The “Service Wounds”

Abstract

Before I qualified as a clinical psychologist — a profession that guaranteed intellectual stimulation, incremental pay increases and, crucially, was far easier than my previous occupations as a ceiling-tiler, extruder operative in a rope factory and “grease monkey” on a monstrous conveyer belt and freezer in a frozen-food factory — my grandmother was briefly incarcerated in St Nicholas psychiatric hospital in Great Yarmouth. The “bin”, as it was none-too-affectionately known to local residents, held a particular terror for her. A brother-in-law had already died in a strait-jacket in Thorpe Asylum near Norwich and she had heard, via neighbours and friends, of terrible goings on behind the doors of St Nicholas. As a child I had spent countless hours combing her long black hair (that she invariably curled into a “bun”) and enjoyed many memorable times with her playing cards after eating enormous meals. She was renowned for her hospitality — during the Second World War her husband had happily brought numerous naval companions home on shore leave to share their rations and her largesse as a hostess. In the family and for many others besides, she was a beloved matriarch. One night in late 1976, her elderly lodger found her wandering around the garden after a bout of debilitating shingles. She was confused, so he had asked the neighbour, a social worker, to help; hence the admission to St Nicholas. She was unfortunate: she was admitted on a Thursday night and Friday was the day the hairdresser visited. By the time my mother arrived on Monday to speed her discharge, the long, black hair was gone. My grandmother had neglected her hair for a time and the hospital had concluded it should be shaved off “in her best interests” for “health and hygiene” reasons.