The Things You Didn't See(63)
‘Good. B-but . . . how are you?’
I can see he’s still thinking of that hideous article, all the lurid details of your death.
‘I’m okay. Or I will be. Don’t worry about me, Alex – let’s just think about getting everything ready for Team Talk.’
I’m in control here, a library manager, not a grieving daughter. I take the nearest chair, exhausted by my performance, mouth dry from the extra Prozac I popped this morning, but determined to show everyone that I’m a survivor.
The front door opens, then shuts, then opens again, banging awkwardly against the dented prow of a Silver Cross pram that’s seen better days. Squawks of protest erupt from within and then, as the pram’s pushed forward through the resistant door, Kerry appears, a dummy clasped in her mouth, a grubby rabbit in one hand as she tries to steer with the other. The wailing noise ceases abruptly when she removes the dummy from her own mouth and rams it into the baby’s.
‘My bloody sister was supposed to have him, but when I turned up at ’er flat, she’s still in bed with that shifty boyfriend of hers and the place was a tip. I wasn’t gonna leave him there!’
The infant spits out the dummy and howls. Kerry pushes the pram into the circle, between two chairs, wiggling it wildly, which I’m certain will only make her child cry more. ‘And I couldn’t not turn up, could I? It’s a condition of my probation.’
She looks at me imploringly, as does Alex, both glad I’ll make the decision.
‘We can’t have a baby disrupt the group,’ I say. ‘It’s not fair to the others.’
‘If I can just get him to sleep . . .’ Kerry jiggles the pram manically.
‘If he sleeps,’ I tell her, ‘he can stay.’
The door opens again. This time it’s Trish, who’s bleached her roots since the last meeting and is wearing carnival-pink lippie. She makes an instant beeline for the crying baby, picks him up and nestles him into her, cooing into his blotchy red face.
‘Ah! What an angel!’ She’s obviously deaf, but I’m glad no one’s focused on me. Maybe only Alex reads the papers.
Kerry collapses into a chair and the baby begins to settle, sucking on Trish’s finger and watching her animated clown-like smile in fascination. Alex takes orders for tea or coffee, carefully writing them on his pad before heading to the kitchen.
I can do this. I’ll help with the group then go home to spend time with Victoria. Then I’ll start planning your funeral.
Roger’s next to arrive in his threadbare suit, smelling of last night’s booze. He takes the chair furthest away from Trish and the baby, and looks at his watch.
‘Well, this makes a change from going to church. Where’s the chief ? Time we got started, isn’t it?’
When Clive walks through the door, the baby’s sleeping peacefully and the group’s ready. He looks surprised to see me, we exchange smiles, but I can’t ask him anything with everyone else already seated and waiting for him to begin.
‘Okay, everyone, first of all thank you for coming in on a Sunday. Last meeting I asked you all to make a mental note of a situation that troubled you, something that scared or angered you, made you sad.’ Clive pauses, and his gaze falls on me again, as if apologising for the irony. ‘Something that would normally unsettle you, but that you dealt with positively. Who’d like to go first?’
‘I will!’ says Trish. ‘My hubby came home on Friday practically swimming in cheap booze and tropical perfume. Well, I wanted to scream at him – I wanted to go at him with a knife, to be honest! At least tear the crotch from his trousers.’ She takes a breath and Roger crosses his legs. ‘Then I remembered what Cass said about not opening up cans of worms. So, I got a bottle of Baileys and locked myself in the bathroom. I was in that bath for the rest of the night, getting drunk, and when I was wrinkled like a pickled walnut, I got out. He was asleep. I’d almost forgot how angry I was, I was so pissed and tired. I just got in the bed and went to sleep next to him and in the morning the stink of her perfume was gone!’
Trish looks triumphant and gives me a wink.
When we met last time I still believed it was best to keep things hidden, but now I’ve changed my mind. All the secrets that surround me are like sickening boils that need lancing.
Kerry says, ‘The prick got away with it then’, glancing at the pram. ‘Men always do.’
Trish juts out her chin. ‘But he’s still mine. That’s the main thing, ain’t it?’ She’s seeking my approval, is confused when I don’t give it.
Roger coughs. ‘I guess I’m next.’
Then, to everyone’s surprise, Clive says, ‘Actually, I’d like to share, if I may? I won’t give any specifics because of confidentiality, but it concerns a one-time patient of mine who’s had a very bad time recently. He had something of a breakdown recently and I wanted to help as best I could. I went into work mode and dealt with it objectively and coldly. I persuaded him to take antidepressant medication, when he said he didn’t want any. I was a doctor, but now I’m wondering if I should have just been a friend and listened, and offered emotional support. I’d like to ask the group: was I right?’
The room is silent. Even the baby seems to be thinking.
Roger speaks first. ‘You’re the psychiatrist, why’re you asking us?’