung on the walls, most of them askew. An empty chair stood before the doctors, who both studied him.

Tommy crept forwards. One doctor was middle aged and balding, with spectacles – a uniformed military doctor. The other was tall, slim, with oily hair – he smoked a pipe and wore an ordinary civvy suit. This doctor leaned forward and spoke.

I say! Please, sit down. I’m Dr Hendriks.

And I am Dr Snell.

Tommy sat before them, crossing his left leg over his right. His right arm shook, so he gripped the chair arm tight. His left arm he allowed to hang limp over the side. The doctors stared at him in silence. Realising that he was leaning at the slouch, he sat up straight.

Dr Snell reached for a tumbler on the cabinet behind him and took a sip of the liquid inside. So, he said, glancing down at a page of notes on his lap. Your name?

T-T-Tommy, sir.

Tommy. Aye, a lot of young soldiers do sign themselves so.

A few of my p-p-pals d-did, sir.

Again Dr Snell glanced down at his notes. We do have a proper record of you. Name, age, background.

Sir.

Got the shakes, I see.

Tommy squirmed in his chair, already uncomfortable. He had not expected such close inspection, such intimate scrutiny. Was it all going to be like this? I c-c-c-can’t help it, sir. Just c-c-comes and g-g-g-goes, sir, of its own acc-acc-acc-accord.

Aye. We know, soldier, we know. But we are here to help you – and it is the war neurosis, you know. You heard about it at the Front?

Yeah, there was t-talk of it all the t-t-t-time sir, up and down the trenches. Lots of my pals were d-d-done in by the war neurosis.

Dr Hendriks nodded, his expression glum. Poor devils.

Dr Snell continued, War neurosis is caused by the Boche shelling, you know. The nervous system is affected by all the fearful noise and strife. When that happens to a soldier who’s lied about his age, who might be little more than a bairn... you can see what might happen. An experienced soldier is harder, tougher, got a manly shell about him. But you...

Tommy said nothing. He recalled enlisting as if it was yesterday, all his pals jostling him, keen to sign up, get trained and give the Hun a bloody nose. That was eight months ago, Christmas come and gone, the time by which time the whole show was supposed to be over.

Then Dr Hendriks said, Tell me about your family, Tommy. Take your time – give us a flavour.

Tommy sat bolt upright. Sir! My father is D-D-Dutch, sir. We’ve always lived in Blighty. My mother d-d-d-d-died when I was very young. F-Five, I think. I... I... don’t really remember her, sir.

Why did you sign up?

Tommy stared. No reply came to mind.

You don’t understand why I’m asking, do you?

N-N-N-N-N... N-N-N...

At ease, soldier. I’ll take that as a no. But I asked for one simple reason. We want to find out why you’ve been done in by the war neurosis. It could be catching, like the ’flu, or chicken pox.

Really, sir?

Oh, indeed. And we can’t have the Boche beating us just because we’re losing good men to the war neurosis. So some of us chaps have been tasked with investigating it.

At this, Dr Snell leaned forward, an expression of irritation on his face. "Allow me, Hendriks, if you will. The Royal Army Medical Corps needs answers, Tommy. Now, I am a soldier just like you, but Hendriks here is a civilian doctor, independent... one of these mind fellows. Freud and all that. But you can trust me. I am an army man through and through."

Yes, sir.

Dr Snell glanced at his colleague, then nodded once at Tommy. We are not here to interrogate you as such, but we do need to find out what has happened to you. There is a bit of a panic on in London, you know, what with the numbers of soldiers coming back with this war neurosis. Aye, rather more than we expected.

Thousands more, said Dr Hendriks, in a peevish tone.

Dr Snell ignored the interruption. You will need to co-operate with us, answer all our questions. You do not want the Boche winning, do you laddie? Just because some of our soldiers let us down by concealing things? No. There is a manpower crisis looming, and we have to find a solution to it.

Yes, sir. Then... sir?

What?

Tommy hesitated, then said, Is it... mad or bad?

Dr Snell glanced at his colleague, then leaned forward. He spoke with deliberate, stolid emphasis. "There is no third alternative, soldier. How could there be? Aye, ’tis mad or bad. You do not wish to be sent to the tribunals, do you?