‘I wonder if we might revisit the subject of your mother, Eleanor? Is that perhaps something we could—’
‘No,’ I said. More silence.
‘Fine, fine, no problem. Could you tell me a bit about your father, then? You haven’t really mentioned him so far.’
‘I don’t have a father,’ I said. More of that awful silence. It was so annoying, but in the end, it actually worked, her refusal to speak. The quiet went on for aeons, and in the end I simply couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘Mummy told me she was … I assumed she was … well, she didn’t tell me directly when I was a child, but as an adult, I’ve come to understand that she was the victim of a … sexual assault,’ I said, somewhat inelegantly. No response. ‘I don’t know his name and I never met him,’ I said.
She was writing in her notebook, and looked up. ‘Did you ever wish you had a father, or a father figure in your life, Eleanor? Was it something that you missed?’
I stared at my hands. It was difficult, talking openly about these things, dragging them out for inspection when they’d been perfectly fine as they were, hidden away.
‘You don’t miss what you’ve never had,’ I said eventually. I’d read that somewhere and it sounded as though it ought to be true. ‘For as long as I can remember, there’s only ever been me and … her. No one else to play with, to talk to, no shared childhood memories. But I don’t suppose that’s particularly unusual. And it didn’t do me any harm, after all.’
I could feel the impact of these words in my stomach, acidic and bitter, swirling around inside.
She was writing in her notebook again and didn’t look up.
‘Did your mother ever talk about the assault? Did she know her assailant?’
‘I stated quite clearly on the first day I came here that I didn’t want to talk about her,’ I said.
She spoke gently. ‘Of course. Don’t worry – we won’t talk about her, Eleanor, not if you don’t want to. I’m just asking in the context of your father, trying to find out more about him, your feelings about him, that’s all.’
I thought about it. ‘I don’t really have any feelings about him, Maria.’
‘Did you ever consider trying to find him?’ she said.
‘A rapist? I shouldn’t have thought so,’ I said.
‘A daughter’s relationship with her father can sometimes influence her subsequent relationships with men. Do you have any thoughts about that, Eleanor?’
I pondered. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Mummy wasn’t particularly keen on men. But then, she wasn’t keen on anyone, really. She thought most people were unsuitable for us, regardless of their gender.’
‘What do you mean?’ Maria said.
Here we were, talking about Mummy, after I’d expressly forbidden it. However, I found, much to my surprise, that I was actually starting to enjoy holding court like this, having Dr Temple’s undivided attention. Perhaps it was the lack of eye contact. It felt relaxing, almost as though I was talking to myself.
‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘she only wanted us to socialize with people who were nice, people who were proper – that was something she talked about a lot. She always insisted that we spoke politely, behaved with decorum … she made us practise elocution, at least an hour a day. She had – let’s just say she had quite direct methods of correcting us when we said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing. Which was pretty much all the time.’
Maria nodded, indicated that I should go on.
‘She said that we deserved the best of everything, and that, even in straitened circumstances, we should always conduct ourselves properly. It was almost as though she thought we were some kind of displaced royalty, you know … the family of a deposed tsar or an overthrown monarch or something. I tried so hard, but I never managed to look and behave the way she thought I should, to behave appropriately. That made her very unhappy, and very angry. Mind you, it wasn’t just me. No one was ever good enough. She was always telling us we had to be on the lookout for someone who was good enough.’ I shook my head. ‘I suppose that’s how I ended up here,’ I said. ‘Trying to find someone like that, and then getting confused and making a giant mess of everything.’
I realized that my whole body was shaking, like a wet dog on a cold morning. Maria looked up.
‘Let’s move on, for now,’ she said gently. ‘Do you want to tell me something about what happened after you and your mother parted company, about your experience of the care system? What was that like?’
I shrugged.
‘Being fostered was … fine. Being in residential care was … fine. No one abused me, I had food and drink, clean clothes and a roof over my head. I went to school every day until I was seventeen and then I went to university. I can’t really complain about any of it.’
Maria spoke very gently.
‘What about your other needs, Eleanor?’
‘I’m not sure I’m quite following you, Maria,’ I said, puzzled.
‘Humans have a range of needs that we need to have met, Eleanor, in order to be happy and healthy individuals. You’ve described how your basic physical needs – warmth, food, shelter – were taken care of. But what about your emotional needs?’
I was completely taken aback.
‘But I don’t have any emotional needs,’ I said.
Neither of us spoke for a while. Eventually, she cleared her throat.
‘Everyone does, Eleanor. All of us – and especially young children – need to know that we’re loved, valued, accepted and understood …’
I said nothing. This was news to me. I let it settle. It sounded plausible, but it was a concept I’d need to consider at more length in the privacy of my own home.
‘Was there ever someone who fulfilled that role in your life, Eleanor? Someone who you felt understood you? Someone who loved you, just as you were, unconditionally?’
My first response was to say no, of course. Mummy most certainly did not fall into that category. Something – someone – was niggling at me, though, tugging at my sleeve. I tried to ignore her but she wouldn’t go away, that little voice, those little hands.
‘I … Yes.’
‘No rush, Eleanor. Take your time. What do you remember?’
I took a breath. Back in that house, on a good day. Stripes of sunshine on the carpet, a board game set out on the floor, a pair of dice, two brightly coloured counters. A day with more ladders than snakes.
‘Pale brown eyes. Something about a dog. But I’ve never had a pet …’
I felt myself becoming distressed, confused, a churning in my stomach, a dull pain in my throat. There was a memory there, somewhere deep, somewhere too painful to touch.
‘OK,’ she said gently, passing me the much-needed box of man-sized tissues, ‘time’s almost up now.’ She took out her diary. ‘Shall we agree to meet at the same time next week and come back to this?’
I couldn’t believe it. All that work, I was so close, so close now, and she was throwing me out on the street again? After everything I’d shared, all the things I’d uncovered, was about to keep uncovering? I threw the tissue on the floor.
‘Go to hell,’ I said quietly.
32
ANGER WAS GOOD, SHE’D said, while I was putting my coat on. If I was finally getting in touch with my anger, then I was starting to do some important work, unpicking and addressing things that I’d buried too deep. I hadn’t thought about it before, but I suppose I’d never really been angry before now. Irritated, bored, sad, yes, but not actually angry. I supposed she had a point; perhaps things had happened that I ought to feel angry about. It wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed feeling, and it certainly wasn’t fair to direct it towards Dr Maria Temple, who was, after all, only doing her job. I’d apologized profusely straight after my outburst, and she was very understanding, even seemed quite pleased. Still, I wouldn’t be making a habit of telling people to go to hell. Obscenity is the distinguishing hallmark of a sadly limited vocabulary.