The House on the Cliff (9 page)

“It’s all right, Gwydion.” My voice sounded curiously disembodied. I’ve noticed that happens sometimes in my sessions, at moments of crisis. Everything seems to slow down, and sound, even the sound of my own voice, comes to me as though from far away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Or rather gasped, as he pulled a tissue out of the box, still hiding his face from me. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. As he did, his body was still trembling with aftershocks, or aftersobs, or whatever they’re called, those great quivering breaths that children give once they’ve stopped howling, but haven’t quite finished the job.

Finally, he took his hand away from his face and looked at me.

“I’m sorry, Jessica, but I really can’t go on with this.” He was trying to steady his voice, but there was still a quiver in it.

I said nothing. I doubted that he meant it. When clients say they can’t go on, it usually means we’re getting somewhere, and that, on the contrary, they’re about to spill the beans at last. All I have to do is sit tight and listen, maybe push the tissues over from time to time, as when it gushes out, it’s generally a pretty messy business. But not this time. To my surprise, Gwydion didn’t continue. Instead he got up to leave.

“Gwydion, come on,” I said. “You don’t have to rush off like this. Just stay for a moment. In silence, if you like. You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I’m sorry. I think I’d better be off.” There was still a tremble in his voice, but I could see that his mind was made up.

He walked over to the door.

I watched him go. For the second time that day I felt as though I’d been slapped in the face. I hadn’t expected this, hadn’t seen it coming. I tried to think of something to say, something to keep him there, but nothing came to me.

He opened the door. I thought for a moment he was about to go out without so much as a good-bye, but he turned and said, “I’m sorry about this. It’s not your fault. You’re a decent person. Trying to do your job. That’s why . . .”

There was a silence as his sentence trailed off in midair.

“Why? Why what, Gwydion?”

He glanced away from me and, just for a second, I saw that there was regret, real regret, written all over his face. He had the air of a little boy who had done something wrong and had been caught out. I had no idea why. Gwydion had lost me. And now I was losing him.

I tried another tack.

“Gwydion,” I said. “Before you go, can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“Did you send me a photograph of your father in the post?” I hesitated, then decided not to elaborate.

He looked nonplussed. I wasn’t sure whether that was because he was feigning ignorance or because he had no idea what I was talking about. Either way, I wished I hadn’t brought up the subject.

We stayed there for a while, him hovering at the door, me sitting on the edge of my chair, both of us knowing that this moment was a turning point—and both of us seemingly unable to seize it, make sense of it, move forward with it.

Then he walked out of the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

When I got home, after my evening sessions, Bob was on his way out. Rose was upstairs in bed, asleep. I could hear music coming from Nella’s room, so I went up to talk to her.

Outside her door I stopped and listened. She was playing the Billie Holiday song she’d sung at the concert.

I knocked. As usual, she didn’t reply, so after a short pause I opened the door and walked in.

“Hello, love.”

Nella was at the computer. She didn’t turn her head.

I went over and sat on the bed. “How’s it going?”

She was deep into Facebook, a smile playing over her lips as she read a message from a friend.

“Listen, I need to talk to you a moment.”

She turned to look at me. I could see from her expression that she was miles away.

“It’s just that . . .” I hesitated. “I saw you going into the deli opposite my office today. With Emyr Griffiths.”

“So?”

“Well, I just wondered . . . you know . . . what you were doing there. At that time of day. Out of school . . .”

“I’m allowed out when I have a free period.”

“Really? Aren’t you supposed to be working, though?”

She turned back to the computer, offended that I was quizzing her. “I was working. The meeting was about my future career.”

“Oh?”

She looked up, a shy smile on her face. She was excited, although she was trying not to show it.

“Emyr’s going to put me up for
Jazz Quest
.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s this new TV show.” Her eyes seemed to widen as she spoke. “Like
X Factor
, but not lame.”

“That’s fantastic news, darling.” I did my best to sound enthusiastic. “Well done.”

Nella stopped hiding her smile and beamed happily at me.

“He thinks I’m star material. This producer he knows in London is a consultant for the program, he chooses who goes on. He says he’s really excited about me.”

“Has he heard you sing?”

“Not yet, no, but Emyr’s told him . . .”

“Nella,” I cut in. “I hope you’re not going to take this the wrong way.” I spoke as gently as I could. “But I’d be careful, if I were you. You’re sixteen now, you’re a very pretty girl, and . . . well . . .”

Nella began to scowl. “Oh, right. So what you’re saying is, they’re not interested in my singing, they just—” She broke off. “Thanks, Mum. That’s very supportive, I must say.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m sure they do admire your singing. You sing beautifully. But I’m just warning you . . .”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Nella was getting angry now. “You treat me like a child. I can look after myself, you know.”

“Of course you can. It’s just that there’ve been some rumors about Emyr.” I hesitated. “There was some kind of fuss at the school he used to teach at, some business with one of the girls, and he ended up getting the sack. I don’t think he did anything wrong, actually, but there was a suspicion he might have. That’s all I’m saying, Nella. I just want you to be aware of the situation.”

“Fine. Thanks for telling me.” She turned away, leaned forward to the speaker on her desk and turned up the music.

I got up, walked over to her and put my arm round her shoulder.

“Lovely song,” I said. I kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Is that the one you’re going to do for the show?”

Nella didn’t reply.

Instead she slipped her shoulder out from under my arm, signaling that our conversation was now over.

7

The following week Gwydion was back. I was pleased, but not altogether surprised. Clients quite often cut short a session, leaving in distress, only to reappear the following week as if nothing has happened. It’s all part of the transference, the acting out of ancient emotional dynamics and, on the whole, one just has to sit tight and prepare for a bumpy ride. But it can be unnerving for the therapist, wondering what’s going to happen next—particularly when a client seems to be on the brink of finding out what lies at the root of their problem. Or when the countertransference, as in this case, seems especially powerful.

The knock on my door came at the appointed hour. I ushered Gwydion in, showing him to his chair and sitting down opposite, in mine. He was wearing his jeans, as usual, and a thick navy-blue sweater. He looked a little tired, I thought. There were shadows under his eyes, and a faintly distracted air about him, but otherwise he seemed calm enough.

For a moment we sat together, saying nothing. I sensed that he was savoring the quiet calm of the room, as I so often did during the day. The tree outside the window cast its shifting shadows on the wall and, as the silence deepened, we could hear the faint rustle of its leaves.

“Winter’s coming,” he said. “You can feel it in the air.”

I nodded. There’s always a moment, at the beginning of a session, when I feel a sense of anticipation, excitement almost; as if the familiar map of that person’s life, and mine, too, has been lost, left behind somewhere, for the moment, so that the two of us can begin, in the peace of the consulting room, to redraw it, seeing and understanding it for the first time.

“I’m sorry I walked out on you last time,” he went on, looking down at the floor. “I just felt I’d had enough. But now . . . well, I realize I’m not going to resolve this on my own. I need your help.”

He glanced up at me. As he did so, his pupils seemed to widen and darken. I held his gaze, looking straight back at him. For once, I didn’t feel flustered. I simply acknowledged to myself that I couldn’t help responding to him as a normal woman does to an attractive man, that these subterranean currents of emotion pass through us all from time to time, however unwelcome or inappropriate they may be. And that, besides, there was something more important going on here: Gwydion was a sensitive, vulnerable human being in need of someone to help him, someone he could trust. I needed to show him I was that person.

“Let’s go back to the dream, shall we?” I said. “Have you dreamed any more of it?”

“No. I’m stuck. Every time I get to the jolt, I wake up.”

“You said last time that, before you felt the jolt, there was shouting going on. A man’s voice and a woman’s voice.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who the voices belong to?”

“I’m not sure.” He looked away. “I mean, the man’s voice could be my father’s, of course. It’s angry, like his used to be when I was a child.”

“And the woman’s?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I suppose it could be my parents arguing. They did, a lot, when I was a child. But I don’t really recognize the woman’s voice.”

“What about the sudden jolt? What could that be, do you think?”

“Again, I can’t really say. I mean, my father had a bloody awful temper, but I don’t remember him ever hitting my mother. Or me.”

I thought for a few moments. “You say you were in a box. In the dark. I wonder what that’s about.”

“Well, my parents didn’t lock me in a box, if that’s what you’re getting at. They weren’t cruel to me. The worst they did was ignore me.”

“They? You mean, your mother ignored you, too?”

He looked confused for a moment, as if he’d spoken out of turn. “No. No. She was always very good to me. We were—are—very close.”

“In what way?”

He seemed surprised by my question. “The usual way. She looks after me, worries about me. Like mothers do.”

He paused. I sensed that he didn’t want to discuss the matter further.

“No, it was Evan that was the problem,” he went on. “His whole life revolved around his work. He was away so much, we hardly ever saw him. And when he came home he was always surrounded by people. Actors, mostly. He never made any time for me.”

There was a silence, and then he added, “He really didn’t know me. He just wanted to show me off, as his son. I suppose he was proud of me, in his own way. He used to try to get me to entertain his friends, teach me little routines, set up puppet shows, that kind of thing. But he was always so impatient. He’d get angry when I couldn’t learn a line, or a dance step. He frightened me, undermined my confidence. I used to end up dreading the whole business.”

I thought for a moment. “And yet, as an adult, you went into acting.”

He gave a wry smile. “Strange, isn’t it? I suppose you could say he was my role model, in that respect. And perhaps I did inherit whatever talent I have from him.” He paused. “He still tries to teach me stuff, says I can use his contacts, but as regards my career, I don’t involve him at all. I don’t want his help. If I make it, I’m damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s had anything to do with it.”

He spoke with such bitterness that I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Evan. He’d obviously been a distracted father, wrapped up in his own world, but he seemed, in his naive way, to have loved his son.

“So, going back to the dream, and this couple arguing,” I said. “You say your parents’ relationship wasn’t violent. What was it like, then?”

“He treated her with utter contempt.” A harsh note came into his voice. “From as far back as I can remember, he had one affair after another.”

“How did you know that?”

“I just knew. Children sense these things, don’t they? Some woman who’s always coming round to the house, laughs a bit too loud, touches your father’s shoulder a little too often. Your mother looking hurt and humiliated. And then at night, hearing the arguments going on downstairs, while you lie there in bed, frightened and upset.” He paused. “She really suffered. Evan had no shame. He never hid his philandering. Each time he was unfaithful he’d come home and confess, swear that he’d never do it again. She forgave him every time. It was pathetic.” He lowered his voice. “I hated him for what he did to her. Still do.”

I began to feel less sorry for Evan. In fact, hearing how he’d treated his wife, repeatedly humiliated her in front of her son, made my gut clench in anger.

“The thing is, it’s still going on. He’s got this girl Rhiannon now. He’s quite open about it.” He waved a hand dismissively. “But to tell the truth, I’m past caring about it. There’s nothing I can do. My mother’s not going to leave him. They’re just going to go on as they are, as far as I can see, to the bitter end.”

We fell silent. Eventually I spoke.

“I think you do care about it, though, Gwydion.” My tone was tentative. “I think this conflict became part of you when you were growing up. That’s what happens to children when their parents fight. That’s what you’re still carrying now, inside.” I paused. “And maybe the jolt . . .”

“In the dream?”

I nodded. “It could be something that actually happened, of course. Or perhaps something that you wish would happen? So that the conflict can be resolved at last.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t look convinced.

There was a short silence, and then he began to talk about the upcoming rehearsals for the drama series. He’d have to miss the next session, he said, as he was wanted for meetings with the director, but he was keen to press on as quickly as possible after that: he needed to get the button phobia under control before dress rehearsals started, and he was still troubled by the dream, which woke him up at night, leaving him too tired to focus on his work properly during the day. I felt for him. He was in a rush to solve these pressing practical problems that threatened to ruin his career. It seemed irrelevant, at such a juncture, to be delving into old family conflicts that couldn’t be changed—he had a life to get on with.