by MARY HOCKING
‘Now,’ Dr Potter had said, ‘we are to talk informally. You no doubt have a subject in mind.’
The misshapen face was in shadow, but a chance – or was anything chance here? – glimmer of reflected light illuminated the one good eye. A woman slowly trundled a wheelbarrow past the window, closely followed by another woman defiantly bearing a pitchfork aslant one shoulder in the manner of one about to lead a peasants’ revolt. It was at this point that, although her business was urgent, Stephanie had given way to an imperative urge to demonstrate that she was not impressed by Dr Potter’s brand of philanthropy. There were, of course, people who gave their whole lives to others, but they mostly lived in distant places – like India – and one was not called upon to measure up to them.
‘Of course,’ she had said, ‘I worked in a London borough clinic at one time, dealing with what, in a franker age than ours, would have been termed the dregs of society. But it wasn’t that which bothered me. It was the hypocrisy of my colleagues, who were quite incapable of thinking honestly. In fact, it was very difficult to understand how they felt about anything because they had been lying to themselves for so long. Take the Miller family. The plain fact of the matter was that the Miller family did not go straight because they got on much better the way they were. But we were all supposed to see them as victims of the capitalist system . . .’ What was she doing pouring out all this resentment of the Miller family whom she had not seen for at least five years? The thought was like a piece of paper glimpsed floating in the air from a fast moving train. The train powered on. ‘Crime pays. It’s their way of life. And it has nothing to do with lack of opportunity – the Millers of this world never let anything get past them in the way of opportunity! They size up the situation according to their lights and they play the game their way. All this rubbish about middle-class affluence! There was more money coming in to that house than I shall ever see.’ She came to a grinding halt and said breathlessly, ‘I can’t imagine why I should tell you this, except to illustrate . . .’ What had she intended to illustrate, other than her contempt for Dr Potter’s pitiful attempt to rehabilitate ex-prisoners? She could hardly say this in so many words and must hope that she had made her position sufficiently clear.
It was then that Dr Potter had said, ‘You are constantly answering unseen challengers. How did you get yourself into this state?’
Stephanie thought of the long narrow lane down which she had passed to reach this dark room. Oh dear, oh dear, the psychological implications were inescapable! And she, by refusing to go to the consulting room, had brought about this imprisonment in the womb of Dr Potter’s house. Well, she must make the best of it and proceed coolly and calmly, not allowing her good judgement to be disturbed by any antics Dr Potter might indulge in.
She said good-humouredly, ‘I am not in a state at all. I was merely making a few observations on the criminal fraternity.’
‘All your conversation seems to be addressed to someone against whom you have to defend yourself.’
Dr Potter had moved in her chair and Stephanie could see her more clearly now. She had a dreadful thicket of hair. Stephanie could not make up her mind whether it was naturally curly and at some stage in her life Dr Potter had given up trying to get a comb through it, or whether she actually paid money to achieve this bizarre effect. Stephanie was aware of the weight of her own heavy plait between her shoulder blades. Usually she liked the feel of it, reminding her how thick and rich was her flaxen mane; but for some reason it was now making her feel obscurely uncomfortable.
She said, wriggling her shoulders very slightly, ‘Yes, I suppose one does have to defend oneself from time to time. Or simply conform. I don’t conform.’
‘Yet you strike me as someone who has spent the early part of her life conforming to one kind of authority and is now contemplating spending the remainder submitting to another kind.’
Stephanie gave a laugh that was a shade too boisterous, an echo of the schoolgirl Stephanie. ‘I am not at all submissive, believe me!’
‘But from what you have been telling me about your work in the London borough, you would very much like to have thought as your colleagues did. You would like to see yourself as a frontline worker – teaching in an inner-city comprehensive, running a canteen for striking print workers in your spare time and camping at Greenham Common at weekends. You feel quite terrified at finding yourself on the outside when all your childhood you were so acceptable.’
She was formidable. Questions, answers, images flashed fast, seemingly irrelevant, yet always on target – had she known that Piers taught in an inner-city comprehensive? She reminded Stephanie of one of those ruthless women tennis-players who always knows where the ball will go before her opponent strikes it. Now, raising her hands above her head to adjust one of the wilder coils of hair, she seemed poised to launch an overhead smash across the hearth. Stephanie could see herself standing at the net, very vulnerable, her pigtail swinging about helplessly while she hit all the balls on to Dr Potter’s racquet.
She said, trying to slow down the pace, ‘One is only human. It would be stupid to pretend that I did not mind being told by my erstwhile colleagues that I had “sold out”, accused of no longer caring about the future of the world, the starving millions, apartheid . . . Even my husband . . .’ She faltered, this was a shot she should not have attempted. ‘I sometimes feel that even he thinks . . .’ The ball trickled miserably down the side of the net.
‘So why did you leave the London borough clinic and go to work in this privately funded establishment in Surrey?’
‘Because we see people there whom it is possible for me to help.’ Stephanie conceded the game to Dr Potter. ‘Working-class people don’t respond – not to me, at least. They don’t like being counselled by someone who has no idea about their way of life.’
‘Whereas at this private clinic you see people whom you do understand and whom you feel you have a chance of helping? If this is where your particular talent lies, I see nothing wrong in that.’
Absolution from this quarter was so unexpected that Stephanie felt an overwhelming need to make further confessions. ‘Understanding, perhaps. I think I do understand . . . quite often, at any rate. But help? I do help. I have often been told so. But I am never sure of my motives. The truth is, I don’t like people very much. I find them quite interesting, but I don’t really like them.’
‘And you are ashamed of this?’
‘This is a caring society, isn’t it?’
‘Why are you ashamed?’
‘I have been ashamed most of my life of one thing or another.’ Stephanie eased her pigtail forward so that it hung comfortingly between her breasts. ‘I have never much liked the grown-up world. I had to get into it too quickly; with three younger children, I was always the one who was put in charge. It’s the old story, of course, I am aware of that. Nudged off my mother’s knee to make way for the new baby.’
‘And you were grudging about it, no doubt?’
‘Everyone thought I managed very well. In that sense, I was, as you say, acceptable. But inside, I wasn’t at all nice. I grudged my brothers and sister every bit of my mother’s love. It seemed to me there wasn’t enough to go round and I lost out. It has been like that ever since. The world is full of people . . . all trees.’
‘Trees?’
‘Something happened when I was quite young . . . I got lost. All the people were so tall, like trees.’ She burst out suddenly, ‘I don’t know why we are talking about me. I came here to talk about my father. It’s my father who really worries me. Only yesterday, I told him he had got short-grain rice instead of long – and tears, real tears, came into his eyes.’ Tears came into Stephanie’s eyes.
Dr Potter said, ‘Ah, your father.’
‘He must have time to finish his revise and he never will while my mother is at home. So, either she comes to me and I will take time off to look after her.’ Which she would refuse to do, or so Stephanie profoundly hoped. ‘Or she must
go somewhere . . . a nursing home or some such place . . . just for a few weeks to give my father a break.’
‘It would have to be with her consent. Your mother is not certifiable.’
‘But persuadable, one hopes.’
Dr Potter shrugged her shoulders. ‘That depends on your powers of persuasion – and your relationship with your mother.’
Stephanie saw that it had been a mistake to let her case rest on the needs of her father. Dr Potter was nutty as a fruit cake and by no means as wholesome. Also, she was undoubtedly a lesbian. She would think nothing of sacrificing Murdoch to what she saw as Janet’s good. And that is how I shall refer to her in future, Janet, Janet, Janet . . .
When she left, the dogs who had been slumbering in the yard awoke and came circling and snarling around her. All her own sleeping dogs were awakened and continued with her as she drove away.
Katrina was seated by the window, facing the engine; a canvas bag was dumped beside her and one trousered leg was cocked over it, boot resting on the next seat. Although from her vacant expression one might imagine she had blocked out the other passengers, she was not unaware of the irritation she was causing. In spite of the fact that she wore headphones, the music was just loud enough to make a faint scratching on the air, distracting but not sufficiently so to warrant complaint. One would, in any case, think twice about attempting to remonstrate with her. Her clothes were unexceptional and clean. The spiky red hair was neat in its own fashion, her skin clear, the colour pleasing. But there was a wilfulness about the full mouth and the narrowed eyes suggested a spiteful mood. Of late she had frequently played this game of keeping people at a distance while making it extremely difficult for them to distance her. She was aware that a time would come when she would be forced to make some kind of accommodation with life, step out of her fastness and accept that others existed in no less urgent a way than herself. Sometime, and she sensed it would be soon, it would be necessary to switch off the transistor and listen to what was going on outside her own head. But not yet. For the present, she had business to attend to. While the music played hoarsely she took pen and paper and began to write to that loving, understanding friend, that constant companion, the more ideal for being as yet unfound, with whom for years she had shared her most private and deepest experience.
‘My great discovery has nothing to do with all the stuff they get you to cram into yourself here (they call it leaving the students to educate themselves, but really they make you do the work because they are too busy getting their books ready for publication). It’s to do with Ewett. I expect you guessed that. I thought it was going to be such a big thing, his wife pleading with me, and the children there in the background. She was the one it meant most to. She was the one who made it so significant. With a build-up like that I was sure he would take his time, work out a campaign, plan a careful assault, or whatever the modern equivalent is of being wooed. He must have known how awful and torn I felt, that he must break down the barriers without harming the prisoner, I thought he would turn it into a game that I could learn to play so that when the time came I’d be good . . . I needed that. Breaking up hearts and homes is new to me. Besides, there is something inside me I don’t want to part with. But that was all right because Ewett didn’t want it anyway. He got all he wanted (which didn’t amount to much, let’s be honest) and I was welcome to keep the rest. It was all pretty perfunctory. His wife screwed by far the most out of it. And my discovery? Well, of course, it’s not the old tag about men losing interest once they’ve got what they wanted. But, before you breathe a sigh of relief, I have to warn you there is worse to come. I’m making so much of the preliminaries because I don’t know that I’m going to be able to write this down. But I must, because I have a feeling it is very important that now, at this moment, I actually make myself say this. It is you I want.’
Katrina stared at what she had written, then, scarlet-faced, she tore the pages across and across and scattered them on the floor.
A woman said, ‘She ought to be made to pick up every single scrap.’
Katrina, sensing outrage, turned up the volume.
Stephanie was waiting at the ticket barrier. Katrina looked at her in dismay. As they walked towards the car, she said, ‘What have you done to yourself?’
‘Done?’
‘Wearing your hair on top of your head like a bread basket. You don’t look like my big sister any more.’
‘I am Piers’ wife and mother of two children. We all have to grow up sometime. I thought I might set you a good example. There is still time for you to look fresh and youthful – not much time, but a little.’
Katrina ignored this and said, ‘I hope no one else is going to change. There have been enough changes around here!’
‘Then you had better prepare yourself for the fact that your father has taken to domesticity.’
‘You mean he helps with the washing-up now?’
‘If only that were all!’
In the car Katrina switched on the transistor. Stephanie said, ‘Cigarettes, smoking, drinking, drug-taking, constant input of beat music . . . I’m sure my crowd wasn’t so obsessional.’ Katrina stared vacantly out of the window.
Stephanie stopped the car in a lay-by. Katrina came out of her, trance to ask, ‘What’s this in aid of?’
‘Switch that thing off. I have to talk to you.’
‘I don’t want to talk.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Stephanie opened the window and gazed out at the passing heavy lorries, her eyes half-closed, as though breathing in wafts of balmy air in a summer meadow. Katrina sighed. ‘Oh, all right. But while you’re driving. I’m starving.’
As she drove, Stephanie said, ‘We have to get Janet away for a little while. This is all too much for Murdoch. He isn’t writing.’
‘What’s all this Murdoch and Janet business? That’s never been our style.’
‘We have to get your mother away.’
‘She’s your mother, too.’
‘Katrina! Can’t you concentrate on essentials?’
‘I’m not sure which is essential. Something odd seems to be going on here.’
‘I propose to suggest that our mother goes to a nursing home, or rest home, or some suitable place, for a little while. Just to give our father a break.’
‘Why? When we were ill as kids she didn’t pack us off somewhere else. If you don’t think Daddy can cope, I’ll quit college and come and look after her. I’d be only too glad to.’
‘Which? Quit college or look after our mother?’
‘Both.’
‘You couldn’t anyway. You’ve never done a hand’s turn about the house.’
‘It would be good for me, then. It’s time I learned. There are all sorts of things I haven’t learned that I’m certainly never going to learn if I stay at university.’
‘You are learning things which will see you through life at university.’
‘No, I’m learning things which will prevent me having a good life.’
‘Well, I can see it is no use talking to you in this mood. Let’s hope that after a few days at home you will be cured of any notion of moving in and shouldering all our burdens.’
‘Do you realise, Stephanie, that whenever I try to tell you things about myself you always listen with a sweet, sorrowful smile fixed on your face? Is that how you maintain superiority over your clients?’ Katrina’s voice had become shrill. ‘I’m sorry for them. They must feel so diminished.’
As they drove up to the house Stephanie’s smile was positively seraphic. She switched off the engine and said, ‘I have to warn you that Patsy is here “helping”. I wanted to see her off, but Murdoch . . . our . . .’
‘Just say Murdoch. Anything rather than Our Father.’
‘Well, Murdoch insists that Patsy has tried to help and that we shouldn’t send her away now that we are here. So she is in the kitchen, making a nuisance of herself and upsetting Hugh. The children, as you can see, are creating mayhem in the garden
.’
Katrina remained in the car while Stephanie got out to open the garage door. When Stephanie returned, she was still sitting there, gazing at Patsy’s youngest who was energetically beating the dustbin lid with a soup ladle.
‘What’s wrong with us all, Stephanie? Don’t you wonder? Mummy is ill and we make this awful balls-up of looking after her. And now you want to put her away somewhere. How are you going to manage that? Rent a crowd to come and chant “Janet out!” on the lawn beneath her window?’
‘I’ll have you to put the car away.’ Stephanie turned and marched into the house.
Katrina followed, leaving the car outside. She dumped her gear in the hall and ran up to what was now her mother’s room.
Janet was sitting in a chair by the window, a rug across her knees. As Katrina came towards her, a book slid off her lap. She paid no attention to it, nor did she turn her head towards her daughter.
‘I feel so ashamed,’ Katrina said.
‘Ashamed, ashamed, ashamed . . .’ Janet repeated. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘How could we do this to you?’ Katrina persisted.
Janet made fussy adjustments to the rug, frowning intently.
‘Let me help. What is it you want to do?’
As soon as Katrina touched the rug, Janet lost interest. In the garden the children were fighting over the dustbin lid. Hugh shouted at them from the kitchen. Katrina said, ‘How do you put up with all this racket?’
Janet repeated ‘all this?’ as though she was unaware of the presence of other people in the house or garden. It occurred to Katrina that her mother had found her own way of distancing herself without the aid of headphones or transistor. As she knelt beside her, she wondered whether they would ever come really close again.
Stephanie called from the stairs, ‘You do realise you left the car out and that the children might have got in it and played with the brake and . . .’ She went on and on, building up a series of disasters to relieve some need in herself. From the window Katrina could see her father walking towards the car while Patsy knelt beside her children like a mother hen gathering its brood under its wing.