Bloody hell. Damien’s eyes closed as he concentrated deeply on willing her not to look too closely.
‘This isn’t junk mail.’
Damn.
‘What is this? Something I need to know about?’
Damien wanted to tell her it was none of her bloody business and to give it back, but the words wouldn’t come.
‘Um … well … I …’ Here goes, he thought; if he said it quick it might slip by unnoticed. ‘… I’ve been seeing the new psychologist.’
‘Seeing? What do you mean, seeing?’
‘Professionally, Mum,’ he moaned, unable to stop his eyes rolling.
‘Whatever for?’
Tell her you’re fucked in the head, that’ll shut her up.
‘Well,’ he sounded pathetic, ‘sometimes I don’t like the way I feel.’
‘Humph,’ she snorted. ‘We all have our bad days, you just have to pull yourself together and get on with it.’
‘Well, actually, I’ve been feeling suicidal,’ Damien said. There, he’d used the ‘s’ word. Then he wanted to tell her, tell her about his really bad day, give her a decent shock, but instead he took a deep breath.
‘Oh for goodness sake. These days everyone’s looking for a way out, one way or another. Never prepared to face up to things. In my opinion you have to deal with what’s dished out, no complaints, no questions asked. And you certainly don’t go off blabbing to some stranger.’
Damien had nothing to say.
‘Well, no rest for the wicked. I’ll just tidy up and be on my way,’ she said, screwing the journal papers up before dumping them in the rubbish bin.
Damien hoped he wouldn’t have to scrape mouldy fridge remains from them later. He didn’t think Jacqueline would appreciate slimy tomato and green ham residue.
As if something else had just occurred to her, Tina added, wagging a finger, ‘Damien, you do know the whole town’s going to think you’re emotionally unstable, not to mention pathetic, don’t you? And heaven knows what that’ll do to us.’
Ah, he thought, truth comes out. She was more worried about her reputation than his health. Typical.
While Damien watched his mother cleaning up the place, he couldn’t help thinking about what she’d said. As much as he hated to admit it, she was probably right. He was being pathetic, and he shouldn’t be whingeing about his problems, especially to a stranger.
Shit, he’d have to phone Jacqueline and cancel his appointment. That was going to be embarrassing. The thought of it made him feel shaky with nerves. But he couldn’t just not turn up, that would be far too rude.
Chapter Eight
Jacqueline thought about Damien losing his father. He must have only been around twenty or twenty-one; a particularly tough age for that to happen, she thought. Why had he refused to discuss it after so long? Was he still so troubled by it, or did it mean he had dealt with it and didn’t want to discuss it? She added these questions to his file, and a note to try to get him to talk about his father again sometime. She had a strong feeling that the death of his father might hold the key to Damien McAllister.
With pen poised, she smiled at how honest he’d been in his journal. She liked that he’d felt free enough to swear – say exactly what he was feeling.
As she added her final notes rounding out their session she allowed herself to feel a little satisfied. She was sure she’d seen a glimmer of comprehension when she’d been talking about listening to one’s inner self. Perhaps not. But she had given him plenty to think about; she’d seen that look for sure on his face. She only hoped he wasn’t too overwhelmed and would turn up to his next appointment. She closed the file and slotted it back into the cabinet behind the desk, and retrieved the paint charts from the top.
Despite the large colourful sheets spread out before her beckoning for her attention, her thoughts went back to Ethel’s visit. She was really appreciative of Ethel’s kind words and enthusiasm for helping her build the practice, but couldn’t help thinking that the only opinion that really mattered in this case was that of crusty old Doctor Squire. And really, what would a lonely old widow know about the politics of professional life? Jacqueline scolded herself for the unkind thoughts. After all, at this point she needed all the friends and support she could muster, no matter who they happened to be.
God, she couldn’t believe she’d been told off like a child by Doctor Squire. She cringed, and silently acknowledged that if it hadn’t been for Ethel she could have quite possibly blown any remaining credibility by lapsing into highly unprofessional, colourful language in the bakery earlier.
So, if Ethel hadn’t been there to intervene, she could very well have been sitting here packing up her paint charts and office things rather than agonising over what colour to paint the walls. Her brain just refused to select a colour – they all looked nice to her. She decided she’d enlist Ethel’s help, folded the charts back up, and pushed them aside.
‘God I hope someone turns up soon,’ she breathed, rubbing her hands over her face. ‘Jeez, how desperate do you sound, Havelock?’ she asked herself. She shook her head in an attempt to regain her focus, pulled a pencil from the brushed aluminium holder to her left, and set about putting together some notes of discussion topics for public presentations to run by Ethel over dinner.
After a few fruitless moments she paused and thought about the few patients she’d seen so far – mainly old ducks just wanting to check her out. Hopefully that would all change if Ethel’s idea worked.
Doubt groaned deep in her stomach, but she had to concede, yet again, there were few other options. ‘Oh well, we’ll see tonight,’ she muttered. As for inviting Doctor Squire and his wife, Nancy, to dinner, well, that would have been last on her list. Mrs Squire was probably very nice, but the last thing she felt like doing was sucking up to the old boy.
Jacqueline had made a point of not socialising with employers, not wanting to be seen to be seeking favouritism. But it was becoming increasingly clear that country life was like a foreign culture, with completely different social customs and ways of doing business. She’d just have to trust Ethel, as much as she disliked the idea of relying on anyone else to solve her problems.
There was a knock at the door. Glancing across at the small wooden carriage clock next to the container of pens, she was surprised to find an hour had passed since Damien McAllister had left.
Over dinner with Ethel, Jacqueline was both surprised and pleased to hear of the preparations she’d already made towards their project. Jacqueline was most welcome to address the CWA, and fortunately their monthly meeting was this week. As only members were required to bring a plate of afternoon tea, for Jacqueline it would be a matter of preparing some notes and turning up just before four Wednesday afternoon. Of course she was welcome to sit through the entire meeting, Ethel told her, but she thought it best to keep things strictly professional.
‘It’s often pretty boring,’ she continued. ‘And anyway, you’ll look more credible if you appear too busy to be sitting around socialising all afternoon.’
Jacqueline thought it might work the other way too, that the women might more easily warm to her if she was seen to be taking an interest in their activities. But she didn’t say anything – Ethel knew far more about the idiosyncrasies of rural women’s thinking than she.
Ethel explained that they were lucky to get an opening because the president, a particularly bossy type, always made sure the entire year’s meeting activities calendar was set, almost in stone, after the annual general meeting in August. But a death in someone’s family meant the regional president was unable to come and give her progress report, so there was an opening for Jacqueline.
‘Just as well,’ Ethel said, ‘there are only so many demonstrations of embroidery and flower arranging, not to mention reports of, one can take.’
Ethel went on to say she’d been on the phone drumming up business and so far had twelve definite attendees and five maybes, with instructions to pass the word around.
‘Everyone’s very excited,’ she said, beaming.
A sudden thought struck Jacqueline. ‘What exactly did you tell them? I’ll need to meet their expectations.’
Ethel waved a hand. ‘Oh, I just said you were new in town and wanted to let them know about your profession and how you could help them. I hope that was all right?’ she added in a concerned tone, her hand moving to cover her mouth.
Jacqueline sighed silently with relief. ‘Yes, fine,’ she assured Ethel, patting her hand. ‘That’s good. It means there isn’t anything too specific I have to cover.’
‘I don’t really understand what you do, anyway, so I was in no position to tell them more,’ Ethel said, still sounding concerned.
‘Well, you’ll just have to come along to my talk on Wednesday,’ Jacqueline said, smiling broadly. She wondered if Damien’s mother was a CWA member. She hoped so – she wouldn’t mind secretly checking her out. She stopped herself asking Ethel as she certainly didn’t want to breach confidentiality and run the risk of losing Damien’s fragile sense of trust. And anyway, she told herself, with only around twenty people attending, she would probably be personally introduced to everyone.
After dinner they were enjoying tea and chocolate biscuits in the lounge when the phone rang. Jacqueline suddenly remembered she hadn’t rung her parents last night per their unspoken agreement of speaking every Sunday. She’d been too drawn into her burst of domesticity and it had slipped her mind.
Ethel suggested she leave her to it, but Jacqueline motioned her to remain seated as she lifted the receiver.
‘Hello, Jacqueline speaking,’ she said brightly. Her intuition was correct; it was her mother. Jacqueline briefly answered Eileen’s question of how she’d spent her weekend, a barely concealed enquiry as to why she hadn’t called last night, but just as her mother was about to launch into a report on the week’s activities, Jacqueline interrupted her to say she had company.
As she had anticipated, Eileen Havelock said she was very sorry to interrupt, that it was wonderful Jacqueline was making new friends, and she would speak to her later. Relieved, Jacqueline said her goodbyes and returned to Ethel.
After finalising the details on what to wear on Wednesday and what time Ethel would arrive to walk her over the road to the CWA rooms, Jacqueline asked what night she thought best for inviting the Squires for dinner.
‘Thursday,’ Ethel suggested, ‘because then if it doesn’t go so well there’s always the excuse that work the next day requires an early night. Not that I’m saying it won’t go well,’ Ethel added quickly. ‘And anyway,’ she declared, ‘Nancy will be at CWA and, with your talk still relatively fresh in her mind, the good doctor will have to listen to how well received you were.’
Jacqueline smiled inwardly. Ethel had it all worked out. ‘They might not like me – the CWA and Nancy Squire,’ she warned Ethel.
‘Oh fiddlesticks! What’s there not to like? After Wednesday the whole town will be raving about you for weeks, including Nancy Squire,’ she said knowingly.
‘All good things, I hope,’ Jacqueline added wryly.
‘Well, I’m of the school that any publicity is good publicity,’ Ethel said defiantly. ‘I reckon there’d be a lot less people interested in your talk if they hadn’t heard about your exploits. Now everyone wants to see you for themselves.’
‘Great, now I’m the star attraction at a freak show,’ Jacqueline groaned.
‘Oh you know what I mean,’ Ethel said sounding slightly exasperated, and reaching for another chocolate-mint biscuit.
After bidding Ethel goodnight and spending an hour sitting in front of the television reflecting on the day, Jacqueline went to bed with notepaper and pencil. She made a list of things to do and began outlining her presentation. She knew it wouldn’t be difficult: she’d done lots of presentations at uni.
According to Ethel, she only had twenty minutes – ten for her presentation and ten for questions. Ethel had organised it perfectly. Jacqueline would be on just before afternoon tea, so it wouldn’t matter if no one asked any questions or if they went a bit over time. She could always field one-on-one over a cup of tea.
Despite knowing all this, Jacqueline felt a twang of nervousness pull at her lower stomach. She breathed in and out slowly, trying to expel the unease. Yes, there is a lot at stake here, she silently acknowledged.
She had never been one to suffer from lack of confidence, experiencing only the odd bout of nervousness when there was pressure to perform, usually self-inflicted. It hadn’t taken her long to recognise that while she was a perfectionist, she preferred to be her own opponent. As a result, she’d never participated much in team sports or competitive activities, much to the annoyance of staff and fellow students at St Martha’s School for Girls, where she’d attended high school.
While most girls had been admitted to the school after proving their sporting prowess, Jacqueline was accepted more on her mother’s merits of once being a gifted hockey player and currently an important part of the old scholar’ fundraiser machine. Possessing more of her father’s determination than her mother’s social graces, she’d set about proving that she was an individual and not a younger Eileen. By the time she achieved her goal, she’d found academia and had never looked back.
Jacqueline liked Ethel’s support; it was somehow different from her previous expectations of success. Ethel wasn’t just trying to build up her confidence. She seemed to genuinely believe the local women would like her and, as far as Jacqueline could see, without a hidden agenda.
‘Well,’ she said, as she put the notepaper and pencil down and turned out the bedside lamp, ‘just you wait and see, Doctor Squire.’
Jacqueline spent most of Wednesday going over her presentation and busying herself with mundane tasks, all the time surprised at her level of nervousness. Her heart flip-flopped at hearing the knock on her door. It was time.
‘Coming,’ she called, and gave her hair and make-up a final check in the small mirror she kept in her desk drawer before getting up.
‘Ready to go?’ Ethel asked after they’d embraced in a quick hug.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Jacqueline said with a deep breath, and locked her office door behind her.
‘There’s no need to be nervous, dear,’ Ethel said, patting her hand as they made their way outside and across the road to the CWA rooms. Jacqueline stayed silent, busily reminding herself to breathe. She couldn’t believe how nervous she was feeling – it was really quite ridiculous.
On arrival, Jacqueline was both pleased and a little amazed at how many women had crowded into the small space. After being introduced by the President, a Mrs Jill Stokes, Jacqueline surveyed the faces while she waited for the polite applause to die down and decided there must be over forty women present. She glanced across at Ethel who’d parked herself at the end of the front row. Ethel smiled broadly, winked and mouthed, ‘Good luck. You’ll be fine.’
As soon as Jacqueline began speaking, all her nervousness disappeared. She started with an explanation of the role of the clinical psychologist and how they differed from psychiatrists. She momentarily wondered if she should be simplifying things further, but a quick survey of the faces revealed no sign of blank expressions or confused frowns. She went on to discuss the benefits of impartial, professional counselling and the need to listen to one’s subconscious, ‘That nagging little voice that’s more often right than wrong.’
Having once read a guide to public speaking that suggested the speaker would make herself more appealing by using humour at her own expense, she took a deep breath and made reference to her recent overindulgence as an example of not listening to oneself, and concluded with an apologetic grin. The eruption of the cramped room into hearty laughter confirmed both the guide’s advice and Ethel’s predictions. She waited a few moments for silence to be restored and then made some more reiterations before opening the floor for questions.
Initially she faltered – the questions weren’t at all what she’
d been expecting – but after gritting her teeth slightly and smiling sweetly, she’d answered every one of them: ‘No, I’m not married.’ ‘Yes, eventually I want to get married, when the right man comes along.’ ‘Yes, I can cook. Do I look like I’m fading away?’ and ‘No, I’ve never tried embroidery but I’ll give anything a try once.’ Again there’d been bursts of laughter and when she’d snuck a look across at Ethel, she was given the thumbs-up.
Eventually time was up and Jacqueline was overwhelmed to be given resounding applause and presented with a lovely bouquet of pansies and other brightly coloured summer blooms she couldn’t name. She sat down next to Mrs Stokes, who rose to invite everyone to begin the afternoon tea set up in the adjoining room.
Jacqueline was swept along with the crowd and eventually found herself standing at the end of a long trestle table with white imitation lace cloth almost entirely covered in plates of savoury and sweet offerings. She gazed in wonderment and pleasure at the impressive display, her responses to the many comments and greetings mumbled and automatic as she tried to decide what to choose first. Everything was beckoning to her and even those things she couldn’t identify looked extremely scrumptious. She was still deciding when Ethel arrived at her elbow, offering her a cup of steaming tea that was threatening to spill into the saucer underneath.
‘That was wonderful, dear. What did I tell you?’ she asked, obviously proud of herself. And rightly so, Jacqueline thought, smiling.
‘Thanks Ethel, but I couldn’t have done it without you,’ she said as she accepted the cup. ‘Now, what can you recommend?’ she asked, indicating the nearby table.
‘Oh, anything and everything. It’ll all be pretty good.’ Then stepping closer and almost whispering into Jacqueline’s ear she continued, ‘Heaven forbid anyone bring something inferior, or shop-bought for that matter. There’ll be some pretty happy husbands at home munching on the rejects, I can assure you.’
‘Bit competitive, is it?’ Jacqueline asked, leaning into Ethel and matching her tone.
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