Fifty-Minute Hour (8 page)

Lionel Ernest Delahaye was still very much alive, though she saw him only rarely. He was still too busy – yes, even in his eighties. Her parents had conceived her very late; had more important things to do in their brisk and tireless twenties, their zealous thrusting thirties, than simply making babies; had waited till their forties to produce their only child – though even then there hadn't been much time. She'd been born two months prematurely, as if her mother had lost patience with the passive tedious pregnancy, couldn't wait the whole nine months when there were vital projects piling up, life and death decisions hanging on her word. She – the wretched infant – had almost died, in fact, and been rushed to neonatal, a nuisance from day one. Her mother told her, some time later, that just one machine in intensive care, which helped to save a few small and puny babies, cost more than what was desperately required to feed a whole village in Nepal.

She'd mentioned it to John-Paul once – not Nepal, just neonatal.

‘Do you recall anything at all of the experience?' he'd asked. He
did
have strange ideas. Remember things at only one day old! ‘No,' she'd said. ‘My memory's a total blank till nursery school at four. But my mother said the doctors were quite wonderful.'

She stared down at the carpet. It wasn't very clean. Did John-Paul have domestic help, someone to look after him? It couldn't be that easy lugging Hoovers up those stairs. He was definitely too thin, probably wasn't eating, just making do on snacks or sweets, with no proper nourishment. Though she liked men with that sort of build – not bluff and broad, as James was, but slender and refined-looking, a charming man of average height who didn't dwarf or swamp her, and with those lovely slim artistic hands, not James's carpet-beaters. His skin was rather sallow, though, which could mean liver trouble, or perhaps just a lack of God's fresh air. But how could he get out for daily exercise when it was patients, patients, patients, dawn to dusk? She knew he was too busy because when she'd phoned to inquire about appointments, he'd said at first he couldn't fit her in, simply didn't have a space, but then he'd rung her back to say another patient who'd been due to start that week had suddenly been posted overseas, so he could offer her Fridays at five-ten. He also said he'd keep her on his waiting-list, since once a week was clearly not enough. It seemed an awful lot to her, and she was really quite astonished to hear many of his patients attended three or four times weekly. However did they do their jobs, or get dinner cooked in time, and the cost must be prohibitive?

She closed her eyes a moment, still aware of John-Paul watching her, his gaze piercing her closed lids. His own eyes were quite remarkable – dark and very lustrous, like the eyes men had in early silent movies when only eyes could speak – eloquent observant eyes, reacting to her every word, narrowing in sympathy, or clouding with her pain. He sometimes wore dark glasses, which she could completely understand. Too much pain must hurt, like too much light. Though he was sitting naked-eyed now – yes, even in the sun, which was flouncing through the window, beribboning his chest like some sash or badge of rank – and observing her so closely, she felt nervous, almost guilty. She'd had a dog like that once, who'd watched her while she ate, following every tiny movement of her fork or spoon or hand with dark reproachful eyes. In the end, she couldn't eat at all, or was forced to snatch a quick snack-lunch while he was gobbling down his Chum.
Pedigree
Chum. John-Paul was a pedigree – you could tell that by his suits, his large and stately car – a vintage Daimler, wasn't it, in simple tasteful black? – and also by his lean fastidious face, the way he'd pared his body to essentials, instead of lugging round a vulgar load of flesh. All the same, it wasn't wise to give up proper meals. Every time she cooked these days, she was tempted to make extra, bring it in a casserole, make sure he got his protein.

She shifted on her seat, wished he'd speak or even move; hated these stiff silences, which seemed rather impolite. She was sure it was his turn. She'd spoken last, hadn't she – though to tell the truth, she couldn't even remember what she'd said, had lost the thread completely. Perhaps John-Paul had lost it, too. He did look slightly strained, was probably tired from all his other patients, who were bound to ramble on a lot and have quite ferocious problems – lust and greed and murderous hate stalking through his room all day; tempests raging round him; perversions, vices, furies, detonating hour by frenzied hour.

It might be kinder, really, to let him have a breathing-space, just sit there very quietly and allow him to relax. In fact, that would suit her beautifully. She found it quite impossible to discuss the basic reason she was there – what James called … well, best leave all that alone. She'd done what James suggested – gone to see ‘one of those trick cyclist chaps' – been absolutely terrified at first, ashamed and quite humiliated, but now a whole five weeks had passed and they hadn't even mentioned double beds. John-Paul seemed more concerned with absent mothers – if and when he talked at all. She felt almost a real pleasure now, writing ‘John-Paul' in her diary every Friday, instead of ‘Church Bazaar', or ‘Plumber', or ‘Collect James's suit from cleaner's'. She especially liked the way he invested her most trite remarks with such seriousness and import she could have been the Pope, speaking infallibly, ex cathedra, to and for the Church, instead of just a boring housewife who still didn't know the difference between a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and a psychoanalyst.

It was nice of him to listen so intently. People rarely did. Even at the hairdresser's, where she often talked quite happily about the children, or the price of beef, or their plans for next year's holiday, the girls weren't really interested; muddled up Jonathan with Simon, or the Azores with the Algarve, butted in with tales about their boyfriends, or kept shouting to each other against the racket of the hair driers, whereas John-Paul seemed to soak up every word, listen with his eyes as well as ears; listen with his body, even with his hands.

She glanced up at the wall. There was dust on all the picture frames – he really did need help. The pictures were those clever kind; not harvest scenes at sunset or Cornish fishing ports, like they had back home at Walton, but the sort of modern dangerous things they bought for the Tate Gallery, which had no right (or wrong) way up, and always made James angry because they wasted public money. But bar wasteful threatening pictures, she loved being in the tower. It was so unusual, so romantic, such a change from Salisbury's. Towers belonged to fairy tales – which had been rationed in her childhood – princesses dangling braids from them, princes clambering up. She had fed her sons on fairy tales: Snow Queens with their Ricicles, fairy godmothers for tea. But they'd all preferred Space Invaders, and even Jon got restless now if she mentioned wicked stepmothers, or tried to explain the difference between an ogre and a troll.

She closed her eyes a second, imagined John-Paul in her nursery, reclining in the ayah's chair in the cool white house in Delhi, murmuring ‘Once upon a time …' She was sitting on his lap, though the lap was rather bony, which forced her back to casseroles. They might give him indigestion if he had to eat them quickly, bolt them between patients who'd have no thought for his stomach and might pollute his digestive juices with their problems, like people dumping sewage in a river. Or he could be vegetarian, as artists often were. She supposed he was an artist – sculpting people, moulding them, writing happy endings. Fruit would be more practical, and probably better for him. There were no apples in the garden. James had been too busy to prune their moody fruit trees, and though she'd offered several times, he said she'd only ruin them. He didn't have much confidence in any of her skills. Before her marriage she'd been a West End secretary – well, almost a PA – with good speeds at shorthand typing and her own complex filing system. She'd suggested going back to work, now that Jon had left the nest, but James had put his foot down, said modern office methods would be totally beyond her.

She could buy fruit from the greengrocer, pretend they had a glut. ‘Our garden's overflowing, so I wondered if you'd do us a good turn and relieve us of these apples. I've also brought some pears, John-Paul, and …'

‘What are you thinking, Mary?'

She jumped. ‘Er … pears,' she stammered out. You weren't allowed to lie – well, white lies about the contents of your garden, but no deliberate falsification of the contents of your mind.

‘
Pairs
?'

She nodded.

John-Paul raised his voice a little, to compete with an articulated lorry. ‘We were talking earlier about your parents, and of course they were a pair – a couple – and pairs can be a strong focus of resentment if you feel excluded from them. You probably experienced such feelings very early on, since your parents were away together and you here at school in England.'

Mary's mind was still on fruit – Cornice pears, Conference pears. She took refuge in a Kleenex, not to cry, to blow. Her eyes were stinging anyway, always did in smoky rooms. She didn't like to tell him she was concerned about his diet, rather than her parents. It might sound far too personal, and maybe even critical. He'd been so kind himself, never criticised or taunted, or turned on her as James did, called her dead from the waist down, or Mrs Frigidaire, or just another bloody bolster in the bed. He hadn't even mentioned bed, must realise it embarrassed her and be keeping off it purposely. The only problem was she wasn't making any progress, and James was getting tetchy, kept asking what the fancy chap was doing, when he paid him through the nose.

They'd had another argument, just this Wednesday night. She'd
truly
had a headache, often did at bedtime. It was probably an allergy to the foam they used in pillows now, instead of proper feathers. James was much more irritable since he'd stopped smoking in July. She wished John-Paul would stop. She'd rather have him irritable than her Fridays dead from cancer. He must be short of vitamins. Nicotine destroyed them, especially vitamin C. Was there C in pears and apples? She'd have to look it up, or maybe buy him blackcurrants which were the richest source of all.

John-Paul struck a match. It sounded more impatient than his normal purring matches, and his left foot had started twitching, as if in reprimand. It was probably her turn again and she'd forgotten where they were. He'd asked her something, hadn't he – when Jonathan came home.

‘The thirteenth of December,' she replied.

John-Paul frowned a moment, as he inhaled his cigarette. ‘The thirteenth of December? I wonder what that signifies to you, or why you should suddenly come out with it? Superstitious people might see it as unlucky.'

‘Unlucky! I can hardly wait. It's the fifteenth for the other two, but they're far less a problem. I suppose it's my own fault. I've always babied Jonathan. He was small, you see, and premature and …'

‘As
you
were.'

‘He's got this tonsillitis. I can't help worrying. He's always had a weakness in his throat. The Matron there's quite callous. I mean, she wouldn't let me visit
or
allow him home. She'd never had children of her own. I'm sure that makes a difference – don't you think I'm right, Doctor? And I'm not keen on the Head. I mean, I know James says he's sound, but …'

‘I do understand you're feeling very vulnerable, so that you keep identifying with Jonathan, who is ill and weak at present, as you clearly see yourself.'

‘I don't feel ill at all, Doctor. In fact, I'm never ill; haven't had a day in bed for years. But Jonathan is more like his poor Grandpa. They're both really far too sensitive, tend to …'

‘Mary, if you lay down on the couch, you might feel more relaxed. Some patients find it easier to free-associate when no one's actually looking at them and their minds are free to wander.'

‘Oh, no, Doctor, no really. I …'

‘I notice you use the word “Doctor” nearly every time you speak to me. I wonder if you feel the need to maintain a barrier between us, or create a sense of distance?'

‘But you
are
a doctor, aren't you? I mean, I thought James said …' Her voice had petered out. John-Paul's voice took over.

‘I suspect you're using my professional title as a defensive manoeuvre because of your fear of informality, your need to avoid any sense of closeness or feeling of personalisation.'

Mary scrunched another Kleenex, mopped her sweaty hands. It was surely plain good manners to use a person's title. Jonathan's headmaster was very hot on it – ‘Sir' for all the masters; ‘My Lord' for the Bishop when he officiated at Prize Day. She hoped Jonathan would win a prize. He was doing very well, in fact, but if they neglected his bad throat, that could threaten his whole …

‘Perhaps you'd like to experiment with lying on the couch – just try it for the last ten minutes, to find out how it feels, see how you react. It sometimes helps patients to come closer to their inner world, get in touch with their unconscious.'

Mary gripped both chair-arms. She hated the unconscious, saw it like a lavatory, somewhere strictly private where you always went alone and locked the door, then flushed away the evidence as quickly as you could, so it wouldn't smell, or embarrass the next occupant. Boarding schools and mothers she could cope with, more or less, but not sewers, cesspools, shameful private smells. Yet both John-Paul's feet were twitching now, and he was looking almost pained – the first time in five whole sessions. She stumbled to her feet, crossed the space from chair to couch, which seemed a mile, at least. She was trembling as she reached the brute black leather, could hardly force her buttons through the buttonholes or coax her skirt zip down.