by Hilary Boyd
Shirley gave a sad laugh. ‘Oh, no need to get all prim, dear. I won’t embarrass you by doing something foolish.’ She sat up straighter, very much on her dignity, despite the large amount of wine she’d consumed. ‘I just miss being able to touch someone, to get a hug. Chase, my husband, was a big hugger, very physical. He wouldn’t let me do a thing in the morning until we’d had a proper hug.’ She bit her lip and Freddy could see she was fighting back tears.
Opening his arms, he said, ‘Hey, come here,’ drawing her against him as they sat on the banquette. She smelt of a floral perfume he thought he recognized, her body tense, her breath trembling. She relaxed as he held her, letting out a small sigh before pulling back.
‘Thank you . . . you’re a kind man.’
‘How long ago did your husband . . .’ He was suddenly unsure as to whether Chase Solaris had died or simply defected.
‘He passed away two years ago September. We’d barely been here six months.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me too, Freddy, me too. This was our big adventure. He was older than me by eight years, but he seemed so fit and healthy. When he retired we bought this place so he could sail his boat to his heart’s content – he was crazy about boats.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Portland, Oregon.’
‘Will you go back?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My daughter lives in New York and I see her as much here as I did when I was in Portland – which isn’t a lot. I have a sister in Montana, but we don’t get along . . . I’m not sure what I’d be going home to, except a house where every inch reminds me of dear Chase.’
Shirley’s obvious loneliness triggered a corresponding wave of desolation in Freddy. Is this my fate? he asked himself. Hanging out in Malta with a bunch of ex-pats, drinking too much and targeting strays – birds or people – just to plug the hours with a bit of company? The thought profoundly depressed him.
Shirley was eyeing him, one brow slightly raised. ‘And you? Do you have a family?’
Freddy hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he answered.
She laughed. ‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘No, of course I’m sure. I have a wife, Lily, and stepchildren back in London.’
‘Hmm . . . But there’s a problem, no? You looked so sad just then.’
Irritated, he said, ‘I’m not sad.’
‘Okay, okay.’
They fell silent as the waiter poured more iced water into their glasses.
‘So you’re here on holiday?’
‘Yes . . . no.’ He gave up dissembling. What did it matter if this complete stranger knew about the fuck-up that was his life? ‘My business went tits up,’ he said slowly, carefully stepping over the holes in his story that made him too ashamed. ‘Lily and I are taking a break while I sort things out.’
She nodded slowly, ‘Looks like we’re a bit of a sad pair, hon.’ Then her face lightened. ‘But, hey, we can have some fun, pass the time together until you have to go home. Better than being alone, I guess.’
And Freddy had to agree.
Chapter 29
‘I think I’ve found you a job.’ Helen, just in from college, dumped her black briefcase on the kitchen table and stood looking down at Lily, who was at her laptop, diligently typing lesson nineteen on the online touch-typing programme: . . . deposit post wealth our totally tree teeth . . .
‘Really?’ Lily waited, in a certain amount of trepidation, for her sister to reveal the details.
Helen, clearly pleased with herself, pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down with a sigh. ‘I don’t know how long it’s been up, but there was a notice on the board in the department: someone looking for transcription work.’
‘Transcription?’
‘Yes, you know, transcribing tapes and stuff.’ Helen fished in the pocket of her jacket and held up a card. ‘Dr Seth Kramer.’ She handed it to Lily. ‘I rang him and he says he’s writing a book, but he’s got a ton of recorded interviews he needs transcribing. I said you’d give him a call.’
Lily looked at the card, which bore nothing except his name, an email address and a mobile phone number.
‘He’s a shrink,’ Helen went on, when Lily didn’t reply. ‘He sounded really nice.’
Lily was fighting the feeling that her sister was bamboozling her, that she didn’t have much choice in the matter. Couldn’t Helen have just given her the doctor’s card, let her make the phone call? But she knew she couldn’t afford to object. ‘Wow, thanks . . . Umm, did you tell him I can’t type properly yet?’
Helen laughed. ‘No, of course not. If he knew that, he’d hardly be likely to employ you, would he?’
‘But – but if he’s got a lot of work and I take too long . . .’
‘Then you’ll lose the job, obviously. Don’t think like that. Just ring him and convince him that you’ll be perfect. Then make sure you are.’ Her sister gave her an encouraging smile. ‘This is ideal, Lily. You can work from home, do it in your own time. I’m sure the pay is pretty rubbish, but it’s a start. It’ll give you the chance to build your skill-set, get an employment record going, with references.’
Skill-set? Lily thought. Employment record? She knew it was what Helen did best, guiding students into gainful careers, and she knew it was what most of the country had to do to find work. It wasn’t that she was work-shy, it just seemed such an uphill struggle at her age, and with her meagre skills, to get herself into the system.
But she wanted to show suitable enthusiasm, and said quickly, ‘No, you’re right. Thanks, Helen. I’ll ring him tomorrow.’
‘No! Ring him now, for God’s sake. Nail it before a million students pip you to the post.’
So Lily, who suddenly felt ridiculously nervous, reached for her mobile and, under the beady eye of her big sister, pressed in the number on the card. She hoped the doctor wouldn’t pick up, give her time to think about the whole thing, but after the fourth ring a soft voice said, ‘Seth Kramer.’
‘Umm, my sister rang earlier . . . about the job?’
There was a pause. ‘Helen, is it?’
‘That’s my sister. I’m Lily. Lily March.’
‘Right. Can you come and see me tomorrow, Lily?’
‘Yes, what time?’
‘Ten would suit. I’m on the canal, just before Aristotle Bridge. Do you know it? The boat’s called Mairzy Doats.’ Lily heard him chuckle. ‘Not my choice. She’s rust-red and black, just after a bright blue one, if you’re coming from town. If you get to the bridge you’ve gone too far.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’
Helen nodded with approval as she clicked off the phone. ‘There! Not so difficult. Now you’ve just got to keep your mouth shut about your typing skills. He’s hardly going to test you.’
*
The boat was easy to find, but Lily was early, worried it would take her longer to walk than Helen had said, worried she might lose her way in the unfamiliar city. Her sister had offered Lily her bike, but she hadn’t been on one since childhood and didn’t want to end up as roadkill. As it turned out, it took her less than half an hour, a pleasant walk through Summertown.
The canal was peaceful, the boats lined up along the bank reassuringly solid and bright in the drizzly grey May morning. Not sure where to knock, or what boat etiquette required of visitors, Lily hesitated before deciding to brave the rickety strip of wood, cleats nailed at regular intervals to prevent slipping, that stretched from the bank to the stern. The double doors were open, and just as she stepped onto the decking, a head popped out.
Seth Kramer was in his early sixties, Lily decided as he stood beside her, shaking her hand. A stocky man, barely taller than her, he seemed tidy and contained in the open-necked blue cotton shirt tucked into his jeans, the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, his feet sportin
g faded tan deck shoes with no socks. Not really a handsome man – his features were too squashed and worn in his square face, his short grey-brown hair and heavy eyebrows too wiry and unruly – but when he smiled, Lily was immediately charmed: his dark eyes behind their tortoiseshell spectacles lit up with real warmth.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘Please . . . come in.’ He held out his arm, indicating the steps that led down to the interior.
Seeing her looking around – she had never been on a narrowboat before – Seth grinned. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘It’s . . .’
‘Narrow?’ he suggested and they both laughed.
It was narrow. The ceiling was higher than she’d thought it might be, the light better, despite the venetian blinds half-open on the land side, but the space needed some getting used to. Had she stretched out her arms, she would have been able to touch both walls. Clad in light wood throughout, it wasn’t new, but it had obviously been fitted out with care when first built. A galley kitchen area led through to the sitting room, where an L-shaped forest-green sofa with paler green cushions had been built along one wall, opposite a small wood-burning stove – glowing reassuringly on this miserable spring morning – and a drop-down table on which Seth had piled papers, books and an open laptop. A worn black leather desk chair was pushed under the work surface.
At the far end there was a wall across half the width of the boat, behind which, she assumed, were a bathroom and bedroom. A black cast-iron teapot with a frayed wicker handle sat on a shelf – mostly covered with more books – that ran the length of the room, beside it a grey-green Japanese stoneware cup, which Seth now pointed to.
‘I’ve just made some tea – jasmine green. Would you like some?’
Lily said she would, and he went to a small cupboard on the wall above the round metal sink and came back with an identical cup.
‘Sit, please.’
Holding the cup by the rim, Lily took a small sip of tea. It was warm, not hot, and fragrant, delicious. Looking around for somewhere to put it down and finding nowhere, she cradled the cup in her lap. The doctor pulled out the desk chair and swivelled it round to face her. As he sat, there was a small puff from the leather seat.
‘I should probably ask you about yourself,’ he said, smiling. ‘My work is quite sensitive.’
Helen had brought up the problem with Lily the night before.
‘He’ll want references,’ she’d told Lily. ‘You’ll have to ask Prem – she’ll give you the necessary.’
‘I can send you a reference,’ Lily told him now.
‘Umm . . . I won’t need that,’ he said. ‘I always feel they’re a bit of a waste of time. Since you don’t know the referee from Adam, you can’t tell if what they’re saying about someone is what you would say. And there’s no mileage in suing someone when things don’t work out.’ He paused. ‘If we could just talk. Find out a little about each other.’
She had no idea what to say. Should she tell him about Freddy? Should she say she was only in Oxford for a short time? Neither piece of information seemed wise to divulge to a potential employer. And might the taint of Freddy’s untrustworthiness rub off on her? Helen had seemed to imply that it would.
‘Have you done this sort of work before?’ Seth was asking.
Lily hesitated, but she’d always been a hopeless liar. ‘No.’ Somehow this man seemed too kind, too decent to deceive. And anyway, she thought, he can probably see through people in an instant. Isn’t that his job? She told herself there would be other chances to find work. This was the only the first interview, and her typing was improving all the time. She’d sold her very ancient Golf too, which meant she had a small amount of cash to keep her going, contribute to the household expenses.
‘What was your last job?’ He was looking at her with those dark eyes of his, which were restful in their gaze.
She took a deep breath. ‘The truth is that I’m in a bit of a mess. My husband has . . . We’re having a temporary break while he sorts stuff out . . . There’s been financial problems.’
He didn’t interrupt.
‘And I am staying with my sister.’ She wasn’t sure why she said this. Why would Dr Kramer mind where she was living? ‘I haven’t been working for the past few years, but I really need a job now.’
‘And what did you do for work before?’ he asked again.
‘I worked in a shop . . . ergonomic chairs and desks. In London. It was owned by a friend. I didn’t do admin or anything, just helped the customers find the right chair. It was fun, I loved it.’ She was gabbling, telling him stuff in which he would have no possible interest, digging her own employment grave by revealing what she couldn’t do, rather than doing what Helen had impressed upon her: ‘Only tell him what you can do.’
Seth was nodding. ‘The right chair is so important.’ He patted the leather-clad arms of his own. ‘I spent a fortune on this one. I’ve had it for years and I’m sure without it I’d be a cripple by now, all the hours I spend in front of the computer.’
‘You should really have a separate keyboard for your laptop. Otherwise you’re bending your head at a bad angle and you’ll damage your neck,’ she found herself saying, then blushed at her impertinence.
He laughed, a low rumble. ‘Good to have an expert’s opinion.’
‘Sorry.’
There was a silence, during which Lily concentrated on her empty cup. She clung to it like a lifeline, wishing the interview was over. He wasn’t going to give her the job. And why should he? She couldn’t even type properly.
But he seemed interested enough – or polite enough – to tell her about his work. ‘I’m writing a book about how people view the after-effects of therapy.’
She nodded.
‘Therapists only hear what’s in the room at the time. Then the patient leaves and perhaps doesn’t come back. I want to document how a person views their experience of psychoanalysis a year – or even a decade – later. I’m not talking about seriously ill people, who are perhaps medicated and have long-term mental health problems. But a person who has come to me because they are unhappy or depressed . . . not functioning well.’
Lily nodded again.
‘I want to make the book accessible, not an academic tome. Something the average person can read to find out what this sort of treatment is really about, how much use it might be to them. Case studies, interesting human stories, bit of science . . . that sort of thing.’
‘And have you found therapy is useful?’ Lily had met lots of people who were going to analysts in the crowd who inhabited Freddy’s world. She wasn’t sure it worked particularly well, most of them seeming pretty crazy. But maybe they would have been even crazier without it.
Smiling, he said, ‘I have to believe it is, Lily. I’ve spent the best part of thirty-five years practising it.’
‘God, yes, of course. I didn’t mean . . .’ She shut up. Best not to add the other foot.
‘It’s a valid question. There are probably more detractors than not.’ His gaze drifted out of the window.
‘You live on the boat?’ Lily asked, being polite but suddenly wanting to bring the interview to an end and get out of the hot, stuffy space.
‘No, in Jericho. My rooms are there. But I prefer to work on the book away from my patients’ space. And I can create mess here.’ He cast an amused glance at the desk, the piles of papers and books littered about. ‘I didn’t want to be constantly clearing my office up, so I bought this old tub a few years back. It’s peaceful, I don’t get disturbed.’
Lily wondered if he had a wife and children at home, a gang of noisy relatives. Somehow she thought not. Seth Kramer seemed a solitary person.
‘Anyway, I have hundreds of hours of interviews. They aren’t all my ex-patients. I inveigled my colleagues too. Most interviews are inside an hour, some longer, but I just don’t have time to
transcribe them myself.’
Lily dreaded to think how long it would take her to type up an hour of speech. Probably a year.
‘I think it would be best to pay you by the interview rather than the hour. Does that suit?’
Is he offering me the job?
She smiled uncertainly. ‘Sounds fine.’
‘I can give you a few to start with, see if it works out for us both. You could come back in a couple of days – maybe Friday? Then we can discuss how to go forward.’ He was giving her a questioning look. ‘I really want to get on with it now. This book’s been hanging about waiting to be written for far too long. Will you be in Oxford for a while? You said you were staying with your sister.’
‘Yes, yes. I’ll find somewhere else to live soon, but it’ll be here.’ Lily wondered why she’d said that. She wouldn’t be staying in Oxford when Freddy came back.
‘You understand these tapes are highly confidential. The case studies in the book will be mostly anonymous, but the tapes are labelled with real names. I wouldn’t want you sharing any of the information you hear, or letting the tapes fall into the wrong hands.’
Lily almost laughed. Dr Kramer was making it sound clandestine, as if she were a spy being entrusted with state secrets. But she kept a straight face. ‘No, of course not.’
‘If you could do an e-version and also a hard copy? Obviously I’ll pay for the printing costs.’
He got up, looking relieved, and went into the prow section of the boat, behind the partition. He came back carrying a cardboard box out of which he picked a handful of small cassette tapes in transparent plastic cases.
‘I’ve been recording these interviews for years now, so I’m afraid it’s steam technology . . . I use a Dictaphone. But it works.’ He looked around and found a small plastic Boots bag under some books, into which he put the tapes. ‘Have you got a machine?’
Lily shook her head.
‘I’ll give you one of mine.’
*