The Listeners

by Monica Dickens

  Eric, who was a police sergeant for the rest of the week, was at the emergency telephone in the little study across the hall. Ronnie came back. Peter arrived with a box full of clothes and toys, crashing the front door open with his shoulder. The Samaritans did not hand out money, except to tide over an emergency, but Peter always had jerseys, coats, socks, dolls in the corner of his office. Where did he get all the stuff he gave away? ‘He steals it off the hotel guests,’ Helen said.

  One of his clients, a smart pretty woman in a fur coat was waiting to talk to him. The boy in the leather jacket was waiting for 200, head in hands, feet tapping a bored rhythm. Nancy was in the kitchen washing up. A girl with a white skin and big dark blue eyes fringed with unlikely lashes opened the door and stood childishly for a moment, head down and stomach out, the toes of her white boots turned in. Ronnie, who was still new enough to try not to be responsible for a client, looked round the room, saw that the others were leaving her to him and ambled up, swallowing. ‘Can I help you?’ He was as nervous as the girl.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She pulled in her stomach and lifted her small chest in a bright red coat like a military tunic. ‘I — well, the trouble is—’

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ But they remained standing. ‘Well, look, tell me.’ Ronnie took the plunge. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘It isn’t that. But thank you.’

  From the sofa where she was talking to Peter’s client, Victoria heard them conversing like a minuet, with the very serious and courteous attention that the young reserved for each other.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s right, to just come in like this without an appointment.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Ronnie waited. She looked at him as if he were her confessor, and then got it out. ‘How do you become a Samaritan?’

  Coincidence number three! ! ! First Sarah’s friend at the Play School, Jackie with the awful articulating mother, who stole out of bed to ring up his friend Helen. Then the customer in the shop, talking to Mr Lox about his cousin’s wife, ‘red as a cherry’. And then — when Brian was on the hated Sunday shift and Sarah wandered like a somnambulist up to the address in Church Grove, reading the names of the seedy old houses behind bulging walls and dilapidated hedges — then, the man manœuvring himself out of a small dusty car outside the stone house green with creeper stains was the owner of the Bay tree Hotel, who had said to her, ‘If I can’t get my staff back early, I’ll call you.’

  Was he in such desperate straits that he sought help? He had not seemed to be. Oh God — her mind flew loyally to Brian — what if this man shot himself in front of the American insurance brokers? Carrying a big grocery box of what looked like clothes, he went through the gateless gateway that had ‘St George’s Rectory’ carved into one stone pillar and a board on the other that said, ‘Samaritans. Please come in’, along the mossy path and up the two front steps. The door was unlatched. He pushed it open with his shoulder and disappeared inside.

  ‘My name is Paul,’ the man said.

  ‘I’m Sarah King.’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs, Sarah, where we can talk. We like to find out a bit about you, and tell you a bit about us. Then if your application goes through, and you still want to — that’s very important — you can start the preparation classes when the next series begins.’

  He was a tall solid man of about her father’s age, with lines round his eyes, and hair that he was allowing to go greyer than Sarah’s father. Not good looking — she was suspicious of good looking middle-aged men since the shocking realization that her father still thought of himself as about thirty-five — but nice looking. Very nice looking. And strong. Friendly. Yes. She saw herself coming in desperately pregnant. Deserted. Riddled with cancer. Shot her mother. Been caught shoplifting in Weinberg’s. Yes, she would be able to tell him.

  He took her out of the reception room and across the hall into a small room like a study, with tall empty bookcases and a wide desk with a peeling leather top, its missing foot replaced with the 1926 edition of Who’s Who.

  ‘Eric is on four thousand — the emergency number.’

  Eric, in a grey seaman’s sweater, was reading the Sunday Express, effectively at ease, awaiting a call that might mean life or death. Don’t ring now, Sarah told the telephone that sat on the scarred desk like a time-bomb. I’ll feel I shouldn’t be here. I’ll be in the way. I won’t know what to do. It will be either right to listen and learn, or wrong to eavesdrop on something that I am too shallow and immature to ever be allowed to make my business.

  ‘Eric, this is Sarah. She hopes to join us.’

  Although he looked rather embattled and cynical Eric did not jest, like the man at the youth club when she asked if she could help. ‘You must be as big a mug as I am.’ He nodded and said, ‘Good, Sarah.’

  She jumped as the telephone shrilled. ‘333-4000. The Samaritans. Can I help you?’

  What now? Drama? Tension? Crisis? As Paul took her out, she heard Eric say mildly, ‘Yes ... yes ... we do if we can. Yes of course, tell me about it. It’s all right, love. Take it easy. There’s plenty of time.’

  In the hall, Sarah turned to face Paul. ‘How can he sit there and listen so calmly to some disembodied person who’s desperate?’

  ‘He’s not so calm really. But grateful.’

  ‘You mean because he didn’t have enough to do?’

  ‘No. We’re pretty busy most of the time. He’s grateful that someone gave him the chance to listen to them.’

  The stairs at the back of the house, broad and shallow, curved upwards with a beautiful S-shaped line of banister. Below, what used to be the kitchen was now an office with desks and filing cabinets and an archaic sink where someone called Nancy was filling what looked like the first electric kettle ever made. Through the half-open door of a smaller room like a pantry, Sarah saw the man from the Baytree Hotel listening, nodding, ‘mm-hm,’ the telephone tucked between cheek and shoulder, looking through a folder with one hand, scribbling notes with the other.

  ‘He’s the Director of this branch,’ Paul said. ‘There has to be a boss, for the clients’ sake, because mistakes or confusion could mean someone’s life. But it’s not like most organizations. There’s no jealous hierarchy. No scrambling for promotion. No rewards or penalties. There are rules, but we — sort of discipline each other.’

  He told her this after they had gone upstairs and into one of the small rooms divided out of the high cold bedrooms. The end where Sarah sat with Paul had the fireplace, a bitter narrow grate which would have held about three lumps of coal. There was an electric fire now, and comfortable broken-down chairs. Ashtrays on the floor, a switch by the door to turn on a red light so that no one would come in. Here you would sit, if you were desperate, and feel secure, at least until you had to go back out into life. Outside the window, an old lady was led by a rumpled dog. They stopped every few yards along the wall for the dog to ruminate clues while the old lady patiently dreamed.

  They sat down. Sarah was not afraid. She almost wished she could be, to give the episode more drama. For two days, since she had heard about the Samaritans, she had felt within herself a surging tide of excitement. Coming here today she had been afraid, and almost turned back. If they said she had nothing to offer, if they turned her away, then the tide would go out and the excitement die like yellowing sea foam.

  This man was quiet and easy. He watched her, but without judgement. He asked her to tell him why she wanted to be a Samaritan, and then he listened carefully while she tried to answer. The fear was gone. The excitement remained. Should she be more relaxed? She sat at the edge of the chair with her bony knees together and her toes on the floor, clasping her long hands, tensely making faces to try and produce the words to explain a desire that was more instinctive than reasoned.

  ‘I knew, you see,’ she said. ‘I just knew it was something I must do. I never felt so sure of anything in my life. Do you think that’s too impetuous? I was af
raid I would be thought too young, but that boy I talked to downstairs -he’s younger.’

  Paul looked at her for a while, leaning back and swinging a foot. ‘I’ve got a daughter about your age,’ he said. ‘How old are you, Sarah?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘Laura is not quite twenty, but she looks older than you.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Sarah laughed. ‘I do work on my face. Is it a failure?’

  ‘It’s a great success, as far as I can see. I like you, Sarah.’

  ‘I like you too,’ she said eagerly. ‘I like people you can talk to in a real way right from the start, without having to skirmish round with small talk, like dogs. Sometimes I talk too much, because I don’t know what to say. I suppose here it’s mostly listening, isn’t it?’

  Paul nodded. ‘Listening to people telling you things that no one else will bother to listen to.’

  ‘Do you think they would take me? I talk too much. I don’t really know anything. My father thinks I’m practically illiterate — he’s a professor at the Law School. I started at a College of Design in London, but then I met Brian and we got married. My typing is pathetic. I don’t even cook very well. I have this stupid sort of job parttime, selling in a shop. I can’t really do anything useful.’

  ‘But being a Samaritan doesn’t depend on what you know or what you can do. It’s what you are. Look Sarah, if you join us, what will be asked of you will be to go on being yourself.’

  Sarah sighed. ‘I want to so much. I’ve known for ages that there was something I ought to be doing. That’s why I tried the Youth Club, but they only wanted men who were tough enough to stop the place being broken up. That’s why I went to the Play School, where I met the boy who rings up here at night.’

  ‘To compensate for something that’s missing in your life?’ Paul asked suddenly.

  Did he think that? ‘Oh no. I don’t think so. I think it’s to add to what I already have.’

  ‘But if you do become a Samaritan,’ he said, ‘it won’t all be rewarding. It can be frustrating too. You make mistakes with people. You can’t get anywhere with them. Your friendship isn’t enough. It can be depressing. I’ve been a Samaritan almost two years, but I constantly feel I’ve no right to be here. Then something good happens, and you — for instance, I’d been trying to get through to a very unhappy boy who had made a suicide attempt.’ He began to tell her something of the story. Sarah leaned forward, her eyes on his face. ‘He shied away from me like a deer. I was afraid to make a move to help him. He had asked for our help because he was afraid of what he’d done. Then afterwards he couldn’t accept it. He wouldn’t talk to me or anyone. He’s so withdrawn, some terribly deep underlying unhappiness, but he wanted no part of me. And then yesterday at the hospital, just when I was thinking I might have to give up since I was getting nowhere, he put out a hand and tweaked my coat and said, “Please come back.”’

  ‘Oh — how marvellous!’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘Yes, it was. It was marvellous. You see that. Good.’

  Paul got up. ‘Come down to the office and you can fill out an application form.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll take me?’

  ‘For the preparation classes, yes, I think so. It’s not my decision, but I think so.’

  He had not said: What use are you to us? He had not asked her: What do you know about the world or life or people and the terrible things that make them want to kill themselves?

  Ronnie came into the hall as she was putting on her coat. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘All right, I think.’ It was only with people of another generation that you had to underestimate.

  ‘I’ll see you again then.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She had said the right thing about the boy in the hospital who seemed to mean so much to Paul. He had said, ‘You see that. Good.’ And Sarah swaggered out into the cold wet Sunday afternoon as if he had pinned a medal on to her red coat.

  Three

  ONCE HE GOT used to it – and having lived for twelve years in the House of God’s Angels, it seemed almost familiar – Tim quite enjoyed the hospital. There were always things going on and other people doing them. He could watch without having to take part. He occupied one whole day rehearsing how he could ask one of the nurses (not the Sister, no fear) if he could sit out of bed and watch the television. At first he had thought he would get the fat man in the next bed to ask for him. The man kept staring at him and saying things like, ‘Lost your voice?’ and, ‘Cat got your tongue?’ and, ‘Give us a hallo then, come on.’ as if he were a trick dog. Tim made up his mind to whisper across the polished floor between them, ‘Please ask the nurse if I can get up.’

  But as soon as the breakfast trays were gone, they had come and routed the fat man out of bed and into his clothes and sent him away with a pickled old lady who did not look as if she were glad to have him back. So Tim spent the rest of the day rehearsing. Several times the words were up in the place where his throat met his mouth, ready to be said, but the nurse had moved by him before he could get them out. After tea, the black one who was called Henriette and was always laughing came up to his bed with a big white grin as if Tim were the greatest joke in the ward. Before he could gabble ‘Can I get up?’ she said, ‘Come on, lazybones, you’d better get up before you lose the use of your legs,’ shook out a long giant’s dressing-gown and had him up and into a chair among the old men before he could say, ‘I don’t want to.’

  Paul came in later and talked to him while he was trying to watch the television. After a bit he said, ‘Take off those headphones, Tim. I want to tell you something.’ Tim took off the headphones, though his eyes kept wandering up to the screen of their own accord. ‘I’ve talked to your doctor,’ Paul said. ‘The one you saw yesterday.’

  Tim nodded. The doctor had asked a lot of questions and had gone away unperturbed that most of them had not been answered.

  ‘The thing is this,’ Paul leaned forward with his arms on his knees and looked at Tim as if he really cared about him. ‘He thinks you should have a bit more help. Not the wrist. That’s all right, though you’ll have to keep the cast on for a while. I mean some kind of psychiatric help. You’ve got problems – well, who hasn’t? – but yours are perhaps harder for you to cope with than most people’s. Would you like to go somewhere where they can give you the kind of help you need?’

  ‘Leave here?’ Tim’s eyes forgot the demented figures on the screen, mouthing silently and flailing their arms. Just when he’d got safely settled in? He had only allowed himself to think once or twice about Darley Road and the woman at the Employment Office. ‘I’d rather stay.’

  ‘There is a clinic attached to this hospital, but you don’t need that kind of intensive treatment. He thinks you would benefit from being in a place where you could make friends, do some jobs in the workshop, sort of get you going again among other people. From what you’ve told me, you were pretty lonely before. It can’t have been much fun.’

  ‘What place do you mean?’

  At the little stinking zoo down by the estuary, Tim had seen a sort of small wild dog who had lain pressed against a wall, its yellow eyes travelling round the confines of its prison. He had recognized immediately in that dog, himself. Now at the familiar feeling of being trapped, he shrank against the confines of the wicker chair, although his body did not move.

  ‘Highfield.’ Paul said. ‘You may have heard of it. It’s about ten miles out in the country, a rambling old-fashioned place, they’re always talking about rebuilding it, but they never do. There’s a farm there and a nursery garden. You could do the same kind of work you’ve done before.’

  ‘A nut house, eh?’ They didn’t fool Tim. ‘I’m not mad.’

  ‘No. The rest of the world may be. That’s why it’s difficult to live in. You don’t have to go to Highfield anyway. It’s your choice.’

  He sounded casual. ‘You don’t want to bother with me no more.’ Tim scowled, but P
aul smiled as if he had given him a compliment.

  ‘I’ll go on bothering with you whatever you do, if you’ll let me. We can work something out.’

  A job, Paul was saying. Decent lodgings ... ‘I want to stay here!’ Panic spun into Tim.

  ‘They need your bed.’

  ‘I’ll go to the other place.’

  ‘Highfield? All right. I’d still be able to see you. I could drive you out there, if you like, if you really decide to go.’

  ‘OK.’ A girl in a sparkly dress as long as a shirt was singing on the screen, cuddling the microphone as if it was a man. Tim’s hand reached out for the earphones.

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to get in touch with?’ Paul stood up. ‘Someone who should know where you’re going? You didn’t – I mean, your mother’s still alive, isn’t she?’

  Tim put on the earphones and began to tap his foot to the beat of the song. Paul laid his big hand on the back of Tim’s good hand, pressed it and went away. The warmth of his firm grip stayed on Tim’s hand, while the girl sang. ‘Take take take, I said-a take take take.’

  Paul drove Tim out to Highfield the next Sunday. The boy sat in the car with his cast supported in a sling, looking very pale, his hair, which had been washed before he left the hospital, sticking up from a small boy’s cowlick at the back of his head. He affected to be intensely interested in the scenery, turning for a longer look at cows, churches, war memorials, so that he would not have to talk. It was going to take a long time to discover him. Perhaps no one ever would. ‘Stick with him,’ Peter had said. ‘I think you should go on befriending him, since he seems to want it.’

  After Tim was installed at Highfield, where a quietly smiling woman in a blue overall had shown him his bed and where to put his things, and a friendly man in the day room had immediately approached with a cigarette, Paul said, ‘Shall I come out one evening this week?’