Black Valley

by Williams, Charlotte

  ‘It was good having you there at the party,’ Elinor said at last. She hugged the cardigan around her. ‘It made me feel better.’ She paused. ‘What did you think of the paintings, by the way?’

  Jess brought to mind the great black canvasses.

  ‘They’re not beautiful, are they?’ Elinor leaned towards her a little. She seemed anxious to get her opinion.

  ‘No. Not exactly. But they were powerful.’ Jess chose her words carefully. ‘In the sense that they conjured up a void. I found them compelling.’

  Elinor smiled. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. You see, art’s a language. It can talk about beauty or ugliness. If it’s apt, if it does the job, there’s a kind of beauty in that, don’t you think?’

  Jess nodded. Then they both fell silent again.

  They went on to discuss the practicalities of Elinor’s visit to the retreat. The weather forecast was actually pretty good, and she’d decided to cycle up there, so as to avoid going by car or public transport. She would hire her camping gear from a local youth hostel when she got there. Jess, who knew nothing whatsoever about camping, felt a mixture of horror and admiration as Elinor outlined her plan. She tried not to worry, telling herself that Elinor seemed to have plenty of cash at her disposal, and that, remote as it might seem, Cwm Du was hardly out of the reach of civilization. After all, there were farms dotted all over it, so Elinor told her, and the city itself was not very far away. And if the weather worsened, Elinor reassured her, she could easily find a caravan to rent from one of the farmers; or, if the worst came to the worst, she could always return home.

  Their conversation came to a close, and they gazed out at the river again, watching as the cormorant gave up its quest and flew away.

  Jess glanced at her watch, realized their time was up, and told Elinor that the session was at an end. On an impulse, before she left she gave Elinor her mobile number, telling her to call if she needed help, which was something she very rarely did with her clients.

  ‘You go back,’ Elinor said. ‘I’ll stay here for a bit.’ She gave Jess a timid smile. She seemed altogether calmer than when they’d arrived.

  ‘Good luck, then. I hope it all goes well.’ Jess got up to go.

  ‘Bye, then. Oh.’ Elinor plucked at the cardigan and the scarf she’d borrowed. ‘What shall I do about these?’

  ‘Keep them for now. You can bring them back at our next session.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Elinor smiled again. This time, it was a warm, open smile. Jess realized it was the first time she’d seen her look genuinely relaxed and happy. She felt gratified that their encounter had been helpful. It had been a good idea to bring Elinor down here to the riverside.

  Jess said goodbye, and walked off towards the street. When she looked back, she saw Elinor hugging the cardigan around her, her head nestled cosily in the scarf, contentedly watching the ducks.

  Enactment, she said to herself. Otherwise known as actualization. When your client gets you to play a role for them, drawing you into their drama, so that you stop being the therapist – analysing and interpreting – and become, instead, a docile player in their game, a character in the story of their family dynamic, but entirely under their control. In this case, a nurturing mother. Or perhaps, more confusingly, a protective twin?

  Jess gave a sigh. She was somewhat disappointed in herself for not having realized earlier what was going on. Despite her forlorn air, like all neurotics, Elinor had a way of twisting people round her little finger, getting exactly what she wanted. She was quite innocent about it, apparently, but that was what always happened: windows had to be opened, cardigans lent, contact numbers given, rules broken. She’d have to watch out for that in future, Jess told herself.

  She gave another sigh, and quickened her pace. When she reached the park gates, she walked out into the street, without looking back at the figure sitting on the bench.

  After Elinor’s session, Jess saw three more patients, attended a meeting about the service charges in the building, and went home, stopping at the chemist on the way to buy Rose a new washbag. Bearing in mind Rose’s new-found disdain for childish things like cuddly animal designs, she chose a rather expensive, sophisticated one, festooned with retro roses, polka dots, zips and pockets. Then she picked up a few items to put in it – lip gloss, hair elastics, a folding toothbrush – paid for them at the till, and headed back to the car.

  As she drove down the familiar roads to the house, it began to rain hard. She turned the windscreen wipers on and off to stop them squeaking, cursing herself inwardly for still not having got them fixed, and resolving to do so the next day. Where the road dipped down under the trees, she was overtaken by a smart silver-grey saloon, its wheels swishing in the rain. She nearly drove into a ditch to avoid it, and cursed again, this time out loud. By the time she got home she was feeling tense; Bob was due to drop Rose back any minute, having taken her out again after school, and she was worried that she was going to be late. Then she saw the silver-grey car parked in the driveway.

  She parked her own car in the lane outside, got out with her shopping, and locked it, cutting the lights. As she came up the path, Rose jumped out of the stranger’s car.

  ‘I’m back.’ She had a big grin on her face. Jess noticed that her hair had been curled into ringlets with a curling iron. She was also wearing pale pink lipstick. She looked pretty, and a good deal more grown-up than when Jess had seen her earlier in the day.

  The tinted window of the car rolled down.

  ‘Hello,’ the person inside called out, so Jess went over.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said, as if expecting Jess to know who she was. And of course, Jess did. This was Tegan, Bob’s new squeeze. She looked much as she had on TV, only without so much make-up. She was wearing some kind of padded jacket, beige, with a fake-fur collar and a zip up the front. She was pretty, in a conventional sort of way.

  ‘And you,’ said Jess, standing in the rain, feeling it soak into her collar. ‘Thanks for dropping her back.’

  ‘No problem. Bob was a bit tied up with work today, so I picked her up from school and had her for the afternoon.’

  Jess felt a flush of irritation. So Bob was already palming Rose off on his new girlfriend, was he? Getting her to pick Rose up from school on the days when he was scheduled to do it?

  ‘Well, I hope she behaved herself.’

  ‘She was a dream.’

  Rose had skipped up the steps to the house, and was standing by the front door.

  Tegan leaned her head out of the window, but only a touch, so that she wouldn’t get wet.

  ‘Bye, Rosie,’ she called, waving. ‘See you soon.’

  Rose waved back with enthusiasm.

  Tegan gave Jess another wide smile, rolled up the window, and backed out of the drive. Then she was gone.

  Jess walked up the path to the house, not bothering to re-park the car in the driveway. When she got to the front door, Rose had already gone in.

  ‘Had a nice time, darling?’ In the hallway, Jess put down her things, took off her coat, and went over to hug her daughter.

  Rose ignored the question. ‘I wish you’d been here when we arrived. We had to wait in the car.’

  ‘Only five minutes, love.’

  Rose turned her head away, grumpily, as her mother bent to kiss her. Jess knew why she was moody. She’d made an enormous effort to be nice to Bob’s new girlfriend, and now that she was home, the emotional weight of the situation had hit her, and she was coming down with a bump.

  ‘I stopped to buy you something.’ Jess took out the washbag, and handed it over.

  Rose looked at it, but said nothing.

  ‘I can take it back if you—’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum.’

  ‘There are a few little things inside.’

  ‘Right.’ Rose nodded but she didn’t unzip the bag to have a look. Then she turned and walked up the staircase to her room.

  When she was gone, Jess felt tears prick her eyes. It was
a trivial thing, and she understood the reasons for it, but the fact that Rose had shown no interest in her small gift had upset her. At times like this, she missed Bob terribly. In the past, when the girls behaved in hurtful ways, she and Bob would have talked it over, he would have comforted her, and then he would have made her laugh about it. That was why she still needed him around. She could look after the girls, but sometimes she needed him to look after her.

  A tear rolled down her face, and she wiped it away.

  Just at that moment, the front door opened and Nella walked in with Gareth. They were laughing and talking. When Nella saw her mother in the corridor, she made an odd gesture, pulling her baggy cardigan tightly around her. Then she stepped forward and greeted her mother with a smacking kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Hiya Mam.’ She seemed oblivious to Jess’s mood. ‘Me and Gareth are cooking tonight.’

  Jess felt her spirits lift. Nella was such a buoyant presence around the house when Gareth was there.

  ‘Lovely. What are we having?’

  ‘We’ll have to see, Dr Mayhew.’ Gareth spoke in a mock serious voice. ‘It depends on what we can hunt and gather.’

  Gareth always called Jess Dr Mayhew, as if she were a GP rather than a psychotherapist with a PhD. They were a quirky pair, Nella and Gareth, both sharing the same odd sense of humour – and dress. Today, Gareth was wearing an intentionally hideous sweatshirt with a large horse on the front, while Nella was swathed in the large cardigan of his that reached to her knees.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Jess always felt faintly nervous when the two of them cooked a meal. They came up with the oddest combinations of foods, and often left a dreadful mess behind in the kitchen. ‘But make something Rose will like.’

  She watched them offload their bags and walk down the hall to the kitchen. Nella was putting on weight, she thought. Just a little, round the hips. She was growing up, becoming a woman, rather than a slip of a girl. Or perhaps it was just the jumper that was making her look more curvaceous than usual.

  ‘And don’t forget to clear up afterwards,’ she called after them.

  Good, she thought. I can have a soak in the bath now, and maybe catch up on some paperwork after we’ve eaten.

  She heard a clatter of pots in the kitchen, followed by a burst of laughter. For a moment, she was tempted to go and investigate. Then she thought, what the hell, and walked up the stairs to run her bath.

  9

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘You’re not. I’m early.’

  ‘Well, I should have been here first.’

  ‘Not at all. Drink?’

  ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘No, let me.’

  ‘No, please . . .’

  Jessica was nervous. So was Dresler. Their words came out too quickly, in a rush. When she’d seen him sitting at the table, she’d come over, and he’d stood up, and she’d stayed hovering at the table, unsure what to do; and then there’d been a silly ‘after you’, ‘no, after you’ kind of conversation about where to sit, what to eat, and so on. By the time they’d settled down, their drinks in front of them and their food ordered, Jess was beginning to wish she’d never embarked on this venture. She was too old for dating, out of the habit of it. When after much deliberation, she’d phoned to see if they could meet up, he’d immediately invited her to dinner. Now she wished they’d arranged morning coffee, or afternoon tea, or a walk in the park. Something less formal, less intense.

  Not that the place she’d suggested was particularly formal. It was a welcoming gastropub in Pontcanna, not far from her consulting rooms in Cathedral Road. Pontcanna was the one area of Cardiff that reminded Jessica of the more salubrious parts of London: it was all pretty town houses, chichi florists, gift shops, boutiques and restaurants, with a few rather more workaday establishments – a post office, a butcher’s, a chemist – thrown in. Nowadays it was home to Cardiff’s small but thriving community of media folk. The gastropub was a lively place, and Jess felt that the relaxed ambience would be helpful in what was bound to be a slightly tense situation – for her, at least, if not for him.

  ‘So. You’re looking well.’ Dresler gave her a warm smile.

  ‘You too.’

  He did look well. He was more handsome than she’d remembered him. Perhaps it was the low light in the pub, or the grey-blue shirt he was wearing, but his eyes looked bluer, his hair thicker and darker than before.

  ‘I like your dress.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  After much thought, Jess had chosen a simple black shift with a contrasting cobalt-blue panel down the front. She’d dressed it down with opaque tights and black ankle boots. Around her neck was a pendant, an antique carved mother-of-pearl disc on a silver chain.

  ‘That’s unusual.’ Dresler leaned forward to take a closer look at the pendant.

  She felt her neck heating up. Having him scrutinize her chest, although it was fully covered, made her feel flustered.

  She held up the pendant, away from her body, so that he could see it more closely. And her less closely.

  ‘Ah, I see. A button.’ He studied it. ‘Early nineteenth century, I’d say. Where d’you get it?’

  ‘It was a present from a former client. I’m a psychotherapist, you see.’ The heat from her neck began to spread to her face. She hoped it wouldn’t show. ‘He was scared of buttons. I . . . well, I think I helped him get over it.’

  She withdrew the pendant, suddenly feeling shy. This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m behaving like a teenager on her first date.

  ‘That must be a very satisfying job,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. He seemed genuinely interested to hear more.

  ‘Well, not always.’ She paused. ‘But I like my work, actually. Although it can be a little wearing sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sure. But to be able to help people in such a concrete way . . .’ He leaned forward again and refilled her glass. ‘What’s your approach? Dynamic? Gestalt?’

  ‘Existentialist, actually.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘We try to work with what you know about yourself, rather than what you don’t. And how you can use that to change your behaviour.’ She paused, aware that she might be sounding didactic, then added, ‘If you want to, that is.’

  He looked puzzled. ‘But how does that approach tally with the notion of the unconscious? Freud says we’re determined by forces we know nothing about, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Of course. But we still have a choice, you know. We can choose whether to explore our unconscious wishes, bring them to the fore, or leave them where they are, buried deep, and continuing to confuse us and thwart our progress.’

  ‘So how does one make that choice?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  Jess realized, as they talked, that she would never have had this kind of conversation with Bob; he’d been supportive of, but not actually interested in, what she did. And now she thought of it, she realized that the same had been true vice versa. They’d operated in separate spheres, intellectually speaking, as if that was the normal way couples behaved. Perhaps it was; but just half an hour in Dresler’s company was giving her an entirely new perspective on a marriage that had lasted twenty years, revealing what had been missing from it. It was a disturbing realization, but an exhilarating one.

  When the food came, both of them ate with relish: Jess, a dish of locally caught grey mullet with cockles and laverbread, and Dresler a warming plate of liver, bacon and lentils, both of which married well with the wine they’d ordered, a hearty Tempranillo. Jess asked him about his own work, and he described his life as an art critic and academic, writing and teaching, and occasionally presenting arts features on radio and TV.

  ‘So you’re nurturing new talent,’ Jess said. ‘Helping get artists’ careers off the ground.’

  ‘That’s the general idea. But it doesn’t always work like that.’ He paused. ‘I don’t like the way the art world is going at the moment. It’s not good for artists, and it’s not good for art.
’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t get me started. I’ll be like one of your patients once I get going.’

  Jess grinned. ‘Try me.’

  ‘Well, if you really want to know.’ He put down his knife and fork. ‘You see, it’s all a bit of a mess at present, in my view. There’s been a drift away from independent critics towards the interests of a few rich players. There’s a cartel of important people – dealers, collectors, auction houses – who pick a tiny selection of “hot” artists just out of college, usually selected for their shock value, and hype them up, through their friends at the fairs, so their work sells for millions.’ He checked himself. ‘Sorry, I’m not boring you, am I? I feel rather strongly about this.’

  ‘Not at all.’ On the contrary, Jess was fascinated. The world of contemporary art was one she knew nothing about.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the prices hit the headlines, the artists become celebrities, their work sells for more – it’s a self-perpetuating cycle. Everyone’s invested in it, so whatever rubbish a so-called hot artist produces, no one’s got the guts to criticize it.’

  ‘But isn’t that your job?’

  ‘You’d think so. But if you get too out of step with current fashion, you run the risk of being excluded from the game. You see, the critics have no power these days. No one’s interested in listening to an independent, objective voice. There’s too much money at stake.’

  Jess was sceptical. ‘But hasn’t there always been a hook-up between art and money? I mean, think of the great patrons of the past. The nobility, the Church, and so on.’

  Dresler nodded. ‘But the thing is, there’s so much more money around these days. We’re talking billions, not millions. You take these hedge fund guys. Because of the digital revolution, they can buy and sell shares in seconds – and destabilize the economy in the process, I might add. Spending twelve million quid on a stuffed shark represents a few days’ work to them. And they don’t really care if their investment fails. Art, to them, is just another way to add to their status. And get rid of their cash.’