Category:

They had arrived early for their evening shift and were filling the last few precious minutes before they were due on the wards. They glanced up as Helen came in and seeing from her painting overall that she was not a doctor and needed no special deference, ignored her and carried on their conversation.

Rug-making was one of the popular occupational therapies for patients and for a moment Helen smiled at the notion of the staff choosing to relax in just this way. There was something touching in it that spoke of shared humanity. These elevated thoughts withered abruptly as Helen realized that what they were doing was not making a rug, but unmaking one, pulling out the strands of wool with metal hooks and tossing them into a bag at their feet. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, failing to keep a note of astonishment from her voice.

They turned as one and the spokesperson of the three, a solidly built woman with tightly permed curls, said, "We're just unpicking this blessed carpet, so they can do it all again tomorrow."

The other two laughed, not maliciously, but it was still a jangling affront to Helen.

"Why on earth would you do that?" Helen asked. She had promised herself she would keep her head down as a new member of staff, fit in, make friends, and avoid conflict, and already she was on the edge of a quarrel.

"We haven't got enough wool for them to keep making more and more rugs. And where would we put them all? Anyway, they don't care."

Helen didn't need to ask who "they" were. "Who told you to do this?" 

"We've always done it," one of the other women said, with slightly less confidence. "We just haven't got the wool."

"Right." Helen took a breath and composed herself. In the uncodified but nonetheless unchallengeable hierarchy of Westbury Park, ward orderlies were (just) below her and it would therefore be unconscionable to berate them for doing no more than their job. She needed to go higher. "May I borrow this?" She indicated the bag of wool scraps. "I'll return it."

The three women nodded, humouring her. Helen could imagine the exchange of tutting and eye-rolling that would ensue as soon as she departed. 

It so happened that Dr. Rudden's office was the first that she came to as she stalked the corridors looking for somewhere to vent her frustration. They had not been properly introduced at this point, although she had attended a staff meeting at which he was present, along with the medical superintendent, psychotherapists, social workers, nurses, and occupational and physical therapists. She had noticed him only to the extent that he was the most handsome man in the room, from a field offering no serious competition, but he had mostly kept his head down, writing or doodling on a pad.

She knocked firmly—there was no point in timidity now; she needed to keep things on the boil if she was to carry this through—and a voice said, "Come in."

He was sitting behind his desk, with his chair angled towards the tall windows, looking out onto the green lawns, where patients still wandered in the early evening sunshine. A cigarette smouldered in an overflowing ashtray, sending a column of smoke up to an already overcast ceiling. On the wall behind him was a print of Richard Dadd's Titania Sleeping—a painting Helen knew well and would have remarked on, in other circumstances.

He swung his feet off the window ledge and stood up, raising his eyebrows in welcome. "Hello...?"

"Helen Hansford."

"Helen Hansford. The new art therapist. What can I do for you?" His voice was attractive, soothing, but she didn't want to be soothed—yet.

"I'm in a bit of a rage, actually." She held up the bag of wool. "I've just come across a group of orderlies unpicking a rug made by patients in OT so that they can do it all over again tomorrow. Were you aware of this?" She dropped the bag on an expanse of leather desktop undisturbed by paperwork of any kind.

He avoided the question, asking instead, "This offends you?"

"Yes. It offends me. It's disrespectful to the patients; it belittles their efforts and it's just poor practice."

He nodded slowly. "But if it's the process rather than the outcome that is therapeutic..."

"Even so, they should be able to see and enjoy the product of their work."

With a motion of his hand, he invited her to sit down, but she shook her head. It was easier to remain indignant when standing.

"Perhaps if you think of it in the same light as doing a jigsaw or building a house of cards, where the satisfaction doesn't come from the idea of creating something permanent—"

"It's not the same at all!" She could feel her voice rising up the scale. "No one expects those things to last. But rug-making is a craft and a rug is a useful thing. It would look very nice in the day room."