Refugee From The Modern World
Clare Tanner
Published by Clare Tanner at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Clare Tanner
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Millie - Refugee from the modern world
“How do you think we can help you, Camilla?” she says, looking down at her notes.
“Millie,” I say. “Everyone calls me Millie.”
It’s been Millie since school and I can’t shift it now, even though it’s reminiscent of a teenage girl with bunches and a very short gym-slip, running down the oak staircase at St Trinian’s with a hockey stick in hand. I wish I still felt that young and carefree.
“Millie,” she repeats, giving me the benefit of a lop-sided half-smile. A full grin probably costs an extra £50 an hour. Her watery blue eyes are boring into me over the top of a pair of those weird half-glasses that used to make me laugh until I noticed the text was starting to swim when I worked on the computer. I wait for her to say more but she doesn’t. Her smile is set, but her lips are deflating, as if they have a slow puncture. This must be part of her technique, torture by silence.
Clearing my throat, I glance down at my handbag. Did I turn my phone off, or put it on silent? I’m itching to check. Instead, I blow hot air out through my teeth into the little tube I’ve made with my clenched fist.
“Take your time,” she says, just as I’m about to start.
Bitch, I think. You’ve put me off now. I go through the whole procedure again, as she shuffles the papers on her desk.
“I think I need to escape from the 21st Century.” This comes out all in a rush, nearly buried by the screeching of brakes from a taxi in the street below. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the vast ad screen across the way scroll over from promoting “Shrek the musical” to a huge red screen inviting us to buy the latest 3G phone. Or is it 4G now? It’ll probably be 5G by the time I come out of this meeting.
“That sounds quite a tall order.” Sanctimonious cow. “I think you’ll have to be more specific. What particular aspects do you want to escape from? Hot water? Electricity? Washing machines?”
“Oh God, No!” I say in alarm. “Not comforts. I like comforts.” I glare at her.
“Look,” she says, taking her glasses off. She’s not that old after all. She even looks quite sympathetic. “I’m not your enemy. Try to relax and tell me what your problem is. I can’t help otherwise.”
“Sorry.” I know I’ve been behaving badly. “I’m a bit stressed, that’s all.”
“I know.” She nods. “That’s why you’re here. Tell you what. Pretend I’m not here and think out loud. That might work better.” She clicks a button on a slim digital recorder on her desk.
“Well, it’s like this…”
* * *
Where do I start? I always thought I was quite normal, you know, straightforward, well-brought up, knew the difference between right and wrong. I did things in the right order: found a job I liked, got married, had kids. It all seemed OK, a bit boring sometimes, but not bad. I had a better time than most. I looked at some of my friends from school and they had terrible problems, drugs, trouble with the police, domestic violence, the lot. I felt lucky. What could go wrong?
Then it started to unravel. It didn’t all happen at once, more like the little hole in your favourite old sweater that you don’t fix straightaway, and it gets bigger and bigger until the whole thing is ruined and you think, why didn’t I do something about that at the beginning? That’s life, really, isn’t it? We have chances to fix things and we don’t do it and the problem grows and grows until you can’t deal with it whatever you do. Then, when you’re struggling, needing help but too proud to ask for it, hoping you can still find a way out, someone with a sick sense of humour decides you need a bit more punishment and throws a whole load more shit at you. One thing after another. Everyone has their breaking point. It doesn’t matter how strong you are. The difference is, how you break. Some people shatter into a thousand pieces, others melt into a lump of goo on the floor that people tread on as they walk past, a few disappear and some, like me, hide from the world and hope it will all go away. Of course, it’s better not to break at all, but to do that you have to recognize the scale of the problem in the first place and deal with it, properly. That’s where I went wrong.
It started with my husband. We seemed to be reasonably happy, in a bored but contented sort of way, but we really needed a bigger house. The three boys were getting bigger and noisier, arms and legs and testosterone all over the place. It was so loud at home sometimes that the noise seemed to bounce around in my skull like a squash ball hitting every wall of the court in quick succession in a never ending rally. We talked about it, but in truth we couldn’t afford it. We looked at it from every angle, but it was still the same. We didn’t have the money. My job was OK, but three sets of maternity leave hadn’t improved my promotion prospects and I was stuck in a career lay-by. I didn’t seem to be able to pull back out into the fast moving traffic. Jerry – he hated being called Jeremy – was doing well at the bank, but we were heavily mortgaged. There wasn’t an easy way out. It caused a few arguments, which made it even worse.
After a while, Jerry became very withdrawn, which wasn’t like him. I put it down to the arguments. He didn’t seem to fight back any more. It’s hard to have an argument on your own, so we ended up not really talking to each other, but living in the same house in our own little bubbles. That’s when I could have done something, if only I had realized. But in a funny sort of way it was easier, ignoring each other. Deep down, I must have known that an injury left to fester will get worse, but somehow I managed to ignore it. I took the easy option, which turned out to be the nuclear option.
It went on like this for months, until the day Jerry walked towards me, a letter in his outstretched and shaking hand.
“What’s this?” I said, surprised that he was consulting me. He always dealt with financial matters.
“You’d better read it,” he mumbled, looking at the floor.
The text swam in front of my eyes as I saw the word ‘repossession.’ “I don’t understand. We haven’t got behind on the mortgage.”
“I think you’d better sit down. There’s more to it than this.” He guided me to the kitchen table and gently pushed me down onto one of the chairs. I was hardly aware that I was in the room. My consciousness was floating around somewhere near the ceiling, like the froth on a cup of coffee when you stir it. How could this have happened?
It turned out that Jerry had been trying to help. He had seen how stressed I had been, longing for a new house that we couldn’t afford. So he had tried to square the circle. I still don’t understand how he did it, but working in a bank must have helped, in those days when banks were throwing money at anyone who could walk upright. He’d remortgaged the house to a massive degree and used the money to play the stock market. Two mistakes there, even if you ignore the idiocy of playing with our future without talking to me about it. First mistake, he knew nothing about stocks and shares. We had never had any in the past because I thought they were risky. Too much like gambling to my mind. Second mistake, he did all this just before the world banking system imploded and the stock market collapsed. Third mistake – I forgot there was a third mistake – he bought shares in, you’ve guessed it – banks. Nothing is as safe as banks, he thought. How wrong he was. How wrong we all were. So, disaster all round. Once the powers that be had saved the banks from themselves and the dust had settled, the bankers decided to do a bit of weeding. And one of the sickly little saplings they pulled up and chucked on the compost heap was us, our beautiful little family tree that was finally beginning to bear fruit was uprooted and destroyed.
It didn’t have to be the end of the world, although it felt like it at the time. We still had our jobs, and our health, and so many other people were suffering too. But I could not forgive him, however hard I tried. I don’t think I tried that hard, if I’m honest. I was so angry I could have put him through the office shredder. Perhaps it would have helped if I had hit him, vented my anger on him physically, but that’s not my way. I kicked him out instead. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I pushed him away. As if that would solve the problem.
Jerry had his own idea about how to put things right. His plan really was the nuclear option. I should have seen the warning signs, the crumpled clothes, bloodshot eyes and stale miasma of tobacco and last night’s whisky that surrounded him when he came to see the children. But I was blinkered by my anger and attempts at self-preservation. So I was completely unprepared for the uniformed presence at the door informing me that Jerry had met his end under the 4.30 Intercity train from Paddington. Jerry mistakenly thought that his debts would die with him and that we, unencumbered by his mistakes, would be able to make a fresh start. A personal sacrifice, you might say, but it made me even angrier. How could he deny me the punch-bag I needed to deflect my anger from myself? More importantly, how could he deliberately take himself away from his boys and deprive them of a father?
I’m not a complete swine. I tried really hard to be there for the boys, despite my desire to wallow in self-pity in the black hole of my own situation. I arranged counseling for them and completely wore out my stores of patience and compassion in trying to keep them occupied and talking to them about what had happened. But they are boys. They didn’t want to talk about it. They preferred to brick it up in private little mausoleums in their minds. As if that works. After a few typical boy reactions, overturned chairs, shouting matches, black eyes and a mini alcohol bender from the oldest one, life seemed to settle down. They assured me they were fine, and could I please get off their case and leave them to deal with it in their own way? Only the loss of innocence in their eyes suggested that nothing would ever be the same. What could I do? I had tried, oh, so hard, but my intervention only seemed to make them roll up in a ball like a hedgehog presenting its spiky exterior when threatened. Perhaps I should let sleeping dogs lie.
Then I took my eye off the ball. Only a few months after Jerry took the easy way out, I had a call from my father’s neighbour to inform me that Dad had fallen off a step-ladder while trimming the climbers on his wall and was in hospital with a fractured pelvis. He was asking for me. Of course he was. He’d been on his own since Mum died of cancer three years ago. Worrying about the boys, but making what arrangements I could, I jumped in the car and drove up to Durham. The next two months was a blur of tearing up and down the M1, torn between the needs of Dad, the boys and work. I toyed with the idea of trying to get him transferred to the John Radcliffe, but I wasn’t sure it would be best for him to uproot him like that. In the end I had to. He didn’t heal well and the gentle but firm woman responsible for bed-blockers at UHND gave me a very long stare as she discussed the options of a carer at home or staying with family for the foreseeable future. It was crystal clear what I ought to do. I hammered another nail into the coffin of my hopes and dreams and brought Dad down south, somehow fitting him into our cramped rented house in Oxford. The boys were sympathetic at first; at least they got fed now, because I was at home instead of on the motorway, but their patience didn’t last long. I noticed that their friends didn’t come over as much. Instead, our boys were out more than they were in. I hoped that they were at other people’s houses, as their friends used to be at ours. I didn’t have the time to consider where else they might be.
It’s frightening how fast you can slide down the slippery slope, isn’t it? I was sitting at work – it had got to the stage where I went to work for a rest – when a call came through from the school. Ashley, our oldest, had been playing truant. This was news to me, but it wasn’t the worst of it. He’d been picked up in the shopping centre with a bag of weed in his pocket. Weed! He was only 14. Alcohol, I could cope with. Drugs, I had no experience of, and felt completely unable to deal with. Thank God, he only got a caution. I swiftly revised my views from those of the hang them and flog them brigade, now that I could see how easily it could happen to normal families. He and I both had a serious talking to from the police, and I certainly felt we deserved it. But where was his father now? How could he have abandoned us? I conveniently skated over my part in his disappearance. It was easier to blame him.
The blows fell hard and fast after that. I tried to keep more of an eye on Ashley, and he seemed to be settling down, but Tom, the middle one, always the most vocal of the three, became very withdrawn. He didn’t give me any trouble, as such, but became so quiet that I couldn’t ignore it. Something wasn’t right. What really disturbed me was that he stopped washing. He changed from a fresh-faced little boy to a taciturn greasy, smelly lout. I know he was almost a teenager, but this was something else. He wouldn’t talk about it, and he wouldn’t do anything to put it right. Jacob, the youngest at 9, no doubt upset by his brothers’ behaviour, started wetting the bed. How much more could I take?
At least I knew there was a problem now. But I didn’t have the first idea about how to put it right. Endless patience, time and love must be the only answer, but those were all qualities in short supply. Torn between my father, my boys and my job, I knew I couldn’t cope. But what else could I do but try? None of these problems was going to go away.
Going to work was a blessed release. It was my only opportunity to concentrate on myself and my own life. That alone kept me sane, until the axe of redundancy fell on me. I knew things were tough at work, but I thought the company realized the problems that were weighing me down. Inevitably, they had affected my performance, but I had hoped that common humanity would ensure that they would make allowances. Maybe humanity isn’t that common in tough times; bosses harden their hearts and tighten their belts, or harden their hearts so they don’t have to tighten their belts. That’s more like it, I reckon.
Once they made me redundant, they sent me on ‘gardening leave’. They probably thought they were being kind, giving me more time to look after all my dependents. It didn’t seem that way to me. Now I would have no sanctuary from my sorrows. I put together a cardboard box with the mementos of all those years in the same office, went home and sat at the kitchen table at 2 in the afternoon and cried my eyes out. What was I going to do now? Being a woman with a vestige of responsibility remaining, I tidied myself up before the boys returned from school.
I considered the possibilities: I could use the extra time well and work hard to sort out the boys’ problems and look after my father – too hard. I could turn to drink – too expensive and I didn’t like the taste. Anyway, who would clean up after me? I could run away – tempting, but I had too much of a conscience. Or, what?
Actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t consider these options. I had a cup of tea and stared at the wall for two hours. I knew there was no way out.
Soon, the insomnia started. I had been having trouble sleeping since the repossession incident, but I would eventually fall asleep out of pure exhaustion. Now, the physical exhaustion was less. I no longer had to get up to go to work. I had to look after Dad, but he was able to get himself out of bed now, and the boys could get themselves ready for school. I started staying in bed for a while and, stuck in the house looking after Dad during the day, I wasn’t running around so much. When I went to bed, I wasn’t properly tired, and the boring minutiae of my day and my problems floated around in my brain like litter in a slow-flowing river. To start with, I used to lie there and worry about not sleeping. Then I tried reading a book, but I found that, although I would be too tired to concentrate, I would be wide-awake when I lay down to sleep again. After a few days of it, I began coming downstairs and making a cup of tea. The house was quiet and calm and it was a good time. Having tea on your own is quite boring, so I turned the laptop on and started aimlessly wandering through the plethora of time-wasting internet sites. I had never been that interested till then, but it hadn’t escaped my attention that the boys loved Facebook and Twitter and all those things, so I thought I would have a look. I ought to move with the times, anyway.
It was really slow and painful to start with. I was such a rookie. I went on Facebook to see what the boys saw in it, and maybe to pick up some information. But I discovered that I needed to join myself to see very much at all. So, through a process of trial and error, I became a member myself. In the quiet, still hours of the night, it was strangely peaceful, looking at everyone’s pages, seeing their photos, viewing their happy lives from my own little bubble. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, although I saw a picture of Ashley flat out, unconscious beside a road, tagged by his friend. That brought me up short for a while. I looked up my erstwhile work colleagues on Facebook and discovered that they were all members. How had I managed to get so left behind? I put out friend requests, and, before I knew it, I had 50 friends. That’s more than I had ever had in ‘real life’. I started trawling though my email addresses for new friends and soon it was up to 70. It became a game then to get more. Once I started, I really began to enjoy it. The insomnia continued, but I didn’t mind so much. It gave me an opportunity to ‘play’ on the computer when no-one else was around, making demands on me. After a while, looking at the computer at night wasn’t enough. I started sneaking a look when Dad was having his nap in the early afternoon, but resisted the temptation to keep looking at Facebook when he was around. It somehow didn’t seem like ‘gainful employment.’ It helped when I worked out that I could get updates on my phone, but it wasn’t quite the same.
I soon discovered that if I began looking for jobs on the internet, and spent time polishing my CV, I could be ‘working’ and sneaking a look for friends’ status updates at the same time. It was a short step then to signing up for Twitter. I couldn’t see the point of it to start with, but I signed up to see what people were raving about. Before I knew it, I was tweeting with the best of them. I didn’t feel I had much to say, until I noticed that all those celebrities with thousands of followers were tweeting about what they had for breakfast, so I decided that I had as much right as them to talk about my trivia. I followed lots of people but, unsurprisingly, I didn’t have many followers myself.
That all changed when I started my anonymous blog, “Diary of a carer.” By this time, I was becoming more competent on the computer and one of my Facebook friends suggested the blog idea. I had been tweeting about all the running around I had to do, dealing with the demands of two different generations. She thought that lots of people would relate to it, and I might even make some money if I could get it published. That got me motivated, and she was right about people relating to it. I soon picked up lots of followers. It made me feel much less alone. I felt I was communicating with people, but was I, really? I can see now that I was using it to block out all the rubbish that I was finding hard to deal with. The blog enabled me to let off steam, to rant at the computer instead of upsetting those who were causing my frustrations, but, increasingly, I began to neglect the real people in favour of my, often faceless, followers. The computer became more real to me than my family, and certainly more responsive.
Dad said nothing, but sometimes followed me around the house with a face full of worry. I assured him that I had to spend a large portion of my time on the computer chasing down jobs.
“But you never go for interviews,” he replied.
“Jobs are hard to find at the moment,” I countered. He nodded, but he wasn’t convinced.
The boys noticed, too.
“Mum, there are no clean shirts.”
“Mum, there’s no food in the fridge.”
“Mum, you forgot to pick me up from football training, and I had no money for the bus.”
Couldn’t they see I was busy? Apparently not.
“What are you doing on that computer all the time, anyway? It’s not as if you’ve got a job.”
This interference, and disdain for the way in which I was spending my time, didn’t have the effect they were hoping for. I was angry that they resented the time that I was spending on myself, in an occupation that was making me feel better about life. It made me withdraw further into my own little world and away from them and all their needs. I was suffering from ‘compassion fatigue’ and I badly needed to be selfish.
It came to a head when Ashley caught me looking at an online dating agency.
“How could you, Mum? Dad’s hardly been dead any time.”
“But he abandoned us, Ashley. I don’t owe him anything.”
“Maybe not,” he said, “but don’t you owe us something? Don’t we matter to you anymore?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do. Everything I do is for you.”
“Are you sure about that, Mum? Really sure? You hardly seem to notice that we’re there anymore. The only thing you’re interested in is that bloody computer,” he said, pointing at the offending object, sitting innocently on the table.
I was ready to make some spiteful comment, but I saw his lip trembling, and remembered the little boy behind his large, almost man-like exterior. I ran to him and hugged him. He didn’t flinch, and I realized how long it had been since we had shown physical affection to each other. I felt ashamed of my selfishness. So what if I was bored and tired? This was my job, to try to make it alright for my boys. To try to salvage functioning human beings from the wreckage of our family.
I pushed the top of the laptop shut. I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t just the dating. I’d become over keen on the online bingo too. “You’re right. I think I have a problem. I’ve been using this to escape from life, from the things I’m having trouble coping with.”
I heard a noise behind me and turned to see my Dad, standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on his stick. “It’s not you that has a problem. We, as a family, have a problem, and we, as a family, will deal with it.” He had regained his old, authoritative tone. It was deeply reassuring. I didn’t feel alone any more. “I’m getting better now,” he continued. “ I can help with the boys. It’s time for you to think about yourself.”
“He’s right, Mum,” Ashley said. “It’s all been too much for you.”
“We think you should get away for a while. Have a little break. Life will look different after that.” Dad handed me a printed card. “This is the name of a counsellor. It’s a first step. A real person to talk to, rather than a blank screen. It helped me after your mum died.”
“You went to a counsellor? I didn’t think you’d do something like that.”
Dad smiled gently. “It’s surprising what desperation will do,” he said.
* * *
I hear a faint click as the counsellor switches off the digital recorder. I’d forgotten she was there.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been rambling.”
“Not at all. You’ve explained your situation very well. It’s no surprise you’ve been struggling. Has it helped at all, saying it aloud?”
I consider for a moment. “Yes, I think so. When I talked it all through, just now, I realized quite how much has happened. I didn’t feel so stupid.”
“Hardly stupid. You’ve been through a lot. And you’ve taken it all on your own shoulders. That’s not healthy.” She reaches across the desk and hands me a leaflet. “I think a stay at this facility might be just what you need.”
I glance at the flimsy piece of paper and the name jumps out at me. “Tisoe Place?” Isn’t that, like, rehab?”
She smiles, gently. She really looks quite kind now. “Nothing of the sort,” she assures me. “It is merely a place of sanctuary. An apartment for yourself, for a short while, where you can concentrate on your own needs, away from all the pressures that have upset you.”
The price list drops out of the leaflet. “There’s no way I can afford this.”
“You won’t need to. A short stay at Tisoe Place is a present from your father. He is very grateful for all the help you have given him. He’d like to repay you and he feels the money would be more use to you now than when he has gone.”
Poor Dad. Lovely Dad. He could see my problems all the time while I, for a while, could only see him as a burden. I feel touched, but deeply ashamed. Did I do enough for him after Mum died?
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “Your dad thinks you’ve been wonderful. And I think your boys sound lovely, too. You should be proud of your achievement. In very difficult circumstances.”
The compliments are hard to take, after such a long time of feeling alone and unappreciated. “And you think this place might help?”
“I’m sure of it. It’s been helping people since the 1930’s. It has a great record.”
I stand up. “Thank you. This has really helped. But, if I go to this place, I’m really going to miss the kids.”
“Of course you are, but the fact you realise that, shows you’re feeling better already. And you’ve only seen the brochure so far. How good is that?”
“Yeah. You’re right. I’ll give it a go.”
“And you’ll appreciate the boys all the more when you go home.”
I’m heading towards the door now, excited at the prospect of time alone, but missing the boys already. “One final thing,” she says.
“Yes?”
“Better leave the laptop and phone at home.”
“Of course.” I shake her hand, my handbag over my shoulder. I feel a slight buzz at my side as a text comes through. I must have had my phone on vibrate after all.
Clare Tanner is the author of The Tranquillity Project, a novel set in the near future.
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