The Shoestring Club

by Sarah Webb

  ‘No. But only ’cos someone came out and distracted him. I kneed him in the balls and ran away.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. Oh, Boolie, what am I going to do with you?’ She hugs me again, tight. ‘You’re shaking,’ she says, rubbing my back in circles through the thin cotton of the hospital gown. ‘It’s going to be OK, darling. Don’t you worry. And I’ll never let anything like that happen to you again, I swear to God.’

  She sighs deeply and pulls away a little. ‘Is there anything else you need to tell me? Anything else you’re keeping to yourself?’

  Mum’s face flashes in front of my eyes. Her waxy, peaceful, just-dead face. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I can’t. Not yet.

  ‘Sometimes I need a drink so badly my hands shake,’ I say instead. And then I start crying again.

  Chapter 22

  ‘You must be Julia. I’m Anne Crampton.’ A tall woman looks down at me, smiling warmly. She’s wearing a neat navy trouser suit, her long brown hair is streaked with silver and she speaks English with a slight accent, Norwegian maybe or Swedish. I’ve been sitting in the waiting area outside her consultation rooms for ten minutes trying to focus on a magazine, jittery with nerves.

  ‘Yes, Jules,’ I say, putting down the magazine and standing up. She offers me her hand and I shake it, her palm warm and firm against mine.

  ‘Jules, good. Please come in.’ She waves her hand towards the open doorway and I follow her through. The room smells clean and slightly lemony from the scented candle burning on the mantelpiece. It’s early in the year for a fire, but it’s burning away in the black Victorian fireplace. I look around for one of those leather chaises longues that shrinks’ offices in movies always seem to have, but there’s only two chocolate-brown armchairs opposite each other in front of the fireplace. A glass coffee table sits in-between, and there’s a tidy wooden roll-top desk against one of the cream walls with two watercolours hanging above it: one of Dalkey Island, the other of Dun Laoghaire Pier.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ She gestures at one of the chairs. My eye catches the large man-sized box of tissues on the table.

  I sit down, cross my legs and jiggle my foot nervously. Anne takes a notepad and pen off her desk and takes a seat opposite me.

  ‘Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here today?’ she says, her voice calm and soothing. ‘I believe you had an accident, is that correct?’

  I look at her, wondering what else Sheila’s referral notes said, but her gaze seems even and non-judgemental.

  I nod and take a deep breath. ‘I fell out of a tree last Saturday night. Well, a tree house actually. I’d had some champagne and I lost my footing. I was lucky – I landed on a pile of leaves. Knocked myself out though. Was in hospital for two days with bad concussion.’

  ‘Gosh, you poor thing.’ She jots something down in the notebook, then asks, ‘And how are you feeling now?’

  ‘OK. I have a bit of a headache still, but the doctor said that’s normal.’

  ‘It is. And you say you lost your footing. How is your balance normally?’

  ‘Good. I cycle a lot, you have to have pretty good balance to deal with the traffic in Dublin. But I’ve had quite a lot of accidents recently.’

  She doesn’t look up from her pad, her pen still poised. ‘Any of them also drink related?’

  I can feel my cheeks blush. I know there’s no point being here unless I tell the truth. ‘Most of them I guess.’ I tell her about stepping on the glass and about what happened in Dicey Reilly’s, an edited version which doesn’t include the phone call to Ed, or the fact that I know Noel. I’m not ready to talk about Ed yet, not by a long way. By the end of the Dicey story I’m crying.

  She pushes the box of tissues towards me. I was hoping I wouldn’t need them quite so soon. I dab at my eyes and blow my nose.

  ‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘You must think I’m an awful eejit.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about. And no, I don’t think you’re an eejit, not at all. That’s a terrible thing to happen to anyone. I’m not surprised it still upsets you. No one has the right to treat you like that, but unfortunately there will always be people out there who will take advantage of certain situations.’ She sits back in her seat and steeples her fingers, but she doesn’t say anything else, which is unnerving. For a few long seconds I don’t say anything either. But me being me I have to fill the vacuum.

  ‘And then there are the nightmares,’ I say out of the blue, surprising myself. ‘Is it normal to have the same kind of nightmare for years and years? Pandora thinks it’s weird. She’s my sister.’

  ‘A lot of people have recurring dreams,’ Anne says. ‘Would you like to tell me about yours?’

  I focus on the fire for a second. The flame’s small and tidy, flickering evenly. Must be gas. Mum refused to have gas fires in our old house, said it was cheating. Plus she loved the smell of peat briquettes and wood burning. It was Pandora’s job to take out the ash and clean the fireplace afterwards; she used to let me help her sometimes. I loved brushing the hearth with the tiny fire brush, pretending to be Cinderella.

  Anne’s voice cuts into my memories. ‘Jules? Your dreams?’

  I look at her, then down at my hands. Her eyes are so intense and I think I’ll find it easier to talk if I’m not looking directly at her.

  ‘The setting changes,’ I say in a low voice, staring at the fire again. ‘It’s sometimes the corridor at my old school, or the hall at home, or a church for some reason, which is weird because I don’t go very often, just at Christmas really. I’m usually alone and suddenly my hands start to feel funny. I look down and they’re bleeding and it starts dripping all over the ground and within a few seconds I’m standing in a pool of my own blood. Then I wake up. Recently I had one where my niece was dead on the pavement after some sort of accident or something. I was standing over her and my hands were pouring blood onto her broken body.’

  I can hear Anne make a tiny tut-tutting noise with her tongue. ‘Poor Jules. Very strong imagery going on there – all that blood – it must be frightening.’

  I nod and gnaw at my lip, willing myself not to cry.

  ‘What do you think it means?’ She cocks her head. ‘Have you any idea?’

  I shrug. I do have an idea but don’t think I can find the words to vocalize it.

  Anne tries another tack. ‘When did these dreams begin?’

  ‘When I was nine,’ I say slowly.

  ‘Was there anything going on in your life at that time? Anything out of the ordinary?’

  And then I start crying again. I can’t help myself, the tears pour down my cheeks and I wipe them away with my fingers. Anne passes me the box of tissues again and I pull out several and mop up my face.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper.

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. I’m here to listen, that’s my job. Lots of people cry when they’re talking to me, most in fact. Hence the tissues.’ She pats my hand. ‘Take your time, Jules. Most clients find the first meeting the hardest if that’s any consolation. It does get easier, I promise. Today, I’m just getting to know you, finding out how I can help you. That’s all. It’s not a test. And if you want to stop right now, that’s not a problem.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I sniff, then blow my nose again and sigh. ‘I’m not used to talking about myself, not like this. My family . . .’ I pause. ‘We don’t talk about the past much. My dad says we should look forwards, not backwards.’

  ‘Sometimes we need to look at the past a little to help us move forwards,’ Anne says gently. ‘However difficult or painful it might be. Coming to terms with things that have happened in the past helps us find out who we are, and, more importantly, who we want to be. And I know we haven’t gone there yet, but you are worried about your drinking, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say softly, my cheeks hot again. ‘It’s not fun any more. And I do stupid things when I’m drunk, I see that now. I think it’s probably better to stop for a while, until I don’t need to drin
k.’

  ‘And do you? Need to drink, I mean?’

  ‘When I’m talking to new people, yes. It helps with the nerves. Or when I’m feeling a bit down and want to blot everything out. It just makes everything easier. Takes the edge off.’

  ‘And do you find yourself thinking about having a drink often, say during work for example?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admit.

  Anne makes some more notes. Then she looks up again. ‘You said you drink sometimes to blot everything out, Jules. Blot out what exactly? Do you know?’

  I press my lips together. What did I mean? I think about this for a minute.

  ‘Painful feelings I guess,’ I reply. ‘Feelings of inadequacy. Of things not going right. I broke up with my boyfriend last Christmas; he was seeing my best friend behind my back, so that hurt, a lot. I miss them both. I guess I’m quite lonely sometimes.’ Tears spring to my eyes again but I blink them away.

  ‘You mentioned your family, Jules. Are you close to your family?’

  I nod. ‘Yes. We all live together – me, Dad, Bird, that’s my granny, my sister, and her little girl, Iris. She’s eight.’

  ‘Busy household.’

  ‘It can be, but it seems to work. Myself and Pandora have a bit of a love-hate relationship, but we’ve been getting on a bit better since we started working together.’

  Anne tilts her head. ‘Pandora? Unusual name.’

  I give a small smile. ‘My mum was obsessed by Greek le-gends. Used to read them to us at bedtime.’

  She smiles. ‘Of course. Pandora’s box. You didn’t mention your mum. Does she live elsewhere?’

  ‘She passed away when I was nine. Cancer.’

  ‘Ah, I see. I’m sorry, that must have been hard.’ Anne glances down at her notes again and then adds something.

  I nod, the tears starting to flow again and before I know what’s happening I hear myself say, ‘She died on my birthday, May the third. I snuck in early that morning, desperately wanting to see her. Everyone else was still in bed but I couldn’t sleep. Her door was always open a crack so I peeked round it and she was awake. She spotted me and told me to come in but be very quiet so I didn’t wake anyone else.’ I stop for a second and take a few deep breaths.

  ‘And then she told me to climb into the bed beside her. I wasn’t usually allowed to do this, Dad said we couldn’t ’cause her body was weak and it would hurt her too much. She put her arm around me and I snuggled in to her. She smelt a bit funny but I didn’t mind.’ My eyes well up again and there’s a lump forming in my throat but I make myself continue.

  ‘I stayed there for ages. She told me about her own ninth birthday. She got a bike and she fell off it and scraped both her knees. Bird put this purple stuff on them and in all the birthday party photos she had bright purple knees under her white lace party dress.’ I pause again and stare at the fire for a moment before adding, ‘And then she said she was sorry that she hadn’t had time to make proper memory boxes for me and Pandora, that she’d never thought everything would happen so quickly. I told her it was OK, that even without one I’d never forget her. And then she told me that Pandora would look after me, and Dad and Bird, that she was so sad she wasn’t going to be around to watch me grow up, but, but . . .’ Now I’m crying so much I really do have to stop.

  Anne pats my hand. ‘It’s OK, Jules,’ she says softly. ‘You cry as much as you need.’

  I soak up my tears with a tissue and wait for a few minutes, taking deep breaths and trying to compose myself. The memory is still so vivid. I can see Mum’s pale, drawn face in front of my eyes, remember every word she’d said to me that morning:

  ‘You’re so lucky you have a sister, Boolie. I always hated being an only child. Be good to each other, won’t you? And is there anything you want to ask me, anything at all?’ She was speaking slowly, straining to get the words out, her breath puffy and laboured. But I wanted to talk to her so much, I pretended not to notice.

  ‘Yes, are you really going to die, Mummy? No one will tell me.’

  She looked so sad, she didn’t have to say anything. I knew the answer was yes.

  ‘When?’ I asked.

  She blinked slowly then lifted a hand, slowly, so slowly and stroked my hair lovingly.

  ‘Soon, Boolie,’ she said softly. ‘Too soon. I’m afraid I really am most awfully sick.’

  And then I started crying and she just held me. I could hear her breath catching in her chest a little and it scared me, but I stayed there, squeezing her tight against me.

  ‘Don’t go, Mummy, I love you. I want you to stay.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you, darling, believe me. But you have to let me go. Please, Boolie?’

  ‘Will you go to heaven, Mummy?’

  ‘I do hope so.’

  ‘Do you hurt a lot?’

  ‘Yes. Remember that time you had flu, Boolie, and you had to stay in bed for a whole week? It’s like that but much, much worse.’

  ‘Will you feel better in heaven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you can go to heaven, Mummy. But I’ll miss you. Will you sing to me now? “Three Little Swallows”?’

  ‘Of course, my darling.’ Then she started to sing, her voice frail and wispy, but still beautiful.

  ‘Three little swallows said we must fly. Summer is over and winter’s nigh. Cold winds are blowing so we must fly, we must all fly . . . over . . . the sea.’

  And she sang to me over and over again, until her breath went raspy and wheezy, and her throat started to make rattling noises.

  ‘I’ll have to stop now, Boolie,’ she whispered. ‘Can you go and get your daddy? I need . . . can’t . . .’ she stopped talking and her eyelids flickered and then shut.

  ‘But I didn’t want to leave her,’ I tell Anne, as I come back to the present. ‘Her breath went really funny for a few seconds then stopped altogether. I got out of the bed and stood beside her, studying her face. It had changed, it seemed softer, all her skin was resting gently on her bones and her jaw wasn’t tense any more. I think I knew she’d gone, but she looked so peaceful that I wasn’t scared.

  ‘I stayed there for ages. But gradually I started to realize what I’d done and I felt sick. Dad was always telling me and Pandora not to tire her out, that she didn’t have the strength to talk for more than a few minutes at a time. But I’d kept her talking for ages. I’d even got into the bed with her, made her sing to me. I’d worn her out; I’d killed her. So I ran out of the room and back into my own and pretended to be asleep.’ I pause, remembering the horrific, searing, all-encompassing guilt I’d felt.

  Anne is looking at me intently. Finally she says, ‘And then?’

  ‘A bit later, I don’t know how long exactly, it can’t have been long but it felt like hours, I heard Dad shouting Mum’s name, Kirsten, and then howling ‘No!’ and then crying really loudly. That’s when I knew he’d found her and it was true, she really was dead.’

  I stare at the fire again, watching the flames dance in their even, regular way. ‘I know she would have died anyway, but I shortened her life, maybe by days. Because of me she never got to say goodbye to Dad and Pandora and Bird properly. I was selfish, wanted her all to myself.’

  For some reason the tears have stopped now and I say this calmly. I’ve never told anyone before, not like this, and it shocks me.

  Eventually Anne says, ‘You were nine, Jules. And it was your birthday, of course you wanted to talk to her. You most certainly did not kill her. She died in the arms of someone she loved deeply. And you gave her permission to go and you told her you loved her and would never forget her. You did everything right. Do you understand?’

  I nod, but I don’t believe her. She’s just saying that to make me feel better.

  Anne looks at me, her eyes soft and kind. ‘I know you don’t believe me, not yet. But you will. Have you spoken to your family about this? Pandora or your dad?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘No one?’

  ‘
Just my friend, Jamie. But that was years ago, when we were teenagers, and we’ve never discussed it since.’

  ‘So you’ve been carrying this on your own all these years?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jules,’ Anne says gently, taking my hand in hers. ‘You’ve been through an awful lot. It can’t have been easy telling me about your mum, and I appreciate your honesty. You’ve made an amazing start and over the weeks—’

  ‘Weeks?’ I interrupt. ‘You mean there’s more?’

  ‘Of course. We’re just beginning our journey together. Now we’ve talked a little about your past, we can build on that and talk about the present and the future.’

  I sit back in my chair, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. ‘I don’t know if I can do this every week. I’m knackered.’

  She smiles softly. ‘Talking about yourself takes a lot out of you all right. Be gentle with yourself. Take some time off today to treat yourself kindly. A bath maybe, read a book, but most of all, rest. And before I see you next week I’d like you to consider talking to your family about what happened. Can you do that?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’

  ‘I understand. Take as much time as you need. But it may not be as difficult as you expect. You were nine, Jules, please keep remembering that. You did nothing wrong. No, scratch that; as I said before, you did everything right.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And for the first time in months, I feel calm. Wiped out, yes, but also strangely hopeful.

  Chapter 23

  That evening Pandora rings my mobile, waking me up. ‘Where are you, Jules? It’s nearly seven, Arietty will be here any minute.’

  I swear under my breath. Bird collected me from Anne’s offices at one and dropped me home afterwards. I was so drained I just about managed half a bowl of soup (Bird insisted) before crawling into bed, where I’ve been ever since, sound asleep.

  ‘There’s steak on tonight,’ Pandora says. ‘Want me to get an order in before all the good pieces go? You know what Klaudia’s like – hates waste. Buys twenty steaks and once they’re gone, they’re gone.’ She puts on Klaudia’s strongly accented voice. ‘You ’vant steak? You come early next time. You late, no steak.’