Shaking
I have a recurrent dream. I am back at Sudbourne. It is my History A Level exam. I head to class. I am the last person to arrive. Mrs Wardell is there: red nails, blue leather skirt, black cashmere cardigan, signature heels. She smiles, a quiet smile. A smile which says: You’ve got this, Stella, I believe in you. I have prepared you for this. You have the knowledge. You know the answers. You are ready. I see Giselle and Grace. They smile at me with serenity. I fumble frantically through my bag. It is today! My History A Level exam is today! I did not know. I have not prepared. I am not ready. My skin starts to itch as my chest fills with a flutter of butterflies. The exam starts at 9am. I have five minutes to learn everything we have covered in the last two years: the Cold War, the Poor Laws, Mussolini. There is not enough time and I do not know the answers.
I am going to fail my History exam. I feel the devastation of opening my results envelope to reveal: English (A), Classics (A), History (F). The ‘F’ is prominent and offensive in bold lettering. I have failed in my exams and in my life. Self-flagellation and self-deprecation take hold and overwhelm. As I wake. I am awake.
This morning’s commute takes me through the valley of the shadow of death as I witness a commuter by the name of Lucifer finger his nasal cavity as if digging for gold, explore the product of the excavation and handle the carriage poles while sniffing violently. The offending hand now rests by my shoulder as the train driver directs that we squeeze in to try and get as many people on as possible. No thank you, sir.
#TfLChronicles #thestruggleisreal
89 likes
Comments:
Sol Sai: Haven’t been able to reach you this week. Hope you’ve seen my missed calls? Can you call me please?
I shake throughout my trial. Assault occasioning Actual Bodily Harm. Croydon Crown Court. I am prosecuting a defendant who has obvious anger management issues, a habit of swearing from the dock and a clear dislike of Serco security staff. A successful conviction. Overwhelming evidence. Nothing remarkable. By the time the jury has returned its verdict of ‘guilty’, I have been shaking for four days. On the inside. I wake up that way. Shaking. Something is dancing a paso doble inside my chest, an angry performance in which I am being led. It shakes violently. My heart. It is going to burst. Or my skin will rupture under the pressure building inside.
My case opening rests, double spaced in size 12 Times New Roman font, on the lectern in front of me. The letters play a game of hide and seek before my eyes; now you see us, now you don’t. By the time I look from the jury back to my notes, the letters have moved around the page: word scrabble. A cruel game played by inanimate objects to trick the mind of the trembling. I lean on the point of my right heel and steady myself with the flats of my palms against the lectern to ground myself. I pour some water from the jug in front of me to soften the coarseness of my voice. My hand shakes and the water soaks my opening notes. I don’t trust the letters any more. Or the words. Or even the sentences. I pause to ask the court clerk for a tissue. My eyes look to the jury without permission as the question leaves my mouth. ‘Please may I trouble you for a Kleenex?’ Jurors 5 and 6 look at each other and smirk. Juror 10 looks at his watch. I can’t look behind counsel’s row. If I do, the defendant will look me in the eye and laugh at me from the dock, a magpie perched on his head. My heel balances delicately on the soft ground. It is too delicate. It could give way at any moment. It cannot ground me. It cannot bear the weight of my body. I grip the lectern tighter for support. When I readjust, there is a mark of sweat. Handprints. It can be used as evidence against me. Evidence of insanity.
When he is convicted, the defendant condemns my spirit to hell and swears that I will know the vengeance of his brethren. Do I know what it means to ‘swim with the fishes’? He curses the day I was born and advises me to sleep with one eye open. Look at his face and remember it because we will meet again—
The judge instructs the defendant to be taken down to the cells immediately. He is in no hurry to go.
When I miss my train home by two minutes, I exorcise oxygen from my lungs and tears from my eyes. On Platform 4, a magpie sits on a tree branch behind the tracks. With its grotesque voice, it calls my name: ‘Stella, you and me, we are one. One for Sorrow. One and the same.’ The rain falls with my tears. They meet on my cheeks in mournful company, a confluence. I am agitated but they are not. I am still but I am not.
‘Good morning, Mr Magpie, how are Mrs Magpie and all the other little magpies?’
I loathe myself for asking.
‘I really honour you for choosing to share your story with me today.’
I know it won’t work within forty seconds of our first session. I choose Claire Benson because her eyebrows are perfection. However, she has neither the experience nor the expertise to ‘fix me’. I need help and my therapist wants to ‘honour’ me. Mercy. What brings me here today? Apart from a deep-seated desire to be honoured? This is an opportunity, I tell myself, and take a deep breath.
I am so scared of magpies. I see them on my morning walks with Mai and they determine whether my day is doomed or whether I can survive it. My mind agitates and my heart starts to race. I think of all the things that could go wrong in my life. When something bad happens, I feel relief. I can tick it off and stop waiting. Sometimes, I ask the air a question and wait to see how many magpies will come. I only ever see one magpie. I am always looking for two.
Claire asks if I enjoy my job. I wonder if it is possible to enjoy a job that forces you to wake up at 6am and spend your day running between a train station and a custody suite, hauling a trolley behind you, within and outside London. Perhaps there is an appeal about losing money, once you have deducted your train fare from your fee for attending court, that I am yet to discover. A joy in arriving at 9am to meet with your client, only for him to turn up after 2pm, with little regard for his personal appearance, freedom or your time.
‘Can you get to Reading Crown Court for a sentence at 2pm, Miss?’
‘From Cambridge Crown Court?’
I don’t know, James, it’s 12.40pm, and I’m still in court. Are you sending a helicopter?
‘It is challenging at times but I can’t imagine doing anything else.’
I spend the rest of the session looking between my chipped nail varnish and Claire’s perfect eyebrows. Microbladed or pencilled? I really want to ask. They are the same shade of brown, her eyebrows and her hair.