The Doll's House

I tell the taxi driver to let me out at the end of the street. I have no idea what to expect from Gerard Hayden and, walking towards his house, neither do I know what the house of a hypnotist should look like.

The road itself is narrow, with barely enough space for cars to park on either side. There are small red-brick cottages on both sides, with equally small front gardens. Some look well kept, others are the way I feel: in need of repair. I know the number of the house without having to look at the piece of paper, but I take it out of my bag all the same.

I hesitate at the low garden gate before entering, standing close enough to read his qualifications on the brass plaque to the side of the panelled black door. It confirms his registration as a hypnotist in Ireland, whatever kind of guarantee that gives me.

I’m early. If I was still driving I could have sat in the car. Now I regret coming so close to his house: it makes the possibility of changing my mind more difficult. Not wanting to look a complete fool standing there, I reach down to open the gate. It’s not too late. I could still turn and walk away, but the same hand that opened the gate is now pressing the brass bell button.

I hear carpeted footsteps, the creaking of floorboards, before the door opens and I see Gerard Hayden for the first time.

Like the house, he is small, and older than I’d expected him to be, with short, dishevelled grey hair. He is wearing a navy tartan waistcoat, and I immediately think of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. His voice, as before, sounds confident, but he speaks softly, and somehow that is reassuring. He stands back, holding the door ajar as I go inside. He leads the way, both of us walking along the dark carpeted hallway, with an occasional creak from the floorboards, to a back room with the word ‘Office’ in black stickers on a faded cream door. Once inside, I smell candle wax.

There is something about his voice that I find calming. I hear myself talking, telling him about my estranged relationship with my mother, how we never seemed to get past the barrier that existed between us. Gerard Hayden listens, not saying a word, nodding, tilting his head sideways every now and then. He waits until I run out of words.

I think he will comment on my anxieties, try to analyse my fears, but instead he says, ‘Good. Thank you for that, Clodagh.’

Standing up, he turns down the wooden blinds on both windows in his office, talking with his back to me. ‘Clodagh, regression is used for many purposes. It is not something you should either be afraid of or nervous about. At all times you will feel safe and be safe.’

I think again of Martin’s words. He wants me to be safe. After eighteen years of marriage, he doesn’t make me feel so, not any more and not for a very long time. It was Val who reintroduced us. She hadn’t realised that I’d known Martin from childhood. As a kid, he was a bit of a nerd, but his appearance changed with his charm. Gerard Hayden is sitting opposite me now, his conversation continuing.

‘There are many interesting aspects to how our minds work, Clodagh, but for now, we’ll concentrate on the relationship between the conscious and subconscious mind. Try to imagine an iceberg. Our conscious brain is at the tip, the point visible above the waterline.’

I visualise the iceberg, wondering about the vast expanse beneath.

‘When you regress, Clodagh, and you go back to childhood, you won’t be there alone.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Your adult self will be with you.’

I wonder how useful that adult self will be.

‘Regression is particularly helpful for people with certain conditions, such as an inclination to blush, or a phobia towards spiders, or even a stammer. If we’re lucky, it is possible to trace the first memory, the one permanently held in the subconscious, the frightening event that caused a particular problem to occur. What is interesting, Clodagh, is that, as I explained, the adult self also forms part of the regression process. He or she is capable of recognising that the circumstances or events which the child perceived as frightening may be something else entirely.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s very possible, Clodagh, that your conscious mind is preventing you from remembering. It can block your subconscious, the part that stores all your memories perfectly intact, from connecting to those memories. Even if you could, for the briefest of moments, gain access to a particular event, your conscious brain would respond far too quickly for you to realise, or recall, your attempt at trying. You might be left with a sense of unease, without any explanation as to why.’