“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 produced 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.