Another Night, Another Day

‘Perhaps I could have picked a better phrase. Anyway, his arms no longer match; they’re out of balance, if you like. Not, of course, that I am criticizing Federer’s physique, but I hope you get my point. Our moods are like this too – if we train our brains to operate negatively, they get used to doing it, so they get overdeveloped in that way of thinking.’ She stands back. ‘Make sense?’

  ‘Kinda,’ grunts Troy.

  ‘But how can we retrain our brains?’ asks Rita, pausing as she takes notes. ‘It took me many years to get this way.’

  ‘The thing about all our moods is that they’re related to our thought processes,’ says Beth. ‘Being depressed involves thoughts, and thoughts can be changed.’

  ‘I thought you said this was going to be a practical session,’ says Troy. ‘So far all we’ve done is listen to you.’

  I wish he’d shut it, thinks Michael. I’m not enjoying this any more than he is, but at least I don’t keep interrupting.

  Yet again Beth seems unfazed. ‘Fair point, Troy. Time is getting on, and I’m hoping this next exercise might help answer your question, Rita. So, everybody, it’s stopped raining but you might like to bring another layer if you want one. We’re going into the garden. Rita, we’ll wait for you, so please don’t feel rushed.’

  Oh crikey, it really is playtime with teacher, thinks Michael.

  * * *

  Karen reaches beside the sofa for her jacket and stands to zip it up.

  I like Beth’s clothes, she thinks, as she watches the therapist pull a long cardigan over her dress. And those shoes are fab. I wonder where they’re from?

  ‘With this exercise, I’d like you to observe what’s around you,’ says Beth. As Rita adjusts her sari, then struggles to pick up her pad and pen as well as her walking stick, she adds, ‘Don’t worry about making notes, just pay attention once we leave this room.’ There’s much shuffling and muttering. ‘The only rule is you aren’t allowed to speak until we’re back.’

  Once they’re all silent, Beth opens the door and leads them into the hall like a priest commencing a church service.

  I’m glad we’re going outside, I could do with some fresh air, thinks Karen. She’s been doing her best to take in what Beth has been saying, but she’s so drained after seeing Johnnie that her attention keeps slipping.

  Paintings, she observes dutifully as they troop down the stairs. That’s Seven Sisters, and I’ve a hunch that’s Barcombe Mill.

  Beth stops to tap in a code by the door to reception.

  Gosh, I didn’t know we were locked in, thinks Karen.

  They follow Beth down another corridor, the silk of Rita’s sari rustling as she makes her way slowly in their wake. Karen notices a photocopier and two women chatting beside it, then it’s into a dining room.

  Though this isn’t where we ate lunch, thinks Karen. Here there are tables with benches, not chairs, and posters on the wall that say ‘I can let go of shame’, ‘Whatever my weight today, I am a worthwhile person’ and ‘I am beautiful just as I am’.

  Lillie whispers, ‘Eating disorders. They have to dine separately,’ in her ear.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘SHHH!’ says Colin loudly, and Lillie splutters with laughter.

  ‘You be careful or I’ll get you switched to that group,’ she hisses.

  ‘Ooh, vicious,’ says Colin, patting his sizeable tummy.

  The garden isn’t anything remarkable. Why bring us here, Karen wonders.

  Nonetheless she forces herself to concentrate. There’s a wooden bench and rusting metal table on a patch of worn grass in the centre. The east wall is flanked by a flower bed containing a hydrangea with dried brown florets left over from last summer, clusters of daffodils and early tulips. Down the far end is a laurel hedge, what looks like a cherry tree poised to blossom with an empty birdfeeder hanging from its lowest branch, and a castor-oil plant. A high wooden fence cordons off neighbouring properties to the west.

  After each group member has had the opportunity to circle the lawn – including Rita with her walking stick – Beth indicates with a wave they should return indoors.

  Upstairs they remove their coats and shrug at one another, unsure of the significance of the exercise.

  ‘I bet this is some sort of memory test,’ says Colin in a low voice, smoothing his hair back into its ponytail.

  That’s Karen’s worry too. She has a suspicion it’ll be like the party game she played when she was small, where you had to remember the objects on a tray after they’d been taken from the room. My memory is dreadful, she thinks. I’m bound to get everything wrong.

  Beth picks up a marker, goes to the board and says, ‘Now I’m going to draw a map of where we’ve just walked.’ Rapidly she outlines the stairs, corridor, dining room and garden. It’s neither to scale nor well executed, so accuracy can’t be the point. ‘Next, I want you to shout out what you’ve seen, and if everybody in the group remembers seeing it, it goes on the map, but not otherwise. Things that only one or two of you have seen don’t go on. Got it?’

  ‘BENCH!’ shouts Colin at once.

  ‘Who else saw the bench?’ asks Beth, and the rest of the group raise their hands, so she marks it on her drawing.

  ‘Table,’ says Troy, and again it gets added.

  ‘Fire extinguisher,’ says Colin, but this time Karen and Lillie shake their heads. ‘It was by the back door,’ he cajoles, but Beth refuses to include it.

  ‘Hydrangea,’ says Karen. She’s beginning to understand.

  ‘What’s that?’ says Lillie.

  ‘How can you not know what a hydrangea is?’ Michael says, but his tone is jokey, not mean. He seems to have lightened up a bit, thinks Karen.

  ‘Anyone else see the hydrangea?’ asks Beth.

  ‘Me. It was in the flower bed, needs cutting back,’ says Michael.

  ‘No one else?’

  The rest of the group shake their heads.

  ‘Sorry, Karen,’ says Beth.

  So it continues. The watercolours get added, as do the women chatting by the photocopier, but not the posters in the dining room; and in the garden it seems Karen noticed almost all the plants, but completely overlooked a toolbox by the back door that the men thought impossible to miss. But there’s more, so much more, that she failed to observe – the security camera at the bottom of the stairs, the sign on the door saying Office Manager, the rooms numbered 1 through 6, a half-eaten sandwich in the dining room, the stack of recycling bins by the garden gate; even, apparently, a large wooden shed.

  How could I be so blind, Karen wonders, but it seems the rest of the group missed a lot too.

  ‘Right, now we’re going back outside to do it all again,’ says Beth.

  ‘No!’ says Colin.

  ‘Oh yes. I’m trying to show you how to challenge your normal patterns of thinking. Rita, if this is a bit much for you, please feel free to wait here. The rest of you, same route, in silence, and back upstairs. Coats, everyone . . .’ And off they go.

  This time, Karen is so tuned-in visually that she sees the objects with ease that she previously missed. And every time she spots one of the items – the security camera, the Office Manager sign, the half-eaten sandwich, the toolbox, she feels a tiny burst of pleasure, as if a pathway has opened and joy has been released directly into her brain. She notices new items too. The banisters are beautifully carved as if entwined with ivy; there’s a stack of Christmas decorations on a shelf by the photocopier; the wallpaper is peeling by the French windows of the dining room; in the garden there’s a squirrel running along the wall – and the more she sees, the more delighted she feels.

  All too soon they’re back upstairs.

  ‘So, how was that?’ asks Beth. She’s grinning.

  ‘Wow,’ says Colin. ‘That was wild.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘Yes.’ Lillie claps her hands. ‘I loved that!’

  ‘Notice it was the second time that the pleasure kicks in? This really puts us in
to the present, into the creative, intuitive part of the brain,’ says Beth. ‘By being careful to look at the world around us, it stops us thinking about the past or the future, and ruminating.’

  ‘It was a bit like taking ecstasy,’ says Colin.

  ‘Shhh!’ says Lillie.

  But Beth isn’t remotely concerned. ‘I want to know how you’re all feeling right now,’ she says.

  ‘I could smell the rain from earlier,’ says Rita. ‘It was lovely . . .’

  ‘Me too,’ nods Colin. ‘So I’m nicely chilled.’

  ‘I’m alert,’ says Lillie.

  ‘I suppose I don’t feel quite as shit as I did earlier,’ says Michael.

  Karen looks around the room. Everyone – even Troy, who hitherto has done nothing but scowl – seems less morose.

  I’m sure it won’t last, she thinks, checking her own emotional state, and I don’t really understand why, but what a relief it is to feel in good spirits again. I’d forgotten what it was like.

  19

  ‘Aren’t you staying for Relaxation?’ asks Lillie as Karen reaches for her jacket.

  ‘I thought we finished at four and I’m afraid I have to pick up my kids,’ says Karen.

  ‘Pity. You don’t want to miss it unless you have to. Best bit of the day, isn’t it, Rita?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Rita. Slowly, she swivels round and lifts her legs up onto the sofa so she’s stretched out along it.

  ‘Johnnie’s good at it too,’ says Lillie.

  Karen is wondering what being “good at Relaxation” means when Rita says, ‘Lovely voice.’

  ‘Here you are, then, Rita,’ says Lillie, and reaches for Rita’s woollen shawl. She spreads it over Rita’s torso like a blanket. The elderly woman closes her eyes and smiles in gratitude.

  ‘Maybe I’ll stay next time.’

  ‘You should, Karen,’ says Johnnie, coming back into the room. In his wake are a couple of young men she doesn’t recognize. One has a Mohican and a pierced eyebrow; the other is wearing large black-framed glasses and is heavily tattooed.

  ‘Whatcha, boys,’ Lillie greets them. She’s scrambled onto one of the sofas to let down the blinds.

  ‘People from all the groups in Moreland’s participate,’ Johnnie explains.

  Lillie jumps onto the floor. ‘Karl, Lansky, this is Karen.’ She introduces them with a flourish.

  ‘Hello.’ Karen is curious to find out more about them, but it’ll have to wait. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay—’

  ‘When are you back in, Karen?’ asks Johnnie.

  ‘Friday. I work the rest of the week.’

  ‘See ya then.’ Lillie flutters a butterfly farewell with her perfectly polished fingernails.

  That’s a shame, thinks Karen as she heads down the stairs. I could do with relaxing and I was enjoying their company. They’re a nice crowd, and Lansky and Karl looked interesting too. Who’d have thought it, in Moreland’s?

  The receptionist waylays her as she’s reaching for the front door handle.

  ‘Excuse me, but you need to sign out.’

  Karen backtracks to sign the book for the young woman, who, she gleans from her badge, is called Danni.

  At that moment, a blast of cold air heralds an arrival, and Karen turns to see a woman catch her heel on the threshold and stagger forward. In one hand she has hold of a wheeled suitcase; in the other is a bottle of wine, which, judging from the splash of dark liquid that lands on the carpet, must be open.

  ‘It’s Elaine,’ says the woman, heading straight to Danni.

  She smells of cigarettes, Karen notices.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t bring that in here,’ says Danni, jerking her chin at the wine bottle.

  ‘I’m not due to detox till tomorrow,’ says Elaine.

  ‘Still, you can’t have it here.’

  Karen gives Elaine a swift appraisal. She’s sharp-featured, dressed in stretch jeans and a leather bomber jacket, and thin in a way that suggests she doesn’t get much nourishment. I’m not sure I’d want to argue with her, thinks Karen. She decides to stay a moment, lest there’s trouble.

  ‘Why not? I’ve paid for the night.’

  ‘Because we’ve a no drugs or alcohol rule.’

  ‘I’ll have it in my room – no one need see.’

  Danni shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Aw, go on . . .’

  Danni’s mouth sets in a firm line. She’s clearly had encounters like this before, Karen realizes, impressed by her composure.

  ‘No.’

  Elaine lurches towards the interior door.

  ‘You won’t get through there,’ says Danni. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ says Elaine.

  Karen sees Danni reach under her desk. She must have pressed a buzzer, because at once there is the sound of running footsteps.

  ‘Problem, Danni?’ It’s the goatee-bearded man in a suit who showed Karen round earlier.

  ‘Elaine here wanted to check in with some wine,’ says Danni. ‘And I was explaining that we don’t allow that.’

  ‘Ah yes, I see.’ He addresses the visitor. ‘Hi, Elaine. I’m Phil, the office manager. I know you’re scheduled to be with us tonight, but I’m afraid we don’t allow any alcohol in here.’

  ‘But I’m not due to stop till tomorrow.’

  ‘True, but . . .’

  ‘I’ll sit here and drink it, then.’ Elaine flops down into one of the chairs. ‘Cheers.’ She raises the bottle to her lips.

  ‘No, I’m afraid you can’t do that either—’ Phil moves towards her.

  She flinches. ‘Oi, don’t touch me!’

  He didn’t so much as brush your sleeve, thinks Karen.

  ‘All right, I’ll go . . .’ Elaine stands up and makes her way to the front door, leaving her suitcase in the middle of reception.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take your case?’ asks Danni.

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

  Karen, Danni and Phil watch, transfixed, as Elaine makes her way down the steps at the entrance of the clinic, holding onto the handrail so she doesn’t topple in her heels. She stops on the pavement directly outside, lifts the bottle once more to her mouth and drinks the contents, barely pausing for breath until the wine is finished. Then she bends over and carefully puts the bottle down on the bottom step and, swaying ever so slightly, walks back up to the front door.

  ‘OK,’ she says to Danni. ‘I’m ready.’

  * * *

  Michael has been sitting for several minutes opposite a woman who’s introduced herself as Gillian. Other than a ‘yes’ when she asked if his name was Michael, he hasn’t said a word.

  According to her badge she is a senior therapist. Well, obviously she’s senior, thinks Michael; she’s old. If Johnnie was too young for him to respect, this Scottish biddy with a grey bun, glasses and a paisley shawl is too far out the other side. It’s not just that she seems to be from a different generation; Gillian also appears posh.

  I can’t see her getting hot and sweaty in a mosh pit, or going to a traders’ market at the crack of sparrow’s fart, he thinks. If I have to see a therapist, why couldn’t I have had Beth, or whatever her name was? And to top it all, I’ve had to miss Relaxation. I could have done with a kip.

  ‘I take it you don’t feel like talking,’ says Gillian after a few more minutes.

  What is there to talk about, Michael thinks. Everything’s gone tits up, end of. How’s she going to help – bankroll me? I’d have been better off going to the Citizens’ Advice.

  Gillian catches his eye and gives Michael a tiny smile.

  I suppose that’s meant to encourage me, he thinks. If she knew how many smiles I’ve had today, she wouldn’t bother.

  ‘We’ve been yakking all day,’ he mutters. Then he looks down and picks at his cuticles, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘In the group sessions, I appreciate maybe you and the other patients have, but it’s only us now. You might find it helps a wee bit to put your own f
eelings into words.’

  ‘I don’t get why everyone is so keen on talking.’ Michael tugs at a particularly dry bit of skin.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you if you think keeping your problems to yourself will make them disappear?’

  What does she know about my situation? wonders Michael. She has a file on her knee: bet it’s full of all sorts. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘It’s a letter from your GP,’ says Gillian. ‘You can see it if you want?’

  ‘No thanks.’ My doctor told me I’m clinically depressed, thinks Michael. Not sure what the difference between ‘clinically’ and plain old depressed is, but that’s what got me admitted – apparently I was severely at risk. The notion of such personal information being down there in black and white makes Michael edgy, but to demand to see it might seem aggressive.

  ‘I’ll make a few notes as we talk, if you don’t mind,’ Gillian continues.

  Michael shifts in his chair. He can’t think what to say. Knowing she’s going to write it all down is off-putting. ‘I’m not into all this expressing myself,’ he mumbles, finally. ‘It’s not me, you see. I know it’s very trendy and stuff . . .’ He falters, and is surprised when Gillian chuckles.

  ‘Do I look trendy to you, Michael?’ She fingers her paisley shawl.

  He can’t stop himself snorting. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘The idea that putting our feelings into words can help us isn’t particularly modern. It’s actually ancient wisdom to suggest that if someone is sad or angry about a situation and we can get them to chat about it, it will probably release some emotions and make them feel better.’

  She must be referring to the shop going under, thinks Michael. How else would she know I lose my temper, unless someone’s told her? He has an urge to grab the file after all and check she’s telling the truth about what’s in there.

  ‘More than two and a half thousand years ago Buddha talked about the benefits of labelling our experiences.’

  Bloody hell, Buddhism, he thinks. If that isn’t trendy, what is? She might be a Scot, but I bet she lives in Brighton, on Muesli Mountain, no doubt. Well, these sessions might work for some people, but I’m getting nothing out of it. Again he glances at the clock.