‘You OK?’ says Glenn. ‘Your breathing’s gone a bit weird . . .’
She gulps and nods, struggling to soothe herself as best she can even though she feels she is suffocating. Be calm, be calm. It’s only a physical reaction. ‘See your thoughts as mental events that come and go like clouds across a sky,’ she reminds herself, but she’s quaking from head to toe.
‘Hey,’ says Glenn. ‘Callum, mate, careful. Let your mum have a bit of space, eh?’
Abby’s vaguely aware she’s batting her arms in distress. Glenn rises to his feet and guides her to the sofa. She wants to run away, scream, pray, take another diazepam – anything to stop this terrifying spiral.
Get me out of this crazy head of mine, she begs silently. Please, please, give me some peace.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Karen and her children are with Anna at the allotment, as arranged. The danger of frost has passed and the two women are keen to plant peas and beans. But the warmer weather means that brambles and dandelions are also beginning to take hold, so Shirley has driven over from Goring to help tackle them.
‘Grandma,’ says Molly, looking up from the small trenches she and Luke have been tasked with digging for mangetout, ‘why haven’t we ever been to your flat?’
Shirley raises her head from weeding to address her granddaughter. ‘Ah well, Molly, it’s not that I don’t want you to come, it’s only a bit small to have you round, that’s all.’
‘Grandma is renting her flat in Goring,’ explains Karen, unsure if Molly will understand quite what this means. ‘But maybe one day she’ll have a place of her own.’
‘Oh,’ says Molly. She is silent a while, contemplating, then says, ‘If it’s too small inside, couldn’t we sit in your garden?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got a garden.’
‘You had a big garden in Portugal,’ observes Luke.
‘I know,’ says Shirley. She looks wistful for a second, then smiles at her grandson. ‘That’s why I like coming here and helping you.’
‘We’ve got a garden and an allotment,’ Luke boasts.
‘Ours isn’t a very big garden, it’s more of a patio,’ says Karen, trying to soften her children’s remarks. Poor Mum, she thinks.
‘Why don’t you come and live with us?’ says Molly. ‘Then you could help us all the time.’
‘Er . . .’ Shirley looks nonplussed. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Molly, but I don’t really think you’ve got room . . .’ She glances nervously at Karen.
Karen flushes, too taken aback to work out what to say.
A while later Anna comes to join Karen planting runner beans.
‘That was a bit awkward,’ she murmurs.
‘Sorry?’
‘When Molly asked your mum about moving in.’
‘I know.’ Karen glances to check that Shirley and the children aren’t listening. They are immersed in conversation a distance away. ‘It’s funny how kids pick these things up. I’ve been wondering if I ought to ask what her plans are.’
Anna stops midway through making a small hole with her trowel to look at Karen. Her expression is one of concern. ‘I hope you’re not seriously planning on her coming to live with you?’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re both still grieving over the death of your dad.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’m not sure you’re thinking that straight yet. Either of you.’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘My dear friend, do I have to spell it out for you? You’re already looking after two children on your own, on a limited income. I know you’re getting stuff out of this Moreland’s programme; I’m just afraid – I hope you don’t mind my being frank – that it’s a bit too soon.’
Karen smiles. ‘If I minded you being frank I’d have dumped you long ago.’
‘You’ve managed brilliantly since Simon died – Lord knows, I couldn’t have coped half as well as you.’
‘Thanks,’ says Karen. Anna’s not normally one for compliments; she’s surprised.
‘And you’re a fantastic mum to Molly and Luke.’
‘I’ve only done what any mother would.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true, but anyway. You’ve said to me yourself you’ve been really walloped by your dad’s death. I’m worried about you. For goodness’ sake – you’ve been worried about you. You’re being treated for depression. The last thing you need is to take on something else.’
‘But my mother isn’t something, she’s my mum—’
Karen recalls an anecdote Johnnie shared with the group at the end of his session on Monday. He’d been talking about motivation, and explaining how prioritizing one’s own needs has a crucial part to play in meeting one’s goals.
‘Have you noticed when flight attendants run through the safety procedure before the take-off of a plane, they say something along the lines of: If you’re an adult accompanied by children, make sure you put on your own oxygen mask first, before you see to them?’ he’d said.
Everyone had nodded except Karen. She’d commented, ‘I’ve always thought that was utterly counter-intuitive. I’d be desperate to sort my kids.’
‘Yet the point is that if the plane is going down and oxygen is running out, then you’ll need to have your mask on, in order to sort your children,’ Johnnie had said. ‘Can you see what this illustrates?’
Karen hadn’t understood fully at the time, and it had taken Rita to interject: ‘Until we look after ourselves, we can’t properly look after anyone else?’
‘I think I get what you’re driving at,’ Karen says slowly to Anna now. Still, she thinks, I don’t wholeheartedly agree. From what I’ve seen, I get on much better with my mother than most grown-up daughters.
She pauses to listen to the animated exchange taking place on the far side of the allotment. She can’t make out precisely what Molly and Luke are saying, but the contrast of their high-pitched and eager voices with her mother’s more measured tone is reflective of the generations that separate them. They love being together so much, and that they are able to enjoy one another is a blessing, she thinks. If Mum wants to move in with us and Molly and Luke want her there, who am I to say no?
22
In spite of Abby’s good wishes, Michael doesn’t sleep well, not just on Monday, but every night that week. The days become easier as his routine grows more familiar, but still he prefers to keep himself to himself, and when he finds he is alone with Troy in the lounge on Friday morning, they sit in strained silence waiting for the group to start. Eventually the tension is broken by the arrival of Karen, back for the first time since Monday.
‘Hello again,’ she says, smiling at both of them and taking a seat. There’s a short pause while she gets her file and pen out of a large cloth bag, then she turns to Troy. ‘It’s your last day today, right?’
Troy nods, and grimaces.
She’s got a good memory, Michael observes, feeling bad for not asking this himself. Rather Troy than me, he thinks. It’s the first time Michael has seen his own life as the better option than someone else’s in a long while.
Karen continues, ‘Do you mind if I ask how you ended up here in England?’
‘Not at all,’ says Troy. ‘My unit is based in Italy, so it costs less to fly us to the UK for treatment than send us back to the US. Your clinics are way less expensive.’
That’s rough, thinks Michael. I bet he’d rather have been treated at home. It’s hard enough being here anyway, I’d hate to be so far from my family. No wonder he’s been so negative.
Michael clears his throat, then says, ‘Good luck, mate. I’ll be thinking of you.’
‘Thanks.’ Troy nods.
He looks scared shitless, thinks Michael.
Next into the lounge is Rita, who makes slow progress to her favourite armchair. Then in come Lillie, Colin and Abby. Lillie is dressed in an eye-poppingly short skirt and angora jumper, Colin is still in his slippers, but Abby has changed from the worn track
suit she’s been wearing all week into jeans and a boldly striped top. She’s got more colour in her cheeks, Michael thinks, as she takes a seat next to him and murmurs, ‘Hello.’ Not difficult, given how washed-out she was on arrival, but it’s good to see her looking a little better. Finally they are joined by two people Michael doesn’t recognize – a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face and gnarled hands, and a young woman with a shock of bright-pink frizzy hair, who he’d guess is around his daughter’s age.
‘Hello,’ says Lillie. ‘I’m Lillie. And you are?’ She reaches over and holds out her hand.
‘Tash,’ says the woman and jerks her head. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Oh.’ Lillie recoils. ‘Didn’t mean to offend.’
‘Sorry,’ says Tash, and twitches again. ‘Tourette’s.’
‘Ah. Not to worry, now I know. You’re in good company with us lot. We’ve all sorts of conditions here.’
‘Arsehole!’ says Tash, blinking several times in quick succession. ‘It’s not Tourette’s specifically that’s brought me here – it’s my mood swings. Hopefully my tics will diminish once I’m more settled.’
‘Sure.’ Lillie turns to the middle-aged man.
‘Rick,’ he says. His jaw is clenched and his throat is so tight he can barely say his own name. He looks ever so stressed, thinks Michael. Funny how it’s easier to see in others.
‘Morning, everyone.’ It’s Beth. She slips off her cardigan, introduces herself to Tash and Rick, then picks up a pen and goes straight to the whiteboard.
‘Today our focus is on the connection between mental and physical health.’ She yanks the top off the marker with her teeth and Michael settles back into the sofa. ‘We’ll be considering how looking after ourselves physically helps us stay well. It’s important if you’re to help your own recovery that you understand how our minds and bodies interact.’ Beth draws a circle on the whiteboard. ‘Who here is familiar with the Hot Cross Bun?’
‘Fuck off,’ says Tash.
‘I’ve wanted to say that to Beth for months,’ says Colin, and winks at Tash.
What on earth have hot cross buns to do with anything, thinks Michael. Some of the stuff these therapists come out with is crazier than we are.
Beth draws a cross in the circle, dividing it into four. ‘Perhaps someone can say what goes at these intersections?’ She holds the pen expectantly.
‘Up there is Thoughts,’ says Lillie, and Beth writes ‘Thoughts’ at twelve o’clock. ‘Then to the right is Emotions, at the bottom Physical Sensations and Behaviour is on the left.’
‘Perfect,’ says Beth. ‘As those of you who aren’t familiar with the Hot Cross Bun will find out, this is one of the pivotal models we use in cognitive behavioural therapy or CBT.’
More initials, thinks Michael. It’s so hard to keep track of what they all mean.
Beth continues, ‘The word cognitive simply refers to our thoughts, and this kind of therapy looks at how our behaviour influences our thoughts, and vice versa. Who can explain the other links?’
‘It’s because our thoughts affect our emotions or moods which in turn affect our behaviour and the way our bodies react physically,’ says Colin.
‘Exactly. If we get into a negative way of thinking, we then start to feel bad emotionally. So if we believe something awful is going to happen, our brains pick up these messages and translate them into a physical response. Who here suffers from anxiety?’
There’s a unanimous murmur of ‘me’.
‘And what physical sensations do you get?’
‘I feel sick,’ says Rita.
‘My nerves tingle, all down here.’ Abby holds out her arms and wiggles her fingertips.
‘I get shaky,’ says Rick. ‘In fact, I’m shaky a lot of the time.’
‘Me too,’ says Lillie.
‘My tics get worse,’ says Tash.
There’s a pause, and Michael decides he has nothing to contribute.
‘I was particularly anxious on Monday when I came here for the first time,’ says Karen. ‘I think that’s why I got so weepy. Does that make sense?’
‘Sure,’ says Beth. ‘Anxiety and depression often go hand in hand.’
‘I felt bad about it afterwards.’ Karen glances round. ‘I hope I didn’t bring the rest of you down.’
‘Not at all,’ says Rita. ‘It’s good to know other people feel like I do.’
Beth writes the symptoms – including weepy – beneath the Hot Cross Bun, then turns to face the group again. ‘This is why it’s important to take care of our bodies. Obviously I don’t expect you to be saints. Physical evidence suggests I’m partial to the odd bun myself. However, it does make sense not to give our systems even more to deal with when we’re anxious than faulty thinking brings about already. Certain types of food and drink can exacerbate anxiety. What in particular might we try to reduce or avoid?’
‘Alcohol,’ says Troy.
‘Coffee,’ says Colin.
‘Yes.’ Beth pulls up a chair and sits down. ‘It can be tempting to reach for more stimulants when you’re feeling stressed so you can keep going, or else have a few drinks to help you wind down at the end of the day, but in excess neither is a good idea.’
‘Aah.’ Rick leans forward. He has grasped something, thinks Michael, though surely much of this is obvious. ‘So do you think the fact I’ve got a bit of a coke habit might be contributing to my, um . . . levels of anxiety, and making me feel worse?’
Michael is stunned. No wonder Rick is shaky and looks like he’s lived so hard. Michael had assumed he must be a builder or some such, and work outside.
Even Beth looks fazed. ‘Er . . .’
‘Wow. Coke,’ says Troy, in his deep American drawl. ‘That’s not good.’
‘What do you mean by a habit?’ asks Lillie. ‘’Cos this is the group for people with mental health issues like depression and stuff, but if you’re doing a lot of Charlie, maybe you should be in the addiction therapy programme rather than here. Don’t you agree, Beth?’
‘Hang on a minute, Lillie. Let Rick speak.’ Beth appears disconcerted, thinks Michael. I reckon there’s been an administrative cock-up.
‘Not that kind of coke,’ says Rick. ‘I meant Coca-Cola.’
‘Oh,’ says Lillie, and everyone roars with laughter.
Beth smiles, visibly relieved, and waits for them to settle. ‘Ah, but it is worth talking about, all the same. When you say you’ve a coke habit, Rick, how much Coca-Cola are you drinking?’
‘I drink it every day.’
‘Coca-Cola causes cancer,’ says Rita.
‘No, that’s Diet Coke,’ says Lillie.
‘What would you say you get through each day?’ asks Beth.
‘Ooh . . .’ Rick stares up at the ceiling while he calculates. ‘A couple of bottles?’
‘You mean the small ones? It might be an idea to cut down.’
‘Oh no. I mean two this size.’ Rick holds his hands one above the other, about eighteen inches apart. ‘What are they? One and a half litres or something?’
Beth sits back, stunned. ‘Goodness! So you’re telling me you drink three litres of Coke – a day?’
‘Yup.’
‘There’s a hell of a lot of caffeine in Coke,’ says Troy.
‘Maybe Rick can switch to caffeine-free,’ says Karen.
‘I’d give it up if I were you, Rick,’ says Lillie. ‘You could save yourself a lot of money. Are you paying to be here at Moreland’s?’
‘Ye–es . . .’ Rick looks confused as to the connection. ‘And it’s rather more than I spend on Coca-Cola.’
‘But imagine if your anxiety were to be eased a lot by cutting out Coke.’
‘Ah.’ Rick grins. ‘That would be good.’
‘Then you could save yourself the exorbitant fees of being a patient here, which would make you feel better emotionally too.’
Because behaviour and feelings are connected, thinks Michael. Perhaps there’s some truth in this hot cross bun, aft
er all.
23
‘Henceforth my body is a temple.’ Abby nods at her plate of fish and chips. ‘Let’s start as we mean to continue.’
‘Good for our minds,’ says Colin, who’s ordered the same.
‘That’s oily fish, not cod in batter,’ says Lillie.
Colin shunts a large forkful into his mouth and closes his eyes. ‘So what if it’s not exactly brain food? It’s delicious.’
‘Thank you ever so much, Sally,’ says Lillie, as a plate piled high with salad is brought to her.
‘Hark at you,’ says Colin.
‘Beth would be impressed,’ says Abby.
‘Teacher’s pet,’ says Colin.
‘You’re only jealous ’cos you fancy her,’ says Lillie.
‘I do not!’ says Colin. ‘She’s far too old for me.’ But his cheeks redden.
Abby is poised to push him further when she spies Karen hovering on the periphery of the dining room. Today is the first time Abby has seen her since Monday and they’ve not spoken outside of the groups yet. On first impression Karen seemed vulnerable, bursting into tears at the initial check-in, and Abby was too close to the edge herself to cope with someone else’s misery. But the woman she saw in the session this morning seems less likely to rock her own fragile stability, and she gets to her feet so Karen can see her.
‘Come and join us. There’s plenty of room.’
‘Thanks.’ Karen smiles as she sits down at the table between Abby and Colin.
She has a kind face, thinks Abby. Not pretty, or beautiful – her features aren’t regular enough for that – but her expression is warm and open, and as for that hair . . . Again Abby has a twinge of envy.
‘So how are you finding your first week?’ Lillie cuts straight to the question before Abby has a chance to ask.
‘Well, it’s only my second day,’ says Karen.
‘Ooh, remember that, Colin?’ says Lillie. ‘Your second day . . .’
‘Seems years ago.’ Colin rubs his chin as if he were a pensioner recalling his boyhood.
‘How long have you both been here?’ asks Karen.