Richard was glad he didn’t need to explain what he was doing wandering round Ed’s private property without an invitation. Maybe it was one of those things that was acceptable in villages.
‘Yeah, good, thanks. And you?’
‘Oh, not so bad, you know. Just getting things ready for spring. Want to take a look?’
‘Sure.’
Completely forgetting the reason he was there, Richard followed Ed through the garden, making what he hoped were appropriate noises of interest as Ed pointed out the various features. ‘Obviously it doesn’t look its best at this time of year. You should come back in a couple of months when things are really getting going.’
‘Sounds great,’ Richard said, hoping he sounded appropriately enthusiastic. He had never really understood the attraction of gardening.
‘You done much with your garden since you moved in?’
Richard shrugged. ‘Not really. I don’t think either of us are natural gardeners.’
‘Yeah, it’s a big space, if you’re not really interested.’
Richard frowned. ‘You’ve been there, then?’
‘I used to do some gardening for Lily’s mother. After she went into hospital.’
‘You never said.’ His voice was guarded. It seemed like an odd thing to have gone unmentioned.
‘Didn’t I?’ Ed shrugged, and carried on walking. ‘Was there a reason why you dropped round, by the way, or did you just want to say hello?’
‘Oh, sorry, I completely forgot. I’m meant to be at work.’ Richard laughed, struggling not to sound uncomfortable. ‘It was Rosa who sent me, actually – she said you were supposed to be bringing her round some veg out of the garden?’
‘Oh, sure. Come in; I think it’s all bagged up in the kitchen.’ Ed led the way through the garden back to the house, stopping here and there to snap off a dead shoot. The back door led into a utility room, crowded with wellies and bottles of gardening-related chemicals. A pile of boxes almost obscured the washing machine.
‘Don’t worry about taking your shoes off,’ Ed said cheerfully, leading him through to the kitchen. By comparison this was spotlessly clean – there was nothing on the worktops except for a block of knives and some tins for tea and coffee. A set of red bar stools, garish in comparison to the rest of the decoration, were the only indication of homeliness. Ed opened a cupboard and pulled out a carrier bag of vegetables. ‘Here you go.’
Richard smiled and took the bag. ‘I take it you grow more than you know what to do with?’
‘I don’t get through that much on my own. But it’s nice to be able to pass it on to friends. Actually, there are some seeds in the shed I was going to give her. Would you mind hanging around a minute while I grab them?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
‘Great. I won’t be long.’ Ed clapped him on the shoulder, and went back outside.
The house was silent except for the humming of the fridge. A doorway at the end of the kitchen led through to the living room, and Richard peered round the door, curious. The living room was much more homely – there was art on the walls, framed photos on the mantelpiece. A large, garish rug made the place seem much more colourful.
Richard stepped into the room, intrigued by the photos. The one closest to him was of a little boy – fair-haired, smiling, about six years old. He sat astride a bicycle, both feet on the ground, clearly proud of himself for holding it up. There were gaps in his smile where he’d lost his teeth.
Another photo showed the same boy, but older – maybe ten now. He was on a swing, and a blonde girl of the same age sat next to him. They were both grinning and waving at the camera. There was a note of familiarity, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
‘Okay?’ Ed appeared in the doorway, making Richard jump. He hadn’t heard him come in.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean – I wasn’t snooping.’
‘Didn’t imagine you were,’ Ed said, briskly. There was a moment’s silence, while Richard tried to place what was wrong with the situation, and then Ed held out a small bag of seeds. ‘Here you go, then.’
‘Great. Yes. Thanks.’ He took the bag and tried to shake off the awkwardness.
‘I’ll see you out, if you like.’
‘Great.’
Ed showed Richard to the front door, and watched him all the way down the front path. He waited until Richard was halfway up the street before he closed the door behind him.
Lily left the house not long after Richard left for work. The air was cold and damp, rain threatening in the grey of the clouds, and the streets of Drayfield were quiet – just a few pensioners who nodded politely and without recognition as she walked past. She pulled her coat closer and kept her eyes on the ground as she made her way to the bus stop.
It wasn’t much of a stop, just a post with a sign and a lone bench with half of its slats missing. A mother, not much older than Lily, perched on the edge of the bench and pushed a buggy back and forth with one hand. She didn’t look up when Lily sat down next to her.
It was the first time she’d really ventured out on her own since they’d moved there, and she hadn’t been prepared for the strangeness; sitting on the same bench where she’d once sat as a child waiting for the school bus. It was twenty-one years ago and yesterday and somehow another lifetime altogether, all at once. She looked to her right, half-expecting to see the ghost-children standing there, waiting to be whisked off to school. All she saw was empty air.
The bus turned up, with only three other passengers on board. Lily made her way upstairs and sat at the front. She liked looking through the front window in slow traffic: enjoyed the way the perspective made it seem as if the cars below vanished beneath the front wheels of the bus, only to reappear a moment later, unscathed.
The journey was quicker than she remembered; either her sense of time had shifted as she’d got older or there was less traffic at this time of day. Probably a mixture of both. She disembarked in the centre of town, and immediately felt assaulted by people. Farnworth wasn’t a particularly busy town, but it had been weeks since she’d been in the company of strangers, and suddenly there were hundreds of them: walking in different directions, walking into her, almost walking through her as though she wasn’t there at all. Without paying attention to what she was doing she found herself standing in the corner of the bus station, flattened against the glass, counting her breaths in an attempt to slow her pulse. Her vision blurred, and for a second she thought she was going to faint. Then the crowds cleared, and the moment passed.
It had been raining heavily, and the pavements were slick, dotted here and there with puddles of brown water. There was still a wetness in the air that clung to her skin and made her throat feel damp as she breathed. She set off in the opposite direction to most of the crowds, heading away from the centre of town. Within minutes the streets had expanded, rows of wide, three-storey terraces springing up on either side, their yellowish bricks streaked with sooty residue from centuries of pollution. There were fewer people here, and half of the buildings carried ornate plaques which designated them as non-residential: solicitors’ offices, walk-in health centres, dentists. She counted the numbers until she found the one she was looking for: a small bronze plaque announced Mervyn & Partners Health Services, with a list of names and qualifications underneath. His name was at the top. Dr Alastair Mervyn, Consultant in Child Psychiatry.
She’d looked him up before coming here, but, even so, seeing his name printed in bronze triggered an odd mixture of emotions. There was affection, and a sort of longing; she’d often wondered how he was getting on, though she’d never thought to contact him before. But there was also fear: what if he refused to see her? Or, worse, couldn’t remember her at all?
She stood outside on the pavement, staring at the plaque. Fat drops of rain started to fall, spotting the pavement around her and landing heavily on her head, but she didn’t move. Didn’t notice time passing, people shaking their heads as they walked around her on the pavement.
Lily hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Why don’t you come in?’
The father and son brushed past her, leaving just Lily, standing awkwardly on the pavement. She looked around her, but couldn’t think of an excuse not to go in. So she nodded, and stepped over the threshold, letting the woman close the door behind her.
She stepped into a hallway, large and dark and distinctly Victorian in décor. For a moment she was reminded of the institute, but most of that had been much more clinical in appearance; it was only the doctors’ offices that had been lined with books and mahogany panelling. This was more homely, with a narrow, burgundy-carpeted staircase leading up to what could have easily been bedrooms. The woman led the way through to the front room – a large, airy reception area, decorated predominantly in green and lined with waiting-room chairs – and made her way behind the desk. There were two other people in the room, a woman in her forties and a girl in her teens, sat a chair apart from each other. The woman was reading, while the girl stared sullenly at the floor.
‘So how can I help you?’ the receptionist asked, warm yet businesslike, settling herself down in the chair in front of her computer.
‘I – wanted to make an appointment.’
‘Well, we actually only see children in this clinic. There’s an adults’ centre just down the road –’
‘I want to see Dr Mervyn.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you a friend of his?’
‘I was – a patient.’
‘I see. Well, he’s a busy man, and if this is a social call I’d suggest getting in contact with him out of hours.’
‘It’s not a social call.’ Lily looked down at the floor. She could feel the teenager watching her. ‘I need to talk to him about – some treatments. That he gave me.’ The woman stared at her blankly. ‘When I was younger,’ she said, trying not to let desperation creep into her voice. ‘It will only take ten minutes.’
‘I’m afraid he’s booked solid for today –’
‘Ten minutes? Please?’
The woman looked at her for a moment, as if weighing up her options. ‘It might be quite a wait. But, if you sit down, I’ll have a word with him when he’s free.’
‘Thank you.’
She sat down opposite the teenager, whose gaze had moved to the large bay window that faced out on to the street. Lily picked up a magazine and started to flick through it, but the words blurred on the page and made her feel dizzy. She closed her eyes. The room was silent except for the tapping of the receptionist’s fingers on the keyboard, and the occasional roar of a car passing by outside.
After fifteen minutes or so she heard a door open upstairs. There was the low murmur of voices; three sets of footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened, and then closed. And then one set of footsteps, coming closer. Pausing at the door. And then the shock of a voice so familiar, speaking an unfamiliar name: ‘Jenny?’
Lily opened her eyes. He didn’t look at her; his gaze was fixed on the teenager, who looked up, smiled faintly, and stood up. The woman – Lily realised it must be her mother – touched her arm as she stood. ‘I’ll be right here,’ she murmured, but the teenager shook her off and followed Dr Mervyn without looking back.
Lily had no idea how long she sat there. The rain grew heavier outside; the sky darkened and thick raindrops pelted the window. Patients came and went. Sometimes doctors appeared briefly, summoning their patients. Other doctors seemed less willing to come out of their offices, and their patients were escorted by the receptionist, who smiled and took hold of their arms like an elderly nurse.
Lily sat silently, staring at the floor, tracing the patterns of the carpet with her gaze.
Eventually she was the only one left. The receptionist left the room and went upstairs. Lily heard the soft tread of her shoes on the carpet, the creaking of the stairs under her feet. The light rapping of her knuckles on a door upstairs. The low groan of the door’s hinges as she eased it open.
Five minutes, in which Lily wondered what on earth she would say to him.
And then she heard two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs.
When he looked at her from the doorway, his gaze was the same as it had been twenty-one years before, and she felt momentarily sure she wouldn’t have to explain herself. But there was no recognition in his eyes. ‘Do you want to come upstairs?’ he asked, his voice kind but puzzled.
She followed him up the stairs and into his office. It was markedly different from the one she had spent so much time in – that had been a school office that he’d borrowed, and the objects within it had been impersonal, meaningless. This was different. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and dotted here and there with framed photographs, diplomas. On his desk sat a family photograph: Dr Mervyn, wife, two daughters. She’d never realised he had children.
Maybe he hadn’t, back then.
They sat down opposite each other, separated by his desk, as they always had been. She realised he was in his mid-fifties. The same age as her father would have been, had he lived. The doctor’s eyes had stayed the same, but his face had crumpled slightly around them, weathered with age. His hair was mostly grey.
‘So, are you going to make me guess who you are?’ he asked. His smile was the same.
‘Lily Emmett. I was almost twelve, last time you saw me.’
He leaned back in his chair, and gave her a long look; appraising. She couldn’t tell whether he remembered her or not. ‘And how old are you now?’
‘Thirty-three.’
‘I’m afraid you’re a bit old for me to be able to treat you.’ His voice was firm, but his smile was kind. ‘Was it treatment you were after?’
The question made her pause. What was it she was after? ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening?’
She said nothing for a moment, clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap. She realised she’d been hoping he would just know, without her having to explain.
‘I’ve been having – similar problems. The same problems as I used to have. And I wondered if you could help.’
Dr Mervyn looked at her kindly. ‘I’m a child psychiatrist, Lily. Don’t you think you’d be better off with someone who deals with adult problems?’
‘But it’s the same problem.’ Her voice was stubborn.
‘It might be related to the same problem. But the nature of it is likely to have changed as you’ve grown older, and the treatment would be different now.’ He leaned back in his chair, fingers clasped in front of him on the desk. ‘Do you still have difficulty talking?’
So he did remember her. ‘Not really. I don’t talk as much as other people, I guess. But I don’t avoid it.’ She looked him in the eye, to gauge his reaction. ‘I’m a lecturer now.’
He laughed. He looked genuinely delighted. ‘Really? That’s amazing.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose it might seem that way. But it’s a different sort of speech.’
‘Yes, I can see why you would feel like that. But –’ he leaned forward slightly ‘– it’s not really, you know. It’s all communication.’
She shrugged again. ‘It’s not that that’s the issue.’
‘Okay. So what is the issue?’
She looked out of the window. It was dark outside now – the clock behind Dr Mervyn’s head said it was past four o’clock – and there was a street-lamp directly outside the window, casting an orangey glow across the corner of the room. It reminded her of the kitchen in her old flat.
‘I’ve been collapsing. Like I used to, only – worse, I suppose. I’m on sa
bbatical from work. And I…’ She wondered if she dared tell him, and then realised that this was the real reason she had come to him. Because she couldn’t admit it to anyone else. ‘I’ve been hallucinating.’
‘I see. What form do the hallucinations take?’
‘They’re – me. And my sister. As children.’
‘And what are they doing?’
‘They want me to go into the garden. To where Billy died.’
They sat in silence for a while, Dr Mervyn tapping the tips of his fingers together as he thought. The ticking of the clock behind him filled the room, marking the rising of the moon. Lily thought that maybe she shouldn’t have come.
‘Did you ever remember what happened?’ he asked, eventually.
‘No.’
‘Do you want to?’
She looked down at her hands. Didn’t reply.
‘I don’t know if anyone would be able to help you remember. It was a long time ago, and if you’ve gone this long without any hint of remembering then it’s likely that the memory just isn’t there. But there are other treatments for dealing with the symptoms you’re experiencing.’
‘Like what?’
‘Talking therapies. Antidepressants. Have you not spoken to any doctors about it in recent years?’
‘It’s not depression. They said it was, um, conversion disorder.’
‘Yes, that would be consistent with my diagnosis of you when you were a child. Did they explain what that was?’
‘Sort of.’ He looked at her, expectant. ‘They said my brain gives me physical symptoms to deal with because I’m not coping with stress properly.’
‘Right. The selective mutism you suffered from as a child was of a similar nature. My guess is that, as you’ve grown older, your symptoms have adapted to ensure that you keep managing them. In cases of conversion disorder, there’s often an underlying anxiety problem, and that’s why I would suggest antidepressants.’
She nodded. ‘Would they help with the other stuff?’
‘No. The only way your symptoms are going to get better is if you address the root cause. You need to come to terms with the things that have happened to you, the stresses you have been suppressing since you were a child.’
Hush Page 34
