by Jess Ryder
The locked door bothers me. Is she just taking care of her valuables, or is there something in there she doesn’t want me to see? I feel a prickle of irritation. This is my house. If anyone’s going to lock doors, it’s me.
Carrying on into the kitchen, I see that two mugs and two small plates have been washed up and are draining on the board. I touch the kettle – it’s stone cold.
Perhaps Abi has persuaded Lori to go for a walk on the beach. I hope so; that would be a big step forward. Despite everything that’s happened, I still feel a sense of responsibility towards Lori. She hasn’t mentioned Darren for ages, but she hasn’t forgotten about him. I know she’s still frightened that he’s out there looking for her. I sigh as I remember that ridiculous car chase on the way to Citizens Advice. How I used to look over my shoulder every time I walked down the hill, imagining him lurking behind cars, or hiding in one of the beach huts. The situation is a lot calmer than it was when she first arrived; she’s recovering, little by little. I don’t know if she’s fully ready to leave here yet, but with the right support, it should be possible to reintroduce her to normal life.
A blast of air sweeps through the kitchen, sending a chill across the back of my neck. I turn sharply, half expecting to see somebody standing there. Stop being so jumpy, Stella. The back door must be open, that’s all it is. Which means Lori and Abi are probably in the garden, having a smoke.
I go into the conservatory, and sure enough, the door is flat back on its hinges, kept in place by a brick. Mystery solved.
‘Lori? Abi?’ My voice seems to die on the breeze. Stepping out, I walk down the path of trodden-down grass, hugging myself against the cold and wishing I’d gone back for my coat. Strains of chatter and a clunking sound I can’t quite make out are coming from behind the trellis of roses, long since lost to the wild.
I go through the wooden archway and reach the dilapidated old shed. There they are, right at the bottom of the garden. I halt for a moment, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. Lori and Abi are heaving away with large spades, throwing clods of earth into a pile. Their backs are turned and their heads are down; they haven’t noticed me. Both of them are wearing long black wellies and thick canvas gloves. They’re working at a pace, their breathing laboured as they attack the heavy soil.
‘What are you doing?’ I say loudly as I approach.
They stop digging and turn around simultaneously. There’s the same guilty expression on both their faces. They pull themselves upright and shuffle together, as if trying to hide something from my view.
‘Hi, Stella!’ says Abi breezily, waving with her free arm. ‘You’re back early.’
Too early for your liking, I think.
‘I didn’t say what time I would be back. What are you doing?’ I repeat.
‘It was supposed to be a surprise,’ says Lori, her face flushed crimson, either with effort or embarrassment, probably both.
I walk right up to them and peer around the shield of their bodies to look. There’s a shallow hole in the ground, about a metre long and half a metre wide. ‘What’s all this?’
‘We’re making you a pond,’ says Abi.
‘You said you wanted one,’ Lori adds. ‘You want to keep fish, right?’
‘Yes, but … there’s about a million other things that need doing first.’
‘I know, but we can’t do the other things, we don’t have the expertise.’ Abi brushes mud off her coat.
‘But you know all about building ponds?’ I reply sarcastically.
‘I’ve got one at home,’ Abi smiles. ‘I saw them do it. You dig a hole, remove all the stones, then put a plastic lining—’
‘Okay, fine, I don’t need to know the details.’
There’s a moment of stalemate as I stare down into the hole. The soil here is a mixture of yellowish sand and grey-brown clay. A feeling of unease spreads through me as I look up and meet their gaze.
‘Building a pond is not a priority for me right now.’
The women exchange glances, then Abi says, ‘Well, we’ve started so we might as well carry on.’
‘But I … I don’t really want you—’
‘You’ll love it when it’s done,’ ventures Lori.
Abi nods. ‘At least let us finish the hole.’
‘Oh, do what you like,’ I snap, nearly slipping as I swing round on my heel and stomp back up the path towards the house, kicking away the brick and slamming the door behind me. The flimsy conservatory shudders, and for a second I think it’s going to collapse.
By the time I get back to my room, I’m shaking with fury. What possessed them to do that, for Christ’s sake? It’s just crazy. Why would I want a pond when I haven’t got a decent kitchen or a proper bathroom, when all the floorboards are up and there’s nowhere to relax? The only place I’ve got is this one room, where I have to eat and sleep and work, and even here there’s damp under the window and the plaster falls off every time somebody bangs about upstairs. It’s shit. Everything in my life is shit. I push my wicker chair over and my coat crumples onto the floor like a dead body.
I’ve got to be strong, I tell myself, pacing the room. Get rid of my guests, make contact with Jack. He can’t be serious about this Pansy woman; he’s just trying to make me realise how much he’s hurting, how much is at stake. I so want him back. I’ll sell the house if that’s what it takes; who cares if I make a whacking great loss? It doesn’t matter where I live, as long as I’m with him. I’ll tell him the truth about my relationship with Mum and Dad. We’ll make a fresh start.
I stop and lean against the mantelpiece, resting my forehead on the cool marble. I know where I want to be – in my favourite room, the little turret at the top of the house; up in the clouds, away from this chaos, away from Lori and Abi. I want to climb into the old armchair, curl up under the blanket and just watch the tide go in and out. I haven’t been in that room for weeks, not since Lori arrived. I wanted her to feel that the top floor was her space, where she could feel private and secure. But this is my house, my space; it’s time to reclaim old territory. Feeling defiant, I walk out of the room again and march upstairs.
The turret is warm, even though there’s no heating. The circular window traps all the sunshine the day has to offer, and any heat in the house rises, coming to rest in this tiny space. I duck my head under the rafter, then turn to close the door. I’d lock myself in if I could. I should have thought to search for the key in the plastic box. But I can’t be bothered to go back downstairs.
There’s not much air in here and my chest tightens as I cough drily. I run my fingers through the thick layer of plaster dust on the windowsill – the stuff gets everywhere. I open a window, letting in a sharp blast of sea air, take a few deep breaths, then shut it again. I sink into the saggy old armchair and cover myself with a blanket. This chair was the only piece of furniture the previous occupants left behind. I think the removal company must have forgotten about it.
It’s late afternoon and the light is just starting to fade. God knows how long those idiots are going to stay out there excavating. I’ll have to make them stop tomorrow; I can’t let them go on digging, it’s absurd. I should never have mentioned my idea to Lori. It was a stupid idea anyway. All of it was stupid. Two people do not need an eight-bedroom house, even if they are hoping to have kids, which, incidentally, only one of them was.
It’s okay, Stella. Calm down. You’re going to sort everything out, bit by bit, one step at a time.
I like it up here in my little cubbyhole. Maybe, once Lori and Abi have left, I’ll move the bed up and sleep here. Just the mattress; there’s not enough room for the frame. Might have to buy a single, in fact. I look down at the floor space, trying to calculate the dimensions, to see if a bed would fit. A circular mattress is what I need, I decide. That would be cool. I wonder if you can buy them, or if it would have to be specially made.
I sweep my foot in a circle around the window, tracing a line in the dust, and my toe catches on the edge of a
small floorboard, flipping it up. Strange, I don’t remember any of the boards being loose. This one looks as if it’s been sawn in half, levered off and then put back. Throwing off the blanket, I edge myself off the armchair and lift it up. I lean forward, looking into the dark, cobwebbed cavity, poking at tiny pieces of rubble and bits of old newspaper. There’s something at the back; I can just about see it. It’s red, rectangular.
Lying down on my side, I stretch my hand under the boards and, after a short struggle, pull out a folder.
What’s this? Some kind of diary? Study notes, perhaps? I sit up, settling on my knees, coughing as I rub a layer of filthy dust off the top. Maybe one of the women who used to live here wrote down her story and hid it here.
Feeling excited, I open the cover and read the front page.
Highly confidential material. If this book is found, please return to: Dawn Watson, Pathways Family Therapy Centre, Magnolia Gardens, Tunbridge Wells, Kent.
Who is Dawn Watson, and why has this book been hidden here?
I feel my heart pounding as I turn the page and start to read.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Stella
Now
Pathways Family Therapy Centre
Client: Lori Mattison
Ref: 1306 M
Therapist: Ms Dawn Watson
Session 1: 5 March 2015
Lori presented as very nervous and unsure that she wanted to be here. I told her that it had taken enormous courage for her to come to the centre to see me and reassured her that we would take the sessions at her pace, not mine. They were solely for her benefit and she could withdraw at any time. She asked immediately about confidentiality and I told her that I would not be sharing information with anyone unless I had concerns about her safety or that of her children. In this case, it might be necessary to have discussions with her GP, the safeguarding lead at her children’s school, or Social Services, but I would inform her of this in advance whenever possible. This seemed to make her a little more comfortable. She understands that the school is already involved, as they made the referral, and emphasised that her main concern was her husband not finding out.
Lori is very slim and small in stature, with short dark hair. (Note: she was wearing a lot of make-up, which could possibly have been hiding facial injuries. Also a long-sleeved tracksuit top and jogging bottoms that may have been concealing cuts or bruises.) She appeared to be in reasonable physical health, although seemed lacking in energy. She spoke very quietly and I had to ask her to repeat herself several times.
We went through some general details first to put her at ease. Lori is twenty-seven years old and has been married to Darren for nine years; they met at school. They have a son, Jamie, aged eight, and a daughter, Casey, aged six. Lori works at the local supermarket on a zero-hours contract. Before she had children, she was training to be a hairdresser but never got beyond junior level due to her first pregnancy. Darren works as a loft insulation installer and runs his own business. They are not in receipt of any benefits – Lori said they could do with some extra cash but that it is difficult making claims because Darren is self-employed. They live in rented accommodation – a three-bedroom town house. She said she hated living on the Garrick Lees estate because there was a load of drug dealing going on right outside her front window. She would like them to move and buy a place of their own, but said there was ‘no chance’.
Her parents are still alive, but she was vague about how often she sees them and how much they are involved with the grandchildren (maybe not involved at all?). She has brothers and sisters, but none of them live locally. I got the impression that she is lonely and quite isolated. Her main focus in life seems to be her children.
I tried to move the conversation on to more personal matters. According to the referral letter, staff at the school have been concerned about Lori’s children for a while. Recently there were a number of violent behavioural incidents at school involving her son. Her daughter has recently shown signs of withdrawal and non-engagement with classmates. Both children have higher-than-average levels of absence. I began by asking Lori what sense she could make of Jamie’s behaviour. How long had it been a problem? Was he behaving the same way at home as at school?
Lori clearly felt uncomfortable about answering these questions. She maintained that she didn’t know why he was ‘playing up’ at school and that he wasn’t a problem at home, although Darren ‘keeps the kids on a tight leash’ and they know not to make him angry. She said she was worried about her little boy and didn’t know what to do; that’s why she’d agreed to take part in the therapy sessions. I asked if she ever discussed the matter with Darren, but she said no, ‘there would be no point’; he’d just get angry with his son for getting into trouble and it would make things worse.
I asked if there been any recent changes at home, any difficult or upsetting events that she was aware of. She became extremely agitated at this point but said she couldn’t think of anything.
I asked Lori why she had only agreed to take part in therapy sessions on the condition that Darren didn’t know (see referral letter). Did she think he would be cross if he found out? She said yes, he liked to keep family matters private. I asked if there was anything going on in the family that would embarrass him if other people found out about it. She said there wasn’t, but she tensed visibly and I suspected I had touched a nerve. I was tempted to delve further, but decided Lori would not be receptive at this stage.
I asked what she was hoping to get out of our sessions together. She said she didn’t know, she just thought it would be good to have someone to talk to – especially about the kids. She was upset that they were having problems at school and wanted to help them.
Time was up. I told Lori that she’d done extremely well, that I’d really enjoyed talking to her and hoped she would come and see me at the same time next Thursday. She reacted well to my praise and said ‘it wasn’t as bad as I expected’. She confirmed that she wanted to carry on. By the end of the session, she seemed slightly more at ease, and I felt that we had already established a positive rapport. Overall, a very encouraging start. I think Lori and her children could benefit hugely from therapy sessions with me, and I look forward to resuming our conversation next week.
* * *
Conclusion
This first meeting with Lori convinced me that that the referrer’s suspicion that DV is taking place within this family is quite possibly a correct one. From observations by school staff about the children’s changed behaviour, and Lori’s presentation, responses and reactions, particularly her fear of Darren finding out about the therapy, I would conclude that there is a definite possibility that she is experiencing physical and psychological abuse and that her husband is the perpetrator. It is also possible that the children are being abused, or at least witnessing assaults on their mother. However, when Lori is clearly so scared of Darren, it is not going to be easy for me to draw her out. I anticipate that this will take more than the full six sessions allowed under the scheme.
My fingers are trembling as I turn over the next page. More notes from further sessions with Lori. And not just six of them, either. I flick forward – there are reams of the stuff. Session 8 … Session 12 … Session 17 … Pages and pages of handwritten observations, passages underlined in red, huge asterisks and exclamation marks in the margins, and at the end of Session 4, the word BREAKTHROUGH!!! scrawled large across the page.
I sit back on my haunches, breathless. This is private information, I shouldn’t be reading it. And yet something’s not right, not making sense. I turn back to the opening pages and re-read the therapist’s notes, more slowly this time. A sick feeling hits my stomach as I reach the second paragraph. Lori is very slim and small in stature, with short dark hair. And then, a few lines further on: Lori is twenty-seven years old.
That’s not correct. Lori is short and quite dumpy, and her hair’s a mousy blonde. There’s no way she’s in her twenties; she looks more like early forties.
I check the date at the top of the page. These sessions were conducted three years ago. I suppose she could have put on weight since then and bleached her hair. Women who have a hard life age more quickly, but even so … The description doesn’t sound like the Lori I know.
I need to put this book back where I found it and get out of here, but before I do … I whip my phone out of my back pocket and quickly snap photos of the first few pages. Then I push the treasure back into its dark and dusty hiding place and replace the loose board.
Walking quickly downstairs, I hurry into my bedroom and shut the door behind me. I type ‘Pathways Family Therapy Centre’ into Google, and the website comes up immediately. It’s a private practice: Quiet, relaxing rooms in a calm out-of-town setting. Space for reflection, sharing, or just being … We always have time for YOU.
I click on ‘Meet Our Therapists’ from the menu, my heart stopping for a second as I stare at the screen. A photo of the woman I know as Lori looks back at me – skin fresh, hair neatly bobbed, a sympathetic-looking smile fixed to her face. Underneath it is the name ‘Dawn Watson’, and a description: I am a qualified and fully accredited therapist with many years’ experience in both the public and private sector. I have worked with a wide range of client groups, including families and couples, and am very responsive to individual needs. I have particular expertise working with survivors of domestic violence.
I will always listen to you and never judge. My aim is to guide you to making the decision that’s right for you, whatever that may be.