A Possible Life by Sebastian Faulks Page A

it was here, on a hot afternoon, after he had closed his surgery, that the doctor drove Geoffrey with his overnight bag.
    There were some awkward days before he saw a doctor. He was in a dormitory with men who moaned and thrashed. Some sat against the wall holding their heads in their hands, scratching themselves raw; the most agitated, he believed, were tied up in straitjackets in a remote room.
    Eventually, he was moved to a calmer place with a hot, stuffy day room, like a greenhouse, and a garden outside with wallflowers and Michaelmas daisies. He was given a white pill each morning and a blue one at night; the medicines gave him a thirst that tied his tongue. He wrote to Little and asked for more of his clothes to be brought, as the doctors told him he would be with them for some time.
    The hospital library had a few romances and adventure stories and some old copies of the
Illustrated London News
, but Geoffrey had soon read all he wanted. After three months, he received a letter from Mr Little saying his contract had been terminated and that his place in the spring term would be taken by Mr D. G. Farmer, MA (Strathallan, and Magdalen College, Oxford).
    For many weeks, Geoffrey sat quite still, staring through the picture windows at the flower beds and the wall beyond. One of the other patients called him ‘Statue’ because he never seemed to move.
    He had been in the asylum a year when a female nurse came up to him one morning and said, ‘You have a visitor, Geoffrey.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    He could not think of anyone he knew. His parents, Trembath … Gone. Baxter, he had heard, was also dead. Miss Callander would never want to see him. He could think of no one else alive. Unless, perhaps … Giselle.
    ‘Yes, it’s definitely for you,’ said the nurse. ‘I’ll go and ask his name.’
    When she returned a few minutes later she said it was a Mr Cheeseman.
    ‘Cheddar?’ said Geoffrey after a moment. ‘Good God. What’s he doing here?’
    There was a small room where Geoffrey had sometimes seen other patients receive visitors; when he opened the door he saw a man of about thirty in a suit with his back to him.
    He turned round. ‘Mr Talbot?’ he said.
    Cheeseman was a handsome young man, with thick brown hair, a maroon tie neatly knotted and smooth-shaved skin with the taut lustre of youth. He smiled and held out his hand.
    ‘Hello, sir.’
    ‘Hello, Ched.’
    ‘How are you, sir? I heard you’d had it a bit rough so I thought I’d drop in. I brought these. I don’t know if you still like detective stories.’
    ‘Thank you. Do you live near here?’
    ‘No, I live in London. But I was going to see my grandmother in Nottingham, and it was on the way, so I just thought …’
    A nurse came in with two cups of tea.
    ‘Still keeping wicket?’ said Geoffrey.
    Cheeseman laughed. ‘No! Believe it or not, at my next school I became a bowler.’
    ‘But you could never—’
    ‘I know! But one long summer I had nothing else to do and there was this old leg-spinner, the coach at the local grammar school, and I … Well, I just got the hang of it.’
    ‘And your batting? Still playing across the line?’
    ‘Ah.’ Cheeseman smiled uneasily. ‘I kept the left elbow up and all that. For a bit – just as you taught me. I got into the school eleven as an all-rounder. But I just play village stuff nowadays and … Well, I rather go after it, I’m afraid. From the word go.’
    ‘Never mind. If you enjoy it.’
    ‘Oh yes. I do. I hit quite a few sixes.’
    ‘Whereabouts?’
    ‘Long on, mostly.’
    ‘I thought as much. Not very nice tea, I’m afraid.’
    All the food and drink in the asylum tasted bad, Geoffrey found.
    ‘It’s fine,’ said Cheeseman.
    ‘Are you married?’ said Geoffrey.
    ‘No.’ Cheeseman laughed. ‘Too young. But I do have a girlfriend. Maybe one day.’
    There was a silence.
    ‘And you, sir. You didn’t …’
    ‘Marry? No.’
    ‘Of course, I suppose the war and all that.