Part 5 (1/2)

'Welcome to the world of being single,' Alex said in an ironic tone. 'You know, I sometimes have a fantasy of what it would be like if I wasn't married and didn't have any children. I could suddenly decide in the evening to go out and see a movie or have a drink in a bar. Perhaps, occasionally, I meet a woman at a party and I think, if I were single, I could have an affair with her and it would be so exciting. But if I suddenly found myself single, it wouldn't be like that at all. Maybe I'd have an initial bit of euphoria. I might even have one or two s.e.xual experiences. But I doubt whether it would be as much fun as I had antic.i.p.ated. And then all the things I was used to, the rea.s.surance of seeing people I know when I go home, all that would be gone. It would be hard.'

'I thought I I was supposed to do all the talking.' was supposed to do all the talking.'

Alex laughed again. 'Who says? You've probably been reading too much Freud. I wouldn't pay too much attention to a man who psychoa.n.a.lysed both himself and his own daughter if I were you. Anyway, not only do you have all that to deal with but you have a perfectly clear family tragedy as well. You have a perfect right to be unhappy for a while. Do you want me to wave a wand and take it away from you?'

'That sounds tempting.'

'Let me give you a very glib diagnosis, Jane, and it's on the house. I think you're a strong woman and you don't like to feel you can't cope, you don't want people to feel sorry for you. That's the problem. My comment is : life is painful. Allow yourself to give way to that. You could talk to me, of course, but you could also spend your money in other ways. You could have a weekly ma.s.sage, have some nice meals in restaurants, go on holiday somewhere hot.'

It was my turn to laugh. 'Now that really is is tempting.' tempting.'

We were both smiling and there was a rather embarra.s.sing pause. It was the sort of pause that in other circ.u.mstances I might have thought of dispelling by kissing Alex.

'Alex, I hate saying ”but seriously?”... But seriously, I had this talk last night with my brother, who, incidentally, has got this deranged idea of making a film about the family, so you'll soon probably be able to learn all about my problems by watching BBC2, and Paul that's my brother's name was talking about our golden childhood. I've always had this image of our golden childhood as well but as he was talking in this nostalgic way there was something inside me that was saying no, no, no. Over the last few days I've been preoccupied with an image. It must be all to do with Natalie being found. But I've been thinking about my golden, golden childhood and a black hole in the middle of it, and I can't get a grip on it and I don't know what it is. Somehow it's there, always on the edge of vision but when I turn to look at it directly it's gone, gone to the edge again. I'm sorry, I'm probably not making sense. It hardly makes sense even to me. If you can imagine it, I'm listening to myself talking as a way of trying to understand. Perhaps what I'm asking is for you to trust me when I feel that there is something worth looking for behind all this.'

As I made this long, incoherent speech, I looked down at the table and when I finished looked up, almost scared of catching Alex's eyes. He was frowning, with a look of alert concentration that I hadn't seen before.

'You may be right,' he said, almost muttering it.

He took my mug and his and put them in the sink. Instead of returning to his chair he began to pace up and down. I didn't know whether I should say anything but decided not. Finally, he sat down again.

'You've probably got false ideas about the process of therapy. You may have seen films in which someone's psychological problem is dramatically solved. You may have friends who are addicted to a.n.a.lysis and they talk to you about the wonderful insight it's given them into their problems and how much happier it's made them. It may have done, but if you've spent three hours a week for five years and twenty grand, then you've got a vested interest in its success.'

'Well, why...?'

Alex held up his hand to silence me. 'You do interest me, Jane. I think we could do something. However, I think we've both got to be clear about a few things first. This process isn't going to be like going to the doctor with an infection or a broken leg. You might ask me if I'm going to make you better and we might then have a boring philosophical discussion about whether I am going to do anything for you at all and what we mean by making you better.'

'I'm not looking for some easy answer.'

'I don't think you are. So let me be as clear as I possibly can about what may or may not happen. Let me give you a couple of warnings. You may feel, like many people do, that there could be nothing more pleasant than spending two or three hours a week having a good natter about your problems, getting them all off your chest. In my own experience this is hardly ever true. The process may be unpleasant in itself. How can I describe it?' Alex looked around the kitchen and grinned. 'The mess in this kitchen probably appals you. It certainly depresses me and infuriates my wife. So why don't we just clear it up? Well, although it looks dreadful we're actually used to it and we can find most things we need quite quickly. If I started to clear up, it would involve making everything even more chaotic for a while as I would have to empty all the cupboards as well. There would be a time when everything was worse, with the added fear that we might lose our nerve and leave it in that disastrous state. It would keep on seeming worse until just before the clean-up was completed. Even then, it wouldn't feel quite as comfortable as it did before. And although theoretically the new arrangement might be more functional, because it has been rationally arranged, in practice we would probably be unable to find things more often because we would still be used to the old irrationality. So, you see, I'm an advertis.e.m.e.nt for leaving well alone.

'You may not even achieve anything. I make no claim at all that after, I don't know, six months or a year, you will be happier or better able to deal with the practical problems in your life. You'll still be living in a world where people die and have irreconcilable conflicts. But I can guarantee at least something. Your life at the moment may seem like a collection of rough notes and impressions. Perhaps I can enable you to turn them into a narrative that will make sense to you. 'That may help you to take responsibility for your life, even, perhaps, to gain an increased control over it.

'That's something at any rate, and it's the least we can hope for. There are other possibilities as well. Let me give you one speculative example. I'm intrigued by the way you talk about your sister-in-law having been buried there, at the heart of the landscape of your childhood. That's a telling image. Some of us may have bodies in our minds, hidden, waiting to be discovered.'

'What do you mean?'

'Don't worry about it, it's just a thought, an image.'

'What about the practicalities? What do we actually do?'

'Good. Now it gets straightforward. I want to see you twice a week for an hour which actually lasts fifty minutes. My fee is thirty-eight pounds a session, payable in advance at the beginning of each week. As I have said, it would be entirely understandable for you not to go into therapy at all. I can a.s.sure you almost a hundred per cent that without any therapy or treatment at all, you will be feeling substantially better in a year or so. The pain of your sister-in-law's reappearance will have receded and you will be used to your new life. If you do decide to go ahead, and I hope you do, then you have to make a commitment. By that I mean that the sessions are sacred, not to be missed because of work, illness, s.e.xual opportunity, disenchantment, tiredness or anything. If you break your leg, come here on your way to A and E. Naturally, you are perfectly free to stop the therapy at any time, but I think you ought to make a private commitment to stick it out for something like four or five months at the very least. And also a mental promise that you'll give it a chance. I mean emotionally and intellectually. I know you're smart and that you've probably read Freud more recently than I have. If you come in here and start wanting to discuss transference, which I don't believe in anyway, then we'll both be wasting our time and you'll be wasting your money. There. Have I said everything?'

'Will it be like this?' I asked. 'Sitting in your kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting?'

'No. As you say, this is just a chat and we're deciding on the rules. When we begin we've got to, as it were, run out on the pitch and start to play. In my view, if this is going to work properly it has to be ritualised, it has to be something outside your normal social life. So, if you want to go ahead, then the next time you come it will be different. It will be in the room that is used for therapy.' He used the word 'therapy' as if it were an unwieldy term that had been foisted on him. 'It won't be a social occasion. We won't be drinking coffee, we won't really be chatting. You'll lie on a couch, not because that is a psychoa.n.a.lytic prop, but exactly because it shouldn't feel the way we are today, comfortable, getting on, looking face to face. Now, I'd like you to think about what you want to do, and then phone me.'

'I know what I want to do. I want to go ahead. If I'm not happy with what's going on, then I a.s.sure you I'll stop.'

Alex smiled and held out his hand.

'I suppose that's as much of a commitment as I'm going to get from you. All right, it's a deal.'

Seven.

From signing divorce papers in triplicate at my solicitor's and rejecting the idea of marriage counselling, I cycled on a cold clear day north through London to the site of my hostel, the very thought of which already caused me a pang. The original idea had been for an entirely new building which would house fifteen Section 117s, that is, mentally ill patients discharged from hospital but still requiring some sort of supervision, if only to make sure they took their medication. I'd provided an elegant, functional and cheap design which, to my not very great surprise, had been rejected out of hand. If my career continued like this, I'd soon have designed as many unbuilt buildings as Piranesi, or Hitler. Plan B was to convert a building that had been a squat and had spent the last two years without a roof.

When I arrived, two men and one woman in suits were already standing outside. My friend, Jenny, from Social Services, was looking hara.s.sed, as usual. She introduced me to Mr Whittaker from Health and Mr Brady from Housing.

'How much time have you got?' I asked.

'About minus ten minutes,' said Jenny.

'All right, you get the quick tour. Things would be made easier, by the way, if I didn't see new faces every time I had a meeting.'

I took them up to where the roof wasn't and we worked our way down, all the way from the putative trussed rafters to the redeemed bas.e.m.e.nt, sketching out the primary reconstruction, the basic repairs, the fire escape on the rear elevation and the deft adaptations I had made to the common s.p.a.ces and pa.s.sageways to give the house what amounted to an extra floor.

'There we are,' I said, as we stood on the front step, 'not only a work of genius and practicality but a work of genius and practicality that will virtually pay for itself.'

Mr Brady smiled uneasily. 'You may have a point there, and I only wish the auditors' calculations took your argument into consideration.'

'Don't worry, Mr Brady,' I said, 'we'll all be rewarded on Judgement Day.'

Mr Brady and Mr Whittaker exchanged glances. There's something disconcerting when planning officers start looking younger and better dressed than you do.

'Jane, it's an ingenious design. We're very pleased. There is is one problem, which is that we're facing a fifteen per cent cut across the board, which we're having to enforce uniformly on all our projects, so we hope that you'll be able to incorporate that. Apart from that it's absolutely satisfactory.' one problem, which is that we're facing a fifteen per cent cut across the board, which we're having to enforce uniformly on all our projects, so we hope that you'll be able to incorporate that. Apart from that it's absolutely satisfactory.'

'What do you mean, ”apart from that”? You've got a bargain bas.e.m.e.nt scheme already. You accepted our tender.'

'Subject to, you know... et cetera et cetera.'

I took on my official tone. 'Mr Whittaker, you will surely confirm that this hostel will be a net saver of money once you stop fifteen people at a time going into bed-and-breakfasts or staying in long-term beds.'

'You know as well as I do, Jane, that that is theoretically true but irrelevant in our accounting terms.'

'Shall I just leave the roof off for the next fiscal year? After all, spring isn't all that far away. On the other hand, why bother with a house at all? Perhaps I could arrange for a skip to be delivered to the road outside. If there's any money left over, you could paint your new council logo on the side and the crazy people could stay in that. You could send their medication by mail. What do you you say about this, Jenny?' say about this, Jenny?'

Jenny looked fraught. I realised I was behaving like one of her clients.

'Jane, this isn't helpful,' said Mr Brady. 'There's no point in trying to score points against us. We're all on the same side. The simple, hard fact is that the choice is not between producing a compromised version of your plan and your original. It's between the compromise and nothing, and even that may be a struggle. You should see what's happening in other departments. Tressell Primary School up the road may only be opening four days a week next term.'

'All right, I'll make the cuts and I'll also make sure that if I have a schizophrenic collapse while doing it, I'm safely out of the borough. So, when shall we four, or duly appointed representatives of we four, meet again?'

'I'll call your secretary, Jane,' said Mr Brady. 'Thank you for being so relatively reasonable.'

I got back on my bike and cycled as fast as I could until I felt the muscles in my thighs burning, mentally shedding little details and finesses of my hostel plan as I went.