by John Nicholl
Rather than attempt to summarise the contents of the letter, I think it best to recount it word for word, as it was written. I have read it so many times over the years, searching for any suggestion of what would follow, that I know every single word by heart. I’ve decided not to attempt to mimic his presentation, as I don’t have the necessary skills. I don’t think it really matters, although you may disagree.
This is what he wrote:
22 December 1985
Dear Cynthia,
I hope I find you well, despite the awful events that led to our first meeting. Have you given any further thought to resuming your studies? I can understand that returning to Cardiff for the first time since Steven’s tragic death must seem an almost insurmountable task, but I would implore you not to abandon your academic pursuits. I know that Steven placed an extremely high value on education, and I feel certain that he would wish you to continue despite his leaving. I would be both delighted and privileged to offer you any support you require on a practical, academic or personal level. Perhaps we could meet for a bite to eat to talk about your future. I have one other matter I would very much like to discuss with you, and I feel this would be better done face to face, rather than in writing.
I hope to receive your response very soon. I won’t wish you a happy Christmas given the situation, it seems inappropriate, but I can assure you from painful experience that time can be a great healer. You may not think it now, but you will experience joy again.
Kindest regards,
David Galbraith
What do you think of the content? How do you think you’d have reacted if faced with a similar scenario? I’m interested to know. Really, I am. The letter seems simple enough to me. Any hidden agendas? Any alarm bells? I didn’t think so.
When I recount his written words now, all these years later, I think he comes over as somewhat pompous and elitist. But, I was young, I was vulnerable, and to be honest, somewhat naïve and impressionable. I didn’t read between the lines. Steven’s death was the first significant crisis of my short life. But life happens, things change, and not always for the better.
I think it’s fair to say that when I first read that letter, I interpreted the contents as being from an intelligent, sophisticated and super-sensitive man who felt and understood my emotional pain. Maybe that was his intention. Maybe I was actively seeking what I found. Who knows? I can only put it down to my relative youth and inexperience. I’d like to travel back in time and shake my young self and scream, ‘Don’t be such an idiot, you stupid girl! He’s after something, they’re always after something.’ But even if some well-intentioned individual had said something along those cautionary lines, I probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.
I considered writing back over the Christmas period, but I didn’t actually get round to putting pen to paper. In fact, as far as I can recall, I didn’t give the doctor much thought, until I answered the phone at about 7:15 p.m. on a dreary, dank Welsh New Year’s Eve, and heard his distinctive, instantly recognisable voice on the other end of the line.
Despite my initial reticence at the start of our conversation, I was surprised to find myself glad he’d rung. Not because I felt any physical attraction to him, far from it, it was far too soon for such thoughts, but due to his obvious fondness for Steven’s memory. He didn’t really say anything very different to what he’d said on that day at the crematorium, but the simple fact that he was willing to talk about my loss, rather than avoid the subject, as most people tended to do, meant a great deal to me. The bereaved want to talk of their loss, they need to talk of their loss, and to share fond memories of the dead. I know I did.
Towards the end of what I now realise was a contrived, somewhat convoluted conversation, with him asking trigger questions and me doing most of the talking, he returned to the subject of my interrupted studies. In all honesty, it wasn’t something I wanted to think about, but he suddenly suggested I consider changing my course. It wasn’t something I seriously considered, or at least not at first, but I agreed to think about it, more to get him off the phone than anything else. It seemed the easiest option.
Two days later, as I was sitting on a high stool by the kitchen window, watching, spellbound, as large snowflakes floated slowly from a luminous grey sky and disappeared almost instantly on hitting the warmer ground, the phone rang out loudly in the hall. For some instinctive reason I can’t begin to explain, I knew that it was Dr Galbraith as soon as I lifted the receiver from its wall-mounted cradle. This time, after asking me how I was coping with my loss, he got straight to the point. ‘I would like you to consider studying Psychology, my dear. I believe you’d find the subject far more rewarding than your erstwhile legal studies.’
I was taken aback at first, unsure of how to respond, and so I remained silent.
‘Hello, Cynthia, are you still there, my dear?’
I nodded once and said, ‘Yes, still here.’
‘Well, what do you think? Is it something you’d be willing to consider?’
‘Steven said much the same thing, but I always thought that Law was the right course for me.’
‘Look, I’m in Pembrokeshire on Saturday, visiting a relative who’s a bit under the weather. How would you feel about meeting for a meal that evening? My treat. It would give us the opportunity to discuss your options properly.’
It felt wrong to be talking about the future with a virtual stranger so soon after Steven’s death, but for some reason I can’t properly explain, I reluctantly agreed to meet him. Maybe it was his elevated status, maybe his magnetism. Or maybe I was utterly fed up with being back home with Mum and Dad, after getting used to a more independent lifestyle. I think I’ll delete this paragraph if Mum ever considers reading this, although she might understand. Isn’t life complicated? It seems total honesty may not always be such a good idea after all.
I agreed to meet Dr Galbraith, or David, as he repeatedly insisted I call him, at the very same Indian restaurant from which my family had purchased Steven’s last supper. Does that seem callous? To my never-ending shame, I strongly suspect that it does. Perhaps I’m the heartless shrew described by the more right-wing newspapers, after all. If you’ve reached that conclusion, please keep it to yourself. I don’t need to hear any further criticism. There was more than enough at the time.
I began getting ready at about 6:00 p.m. on the following Saturday evening, and was showered, made-up, dressed smartly but casually in black cord jeans and a modest navy jumper, and watching the clock nervously by 7:15. Mum and Dad were pleased I was going out into the world of the living, and even more pleased that I was meeting an esteemed lecturer, who seemed hellbent on facilitating my return to academia.
Dad encouraged me in the direction of the car as soon as I was ready, and dropped me off directly outside the restaurant five minutes before the allotted time, with the strict instruction to ring him when I was ready to be collected later in the evening. What a lovely man. Nothing was ever too much trouble, and he always seemed to have my best interests at the forefront of his mind.
The doctor was sitting and waiting at a table for two at the back of the atmospheric restaurant, decorated in suitably garish red and gold flock wallpaper, when I opened the door and hung up my coat. He stood and smiled warmly as I walked towards him, and pulled out a chair to allow me to sit opposite him. Now, that was something I wasn’t used to. He was always so very polite in public situations. Always charming, never a harsh word, the perfect English gentleman.
For some reason, as he handed me a menu and smiled, I noticed that his neat hair was trimmed to perfection, with a precise side parting fixed in place by just the right amount of shiny hair wax. In fact, everything about him was precise: the styled hair that I’ve already mentioned, his faultlessly manicured nails, and his expensive-looking navy-blue suit, white shirt and silk tie. He had the look of a man who valued the impression he conveyed to others. I later learnt that my initial impressions were spot on.
I recal
l looking at the menu for several minutes, carefully noting all the available options on offer, before placing it down on the table and choosing what I always chose: chicken dopiaza, or chicken with extra onions for anyone who’s interested, pilau rice, onion bhajis, crisp poppadoms, and sweet mango chutney. I’m nothing if not predictable.
Dr Galbraith chose a medium vegetable curry with boiled rice, and drank glass after glass of natural mineral water from distinctive green bottles, despite ordering a carafe of white house wine, which I later realised he didn’t touch the entire evening.
I, in dramatic contrast, welcomed the chance of a large glass or three of reality-numbing vino, and willingly accepted as soon as it was offered. I can clearly recall that he refilled my glass each and every time it reached the halfway point, which I’m afraid was rather too often. He made polite conversation, and asked how I was doing, but didn’t address the subject of my future until I was pretty much intoxicated. Do you think that was a deliberate ploy on his part? Or was he simply oiling the wheels of conversation in the interests of a convivial evening? It’s hard to tell. That’s the point I’m making. It’s very hard to tell.
You may well have spotted a theme developing by this point in my journey. I’m not the most decisive woman in the world, or even in prison world, for that matter. I pontificate almost constantly, and on most matters, even those of no particular consequence to my life. Deciding whether or not to put sugar in my watery prison porridge in the morning, for example, can seem an insurmountable problem on occasions. Does that sound ridiculous? Does it sound pathetic, to you? I’m guessing it does, and that I probably do too. But don’t be too quick to judge. I wasn’t always like that. If you’re called stupid often enough times, you start to believe it and doubt your judgement. I’ll leave you to think about it whilst I carry on writing.
About an hour into the evening, when we’d finished eating, the doctor ordered two Irish coffees topped with wonderfully thick cream, that felt like a decadent extravagance to a girl who’d so recently become used to the enforced frugalities of student life. He ordered me a second, but nothing more for himself, before finally asking me if I’d made a decision regarding my studies. ‘Have you given any thought to your academic future as the evening’s progressed, my dear girl?’
‘I haven’t, to be honest, Doctor.’
‘David. Please call me David.’
I nodded, and kept nodding nervously until he spoke again.
‘I should probably explain that the majority of my time is spent working as a consultant child psychiatrist with the Department of Child, Adolescent and Family Psychiatry in Caerystwyth. I lecture at the university on a part-time basis. I think it’s important to share my knowledge with the next generation of potential therapists. I see that in you, Cynthia. The potential to help others deal with their emotional distress. It’s an extremely rare gift that I’ve no doubt you possess.’ And then a gleaming, toothy smile that unnerved me. ‘I believe you to be a very special person.’
I think he must have seen the uncertainty in my eyes, because he continued to take the lead, asking guiding questions, uttering words of empathetic encouragement, making his case, and pointing me back in the direction of Cardiff and psychological studies as opposed to Law. I don’t know if that makes what actually happened that evening any clearer, but I suspect not. I’ll try and give you a flavour of the ongoing conversation, although my memories may be clouded by the alcohol. ‘Have another, my dear girl. Why not? It will help you to relax. How about a Tia Maria, my dear? It will complement your coffee beautifully.’
‘Why don’t you join me, Doctor?’
‘I’d love to, my dear girl, but regrettably I’m driving. You have another though. I insist. Down in one. That’s it!’ It was something along those lines. And anyway, I’m sure you get the gist.
He looked at me across the table after a couple of hours had passed, smiled warmly, revealing those flawless white teeth I mentioned, and said, ‘Now then, my dear, it’s been a marvellous evening and I feel we’ve got to know each other a little better. Tell me, have you reached any conclusions regarding your studies?’
I shook my head repeatedly despite realising he wasn’t inclined to let it go. My memory may be playing tricks on me, but I clearly recall his concerned expression, as if it really mattered to him, as if he cared. I think it’s fixed in my mind, because I was genuinely surprised by the implied level of his concern. He shook his head slowly, took off his grey metal-rimmed glasses, placed them carefully on the white linen tablecloth in front of him, and looked deep into my eyes, holding his gaze for a second or two before speaking again. When he did finally speak, his words were clearly enunciated with passion. ‘I fully appreciate that you have been faced with the greatest crisis in your young life. You have lost a wonderful young man. A truly wonderful young man with infinite potential. I can understand why you’re struggling to think about your future when your focus remains on the past. You’re looking behind you, and at this stage of the grieving process, I’m afraid that’s inevitable. As I said in my recent letter, I want to help. I’m keen to help. I know from my own painful experience of loss, just how difficult it can be to get your life back on track. Even the simplest of decisions can seem insurmountable. It would be all too easy for you to reach the wrong conclusions or make no decision at all. I want to help you ensure that doesn’t happen. I owe that much to Steven. As I said, he was a wonderful boy. I was so very fond of him.’
To my shame, I remember enjoying the unrelenting attention he gave me. That reality embarrasses me all these years later. Was I really that shallow? Was I really that easily influenced? Was I really that gullible? Or was it understandable given my brittle state and his engaging style? I’m not really sure. If this process of self-examination is intended to help me reach conclusions about myself, it’s not happening as intended quite yet. I plan to talk to Mrs Martin about it at our next meeting. I suspect she’ll tell me to persevere, but let’s just wait and see. Who knows? She may have other ideas.
The doctor’s eyes suddenly moistened and filled with tears, as he told me that his wife of eight years had died in the April of the previous year, in a faltering voice resonating with what seemed genuine emotion. He took a black leather wallet from an inside pocket of his tailored jacket, and handed me a small colour photograph of a beautiful young woman with dark shoulder-length hair parted in the middle and an engaging smile, sitting on the deck of what looked like a car ferry somewhere in the warm, mellow Mediterranean sunshine.
He seemed reluctant to tell me how she died, but I reached across the table, touched his hand and asked again. I understood his initial reticence when he eventually lowered his eyes, seemingly focussing on the tablecloth, and told me that she’d taken an overdose of analgesics and alcohol, after what he described as an extended period of severe depression.
I tightened my grip on his hand, feeling we had grief in common.
‘I tried to help her. Believe me, I tried desperately. I utilised my full range of therapeutic skills, but in the end it just wasn’t enough. She was rushed to hospital and they did what they could. They pumped her stomach and it looked hopeful initially, but the damage to her liver was irrevocable. She died the next day.’
His statement came as something of a shock, not due to how she died, but because the mode of her death seemed strangely at odds with the seemingly happy, full-of-life young woman in the photo.
He took a pristine white cotton handkerchief from a trouser pocket, and dabbed repeatedly at his reddening eyes, before looking up at me and forcing an improbable smile. I apologised for causing him such obvious distress, but secretly thought that his experience of grief equipped him to help me deal with my sadness.
He raised a hand in the air in the style of an assertive police officer stopping traffic, and said something along the lines of, ‘Enough of the past, enough of my problems, we’re here to help you make the right decisions regarding your future.’
I smiled, nodded o
nce, and said, ‘Thanks, Doctor.’ Or at least, that’s how I remember it.
He placed the photo back in his wallet with the utmost care, pushed the wallet to one side, and smiled engagingly. What on earth did he say next? I’m trying to get this right, really I am, but as I indicated earlier, some of my recollections of the evening feel like alcohol-fuelled dreams or the product of my subconscious mind, rather than memories of real events. As the evening progressed, I drank more, and as I drank more… well, I’m sure you get my point. Maybe you’ve been there yourself.
He spent the next half hour or more enthusiastically expounding the reasons why I should return to Cardiff, and perhaps more importantly, why I should study Psychology under his expert tutelage when I got there. I think that by the end of the night I must have succumbed, because as drunk as I was, and as persuasive as he was, I suspect I’d have agreed to almost anything.
He paid for the meal in cash, gave the waiter an overly generous tip he didn’t deserve, helped me from my seat with a strong supportive arm, and laughed despite my embarrassment, or perhaps because of it, when I suddenly turned away and hurried towards the toilet on unsteady legs.
I repeatedly washed my mouth out with copious amounts of cold water and splashed my face at the sink in a well-intentioned, but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to stop the room spinning uncontrollably. I’m not sure how long I was in the ladies’, but it must have been quite a while, because he knocked reticently on the door and crept into the small dimly lit room to find me propped up and swaying in one corner, with tears streaming down my mascara-smeared face. What a state I must have looked. It doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m usually so meticulous when it comes to my appearance.