to bury this awful thing in my subconscious all these years, but now I wanted to unburden myself. But to whom? Certainly not to my parents. It’s not something I’d ever want them to know.
Now I wondered—as I so often had done—about confiding in Daisy, but I didn’t want to put our friendship at risk. As my carriage clock chimed three thirty I thought about writing to an agony aunt. Perhaps that nice woman, Beverley McDonald, on the Daily Post , with her support dog, Trevor?I’d seen her on TV a couple of times. She’d sounded sensible and sympathetic. I wondered what advice she’d give. And, as the first birds began to wake and whistle, I composed a letter to her in my mind.
Dear Beverley, I hope you can help me, because I have this dreadful problem. Sixteen years ago I was involved, albeit unwittingly, in something truly awful—something which caused a lot of damage and pain to a totally innocent person, but the thing is… I sighed, then turned over. I just couldn’t do it. Even if I used a pseudonym she might, somehow, discover it was from me and feel duty-bound to tell the police. I saw my life, already troubled by my crisis with Alexander, about to be utterly ruined. I wondered if I could talk it out with a counsellor or a therapist; but I didn’t have one and, again, what if they told ? I sat up in bed, as Herman snoozed beside me, sighing intermittently—he even manages to look stressed in his sleep. And as the shreds of pink cloud began to striate the fading navy of the retreating night, I had another, better, idea. There were online therapists and psychiatrists—‘Cyber-shrinks’. I threw off the sheet and went downstairs.
I switched on my computer, entered ‘online counselling’ into Google and came up with about two thousand hits. There were ‘Share-Feelings’ and ‘Help2Cope’. There was a California-based one called ‘Blue.com’, which claimed to offer a ‘cure’ for any psychological problem ‘within ten minutes’. Sceptical, I clicked to the next. This one was called ‘Thought Field Therapy’ and claimed to use ‘advanced psycho-technologies’ to resolve ‘any personal issue’. These were listed alphabetically in a sort of tragicomic shopping list, from abuse, affairs and alcoholism through to snoring, transsexuals and stress. Which one of them would I click on? That was easy. ‘Guilt.’ It had squatted on my life like a dead weight. There were other sites with pictures of the sunrising, of rainbows and of clouds lifting. They all sounded appealing—but how could I choose? Then I stumbled on an Australian website, ‘NoWorries.com’ for ‘people who would like to talk to someone about their problems anonymously, and to do that with total confidence from home’. As I surfed the site I could hear soothing classical music, and there were images of flickering candles and messages in bobbing bottles. Attracted to its simplicity, I logged on.
It said that I could be counselled by e-mail, telephone or face-to-face. I opted for an e-mail session of fifty minutes—the traditional psychiatrist’s hour. When did I want it? I could book any time slot, so I clicked on the window marked ‘Now’. I used my Hotmail address as it’s more anonymous, then began to tap in my credit card number. Hang on … I hadn’t been thinking straight. My credit card has my name on it. Too dangerous. With a heavy heart, I pressed ‘Quit’. I went back to bed and lay there, staring through the skylight, trying to work out how I could unburden myself. And I was just wondering whether perhaps the simplest thing wouldn’t be to go to the nearest Catholic church and find a priest to confess to, when the phone went.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry to ring so early,’ said Daisy. She sounded dismal.
‘That’s okay. I was just getting up. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh…nothing,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I’m…’ I heard her voice catch, ‘…fine.’
‘You don’t sound it. How was last
Now I wondered—as I so often had done—about confiding in Daisy, but I didn’t want to put our friendship at risk. As my carriage clock chimed three thirty I thought about writing to an agony aunt. Perhaps that nice woman, Beverley McDonald, on the Daily Post , with her support dog, Trevor?I’d seen her on TV a couple of times. She’d sounded sensible and sympathetic. I wondered what advice she’d give. And, as the first birds began to wake and whistle, I composed a letter to her in my mind.
Dear Beverley, I hope you can help me, because I have this dreadful problem. Sixteen years ago I was involved, albeit unwittingly, in something truly awful—something which caused a lot of damage and pain to a totally innocent person, but the thing is… I sighed, then turned over. I just couldn’t do it. Even if I used a pseudonym she might, somehow, discover it was from me and feel duty-bound to tell the police. I saw my life, already troubled by my crisis with Alexander, about to be utterly ruined. I wondered if I could talk it out with a counsellor or a therapist; but I didn’t have one and, again, what if they told ? I sat up in bed, as Herman snoozed beside me, sighing intermittently—he even manages to look stressed in his sleep. And as the shreds of pink cloud began to striate the fading navy of the retreating night, I had another, better, idea. There were online therapists and psychiatrists—‘Cyber-shrinks’. I threw off the sheet and went downstairs.
I switched on my computer, entered ‘online counselling’ into Google and came up with about two thousand hits. There were ‘Share-Feelings’ and ‘Help2Cope’. There was a California-based one called ‘Blue.com’, which claimed to offer a ‘cure’ for any psychological problem ‘within ten minutes’. Sceptical, I clicked to the next. This one was called ‘Thought Field Therapy’ and claimed to use ‘advanced psycho-technologies’ to resolve ‘any personal issue’. These were listed alphabetically in a sort of tragicomic shopping list, from abuse, affairs and alcoholism through to snoring, transsexuals and stress. Which one of them would I click on? That was easy. ‘Guilt.’ It had squatted on my life like a dead weight. There were other sites with pictures of the sunrising, of rainbows and of clouds lifting. They all sounded appealing—but how could I choose? Then I stumbled on an Australian website, ‘NoWorries.com’ for ‘people who would like to talk to someone about their problems anonymously, and to do that with total confidence from home’. As I surfed the site I could hear soothing classical music, and there were images of flickering candles and messages in bobbing bottles. Attracted to its simplicity, I logged on.
It said that I could be counselled by e-mail, telephone or face-to-face. I opted for an e-mail session of fifty minutes—the traditional psychiatrist’s hour. When did I want it? I could book any time slot, so I clicked on the window marked ‘Now’. I used my Hotmail address as it’s more anonymous, then began to tap in my credit card number. Hang on … I hadn’t been thinking straight. My credit card has my name on it. Too dangerous. With a heavy heart, I pressed ‘Quit’. I went back to bed and lay there, staring through the skylight, trying to work out how I could unburden myself. And I was just wondering whether perhaps the simplest thing wouldn’t be to go to the nearest Catholic church and find a priest to confess to, when the phone went.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry to ring so early,’ said Daisy. She sounded dismal.
‘That’s okay. I was just getting up. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh…nothing,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I’m…’ I heard her voice catch, ‘…fine.’
‘You don’t sound it. How was last
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