Constitutional

by Helen Simpson

  ‘Look, look,’ said Holly as a third character, even more repellent, appeared on the scene. This one was a female invertebrate wearing a woolly robe embroidered with the words ‘Kick me’ and ‘Pushover’ and ‘I don’t mind’. She moved in a peculiar corkscrew way, trailing behind her a bandaged suppurating leg.

  ‘This is Passivity,’ said Holly. ‘See how hideously twisted by adaptive behaviour she has become.’

  ‘But what is the matter with her leg?’ asked Pamela, struck by a physical affliction some degrees worse than her own.

  ‘A couple of months ago she stubbed her toe and slowly it turned septic,’ said Holly. ‘She waited and waited for someone to tell her to go to the doctor but nobody did – why should they care about her more than she cares about herself ? And by the time the others started complaining of the smell, gangrene had set in.’

  ‘Horrible, horrible,’ shuddered Pamela. ‘Remove me from this sight, life coach, I cannot bear it.’

  ‘Wait. I will show you a fourth “P” which shall vanquish all the rest.’

  And she breathed on the mirror just as Pamela had done.

  ‘Now look,’ she said, and when Pamela gazed into the glass circle she saw an arrowy muscular sprite edged with neon, carrying in one hand a megaphone marked “Assertiveness” and in the other a “Time Management” chart covered in squares and dates and notes in colourful felt tip.

  ‘This is the spirit of Proactivity,’ said Holly with a touch of reverence.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Pamela. ‘I’ll join a yoga class. Today. And I have every faith it will make my shoulder better. Satisfied?’ She reached into her bag for an aspirin. ‘Meanwhile I’ll take one of these if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What other remedies do you keep in your bag?’ asked Holly, peering in. ‘What’s this painkiller for?’

  ‘Migraine.’

  ‘That means you’re resisting the flow of life. Senokot?’

  ‘Constipation.’

  ‘What that really shows is that you’re blocked. Stuck. I can help. Strepsils?’

  ‘Sore throat.’

  ‘Do you get them often?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. A sore throat means you’re so angry you can’t speak.’

  ‘Is that so.’

  ‘Yes. Now, Pamela, I sense you’re angry. Tell me about your anger.’

  ‘Well, I do object. . . I mean, all this is very fine and upbeat, but. . . I do object, I really object. . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I do object to death.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Holly. ‘Death. Not really my area.’

  ‘Well there’s a lot of it about,’ said Pamela, wiping her eyes. ‘Take my word for it.’

  ‘Let us stay away from thoughts that create problems and pain,’ said Holly.

  ‘It’s just that it’s so wasteful,’ continued Pamela. ‘And I miss my dear friends, my loved ones. I talk to them in my dreams. I tell you Holly, it’s a boneyard out there!’

  ‘We must concentrate on the bits in between,’ said Holly firmly.

  ‘Don’t give me that mead hall stuff,’ said Pamela, blowing her nose.

  ‘Your thoughts are making you miserable. Change your thoughts.’

  ‘It’s not just death. It’s suffering.’

  ‘Come now. Lighten up.’

  ‘Even if things could be put right now,’ said Pamela, ‘I don’t see how it’s possible to be happy, for anyone ever to be happy, when such terrible things have happened to people in history and they’re dead now and nothing can be done for them.’

  ‘Remember J.O.L.L.Y?’ said the life coach. ‘You’ll need a lighter heart if you’re going to help others, or indeed do anything. Turn off the news. Put on your favourite CD. All these charity leaflets you’ve saved – refugees, Aids, homelessness, cruelty to children – choose one now, write a cheque, bin the rest.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Pamela, reaching for her chequebook and studying its stubs with a pensive air. ‘Christmas is an expensive time.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Holly. ‘However, you must still write a cheque for a hundred pounds to the charity of your choice.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve just told my daughter that I’ll pay off her credit card debt – this really must be the last time – so there’ll be nothing left at all.’

  ‘Then you must tell her you’ve changed your mind,’ said the life coach. ‘That would be very bad for her and unfair of you, encouraging her to continue spending money without thinking. Instead, book her a course with a financial therapist who will show her how to budget – I know a good one; here’s his card. Then you can buy your daughter a pair of silk pyjamas for Christmas, and write a nice large cheque to your chosen charity.’

  ‘She won’t be very pleased,’ muttered Pamela.

  ‘Now, what are all these piles of papers and shoeboxes full of old letters and cards?’ asked Holly, ignoring this, turning her attention to the comfortless chaos surrounding them.

  ‘Leave them alone, please,’ said Pamela. ‘These are my memories. The past.’

  ‘Clutter,’ said Holly. ‘I’m not interested in the past, and neither should you be.’

  ‘The past?’ said Pamela. ‘It’s what I am; it’s what there is.’

  ‘No,’ said Holly, tightening her lips. ‘It’s what there was. I tell you, you shouldn’t be too interested in the past. You yourself now are the embodiment of what you have lived. What’s done is done.’

  ‘But how are you to live if you don’t reflect on your life?’ cried Pamela.

  ‘I have noticed that people’s thoughts about the past are nearly always gloomy,’ said Holly. ‘Remorse, resentment, disappointment, these are not helpful emotions.’

  ‘Helpful?’

  ‘Let the past go.’

  ‘So would you ban the study of history?’

  ‘Nearly every other academic discipline has more to recommend it,’ said Holly. ‘Come, let’s move on. Tell me, what do you want to happen on Christmas Day? You have asked all your relatives for lunch. How do you want the day to be?’

  ‘I just want them to be effing well happy!’ growled Pamela. ‘Understand? Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘I see,’ said Holly. ‘I see. Next question: were you good when you were little?’

  ‘Oh, very,’ snapped Pamela. ‘No trouble at all. Good as gold. Always offering to do the washing up.’

  ‘That figures. Now let us take another look in the psychic mirror,’ said Holly. ‘Breathe on it once more, and all will be revealed.’

  Again Pamela did as she was told, and presently the mist on the glass cleared to reveal a strange figure, its body puny and graceful as a child’s, but with an old person’s face wrinkled and withered by a thousand worries, and hair snow-white as if with age. It was sitting alone in a cold bedroom listening to an extravaganza of rage and yelling and slammed doors; it was shivering like a greyhound while it adjusted a sophisticated assemblage of sonic equipment on the little table beside it.

  ‘Poor creature,’ sighed Pamela, ‘I don’t know why but I feel sorry for it. What does its presence signify, Holly?’

  ‘That poor creature,’ said Holly. ‘That is your Inner Child.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pamela. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Her radar is exquisitely attuned to the mood of the adults beyond the door, and she feels responsible both for their miseries and for cheering them up.’

  ‘She’s on a hiding to nowhere, then, isn’t she,’ said Pamela. ‘How idiotic.’

  ‘Idiotic,’ agreed Holly. ‘Just wanting them to be effing well happy.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Pamela. ‘Yes. I see.’

  She went over and sat by the fire, staring into it broodingly.

  ‘What can I do, Holly?’ she said, looking up. ‘What can I do to disencumber that child?’

  ‘My time here is nearly done,’ said the life coach, glancing at her watch. ‘Now for the final part of the programme.’

  She took hold of Pamela’s
hand and led her to the door of the room.

  ‘What is beyond this door?’ she asked.

  ‘The hall,’ said Pamela, mystified.

  ‘And are there doors off the hallway?’ asked Holly.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Pamela. ‘Apart from the back door there’s the kitchen and the shower room; come on, I’ll show you.’

  She led her into the hall, which was cold and dimly lit.

  ‘What’s this low doorway here?’ asked the life coach.

  ‘That’s the cupboard under the stairs.’

  ‘Show me, if you will.’

  ‘All right, but there’s nothing much to see except the Hoover,’ said Pamela, opening the door as she was asked. Then she stopped and gasped.

  ‘Come on in,’ said Holly, drawing her across the threshold and closing the door behind them.

  They stood in a room whose walls were hung with boughs of bay and laurel, knots of dull-pearled mistletoe, and glossy holly branches looped with curlicues and flourishes of ivy. The polished leaves of these evergreens winked in the light of the blaze from a yule log which spat and crackled in the fireplace. Near the fire stood a stout little pine tree, its resinous fragrance filling the air, and from the branches of this tree hung garlands of sweets and tiny blown-glass trumpets and angels.

  ‘Life coach, what is this place?’ breathed Pamela, gazing round her in amazement.

  ‘This is your Green Room for the festive season,’ smiled the life coach.

  ‘Green room? What, like the room for actors when they’re not on stage?’

  ‘Very like that,’ said Holly. ‘It is your own withdrawing room, your Green Room for twelve days. Look, did you notice that little round table laid for dinner over there? Your dinner, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘How delicious it looks,’ said Pamela, noticing the roast partridge on a nest of sliced poached pears. ‘Wine, too.’

  ‘I’m very pleased we found our way here, because I’ll tell you now there are some of my clients whose inner children have grown so weighed down by the habits of anxiety that they don’t manage to find the way back to their green room ever again.’

  ‘Poor them,’ said Pamela. ‘Destined never to get beyond the Hoover. Talking of inner children, though, where is mine?’

  ‘Didn’t you notice?’ said the life coach. ‘You can’t have been looking.’

  Pamela turned and for the first time saw the child in question, its face now smooth and wreathed in smiles, sitting on the floor in front of the fire. It was engaged in a spirited game of Scrabble with a hoary-headed ancient whose beard reached past his waist.

  ‘Is that my Inner Grandfather?’ she asked.

  ‘No, that’s the Old Year,’ said the life coach. ‘And look, over there beside the chimney breast, you can guess who that baby is.’

  She looked where she was told and saw a naked infant lying in a fur-lined basket waving its plump arms and legs in the air and crowing delightedly.

  ‘It’s the New Year, isn’t it!’ exclaimed Pamela; but when she turned round again the life coach had slipped away, back to the wide world web where she was needed. So she thanked the thin air instead and, smiling, joined the little family group waiting for her in front of the fire.

  Constitutional

  ‘I just think she’s a bit passive-aggressive,’ said the woman to her friend. ‘In a very sweet way. D’you know what I mean?’

  This is so much the sort of thing you hear on the Heath that I couldn’t help smiling, straight from Stella’s funeral though I was, standing aside to let them past me on to the pavement. Even five minutes later, almost at the ponds, I’m smiling, but that could be simple relief at being outside in some November sun.

  The thing about a circular walk is that you end up where you started – except, of course, that you don’t. My usual round trip removes me neatly from the fetid staffroom lunch-hour, conveniently located as the school is on the very edge of the Heath. And as Head of Science I’m usually able to keep at least two lunch-hours a week free by arranging as many of the departmental meetings and astronomy clubs and so on as I possibly can to take place after school.

  Because I know exactly how long I have – quick glance at my watch, fifty-three minutes left – and exactly how long it takes, I can afford to let my mind off the lead. Look at the sparkle of that dog’s urine against the dark green of the laurel, and its wolfish cocked leg. In the space of an hour I know I can walk my way back to some sort of balance after my morning-off’s farewell distress before launching into sexual reproduction with Year Ten at five past two.

  When the sun flares out like this, heatless and long-shadowed, the tree trunks go floodlit and even the puddles in the mud hold flashing blue snapshots of the sky. You walk past people who are so full of their lives and thoughts and talk about others, so absorbed in exchanging human information, that often their gaze stays abstractedly on the path and their legs are moving mechanically. But their dogs frisk around, curvetting and cantering, arabesques of pink tongues airing in their broadly smiling jaws. They bound off after squirrels or seagulls, they bark, rowrowrow, into the sunshine, and there is no idea anywhere of what comes next.

  This walk is always the same but different, thanks to the light, the time of year, the temperature and so on. Its sameness allows me to sink back into my thoughts as I swing along, while on the other hand I know and observe at some level that nothing is ever exactly the same as it was before.

  It’s reminding me of that card game my grandfather taught me, Clock Patience, this circuit, today. I’m treading the round face of a twelve-hour clock. Time is getting to be a bit of an obsession but then I suppose that’s only natural in my condition. So, it’s a waiting game, Clock Patience. You deal the fifty-two cards in the pack, one for each week of the year, face down into a circle of twelve, January to December, and there is your old-fashioned clock face. I didn’t find out till last week so that’s something else to get used to. Stella would have been interested. Fascinated. The queen is at the top, at twelve o’clock, while ace is low at one.

  Forty-nine minutes. From that hill up there to my left it’s possible to see for miles, all over London, and on a clear day I’m pretty sure I can pinpoint my road in Dalston. A skipper on the Thames looked up here at the northern heights three centuries ago and exclaimed at how even though it was midsummer the hills were capped with snow. All the Heath’s low trees and bushes were festooned with clean shirts and smocks hung out to dry, white on green, this being where London’s laundry was done.

  So you deal the first twelve cards face down in the shape of a clock face, then the thirteenth goes, also face down, into the middle. Do this three times more and you end up with four cards on every numeral and four in a line across the clock.

  As I overtake an elderly couple dawdling towards the ponds, these words drift into my ears – ‘. . .terrible pain. Appalling. They’ve tried this and that but nothing seems to help. Disgusting. . .’ The words float after me even though I speed up and leave the two of them like tortoises on the path behind me.

  Start by lifting one of the four central cards. Is it a three of hearts? Slide it face up under the little pile at three o’clock, and help yourself to the top card there. Ten of spades? Go to ten o’clock and repeat the procedure. Ah, but when you turn up a king, the game gains pace. The king flies to the centre of the clock and lies face upwards. You lift his down-turned neighbour and continue. Nearly always the kings beat the clock – they glare up at you from their completed gang before you have run your course, four scowling tyrants. But occasionally you get the full clock out before that happens, every hour completed; and that’s very satisfying.

  ‘Patience is more of a woman’s card game,’ said Aidan, who prefers poker. ‘The secretaries at work got hooked on computer Solitaire. We had to get the IT department to wipe it from the memories.’

  We were lying in bed at the time.

  ‘Have you noticed how on rush-hour trains,’ I countered, ‘a seated man will o
pen up his laptop in the middle of the general crush and you’ll think, he must have important work to do. Then you peep round the edge of the screen and he’s playing a game of exploding spaceships.’

  I don’t know when I should tell him about this latest development. Pregnancy. Or even, whether.

  One thing the doctor asked my grandfather to do early on, before his diagnosis, was to draw a simple clock face on a piece of paper and then sketch in the hands at five past ten. He couldn’t do it. I was there. His pencil seemed to run away with him. His clock had wavy edges, it had gone into meltdown, the numerals were dropping off all over the place and the whole thing was a portrait of disintegration.

  Forty-five minutes left. I can’t believe my body has lasted this long, said Stella the last time I visited her in her flat. When you think (she said), more than ninety years, it seems quite incredible. She had few teeth, three or four perhaps, and didn’t seem to mind this, although one of them came out in her sandwich that day while we were having lunch, which gave us both a shudder of horror. When she had the first of her funny turns and I visited her in hospital, she said, ‘I don’t care what’s wrong with me. Either they put it right or not. But what’s the point? Just to go on and on?’

  For some reason the fact that she was ninety-three when she died and that her body was worn out did not make her death any more acceptable to this morning’s congregation. The church was rocking with indignant stifled sobs at the sight of the coffin in front of the altar, and her old body in it. She had no children but hundreds of friends. Her declared line had always been that since death is unknowable it’s simply not worth thinking about. She didn’t seem to derive much comfort from this at the end, though.

  Prolongation of morbidity is what they’re calling this new lease of life after seventy. I turned to the sharp-looking woman brushing away tears beside me in the pew this morning, and said, ‘You’d think it would be easier on both sides to say goodbye; but ninety-three or not, it isn’t.’