Black Valley

by Williams, Charlotte

  ‘No thanks.’ Elinor waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve heard of CBT. I don’t fancy it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Identifying your negative thoughts. Adjusting them. Making checklists. Writing out worksheets. It sounds tedious.’

  Jess was amused. Although she respected her colleague, and knew many clients who had been helped greatly by CBT, she had to admit she felt rather the same. If one was honest, the type of therapy one practised, or chose to follow, was usually more a question of taste than a rational decision, whether or not one cared to admit it.

  ‘But that approach can be very effective,’ Jess said, in an effort to be fair. ‘It’s extremely practical. You’ll develop ways of managing your fear, coping with everyday tasks, using various techniques—’

  ‘I don’t want that.’ There was a note of irritation in Elinor’s voice. ‘I don’t want to make checklists and be given homework to do. That’s not the type of person I am.’

  Jessica repressed a smile. She was beginning to warm to her new client. There was something endearingly direct about her.

  ‘I suppose, being an artist, I’m more drawn to a Jungian view of the world,’ Elinor went on. ‘You know, dreams, archetypes, mythologies. That kind of thing. What about you?’

  ‘Oh.’ Jess thought for a moment. She didn’t want to sound too theoretical, but there was no way round it. ‘I’m what’s called an existential psychotherapist.’

  Elinor frowned, whether in concentration or irritation it was hard to say.

  ‘It’s actually quite simple,’ Jess continued. ‘We’re rooted in Freudian theory, but we emphasize choice and freedom, rather than the idea that we’re the victims of our past.’

  ‘But I thought psychotherapy was all about the past. Delving into your childhood and so on.’

  ‘It is, to some degree. Of course, the circumstances of our birth, and our upbringing, are vital to our understanding of ourselves. And, to a greater or lesser degree, we’re limited by those circumstances. But every person has a set of choices as to how to respond to those limits.’ She paused. She didn’t want to come over as didactic. ‘And if we’re to live full, engaged lives, we have to acknowledge our freedom to make those choices, and act on them.’

  Elinor looked puzzled. ‘So how would this apply to my situation?’

  ‘I don’t really know what your situation is. Not yet, anyway.’ Jess hesitated. ‘But it’s possible that your claustrophobia may be what we call a “call of conscience”. It may be trying to tell you that there’s something you need to address in your life.’ She paused. ‘You see, normally we tell a story about our lives, like the one you’ve just told me. But sometimes our bodies and our minds tell us a story, and we need to stop and listen.’

  There was a long silence. Elinor looked pensive. Her eyes began to rove around the room. She seemed to be assessing it: the sash windows, the pale green velvet curtains either side of the bay, the antique wooden desk in the corner, the white-on-white Ben Nicholson-style relief on the wall. As the silence deepened, the consulting room seemed to take on a life of its own: peaceful, patient, expectant. The two of them, client and analyst, became aware of the low hum of traffic from the street, the faint rustle of the wind in the tree outside, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Secrets had been revealed here, maps redrawn, the compass realigned, new paths plotted. Jess was familiar with that history, that potency; she sensed it every time she walked into the room. For her new client, it was the first time.

  ‘All right, then.’ Elinor’s voice finally broke the silence. ‘When can I start?’

  2

  After Elinor Powell left, Jess didn’t have time to think further about the case. Four more clients came in, all of them with pressing concerns: there was Harriet, a morbidly obese young woman with a complex set of emotional problems; Bryn, a man in his fifties who continued to rage against his widowed mother, on whom he was still entirely dependent; Maria, a single parent whose children were being taken into care as a result of her deepening depression; and Deri, a banker who had recently, and quite unexpectedly, lost his job in the City and returned home to Wales.

  At the end of the final session, Jess hurriedly wrote up her notes, dealt with her emails, then headed for home, stopping on the way to pick up a trolleyful of shopping at the supermarket. It was only on the short drive from there to her house on the outskirts of Cardiff that her mind began to stray back to her new client. All she knew so far was that Elinor’s mother had died a violent death during a robbery at her house. That would be enough to tip anyone into phobia, she reflected. Moreover, the fact that the police hadn’t found the perpetrator meant that Elinor would continue to be in a state of heightened emotion until exactly what happened became clear. It was odd, though, the way she’d behaved in the session, as if she constantly needed to assert herself in opposition to her new therapist. Maybe that was something to do with the mother; or perhaps a competitive sibling relationship . . .

  It began to rain. She switched on the windscreen wipers, but they scratched ineffectually at the window. They needed changing, and she hadn’t yet got around to it.

  As she swung onto the main drag out of the city, peering through the smears on the glass, she thought of how Elinor had talked of her mother’s death in terms of guilt and punishment. It was common enough, she knew, for clients to consider themselves responsible for events outside their control. The urge to blame themselves for anything and everything that went wrong was a kind of egomania she’d encountered many times with her clients, and she’d long ago realized that it was a perverse attempt to take control of the situation, to place themselves at the centre of the drama, rather than acknowledge that their role in what happened, good or bad, was often quite peripheral. Elinor had evidently fallen into that trap, judging by what she’d told her so far.

  She left the city behind her, moving into a stretch of road where the trees clustered overhead. As she dipped down under them, she noticed that the leaves on the branches were beginning to unfurl; soon they would spread into a tunnel of green. The sight of them cheered her. She was always heartened by those first crumpled, sticky signs of spring. This year, after the long, hard winter, they’d been late, and she’d wondered if they’d come at all; but now, here they were, waiting to open out into a dappled canopy above her, something she could enjoy each time she took the road home.

  She was tempted to look up the case on the Internet. After all, it was public knowledge now, having been reported in the local papers at the time. But, like a juror in a trial, she’d made it a strict rule not to conduct such searches, unless her clients specifically asked her to. It was up to them, she felt, to tell her their stories in their own way; knowing too much about their personal lives didn’t help that process, since she’d be comparing what they said against her own supposedly more objective account, and forming her own opinions, which was not the point of the exercise. On the contrary, her job was to help her clients explore the internal contradictions within the stories they told about themselves, and let the truth emerge from that. Besides, there was a voyeuristic element to googling that she disliked; where her clients were concerned it felt intrusive, and nosy, and generally underhand.

  She came out from under the branches and turned into the lane that led to her house, passing the church on her right. The ringing of the bells on a Sunday morning reassured her, too, although she never went to the services. As she parked the car outside the garage, she reflected that it was continuity she needed at the moment. She and Bob had lived apart for several months now; she needed to remain here in the house, with a settled routine, keep the job going, make sure the girls felt secure . . .

  She got out of the car, went round to the boot, took out the shopping, and locked up. Then she walked up the drive to the front door and pressed the bell; one of the girls would answer it, she thought, so she wouldn’t have to put the shopping down. There was no reply, so she pressed again. Again, no reply. Irritated, she balanced the shoppin
g bag against the wall, on her knee, and fiddled with the key to get it into the lock. As she did, she saw the outline of her eldest daughter through the glass of the door, coming up the hall.

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’ Nella opened the door. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  Nella was looking particularly scruffy that day. She was wearing a loose sweatshirt, a pair of leggings and worn black ballet flats. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in a messy knot, and yesterday’s mascara clung to the skin around her eyes, as if she’d just got out of bed and hadn’t yet washed her face.

  She kissed her mother on the cheek, took the shopping, and went off down to the kitchen. Jess took off her coat in the hall, then followed her. She noticed that the fabric of Nella’s leggings was very thin, so much so that you could see the outline of her thong beneath them. I hope she hasn’t been walking around the streets like that, she thought. She looks like a tramp. However, she kept her opinion to herself; Nella was seventeen now, and didn’t take kindly to criticism of her appearance, to say the least.

  ‘Where’s your sister?’ Jess asked, going over to the kettle, filling it, and putting it on to boil.

  ‘Upstairs.’ Nella started to unpack the shopping, found a packet of biscuits, and opened them. ‘Doing her homework, I think.’

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Shit, as usual.’ Nella took out a biscuit and munched it. Jess busied herself with getting cups, teabags and milk from the fridge, and trying to hide her irritation.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘OK.’

  Jess made the tea, brought it over, and they sat down at the table together.

  ‘Got any plans for this evening?’

  ‘Gareth’s coming over. Then we’re going out to a gig in town.’

  Gareth was Nella’s boyfriend. The two of them played in a band together, and seemed to have forged a stable relationship. Jess was fond of him; he was open, kind and affectionate, and he seemed to adore her daughter, which had thoroughly endeared him to her.

  ‘Have you handed that essay in yet?’

  ‘No.’ Nella gave a deep sigh. ‘I need a break from it. I’m very stressed.’

  Once more, Jess tried to hide her irritation, reminding herself that although Nella appeared to have been hanging around the house all day doing nothing, half dressed, she might indeed be stressed in some way.

  ‘I can’t bear going to college every day.’ Nella sighed again. ‘My heart’s not in it. I just need to concentrate on my songwriting.’

  They’d been through this before. After her GCSEs, Nella had wanted to leave school, get a job as a waitress, and work on her music. She’d been persuaded to stay on at sixth-form college but so far she’d hardly attended, and had been late with most of her assignments.

  Jess gave a sigh of frustration. ‘Nella, you’re perfectly capable of getting three decent A levels, as well as writing a few songs. You’re a clever girl. You just need to organize your time a bit better.’

  ‘That’s what Dad said.’ Nella took a sip of tea and reached for another biscuit. Jess was relieved to hear that Bob was backing her up, but all the same, at the mention of his name her resolve weakened, and she took a biscuit too.

  It had been three months since Bob had moved out of the family home. Nothing final, of course. They had simply decided that a trial separation was in order. It had been a long, hard struggle for both of them to make the decision. Over a year ago, Bob had told Jess that he’d had a one-night stand. She’d tried to be magnanimous about it, but she hadn’t found herself able to forgive him. On top of that, he’d used some information about a client that she’d told him in private to further his own career. That had been the final straw, undermining her professional as well as her personal life. They’d carried on for a while, both doing their utmost to make amends, for the sake of the girls, but also because in many ways there was still a great deal of affection there. They had built a good partnership together over two decades, and it still caught Jess by surprise that they were now separated. She hadn’t quite got used to it, and neither had he.

  ‘Well, maybe Dad and you and I should get together and talk about all this,’ Jess said, finishing her biscuit. ‘But in the meantime, get that essay in. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you want me to finish helping you unpack the shopping?’

  Since the split, Nella had been much more helpful in the house. Indeed, she’d become quite protective of her mother. Jess was touched, but Nella’s new-found solicitousness also made her feel guilty at times.

  ‘No, you get on.’ Jess got up and carried the cups over to the sink. ‘See if you can get your work done by suppertime. You can go out after that. Tell Rose I’ll be up in a minute.’

  Jess tidied the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, cleaning the sink, and wiping the countertop. The girls were supposed to do it, but inevitably their efforts were somewhat erratic. When she’d finished, she went upstairs and looked in on Rose, who was lying curled up on her bed reading a book.

  Unlike Nella, Rose hardly spent any time at all on the computer. She seemed to prefer reading to surfing the net, pen and paper to tapping on a keyboard, and visiting friends to social networking. She was eleven now, but she seemed younger. She’d grown her hair down to her shoulders, but continued to wear it held back in an Alice band, and her clothes were still neat, tidy and modest. True, she no longer wore sweaters with cuddly animal designs on the front, or socks with frills on the cuffs, but Jessica sensed that she would have liked to, had it been socially acceptable among her peers.

  ‘How was your day?’ Jessica came and sat down on the end of the bed.

  Rose didn’t reply.

  Jess leaned forward and gently tapped her on the shoulder. Rose lifted her head, a distracted look on her face.

  ‘How was school today?’ Jess persevered.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Got much homework?’

  ‘Just some reading.’

  Jess glanced at the cover of the book. It was an old edition of I Capture the Castle that she’d had as a child.

  ‘I’ve got to give a talk about my favourite novel in class tomorrow,’ Rose explained.

  ‘D’you want to try it out on me, once you’ve done it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Rose put her nose back in her book.

  Jess took the hint and got up. ‘Supper in an hour or so. OK?’ Rose didn’t reply, so Jess left her to it. Then she went into her room, got undressed and had a shower, hoping that the warm water would wash away her fatigue. It did, to a certain extent, though while she was soaping herself, she found herself mulling over Elinor’s story again. What had Elinor’s mother been doing at the house when the break-in happened? Would the theft of a painting like that really warrant murder – or had the thief killed her in a panic at being discovered? How had she been killed? And why hadn’t the police come up with any leads, after four months? Were they just being incompetent, or could there perhaps be something that the family was hiding? Elinor hadn’t insured the painting; nobody outside the family would have known it was there, would they?

  She turned her face up to the shower head, letting the spray spill over it, before turning off the water. Then she stepped out of the shower, and began to dry herself. When she finished, she looked at herself in the mirror. She’d lost a bit of weight, especially around the waist and hips, she thought. All that lying awake at night and worrying, probably. She decided not to bother with underwear, pulling on a pair of loose patterned silk trousers and a baggy cashmere jumper, and went downstairs to cook supper.

  It wasn’t easy, these days, finding something that everyone in the family would eat. Rose had become a vegetarian, since she disapproved of killing animals. Nella was on a permanent diet, when she wasn’t stuffing herself with chocolate biscuits. Jess herself was fairly flexible, although she tried to keep an eye on her weight. In the end, she decided to make roasted vegetables and couscous, sprinkled with grated cheese and pine nuts for protein. That, she hoped, would keep every
one happy.

  She and the girls ate their supper in front of the television, watching an episode of Downton Abbey on catch-up. The girls adored it, and she quite enjoyed it too. She’d heard it was very successful abroad, and she could see why. The characters simply spoke the plot, and the dialogue was so straightforward that even someone with the most basic grasp of English could understand it. ‘Darling, I’m divorcing you because you can’t have children.’ ‘But that’s not fair.’ ‘I know, I’m so sorry. But it has to be.’ ‘Well, then, I’ll leave in the morning.’ The terse dialogue meant that the story galloped on at a cracking pace. No waiting around for nuance or conjecture – it was full steam ahead all the way. Rather the way she felt her own life was going at the moment, to be honest.

  That night, Rose crept into her bed. Jess woke, confused for a moment, feeling a warm body lying next to her.

  ‘What is it, love?’ Rose was sniffling.

  Jess put her arm out and touched her daughter’s cheek. It was wet with tears.

  ‘I miss Dad.’

  ‘I know.’ Jess drew her close. She wanted to say, Never mind, you can go and see him any time you want, but she knew that wouldn’t help. Rose needed her sadness to be acknowledged, not brushed away.

  ‘Do you think . . . do you think you and he . . .’ Rose let her words trail off.

  Jess sighed. ‘Well, we’re trying our best. But whatever happens, your dad will always be around. He loves you. You know that, don’t you?’

  Rose sniffed.

  ‘We both love you. You’re safe. OK?’

  She sniffed again. ‘Can I sleep in here for the night?’