Читать книгу Sherry Cracker Gets Normal - D. Connell J. - Страница 10

Saturday afternoon began in a damp way with light drizzle that eased off as I power-walked towards the centre of town. I reached the high street and was moving swiftly past Quality Pies and Confectionaries when a campaign poster caught my eye. I stopped and took a new notebook out of my bag.

The windows of Quality Pies and Confectionaries were boarded up and pasted over with layers of advertising and posters but in its heyday, the bakery was renowned for its ‘Pie of the Day’ specials and ‘fine English baked goods’. The shop had been a favourite of my mother’s who liked to buy herself a celebratory Victoria sponge every benefit day. This she ate from her armchair with a tea towel spread over her knee and a glass of port at her elbow.

The campaign poster was printed on matt, off-white paper with a small horizontal note along the lower right edge: ‘Made from 100% recycled paper.’ The photo was of a man in his forties dressed in a safari shirt done up at the neck. In his breast pocket was a pen and pencil. He was wearing wire-framed glasses and his hair was parted on the side in a three-to-seven ratio, which is considered the ideal hair parting among Japanese businessmen. But Warren Crumpet was not Japanese or a businessman. He was an organic farmer and member of the British Soil Association who was promising to clean up council corruption and put the town’s finances back in the black. One of his more progressive ideas was to turn unused council land into market gardens and grow organic vegetables for commercial sale. His ‘Go Organic’ initiative would employ and retrain local residents and generate income for municipal projects. The poster’s message was simple: ‘Warren Crumpet for Mayor – Because Honesty Is the Best Policy.’ The first thing he had vowed to do if elected was to halve the mayor’s salary.

Mr Crumpet’s political platform made complete sense to me but clearly he had at least one detractor. Someone had defaced the poster with a thick black marker, drawing crude women’s breasts over the pockets of his safari shirt. ‘Tofu eater’ had been scribbled around his head like a halo or crown of thorns. The destruction of campaign advertising was a crime but I had yet to find an undamaged poster of Warren Crumpet.

When I reached the address of Bijou Poulet Psy Dram, I had to remind myself to remain positive. Her office was located in a dilapidated building above a fish and chip shop called the Sea Breeze. This was not a very prestigious location for a psychological expert. The white paint was peeling on the front door and litter had collected in the doorway. The handwritten card next to the buzzer read: POULET Psy Dram Therapeutic Chambers. As I held my finger down on the plastic button I noticed that someone had scratched ‘ITCH’ into the paintwork. The intercom crackled and a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Enough already!’

The door clicked and I climbed the stairs to a scuffed carpeted landing. There I found a second door. This had a peephole and a large framed photograph of a popular American actress. The photo had a caption in gold lettering, ‘Jodie Foster, Hollywood Screen Legend, Etcetera.’

The door opened and Bijou Poulet beckoned me inside. Her nails were long and made me think of the empress dowager Cixi who reigned over China for several decades and earned a reputation as a ruthless tyrant and dog lover. One of Cixi’s diplomatic initiatives was to give away toy dogs as gifts and she once bestowed a Pekinese on the daughter of American President Theodore Roosevelt.

Bijou Poulet was a stout woman with wide shoulders, chest and pelvic girdle. Her hair was very blonde except near the scalp where it was dark and streaked with grey. She was dressed as if for a French cabaret in a ruffled blue synthetic gown and silver shoes with very high heels. Around her neck was a glittery necklace with several of its paste gems missing. She did not appear to be American and I could not tell if she was Jewish but she did have a lot of framed documents on her walls. I could not read their contents but they appeared to have the seals and swirling signatures of academic diplomas. The qualifications would have pleased Mr Chin, who believed in getting ‘bang for buck’.

Bijou Poulet announced that a half-hour session would cost thirty pounds. I was asked to pay upfront before being led to a reclining sofa.

‘Remove your shoes and stretch out,’ she said, putting on reading glasses.

‘Can I keep my clothes on?’ I asked.

‘Do you enjoy nudity with women?’ She stepped back from me, frowning over the top of her glasses.

‘I thought it might be expected.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She pointed again to the sofa with the end of her pen before sitting on a swivel chair and placing a stenographer’s pad on her knee. ‘Ho-kay, I’ll need some background info-data for my files. Are you affiliated with the motion picture industry?’

‘No.’

‘Film, TV, docu-dramas, mini-series, pilots, commercials?’

‘I go to the cinema sometimes.’

She frowned and noted something down. ‘Are you married or homosexual?’

‘I’m single.’

‘So you’re not homosexual?’

‘One never knows, I suppose. I’ve read that people sometimes discover homosexual relief in mid-life.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She wrote something else down. ‘Allergies, phobias, unresolved anger?’

‘I’m not allergic to anything but I am afraid of spiders. Especially those large, hairy bird-eating spiders that live on tropical islands. I have a horror of a bird-eating spider falling from a coconut palm, down the back of my cardigan.’

‘That’s fear of the vagina.’

‘I’m not frightened of the vagina. It’s spiders.’

‘Psy 101: Fear of snakes is fear of the penis. Fear of spiders is fear of the vagina. It’s the ABC of my trade. You’ve probably had a traumatic birth or a brush with a forceful lesbian. Sometimes it’s a distant aunt or over-friendly neighbour. Fear and shame drive the female child to internalise the incident and bury it deep in her subconscious. It takes multiple sessions with a highly trained expert to normalise a traumatised victim. It’s a baptism by fire, catharsis, rebirth. I have a time plan to ease the financial burden of payments.’

‘But I thought most people were scared of spiders. And snakes for that matter.’

‘Leave the thinking up to those licensed to do it.’

This statement was not very encouraging but it was not my place to question a certified professional. It seemed like a good moment to clarify my goals. ‘I’ve been told by a reliable source that I am abnormal. I’m looking for relief by Monday.’

‘There are two types of abnormal, the chronically abnormal and the averagely abnormal. My professional guess is that you’re the former.’ She shook her head and exhaled noisily. ‘I’ve heard it all in my game. Violence, torture, murder, rape, damage to private property. I carry it with me. It’s all up here.’

Bijou Poulet tapped her temple and sighed in a significant way. She had not chosen an easy career path. I knew for a fact that suicide among psychotherapists was uncommonly high. So was suicide among veterinarians. I was glad I had not opted for a career in veterinary science. It cannot be easy giving animals injections.

‘At least you don’t see animals suffer.’

Bijou Poulet seemed startled by my comment. ‘What does the word beaver mean to you?’

‘Dam.’

‘Ho-kay, I’ll take that as a hostile response.’ She folded her lips and wrote a lengthy paragraph on her notepad. She then reread her notes, frowned and scratched her scalp with her long fingernails. When she finally looked up, her expression was serious. ‘Your illness has a name.’

‘That’s helpful.’

‘Joan of Arc complex.’

‘But Joan of Arc was a soldier. She led armies into battle against the British. I don’t agree with fighting. I think it does more harm than good.’

‘That’s only what you think you think. What goes on inside your mind is a different kettle of fish.’ She pointed to her temple again before motioning in the general direction of my groin. ‘You’re a victim of unnatural impulses, dangerous impulses if left unchecked. They’ve got to be controlled, suppressed, suffocated, metaphorically held down and beaten with a stick. Electric shock therapy is no longer available but there are other psychological routes we can pursue.’

‘This is not very good news.’

Bijou Poulet held up a hand. ‘Describe a recent dream.’

I would have liked to pursue the Joan of Arc theme but it seemed prudent to do as instructed. ‘I dreamed this morning that I lost my job. I woke up with pins and needles in my legs. Would you like me to describe it?’

‘No.’

I was taken aback by this abrupt response but reminded myself of the ‘Psy Dram’ after Bijou Poulet’s name. ‘Earlier this week, I had another dream. It was quite strange.’

‘I’m sure it was.’

‘In the dream I was sitting in the therapy room of Mr Harrison Tanderhill, a registered hypnotherapist.’ I looked at her. She nodded for me to continue. ‘I was speaking indiscreetly.’

‘Filth, shame, childhood guilt. The hypnotist takes away your sense of responsibility. You’re under his control, free to pursue sexual fantasy.’

‘Mr Tanderhill then said, “I just love the Neapolitan lifestyle”. That’s the part I don’t understand.’

‘Suppressed sexual feelings for the maidenhead. Textbook case.’

‘He then started asking about money.’

‘Pure greed. It starts at the breast.’

‘I was bottle fed.’

She glared at me. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Then the dream seemed to jump ahead. The hypnotherapist was laughing and doing the Macarena.’

‘Release, sexual freedom, cork popping. You’re frustrated, craving sexual expression. If you dig deep into your subconscious, you’ll find that the hypnotist in your dream was actually a woman dressed as a man.’

‘I’m not sure it was a dream.’

‘The dreaming mind can be compelling but reality is reality, full stop.’ She clicked her fingers to emphasise the full stop. ‘An averagely abnormal person knows the difference. A chronically abnormal person should be put on high-quality psycho-pharmaceuticals to suppress the imagination, to kill it dead in the parlance of psychotherapeutic dramatology. I’m not licensed to prescribe but I can point you in the right direction. For a fee, naturally.’

‘The thing is, I did go to see Mr Tanderhill last week. He’s a certified hypnotics expert.’

‘Poppycock.’

‘I was mesmerised with a small medallion.’

‘In your dreams, sister.’ She raised her eyebrows and made a whistling gesture with her lips without actually whistling.

‘He said the medallion was of Hindu origin but I recognised its image. My mother’s butcher had worn the same talisman. Mr Da Silva was Roman Catholic and Portuguese. He had considerable body hair.’

Bijou Poulet frowned and shook her head at the mention of body hair. ‘We’re wasting time. Have you ever dreamed you’ve forgotten to put your underpants on?’

‘No.’

‘You dream you’re back at school and suddenly realise you’re not wearing underpants.’

‘No.’

‘You’re sitting an exam and panic when you realise you’ve forgotten your underpants.’

‘I have never dreamed about underwear, with or without.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Bijou Poulet exhaled loudly through her nose and slapped her notebook on her knee.

I did not need to be a psychological expert to recognise frustration when I saw it.

She let out a long, irritated sigh. ‘Tell me about your anxieties, worries, qualms. Give them to me in a nutshell.’

I tried to think of something to say. What I was most worried about at that moment was displeasing her but I doubted this was what she wanted to hear.

‘Hurry up!’ She tapped her wrist. ‘You’re over halfway through your session.’

I was thinking how best to describe Mr Chin and explain that my education and career plans were in jeopardy when Bijou Poulet’s words cut through my thoughts.

‘Hello, anybody home?’

I felt a jolt as if an alarm clock had gone off next to my ear and a small flash bulb had popped inside my brain. I started talking rapidly. ‘Dirty washing worries me. If I think about the way it piles up, I get an empty feeling in my chest. No matter how often I wash my clothes, there’s always more. The clothes I wear while doing the washing will be the dirty clothes I wash tomorrow. It’s endless, like infinity, the universe. It makes me feel small and meaningless.’

‘Ridiculous.’ She tilted her chin and tapped her lips with a palm to demonstrate a false yawn.

‘Could we discuss abnormality?’

‘No.’

‘I’d like to talk about how I feel disconnected from the human context, encased in Perspex.’

‘Think of a family member, a key family member with breasts.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Starts with M. Sounds like “other”.’

‘Mother?’

‘It’s like pulling teeth with you.’

It felt good to get something right. I smiled at Bijou Poulet and received a frown in return.

‘Describe a traumatic incident with this woman.’

‘You mean my mother?’

‘Whatever. Just pick up the pace. I haven’t got all day.’ She click-clicked the fingers of one hand and made an upward swirling motion with the index finger of the other.

My mind whirred, went blank, whirred, went blank. There had been many traumatic incidents but at that moment I could not think of a single one. I watched Bijou Poulet tap her pen on the notepad with impatience. I closed my eyes and heard her snort, a long ‘Hnihhh.’

Suddenly I could see my mother’s face. It was poked between the curtains of the fitting booth in the ladies department of Trout and Son and she was breathing heavily through her nose. I was naked from the waist up, struggling with the clasp of a Miss Teen Starter. Perspiration was running between the two things that had brought me there. They were as round and hard as walnuts and burned on my chest under my mother’s gaze.

‘Stop sweating. You’ll soil the thing and I’m not paying for soiled goods.’ She spoke in a hoarse whisper, twisting her neck out of the booth to make sure the shop assistant was out of hearing range.

The plastic clasp, slippery with perspiration, miraculously clicked shut. I pulled up the straps and raised the twin apricot cups over my breasts where they puckered for want of fill. My mother moved in close, breathing relentlessly through her nose. Her eyes were fixed on the cups.

‘Just lean forwards and fall into them.’

I bent at the waist and urged whatever flesh there was on my chest and underarms to fall into the cups. Nothing fell. I had no moveable flesh on my fourteen-year-old body. My mother looked at the empty cups and sucked air between her teeth before expelling it through her nose in a dissatisfied ‘Hnihhh.’ It was clear by the way she frowned that my chest was not good enough and never would be.

‘That’s it?’ Bijou Poulet raised her eyebrows and gave me an incredulous look.

‘Correct.’

‘That story has no entertainment value whatsoever. You need to learn the value of a good punch line. It makes all the difference.’

‘But I wasn’t trying to entertain. I didn’t think it was expected.’

‘What do you think it’s like listening to someone ramble on about personal problems? Psychotherapeutic dramatology is a two-way street. What did you expect from me?’

‘Mental therapeutics. I was hoping you could help me iron out the kinks of abnormality.’

‘I’m not a magician. It’s session number one and we haven’t even scratched the surface. Someone with your psychological profile needs extensive analytical attention. There’s layer upon layer of chronic disorder in your psyche. I’m seeing obsessive-compulsive behaviour and classic female hysteria. Then, of course, there’s the Joan of Arc business, the nub of your psycho-sexual problems.’ She leaned back in her chair and smiled professionally. ‘The good news is, you’re not alone with your psychoses. I treat sick people like you every day. The bad news is that your psychology needs reprogramming from the brain stem up. That sort of overhaul doesn’t come cheap. We’re looking at four, maybe five figures.’

‘I don’t have that kind of money. My funds are limited.’

‘I have an instalment plan with attractive rates for bulk purchase. You’ll need to buy bulk. I can assure you.’ Bijou Poulet smiled in an unnatural way and made a T with her hands. ‘Let’s take some time out. I’ll give you a minute or two to think over my generous offer.’

I should not have been disappointed by Bijou Poulet’s evaluation. Criticism is not new to me. I have heard it all my life and am vaccinated against it to some degree. But what surprised me was the finality of her assessment. I had naively expected some sort of miracle cure. The gift from Mr Chin and the timely assistance of Nigel had convinced me that something groundbreaking was about to happen. I should have known better. The brain is a complex and powerful organ. It consists of one hundred billion neurons and can generate enough energy to illuminate a twenty-watt light bulb. Psychology is not a simple science.

‘I’m afraid I can’t afford more psychotherapeutic dramatology but it would be helpful to know where my central problem lies.’

‘That would be revealed in session seventeen. Not before. Professional reasons, you understand.’

‘I don’t, no.’

‘I’m writing a screenplay, tentatively titled Cat Fight.’

‘About me?’

‘What kind of a psychological professional would I be if I couldn’t keep secrets?’

‘For a moment I did wonder.’

‘The content of my screenplay is private and personal, subject to copyright, patent pending.’ She looked at her wrist. ‘Your session is terminated.’

Without warning, she slipped a hand under my armpit and pulled me to my feet. I was fumbling with the laces of my shoes as I was bundled out of the door and escorted to the bottom of the stairs. The door was opened and I was ejected on to the street, blinking at the sudden whiteness of the overcast afternoon. I turned to protest but the door was slammed in my face. My eyes fell on the buzzer and I saw something I had not noticed before. The word scratched into the paint was not ‘ITCH’ as I had first thought. In front of this was the letter ‘B’.

Something hard poked into the small of my back but before I could react, a familiar voice spoke: ‘Hand over your crocodile bag and make it snappy!’