The function of a crook, Eileen surmised, was to act as a kind of sheepdog in the hand. When Bo Peep’s beloved flock found themselves tangled in briars, or wandered too closely to a cliff’s edge, she could reach out her crook and hook it around their tiny collars and gently ease them to safety. But then she began to wonder, and all the while wishing she could think of something else, do sheep have collars? Perhaps in fairy tales, with little bells attached, but in real life? Collars that dogs and cats wear, which could be hooked by that rather unlikely staff, with not so much a hook at its apex, but with something more like the decorative end of a curtain rail. And now that she began to think of it, still wishing that she could stop, that Bo Peep crook couldn’t hook anything, even a compliant sheep with a convenient collar. It curled outwards towards the tip, and if it was made for anything, it was most definitely not made for hooking. And, besides, did Bo Peep give even a thought to catching or hooking her errant flock? No, she let them alone and they came home, wagging their tails—
And this point her truly maddening conjectures were brought to a welcome halt by the door opening and the benign face of Dr Grenell entering her vision once more. His hair was unchanged, as of course it would be, that kind of corkscrew hair defied any brush, but it was unruly more than unattractive, now that she came to think of it. And she thought for a mad moment of asking him to clarify the issue of Bo Peep and her shepherdess’s crook, but stopped herself just in time. Because he was inviting her inside now, so ‘they could all have a chat’.
Eileen rose to her feet and stumbled, realising her leg had fallen asleep with the waiting. Dr Grenell caught her by the elbow, raised those capacious eyebrows of his and smiled with reassurance. ‘My leg,’ she said. ‘A little numb.’ And she stamped her left foot off the floor to make the blood flow. ‘We did rather throw things about,’ he said, in that chocolatey voice of his.
‘Things?’ Eileen asked, as he helped her towards the office.
‘The issues you mentioned on the phone. Not so much issues, really, as the normal concerns of a transitioning adolescent—’
‘Transitioning?’ Eileen asked. It was a word she had heard before, on the radio talk shows, but she was inside his office now, and he was closing the door and Andy was standing by the window, still digging the nails of one hand into the skin of the other.
‘What I want to do,’ the doctor began, and he had lowered his voice, so it had the quality of cocoa more than chocolate, a tone that was definitely designed to soothe, ‘is to prescribe a short course of medication that would help with all of these feelings of anxiety . . .’
He had that habit, this doctor, of inviting you to finish his sentences for him. So Eileen, dutifully, complied and felt a brief flash of optimism, at last.
‘Medication?’ she asked softly, as if this consultation room demanded its own hush. And then, she felt obliged to ask, ‘You feel he needs that, doctor?’
‘Oh, it’s not for him,’ the doctor said, already pulling a pad from one of the drawers in his desk. ‘It’s for you.’
He formed his lips into a gentle, meant-to-be-reassuring smile. And Eileen saw at that moment her son turn towards her from the window, with a version of that smile on his lips.
‘Look, the boy is on a normal, healthy, but inevitably turbulent journey to adolescence. And there’s no stigma in that. Nor in admitting to the stress of it all.’
Just what had transpired in that room, Eileen wondered. And she wished then she could go back to her cogitations on Bo Peep’s crook.
‘Yes,’ Eileen heard herself saying, ‘it has been quite stressful of late—’
‘Children can prove themselves remarkably resourceful. But the wear and tear on the parents’ nerves often leaves a hidden cost. And these rather delusional conclusions about your son are a decided worry.’
‘Should I be worried, doctor?’
‘For him? No. For yourself, maybe . . . just a little . . .’
He scribbled on the notepad and tore off a page. He smiled then, with a nauseating presumption of understanding.
‘He was not responsible, Eileen – can I call you Eileen?’
At which, she nodded.
‘And I can’t believe I’m saying this—’ He drew a deep breath, and exhaled in a bemused smile. ‘He could not have been responsible for an infestation of flying ants.’
‘Of course not.’
‘So you admit it? I’m glad. It was reported on the news. One of those Saharan winds. From Somerset to here. But the fact that you thought he was—’
‘I thought he was?’
Eileen felt defenceless. She couldn’t bring her eyes to the window, where she knew without seeing that Andy was smiling too.
‘I have to admit – I did, for a little while—’
‘So as a family, you need to take a deep breath, and calm down. And these might help.’
She reached out and took the prescription. She never asked what the medication was. ‘Three times a day, with water. Always after meals.’
As he led them both back to the waiting room, Eileen wondered in a panic had she imagined the Bo Peep wallpaper as well. So she was strangely relieved to see the bonneted head, with its crook angled beside it, repeated endlessly over the walls.