It was still early in the morning, but the day was definitely with us. I pulled my dressing gown tighter and headed inside, flicking a fleck of red paint from under one of my fingernails. A fairly pointless exercise as both hands looked entirely red.
Inside the house, Neil was sifting through the dishwasher. He was looking for a bowl. I got a couple of spoons from the cutlery drawer and told him to grab a bowl for me too. We hadn’t sat down to breakfast together for as long as I could remember. Years probably. Either he was going to work, or I was getting the kids ready, or one of us was running late and had to skip breakfast altogether.
We sat at the table, opposite each other. Both with our crunchy cereal and cold milk. Both with our red and still bleeding hands. He looked like he needed a makeover. A shave and shower at least. And perhaps an extra couple of weeks of sleep. I guessed I probably looked as bad. Maybe even worse.
‘Whatever is going on here,’ I said. ‘We’ll get through it. We always do.’
He looked weary. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know we will.’
I was pleased he wasn’t wired up to a polygraph. There was no way he would have passed on that statement.
‘I’m serious, Neil. I’ve been fucked up for the last few weeks. I know that. But this has been the last straw. I’m not going to take any crap anymore,’ I realised I had raised my spoon like a baton. Or a knife. ‘I am going to fight this to the end. If my mind is going shit on me, I’m going to find a way of getting it back again. I am not going to let this…’ I hesitated, hunting for the right word. I’m not sure that I found it, ‘…this madness ruin my life. I’m too strong for that. We’re too strong for that.’ My face felt hot and flushed.
Neil reached over and lowered my hand. The one holding the spoon. He smiled.
‘Concrete,’ he said. ‘You can’t break through concrete.’
‘Damned right,’ I said. ‘I’m going to find a counsellor.’ I surprised even myself. ‘The doctor suggested it might help. He said that soldiers, sometimes, and people, that have suffered from post-traumatic stress, often find it helpful to see a counsellor,’ I said.
Neil raised both eyebrows. For him that signified major surprise (or acknowledgement; or understanding; or being impressed. A multi-functional movement).
‘I’ll ring the doctor and ask him who I should go to.’
Neil nodded. Multi-functional eyebrows still raised (impressed I think).
‘I’m doing this, Neil. This is where it all ends.’
After I got the kids off to school and Neil had sloped out of the door to work, I rang the health centre where Doctor Jones practised. At first I got an automated system, then an unhelpful receptionist who sounded even more pissed off with life than me.
In the end, I practically demanded to be put through to Doctor Jones. It worked.
‘Mrs Marsden?’ he said, ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything is fine’ I said. ‘When I came to see you you mentioned a counsellor to me. You said it might be worth me going to see someone?’
‘Mr Connell,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to contact him for you, talk him through what has happened?’
‘Or perhaps you could just let me have his contact details,’ I said. ‘I’d be happy to contact him myself. Is he local?’
He was. Less than five miles away from Saltford in a place called Newton St Loe. I knew it well. Several of the children at school lived there. A lovely place. A little beyond our price range for houses though. Amazing what five miles will do to a house price.
After I’d showered and got cleaned up from the spray paint I dialled his number.
He answered his phone immediately and listened quietly as I explained what had happened, and that Doctor Jones had recommended him. He suggested that I come over for an initial meeting.
‘I won’t charge you for it,’ he said. ‘We need to make sure we get along with each other first.’
His accent was Irish. Soft and gentle. I wasn’t sure if that meant he was from Northern Ireland or Southern. I opted for the South. Maybe I would ask him when we met.
‘I have a free morning this morning,’ he said. ‘Would that suit you?’
Butterflies started up gymnastics in my stomach. Was I really going to see a total stranger and tell him what was going on inside my head?
‘I can be there in half an hour,’ I said.
As I drove to Newton St Loe the skies grew darker. And heavier. One or two raindrops splashed the windscreen, but nothing more. It was as though the clouds were holding onto it, almost to bursting.
I found his house easily. I had driven past it hundreds of times on the way to and from school. It wasn’t quite chocolate-box perfect — but it was close. I parked up against the hedge bordering the garden and climbed out of the car. The butterflies I’d forgotten I’d had, kicked in again to remind me where I was and what I was doing. I took a shallow breath (I’d tried for a deep one), pushed open the waist-level metal gate and looked up at the house.
A beautiful grey-slate roof sloped down to a Victorian looking conservatory. The front garden wasn’t large, but seemed well kept. Foliage and grasses were everywhere. A busy garden with unusual looking statues and shapes. A wheelbarrow had blown over in the wind and lay on its side in the grass. Leaves swirled around on the ground as the wind picked them up. Although I saw only a few birds, the song coming from the garden was almost deafening.
An old, wooden garage stood by the side of the house with its rickety looking double doors open. Inside I could see the shape of an old car. The large upside-down double “V” on the front grille told me it was a Citroen. It looked like it was from the war although I couldn’t be sure.
I hoped to God that Mr Connell wasn’t some flash twat with flamboyant shirts and lots of jewellery. The last thing I needed was a wannabe hypnotist messing with my mind.
Above the front door a wooden sign read “Elm Gables”. With every step I took closer to the house I fought the urge to turn around and walk back to my car and drive home. Complete stranger looking inside my mind.
The front door opened while I was still a few feet from it.