The House on the Cliff (4 page)

I gestured toward the empty chair opposite me. “Do take a seat.”

He walked over to the chair and sat down. As he did, I couldn’t help but see the curve of his chest underneath the jacket, outlined by the T-shirt. I looked away.

“Thank you.” He settled himself in the chair. There was a pause, and then he said, “I’m not sure where to start.”

“Wherever you like.” I tried to keep my tone neutral.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he looked at me searchingly, trying to meet my gaze. I looked back as steadily as I could.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Wherever I like . . .” He knitted his brow. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten me. “Let’s see . . .”

There was a silence.

“Well, I’ll begin with something that’s been bothering me. Something apart from the buttons. It’s a dream I’ve been having—sometimes as often as twice a week.”

This was turning out to be a good day for dreams, I thought. And at least this one had been brought up at the beginning of the session, not the end.

“More of a nightmare, really,” he went on. “I don’t know what it relates to, but it scares me.” He stopped speaking, and started to chew his lip.

“Well.” I began to relax. Gwydion seemed to be the kind of client who could get straight to the point, instead of having to be coaxed to focus on the real issues at hand. And now that we were getting down to work, my silly fantasies about him seemed to have receded. “Maybe you could start by telling me what happens in the dream.”

“Yes, of course.” He sat back in his chair, half closing his eyes and lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’m a child. I don’t know how old.” He paused. “But I’m small. And the place I’m in is dark. Pitch-black.”

His eyes were completely closed now, and there was an expression of deep concentration on his face. I was surprised at how quickly he’d responded to my suggestion, but I put it down to his training as an actor.

“I’m locked in a box. Someone has shut me in here. I can’t see, and I can’t breathe. I’m running out of air . . .”

Although he was deeply serious, and I didn’t doubt his sincerity, there was also something a little theatrical in his manner. I couldn’t help thinking that he’d begun to sound like someone from a book you’d find in the “Painful Lives” section of Waterstones—
Daddy, Don’t Do That Again
, perhaps. But then I glanced down and saw him scratching at the fabric on his sleeve, picking at it, twisting it in an ungainly fashion, just as Jean had done earlier, and I sensed that this was no performance.

“I want to shout for help,” he went on, “but I know I mustn’t. I have to be quiet. So I begin to count to myself in the dark. One, two, three, four . . .”

Gwydion came to a stop. He opened his eyes and looked at me. Then he closed them again.

“Five, six, seven . . . I keep counting, until I reach ten.” He breathed in sharply. He opened his eyes again. “And that’s when I wake up.”

He passed a hand over his face, resting his palm for a moment over his eyes. Once again it was a slightly melodramatic gesture, but I thought I saw something genuine in it, something that I’d seen before with troubled clients. It’s a particular kind of body language that speaks of exhaustion and defeat, of witnessing unresolved conflict on a daily basis. Conflict that you can’t control, that makes your life a misery. It’s the opposite of trying to create drama out of nothing. It’s a kind of resigned stoicism. When you see it in young children it can be heartbreaking.

Gwydion was looking at me expectantly. Having told me his dream, he evidently thought I was about to give him chapter and verse on the meaning of it, like some kind of shaman. I suppose he wasn’t far wrong. We psychotherapists are shamans of a sort. After all, Freud’s first major work was a book on the interpretation of dreams. And if that’s not shamanic, I don’t know what is.

“Well, what do
you
make of it, Gwydion?”

Gwydion looked irritated. “You’re supposed to tell me, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

“Well, of course you are.”

I sympathized with his irritation. All this “reflecting back” can get on your nerves. Parroting people’s questions back to them. Repeating their confused, and confusing, statements. But unfortunately it’s part and parcel of the way I work. Because I believe my clients know a lot more about themselves than I ever will. So it’s not my job to tell them what’s lurking in their unconscious. I simply try to make it possible for them to tell me what they know about themselves. And some things that they don’t know they know, because they’ve never tried to explain them to anyone.

“I’d like to hear your own thoughts first.” I paused. “You say it’s a dream you’ve ‘been having.’ ”

“Yes. A recurring dream. It gets worse when I’m tense.”

I thought for a moment. “You say that, in the dream, you want to shout for help, but you feel you mustn’t. Why’s that, do you think?”

“Well, that’s probably to do with my father. I grew up frightened of him. He was a drunk with a filthy temper.” He frowned. “Everyone knew, of course, but nobody cared. He got away with it, because of his reputation.”

“Reputation?”

“My father is Evan Morgan. The theater director. You must have heard of him.”

I nodded. The name was familiar, but not being much of a theatergoer, I didn’t know much about him.

“Evan’s a great man. Supposedly. But as a father he’s always been a complete bastard.” Gwydion spoke without anger. Or a kind of anger that was so old that it had lost its fire. “He’s never taken the slightest interest in me. Or my mother. He’s always been too busy working. And screwing his secretaries. Personal assistants, he calls them now. The latest one’s younger than me.”

I nodded. There was nothing to say in response to this piece of information. A “how awful” or an “oh dear” might have been appropriate in a social context, but this was a therapeutic encounter, as it’s called in the trade, and such lightweight commiserations were out of place.

Gwydion sighed. “But I didn’t come here to talk about him. Everything always comes back to him. This is about me.”

I nodded again.

“The thing is,” he went on, “I really want to get to the end of this dream. I keep thinking, if only I didn’t wake up before the end, I could find out what happened. And then maybe I could get myself sorted.”

“And what would that mean to you? Getting yourself sorted?”

“Well, being able to get a decent night’s sleep, for a start. Being able to concentrate properly in the daytime so I can learn my lines. Not having to worry about whether I’ll be able to handle this button business when it comes to dress rehearsal.” He shrugged. “I’m sick of it. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

I nodded. There was a silence, and then I said, “There’s probably a reason why you do wake up before the end of your dream.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well, maybe part of you doesn’t want to know what happened.”

He frowned. “What, you mean because it might be too . . . upsetting?”

“Yes. And until that part changes, you won’t find out.” I hesitated. “Because it won’t let you.”

He didn’t respond. Instead he looked down at the floor, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked at me.

“You talk like a psychotherapist,” he said. “But you don’t look like one.”

This was a familiar tactic, changing the subject. But I didn’t protest.

“Really?” I smiled, but I began to feel self-conscious again. “And what does a psychotherapist look like?”

“Sort of mumsy, I suppose. Sensible.” He stopped for a moment. I began to wonder whether he was engaging in some kind of flirtation with me. “Although that dress you’re wearing is a bit . . .”

I was wearing a dove-gray woolen dress with a sweetheart neckline and pearl buttons down the front. I’d chosen it because I thought he might find the buttons a little less threatening than some. They didn’t really look like buttons at all, more like . . . well, pearls.

“. . . a bit . . .”

I didn’t take up his cue. Instead, I let him grind to a halt, and then I said, “Are you OK with these kind of buttons?”

“Yes, fine. Thanks.” He paused. He seemed mildly discomfited by my question. “You know, I never asked you what your qualifications for this job were.”

“Oh. Well, as a matter of fact, I trained as an existential psychotherapist.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“It’s just a school of therapy. It emphasizes freedom. And choice. Rather than the idea that your life is determined for you by the circumstances of your birth.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I agree with that.” He paused. “Where did you train?”

“In London. At—”

He waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t mean anything to me.” Another pause. “And how long have you been doing this—what was it . . . ? Existential . . .”

“Twenty years. More or less.”

“I see.”

He looked down at his lap, frowning. For a while, we sat there in silence together. And then, when the silence began to get too loud, he spoke.

“Sorry if I seemed rude. About your dress.”

“That’s OK. You weren’t.”

“And nosy. About your qualifications.”

“Not at all. You’re right to ask. After all, you’re entrusting yourself to me. I’m your therapist.”

He nodded. There was a short silence and then he said, “You know that part of me you were talking about? The part that doesn’t want to know what happened in my childhood?”

I nodded.

“I’m going to have to change that, aren’t I? If I want to find out.”

“Probably.”

“And you think you can help me to do that?”

“I hope so. It depends on you, really. And whether, deep down, you actually want to change.”

“I do.”

He looked up at me and, for the first time, he smiled. It was a sweet, sincere smile, like a little boy’s. I thought of the child in the box, blocking his ears and counting to ten. I smiled back at him, and then I looked away, up at the relief on the wall behind his head. I was inwardly congratulating myself on handling the situation so calmly, despite the fact that his remarks about my appearance had made me more uncomfortable than was usual with a new client. But, to my consternation, I noticed that the circle was still pulsating gently among the squares.

I was standing at the cooker, grilling mackerel fillets for supper. Normally I enjoy cooking for my family in the evening; after a long day of intense encounters with emotional clients, I find it soothing to absorb myself in the simple rhythms of peeling, chopping, heating, stirring, and tasting. And now that the girls are getting older—Nella just sixteen, Rose coming up to ten—I’m beginning to be a little more adventurous in my choice of dishes. Rose is still a fussy eater, of course, but I’m aware that unless I vary what I put in front of her, she’ll never change.

When Bob was at home, the four of us usually ate supper together round the table, unless there was something special on TV. It’s the way I was brought up. My mother always cooked a family meal in the evening, and I’d fallen into the same pattern. Bob did most of the shopping on the weekends, from a list that I give him to take out. He followed it religiously, if a little unimaginatively, often phoning me from the supermarket to find out exactly what it was I wanted. He’d always understood, from the start, that my career was as demanding as his and, on a day-to-day basis, much more emotionally draining. Over the years, he’d supported me every step of the way, especially when the children were young and I was struggling to set up my practice. He was good like that. Thoughtful. Considerate. Or had been, before he started to go away on business so much, and this fling, moment of madness—whatever you like to call it—happened. In some ways, the fact that he’d always been so devoted in the past made his confession come as more of a shock—I couldn’t piece it together, make sense of it, try as I might.

“Could you clear away now, Bob?” I tried to keep the tension out of my voice. “We’re going to be eating soon.”

“What was that?” He glanced up.

I bent to turn one of the fish, and as I did, a drop of hot oil spat out at me, narrowly missing my eye.

“Can you give me a hand here.” I wasn’t shouting, but I’d raised my voice. “Supper’s almost ready.”

“OK, sorry.” He picked up the laptop and moved it to the sideboard, laying it down next to a bowl of fruit. I noticed that he didn’t close it. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. Lay the table or something.” The fish began to smoke. “Just help.”

Bob walked over to the kitchen window and opened it a fraction to let out the smoke. Then he got some knives, forks, and glasses out of the dishwasher and began to lay the table. When he’d finished he came over and stood beside me.

“Plates?”

“Here.” I picked up the plates, which were warming above the stove, and pushed them at him.

He took them and stood beside me for a moment.

“Look, I’m sorry about bringing all this work home. I’ve got a ton of stuff to get through. It’s never-ending.”

I don’t like people hovering next to me when I’m cooking, so I waved him away.

“All this bloody red tape,” he went on, standing back. “Committees. Focus groups. Panels. I really don’t think I can stand it any more.”

“Well, leave then.” I bent to turn another fish. The oil sputtered up, but this time I leaned away to avoid it. “Go back out on your own.”

“I don’t see how I can. I’m at the top of my tree, there’s nowhere else to go.” He paused. “And the salary . . .”

“Oh, stuff the salary.” I was impatient. “We could manage. We always did before.”

Bob stood holding the plates for a moment, a hurt look on his face, and then went off to lay the table.

We often had this conversation, but normally I was more sympathetic. It always ran the same way. He’d complain about his job, and I’d remind him that, only a few years ago, he’d been an independent political lawyer who loved his work; that since he’d taken the job at the Assembly, ostensibly a big promotion, he’d been miserable, bogged down in the bureaucracy. We’d talk about the fact that if he decided to quit the job, he could take on some big political cases again, maybe do some consultancy work. Recently I’d felt we were getting somewhere, that he was beginning to make up his mind. But since his fling with the translator, I’d lost interest in his dilemma.