‘People who’ve survived a traumatic event where others died,’ she continues gently, ‘even when they don’t remember it properly, can experience an overwhelming sense of guilt. It’s so strong sometimes, it can change the way they behave. In extreme cases, it can even make them take on certain facets or behavioural traits of loved ones who didn’t survive, like a kind of penance to the dead person.’ She hesitates, then adds, ‘Openly, or on a subconscious level.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘It’s a well-recognised condition.’
‘Has D-Dominic been talking to you about this?’ Hearing the slight stutter in my voice only annoys me further. My heart races when she says nothing, merely watching me. But there’s a flicker in her eyes again, a touch of guilt. ‘Oh God.’
‘Catherine . . .’
I feel the telltale blush of anger fill my cheeks and can’t control it. ‘This is Dominic’s theory, isn’t it? Not yours at all. He’s the one who thinks I’m going mental.’
‘That’s such an unhelpful word.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ My voice is a hiss, and she stares at me, clearly startled. ‘How would you describe my condition, then? In your expert opinion?’
‘I’m not a doctor, it’s true,’ she says slowly, ‘but I am an experienced mental health specialist, and I don’t think we should—’
‘Has “survivor’s guilt” made me hysterical, would you say? Hysterical and hormonal? Or does Dominic think it’s worse? What did he tell you?’ My voice starts to rise, even though I know people are looking our way. The woman with spiky red hair is staring again, but I ignore her. ‘Am I a bit on the flaky side, perhaps? Unhinged? Disturbed?’
I pause, barely able to hear myself through the thunder of blood. Yet the final word forces itself out anyway.
‘Mad?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Back at work, I try not to catch Sharon’s eye. Lunch with Louise has not helped me work through my confusion about the signatures on the paperwork. In fact, I feel worse, and keep checking over my shoulder, as though afraid my colleagues are looking at me sideways. Though I’m sure Sharon won’t have told anyone else about the forms. After all, she could get into trouble for having handed over that paperwork to a subordinate instead of doing it herself.
People who’ve survived a traumatic event where others died, even when they don’t remember it properly, can experience an overwhelming sense of guilt.
Is Louise right? Am I simply going through some kind of post-traumatic experience, triggered by the stress of getting married?
Thankfully the rest of the afternoon goes quickly. Sharon does not speak to me again, working in her office most of the time, head bent over her desk.
I wonder what she thinks about me.
That I’m crazy, perhaps.
I cringe at that possibility, and feel inexplicably cold, too. The tips of my fingers tingle as though I’ve been touching glass. I’m not crazy, I tell myself. But it’s getting harder to believe that, despite Louise’s insistence that I am not mad.
Merely stressed.
I’m not alone in feeling stressed, of course. As I have daily proof of in this job. The world is getting darker and colder for everyone, not just me. I’m getting ready to leave for the day when a young woman barges in through the entrance doors, pushing a buggy and looking flustered. She stares around the place, then fixes on me. Her eyes widen, and she heads in my direction, biting down hard on her lip as though repressing the urge to scream.
I know that expression. It’s very common in the food bank. It’s the look of a woman at the far edge of what she can deal with, in need of only one push before total collapse.
‘Hello?’ She stops walking. ‘I need food. My kid’s starving.’
‘Of course.’
She’s surprised by that response. I see it in her face. She expected a struggle. To be knocked back by the system.
The woman parks the buggy in front of me. Her child is about two years old, a sallow-faced girl with huge eyes. She’s clutching a fluffy soft toy to her chest. Some kind of cat, perhaps?
‘Do you have a referral?’ I ask, smiling down at the child.
‘A what?’
‘You need a referral to use the food bank. It’s usually a letter from social services, or a reference from a GP.’ She just looks mystified. ‘I’m afraid we can’t help you without one,’ I add.
‘Are you kidding me?’
Sharon comes out of her office and stands listening.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I tell the woman awkwardly. ‘But I could make a phone call.’
‘Catherine?’
I ignore Sharon, not even looking in her direction. ‘It might be possible to arrange some emergency cover,’ I say to the woman, ‘if you’re really desperate. I’d just need some details from you.’
‘What kind of details?’ the woman asks in a suspicious tone, though I can see she’s thawing.
‘Your name and address, for starters.’ I get out a notebook and pen. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all confidential.’
‘Thanks, Catherine, I’ll deal with this,’ Sharon tells me, and there’s a warning note in her voice. She turns to the woman, her manner brisk and unemotional. ‘We only deal with direct referrals.’
‘But I’ve come a long way,’ the woman says. ‘I had no money to top up my Oyster card. I had to walk.’
‘And I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.’ Sharon’s smile is utterly fake. I can tell she has decided this woman is going to make trouble. ‘Let me fetch you an info sheet on how to go about getting a referral.’
‘I don’t want one of them.’
‘It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.’
‘Says you.’ The woman looks Sharon up and down. Her finger stabs towards me. ‘I want her. Not you. Got it?’
‘I’m in charge here.’
The woman starts to say something, but Sharon interrupts. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice has risen slightly, but she’s still in control. ‘If you don’t want the information I’ve offered, then I think you’d better leave.’
Heads have turned towards us. Petra comes out of Sharon’s office too, a clipboard under her arm stump. She looks across at me and raises her eyebrows. I shake my head.
‘What if I don’t want to leave?’ the woman asks, her voice also rising.
Nobody says anything.
‘I need help.’ The woman jiggles the buggy from side to side and the child cries out in fear. ‘She needs food. Are you going to stand there and say no?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sharon says again.
‘You’re not fucking sorry. You’ve got everything. What have we got, eh? Nothing.’ Abruptly, the woman wheels the buggy about and strides furiously towards the exit. ‘And none of you give a fuck.’
She bangs through the double doors, and I listen to the unhappy wail of her child with a sinking heart. This isn’t why I came to help out here – to turn people away who are in absolute need.
Sharon sees my expression. ‘I offered to help her get a referral. You heard me. She didn’t want my help. This may be a charity, but we have rules about referrals. We have to do things by the book.’
I grab my bag and run after the woman.
‘Catherine, don’t!’
But I ignore Sharon’s warning.
Dusk is falling outside. The street lights have come on. I walk down the road and soon spot the woman, who has not gone far. She has stopped at the corner by La Giravolta, head down, while her daughter continues to cry.
‘Hello?’
She looks up at my voice. She is shaken and upset. ‘What do you want?’
‘I don’t want to offend you, but I thought maybe . . .’ I’m not sure how she will react as I start to rummage in my handbag for my purse. I take out a twenty and hand it to her. ‘Just to tide you over. If you want it.’
She stares at the note in disbelief, then takes it. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’ll let you have it back.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Honestly,’ she says, pushing the note deep into the front pocket of her jeans. ‘Cross my heart. Soon as I get my social through.’
I smile and say nothing, but we both know that’s unlikely to happen. Not in her circumstances.
‘What’s your name?’ she asks abruptly.
‘Catherine.’
Her smile surprises me. ‘That’s a nice name.’
She does not tell me her name in return and I don’t ask.
The child is leaning forward in the dusk, peering round the side of the buggy at me, curious and damp-eyed. She’s still clutching the soft toy to her chest.