she’d worked for a long time. On cytotoxic drugs. A tiny cog in a complex machine, but she’d needed a degree in chemistry to become that cog. A great career ahead of her, she’d hoped, starting off so lowly, then aspiring to greater things, only the aspiring hadn’t got her as far as she’d expected. Meeting Tom interrupted her ambition – that was it. She’d stopped aspiring. She didn’t want to go back to being ambitious. Once she’d progressed to being in charge of one small unit, she’d been satisfied.
‘No,’ she told the Woman, ‘I don’t want to do the work I used to do. My job is fine. No strain.’
This was the right thing to have said. The Woman nodded.
‘Very wise,’ she said, ‘very sensible, for the time being, if you’re happy.’
Tara laughed. It sounded forced, but it wasn’t. It always made her laugh when people used the word ‘happy’ so carelessly. It was ridiculous: happy! Such a silly-sounding little word, covering such a vast array of emotion. Did people go around declaring, ‘I am happy?’ She didn’t think so. Too dangerous. You could get struck down by a bolt of lightning for such daring. The word that could not be spoken or it would surely disintegrate.
‘Have I said something funny?’ the Woman asked, smiling, but clearly a little offended, suspecting she herself was being laughed at.
‘No, no,’ Tara said. ‘I was just remembering something, you know, that song, that dirge, “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.”’
The Woman looked puzzled, so Tara sang it quietly, lightly clapping her hands.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t explain why I laughed. It’s complicated. Anyway, yes, thank you, I’m fine.’
She couldn’t bring herself to say, as the Woman wanted her to say, that she was happy. Best to change the subject.
‘I’m thinking,’ she said, hardly able to believe she was about to say what she was going to say, ‘I’m thinking of having a holiday. Going away for a weekend soon.’
The Woman said she was pleased to hear this. It showed that Sarah was making significant progress – it really was a very good sign that she was feeling able to do this – and she looked forward to hearing how this planned break went.
It was a long way, something like 300 miles. Tara didn’t think she could do it in one day – she’d be too tired. Her concentration wasn’t good. She knew that her mind had a habit of drifting if she drove more than an hour or so, and she had to stop and pull herself together before going on. Why this should be, she didn’t know, and she was certainly not going to consult any doctor to try to find out. She’d had enough psychiatric tests of one sort or another in the last ten years and she didn’t want any more. Anything the matter with her, if it were not of an obvious physical nature, was always attributed to ‘trauma’. It was so lazy, sticking that label on her. Sheknew what trauma was and she knew she had not been traumatised. To say she had been was an insult to true sufferers.
But there she was, driving to Pica very early on a Saturday morning and her mind wandering in this kind of way so that she hardly saw the tractor coming straight at her, its driver gesticulating imperiously that she should pull up to one side. Hurriedly, just in time, she obeyed, and a herd of cows behind the tractor plodded ahead, filling the narrow road. They were big black-and-white cows, udders full and enormous. They pushed and shoved their way past her car, banging the side, their tails swishing against the bonnet. Behind them came a boy on a bike, a long cane held in one hand. He ignored the car, swerving on his bike to avoid knocking into it, paying no attention to her. It took a full ten minutes for the herd to amble past. In her driving mirror she could see that half a mile behind her they were lurching into a field. But she went on sitting there, the sudden quiet overwhelming her. She knew how to measure those
‘No,’ she told the Woman, ‘I don’t want to do the work I used to do. My job is fine. No strain.’
This was the right thing to have said. The Woman nodded.
‘Very wise,’ she said, ‘very sensible, for the time being, if you’re happy.’
Tara laughed. It sounded forced, but it wasn’t. It always made her laugh when people used the word ‘happy’ so carelessly. It was ridiculous: happy! Such a silly-sounding little word, covering such a vast array of emotion. Did people go around declaring, ‘I am happy?’ She didn’t think so. Too dangerous. You could get struck down by a bolt of lightning for such daring. The word that could not be spoken or it would surely disintegrate.
‘Have I said something funny?’ the Woman asked, smiling, but clearly a little offended, suspecting she herself was being laughed at.
‘No, no,’ Tara said. ‘I was just remembering something, you know, that song, that dirge, “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.”’
The Woman looked puzzled, so Tara sang it quietly, lightly clapping her hands.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t explain why I laughed. It’s complicated. Anyway, yes, thank you, I’m fine.’
She couldn’t bring herself to say, as the Woman wanted her to say, that she was happy. Best to change the subject.
‘I’m thinking,’ she said, hardly able to believe she was about to say what she was going to say, ‘I’m thinking of having a holiday. Going away for a weekend soon.’
The Woman said she was pleased to hear this. It showed that Sarah was making significant progress – it really was a very good sign that she was feeling able to do this – and she looked forward to hearing how this planned break went.
It was a long way, something like 300 miles. Tara didn’t think she could do it in one day – she’d be too tired. Her concentration wasn’t good. She knew that her mind had a habit of drifting if she drove more than an hour or so, and she had to stop and pull herself together before going on. Why this should be, she didn’t know, and she was certainly not going to consult any doctor to try to find out. She’d had enough psychiatric tests of one sort or another in the last ten years and she didn’t want any more. Anything the matter with her, if it were not of an obvious physical nature, was always attributed to ‘trauma’. It was so lazy, sticking that label on her. Sheknew what trauma was and she knew she had not been traumatised. To say she had been was an insult to true sufferers.
But there she was, driving to Pica very early on a Saturday morning and her mind wandering in this kind of way so that she hardly saw the tractor coming straight at her, its driver gesticulating imperiously that she should pull up to one side. Hurriedly, just in time, she obeyed, and a herd of cows behind the tractor plodded ahead, filling the narrow road. They were big black-and-white cows, udders full and enormous. They pushed and shoved their way past her car, banging the side, their tails swishing against the bonnet. Behind them came a boy on a bike, a long cane held in one hand. He ignored the car, swerving on his bike to avoid knocking into it, paying no attention to her. It took a full ten minutes for the herd to amble past. In her driving mirror she could see that half a mile behind her they were lurching into a field. But she went on sitting there, the sudden quiet overwhelming her. She knew how to measure those
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