ROBIN HAMILTON

THE WOUNDED WAIF

... She had a Besotted Lover, and did she ever run Daz round in circles.

I could (usually) read Tara like a book, and it mildly baffled me that so many others seemed to have an infallible knack of getting her wrong.

When she got fed up with playing Daz like a hooked pike, she'd say to me, "Robin, shall we go for a walk?" and we'd drift off somewhere deep in the hospital and take a holiday from Daz and the emotions of Bosworth Ward and I'd make her laugh by doing Disney imitations -- why she found them so funny, I don't know, as I'm not very good at Disney imitations.

The joke behind this was that there was sod all Daz could do given that all of the patients and most of the staff knew that despite the fact that Tara and I were alone together so often, it was totally non-sexual (well, almost -- certainly in terms of physical contact). It may also have to do with the fact that early on, I casually remarked that if he ever did anything to hurt Tara, I'd rape his guts with a rusty fishknife (Protective Fathers bit). Stupid idiot said in his whiney subservient protective male idiot voice, "Robin, would I ever do anything to hurt Taaaaaaara." Goodness knows what Daz had in his brain at the point where Tara should have been -- some sort of soiled-Madonna figure, I suspect -- but nothing whatsoever like the real Tara. Daz was the ultimate in misreading Tara -- if you could get it wrong Daz would get it wrong. This despite that early on when I felt Daz was the answer to a Maiden's (well, hardly!) Prayer -- protective male rather than exploitive male -- the Wounded Waif attracted two distinct types and unfortunately nobody in the middle -- I tried to teach him the Tara Rules.

Watching Daz get Tara wrong time after time was more than mildly funny, till finally she'd storm over to me and say, "Robin, take me for a walk," and we'd go deep into the hospital and I'd do my Disney imitations. Usually, when we got back and Tara had drifted off to wherever Tara went, Daz would come over and say, "Robin, what did I do wrong?" (Just about every possible thing you could, you brain-dead idiot.) God, trying to explain the rules of the Hot Potato Game (American: Red Hot Penny Game?) was like trying to teach an elephant to dance on a pea. Tara caught on straight away -- anything but dumb was that child. Actually, it was second time around. First time was when she drifted into the room in a Mood and Daz (having sort-of caught on) tried to pass the Potato to Tara and I was screaming inside, Not now, you idiot, can't you see the state she's in? Naturally, the Wounded Waif stormed off in the huff. When Daz had gone and the Waif returned in a better mood, it took all of ten seconds to explain the rules to her and she absolutely loved it. Problem was the particular Potato/Penny was a copy of the BEANO, and when it got passed to Michael, he started reading it. When we tried to explain it to Mike, he got Deeply Insulted and he stormed off in a huff. End of game. Fun while it lasted. Things you do to pass the time in Detox.

There are two background spins on this. One is that, given that Bradgate was a general mental health unit rather than specifically detox, the only sane people there were the detoxing heroin addicts and alcoholics -- we had a specific problem which when/if it was cured, we were part of the real world. The rest were there for varying degrees of mental instability. Tara was found wandering across the rails of Leicester train station and was given the choice of signing herself in voluntarily or being Sectioned. She's still convinced that she's only alive because her brother didn't want her to join him in heaven yet. (Dear God, that brother -- I think I finally worked it out, but I'm still not sure -- the Waif was more than usually obscure over her dead brother. The more closely emotionally involved Tara became with a situation, the more obscure she became, and talking about her brother was the only time I've seen Tara even close to tears -- she didn't go in for tears) -- look, I never said she was sane, only that she was complex, vibrant, fun to be with if you didn't cross her, etc.

Daz was there for two reasons. One (that he admitted to) was that he'd go drifty -- ie. if you were talking to him, he'd suddenly not be there. The one he didn't admit to was that he was Paranoid -- voices from god, save the world, the whole delusional paranoid crap. I think Tara is curable -- a lot of her problems were situational. Daz I'm not so sure about, and even if you cured him, what you'd have would be a dumb sane Daz rather than a dumb paranoid Daz.

The other spin is family background. The only explanation I could come up with for Daz was that he was the idiot son of heavy money. He never seemed to have much money, but had all these expensive toys. So the family were keeping him on a short leash money-wise but cheering him up with presents -- like £300 electric razors, yet. Look, I know addicts heist, but they heist to sell and anyway Daz was too dumb to take candy off a sleeping baby.

-- Jason showed me his probation report, and I said, "Jason, is that +all+ you ever lifted?" -- No Robin, that's just over a three-month period. The Report also contained [the whole thing was in officialese], the marvellous line, "Mr Bean sincerely repents his crimes against society." I said, "Jason, did you really repent etc.?" Robin, it's like this, my Probation Officer said that Parole Boards like it when you sincerely etc. and I said Oh? and she said, "Look you lame-brained dumbo, do you sincerely etc." and I said, well, I suppose I do. Jason and she cooked the Report between them, along the lines of admit to and repent of anything that can be proved against you, but if they don't know it already, ignore it. Very forgiving and street-wise was Jason's Probation Lady -- lucky Jason.

Whatever, Daz's family came to visit him one day, and Tara drifted over and managed in the space of minutes to flame his brother and insult his mother -- typical Wounded Waif. Then she drifted back to me and said, "Robin, I don't think Daz's family like me." I really don't think it even occurred to her that maybe a heavy money upper-middle-class family might be ever so slightly disturbed to see their idiot son in the toils of an ex- (ex?) speed freak dropout who had done a bit of heroin in her time, etc. When the Waif wasn't being the Little Friend of All the World, she could be deeply self-centred.

The Day Tara Dumped Her Boyfriend

Freaking mood changes. Tara had been looking forward to her day out with Pete just about ever since we met, and here it finally is. She goes off happy as larry lark and comes back similar. Then she starts to tell about it and my teeth begin to ever so slightly grind. Turns out that Tara spent half the time sitting alone in a pub slow-drinking a pint of lager and half the other half quarrelling. This is Tara’s big day out? -- But Robin, it was all my fault. (Jesus, baby, how can even you come out with such self-deluded shit?) Do I ever hate without meeting, her rat-souled exploitative boyfriend Pete the Shit. Tara’s big day she’d been looking forward to so long and what happens? Natch, she blames herself. (Say nothing, nod and bear it, anything you say will simply get Tara pissed with you.)

Odd thing is, despite the utterly crappy day she must have had, she’s still bouncy and unmumbly and Tara in a very up-grade Tara-type mood. Suddenly she jumps up and says, Robin, I must phone my boyfriend. I’ll be back in five minutes. Off she goes, leaving me sitting broodily smoking at a garden table at the edge of the lawn.

Five minutes later, she comes steaming past muttering under her breath but loud enough to be heard, Fucking wanker can call me if he wants to speak to me, carries on to the opposite corner of the garden as far away from human life as possible, plants herself in a chair and commences staring at her toes.

Think, no point in going near her when the Waif is in that sort of mood. Could always sit here shivering and send her those good vibes. But if one reached her, she’d strangle it and stamp it under her pretty little foot. Rot it, if Tara wants to throw a Tara Mood, that’s up to her. Why should I sit here freezing when there’s sod all I can do to help? So I drift off inside in search of heat and conversation, and leave the Wounded Waif to her deep brood.

Best thing anyone could do for Tara would be to push her exploitative boyfriend under a train. Barry who’s known the Waif longer than me agrees over this and we’re near the point where we will take a little outing and do the necessary

Tara goes off for her Holiday in Heaven mid-morning, it’s now mid-afternoon, and come dinner at five, things begin to hot up just ever so little.

Up to dinner, the Waif is cat-spitting anyone within a foot of her, and picks at her food even more than usual.

After dinner, she parks herself on a chair with her back to the wall and scowls at her toes again. She wants to be as far away from anyone as possible and here she is stuck in the middle of a mess of people - something’s about to happen. Not quite sure whether Tara doesn’t want to exist or doesn’t want other people to exist or both. Bottom line is the Waif is currently unhappy with inner and outer reality.

Suddenly she picks up this pile of magazines on the chair beside her and slams them on the floor. Naturally a nearby idiot stares at her which is all the Waif needs. What emerges is a typical Tara Mumble, but a mumble at the top of her voice. Having wasted the starer, Tara starts on the ones looking sideways, which seems to be one in three.

Early on, I caught the point and was studiously not looking sideways -- the Waif makes more allowances for me than most, given she thinks I’m too dumb to notice the rain, but why take chances? I was rolling my eyeballs and trying to catch as much of the action I could that way. I thought a rolled eyeball was probably just in limits, and I was working it out. She’s hitting one in three - one two smash one two bang - oh Christ, I’m a three.

The Wounded Waif may not be physically violent, but does she ever have a mouth like an Uzi when she wants.

Whatever, the Waif finally reaches me three and does a little pause and says in a quiet and clear carry to Robin and no one else voice, Excuse me Robin, I’m a just a little bit stressed out. Then one two wallop until she storms out of the common room and presumably off to her cubby.

Someone says, “Oh God, It’s Tara in one of her moods.” No friend, you have it utter wrong - it’s the Waif pissed with her boyfriend and taking it out on Reality.

Come seven, it does get a little freaky. Suddenly there’s Tara with her bounce back and speaking clear and strong, happy in peanut heaven. I think, maybe they’re right, maybe Tara does swing a mood, maybe I don’t know her as well as I think.

Tara-with-the-bounce-back drifts along at a point when I’m on the phone to Andrew and insists on speaking to him. Poor Andrew doesn’t quite know how to take the Waif, conventional Trot that he is.

When I’m on the phone and she passes, she always wants to speak - I let her when I think it’s safe, only certain people. Not as nutty as it seems - the Wounded Waif and I come from mildly different backgrounds, and this is one of her ways of Getting to Know About Daddy. Usually there’s a good reason behind the Waif’s oddest actions, albeit sometimes a peculiarly Tara-type reason.

And afterwards she’s still bouncy and on the up and looking forward to meeting Andrew - Promise I won’t try to get off with him. (If you did, honey-bun, that would make it surrogate incest) And now she’s got visitors, her ex-social worker and family (husband, daughter). Thank god - Tara deserves a bit of luck. The four of them sit along the outside wall of the smoke hole - the visitor’s wall - and Tara and the daughter pass through to fetch coffee. For once a polite little Waif - unusual sight, but shows she can do it if she wants.

After we put the phone down on Andrew, she and I wander off to the Smoke hole to smoke, and there is Drifty Jenny sitting in one corner sucking on her usual roll-up and looking totally spaced out. Tara parks herself in the corner opposite Jenny and I plant myself off to one side.

Suddenly, I stopped existing. Tara and Jennifer snapped into girl-girl mode and began talking the way girls do when there are no males around. Just a bit unnerving. Turns out that Pete the Shit had admitted he was bisexual. Lots of people had told Tara this, but she’s refused to believe it, but now it’s unequivocal, and isn’t something Tara feels like handling. The last insult to the camel’s psyche. When she’d tried to ring him about six to discuss it, Pete wasn’t where he said he’s be, and Tara decided that enough was finally enough and she was going to finally dump him.

Odd that - fact that he was an exploitative selfish viscous bastard didn’t matter diddly squat, but that he was bisexual pushed Tara beyond the limit. How long she’ll keep up the irrevocable decision, who knows? The Waif make an irrevocable decision? laugh! -- is another matter. Another odd thing was that Drifty Jennifer suddenly became animated and began to talk and respond to Tara. Maybe it was because it was the evening and the psychodrugs were wearing off, maybe because she was alone with Tara girl-to-girl. Jennifer does seem to have a problem with males, or maybe especially me - in my entire time at Bosworth, she exchanged maybe five words with me, and wouldn’t sign the souvenir book.

Suddenly it made sense why the Waif got her bounce back early evening - must have been in the wake of the Decision to Dump Pete - relief and euphoria. Let’s hope she keeps it up.

[This never happened to me before. Very odd, partly being physically there but not existing, partly the revelation of how girls talk to each other when they’re alone. I mentioned this to Andrew afterwards, and he said it had happened to him once or twice, so I’m not unique.]

When they switched from Pete the unacceptable bisexual to types of makeup I decided the boredom factor had struck and turned metaphor into reality by swanning off towards my cubby. Only just outside the entrance curtain, I stumbled over Dell-boy making his farewells to his fan club.

Well, naturally, other things were going on at the same time as Tara’s Dump. Dell-boy is due to leave tomorrow, and had gathered his groupies (mostly middle aged) around him to feed on some mildly-spiced-for-English-palates food he had prepared, and on Dell’s words of wisdom. Plausible bastard, our Dell. Food was delicious - ate a couple and was about to scrounge some more for Tara when Dell presented me with an entire tray and told me to pass it round the staff. OK if I give Tara some as well? “OK” Dell was truly in state, with the rather pretty non-middle-aged girl whom he’d been screwing adoringly ensconced beside him. I think it was Dell-the-King who ordered his lackey to spread the food around the ward.

Dell’s lackey drifts down to the smoke hole where the Waif and Jennifer were still banging on - Tara took a couple of bhagis but Jennifer declined - food that has been touched by the hand of a male will never pass my lips? Not quite sure what Jennifer’s hang-up is, but it’s certainly severe. Then further lackeyed off to the staff room and passed the remains in front of John and Janet. John was in his usual glum to surly mood, but Janet ate a couple of things.

Having done my bit for Emperor Dell, I drifted back towards the cubby and joined the crowd at Dell’s feet in order to get my teeth round some more of his food. Impressive is Dell, comes across as everyone’s Uncle - but I have the feeling there’s something hollow there. Can’t quite pin it down, but …

Half an hour of that was all I could stick, so I excused myself and went to the cubby to crash and read for a bit. About ten, I began to get smoke hungry, so I dragged myself together and wandered down to the common-room. Dell and adorers had by this time moved to the common room, and there was Tara off by herself watching TV and not for once smoking. I plopped down beside her and she said, Don’t go in now, Robin. There were loud noises suggestive of a riot in progress coming from the smoke hole. Bye ‘n bye, out steams Danny the Shit yelling and shouting followed by Mike yelling and shouting back and behind them, Pete the nurse making shooing motions like a mother hen. Pete and Danny and Mike drifted off into the distance still yelling and shouting and shooing, and Tara and I dropped into the smoke hole and lit up.

Tara parked herself in a corner (the one Jennifer had been sitting at earlier) and I parked myself in a chair about a foot opposite her, and we started. First was Tara had to update me on Pete’s bisexuality, since I hadn’t been present when she told Jennifer about it. “For god’s sake, stick to it, honey-bun. Is you ex-boyfriend ever bad news.” - I will, Robin, I will. (Believe that …) Then we got onto Tara’s Problems - vulnerable to exploitative males, low self esteem, etc. It was easy to define the problems but less easy to find a solution. At one point, I found myself saying, “Have you ever thought of going to Assertiveness Classes?” (Tara and Assertiveness Classes - some sort of joke? What am I saying?). About the only thing we could think of concrete was that Tara should steer clear of +any+ male for at least six months, or she’s be sucked into yet another relationship with yet another shit.

Naturally, that didn’t last long, as we’re now at two days before Darren-call-me-Daz-it’s-easier arrived, the complete hunk kitted out with a slight speech impediment, glasses, a CD player and - Jason told me this - a £300 pound electric razor

Suddenly out of nowhere, Tara says, Robin, are you trying to seduce me? “Don’t be silly” We unsaid it and back we go to trying to deconstruct Tara’s problems. Don’t think she really meant it seriously, just checking in case of a remote possibility

Looking back, it’s odd that we were left alone for two hours in the smoke hole which was normally busy up till midnight. OK, Dell’s group were all non-smokers but where were the rest? God on our side or institutional politeness? - Robin and Tara are into something heavy there. Sex? Na. Whatever, let’s leave them get on with it.

At one point, admittedly - the whole business lasted for coming on for two hours and terminated at midnight - Phil the nurse popped his head round the door, squeaked like the white rabbit and promptly vanished. Phil knew Tara very well and me quite well, so I don’t think he thought I was trying to seduce her. The sexual rules at Gulag Bosworth were fairly relaxed, but I suspect a fifty-one year old trying to screw a twenty-two year old borderline mental case might just be a little out of bounds.

About twelve, the Waif and I finally (exhausted both) broke up and went off to our separate beds.

Altogether, a bit of a crowded day.