by Penny Kline
But when I thought about it, Diane showed few signs of being grief-stricken. Her doctor had referred her for bereavement counselling but, as far as I could tell, she was a frequent visitor to the surgery with her ‘nerves’ and he had probably jumped at the opportunity of passing her on to someone else. All the same, she seemed pretty certain that her brother was innocent, and if he had been that meant someone else must be guilty. Someone who had got off scot-free and could hardly believe his good fortune.
I switched my attention to my other new client, the silent Jenny Weir. I liked her. There was something about her that intrigued me. She looked so waif-like, yet underneath I had a feeling she was a pretty determined kind of character.
I was doing what Martin had warned me against. Using my clients’ problems as a way of escaping from my own. I abandoned my cup of tea, put the mug on the draining board, and returned to bed, where I lay on my stomach, pulled the duvet up round my neck, and started counting backwards from a thousand. It usually worked. Just as I was dropping off to sleep I had a fleeting image of a second coffee mug standing in the washing-up bowl. The one with hippos dancing. A present from David. But I never put mugs in the sink, in case their handles got knocked off. I must have imagined it. It was wishful thinking.
*
In the morning the hippo mug was still there. I picked it up and inspected it for dregs of tea or coffee, but it was unused. Without thinking I must have taken it from the cupboard, then put it down and selected my usual mug. But how could I have done? That particular mug had been pushed to the back, out of sight. I would have to have moved a pile of plates in order to reach it.
I rinsed it out, dried it, and put it on a high shelf. I wouldn’t give it another thought, nor the peach-coloured tissue and my ridiculous notion that Rob Starkey had been in the flat.
I found my coat, which was precisely where I had left it, over the back of a chair, and set out for the large supermarket in Whiteladies Road to stock up with my staple diet — boil-in-the-bag cod in parsley sauce and boil-in-the-bag beef casserole with dumplings. Neither of them added up to much of a meal but with a couple of slices of bread I felt reasonably satisfied. And the beauty of it was there were no pans to wash afterwards.
At the back of the store an elderly woman, who had asked me to help her control a compulsive desire to eat cakes and pastries, was busily filling her trolley with health foods and diet soups. I kept my head well down, paid for my two bags of shopping, and escaped before she could start telling me about her eating habits.
The bookshop was the next place on my list. I wanted something heavy — heavy in weight, but light in content. Something that would relax me, send me to sleep in midsentence. The fact that the bookshop was one of David’s favourite haunts didn’t enter into it.
The shop was crowded. Several small children sat on the spotted toadstools provided for them and turned the pages of large glossy books, while providing a running commentary of what they could see in the pictures. I moved towards the sections on Psychology, Psychiatry, Sociology, then ‘Women’s Titles’.
In the middle of flicking through a paperback entitled Feminism: the backlash, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
‘David?’
‘Sorry, love. Only me.’
‘Chris.’
Her hair was tied back again and she was dressed in a denim jacket, an orange T-shirt, and a pair of baggy black cords. It was unusual to see her at the shops on her own.
‘Hallo. Where are they all?’
She groaned. ‘My parents are down for the weekend. Mum’s looking after Barnaby. Bruce has taken the others swimming. Time for a quick coffee?’
‘Where? That caff near the camera shop?’
‘No, the prices are ridiculous. There’s a place at the top of that new store on the corner. You’re not in a hurry, are you?’
She squeezed my arm. She was doing her best but she exuded that feeling of wellbeing that people are unable to disguise. My life was in a mess, hers was blissful. She was desperately sorry for me, but at the same time my misery served to highlight her good fortune.
We walked side by side, blocking the pavement so that nobody could squeeze past.
‘Lucky I bumped into you,’ said Chris, ‘I would have gone home earlier but I was accosted in the street by this woman doing market research for some travel company.’
‘She wanted you to fill in a questionnaire?’
‘I suppose so. It was hard to tell since she didn’t speak very good English. Actually I felt sorry for her, poor sod, probably a single parent trying to make a bit of extra cash. Anyway, I filled in six or seven forms, all with slightly different answers. My good deed for the day.’
‘Let’s hope she doesn’t get the sack,’ I said.
‘Why on earth should she? Oh, I suppose you think you’ve coined the market in helping the sad and deprived.’
She stared at me, trying to keep a straight face, then let out a shriek of laughter, jumped up the last two stairs, and ran past a display of large china dogs, almost knocking over a vase of dried poppy heads.
In the cafeteria we shared a tray, selected slices of Black Forest gateau that looked stale and were definitely overpriced, and collected two large cups of coffee.
The place was crowded and Chris spent several moments deciding on a suitable table. Finally we joined a silent middle-aged couple who were collecting up their belongings and looked as though they were just about to leave. Chris piled her shopping bags against the wall.
‘God, my mother,’ she groaned. ‘She could do with some of your brilliant psychological treatment.’
‘You don’t believe in psychological — ’
‘I reckon she’s a psychopath.’
‘Of course she’s not a — ’
‘Don’t keep interrupting.’ She kicked my ankle under the table. ‘Well, if she’s not a psychopath she’s a bloody trouble-maker. Always going on about my God-like sister.’
‘Willa?’
‘I’ve only got one sister. Willa, the family’s success story. Apparently she’s hoping to specialize in Paediatrics. Heaven help her patients, they’ll be treated like tiny specimens in Frankenstein’s laboratory. Anyway, enough of that. Tell all.’
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘Liar.’
‘I saw David.’
She nodded as though she had known all along. ‘Saw him in the street or really saw him?’
‘We had lunch together.’
‘And.’
‘He’s going to move back in with Iris.’
She pulled a face. ‘More fool David.’
‘You don’t know Iris,’ I said feebly.
‘I don’t need to. Anyway, at least it makes things more — well, more of a clean break.’
‘That’s what David said. It’s called rationalization.’
‘Oh, don’t start all that.’ She broke off a piece of gateau with a fork and lifted it to her mouth. She was wondering if I wanted a clean break and I was wondering if David moving back in with Iris might not have exactly the opposite effect. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Familiarity breeds contempt. Two of those tired maxims that nevertheless contain a certain amount of truth. I pictured David on his knees, begging to be allowed back into my life, promising that things would be different. I would listen to him in silence, my face expressionless, my voice cold as ice. ‘I’m sorry, David, it’s over. Don’t try getting in touch with me again.’
‘You’re scowling,’ said Chris, wiping crumbs from her mouth with a peach-coloured paper napkin. ‘Put the bastard out of your mind for once and listen to what my father said about psychologists.’
‘Must I?’ The coffee was tepid, something to do with the design of the cups. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there is something I want to tell you about. This client I used to see, a young man in his mid-twenties. I stopped seeing him because — well, I won’t go into it all.’
‘You can if you like. I’m always longing to hear about your patients, especi
ally the real nut-cases.’
‘They’re not nut-cases.’
‘Anyway, what about this young man? Is he fanciable?’
‘He’s been following me, lurking about outside the flat.’
‘He’s got a thing about you. Isn’t that part of the treatment?’
‘He sent me a picture post card. The Harlot’s Progress.’
‘Really? What does she look like? Orange hair and her boobs hanging out of her bodice?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Oh.’
‘Then yesterday evening this man I was telling you about was knocked down by a car, outside the shop on the corner of Queen’s Road.’
‘Oh no, how awful. Killed?’ She spat crumbs in all directions but didn’t apologize.
‘No, but it made me feel as though it was my fault.’
‘How could it be?’
‘Shh, keep your voice down, people are staring at us.’ I finished off my cold coffee and gave up on the gateau. ‘The thing is, he comes from a terrible background. His mother was an alcoholic, in and out of various clinics.’
She raised her eyebrows a little. ‘Lots of people have difficult childhoods. I’ve never thought it was an excuse for turning out delinquent.’
We had been here before. Chris had a low opinion of most psychological theories. She believed suffering was good for the soul. Something like that. The only problem was she herself seemed to have led a charmed life. I decided to change the subject, tell her about my research.
‘You know I told you I had an appointment at the university?’
‘Yes, what was he like?’
‘All right. I told him I was hoping to study the underlying causes of hypochondria and — ’
‘No, I mean what did he look like? Is he married?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Is he fat, thin? Tall, short? Oh, come on, my life’s so humdrum I need some vicarious thrills.’
‘I can’t remember,’ I said, irritated by her lack of interest in my research project, provoked into asking if Bruce had said anything about Karen Plant.
She turned her head to study a lifeless flower print hanging on the wall to our left. I could see the muscles in her jaw clench and unclench. ‘What? Oh, that. Sorry, I forgot all about it.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Look, Anna.’ She was searching in her bag for something or other, then she started to gather up her shopping. ‘I’ll have to go. If I’m out too long my parents get edgy and there’s a terrible atmosphere and all the children start playing up. My dear mother keeps wearing herself out playing with Barnaby, then claims she’s not tired at all only “you forget how full of energy they are at that age”. Silly old cow.’
She was talking too much and her voice had a high-pitched nervous quality she was unable to conceal.
‘I like your mother,’ I said crossly.
‘I’ll send her round to your house, then.’ She grinned and swung one of her carrier bags against my leg. She had gained control of herself. Now she was putting on a jolly carefree act. ‘God, I envy you the peace and quiet. You can do exactly as you like all weekend. Pure heaven.’
Perhaps she meant it. She might be tactless but she wasn’t malicious. But what was it about Karen Plant that had made her face muscles tighten and her hands clench into fists? Karen Plant and Bruce? It was impossible. Bruce was the archetypal family man, quiet, steady, reliable. In any case, if there had been anything going on Chris would have told me. She and I told each other everything. Didn’t we?
Chapter Eight
I overslept and had to rush out of the flat without even a cup of coffee. Arriving at work at nine fifteen I was just in time to collect my first client, a woman in her early sixties who had been the rounds. Doctor, vicar, aromatherapist, acupuncturist, I was her latest acquisition, ‘the only person who could really understand how she felt’. It wouldn’t last. In a week or two I would join the ranks of those who had failed to come up to expectations.
She sat opposite me and the tears ran down her soft fat cheeks. I was sorry for her, I really was, but every time she spoke it was like listening to a character from a bad soap opera. I tried to concentrate on what she was saying.
‘It’s their eyes, dear. I had this friend. Austin, he was called. Very well spoken and a good job with the Post Office. But his eyes, they made me feel all peculiar.’
‘You feel you’ve always wanted a close relationship with a man, but something in you holds back in case you get hurt.’
‘Yes, that’s it, dear. Is there a cure for people like me?’
After she left I took my letters out of my bag. I had picked them up on the way out but there had been no time to read them. The first was a brief note from my father, telling me he had decided to visit Steven in Australia. He was not sure he wanted to be away for a whole six weeks but perhaps the change would do him good. He hoped my work was going well and sent his regards to David.
Why had he written a letter instead of phoning? Perhaps a letter was easier. He could tell me the facts without having to worry how I would interrupt them. Whenever I tried to help I only made things more difficult for him. All the same, I decided to ring him in the evening, just to wish him well.
The second letter was from David. I unpeeled the envelope, slowly, cautiously, trying to prepare myself, although what was there left to say? It was written in black ink on stiff white paper.
‘Anna, what can I say? Since our meeting last week I’ve thought of nothing but you. I’m back in the house but it’s like a prison and I think Iris feels the same way although we communicate so little I have no means of knowing what she thinks. You’ll despise me. I don’t blame you. How could you ever trust me again? But please finish reading, don’t tear this up before you’ve heard me out. Things had become so tense between us I believed that moving out was the only hope of protecting everything that had been so good. Now I see that I should have tried harder. We both should. Can we give it another chance, or at least can we talk about it? I’ll park in your road this evening and hope you come out and invite me in. If not I’ll try to understand. I love you. David.’
Martin buzzed me to say that he and Nick were taking Beth out to lunch and would I come too.
‘Yes, all right, is it something special?’
‘I’ll leave Beth to tell you herself. Come down as soon as you’re ready.’
I was in no mood for guessing games. Presumably Beth had got the job in London she had applied for. A higher grade and an opportunity to specialize in group therapy.
I should have applied for it myself, moved right away from the area and returned to the anonymity of London.
I locked my filing cabinet, combed my hair without looking in the mirror, and walked slowly down the stairs.
They were waiting for me in Martin’s office. Nick seemed to be running his hand down Beth’s stomach. Martin was laughing, taking his jacket off a hook on the back of the door. Just after I entered the room Heather put her head round the door, saw Beth and walked over and kissed her on the cheek, then, when she heard the front door creak open, left to deal with whoever had just come into the building.
‘Hi,’ said Beth. She was dressed in a short brown skirt with a brown and beige jacket. The blonde streaks in her hair had been transformed into a whole section of pale gold, which contrasted with the darker shade just above her ears.
‘What’s all this I hear?’ I said, trying to sound excited although it came out as false cheerfulness. ‘You got the job?’
‘Job?’ She looked slightly puzzled, then realized nobody had told me the news. ‘I’m pregnant, seven weeks gone. Isn’t it amazing?’
‘Pregnant? But I thought … ’
‘I know, we’ve been trying for ages. I’d practically given up hope.’
‘Congratulations.’ I gave her a hug. ‘I’m really pleased. So you won’t be leaving us. Not yet anyway.’
‘I shall bring it to work in a basket, or I might invent a new
kind of treatment where the clients have to hold a baby as a kind of calming agent.’
Martin snorted. ‘You wait.’
Martin had four, two of them non-identical twins. His wife was finding it hard to cope and Martin talked endlessly about sleepless nights, teething, and temper tantrums as though they were the most fascinating subjects in the world. Chris and Bruce were just the same although, to be fair, Chris had hardly mentioned the children on Saturday.
I steeled myself for a jolly lunch-time session in the pub. Nothing alcoholic or none of us would be able to work in the afternoon, although Beth sometimes had ‘something to restore her sanity’. She was going to have to give up on the gin and tonics, and the cigarettes. She was going to find it tough. How spiteful I was becoming, although face to face I was as pleasant as can be. Could I help it if mean feelings overcame me before I could censor them out of existence?
The White Hart was as crowded as ever. Nick went to order some food and the rest of us squeezed round a table near the fireplace. Beth was still as high as a kite. She and Martin started discussing whether or not it was a good idea for the father to be present at the birth. Martin thought it was an essential part of the formation of a strong bond between father and child. Normally he tried to avoid jargon but today he was talking like the worst kind of psychologist and Beth was all ears.
‘But the actual birth, Martin, isn’t it a bit off-putting. I mean afterwards, later on, you know, sexually speaking.’
‘I don’t see why. Only if the guy’s a really screwed-up kind of character.’
‘It would put me off,’ I said.
‘What would?’ Beth leaned forward, resting her face on her hands.
‘If I was a man.’
‘If you were a man,’ said Nick returning from the bar, ‘we could have a really good time together, you and I.’
Nick was on my side. He had no wish to spend the lunch hour discussing childbirth. But after all we had come specially to celebrate Beth’s good news.
‘Anyway,’ I told Beth, ‘you and Dominic must be really thrilled.’
She smiled at me, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She had been going to say it would be my turn next, then she remembered that David and I had split up, that anything she said would only make things worse.