The Other Side of You. Salley Vickers

      

       The Other Side of You

      Salley Vickers

      

      FOURTH ESTATE • London

       For Xopher

      Who is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I togetherBut when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside you…—But who is that on the other side of you?The Waste Land, T. S. ELIOT

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Dedication

       Epigraph

Part I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

       10

       11

       Part II

       1

       2

       3

       4

       5

       6

       7

       8

       9

       10

       11

       12

       13

       Part III

       1

       2

       3

       4

       5

       Part IV

       1

       2

       3

       4

       Acknowledgements

       Also by Salley Vickers

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Part I

       When I count, there are only you and I together

       1

      SHE WAS A SLIGHT WOMAN, PALE, WITH TWO WINGS OF DARK hair which framed her face and gave it the faintly bird-like quality that characterised her person. Even at this distance of time, which has clarified much that was obscure to me, I find her essence hard to capture. She was youthful in appearance but there was also an air of something ambiguous about her which was both intriguing and daunting.

      When we met she must have been in her forties, but in a certain light she could have been fourteen or four hundred—though when I say ‘light’ I perhaps mean that subtle light of the mind, which casts as many shadows as it illuminates but in the right conditions can reveal a person’s being more accurately than the most powerful beam.

      Once I would have known her age to the day, since it would have been part of the bald list of information on her medical file: name, sex, date of birth. Of the last detail I have a hazy recollection that her birthday was in September. She spoke of it once in connection with the commencement of the school year and a feeling that, in the coincidence of the month of her birth and a new term, she might begin some new life. ‘You see, Doctor,’ —when she used my title she did so in a tone that located it at a fine point between irony and intimacy—‘even as a child I must have been looking for a fresh start.’

      Doctors are like parents: there should be no favourites. But doctors and parents are human beings first and it is impossible to escape altogether the very human fact that certain people count. Of course everyone must, or should, count. We oughtn’t do what we do if that isn’t a fundamental of our instincts as well as of our professional dealings. But the peculiar spark that directs us towards our profession will have its own particular shape. I have had colleagues who come alive at a certain kind of raving, who perceive in the voices of the incurable schizophrenic a cryptic language, a Linear