“He can come, too, if he wants.”
She’s grinning, excited. I’m surprised. What has happened to Alice so far sounds quite traumatic, although it’s possible their parents have shielded Tamsin from the worst of it. Still, though. I expected fear, concern at the very least.
“But won’t you be sad to leave here? This is your home, after all.”
She looks up at me and holds my gaze.
“Nuh-uh. This town is scary.”
“Okay, Tamsin, that’ll do.” It’s Lisa, coming up the stairs, a pile of laundry in her arms. “Let the poor woman unpack.”
Tamsin lingers a moment longer in the doorway, perhaps waiting for me to say something, to contradict her mother maybe.No, it’s all right, let her stay.When I don’t, she slowly lifts up her hand and waves goodbye to me. I wave back.
“She’ll talk the hind legs off a donkey, that one,” Lisa says as Tamsin heads for the stairs, trailing her hand along the wall. “Do you think you’ll be all right in here, Mina? It’s a bit cramped.”
“Oh yes, I will. This is so kind of you. Thank you.”
“No, thankyou.Coming all the way down here, giving up your time. Here.” She holds up a silver mortise key, sliding it into the lock on the bedroom door. “We tend to hide these away from the kids; otherwise they’re a nightmare for locking each other either into or out of their rooms, but we thought you might find it useful for privacy. I know it must be a bit of a shock for you coming into this madhouse.”
I start to protest and she gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Don’t worry, Mina. I realize how it must seem to you, all this. I don’t know how much Sam’s told you but I’m really hoping you might be able to give us some answers about Alice. We’ve all been worried sick.”
“He mentioned you’ve pulled her out of school.”
“We had to, Mina. We didn’t have a choice. The things she was saying were scaring people—not just other kids, teachers, too. It got to the point where she had to be isolated at lunchtimes. No one would sit next to her in class.”
Her voice is quiet and slightly strained. She plucks nervously at the pile of laundry with her fingers, unable to meet my eye.
“I’m so sorry that was her experience. Adolescent mental health is something I’m really interested in, especially how it—” Lisa interrupts me by laughing softly and I tail off, confused.
“What?”
“Sorry, it’s just—‘mental health.’ Like Alice has got a broken brain or something.” I nod, and give Lisa a reassuring smile. I’ve been expecting this defensiveness, this disbelief. “Mental health” is a frightening term if you’re unfamiliar with it outside a clinical environment, seeming to conjure up images of a brain which is diseased or defective. I match the tone of my voice to hers, lean closer.
“It’s just a term to describe any number of conditions.”
“You know, I was always told there was a history of mental illness on my mother’s side because my great-grandmother found herself in St. Lawrence’s but it turns out she wasn’t mad, she was just poor. You know that used to happen a lot? Women being sent away to institutions for not having children, not wanting to get married or for having too little money? Makes me wonder if people would still like things to be that way.”
I speak carefully, can feel her agitation.
“I didn’t mean to suggest that Alice needs to be locked away.”
“It’s like already you’ve decided there’s something wrong with her. In the head, I mean.”
“Listen, Lisa—I’m here because Sam asked me to come and assess Alice from a psychological point of view. It’s my job to determine what’s underpinning her behavior and there are tests and methods I can use to do that. I don’t have any preconceptions about what this is.”
Lisa looks past me out the window. Downstairs, the front door slams and a male voice calls out. Immediately Tamsin flies out her bedroom yelling, “Dadd-eee!” and Billy’s feet clatter up the hallway. Lisa turns her head toward the noise.
“Ah!” she says, brightening. “Sounds like Paul’s home. Every day this happens. He comes in, winds the little ones up, then wonders why they’re too overexcited to sleep. Come on down and meet him when you’re done.”
I watch her leave, feeling hot and uncomfortable. Outside, thewhump whump whumpof helicopter blades passes overhead. They are dampening down the fields and heathland where the heather is dry as kindling and prone to sparking into quick, destructive flame.
SEVEN
It’s a squeeze around the small dining table. Two folding chairs have been brought in from the garden to accommodate everyone. The children are eating fish-and-chips straight from the wrapping, Billy smeared with ketchup, barely chewing, grabbing fistfuls of chips with both hands, much to his mother’s dismay. The room is high with the smell of vinegar and salt, the heat of so many bodies packed around the table. Paul, Lisa’s husband, is short and dark and stocky, with a tanned, weathered face like scrunched-up brown paper. His hair is curly, coiling long at the back of his neck. With that and his mustache he reminds me of that boxer my father likes, Barry McGuigan. He is watchful, taking big gulps from a can of Coke between mouthfuls. The other Webbers, Lisa and the children, have been interested in me, even curious, but accepting of my presence. I don’t get thatfeeling with Paul. There is a challenge in his eyes as he folds the paper back over the remains of his dinner and lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke out through flared nostrils. His gaze fixes on me.
“You’re a psychologist?”