“I stated quite clearly on the first day I came here that I didn’t want to talk about her,” I said.
She spoke gently. “Of course. Don’t worry—we won’t talk about her, Eleanor, not if you don’t want to. I’m just asking in the context of your father, trying to find out more about him, your feelings about him, that’s all.”
I thought about it. “I don’t really have any feelings about him, Maria.”
“Did you ever consider trying to find him?” she said.
“A rapist? I shouldn’t have thought so,” I said.
“A daughter’s relationship with her father can sometimes influence her subsequent relationships with men. Do you have any thoughts about that, Eleanor?”
I pondered. “Well,” I said, “Mummy wasn’t particularly keen on men. But then, she wasn’t keen on anyone, really. She thought most people were unsuitable for us, regardless of their gender.”
“What do you mean?” Maria said.
Here we were, talking about Mummy, after I’d expressly forbidden it. However, I found, much to my surprise, that I was actually starting to enjoy holding court like this, having Dr. Temple’s undivided attention. Perhaps it was the lack of eye contact. It felt relaxing, almost as though I was talking to myself.
“The thing is,” I said, “she only wanted us to socialize with people who were nice, people who were proper—that was something she talked about a lot. She always insisted that we spoke politely, behaved with decorum . . . she made us practice elocution, at least an hour a day. She had—let’s just say she had quite direct methods of correcting us when we said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing. Which was pretty much all the time.”
Maria nodded, indicated that I should go on.
“She said that we deserved the best of everything, and that, even in straitened circumstances, we should always conduct ourselves properly. It was almost as though she thought we were some kind of displaced royalty, you know . . . the family of a deposed tsar or an overthrown monarch or something. I tried so hard, but I never managed to look and behave the way she thought I should, to behave appropriately. That made her very unhappy, and very angry. Mind you, it wasn’t just me. No one was ever good enough. She was always telling us we had to be on the lookout for someone who was good enough.” I shook my head. “I suppose that’s how I ended up here,” I said. “Trying to find someone like that, and then getting confused and making a giant mess of everything.”
I realized that my whole body was shaking like a wet dog on a cold morning. Maria looked up.
“Let’s move on, for now,” she said gently. “Do you want to tell me something about what happened after you and your mother parted company, about your experience of the care system? What was that like?”
I shrugged.
“Being fostered was . . . fine. Being in residential care was . . . fine. No one abused me, I had food and drink, clean clothes and a roof over my head. I went to school every day until I was seventeen and then I went to university. I can’t really complain about any of it.”
Maria spoke very gently.
“What about your other needs, Eleanor?”
“I’m not sure I’m quite following you, Maria,” I said, puzzled.
“Humans have a range of needs that we need to have met, Eleanor, in order to be happy and healthy individuals. You’ve described how your basic physical needs—warmth, food, shelter—were taken care of. But what about your emotional needs?”
I was completely taken aback.
“But I don’t have any emotional needs,” I said.
Neither of us spoke for a while. Eventually, she cleared her throat.
“Everyone does, Eleanor. All of us—and especially young children—need to know that we’re loved, valued, accepted and understood . . .”
I said nothing. This was news to me. I let it settle. It sounded plausible, but it was a concept I’d need to consider at more length in the privacy of my own home.
“Was there ever someone who fulfilled that role in your life, Eleanor? Someone who you felt understood you? Someone who loved you, just as you were, unconditionally?”
My first response was to say no, of course. Mummy most certainly did not fall into that category. Something—someone—was niggling at me, though, tugging at my sleeve. I tried to ignore her but she wouldn’t go away, that little voice, those little hands.
“I . . . Yes.”
“No rush, Eleanor. Take your time. What do you remember?”
I took a breath. Back in that house, on a good day. Stripes of sunshine on the carpet, a board game set out on the floor, a pair of dice, two brightly colored counters. A day with more ladders than snakes.
“Pale brown eyes. Something about a dog. But I’ve never had a pet . . .”
I felt myself becoming distressed, confused, a churning in my stomach, a dull pain in my throat. There was a memory there, somewhere deep, somewhere too painful to touch.
“OK,” she said gently, passing me the much needed box of man-sized tissues, “time’s is almost up now.” She took out her diary. “Shall we agree to meet at the same time next week and come back to this?”
I couldn’t believe it. All that work, I was so close, so close now, and she was throwing me out on the street again? After everything I’d shared, all the things I’d uncovered, was about to keep uncovering? I threw the tissue on the floor.
“Go to hell,” I said quietly.
32
Anger was good, she’d said, while I was putting my coat on. If I was finally getting in touch with my anger, then I was starting to do some important work, unpicking and addressing things that I’d buried too deep. I hadn’t thought about it before, but I suppose I’d never really been angry before now. Irritated, bored, sad, yes, but not actually angry. I supposed she had a point; perhaps things had happened that I ought to feel angry about. It wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed feeling, and it certainly wasn’t fair to direct it toward Dr. Maria Temple, who was, after all, only doing her job. I’d apologized profusely straight after my outburst, and she was very understanding, even seemed quite pleased. Still, I wouldn’t be making a habit of telling people to go to hell. Obscenity is the distinguishing hallmark of a sadly limited vocabulary.
On top of all this, I was trying to find a new routine, but it wasn’t easy. For more than nine years, I’d got up, gone to work, come home. At the weekends, I had my vodka. None of that would work now. I decided to clean the flat from top to bottom. I saw how grubby it was, how tired. It looked like I felt—unloved, uncared for. I imagined inviting someone—Raymond, I supposed—for lunch. I tried to see it through his eyes. There were things I could do to make it nicer, I realized, things that didn’t cost much but which would make a big difference. Another houseplant, some brightly colored cushions. I thought about Laura’s house, how elegant it was. She lived alone, had a job, her own business even. She certainly seemed to have a life, not just an existence. She seemed happy. It must be possible, then.
The bell made me jump, mid-clean. It wasn’t a sound I heard often. I felt, as I usually did, slightly apprehensive as I unbolted the door and threw the locks, noted the increase in my heart rate, the gentle tremor in my hands. I peered around the chain. A youth in sports clothing stood on my doormat, his trainer-shod foot tapping. More than that; his whole body was vibrating with energy. His cap was on backward. Why? Instinctively, I took a step back.
“Oliphant?” he said.
Apprehensively, I nodded. He dipped down to the side of the door, out of sight, then reappeared with a huge basket filled with flowers, wrapped in cellophane and ribbons. He made to hand it over and I unlatched the chain and took it from him gingerly, fearing some sort of trick. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a black electronic gadget.
“Sign here, please,” he said, handing me a plastic pencil which had, horrifically, been lurking behind his ear. I p
roduced my special autograph, which he did not even glance at.
“Cheers!” he said, already skittering off down the stairs. I had never seen so much nervous energy contained in one human body.
A tiny envelope, like a hamster’s birthday card, was affixed to the cellophane. Inside, a business card—plain white—bore the following message:
Get well soon, Eleanor—we are all thinking of you. Love and best wishes from Bob and everyone at By Design xxx
I took the basket into the kitchen and put it on the table. Thinking of me. The scent of a summer garden, sweet and heady, was released when I removed the cellophane. They’d been thinking. Of me! I sat down and stroked the petals of a red gerbera, and I smiled.
Flowers placed carefully on the coffee table, I continued my slow progress around the flat, and as I cleaned, I thought about what it meant to make a home. I didn’t have much experience to draw on. I opened all of the windows, tuned the radio until I found some inoffensive music and scrubbed each room in turn. Some of the stains in the carpet wouldn’t come out, but I managed to lift most of them. I filled four black bags with rubbish—old crosswords, dried-out pens, ugly knick-knacks that I’d collected over the years. I sorted out my bookshelf, making a pile to take (and in some cases, return) to the charity shop.
I’d recently finished reading a management tome which seemed to be aimed at psychopaths with no common sense (quite a dangerous combination). I have always enjoyed reading, but I’ve never been sure how to select appropriate material. There are so many books in the world—how do you tell them all apart? How do you know which one will match your tastes and interests? That’s why I just pick the first book I see. There’s no point in trying to choose. The covers are of very little help, because they always say only good things, and I’ve found out to my cost that they’re rarely accurate. “Exhilarating” “Dazzling” “Hilarious.” No.
The only criterion I have is that the books must look clean, which means that I have to disregard a lot of potential reading material in the charity shop. I don’t use the library for the same reason, although obviously, in principle and reality, libraries are life-enhancing palaces of wonder. It’s not you, libraries, it’s me, as the popular saying goes. The thought of books passing through so many unwashed hands—people reading them in the bath, letting their dogs sit on them, picking their nose and wiping the results on the pages. People eating cheesy crisps and then reading a few chapters without washing their hands first. I just can’t. No, I look for books with one careful owner. The books in Tesco are nice and clean. I sometimes treat myself to a few tomes from there on payday.
At the end of the process, the flat was clean, and very nearly empty. I made a cup of tea and looked around the living room. It just needed pictures on the walls and a rug or two. Some new plants. Sorry, Polly. The flowers would have to do for now. I took a deep breath, picked up the pouf and squashed it into a bin liner. It was quite a fight to get it in. As I grappled with it, I thought about what I must look like, my arms wrapped around a giant frog, wrestling it to the ground. I snorted a bit, and then I laughed and laughed until my chest hurt. When I stood up and finally tied the handles, a jaunty pop music song was playing and I realized what I felt . . . happy. It was such a strange, unusual feeling—light, calm, as though I’d swallowed sunshine. Only this morning I’d been furious, and now I was calm and happy. I was gradually getting used to feeling the range of available human emotions, their intensity, the rapidity with which they could change. Until now, anytime that emotions, feelings, had threatened to unsettle me, I’d drink them down fast, drown them. That had allowed me to exist, but I was starting to understand that I needed, wanted, something more than that now.
I took the rubbish downstairs and when I came back into the flat, I noticed that it smelled lemony. It was a pleasure to enter. I didn’t normally notice my surroundings, I realized. It was like my walk to Maria Temple’s office this morning: when you took a moment to see what was around you, noticed all the little things, it made you feel . . . lighter.
Perhaps, if you had friends or a family, they might help you to notice things more often. They might even point them out to you. I turned off the radio and sat in silence on the sofa, drinking another cup of tea. All I could hear was the breeze whistling softly through the open window and two men laughing in the street below. It was a weekday afternoon. Normally, I’d be at work, watching the hands tick round until five, waiting for pizza and vodka time and then Friday night and the three long sleeps until Monday. With the exception of the shot I’d had in the pub, I hadn’t drunk any vodka for some weeks now. I’d always thought that it helped me sleep, but in fact I’d been sleeping more deeply than ever before, untroubled by disturbing dreams.
An electronic noise startled me and I almost spilled my tea. Someone had sent me a text message. I ran into the hall for my phone. The little envelope flashed:
U about early evening? Can I come over? Got a surprise 4 u! Rx
A surprise! I replied immediately.
Yes. Eleanor O.
No one had ever asked to come and visit me before. The social worker made an appointment, and the meter reader just turned up. I was conscious that Raymond’s previous visits had not been very pleasant for him—or me—and decided to try to make amends. I put on my jerkin and headed out to the corner shop. Mr. Dewan looked up from reading a newspaper at the sound of the electronic alert. It must drive him to distraction, bleeping all day like that. He smiled cautiously at me. I took a basket and got some milk, Earl Grey tea bags and a lemon to slice, in case Raymond preferred his tea that way. I spent a considerable amount of time in the aisles, somewhat overwhelmed by the choice. In the end, I plumped for Garibaldi biscuits, throwing in a packet of pink wafers too—apparently, it’s nice to offer guests an option. I wondered if Raymond might prefer something savory, and so I got some cream crackers and a packet of cheese slices. All bases covered.
I stood in line with my basket, not eavesdropping but nonetheless forced to overhear the conversation of the couple in front of me as we waited our turn. Eventually, I felt compelled to intervene and provide assistance.
“It’s ‘tagine’,” I said.
No reply. I sighed, and leaned forward again.
“Tagine,” I repeated, speaking slowly and clearly and, I thought, in a passable French accent.
“Sorry?” the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. The man simply stared at me, in a manner best described as mildly hostile.
“Neither of you can remember the word for the—as you described it—‘ceramic pot with the pointy lid’ that ‘Judith’—whoever she is—had put on her wedding list, leading you”—here, I indicated the woman with a gentle nod of my head—“to describe her as a ‘pretentious cow’.” I was quite enjoying the occasional use of the waggling finger gesture now that I’d got the hang of it.
Neither of them spoke, so I felt emboldened to continue.
“A tagine is a traditional cooking vessel of North African origin,” I said helpfully, “generally made from fired clay and decorated with a brightly colored glaze. It’s also the name of the stew that is cooked within it.”
The man’s mouth had fallen open slightly, and the woman’s had slowly changed shape to form a very thin, very tight line. She turned back to him and they began to whisper together, looking round more than once to steal a quick glance at me.
Nothing more was said, although they glared at me as they walked out, having paid for their goods. Not a word of thanks. I gave them a little wave.
Mr. Dewan smiled warmly at me when I finally reached the till.
“The levels of rudeness and the complete lack of awareness of the comme il faut among the general population never ceases to disappoint me, Mr. Dewan,” I said, shaking my head.
“Miss Oliphant,” he said, smiling in an understanding way. “How nice to see you again! You’re looking very well.”
I felt myself beaming in response.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Dewan,” I said. “It’s nice to see you too. Pleasant day today, is it not?”
He nodded, still smiling, and scanned my items. When he’d done that, his smile faltered slightly. “Will there be anything else today, Miss Oliphant?”
The bottles behind him glittered in the glare of the overhead lights, red and gold and clear.
“Yes!” I said. “I’d almost forgotten.” I leaned over to the newspaper stand and picked up a Telegraph—I was itching to get back to the crossword again.
Back home, I lit the gas fire and laid out the teacups. I wished that they matched, but I was sure Raymond wouldn’t mind. I sliced the lemon and arranged the biscuits as alternating spokes on a wheel on my nicest plate, the one with flowers on it. I decided to keep the savory items in reserve. No need to go crazy.
Being somewhat out of practice, I was only halfway through the crossword when the doorbell rang, a bit later than I’d been expecting. Due to hunger pangs I’d been forced to have a few biscuits, so a couple of the spokes on the wheel were missing now. Too bad.
Raymond was holding a cardboard box with handles in one hand, and a huge, bulging plastic bag in the other. He seemed very out of breath, placed both items gently on my hall carpet without being asked, and started to take off his jacket, still puffing and blowing like a beached porpoise. Smoking kills.
He passed me his jacket and I looked at it for a moment before realizing I was supposed to hang it up. I didn’t have anywhere suitable, so I folded it into a square as best I could and then put it on the floor in the corner of the hall. He didn’t look very pleased, although I had no idea why. It wasn’t an expensive-looking jacket.
I showed him into the living room and offered him tea. He seemed quite excitable. “Later, maybe. I’ve got to tell you about the surprise first, Eleanor,” he said.
I sat down.