Disorder

By Raewyn Gregory

Partners, relatives, friends and colleagues live their daily lives with certain thoughts and behavioural traits hidden deep within. We think we know each other. Just like us, they seem highly functioning and achieving adults – ordinary people in fact. Within the context of a relationship, one partner with disturbing traits would certainly be more than enough to cope with. What happens then, when both partners harbour serious disorders?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398425156

Raewyn Gregory

Raewyn Gregory is a New Zealander. She is immersed in a culturally diverse nation in the South Pacific which has a worldwide reputation for creativity, international achievements in a range of fields and beautiful environments. She has worked in a wide range of educational settings and written in many contexts all her life. With more time available, her poetry book Words Whisper on the Winds of Change was published in 2011, a novel Strands of Flax in 2014 and Words from the Wise in 2020.

Book preview

Disorder

Raewyn Gregory

Austin Macauley Publishers

Disorder

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

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8 The Parents

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About the Author

Raewyn Gregory is a New Zealander. She is immersed in a culturally diverse nation in the South Pacific which has a worldwide reputation for creativity, international achievements in a range of fields and beautiful environments. She has worked in a wide range of educational settings and written in many contexts all her life. With more time available, her poetry book Words Whisper on the Winds of Change was published in 2011, a novel Strands of Flax in 2014 and Words from the Wise in 2020.

Dedication

To my family and friends – our lives may certainly be ‘disordered’ from time to time but unlike the main characters in this story, we are underpinned by great love and empathy for each other, the planet and human kind. Kia ora!

Copyright Information ©

Raewyn Gregory 2021

The right of Raewyn Gregory to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398425149 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398425156 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2021

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.

In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order."

As a child I felt myself to be alone and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things which others apparently know nothing of and for the most part do not want to know.

― Carl Gustav Jung

1

She was pleasuring herself on the hottest Sunday of the year so far. Oblivious to everything in the dreaminess of the heat of the summer of 1965, Jackie McIntosh lay under an old pear tree that perched on the highest point of the ridge. The paddock sloped very steeply down to a stream edged with a rumble of rocks filigreed with lichen. The water flowed clear on the flat unaware that a little further downstream it would be diverted. The ensuing trickle would be strangled in pipes cloyed with rubbish, leading to the city’s drains. Ryegrass and clover seeded many years ago when the area was full of farms, had kept the sheep clamped onto the steep slopes of the hill. Patches of it could still be found in amongst the dandelion and kikuyu. The only imprints left of the animals themselves were rough tracks winding up and around the hill like strings of popcorn on a Christmas tree. Far below, starting from the opposite bank of the stream, a few unkempt paddocks stretched right back until graders and other construction paraphernalia interrupted the view. Today the machines stood idle, their various shapes imposing themselves on the burnt-orange earth being readied for housing. Farm fences lay flattened underneath huge concrete pipes. A few months ago, Friesian cows had munched on buttercups all over that side of the stream. The signs of development were supposed to demonstrate to the townspeople that the local council was progressive. A few houses were already finished in one part of the subdivision. Some eager young families had moved in.

Oblivious to all this and to the long grass tickling her bottom, Jackie lolled back and forth with her right hand in her briefs. With eyes closed and long hair falling forward, she turned over and over, dreaming of goodness knows who. Distorted images kept surging up, attempting to upset the deliciousness of the moment. She pushed them down into her gut where they liquefied in the bile and waited for another time.

Very slowly she began to roll downwards. If she had come to then she would have been fine but her mind was a blur. The body gradually took control and gathered momentum. Down she went. At one point she tried to grab some kikuyu but it came away in her hand. She might as well have been one of those English crazies who chase a nine-pound round of double Gloucester cheese down Coopers Hill.

Hurtling over and over Jackie bounced on down, shorts sliding to her knees. The only thing she could think to do was to stretch her arms above her head to try and control the bumping as she turned over and over. At this point the swearing began; her loud expletives had been learned early from neighbours trying to get Arthur McIntosh’s old car up the long drive to push it down Kenilworth Road, ever hopeful the engine might jolt into life.

Eventually she crashed, the momentum rolling Jackie under an overhang near the bottom of the hill. There she lay for a few minutes, her attempt at orgasm long forgotten. Slowly she opened her eyes. All she could see at first were worms and grass roots dangling from the outcrop. Propping herself up she moved her head sideways to peer out. Only grass. With one hand she checked her body out while yanking her shorts up. Okay. She leant back. A slight wriggle of her toes provided some relief. She carefully tried to slide out but felt the ground begin to give way beneath her. Surely not. She froze but the soil continued to fall away rapidly. She let out a gasp as straight down she went, arms and legs flailing.

Landing in a soft heap, face down, this time Jackie paused and waited. Silence. Spitting dirt, holding her breath, rolling over carefully, standing slowly up. With fingers pressed against one nostril followed by a big blow, tiny bits of twig and earth flew out. Better. A wide shaft of light beamed straight down at her from about 15 feet up. A large piece of turf swung from one side of the opening hanging down at an angle. This certainly was no rabbit warren more like a trap for small elephants. No big deal. It’s just a matter of clambering out. Like a rock wall climber her hand reached up and felt for a foothold. Nothing. The sides were shovel-smooth.

I’ll put my back against one side and work my way up with my legs against the wall. But the gap was just a little too wide for even her long legs. Someone’s worked very hard to dig this deep. With no other idea presenting itself she crawled into the gloom. Away from the meagre light filtering in from the opening it was pitch black. Dank, rank, stank, whichever way, the air was not fresh. Her fingers groped the darkness, testing what might lie ahead. It was if she had woken in an unfamiliar bedroom, realised she was desperate to go to the bathroom and was fumbling around for a door handle.

Okay, I’ll have to go further in.

For a moment she pushed herself backwards, reluctant to give up that shred of light from above. Sighing, she found that at least she could touch the walls on each side. They felt hard and smooth as did the floor. This has to lead somewhere. Otherwise, why would it be here? She arched her back to test the height, then stretched her hand upwards until it touched the roof, slowly standing as upright as she could manage.

Oh, well, better to be a hunchback than a snake." A deep breath of earthy air was assurance enough that it was all right to shuffle on.

Anyone else by now might be in a state of panic but this was Jackie – staunch, bloody-minded her teachers often muttered. The fact that here she was in a tunnel which led goodness knows where, if at all, didn’t faze her. From time to time as she edged forward with back bent and head tucked into her chest, she had to make quite a few veers to the left or right, even flattening sideways sometimes to get through some of the spaces and crawling when she had to. Initially, it was quite wet too and it sloped down quite deeply…to get away from the remains of the smothered creek above ground.

How long since I fell into this damn hole? An hour? Two? Five minutes? She ploughed on.

Her head told her there was a change in height and space. Her arms no longer could touch the walls on each side. It was a funny feeling groping forward without the reassurance of walls but now at least she could stretch her neck and stand up. She shuffled, arms flailing until her fingers touched a wall and began feeling her way around the curve of it. It’s a room of sorts with one gap going back through the tunnel at one end and another opening opposite leading onwards. It’s wide but not long.

Jackie said to herself, I could go round and round forever like those people who zombie out on a prayer wheel.

Through the gap leading forward she glimpsed thin shafts of light shining not too far away and close to the ground. Yes. Without hesitation, she fell on all fours and crawled towards them like a hare intent on an early morning feed.

The nearer she got to the sliver of light, the lower the roof. She slid on her belly, head tucked in, using her bent arm to lever forward. The light might be a short distance from the chamber but it was tough going. She sped up, even negotiating several posts coming through from the roof. Her head knocked against something as the incline increased. A waft of air gently parted hair on the top of her scalp. There was definitely some sort of opening.

Thoroughly fed up by now, she stretched up and tugged at the protruding piece of wood until one end of a small hinged door came down. She lay there to recharge, her breath quiet but fast, her hands holding up a hinged wooden door. Now that the hobbling, crawling and crouching had stopped, the aching set in.

Bugger it. I haven’t any choice. Coming ready or not.

With small bursts she swung the door upwards and through into the open space above. Breathing deeply, she edged upwards onto another earthen floor. To the left and right bearers on piles stretched out in rows. It was very cramped with only about two feet between the ground and the subfloor.

I’m under a bloody house! Directly above her head between two joists was another door, this time with a metal ring attached. Still on all fours she reached up and pulled it towards her.

Ouch! She stuck her head through the gap. I feel like a meerkat.

Louvered doors made it light enough to make out clothes and shoes and a pile of boxes. Out her head poked again into the room. Looking upwards a space age pendant lamp with what looked like an aluminium shade dangled from a pristine ceiling.

Wow. Where the hell am I?

One step out of the wardrobe and her foot stood on something wet. She paused. A whiff of chlorine hit her. She knew that smell well.

Yep, wet togs. An urge to poke around got the better of her.

No one seemed to be coming. In fact, there wasn’t a sound anywhere. She stood up and took time stretching.

The room was immaculate. There were books piled neatly on the dresser by the bed – Tintin in Tibet, something called Labyrinths and thanks to Miss Howie, one she recognised, Catcher in the Rye. Two silver horses and a wooden monkey sat on top of the tallboy. Weird. Pushing up the slats of the blind she squinted through them. Across a road with half-finished kerbing vacant sections stretched as far as she could see. On one of the lots concrete blocks already marked out the foundations of a new house.

I’ve come all the way into the new subdivision she thought. There was no movement anywhere inside or out. But it was Sunday. It was getting dark.

God, I’ve been much longer than I thought. Jackie turned. Two photos sat by the bed behind the books. Her eyebrows shot up.

Well, well, so that’s where I am. With an adept Jackie smirk, she picked up the wet togs with two fingers and shoved them down between the sheets, ensuring she straightened the very brown candlewick bedspread. She retreated to where she had come from but this time only to replace the crawlspace hatch leading to the tunnel underneath the ground. With that done, she carefully pulled the second door into place. The vinyl created a seamless wardrobe floor.

I’d better get out of here. Having a nosey through the wardrobe and the drawers might be pushing it. It’s all too bizarre. Turning the knob of the bedroom door as quietly as she could, she stepped into a hallway.

All the way to the front door the newly polished floorboards warned the owners that there was a stranger afoot. However, no one came. She eased herself outside, sidling along the veranda to the steps. Once there, off she went down the path and out on to the recently tar sealed road.

The urge was there to skip all the way home but 15-year-olds have to put away things like that. Anyway, her body was too sore, there was a bog to get through, paddocks to run across, a trapdoor to restore by the overhang and a very steep hill to climb. However, the expression on her face certainly made it look like she was licking thick globs of dairy cream off her face. Jackie said, Well, I didn’t expect that dreaming about the lovely Miss Howie would cause the earth to move. English class will never be the same.

She thought about the face in the photo; there he was leaning forward, a medal hanging down his bare chest, arms draped across two other competitor’s shoulders. Got ya.

2

Jackie had learnt the word neurotic in the lovely Miss Howie’s English class, the same one who had sparked her sexual explorations on the ridge. They were discussing Isabella in Measure for Measure. Miss Howie suggested that Isabella had similar traits to Lady Macbeth, who compulsively cleaned her hands while Isabella reacted to her inner demons in other ways that also had obsessive tendencies.

Both women had neuroses. She went on, They had internal prisons. Isabella always tried to be good. Early on she was protected within a nunnery until released into the real world where she was confronted with the dilemmas of everyday life. It was all too much and she coped by developing neuroses.

What are those? Jackie had no hesitation in asking questions.

They’re when parts of the self can become isolated and exaggerated. The person is trying to be good but constantly wrestling with other desires. They know they should want to be this but their inner self wants to do other things. This causes conflict and exaggerated behaviours develop to compensate. They might start washing their hands constantly or inflating their goodness by rushing around doing good deeds disproportionately or allowing themselves to become a victim from guilt for their other thoughts, Miss Howie responded.

Jackie decided the term applied very well to her mother, Mildred McIntosh. This revelation was about the time she realised that Mildred (at 15 she was always distancing herself from her mother and pretending she was adopted) was intermingling bouts of ‘my nerves are playing up again’ with shoplifting episodes. Perhaps the one alleviated the other. Being the last one at home, Jackie was seen by Mildred as a way of ‘soothing her nervous disposition’ but it probably heightened it instead. One of her ploys was to arrange to meet Jackie in town after school occasionally. Jackie was always starving after school, having scoffed a pie or lettuce and marmite sandwiches at lunch break which all ended up in the bottom of the toilet after vomiting. When she had started high school, Mildred enticed Jackie to participate in these mother-daughter disasters by promising a double cone, hokey-pokey ice-cream from a very special shop along K Rd.

On the third Friday excursion they were in a department store. Jackie was slurping on the usual treat while at the same time wondering where the nearest toilet was. She noticed her mother leaning her shopping bag on the glass dividers used to separate items of underclothes displayed on the counter. It was a large, black one with a zip and two handles. She observed her sneak a hand under the bag and work slowly into a tray of garments. The ice-cream was dripping. Mildred must have grasped something as the next thing Jackie saw was a pair of panties sliding up the side of the bag which still rested on the dividers. Whoosh! Into the side pocket they went. Her eyes stuck out just as the neighbours had once when she had spied Arthur McIntosh opening the door of his van and humming to himself as he slowly slumped to the ground. When he had eventually staggered inside, he’d slurred, That woman has one big thyroid problem. Jackie had been doing a lot of thinking about Mildred lately. What on earth was she up to and why? What if…so, when Miss Howie explained about Isabella and Lady Macbeth, it all fell into place. Mildred was neurotic.

Over time the decision was made to distance herself from her mother on these so-called shopping excursions.

Just going to have a look at the records, Mum. She would seethe. Meet you outside in ten minutes.

That sense of apprehension about her mother’s indiscretions never left her. Added to it was an angry perception of Mildred’s weakness. Her compass in Maths class often gouged the desktop at that time. Jackie detested weakness. Surely someone was going to tap her on the shoulder one day and say, We have your mother in the back room. Can you accompany me please?

After observing Mildred’s weird behaviour time after time, she was forced to acknowledge that the gifts her mother gave her almost weekly had been acquired by ‘sleight of hand’. Snatching up the bras, knickers and lollies laid out on her bed when she came back from school, Jackie never said thank you and felt justified in not doing so. Gobbling the lollies and enjoying wearing the bras and knickers gave her a sense of revenge. Some of the cache she stored. Indirectly, Mildred McIntosh became aware that her daughter knew about her sneaky little actions and her anxiety grew. So did the shoplifting. Jackie learned to enjoy the power it gave her. They weren’t poor. In fact, they had a lot more than their neighbours on their quarter acre sections. Arthur gave absolutely no indication he had a clue all this was going on – his wife’s strange activities and his daughter’s growing awareness of how to get what she wanted