by John Nicholl
He smiled, uttered words of encouragement and reassurance, assisted me in the direction of the exit and helped me into my warm green woollen winter coat, which had been hanging on a hook near to the door. ‘Come on, my dear girl, let’s go for a nice stroll before contacting that father of yours.’ And then a joke to lighten the mood. ‘He’s going to think I’m a bad influence if we don’t sober you up a bit… What do you say? I’d be in serious trouble.’
I can distinctly recall pausing mid-step as the freezing weather stung my face on being led out of the restaurant and into the quiet out-of-season night-time street. I’m not sure which direction we took, but by about 11:30 p.m. I found myself sitting on a wooden bench almost directly opposite the newsagent in Tenby’s main street, with a glorious view of the picturesque harbour and Amroth beyond, painted by the subtle light of the early January moon. Like it or not, the world keeps turning with or without us, seemingly oblivious to our existence.
My slightly disjointed reminiscences remind me that we need to make the most of the good times while we can. Those we love can leave us all too quickly. My advice, for what it’s worth, would be not to take anything or anyone for granted, but I’m sure you knew that already. I’ll bring my brief sermon to a close and continue…
By the time Dad pulled up alongside us in his modest family car about twenty minutes later, I was absolutely freezing, shivering uncontrollably, and very glad of the opportunity to take advantage of the vehicle’s comparative warmth. Dad thanked the doctor for entertaining me, or it may have been ‘looking after me’, that’s probably more like it, and then looked at me with a questioning look on his face when he noticed the telltale signs of my earlier excess. Dr Galbraith smiled sympathetically and waved enthusiastically as Dad drove off, and quickly disappeared from my view as Dad negotiated the first bend.
Dad repeatedly asked probing questions about the evening during our short journey back to the house, and I recall thinking it felt more like an interrogation than a conversation. It annoyed the heck out of me at the time, but I’ve since realised that he was simply trying to establish if anything positive had resulted from the evening. He had my best interests at heart as usual. He wanted the best for me, and that was his cack-handed way of showing it. In all honesty, I can’t remember what he asked me exactly, or what I told him in reply. That conversation would take place the following evening, when despite my sobriety he still wouldn’t receive any meaningful answers.
I dragged myself out of my warm and comfortable bed at about 10:30 a.m. the following morning. After the shock of looking at myself in the brightly lit bathroom mirror—never a good idea after an excessively boozy night—I headed downstairs and into the kitchen for a much-needed glass of cold water and two soluble aspirins, which gradually went some way to alleviating the horrendous headache that felt as if my brain were attempting to force its way out of my skull through my ears.
Mum tried her best to feign concern when she first saw me slumped at the kitchen table, but her true feelings were quickly betrayed by the smile that played on her lips as she turned away on the pretext of performing some household task or other. I didn’t say anything in response, but I think she must have realised the game was well and truly up, because she said, ‘Sorry, love, can I get you a nice cup of tea?’
‘Please, Mum.’
I sat at the kitchen table, trying to make small talk, with the embarrassing events of the previous evening gradually materialising in my mind. Mum poured boiling water into a favoured blue porcelain mug and added a tea bag and a splash of cold milk before handing it to me with a grin. ‘How did it go last night, love? Did you have a good time? Dad said the doctor seems like a nice man.’
‘Yeah, it was okay in the circumstances.’
‘So what did he want to talk about?’
‘He wants me to go back to university.’
She sat more upright, animated by the news. ‘Well, Dad and I have been saying much the same thing. Life has to go on.’
‘Yeah, but he wants me to change courses.’
She swivelled in her seat and looked me in the eye with a pensive expression on her face. ‘But what about your Law degree, love? You seemed so keen before…’ She looked away. ‘Well, you know what I’m saying.’
I nodded reticently. ‘Dr Galbraith thinks Psychology would suit me better. He says I have a God-given talent I wasn’t aware of.’
‘Really? What do you think, love? I suppose he must know what he’s talking about.’
‘Steven loved it.’
‘So, what did you say?’
I shook my head and silently cursed my hangover. ‘I can’t remember, to be honest. But I need to give it a lot more thought.’
‘It sounds like a good idea to me.’
I took a large gulp of the fast-cooling liquid. ‘Maybe you’re right Mum. Maybe you’re right.’
10
The last seven days have passed all too slowly as they tend to here, and my period of enforced isolation is finally at an end. You may recall me saying that I rather enjoyed the experience initially, particularly once Mrs Martin had facilitated my continued writing, but the novelty eventually wore off. Towards the end of the week I began to struggle, both physically and mentally. I’m sure it’s a phenomenon that must have been researched at some point by one university psychology department or another, but I’ve never read anything on the subject. It’s perhaps a tad overdramatic to say that the lack of human company withered my fragile soul, but that’s how it felt by the last day. I don’t know how else to put it. My head was banging, I felt physically sick, my thoughts were becoming increasingly dark and invasive even for me, and I badly needed a shower to wash away my increasingly stale sweat. If there’s a hell somewhere in infinity and I find myself there for eternity, I fear I’ll be alone in permanent darkness with not even a hint of light and no one to talk to even for a single second. Hopefully I’ll find redemption somewhere along the way and avoid such a fate. I’d like to think so anyway.
Right, I’ll pull myself together as best I can and try to be more positive from here on in. That wouldn’t be a bad idea, I’m sure you’d agree. I’m back in my cell and very glad to be here. Now, that’s one sentence I never envisaged myself writing. I guess it’s the lesser of two evils. And wonder of wonders, I’ve got yet another new cellmate: the third in a matter of weeks. That may be some sort of prison world record, but I can’t see me featuring in the Guinness Book of Records anytime soon. There you go, I’m thinking more positively already.
You may be thinking that there’s little, if any, point, in me telling you about the new woman in my life, if she’s likely to move on as quickly as the previous two. But in reality, Gloria and I shared a cell for quite some time. It’s just that I began writing this shortly before her recent departure to what’s hopefully a happier place and eventual freedom. And Sheila, well, you know as much as I do about Sheila. Sheila was an abomination. I don’t think it’s in anyone’s interests to raise that regrettable debacle again.
My new cellmate’s name is Emma, Emma St Bride. A highly unlikely label for a resident of prison world. I immediately assumed that she’d turn out to be some spoilt minx who’d unwisely entered the dirty world of illicit drugs, or a greedy, needy professional pen-pusher who’d embezzled money she didn’t need. But I turned out to be wrong on both counts, despite my earlier cautionary words regarding the folly of jumping to conclusions on the basis of fleeting first impressions. I really should have learnt that particular lesson by now.
It turns out that Emma, despite the name’s misleading persona of upper middle-class respectability, grew up on a large, solidly working-class council estate in Halifax, in the North of England. Nothing wrong with that, of course. We can’t all be born with silver spoons and all the advantages that entails, but for me, her name invoked a privately educated debutant-type with an annoying pebble-in-the-mouth South-of-England accent. How did this seeming inconsistency occur? How did the label cross the class divide
? Well, it turns out her father was a fan of the Avengers, and particularly high-kicking Diana Rigg, in a tight, black leather catsuit few men could resist. It seems males are visually rather than emotionally stimulated. I read that in a book once upon a time, in a previous life. They’re Mars to our Venus. Simple, uncomplicated creatures that are easily pleased. Or at least, most of them are. His tastes were far more sinister.
Emma—it still feels strange to call her Emma—was very willing to volunteer why she’s here. She just spilt it out without me saying a word. Maybe she was too willing. It’s some distance from the norm. She told me she’s a single mother of twenty-three years who grew up in virtual poverty, and misses her four-year-old son, Gary, horribly, as if mourning his death. He’s been taken into local authority care and placed with foster parents. She hasn’t seen him for months, apparently. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something she isn’t telling me.
Emma, it seems, was convicted of theft after repeated offences to feed her drug habit, which led to a period of incarceration along with the rest of us miscreants. If that’s the winding path she followed, she isn’t the first and she certainly won’t be the last. But there’s something that doesn’t fit. Something that leaves an unpalatable taste in the mouth. She seems nice enough on first meeting, but if she’s here after a bit of thieving, why is she sharing a cell with a lifer? That’s just not how things work here. I could be charitable and put it down to the chronic overcrowding, but rumours are, she’s serving a five-year stretch. She hasn’t told me that herself, naturally. It was the one matter she seemed reluctant to discuss. If it’s true, she’s hiding something. If I find out what, you’ll be the first to know.
I’m scribbling this nonsense whilst sitting on the top bunk passing some time before breakfast. I neglected to mention that I’ll be heading to the canteen in a few minutes, and so I’ll need to bring this session to a close soon. I’m seeing Mrs Martin later today, and I can honestly say I’m quite looking forward to it for a change. She’s one of the few people who seem genuinely on my side. Perhaps she can do something to make Emma’s life a little easier. I think she probably deserves that, whatever her crime.
11
I’ve still got about half an hour or so before lights out, and I’m keen to tell you as much as I can about my therapy session before darkness prevails once more. I’ll try my best to close my ears and ignore the incessant drone of Emma’s pitiful sobbing. She carved her son’s name into her arm in inch-high letters at some point during the day, for some reason I can’t comprehend. Such things are not uncommon in prison world, and nothing much surprises me anymore. I’ve become used to the night-time weeping chorus of others. I’ve had to. What other choice did I have? It was that, or lose my fragile grasp on sanity. I can shut it out most of the time, the white noise for the criminal classes, with my rough grey blanket pulled tight around my ears. But it still gets to me sometimes. There’s only so much sorrow anyone can bear.
Mrs Martin had just returned from a weekend’s break in Bath with her second husband, Fredrick, as she insists on calling him. She said they had a marvellous time. And why wouldn’t they? I would, given the opportunity. It’s a lovely city after all. I’m pleased for her, honestly I am, but did she really need to tell me all about it in such enthusiastic minuscule detail? She even recommended a bijou vegan restaurant in North Parade Passage. I could all too easily have slapped her, but I stayed firmly in my seat and sat on my hands. For an experienced woman who’s supposed to understand the many complexities of the human psyche, she seems a tad insensitive at times. It’s going to be a very long time before I go to Bath, or anywhere else for that matter. Perhaps I should take a closer look at those certificates of hers.
When she’d finally finished torturing me with details of her romantic interlude, she did eventually ask, ‘How are you finding the reflective process, Cynthia? I hope it’s not too arduous.’
‘It’s okay I suppose, at least it’s giving me something to do.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, I guess it’s helping me focus on my life.’
She nodded and smiled momentarily without parting her lips. ‘I’m glad you’re finding it useful. Do you mind if I read the first few pages?’
She held her hand out towards me, but withdrew it quickly when I clutched the notebook tightly to my chest.
Her face took on a contemplative expression, as if she were deep in thought and choosing her words carefully before speaking again. When she did eventually speak, she moved to the very edge of her seat, leant towards me, and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m not here to judge you, Cynthia. I’m here to help. There’s very little I haven’t heard before.’
I averted my gaze and said, ‘Okay.’
‘It’s important to take responsibility for any mistakes you’ve made in your life, and learn from them.’
I took a deep breath and handed her my precious notebook open at the first page.
‘Thank you.’
As she began reading, I assured her that I had no desire to minimise my responsibility, but I realise that in reality I was simply saying what I believed she wanted to hear in the interests of an easy life. I do feel guilt, and it torments me at times, but I’m not ready to tell her that just yet. I was hiding behind my brief defiance. It seems an admission of weakness would be unwise in my dangerous world, where strength is a distinct advantage. I’m finding it a lot easier to write the truth than to speak it face to face. I don’t really think that’s dishonest, as Mrs Martin anticipated it would happen, and she’ll read the whole truth and nothing but the truth at some point in the not-too-distant future anyway. If she thought I’d tell her everything willingly and easily, the journal would be entirely superfluous. That seems obvious. I think she knows exactly what she’s doing. This was always going to be a lengthy process, rather than a miraculous instant fix all.
At the end of our one-hour session, Mrs Martin smiled warmly, and told me to keep writing. I was expecting some sort of caveat, but that was it. She said nothing more, other than reminding me that the hour was up. Doesn’t time pass quickly when you’re enjoying yourself? Please forgive my flippant sarcasm, but her to-the-second timekeeping never fails to surprise and frustrate me. She seems to have a built-in clock, like an experienced boxer who knows instinctively when a round is near to its end and throws a flurry of punches to impress the judges.
Keep writing! It seemed somewhat dismissive when she said it, but now that I think about it, it’s all she needed to say. And so, that’s what I plan to do. Keep writing and see where it takes me.
12
I recognised Dr Galbraith’s flowing pen and ink script as soon as Dad handed me his second letter on the 3rd of January. I found myself pleased that he’d bothered writing again, and eager to know the contents. I grasped the letter tightly in one hand and hurriedly retreated to my childhood bedroom to recline on the comfortable single bed and read it in peace. I prised it carefully from its now familiar envelope, and unfolded it next to me on top of my pink and white winter quilt.
The letter began with the expected platitudes, which I read with only passing interest, but then it became much more interesting. At this point I can either try and summarise the salient points, or recreate the letter again as I did last time in an attempt to avoid bias. That’s probably best, although I can’t promise that my representation won’t be influenced by time passed and flawed memories. For some reason, I don’t recall the second letter with the same photographic clarity as the first. I can’t explain why, because if anything its contents were even more significant to my future. I didn’t read it as often, that’s the obvious explanation, but it seems far too simplistic a statement. Maybe there were clues. Clues I missed. Why didn’t I read it as often? That’s the real question. Perhaps you can work it out. I’ve tried and failed miserably.
Anyway, I was in the process of telling you what he’d written. I’ve given it my best shot, but I just can’t picture the single page in
my mind. I’m going to have to resort to summarising the key points after all. I hope that’s okay with you. Overcomplicating matters can be a very effective delaying tactic.
In short, it seemed I’d already agreed to resume my studies when the post-Christmas university term started again on the 24th of January. That didn’t come as a total shock, as I suspected I may have made that commitment on that drunken night. What did surprise me, however, was that I’d be studying Psychology, rather than Law. I knew I’d agreed to consider changing courses, but I was almost certain that I made it clear I needed more time to think. He’d already spoken to the relevant lecturers, and he’d made the necessary arrangements. It was a done deal.
I felt very close to panic. Going back to Cardiff at all wasn’t easy to face, but the thought of a new course, with a new group of students, who’d inevitably be well ahead of me in their studies and relationships, was truly daunting. I’m one of life’s worriers. Headaches become brain tumours, boils become cancerous growths, and common colds, pneumonia. Or at least in my head they do. I know it’s stupid. I know it’s counterproductive. But it seems that’s the way I’m made and there’s little, if anything, I can do about it.
I lay back on the bed, shaking my head slowly and trying to come up with a viable escape strategy. My mind was filled with unwelcome questions I couldn’t answer. It seemed a fait accompli. It was all happening much too quickly. I’d lost control.