Allan Hewitt made the long trip from Scotland to offer his condolences. I suspected he was feeling uncomfortable. Standing a good sixteen feet from us all at the other side of the lounge, he clung onto his heavy coat and holdall like his life depended on it.
“Very busy with work this month. Opening a regional distribution centre in Dundee in early 2002. Intention is three of our smaller Northern depots will be absorbed into it. Had to travel from there today. Taken me over six and a half hours. Over Friarton Bridge in Perth along the M90, short break for a strong coffee near Stirling which cost over three quid. Continued onto to the M74. You never feel like you’re on the home strait until you hit the A1. Roadworks by the A64 junction near York shafted me. The congestion added another forty-two minutes to the journey,” he said, rattling out his entire route at a speed faster than his car must have travelled.
“You must be exhausted,” Annie said.
“No, not in the slightest. All part of what I do. You get used to it. Anyway … how are you guys? I mean, how are… things?” Then, as if suddenly conscious of the need to be more empathetic, he dropped all his gear, strode across the living room, put his sizable arms around me and said, “From now you and I are going to be like brothers - orphans of the world together.”
“It’s good to see you Mr Hewitt,” I replied.
United by our common status, we opened up to each other, talking about our parents and how much we missed them. Allan, useful as ever, spoke about the practical aspects of what needed to be done, offering hints and tips as to how to get through the legal aspects of probate with the minimum of fuss. Later as we reflected on the sale of his parents’ own house, I admitted to him that the week they had passed away was the first time I’d ever purchased cannabis. All right, it was Allan’s money, but it was my risk - me who had to make the deal, travelled to his old poly, met up with ‘the man’ and handed over all the cash to an unknown stranger. We joked about my rampant paranoia; how I’d been convinced every person in the pub was watching me as I clumsily passed an envelope containing one hundred pounds under the table in exchange for the biggest block of resin I’d seen in my life. Allan was surprised I’d never bought from a dealer before and reminded me what a useful bereavement pillow Pennie had been to him after his parents had passed away.
“I remember Pennie was fantastic, she really helped me to cope. By taking my mind off all the hassles I was facing, she allowed me to work through the pain,” he said.
“I just want to stop feeling so bad, so empty,” I replied.
“You will - the most important thing Pennie taught me was… and I know this sounds strange – but to enjoy your grief. Take it from me, you’ll miss it when it’s gone.”
Of course Pennie jumped at this golden opportunity to endear herself to me and insisted she’d do all she could to help me come to terms with the awful news about mum. She pleaded with me not to undertake any new projects for at least a couple of months. Her message stripped bare was we should set some time aside for me - to take stock of things; forget about the future and ruminate on the past for as long as I could.
Ms Fenton did a brilliant job of masking the pain, but gradually as the mourning continued, she left me feeling nothing – no pain, no joy, no hope and no happiness. It was barely noticeable in the beginning, but as I persisted with the binging, it felt like small parts of my essence were being chipped away and cast aside. After a few monster sessions a new emotion replaced the grief, as a state of suffocating anxiety became the new order. Relying on Pennie was like putting a thin plastic lid over a burning chip pan fire. Initially, it appears to provide respite; but after this short cosmetic improvement, the lid also becomes engulfed in the flame, feeds the fire and then begins to choke you.
According to Bob Marley, “When you smoke the herb, it reveals you to yourself.” Pennie revealed plenty, but I didn’t like any of what I saw. For me, she unmasked a disfigured version of myself by flaunting fears I’d tucked away in order to function more effectively. Up until the watershed discoveries about Janet, I thought Pennie had helped with my journey of discovery. However after I’d joined all the pieces of my sister’s accident together; I realised I was no longer equipped to handle her insatiable questions about loss, guilt, religion, spiritualism and the afterlife. Pennie made me re-live the build-up to my mother’s death over and over again. She was like a broken record, tormenting me about the circumstances of the fall; trying as hard as she could to sully my final memories of my mother. The taunting was very tiring and I found it impossible to shake her off this one subject, as her persistent questions invaded my mind. Was it me who was responsible? Could I have done more to help? The more guilt I laid on myself, the greater my self-loathing became. I should have noticed the clear warning signs about my mother’s health, and, I ought to have recognised that her life was spiralling out of control...
Pennie reminded me about my mother’s second unhappy marriage and how she had developed a fondness for alcohol, just as my grandmother and her mother before her had. Dutiful Pennie took great delight in helping me consider the possibility that a hereditary pattern may be emerging. If her insinuations were correct, then perhaps built-in to my DNA was some kind of inclination towards dependency? I battled hard to stop myself dwelling on the most unthinkable consequence of such a suggestion; namely that if such a hereditary tendency did exist, there could be serious consequences for my own children; before regrouping and rejecting this, the most terrifying of legacies.
As Pennie continued to whisper into the ear of my tattered resolve, I became concerned about what kind of future lay ahead for myself and my family. Feeling increasingly pessimistic, I gradually accepted her suggestion that unseen forces may well be at work, determining the choices we were all able to make. Detecting my impressionability, the way a horse picks up on fear, Pennie recommended that I explore whether supernatural explanations for life’s many tribulations might be able to put my mind at rest. With little confidence left in my ability to construct a future for myself, I followed this advice and decided to visit a couple of mediums to gain a glimpse of what fate had in store for us all.
Playing it safe for my first paying visit to a spiritualist, I asked a friend’s dad to read my tarot cards. He was a giant of a man with a stocky build and a deep, booming voice who scared the hell out of anyone who didn’t know him. On the day of the reading, I went to the back door of his bungalow and was told to wait in the kitchen. It was very dark throughout the house and smelt a little musty. Recognising the whiff of dog hair triggered an involuntary allergic sneezing response. This was immediately picked up by my host who hollered from an adjoining room to ask if I took anything for my allergies. Fortunately I’d been fore-warned about the presence of pets and so shouted back, in a directionless manner, that I’d taken a precautionary antihistamine tablet.
Next, I was told to make myself comfortable in the living room, situated at the front of the house and so began walking down the long, narrow hallway. Just before I entered the ‘reading room’, a heavy hand fell firmly on my left shoulder, while at the same time another hand covered in a cloth was pressed tightly over my nose and mouth. I was terrified and had no idea what on earth was going on. Had I misjudged this man, was he a secret disciple of Dennis Neilson (recently convicted for killing numerous young men after luring them back to his flat)? I attempted to shriek in terror through the cotton muzzle. I honestly thought this was it – my number was up - I was being forced to inhale chloroform and would wake up two days later, bound up inside an uncomfortably small, sealed tea-chest, peering out of a couple of holes drilled in it to keep me alive.
It turned out that what had happened was my host had put some menthol vapour onto a hanky, believing it would help with my allergies. Great start to an intimidating experience.
Eventually calming down from my unprompted, unannounced and somewhat enforced medication, we sat and talked about expectations. He suggested that I may have some latent psychic abilities; a potenti
al to see into the future and asked if I’d I like to be trained in the art of tarot cards. This was not going to happen. Pennie Fenton provided all the guidance I needed right now. Furthermore, the first ten minutes inside his house had hardly been the best introduction to a potential tutor.
During the tarot reading which followed, the only distinctive card I remember being dealt was the Tower Card. According to practitioners, no card scares more than the Tower. It is however one of the easiest cards to understand when it comes to interpretation: false structures, false beliefs, false institutions, false realities which are going to crumble, abruptly, violently and all at once. None of this sounded good, and rattled by the prospect of my crumbling realities, I handed over payment and quickly scuttled back along his unlit corridor in search of the exit, un-sure whether any of the experience had been helpful.
I wondered what a card which said, ‘everything you believe to be true is false’ was referring to. Could it be to do with progress at work, was Jack Wallace trying to get rid of me? This seemed very plausible. Could it be the move to our expensive new house was a bad idea, maybe it wouldn’t provide the loving home for our family we’d hoped? Could it be some of the people I’d always thought of as good friends were in reality just stringing me along, taking me for a ride? Visiting this so-called medium had given rise to far more unanswered questions than answered ones. I never thought for a minute the false beliefs and false realities he’d spoken about could possibly be about my pernicious playroom partner Pennie Fenton; or just how easily I was getting suckered into believing all this spiritualistic garbage.
Recognising I was frustrated by the ambiguity of the only message to come out of this reading, Pennie suggested I visit a professional clairvoyant. She believed someone from outside, who I had no connections with would be able to provide a more objective viewpoint. Mrs Faye Jackson, sometimes visited a psychic called Rubie Deramore and was really impressed with her - believing she had foreseen aspects of Stuarts’ accident. Ms Deramore had built up quite a following because of the accuracy of her predictions and was taking bookings for her next visit to Scunthorpe. After the vagueness of the Tower Card, I was particularly drawn to her reputation for being uncommonly specific. Although embarrassed, I turned up at the appointed time and handed over payment, this time in advance. It felt a bit like I was on another pick-up for Allan and half expected her to hand over a half ounce bag of weed for the forty pounds. The clairvoyant was an older woman who looked like she’d had a hard life. She asked me to shuffle the deck and then began to interpret the cards. I approached this session the same way I had with Max Zelman, sitting opposite, her with arms folded as if to say I’m not convinced, so prove me wrong. Best poker face on, I tried to reveal nothing and worked hard to give her no insight into how I was feeling.
Unfortunately, the reading was eerily accurate. Ms Deramore talked about the past, present and future. I was confounded by the references she made to events which involved my late parents - cherished times which were impossible for her to know about. I was pleased when she said Annie and I were soul mates, but was then confused by her statement, “There will be lots of arguments ahead with much shouting and falling out as you move into a very troubled relationship with a female who is close to you.”
Right at the end of the session, she mentioned Kirsty, saying that the one dark cloud which had followed her around had recently lifted following an announcement about her ‘true nature’. If this related to my sister’s decision to tell friends and work colleagues about her sexuality, it made perfect sense. Deramore also mentioned that someone very close to Kirsty was trying to get in touch with her from the ‘other side’ because they needed to know what Kirsty had done with the ring. This time, I hadn’t got a clue what she could be referring to.
Deramore was insistent about this point and pressed me to ask my sister what had happened to, “The ring which she’d recently inherited.”
What a weird request. Until this point, I was unaware Kirsty had been bequeathed anything from anyone. I hadn’t come to the reading in any attempt to make contact with the dead, but here I was being provided with messages from beyond the grave. What would we do next I wondered – play with an Ouija board? Her story however, was too specific not to examine further, so as soon as I got home I phoned my sister to ask about its authenticity. Kirsty was gobsmacked. She explained she had recently lost an antique wedding ring which Mum had given to her just before she died. Concerned what our sister Erin and I might think, she’d not told a soul about it. According to Kirsty, she’d gone on a shopping trip to London, on a bitterly cold winter’s day. On her return home, she was gutted to discover the gold ring was missing and presumed it must have slipped off her finger while walking around the capital. We were both speechless. How could anyone else possibly know this? It validated the whole reading for me and, being the gullible fool I am, convinced me once and for all that Pennie Fenton was right - we all have far less control over what happens to us than we care to admit.
Concerned about how I should cope with the tirade of bad luck that life was throwing at me and fearful of what else might lay ahead; I had no hesitation in booking a second visit to see the same psychic. Encouraged by what I’d heard six months earlier, I decided to go for the more expensive ‘belt and braces’ crystal ball reading. What her poster called ‘A prescient glimpse into a future still to unfold’. Specifically, I was curious to find out if Annie and I (both approaching our fortieth birthdays) would have another baby and also what direction my career might take in the year ahead. On reflection, neither of these were matters you’d really want to entrust to a total stranger.
Overall this second reading was far less impressive. Deramore seemed to struggle to latch onto anything like she had before, although she did state that Annie and I might become parents again but would have to wait for quite some time for this to happen. One definite prediction was however made. She could clearly see me at some point in the future stood on a podium, in front of lots of people under the glare of bright lights. I had no reference points for this and suggested that, in my role at the brewery, I was sometimes required to talk at various conferences. She was unconvinced by this interpretation, adding this future event would signal an important turning point.
The clairvoyant also encouraged me to consider running my own business, which she said would be the making of me. I was intrigued with this idea, having often toyed with the idea of launching a training business and so asked her for more details. She was (conveniently?) unable to see what the business would be about, claiming that it was something she had never encountered before. Her final prophecy was that I would one day be required to save a neighbour from choking using the Heimlich maneuver. This worried me more than anything – me, tasked with saving someone’s life. It felt like a mammoth responsibility. Once home, I downloaded reams of information from the web on how to apply abdominal thrusts, in case I was ever called into action. To date I am pleased to confirm I’ve not been required to use any of these much studied techniques.
Looking back at this dark time, I think the most dangerous thing about listening to these random spiritualists was for every statement which rang true, it further diminished my capacity to create a future for myself. The more of these ‘cold readings’ which inexplicably turned into reality, the less I felt in command of my own direction. By acquiescing to their indistinct premonitions, I lost what remaining faith I had in myself and ended up feeling even more helpless than usual.
16. In the Grip
Back at work, the one thing the loathsome Jack Wallace had been unable to block was the arrival of my shiny new company car. The vehicle was a necessary perk, required for the large number of perfunctory journeys to various brewing sites across the UK. Typically, any elation I’d begun to feel about receipt of this well-appointed motor were short lived as self-doubt once again took over. I believed I didn’t deserve an ‘executive car’ and felt awkward whenever I sat in any of the twenty-four optional position
s of its resplendent heated blue leather seats. Half the time I drove it, I was stoned. Probably more so, since I was invariably travelling home trashed each night after calling in to see my sister. Similarly, first thing in the morning, I’d jump in the car still high - the aftermath of another heavy smoking session from the night before. With Pennie Fenton as co-driver, my limited driving capabilities were constantly compromised.
I had plenty of evidence from an already-chequered driving career to remind me what an appalling driver I was. Awareness of this did little to improve my performance behind the wheel. To compensate, I all too readily accepted Pennie’s easy offer to help soothe my nerves. Her solution for driver-anxiety was of course to spend more time with her. Her unique approach to ‘personal relaxation’ just prior to a difficult journey did provide short term relief, but invariably contributed to me being all the more hazardous on the road.
The longer the journey, the more of her ‘special assistance’ was required. On some trips, this meant I became so outrageously chilled, that long journeys appeared to last only a few minutes. Most of the time I was unable to concentrate on anything other than the hypnotic beat of the bass line booming from the stereo. With Pennie whispering in my ear and distracting me from the concentrated effort required, it was as if I was willing myself to cause some kind of serious road accident – just the sort I had been running away from for so long.
The more reliant I became on a spliff to ‘take the edge off’ a journey, the more anxious I became about getting pulled-over by an unmarked police car. I was convinced every car spotted in the rear-view mirror was a surveillance vehicle. Officers of the law would surely recognise my overly careful steering; my disinclination to overtake, my Christopher Lee bloodshot eyes and pull me over for questioning. Catastrophising further, this would inevitably lead to losing my licence, my job, my income, the house and of course my family. Seatbelt secure, stereo thumping and paranoia running wild, every journey sent me into an apoplectic state. By the time I arrived home in the evening, I was usually so stoked that I needed … yet more spliffs to help me unwind. Pennie begets Pennie. And so the cycle continued. The situation soon became intolerable. Living on my frayed nerves, I was as exhausted by the time I arrived at work, as I was when I got back from it. I longed for my office to be situated closer to home, or to not have travel to it so often. I believed fewer car journeys would also improve my personal life by allowing me to see more of Annie and the kids.
Drowning in the Shallow End Page 20
