Today I’m to see Dr Gilbert Stokes for the first time. I know little about him save that he was a doctor at Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford for some years and afterwards he worked at the Radcliffe Asylum. When Simone told me I must have paled because it worried me terribly but, she assures me, he’s now semi-retired and only maintains an interest in patients with special problems. Apparently, he’s very forward thinking in his ways, has studied the work of Sigmund Freud, and I understand he believes in treating certain illnesses through discussion. I’m not sure what I think about that and, to be honest, have yet to be convinced, because really, how can talking help?
One good thing. I am in love with my cottage with its drystone wall marking the boundary, tall oak trees on either side, and its split limestone tiled roof. I’m also pleased some of the smaller and, I have to say, nicer pieces of furniture have arrived from our Cheltenham house: my mother’s cream dressing table, a tiny chest of drawers which used to be in the nursery, my favourite Tiffany lampshade, a small semi-circular hall table and my mother’s old desk with its little secret drawer.
I currently employ a gardener to cut the grass and undertake the weeding but ache for a time when I’ll feel well enough to go outside and take care of planting and pruning myself. I don’t know the village yet, but Simone says if you walk through the churchyard and come upon the ruins of Minster Hall and then go beyond them, you arrive at the glorious riverbank.
The sudden murmur of voices reaches me from outside, though I can’t see Simone or the doctor. They must be standing in the porch just out of sight and so I wait until they enter the house. When they come into my sitting room, I’m surprised by what I see. Gilbert Stokes is not what I expected. I think of psychiatric doctors as being thin and weaselly, always trying to trip you up with their clever ways, but he is a round, avuncular man with kind blue eyes and a shock of astonishingly white hair.
He holds out a hand to me. I shake it and can’t help smiling. He claps a second hand over mine and squeezes gently.
‘Mrs Hatton. It’s an absolute pleasure.’
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘It’s actually Miss Riley now, but please do call me Diana.’
‘Apologies. My mistake.’
Simone starts to back out of the room. ‘I’ll make tea,’ she says with a smile.
I nod. We’ve already arranged this beforehand. It’s a small contrivance to give me a chance to assess the doctor on my own and, I think with a wry smile, for him to assess me.
‘Shall we sit?’ I say and indicate the chair by the window.
I sit opposite it, so I can see the view of the front garden. He turns his chair to face me.
‘I want to be sure you understand this process may be relatively slow, but that you are free to change your mind about it at any time.’
I nod. ‘We just talk. Am I right?’
His eyes twinkle and he gives me a genuinely warm smile. ‘Indeed.’
As I said earlier, I can’t see how talking will really help but I nod and then, hearing the kettle whistle, I turn my head towards the door, wondering if it would be rude to go and help Simone.
As if he senses what is in my mind he says, ‘Do lend your friend a hand if you’d like,’ and I’m impressed.
Maybe behind his jovial exterior there lies a sharply perceptive mind, but if he is kind I can accept that. And I think by giving me permission to leave, I no longer feel the need to go, so instead of absconding to the kitchen, I stay where I am. As we talk a little longer about the village and he tells me about his house down near the church, I find myself relaxing. There is something so gently reassuring in his presence I’m a little disappointed when Simone returns with a tray and I no longer have him to myself.
After the tea pouring, the tea drinking and the biscuit eating is done, he wipes his mouth with his napkin, then rises from his chair. ‘So, if you are happy to become my patient, Diana, we can make a start next week and maybe aim for two sessions, one on Monday and one on Friday. Both at ten. How does that sound?’
I get to my feet too. ‘Thank you, Doctor Stokes. I’d like that.’ And, as I show him out and then stand in the porch not at all worried at very nearly being outside in the garden, I am surprised by how genuinely I mean it.