He gets back on the line. ‘This is OUTRAGEOUS! Poppy, do you hear me? We can’t just stand by and let this happen; what an absolute shower of chinless, inbred, Tory-parroting ass-clowns. We need to get a lawyer on to this. Sue the shit out of them. We can’t let them get away with it.’
‘Okay, I’ll send them an email on Monday.’
‘An email? That’s a fairly toothless response to someone who just decided to ruin your entire career and flush tens of thousands of pounds of hard-earned cash down the pan.’
I wait. He’s getting more and more worked up. It’s best that I go quiet at this stage, as anything I say will just fan the flames.
‘Poppy, you were going to change the world, remember? You were going to help people all over the place. This is important; you were going to help people get their lives back. What happens to your thesis now? Jesus … I need a drink of water.’ The choking sound in his throat is back. ‘Give me a second.’ I hear a coughing convulsion in the distance.
My ex-dad is basically a slave to compulsive behaviours; drink, drugs, gambling, women – he has no check, no filter, he keeps going to the point of self-destruction. It’s amazing he’s still alive, to be honest. He’s lost everything over and over and over. The losses chip away at him, but never enough to make him stop, and it’s cost him his family and his band. He’s lauded as one of the greatest living drummers and songwriters of this century; not much use, though, when your hands shake so much you can’t hold a teaspoon.
He hasn’t come back to the phone yet, so I rest my head in the palms of my hands. I can picture him now; I know exactly what he’s doing. He’ll have broken into a cold sweat; his cheeks will look waxy and grey. He’ll have poured a glass of water to wash down his blood pressure tablets. He’ll squeeze his eyes tight because his head is pounding, and then he’ll go to the kitchen sink, run the tap and throw cold water onto his face. He’ll undo his top button, pull his collar away from his neck and try to take deep breaths. It’s a hot, tight, clamouring, soundless panic attack. I know this is what’s happening because I’ve seen it lots of times; every time he loses big. And me not getting the fellowship is losing big.
‘Dad?’ I call into the phone.
I hear some shuffling around; the tap is on full pressure.
I wait some more. And some more. I sit on the stairs and pick at my bitten-down fingernails. Twenty minutes pass. He comes back on the line. I hear unfamiliar voices in the background.
‘Dad?’
‘Okay, Poppy. Carlos is here now. He’s brought some young beardy guy with him. He’s making a documentary or something about the band.’
‘A journalist? Is that a good idea?’ My mind flashes back to a damning Rolling Stone feature years before called ‘Interviewing Ray Bloom; Never Meet Your Heroes’. The journalist reported just how appalling he was: one-word answers, nasty glaring looks alongside sulky silences, then torrents of abuse when they ran out of ice. Soon afterwards, he cancelled all his tour dates and fell out with the lead singer. This on top of losing everything he owned over a Las Vegas roulette table when I was just a baby meant he had to move, alone, to a little cottage on the Kent coast.
‘A good idea? I doubt it. But I’m going to lie down now. Keep your phone on. I’ll get us a lawyer.’
‘Okay,’ I say, and the line goes dead.
That actually went a touch better than expected. A small mercy that it happened over the phone and not face to face. So, he’s massively disappointed. Do I feel guilty about it? Absolutely. But what’s the point in wishing things were different when you know deep down that you are powerless to change them? I think I wanted to become a psychologist in the first place because I loved the idea that there was some way through apparent madness. That the landscape of the mind, however crazy and chaotic, could actually be navigated. Treasure could be retrieved. Building could commence. And I believed it in my first few years; I believed it so fully and wanted it so badly that it consumed me. I wanted to make Dad better. I thought it might be possible, if only I used the right tools and read the right books and showed him how important this was to me. Desperately, I tried to fix him, to solve him, to crack his code and make him well again.
But obviously that didn’t work out quite as well as I’d hoped. In fact it didn’t work at all, and sometimes I think it actually made things a whole lot worse. He didn’t want my help, and that’s what I couldn’t accept, and so we lost our way. Perhaps I drove him to clam up by demanding answers and being obsessed with progress, too keen to talk rather than listen. And then there he was, wanting to be left alone, obsessed with the past, weary of life and resigned to failure. So maybe that runs in the family; this catastrophic sense of failure.
The only two things I wanted to do when I decided to become a psychologist was help my dad and become a professor. And after spending tens of thousands of pounds of my dad’s money and ten crucial years of my own life, I’ve managed neither.
Chapter Twelve
‘Here she comes! The cryptic mastermind herself.’ Jamaal jumps up off his three-legged stool and offers it to me. ‘Grab a seat, girl, grab a seat. You need to take the weight off those feet so that your mind can work right.’
I give him a hug and he flashes me a broad, dazzling smile. Jamaal is Frank’s best friend. He sells The Big Issue outside Brixton tube station and they’ve kept each other company for two decades, drinking very sweet black tea from a shared flask day in, day out, rain or shine. They couldn’t look more different. On one side of the tube entrance there’s Frank, who is built like an old-fashioned strongman at a vintage fairground, with his big shiny head, bright blue eyes and eyebrows knitted together like he’s trying to solve a puzzle or remember something important. And on the other side is Jamaal, always hunched over, as though his belly aches from chronic laughter. His long, rope-like dreadlocks hang down either side of his face, framing his mischievous scrunched-up eyes. These two never seem to age, never seem to change, the pair of them preserved like iconic living statues, marking the point of passage for all those who pass in and out of Brixton underground, as constant and familiar and opposite as day and night.
I pat my crossover purse. ‘Don’t worry, Jamaal, I’ve got the clue and the answer right here.’ I turn to Frank and kiss him on the cheek. ‘I must’ve had some hair dye in my ears last night,’ I tell him. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d heard it correctly, so I rang the station this morning and double-checked.’
‘Just as well, we couldn’t hear the radio this morning at all with this racket going on.’ Frank tilts his head towards the road workers drilling and clanging a little further up the street. ‘So what is it, Poppy? I was a little stumped by the one you gave me. “Depressed dogs” … Jamaal, didn’t I say to you that I thought it was a mistake?’
Jamaal shrugs, then kisses his teeth and rubs his hands together, a teasing smile playing on his lips. ‘He always say that, every day, and then he hear the answer and he say, “I knew it! Remember, Jamaal, I told you that would be the answer.”’
Frank glances over at me, so I nod my loyal reassurance. ‘Yes, well, the real clue is …’
Jamaal uses two rolled-up Big Issues for a mini drum roll. ‘I don’t want no clue – the answer will do me just fine.’
Frank shakes his head. ‘Hold up now, some of us like to work the ole grey matter, you know. Give us the clue first, Poppy, see how we get on.’
‘“If north is starboard”.’
Frank pouts out his bottom lip and raises his eyebrows. ‘I’ll take the answer now, please, sweetheart,’ he says after a few seconds.
‘Southport,’ I announce, and Jamaal gives me a little round of applause. Frank thrusts his chin to the sky and clicks his fingers as if Southport had been on the tip of his tongue.
‘Your ole grey matter is getting very grey and slow these days, Frank,’ Jamaal teases, curling his arm around Frank’s thick waist. ‘But don’t you worry about that, my friend. When you get older and slower and those knees finally cave in al
together, your ole pal Jamaal here will wheel you around Brixton town all day long. Because I got you, you get me?’
Frank slaps his hands away playfully. ‘Get off, you big softie. It’ll be you needing a wheelchair before me – I’m six months younger than you, remember.’
Jamaal throws his head back in laughter, his eyes creased into half-moons.
‘See what nonsense I’ve got to put up with – twenty years of this, no wonder my poor brain has had it.’
A wave of dark-suited commuters suddenly spills forth from the underground stairwell, pouring out into the street right in front of us. Jamaal shakes a rolled-up magazine in the air. I step aside to avoid the flurry of people branching away from the crowd towards the flower stall.
‘Mixed bouquet, please …’
‘Twelve long-stemmed roses, mate.’
‘Something for the house – non-allergenic.’
Frank whips up the flowers from his display, wrapping them in paper with one hand, handling notes and dispensing change with the other. It strikes me that after all my study, I don’t really know how to do anything practical. I couldn’t even run this flower stall if it came to it. What does that leave me with? The Big Issue? I look over to Jamaal; I can just about see the top of his Rasta beanie over the crowd. I flick the idea aside. This town’s appetite for non-profit publications is just not big enough for the two of us.
‘I’ll take one, please,’ says a voice that sounds familiar, warmly familiar, but I can’t see past the crowds to locate who it belongs to.
A parting appears in the teeming throng, the traffic stalls at the lights, the pavement is clear for the first time in the mad midday rush. I stretch out my neck to catch a glimpse and my heart nearly explodes.
‘Dr Burley!’ I scream. I run to him and throw my arms around him, squeezing him really, really tight. ‘What are you doing here?’ I take him by the shoulders to make sure I’m not mistaken. This is really Dr Burley, here in Brixton, standing eyes wide right in front of me.
‘I happened to be at a conference in Russell Square so I thought, why not come and find you?’
I grab him again and manage to pull him to me even more tightly. He wraps his arms around me too. Probably because he can tell that I’ve started to cry.
‘It’s okay. I know it’s not been easy.’
I try to sort myself out by wiping the inside of my arm across my face. Jamaal hands me a tissue.
‘Jamaal, Frank, this is Dr Burley. My tutor from Banbridge. He took care of me all through my studies.’ I thread my arm through his.
Frank holds out his hand. ‘Thanks so much for all you’ve done. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Very good of you to come and see our Poppy.’ He smiles and starts rustling around in his money belt. I hold up my hands to resist, but Dr Burley gets in there before I do.
‘Actually I would love the chance to treat Poppy and catch up on all that’s happened.’ He turns to me. ‘I only have an hour or so; are you free to grab a coffee?’
We set off arm in arm. We decide to walk through the park, grabbing two takeaway coffees and a packet of strawberry shortbread biscuits to share.
‘So tell me everything,’ I say. I love gossip, even if it’s about me. I can’t help myself, and Dr Burley knows. I’ve been bursting to hear what’s been going on.
‘Okay, then. But you’ve got to promise not to upset yourself, Poppy.’
‘I promise,’ I tell him, shoving a whole biscuit into my mouth and fixing my eyes on the distant horizon.
‘After the graduation, I caught up with Dr Winters and asked her what on earth she was playing at. Everyone, I mean EVERYONE, was utterly shocked by her decision, and, well, it just didn’t make any sense. Gregory is an excellent student and he has very impressive interpersonal skills, so in a way I understood that he was a well-rounded choice; he brings a lot to the table. But Harriet? This confused me. To my mind, she is a lovely girl, but fairly pedestrian in terms of innovation. So …’
I drop my eyes to my shoes. One foot in front of the other. Right, left, right, left. Even though I’m still technically furious with Harriet for jumping into bed with my ex-boyfriend, my instinct is to stand up for her, to tell Dr Burley that she has lots of strong points: she is particularly good at footnoting and retrieving accidentally deleted documents, and she is a great friend … well, she was a great friend to me.
‘So?’ I ask, wanting the next instalment but aware that it might not necessarily be good news.
Dr Burley veers left and takes the path towards the duck pond.
‘So, I enquired a little further. I felt it my duty, as your tutor, to find and supply you with some answers after you’d been cast aside without explanation in that hurtful and confusing way.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Well … and believe me, it gives me no pleasure to relay this …’ He rubs his hands down his thighs. ‘Dr Winters felt that you didn’t inspire confidence. She felt that as an ambassador for the faculty and the university on a world stage, you didn’t have the presence necessary to make people sit up and take note.’
I stop. My feet won’t move. ‘Pardon?’ I ask.
Dr Burley is now looking at his feet too. They have also stopped moving. ‘“Uninspiring” was the word she used.’ He slips a boiled sweet out of his pocket and into his mouth. ‘She feels that students who come to Banbridge from a non-academic background –students such as yourself, the first generation in a family to attend university, never mind Banbridge – are painfully self-conscious. That you ask yourself questions like “Do I really belong here? Do I deserve this place? How do I fit in? Do I want to fit in?” This added pressure may lead you to over-compensatory behaviours and a tremendous pressure to prove yourself. And this makes for an uninspiring ambassador, I’m afraid.’
I turn to him, part my lips to speak but then just shake my head. Uninspiring. Of all the things I’ve ever been called, I honestly think this is the worst, the most deflating, the most personal.
‘I am so very sorry Poppy. I obviously don’t agree one iota. You are and have always been a tremendous inspiration to me. Your work is staggering in its originality and its forward thinking, and always came from the right place.’ He pats his chest, then looks furtively around the park and lowers his voice. ‘Between us, I always thought that Dr Winters was a bit jealous of you,’ he says. He drags a hand down his beard. ‘But it is what it is. She is the boss and her decision is final.’
I shake my head. I cannot believe what I am hearing. So basically, my work is great, but what a terrible pity about my personality.
He steps away from me, leans backwards on one heel and pushes his hand deep into his pocket. ‘I hope that goes some way to clarifying things. You have a clean slate now, free to move on to your next chapter.’
My chest tightens, so I try to breathe hard and deep. I want to scream and stomp and grab Burley by the shoulders and make him do something, anything, to put this right, to make it fair. I run my fingers through my hair, placing my hands on top of my head as if protecting myself from a meteor shower. I can’t win – they’ve made up their minds. Anything I do or say now will only make matters worse. If I lose my cool with him, right now, here in broad daylight, it will only serve to strengthen this idea that I’m not as polished and composed as everyone else. If I cry, I’ll look unstable. If I get angry, I’ll look defensive. Allowing these emotions to leak uncontrollably all over the place … how common-as-muck of me. I swallow hard and tighten my grip on my coffee cup.
‘Dr Burley, I’m going to have to go now. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me; thanks for fighting my corner and thanks for coming here.’
Burley softens his voice. ‘What’s done is done, Poppy, I want you to know that I wish you the best, and even though your plans haven’t turned out exactly as you might have wished, I have every confidence that …’
‘… they’ll work out anyway,’ I finish for him. I’m hearing this a lot lately.
‘Exactly!’
I stare at my shoes again. He fishes his phone out of his briefcase. ‘I’m going to get going. I’m presenting after lunch. I’ll ring for a taxi to meet me at the park gates and bring me back to the conference venue. Can I offer you a lift anywhere?’
I shake my head and try to kick up some chewing gum that’s melted into the gravel. I say goodbye to him and he skips off towards the park gates, alone.
So. That’s it. It is what it is.
Well, at least I know where I stand now. Goodbye, Gregory and Harriet and gilded academia. Best of luck with the fellowships. Safe travels back to Banbridge, Dr Burley. Give my regards to Dr Winters and her theories. Hope you all enjoy the life that I worked my arse off for and that I once thought was destined for me.
I hear the 105 FM jingle blaring from a passing car: bah-bah-bah-bombom! It sounds like a Latino wind chime; fun and fresh, like there’s a carnival just outside your window and gorgeous sequinned women are dancing with their hips and their eyes against fanned peacock feathers and waving you towards them with impossibly beautiful smiles. I like it. It’s been stuck in my head all day. Bah-bah-bah-bombom!
I sling my bag across my chest and check my watch. It is much later than I realised. If I run along the old park trail and then through the gates to the bus stop, it’s technically possible to get to the South Bank Studio in time to catch Jake Jackson and discuss the internship. And that’s only a little late, right? That’s not drastically late in the great scheme of things. I can happily forgo lunch. When I get there, I’ll just blame the bus, the tube, the traffic, say I had an accident or that someone tried to mug me, that there was a security alert on the line so I had to walk, blah de blah de blah; all standard London stuff that nobody can bear to listen to or cares about.
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 12