‘Thank God for that. I just wish I knew why.’
‘Well, as I said, Bertie will tell you when he’s ready. In the meantime, I’d avoid asking. Tell him that you’re there for him, that you’re ready to listen to anything he wants to tell you. Make sure he understands that there’s nothing he could say that would damage your love for him. But then leave it at that. It can be very tempting, in cases like this, to try to wheedle it out of them, to try to pressurise them into telling you something.’
‘I can see that, yes.’
‘But you need to not do that. And make sure your husband understands that as well.’
‘OK. I’ll tell him.’
‘If he seems unusually depressed, or agitated, or withdrawn, or upset, you can phone me.’ The doctor pushes her card across the desk and Victoria slides it to the edge and picks it up. She fiddles with the card as she tries to think what to say, what to ask, what to think. ‘And I’ve asked Bertie to come back and see me next week. The secretary will phone to make an appointment.’
‘So that’s it?’ Victoria says. ‘I just take him home and act like nothing happened?’
‘Not at all,’ the doctor says. ‘You take him home, yes. But you impress upon him that he can talk to you, that you love him. Even if it doesn’t appear that he wants to hear these things – he is an adolescent – or, suppose he doesn’t appear to believe you, tell him anyway. It all sinks in, eventually. And try to keep the energy in the household as calm and encouraging as you can. If you need to argue with your husband, for instance, do that elsewhere.’
‘We never argue. Did Bertie say we argue?’
‘No. But most couples do at some point.’
‘Yes, I suppose they do. But we don’t.’
‘That’s very unusual. In fact, if it’s true, it’s quite extraordinary.’
‘Well, it is true. We’re not the arguing kind.’
‘OK. Fair enough. Anyway, you’re probably feeling angry about what Bertie has done, too. But you need to vent that anger elsewhere for the moment. It’s not what Bertie needs.’
‘Of course.’
‘I would suggest you see your GP and get him to refer you to an addiction counsellor and a therapist, too.’
‘An addiction counsellor? Is Bertie taking drugs?’
‘No. That’s for you. Yourself. To work out what you’re going to do about your Valium habit. The doctor in A&E posted a note in Bertie’s file about it and, well, forty milligrams a day – that’s a high dosage. And Bertie mentioned it repeatedly, too, so don’t, you know, imagine that he’s unaware.’
Victoria whispers the word ‘God’ as a fresh bout of tears spring forth.
‘You could see this as an opportunity. To heal together. As a family.’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
‘I would advise family therapy, too. For all of you. Together, with your husband. It will help you communicate better. Again, your GP can organise that.’
Victoria dabs at her tears again and then blows her nose. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’ll, um, talk to Dr Dailey.’
‘And there’s one final thing,’ the doctor says. ‘One thing Bertie specifically authorised me to discuss with you.’
‘Yes?’
‘There is a holiday planned, I believe?’
‘I’m not going. It’s just Bertie and my husband. They’re leaving next week. Oh, actually, Bertie won’t be able to come and see you next week, because—’
‘Sorry,’ the doctor says, interrupting, ‘But your son, it appears, doesn’t want to go.’
Victoria nods. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I’m aware of that. But Martin, my husband, he thinks it’s important. For their relationship. They haven’t been getting on so well.’
The doctor nods and blinks slowly. ‘I understand,’ she says. ‘But this once, I would strongly advise letting your son get his own way.’
‘Cancel the holiday, you mean?’
‘He really doesn’t want to go. And he doesn’t feel anyone’s been listening to him about that. So, yes. I think allowing him to tell you that he doesn’t want to go is as good a place as any to start. You can use his follow-up appointment here as an excuse, if your husband’s resistant to that idea.’
Victoria nods and chews her bottom lip. ‘Is it Martin?’ she asks.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Is Bertie . . . I don’t know . . . Is he scared of being alone with Martin?’
The doctor frowns deeply and leans forwards. She licks her lips. ‘Is there some reason Bertie might be afraid of his father?’
‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says. ‘That’s what I’m asking.’
‘But you have suspicions?’
‘No.’
‘Is your husband ever violent towards Bertie?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Does he threaten him with physical violence?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Does he abuse Bertie in any other way?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Hmm,’ the doctor says, now relaxing back in her chair. ‘And you’re certain about all of that? Because if ever there was a time to air your suspicions, it would be now.’
‘I don’t have any suspicions,’ Victoria says. ‘But you’ve just told me that my son doesn’t want to go on holiday with his father. So something must be wrong.’
‘Right,’ the doctor says, now restraining a wry smile. ‘Well, I’m sure there are plenty of people who want to walk a hundred miles across a Spanish mountaintop in July. And there are probably just as many people who don’t – yourself included, from what Bertie says.’
‘That’s true. It’s my idea of a nightmare.’
‘Well, it’s Bertie’s idea of a nightmare, too,’ the doctor says earnestly.
‘Ah. Yes. I see.’
‘So, listen to your son. He’s almost fifteen. He knows what he wants.’
‘Of course. Yes. Are we terrible parents, do you think?’
‘No, I don’t think that. And nor does Bertie.’
‘Good. But . . . I mean . . . is that all this was, then? A way to get out of the stupid holiday?’
‘Something like this is rarely about just one thing,’ Dr Cheeder says. ‘But a part of it is certainly about Bertie’s believing that he can’t be heard. So listening to him on this issue is a great place to start, as I said.’
‘Of course,’ Victoria says. ‘I’ll explain it all to Martin when he gets back. He’s away with work at the moment. In Dubai. Do you think I should tell him? I haven’t yet. Told him, that is.’
‘I think that’s something you can discuss with your son,’ the doctor says. ‘Now, shall we go and see if he’s ready to go home?’
‘OK,’ Victoria says. ‘Yes. Let’s do that.’
When Martin steps out through the sliding doors at Heathrow Airport, he glances straight at Victoria before turning and, following the crowd, dragging his suitcase away to the left. In his pinstripe suit and white open-necked shirt, he looks, somehow, generic, impersonal, not like her husband at all. It’s only when she calls out his name, when he pauses, turns, focuses on her face and smiles, that he starts to look like the Martin she knows.
‘Vicky!’ he says as he ducks under the barrier. ‘What the hell are you doing here? I almost walked right past you!’
‘I thought I’d come and meet you,’ she says. ‘And don’t worry, I saw you, even if you didn’t see me.’
‘It’s just such a surprise,’ Martin says. ‘I mean, I have a shuttle booked and everything.’
‘Oh, I didn’t think of that,’ Victoria replies. ‘Will they be waiting for you?’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll phone them,’ Martin says, pulling his phone from his pocket. ‘But why the change? What’s this in aid of?’
‘I just thought it would make a change. I thought we could get lunch together. There’s supposed to be a Jamie Oliver place somewhere here, I think.’
‘That’s Gatwick,’ Martin says. ‘And it’s really nothing spec
ial. So no, let’s get out of here and stop at a pub somewhere. I think I’ve had my fill of airports.’
‘OK,’ Victoria says, looking around. ‘Then, it’s, um, that way. I’m in the car park over there.’
As they start to walk, with Martin’s case trundling behind them, Martin asks, ‘Nothing’s wrong, is it?’
‘No,’ Victoria lies. ‘But there is something I need to talk to you about. Over lunch. A few things, actually.’
Martin glances sideways at his wife. ‘Sounds ominous,’ he says. ‘You’re not running off with the milkman again, are you?’
‘We don’t even have a milkman,’ Victoria replies, in such a deadpan manner that Martin’s not even sure if she has realised he cracked a joke.
They end up outside a pub in Hounslow called the Three Magpies, just minutes from the airport. ‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ Victoria asks, looking up at the facade. She’s surprised and little disappointed at Martin’s choice.
‘Yes,’ Martin says, pushing the door open and ushering her in. ‘A pint and a pie. After Dubai, it’s exactly what I want.’
The pub is almost empty – it is Tuesday lunchtime, after all – so they’re able to order quickly and choose from almost any table in the place. Despite having many more comfortable options, Victoria chooses a cramped table in the corner for the simple reason that it’s as far away as possible from the barmaid and the other clients.
‘So, how was your trip?’ Victoria asks as Martin puts the drinks on the table.
‘Oh, you know, fine,’ he says, even though the words ‘tedious’, ‘tense’ and ‘exhausting’ would more accurately describe it. It’s simply that he has learned over the years that expressing it doesn’t make him, or the listener, feel any better. ‘And you?’ he asks. ‘How was your minibreak from Hubby?’
‘It was . . . um . . . interesting,’ Victoria says.
‘Interesting?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ she says, ‘But if we can just wait until the food arrives.’
‘OK. But why?’ Martin asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says. ‘I think I need something to do with my hands while I tell you everything.’
‘OK . . .’ Martin says, then, ‘Oh, come on. You’re driving me crazy here.’
And so Victoria attempts to tell Martin what has happened.
Initially she struggles to frame the narrative, finds herself unable to decide what to tell Martin first and which words to use. But then she gives up and decides simply to tell it like a story, in chronological order. It makes things much easier.
‘Do you remember when I called you?’ she asks, starting again. ‘When I couldn’t find my Valium?’
‘Of course,’ Martin says.
‘Well, after I hung up, I still couldn’t find them. I looked everywhere.’
‘OK . . .’
‘I searched the whole flat.’
By the time she has finished, Martin is looking pale. In fact, he’s looking slightly green-tinged.
‘So where is he now?’
‘Bertie? He’s at home, of course.’
‘On his own?’
‘No, with Mum. I didn’t want to leave him on his own, so I got Mum to come over.’
‘So you told her.’
‘Yes. I had to. I needed her to keep an eye on him.’
‘You should have told me,’ Martin says.
‘I am telling you. But there was nothing you could do from over there. And there was no point you rushing home.’
‘No,’ Martin says. ‘I suppose not. And he won’t go on holiday with me?’
‘I’m afraid I really don’t think he wants to. I mean, we haven’t discussed it again. He won’t talk about any of it, and the shrink – at the hospital – she said not to force him to talk. But seeing as that was the only thing he authorised her to tell us, I think we can be pretty sure.’
They are interrupted by the waitress bringing their food. Pie and chips for Martin and a salad niçoise for Victoria.
‘I’m not sure how I feel about that,’ Martin says, once she has left.
‘About what?’
‘About any of it. I mean, don’t you think it’s her responsibility to tell us what’s wrong with our own son?’
‘I did think that. But she explained that her main responsibility was to make Bertie feel better.’
Martin sighs deeply. ‘I suppose,’ he says. ‘Though I can’t see why the two things are incompatible. I’ll just cancel the holiday, I guess.’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure what’s best, really.’
‘You don’t think I should go, surely? Not on my own?’
Victoria shrugs.
‘Is it me?’ Martin asks. ‘Or is it the trip? Because, I mean, I can cancel and organise something else. For all of us.’
Victoria shakes her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she says, forking some tuna to her lips. ‘But my feeling is that we should just drop the whole subject of holidays, really. Just never mention it again, whether you go or not. It has become . . . I don’t know . . . emotionally charged, I suppose. Do you see what I mean?’
Martin nods but is looking confused. ‘If it’s me he hates, maybe I should go. Give you all a break from me. See if that does him some good.’
‘He doesn’t hate you,’ Victoria says. ‘But he did say that you should still go.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Martin says, laughing sourly and pushing his plate away. ‘I think I lost my appetite,’ he explains.
‘You need to eat something,’ Victoria says, pushing it back towards him.
‘What words did he use?’ Martin asks, lifting a chip disdainfully from the plate.
‘When?’
‘When he said that I should go anyway.’
‘Oh, well, he asked me if I thought you’d cancel. And then he said that you’d been looking forward to it for so long . . . that you should still go. I think he just doesn’t want to feel guilty about mucking your holiday up.’
‘He has mucked my holiday up.’
‘I know,’ Victoria says, reaching across the table for Martin’s wrist. ‘But maybe don’t let him know that. The doctor, she said that we should keep things as emotionally low key as possible.’
‘Low key, huh? Well, don’t worry. I’m not going to shout at him,’ Martin says. ‘But all the same . . . I’d like to know what the hell this is all about. I mean, what did I ever do to upset the boy?’
‘I don’t know,’ Victoria whispers. She looks up at Martin. She studies his face. ‘There isn’t something I don’t know about, is there?’ she asks. ‘There hasn’t been some incident I’m not aware of?’
‘No!’ Martin says. ‘Jesus! What kind of incident?’
‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says. ‘I’m just trying to understand, that’s all.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Martin says. ‘So now you think I’ve been hiding something from you?’
‘No. I don’t. Like I say, I’m just trying to understand what’s happening. And so far, none of it makes any sense to me.’
‘I’m going to ask him, straight off the bat,’ Martin says. ‘It’s the only way.’
‘The shrink said specifically not to do that.’
‘Yeah, well. Maybe I don’t care.’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I think we need to care. She’s an expert.’
‘An expert on what? On my son? On our son?’
‘Of course not. But she’s . . . well, she’s an expert on repeat suicide attempts, I suppose.’
‘Right,’ Martin says. ‘So is that a possibility, then? That he’ll try again? Is that what she said?’
‘She said he’s low risk. But she also said not to pressure him. She said to let him come to us.’
‘Hmm.’
‘So, there’s one more thing we need to talk about,’ Victoria says. ‘And I need you not to get angry.’
Martin bows his head and silently fakes screaming into his hands before looking up at his wife. ‘Go on,’ he says.
&n
bsp; ‘He, um . . . He wants to go to boarding school.’
Martin leans towards Victoria. ‘What?’ he asks in astonishment.
‘Bertie. His, um, friend, Aaron, he’s gone to one in Bedford. And Bertie asked if he can do the same.’
‘That’s crazy,’ Martin says.
‘I know.’
‘I mean, for one, he’s doing brilliantly at St George’s. You’ve seen his report cards. It’s one of the best state schools in the country. For two, he’s fourteen. No one wants to change schools that close to their GCSEs. Three, he’d never get into Bedford anyway. They’re not going to take him with two years to go. And four, if they did, it would cost a bloody fortune.’
‘I know all that.’
‘So what’s this about? Is it the Catholic thing at St George’s? Because . . .’
‘No, it’s not that. I asked him, and it’s not that. He doesn’t care about that.’
‘So what, then?’ Martin asks.
‘He . . . Look, Martin. This is going to be hard to hear. It was hard for me, too, OK?’
‘What? He hates us?’
‘No, he doesn’t hate us. But he doesn’t want to live at home any more either.’
Martin is changing colour now, shifting from pale green to red, like a traffic light shifting to Stop. ‘What?!’ he spits. ‘What?’
Victoria shrugs. ‘I don’t know . . .’ she says. ‘I honestly don’t know. And I’m going to try to talk to the doctor again when he sees her next, but that’s what he’s saying. That’s what he’s asking us for.’
Martin drops his head into his hands again, but this time he remains there long enough for Victoria to start to feel concerned. ‘Martin?’ she says, reaching out to touch his arm through his shirt sleeve. ‘Martin?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Martin says, finally lowering his hands to reveal glistening eyes. ‘I’m just . . . I mean . . . Jesus. Are we that bad as parents? Are we really?’
The following week is hellish because, despite the hospital psychiatrist’s advice, Martin alternates, seemingly randomly, between attempting to be Bertie’s best friend and trying gently, tenaciously, to bully him into submission.
This good cop, bad cop routine understandably deepens Bertie’s stony disdain for his father, as well as for his mother, who Bertie no doubt sees as his father’s accomplice in all of this. Yet despite her understanding, Victoria struggles to side with her son. It is deeply wounding to find oneself with a suicidal child who won’t even trust you enough to tell you what’s wrong. It’s as if everything they ever did for the boy has been wiped out. They are, suddenly, not only strangers but hostile strangers.
The Bottle of Tears Page 12
