by A J Waines
I’ve decided I don’t like the room we’re in. It smells nice, but it’s got sickly yellow walls and too many office things in it; the filing cabinet, a laptop open on the desk, and that angle-poise lamp that’s like a giant stick-insect watching us all the time. The flowers have gone now, so there’s nothing personal. I suppose it would be too much to expect the hospital to provide nice touches like a few books and ornaments on the shelves and Sam hasn’t done much to make it homely. No plants or nick-nacks. So bloody clinical. I hate hearing people talking outside and trolleys rolling past; it’s like being at a bus station. I want more privacy. I want to feel like I’ve got Sam all to myself. Someone could walk in at any minute and disturb us.
I didn’t mean to cry, yesterday – the tears just bubbled up. Sam must have pressed one of my buttons without me realising. I’ll have to be careful. Can’t afford to let things run away with me like that. But I do like her – I get all goose-pimply sitting on this moth-eaten bed thinking about her.
I reach down to my feet and turn up the heater. It rattles like it’s about to take off. Another train roars past, shaking the windows. One day – soon – I’ll be out of here for good.
When we first met, Sam gave me her business card and I take it out of my purse now and place it in my lap. I run my fingers over her printed name, then I take a pen from my bag and write ‘Sam’ in curly writing on the back. I go over and over it, big and bold, making a soft swelling in the card. Sam’s card given to me, her name written by me, with my pen. All mine.
Chapter 6
Sam
I was standing outside the deli during my lunch break with a hot samosa in one hand, my mobile in the other. Miranda wasn’t returning my calls. It always unnerved me when that happened. If it was anyone else, I’d just assume they were busy or having trouble with their phone.
It was different with Miranda.
Straight away I had visions of her taking off on some wild rampage. Stupid really, because the new medication she was on had transformed her in the last eighteen months – but that’s the problem when someone close to you has schizophrenia – you always jump to conclusions.
A text finally arrived from her four hours later, just as I’d closed the door behind my final patient. She didn’t give a reason for not responding to my zillion messages, instead she sent an invitation to an exhibition that evening at the V&A entitled Modern Textiles as Art. She knew I wasn’t a big fan of modern art and she was probably expecting me to turn her down. I texted straight back and accepted.
I knew she’d be late; I’d never known Miranda to be on time for anything. I was half expecting she wouldn’t turn up at all. I’d been standing around for twenty minutes by the entrance to the gift shop when she welcomed me with a low-key ‘Hi’ and a raise of her hand, before racing through the corridors to the right gallery. She didn’t even make eye contact. I spent most of the exhibition trying to keep up with her. She kept striding on to the next picture before I’d managed to focus on the one in front of me.
‘I’m thinking of adding hessian to my oil paintings,’ she said finally, as we made our way towards the exit afterwards. Miranda was due to have another exhibition soon at the Arts Project; the centre for artists with mental health issues where she’d made so many friends.
‘Great,’ I said, not sure how else to respond. ‘What’s led to that idea?’ We spun through the revolving glass doors out on to the street.
‘I want more depth to my pictures. I’d like people to want to touch them.’
Miranda’s pictures weren’t pretty. They were macabre and sinister; big bold explosions of dark colours. It was a big enough ask, in my view, to expect people to look at them, never mind get their fingers dirty. I gave myself a mental kick for thinking that way. Painting was her lifeline and helped her deal with her inner demons – none of which had taken root inside her through any fault of her own. Finding positive things to say about her pictures, however, was hard – they were abstract, ugly and full of rage – and I ended up resorting to comments such as how interesting, in a sickly, pointless kind of way. I’d have to do better.
We went on to a wine bar in South Kensington, ordering as if we were in two separate bistros. Me, a Mediterranean tapas with vine leaves, hummus, olives and a glass of Merlot. Miranda, thick-cut chips, a bowl of peanuts and a Diet Coke.
Our relationship had always had plenty of ups and downs. We’d been on an even keel for a while now, but something had obviously happened to send us on a downward slide again, though for the life of me I couldn’t work out what it was. Miranda denied there was any problem when I asked about it, which made things worse. And she’d stopped telling me things. In fact, when I was around, it felt like she was trying to keep all the important details of her life locked inside an iron vault.
Somehow I managed to keep putting my foot in it. I was ‘too full on’, too ‘in her face’ – her words.
She was frosty towards me most of the time: outspoken, hostile and downright hurtful. It was a strain, but I wasn’t giving up on her. It’s hard to wipe out a lifetime of misunderstandings and even harder to forget that, in spite of stabilising medication, there was always a label around Miranda’s neck that read mentally ill in bold letters. Nevertheless, I was determined to stand by her, to hang on in there and hope she’d turn to me once in a while. We were always going to be chalk and cheese, but I wanted a better relationship as siblings. Except, maybe I wanted it more than she did.
Miranda leant over and dunked a fat chip into my hummus without looking up. Had I done something to bring about this recent logjam in our relationship? Said something? I needed to find the right time to ask her about it again – to clear the air – but I wasn’t convinced now was that moment. I was tired and knew broaching the topic was likely to result in some kind of demonstrative outburst from Miranda – always best handled in private.
‘I know that look,’ she said. ‘You punishing yourself, again?’ When Miranda chose to address something, she didn’t beat about the bush. ‘It still gets to you doesn’t it?’
She was on the wrong track, but I didn’t put her straight. ‘That business last Christmas,’ she added, chewing with her mouth open.
That business last Christmas had nearly brought me to my knees.
‘It’s always going to be a big deal,’ I said, with a sigh.
‘What was her name, again?’
All of a sudden my head became too heavy for my neck. I rested my elbows on the table and let my hands take the weight. ‘Joanne.’ I held her gaze. ‘Her name was Joanne. I don’t really want—’
‘Can’t you just move on? Everyone knows it wasn’t your fault – can’t you just get over it?’
‘Can we talk about—?’
She cut me off. ‘How’s work?’ she said, making bubbles with her straw in the bottom of her thick glass.
‘Busy.’ She knew she’d chosen a dead-end subject; I wasn’t able to give her any details.
‘You’re always worn-out and grumpy when I see you,’ she said, slumping back in her seat.
I drew my head back in shock. ‘I’m not grumpy…’
‘You don’t have feelings like other people, do you?’ she said, accusingly. ‘You’re hard. A cold fish.’
Despite knowing I needed to take what Miranda said with a pinch of salt at times, her words burrowed deeply into me. More so, as she wasn’t the only person to see me that way. The issue isn’t that I don’t feel, it’s that I don’t often show how I feel. I tend to scoop up my reactions and carry them away with me, so it looks like I have none. In reality, I let my emotions emerge once I’m on my own, out of reach of other people’s scrutiny.
Her mouth puckered as if she’d tasted something sour. ‘You’re all serious and distracted.’
Diners on nearby tables had started to turn round; Miranda delivered her comments several decibels above the general hum.
An unwanted memory rushed into my mind of her leaping onto the table in a top-class restaurant an
d taking her knickers off. Then I remembered her weaving her way around the chairs in a waiting room with a pair of scissors snipping off people’s hair. There were uglier incidents in fact, but thankfully not for a long time.
‘Actually, I’m worried about you…’ I said calmly.
‘Me? What’s wrong with me? I’m fine. I’m selling pictures. I’m great.’
It sounded defensive and forced.
I waited, hoping the heat around her would cool a fraction.
‘Are you free tomorrow evening, perhaps?’ I said, striking up a fresh tone. ‘I thought we could go to the cinema.’
Her eyes took a detour over my shoulder before she answered. ‘I’d love to, but I promised Amanda I’d help with her bridesmaid’s dress.’
‘Oh. Shame.’
Miranda looked like she was about to say something important; she seemed to be rehearsing her next sentence – but then she shrugged and folded her arms.
I glanced at my watch under the table. Two hours spent together and she seemed as estranged from me as ever. Miranda sighed as if she was bored and pulled a biro out of her bag. She folded up her napkin and started doodling on it.
When Miranda came out of residential care for good, we were both excited about renewing our bond. She’d held up amazingly well when unspeakable details about her past had come crawling out of the woodwork and the more I understood our dysfunctional family dynamic, the more I realised I shouldn’t be blaming her for making my upbringing such a bumpy ride. We’d grown closer as a result.
For a while we’d tried living together, but it soon became obvious that we both needed our own space. I’d never known Miranda as a proper older sister and I couldn’t get used to the idea. She’d always felt like the ‘child’ in the family. Unfortunately, in attempting to establish our new sisterly roles, we’d both started mutating into different versions of our mother! One moment I’d be admonishing Miranda, the next she’d be nagging at me. It was as if Moira Willerby had joined us in the flat too; the three of us squashed into that tiny space. It was a recipe for disaster.
Miranda moved in with Con briefly when he needed a flatmate, then Dad paid for her to rent the spacious one-bedroom apartment near the Arts Project, in Camden. It meant she could have more freedom creatively than she’d had with me. I’m a carpet kind of girl, whereas Miranda needs to feel rough floorboards under her bare feet. I’m not a big fan of oil paint in the bathroom and paintbrushes in the kitchen sink either, but in her own place, she could spread herself out and have her wet canvases dripping against every skirting board, if she wanted to.
Miranda reached over and pinched one of my olives, breaking my train of thought. ‘You seeing a new man, yet?’ she said.
‘Er, no. I’m fine on my own.’
She took up the pen again and added swirls to the doodle. ‘Yeah – and I’m the Queen of Geneva,’ she said, without looking up.
‘It’s the Queen of Sheba.’
‘Whatever…’ She turned her head on one side, engrossed in her drawing. It had started off as a random squiggle, but was turning into a serpent.
Chapter 7
Sam
The most memorable consultation that week was with Rosie. She burst in and bounced down onto the correct seat this time, looking like she couldn’t wait to get started.
‘It must be hard seeing screwed-up people all day,’ she said, rolling her eyes knowingly, as if she couldn’t possibly be in that category herself.
As I clicked the button to record, Rosie started speaking. ‘Before we go back to my memories of the crash, can I tell you a bit about my viola?’ she asked. ‘It won’t take long.’
Rosie told me about the role music played in her life; how she’d left school with one A level – in English; an unremarkable grade – but in her music studies she’d risen well above mediocre.
‘I took up the violin at eight, then when someone else at school wanted to use the instrument I’d borrowed, I was given a viola instead. “Viola players are always in demand,” my Auntie said. “You don’t even have to be very good at it.”’
The woman she called Auntie Doris was her guardian at the time and had instructed Rosie to practise two hours a day after school. To keep her out of her hair, I thought cynically.
‘There was no television at her place and I didn’t seem to click with many of the other kids at school, so I just practised all the time. I kept practising when I moved from house to house. Much to everyone’s surprise I got into the Guildhall School of Music, but in the third year some idiot broke my little finger.’ She held it up and wiggled it. ‘The neighbour’s gardener slammed a blinking garage door on it during the college vac and even after it healed I had terrible pain in the middle joint. I could still play, but by the time I finished college it was clear I’d never make much of a go of it, professionally. I had to look for something different and I’d hardly played at all before going up to the Lakes again.’
‘You agreed to the concert even though you were totally out of practice?’
She grimaced. ‘To be honest, the request came as a very nasty shock, until Mr Hinds said there would be a fee of £850 each. That put a different slant on it, I can tell you. I’d have learnt to hula hoop in my birthday-suit for that!’
I laughed out loud and Rosie glowed with pride, tucking her hands under her thighs. She seemed emotionally stable, buoyant even, but I couldn’t let her get side-tracked with anecdotes.
‘Right,’ I said, changing tack. ‘Are you ready for some focused memory work?’
She rubbed her hands together. ‘Definitely!’
‘You told me about being in the back of the van with the instruments just before the crash, but what do you remember about earlier that day?’
She slowly guided her specs up her nose. ‘In the morning, we played an early Beethoven and hacked our way through the Elgar, but we had to give up. Richard kept getting lost and Stephanie couldn’t manage the high notes. It was too complex for just a couple of rehearsals and I was struggling to keep up. Max said we should swap it for some early Mozart, much easier – the first violin carries it, so he was in his element.’
‘Then what?’
‘Lunch was weird. Cameron Hinds had put on a big spread and his second wife, Ambrosia, was there and Karl, his son. Cameron was asking us each in turn what we’d done since that first concert fifteen years before. It was a bit embarrassing. We let Max take the floor – he was the only one with anything to boast about – I think the rest of us felt like losers. After he’d bored everyone with his tremendous triumphs, he reminded us all about an incident, two incidents actually, that had happened at that first party in 2001. They’d nearly spoilt everything.’
I picked up my pen.
‘I’d completely forgotten about them,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if they’re important or not, but I’ll tell you anyway.’ When she smiled her lashes brushed her plump cheeks.
‘When we were rehearsing in the drawing room, a bloke – we thought he must have been a friend of the family – turned up. He came in through the French windows and put his finger to his lips, then stood and listened for a while. We found out later from the police, that his name was Mick Blain. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, when we’d finished. “I was outside and it sounded like a CD.” We were flattered, so we weren’t about to kick him out.
‘As we packed our gear away, he took an interest in our instruments. Max wouldn’t let him anywhere near his, but Mick said he’d never seen a viola before. I held it up for him so he could get a closer look. “I couldn’t have a little go on it, could I?” he said.
‘Normally, I’m very careful about anyone touching my viola, but Mick was so wide-eyed and fascinated that I let him. Max and Richard had disappeared by then as we only had about an hour to grab something to eat and get changed before the concert. Stephanie stayed in the room for a few minutes, dusting down her strings, then she left me to it.
‘Mick took the viola and started trying to play. He was
hopeless, scraping the bow too high over the fingerboard and making a dreadful racket. I reached over to take it back and I’m not sure what happened next. He must have caught his foot on the edge of the rug and staggered forward, almost dropping the instrument. I reached out to make a grab for it – and there was a loud crack. I thought at first someone had fired a pistol, it was so loud.’
I made a few notes, mindful however, that she seemed to have gone off on a remote tangent. She was in full flow by then and I didn’t want to cut her off.
‘I thought the neck had snapped, but it wasn’t as bad as that. As I held up the viola, there was a rattling sound inside and the strings had all loosened. “It’s okay,” he said, as if he knew what he was talking about. “Something’s come loose inside and that white bit on the top has fallen down. We can stick it back up again”.
‘I told him it wasn’t as simple as that. With only fifty minutes to go before the performance, I was in real trouble. I told him you needed a special prong to get that bit of wood that was rolling around inside back in place again.’ She did a little air-demonstration for me. ‘It’s a very tricky operation and I’d never done it before.’
She raised her eyebrows and gave a wry smile.
‘My first thought was that Max would know what to do. I laid the viola on a cushion and told Mick, in no uncertain terms, not to touch anything as I flew out of the room. Max was doing yoga in our changing area. I went barging in and told him what had happened. To cut a long story short, Max fixed it. He put the sound-post back up inside and retuned all the strings, just in time. ’
‘And this was during the first visit, in 2001?’ I asked, as I jotted down the sketchy details.
‘Yeah.’ She smiled. ‘I laughed when Max handed it back to me, because he asked, jokingly, if I’d ever had it valued. “There’s a label inside,” he’d said, but he must have been teasing me; I knew it had been made in 1970, in a factory in Borehamwood. “Makers often put labels inside, you know,” he’d told me, “hoping one day they’ll be famous.” Max knew from the sound, just like I did, that it was worth diddly-squat.’
