Fandango in the Apse! (13 page)

‘I’ll get her home… then see to Jester as soon as I’ve sorted her out, OK?’

The doctor prescribed anti-depressants and left instructions to attend
the surgery.  After listening to Eddie, he decided I had issues that would
benefit from counselling, apparently.  I thought differently, the last thing I
needed was to prattle on to a shrink.

I must say though, the pills were a revelation.  As they kicked in, I was
delighted to notice a feeling of renewed energy.  I felt more alive than I had
in months whilst also gaining the ability to think only the shallowest of
thoughts – wonderful!  OK, OK, I know I was living in a state of chemically
induced euphoria, but so what?  I didn’t give a damn so long as I could face
each day without wanting to commit hara-kiri. 

By now, my fuzzy, wrapped-in-cotton-wool brain made me feel invincible. 
Propped up by the chemical scaffolding, it decided I was ready to visit my
mother’s grave.  Yep! You heard right; three months of living in pretend
utopia, and I was doing what fifteen years of sanity couldn’t.  I had this idea
that if I went there, I could prove to myself that I was the better person.  I
read somewhere that, “to forgive was to set one free”, and I wanted some of
that. 

So with that thought in mind I went to a garden centre, bought a rose
bush and set off to plant it.  It wasn’t hard to find her grave: I assumed she
was buried in Saint Bartholomew’s churchyard and I was right.   The new granite
stone (rather fitting, I thought) stood out amongst the older relics in the
graveyard. 

Margaret Geraldine Hessey

Born 17
^th
April 1929 – Died
9
^th
October 1999

RIP

           
Succinct and to the point, cold, bare facts, nothing
more.   That was about right.  Trowel in hand I planted the rose bush.  I
couldn’t actually speak to my mother, but I felt the rose bush communicated my
thoughts, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what they were myself. 

You can understand why I took it as a personal affront then, when I went
back a fortnight later to find a shrivelled shadow of the lush plant.  I went
back the next day and planted another.  Two weeks later, it was the same.  I
couldn’t understand it; there were plenty of other graves sporting thriving
vegetation.  One even had a hydrangea in full bloom.  After my third failed
attempt, I gave up.

            ‘It’ll be her,’ I said to Eddie that evening.  ‘She knows
it’s me planting them, so she’s killing them off out of spite.’ 

He looked at me open-mouthed then shook his head in disbelief.  It was
perfectly obvious he thought I still wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

            ‘Don’t look at me like that!’

            ‘Katie, I hate to point out the obvious, but your mother is
dead, how could she be killing rose bushes?’

            ‘I don’t know
.
 
All I know is there are plenty of graves with plants growing quite
happily on them…’

            ‘Have you thought the ground may not be suitable for roses,
maybe they need a certain type of soil?’ 

Oh! I hadn’t thought of that, the only thing I knew about growing roses
was that my mother used to dump horse shit on them every spring.  A few days
later, still unwilling to relinquish my theory that it was my mother’s
nastiness permeating the soil and killing the roses, I went once more to the
graveyard and looked for rose bushes.  There were plenty.  Feeling vindicated,
I mentioned it to Eddie.

            He was holding onto his temper by a thread.  ‘Don’t you think
you’re a bit obsessed by this? The fucking roses won’t grow!  Accept it and
move on.’

A few months later, I was still enjoying the benefits of my mind candy,
although now to a lesser degree.  The doctor, in his wisdom, had reduced the
dosage when I’d gone for a repeat prescription.  He was still trying to get me
to go for counselling; I was still refusing.

            ‘The anti-depressants can only help so much, Mrs Roberts. 
You need to deal with the root cause of your problems,’ he said, with great
patience. 

`           I gave my stock answer: ‘I’ll think about it.’

However, after a conversation with Eddie I did more than think about it –
I went.  It all started one evening after the boys were in bed.  Eddie was
having a rare night in (amazing, eh?), and we were in the conservatory enjoying
a bottle of wine.  I was feeling relaxed and for once, enjoying his company. 

‘Have you thought any more about counselling?’ he said, out of the blue. 
My mellow mood vanished.

‘Don’t
you
start; I have enough of it from Doctor Webb every time
I go.’

‘Well, have you actually thought about taking his advice?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘What’s this, Twenty Questions?  I don’t want counselling… that’s why!’

‘I think you should go,’ he persisted.

‘Oh, do you?  Well thank you for sharing your opinion; can we change the
subject now?’

‘No, I think – ‘

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eddie, if you’re so concerned about it, you go for
bloody counselling.’ I was pissed off now.  Why did he have to spoil a
perfectly good evening?

‘Because I’m not the one who needs it.’

‘Neither am I.’

Eddie did his open-mouthed gape again. ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’ he
snorted.  It was a mixture of astonishment and sarcasm.  ‘Have you looked at
yourself lately? You’re a mess, your head’s all over the place, you snap at
everyone…’

‘That’s because my dosage has been reduced, I’ll be fine once I get used
to it and I’m not a mess, I’ve just had my hair cut and I’ve started wearing
make-up again.’

‘Oh, well, that’s fine then…’

‘What?’

            ‘The outside is fine but the head’s buggered – nice one,
Katie.’

            ‘You bastard!  How dare you?’

Eddie sighed and put his glass on the table as he stood up. ‘I give up,
Katie, do as you like.  Take your drugs and live in your own little world, but
just remember you have kids in this one.  Don’t you think they deserve better? 
I’m off to bed.’

That, I have to tell you, was as good as a slap in the face.  He couldn’t
have said anything better to make me sit up and think.  He was right of course,
which made it even more galling.  I’d been so wrapped up in popping pills to
keep myself on an even keel that I’d not given a thought to how all this was
affecting the boys.  Christ, I was a selfish bitch.  Out of a sense of duty but
very much against my will, I made an appointment with the shrink. 

And, Jesus, what an experience that was!  One meeting with her and I was
sure the lunatic’s were running the asylum.  Maybe I’m being a tad unfair here,
but you can read on and draw your own conclusions.

Patti Fitzroy was a lovely woman, a bit eccentric but totally dedicated. 
She had short grey hair, bluntly chopped under her ears and a scraped-back fringe
held in place with a daisy-shaped slide, which had a small butterfly suspended
on a thin wire above it.  Every time she moved her head, the butterfly’s wings
danced as if it was about to take off, it was incredibly distracting.  The
first time I went, she greeted me at the door, her bright rosy-cheeked face
alight with interest.  Her office was laid out like a comfy sitting room with
two easy chairs and a coffee table.

            ‘Come in, come in, my dear, make yourself comfortable,’ she
said, gesturing towards one of the chairs. 

Then, having plonked herself in the other, she placed a box of tissues on
the coffee table for no apparent reason.   I was mildly disappointed that I
wouldn’t be lying on a couch. 

            ‘Now then, we’re fine… yes, we’re fine,’ she said to herself
as she lifted a pair of glasses suspended from a chain around her neck. 

Picking up the hem of her purple, corduroy skirt, she breathed on the
lenses and polished away while reading her notes on the arm of the chair.  She
obviously hadn’t given any thought to her clothes that morning.  She had teamed
the skirt with a bright orange, long-sleeved shirt, complete with blue
embroidery.   On top of that, she had an acid-green waistcoat, with sewn-on
beads and tiny mirrors that screamed at my eyeballs.  Possibly the outright
winner though, was an ancient pair of sandals displaying her yellowing,
overlong toenails…yuck!  I was expecting a suitably attired professional type
and wasn’t sure what to make of the multi-coloured vision in front of me.

            When her glasses had been meticulously polished, inspected
and were once again dangling in front of her, she had finally turned her
attention to me.  What?  No way – I’d wanted to tell her to put the damned
glasses on; I felt cheated.  She had made such a song and dance out of cleaning
them, the least she could do was to put them on her face.  Jesus!  She was an
irritating woman and I’d only been there five minutes.

            ‘Now, dear…’

Don’t you just hate being called dear?

‘Before we start, I have a little quiz for you.  Nothing to worry about,
the answers are all there, you just need to pick one in each category.’ 

She handed me a sheet of paper and a pen with a flourish. What the hell?
A quiz?  What was going on?  I came expecting a darkened room with a big
leather couch and she was giving me a quiz?  I scanned the paper.  Question
one.  How would you rate your present state of mind?  A. Depressed. B. Slightly
depressed.  C. Deeply depressed.  Question ten.  Have you ever had suicidal
thoughts?  A. Never.  B. Sometimes.  C. Frequently.

‘It’s just so I can assess your progress when we come to the end of our
sessions,’ she added cheerfully.  I’d had enough already.

‘Look, Mrs Fitzroy, I…’

‘Oh, call me Patti, dear, there’s no need for formalities here.’

‘Look, Patti, I’ve only come here because my husband insisted, if I’d
wanted to do a damned quiz I’d have applied to Mastermind…OK?’

She was still smiling, although the sparkle had dulled a tad when she
spoke.  ‘I see, well let’s leave that for another time, shall we?’ 

Yes, let’s, I thought.

At some point during my sessions, I grew to like Patti.  She was as nutty
as a fruitcake, but immensely entertaining.  Her bizarre wardrobe looked like
the inside of a charity shop and judging by the outfits she wore, that’s
probably where she got them.  I couldn’t pinpoint her age, but I estimated she
was probably a product of the swinging sixties, who had never grown out of the
hippy stage. 

I began to look forward to seeing whatever contraption she had on her
head – her array seemed limitless.  Diamanté beetle clasps, bands with plastic
forget-me-nots, and a strange collection of clips similar to the butterfly,
with dragonflies, ladybirds and the like.  She was a nice woman who accepted
everything I said on face value, which made the whole experience easier.  I
would say something like “my mother and I didn’t get on”, and she would make a
soothing remark hoping it would solve the problem. 

I realised early on she had no concept of evil, a remarkable feat if you
consider her profession.  To her, life had a rosy glow.  Yes, she admitted,
there were times when it became tarnished, but nothing a little love and
understanding couldn’t put right.  Yeah, right!  I made a mental note during my
second session – after I’d tried to explain the complexity of my relationship
with my mother, and was greeted by a “Well, you know, dear, we can often
mistake well-meaning parental discipline for cruelty, when we’re children”  –
that I would tell this woman what she wanted to hear, and no more.  I was fast
realising reality wasn’t her thing. Can you see a pattern here?  I don’t want
to harp on about being jinxed, but I can’t help thinking if it had been anyone
else, they would have landed themselves an on-the-ball psychiatrist, who
actually managed to do them some good.  Me?  I end up with a cross between a
grey-haired politician and a clown’s stooge.  Or is that being
too
paranoid?

Seven months down the line, when I said my last good bye to Patti, I was
aware that if you discounted the entertainment value, the whole thing had been
pointless.   Actually, I’m not being fair again; she was possibly very good at
her job, it’s just she was dealing with someone who did not intend to let her
do it.  I wasn’t being deliberately awkward; I just hadn’t wanted to bare my
soul to a woman who wore corduroy and lived in Fairyland. 

She did say one thing that resonated in my un-purged soul, though.  She
told me it was fine not to like my mother.  Wow!  The concept was so alien; it
took me a while to grasp it.  I didn’t have to feel guilty because I disliked
my mother.  Freedom beckoned. 

Well, not quite.  Although none of my “issues” had been resolved by
counselling, Eddie appeared sufficiently satisfied with my mental stability to
drop an atomic bomb right in the middle of our marriage. 

I must stop for a second because I’ve just had a thought; I keep going on
about my “mental” state and it just occurred to me that I might be giving you
the wrong impression.  I don’t want you thinking I was a basket case or
anything. 

It is fair to say I had a bit of a “do” after my mother’s death, but I
defy anyone to take that in their stride.  No, I was fine, I had managed to
neatly compartmentalise my “issues” and find my own way of dealing with them. 
I really think this business of getting everything out in the open is just so
much bullshit.  The Americans started it – therapy this, counselling that.  Why
we have to rake over and analyse everything, mystifies me.  Anyway, back to
Eddie and his bombshell.

The boys were
going on their annual holiday to Scotland with their grandparents, and I’d just
returned from dropping them off when Eddie greeted me from the kitchen.

‘You’re early,’ I remarked, trying to remember the last time he had
managed to get home before eight on a Friday.