Too Close

Feb 10

Leah was going out to play tennis and told me and Polly to be good for a few hours. Polly asked her for some money but she told Polly to stop being so bloody cheeky which was good because there is a swear box that Leah has to put money into. She put 10p in then we both did begging noises and got on our knees and tried to make her swear again. I like it when Leah laughs. She said Polly had no understanding of the valew of money (because she had given her 20 quid last week and she dropped it out of her pocket. It must of been when we were doing chalk circles round the dog poos in the park). Leah said if we wanted money we would have to work for it and told us to tidy the house while she was out. She looked silly going off down the street in white nappy nickers tennis costume. We collected all the money we could find in the house. Down the sofa. In the pencil pot. In the desk. By the bed. We found LOTS of interesting stuff in the draw by the bed. They have an ENORMOUS plastic toy willy on a short lead thing that buzzes and dances on the floor!! Polly strapped it on her back and we put an egg cosy on its head and we pretended it was a baby.

Then we got bored and decided to make a shop. Polly said Ness has loads of things she never uses so we had a look in her cubbard and found lots of stuff. Some gold boots that she only wears at Christmas. And a whole see threw zip bag full of clothes. Then we found Leahs golf sticks, Polly said she will never notice if a couple of them went missing and some nice big books from the top shelf. Polly says no one EVER looks up there. And we took the dancing willy. ANYWAY we found so much that we ended up borrowing a trolley from Sainsburys and we put everything in it and pushed it to the park and we made a stall by the market. Some boys from year 7 bought the willy for 2 pounds!! And Sashas mum came by and bought Nesses leather jacket. She was modelling it all like a model and we were going yeah it looks really good on you, although to be honest it didnt because she is not the slimmest of people ahem ahem if you know what I mean, but you have to lie in shops if you want to be a seller.

We made LOADS of money. 46 pounds 35p (minus 10 pounds because Josh and his smelly friends came by and said theyd snitch on us).

Anyway when we got back to Pollys Ness and Leah were having a row. We could hear Leah shouting from outside the house. At first we thought it was because of us and our shop but it wasnt. They didn’t even hear us when we came in. So we tiptoed up the stairs and they carried on argewing.

Polly says she thinks they are going to devorce and then she would get two summer holidays instead of one. And more Christmas presents and two Christmas dinners. And maybe go and live in Jamaica. I said why Jamaica. She said thats just what people do when they get devorced. I dont think shes right. Mum says Polly has a very active imagination which means she lies. For example Polly once told me that when her aunt was in hospital, she suddenly pulled out all her tubes and got out of bed, peeled an orange ate it and died on the floor. I hope she is not going to live in Jamaica. I hope they dont devorce.

I hope my mum and dad are not going to devorce. I feel sorry for all those people in our class whose parents are devorced. I try and pretend its OK to them but I would hate it. Alice says you have no idea at all that its coming but Phoebe P says you can tell its coming because first of all you notice that your mum and dad are never in the same room (mine are). Then you notice that they are never holding hands (mine still do sometimes) and then they are always banging things (mine do that) and the big clue is that they dont sleep in the same bed (mine do!!!). Polly says she doesnt think mine will devorce because everyone is always laughing in our house. It is full of jokes so we are OK, pleeeease. Polly says Ness and Leah are never laughing only when they are with other people. She says Ness is nicer when Leah is away otherwise Leah just sits on the sofa watching golf and tennis. Polly likes to climb up to the biscuit cubbard to make her shout at her.

These are things we hear Leah say to Ness in the row.

1) That she cant bare her stupid family and that she should try climbing out of her own arse some time.???

2) That they have NOTHING in common. (Wrong. Polly and Evie and two hamsters.)

3) Why doesnt Ness ever show any emotion?? She called her a fuking robot. (Polly and me like robots.)

Ness didnt shout back at Leah at all. I would of done. I would of said get off the sofa you lazy poo. Actually I would of said the BBC news is rubbish. She cares about that shes always on twitter swearing at her phone.

4) Ness says to Leah, I think you better calm down before you say things you might regret.

5) Leah says to Ness, Stop being so fuking patronizing.

6) Ness says to Leah, You can be quite a kleeshay yourself, Leah. (Polly and I dont know what a kleeshay is and it is not in the dictionary so it is probably rude.)

7) Leah says to Ness, Your so passive aggressive. (Which Polly said means sometimes you want sex and sometimes you dont.)

Then I dropped my tube of gobstoppers down the wooden stairs and Ness came out and said hello girls perhaps its time you went home, Annie. I said no I didn’t have to but Leah said I did. When I went home, Granny and Grampa were in the kitchen and Granny said hadnt I grown and was I still good at maths. I said I havent grown since yesterday and I am as good at maths since yesterday. I sat on Grampas lap and gave him some starbursts. He likes the orange ones best. Mum said to Grampa have you seen Doctor Timmins? And Grampa said I did what up the chimney? And Granny said oh yes we must get it cleaned. Mum and Dad were laughing so much I knew they werent getting devorced. Phewyyy!!

I feel sad reading this. I shut the diary and look out of the window for a while. It’s a grey lifeless day, with a smothering dark blanket of a sky. Oh, Annie. There is nothing worse than your child’s unhappiness. I don’t mean when they’ve lost a football game or hurt their knee, I mean real unhappiness with a damn good reason: a death, or discovering that their parents might be splitting up – which is just another kind of death. He was so angry; I hadn’t anticipated that. I hadn’t anticipated any of it; each blow seemed to take us all by surprise. A family in peril, hanging by a thread until it snaps and we’re all tossed into freefall, landing randomly with different breakages. Josh’s pain turned to fury at us. And rightly so: we were destroying the safety of his world. We, his parents, his protectors, were consciously choosing to hurt them: we were the cause of their unhappiness. How unnatural and perverse it is to do this to one’s own kids. But how far are we meant to go for our children, how much can we take? I told him I felt so guilty. Guilt? he said. What’s the point of guilt? It’s just you telling me that you’re a nice person.

I don’t hear the Squeak coming down the corridor. I turn as she unlocks the door, my eyes glancing at the clock. It’s not medicine time. Then I remember that a social worker is meant to be coming today and am surprised to see that it’s not a social worker; the Squeak has brought Dr Robinson. She’s not looking me in the eye.

‘Yes please, ice and a slice,’ I say, sounding cheerier than I am feeling. But I am pleased to see Dr R. The Squeak rolls her eyes at me and brings in a lukewarm jug and swaps it for the empty one on my side table. Why bother. Dr Robinson is smiling politely at the Squeak; she’s being helpful, holding the door open for her so she can get back to her trolley. I notice that there is a stain on Dr Robinson’s trousers and her hair isn’t looking quite so glossy. It’s matted a little at the back.

‘Those fumes are pretty strong … could we open a window?’ Dr Robinson says to the Squeak. They’re painting the whole place a happy yellow colour that isn’t fooling anyone. I can’t smell a thing – I’ve got used to it. It’s pretty toxic; Mental Sita’s gone berserk. She somehow got hold of a pot of Sunshine and tried to bury her head in it. She’s good at grabbing life by the balls.

The Squeak isn’t used to anyone important bothering with her but she shuffles into the room and makes a feeble attempt to open the window, knowing full well there is no chance. She says something banal like she’ll ask someone at reception, but she won’t. She’s a lazy cow.

When she leaves the room, Dr Robinson gives me a curt, brusque smile and comes over to our little table. I feel a bit hurt that we have become such strangers again. She regrets revealing so much to me. She takes her jacket off and I’m intrigued by the fact that her jumper is on both inside out and back to front. (She shops at Agnes B.)

‘I only gathered this morning that I would be needed today,’ she says, seemingly by way of explanation. ‘Oh, those fumes!’ She languidly waves her hand in front of her face. ‘They’re unbearable.’ I watch her go over to the windows and attempt to open them herself. She knows they’re locked. I see the impatience in her body language. Something’s not right with her today. She sighs, smooths back her hair and cautiously crosses the room to sit down in her usual place. As she bends down to put her bag on the floor, I get a whiff of her. And it all makes sense. She is a drowner of sorrows. It is a much stronger smell than the paint. When she looks up, something about my expression makes her nervous and she leans over to get something out of her bag. She pops an Xtra-strong mint into her mouth. It won’t do the job; she reeks of wine. It’s seeping out of every pore. I rather like the sweet sickly smell; it’s reminiscent of those 1970s sweets – cherry drops. Karl used to smell of it regularly, every time he’d come back from a bender. He’s a harmless drunk; stupid and boring, but harmless. I wonder what Dr Robinson is like when she’s drunk. I bet she’s a bit feisty.

She’s trying to smile that professional smile but it’s not really working any more. And her skin is going a strange colour.

‘Constance,’ she says, clinging to a semblance of control. ‘I want to talk about your hair. When did you notice it starting to fall out?’ She really is very pale; it occurs to me that she might be about to throw up.

‘Dr R,’ I say. I have never called her this to her face, but I am nothing if not opportunistic; she’s weak and vulnerable right now.

‘I think I’ve eaten something that has disagreed with me,’ she says, a light sweat breaking out on her upper lip.

The mere mention of wine and all is undone. Suddenly she clutches her hand to her mouth. She, the Forensic Psychiatrist, is going to puke in the Loony’s room. It is quite marvellous. I gesture magnanimously towards the snazzy, shiny, silver, suicide-proof toilet like an airy hostess and she gets up. Even in her hour of need she does not appear to rush and therefore does not quite make it across the room. A little vomit slips through her fingers on to the lino floor. Poor Dr R, she is on her knees, clutching the rim of the lunatic’s toilet, heaving like the wino she evidently is. I think I like her more right now than I have ever done before.

I follow her to the loo and place my hand on her back. It feels so good to have human contact. Her back is broad and strong. With my other hand I hold back the strands of her hair that have slipped forward. Her hair really is very soft. I feel good. I am a natural carer. I am a mother again. She pauses before heaving again and when she next pauses I flush the toilet, rid her of her spewing mess.

When she has finished, she slowly sits back on her thighs, shaking her head, wiping her mouth. ‘I am so sorry, Constance. I am so sorry, this is inexcusable.’ She is mortified with embarrassment, unaware that there is no need – bad behaviour is my comfort zone. ‘I thought we didn’t have a session today. The phone call woke me up …’

‘Ssshh,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter. Are you going to be sick again?’ She shakes her head. She is unsure.

I leave her there and pour her some plastic-jug water. She rinses out her mouth and spits into the loo. She tries to get up.

‘You need to wash your hands.’ I stand her up; she is as meek as a little lamb. I take her to the shitty little sink and she washes her hands and splashes her face. Then I escort her over to my bed and tell her to lie down for a minute.

‘No …’ she murmurs. ‘I’m so sorry, this is inexcusable. I do apologize.’

‘I just hope the evening was worth it.’ She lets me lay her down on top of my bed.

‘I better …’ she says, the impropriety of the situation getting too much for her. She struggles to sit up. I lay her down again and she lets me.

She relaxes a little and I turn off the side light and take off her shoes (Russell & Bromley). I put them on the floor and then I tug out some paper towels from the dispenser and clear up the vomit on the floor and around the toilet. I wash my hands and run my flannel under cold water. I return to the bed and press it on to her forehead. She opens her eyes briefly and touches the flannel and makes a few mumbles of polite protest.

After a minute or two, when I think she has actually fallen asleep, she says, ‘It wasn’t worth it, no.’ Then, rather sweetly, she tries to carry on a normal session. ‘I got your next missive. Thank you.’

I spot a bit of vomit on her chin and wipe it off for her. She tries to open her eyes but decides against it.

‘Was it beautiful?’ she says sleepily. ‘The walk? What’s the countryside like around Bath?’

She smiles, still with shut eyes, and nods her head a little. ‘How nice to have a friend … was the dinner good, in the inn?’

She is nearly asleep but she raises an eyebrow there in a questioning fashion. I like her like this, I really do. I’m smiling but she can’t see me.

‘You dirty shrink,’ I say to her, quietly moving the chair from the table to the bedside. She smiles. I sit down and very gently begin to stroke her hair. We are very close. A muscle twitches on her face and I remember Ness lying there next to me in that big four-poster, inches apart, like this. And I remember something she said as we lay there in the great leveller of darkness. She told me that she had something to confess – how excited I’d felt to hear those words. She wasn’t sure exactly why but she couldn’t help feeling jealous of my best and oldest female friends, Ally and Grace, of the place they held in my affections. She’d met them at one of my birthday drinks at the house and I’d noticed she was odd with them. I understood, or I pretended I did, for I felt flattered and tried to cover up my coyness with a pretence of understanding; we talked about female friendship for a while but it was ages before I could fall asleep. This … whatever it was that was going on between us … this tenderness, was not easy to categorize. It felt precarious, unsettling. Ness on the other hand had no trouble sleeping; at one stage, breathing heavily, she turned in her sleep and wrapped her arm around me, her hand cupping my breast. I suddenly became wide awake, aware of every single nerve-ending, every rise and fall of my chest. I could hear an owl in the woods beyond. She must have thought I was Leah. After a minute or two, I gently crawled out from beneath her hand, got out of bed, tucked her in, and took a blanket and went to sleep on the sofa.

‘Just because we might feel these things, it doesn’t mean we have to act on them,’ I whisper, but Dr R too is sound asleep now. That mantra I have oft repeated sounds hollow now in this sterile room, my voice just a rasp.

‘I never wanted mess in my life, you see,’ I say to no one. ‘I’ve always been very clear about that. I hate mess. I hate deception. Karl deserved so much better than that …’ I sit back. I look around and think about the mess my life is in right now. ‘I hate mess,’ I repeat quietly, confused by everything.

The greyness outside is oppressive. I’m looking at my leaf for comfort. It is immobile. I feel so incredibly sad for everything that’s gone, everything that’s lost. I look down at Dr R, lying there, breathing deeply through her parted lips, finding respite from her own losses. How much younger she looks when asleep, now that the frowning and fretting has left her face. I stroke her silky hair, noticing that she dyes it – expensively. Right at the roots I can see the thinnest line of grey. She begins to snore gently.

I shouldn’t waste this time. I get up and go over to the chair and look at her things. I pick up her jacket and try it on. She’s broader than me. I put on her shoes; they are a size too big. I walk around the room feeling professional and dapper, organized and successful. She is in a deep sleep. I do a little tap dance; my grandmother taught me to tap dance in nothing but her tights. The shoes seem to come to life. I sling her Mulberry bag across my shoulder and give it some jazz hands. It’s amazing what clothes can do. I could walk out of here. I could slip past the moron outside the room and make my way down the corridor. They’d stop me at the door though; it’s like Fort Knox down there. But I don’t leave. I don’t want to leave. I need this little hiatus in my life.

So I move the chair back to the table and I sit down and begin to go through her bag. No keys or sharp objects – she would have had to hand them in at reception. There are a few gluten-free oat-bar wrappers folded neatly at the bottom, her Xtra-strong mints, a couple of Tampax in a case, the usual things. I find a couple of receipts: Wagamama (chicken ramen £9.95, smoothie £4.75 – eating alone), Boots (ah … to get that silky look she uses a John Frieda intense treatment for brunettes £9.95; Braun toothbrush £74.95 – wtf? They’re paying her too much.) Her bag is neat and tidy, not like mine. Where is mine? I am not a handbag person any more. Handbags are not for asylum dwellers.

I open a zip pocket and find her phone. It takes me a while to work out what the cover photo is of – I’m too immersed in the detail. Only when I move back can I see it. It’s a child’s handprint in white clay, the kind that new parents have done – so dizzily in love with our newborns and for the first time understanding the fragility of time, already lost in a future nostalgia for now because the horrific reality is unignorable: one day this perfect tiny miracle will become an ugly great mess of humanity. So, desperate to preserve this momentary perfection we press their little hands into white clay as ‘concrete’ proof of it.

I look at my leaf and the stupid leaf is looking at me, waving merrily. But I am not merry, I am far from it. I feel a panic and a sadness swirling inside. Where does all the love go? Where has everything gone? Where is my mother? I swipe away the handprint. I want to speak to Karl. I want to hear his voice. I need him. Right now I can’t quite remember why we have split up; the reasons don’t seem important. Perhaps he and I are salvageable. I must speak to him.

I stare at the keypad. I have no idea of Dr Robinson’s code. So I continue looking in her bag. In another zip pocket I find her wallet. Inside is a photograph of a balding man playing some sort of wind instrument, presumably Si, looking like a chipmunk. I find her driving licence; it takes a while for me to realize that it is a picture of her. Time has not been kind to her, or me – it has slapped us both about a bit. She looks so young and happy in the photo, plump and glowing, full of life’s potential before disappointment management becomes the name of the game. Maybe she and her musical husband have been backpacking in the Himalayas, or helping starving orphans, or rebuilding earthquake-ridden towns. Yes, I bet he’s a doctor, working for the Red Cross or something heroic.

Her full name is Emma Elizabeth Davis. As I thought, she is English through and through. She’s forty-seven. I find her date of birth and try various combinations of it in the phone. Nothing. I take out her iPad mini and try a few combinations of her birth date and bingo, I’m in. There’s no wifi so there’s little I can do. I check out her Safari history – which is interesting, and I look at what she’s been watching on BBC iPlayer – which is not. I sit like that for a while, in her clothes with the contents of her bag strewn across my lap, and I imagine that I am her, with her successful life and her inner sorrow. I imagine I am someone else, a normal person capable of managing my misery. But who is a normal person? And what exactly is the difference between them and a mentalist? One of us is drowning, that’s all. One of us has slipped beneath the surface, unable to bear the load any more. I feel afraid. I want to do something but there is nothing I can do. My mother would know what to do. I miss her so much. I will ask Karl to bring her here; she will be worried about me. Maybe she’s visiting David in Australia. Yes, that must be it.

I should wake Dr Robinson up now, but I like watching her and it seems almost cruel to snatch her from this sweet slumber. I have put her things back in the bag and moved my chair beside the bed again to watch her for a while longer. It’s been an unusual session, to say the least. But the hour is up.

She opens her eyes and looks at me. For a second she has absolutely no idea where she is, or who I am. Then she remembers. I see the panic set in. It must be confusing; I am wearing her jacket.

‘You’re wearing my jacket,’ she says guardedly, climbing off the bed, the intimacy we shared an hour ago all gone. I take off the jacket and put it at the end of the bed. To be honest, I’d totally forgotten. I hope I haven’t made it smell.

She takes the jacket and goes to her bag. She pauses there; I know what she’s thinking. I see her check her phone, the time, the code, her driving licence; she gathers her things, crosses to the bathroom and tries to smooth her face in the metal smear of the mirror. She doesn’t look me in the eye. Then she goes straight to the door, clutching her bag tightly. She wants to get the hell out of here. She stops and turns around.

‘Connie,’ she says. She looks awkward, which given the nature of the session is fair enough. ‘I’ve let you down and I’m so sorry. I’m going to talk to my supervisor.’

‘No,’ I say quite firmly, alarmed at the prospect. ‘Don’t talk to anyone. I’m not going to.’

She looks surprised. I think I see something like gratitude in her eyes. And a little fear. I frighten people now. I frighten myself. I feel so alone.

‘All I ask is that you bring my mother to see me … please.’ As I’ve said before, I’m an opportunist.

‘You can. Just drop by – there’s no point in making plans. If she’s not at her house she’ll be at mine. Just go and get her. Say you’re there to pick up a nightie or something for me.’

She doesn’t want to do this. Her eyes flit across the floor; she’s remembering the vomit. ‘I can’t promise anything.’ But she’s thinking about it.

She is quiet for a moment. She is looking at her shoes, perhaps wondering whether they feel different since being inhabited by a madwoman. I like her, I really do. She is vulnerable like me. I don’t want her to go, I don’t want her to leave me on my own.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I say, because it occurs to me that she really might know the answer. She looks up at me and gives a small nod.

‘Why aren’t the streets full of wrecked people?’ I ask. And I see something like recognition in her eyes. We stand there in a silence that only loonies, lovers and psychotherapists are comfortable with.

She shakes her head a little; she doesn’t know. She is so sad; I think she’s as sad as I am. Then, and I have no idea why then, because it seems indulgent and inappropriate, I start to cry. I cannot remember the last time I cried, but whenever it was I don’t think it sounded like this: a ship’s foghorn. And it feels so strange to be feeling something (and preventing a crisis at sea) that I feel almost triumphant in my unhappiness.

‘It’s all right,’ I hear her say. And I don’t know if I’m imagining it because she’s not meant to touch me (or vomit in my toilet) but I feel her hand on my shoulder and it makes me foghorn again. I miss human contact so much. I miss my kids. I miss my mum.

‘Please don’t hate me.’ I’m pathetic now, bleating like a lamb. I’m really letting myself down with this ghastly neediness, I know, but it suddenly seems vitally important to me that she doesn’t hate me. If she leaves this room hating me, I feel I might go mad. Madder, I mean.

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t hate you,’ she says, and these are the most beautiful words I think I have ever heard.

‘Everyone else does,’ I say. I notice her hand slowly falling from my shoulder.

‘Perhaps they don’t understand you,’ she says. I can hear the Squeak coming down the corridor. Dr Robinson can hear her too and suddenly flashes me that professional tight-rectum smile.

‘Emma!’ I cry, reaching for her hand. (I’ve never called her this before. It kind of stops her in her tracks.) ‘Do you understand me?’

And then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the room like an abandoned toy. But I’m worried now. I’m not sure I want to get to where we’re going.

Chapter 8