encouraging me to go on. ‘You’re here. You got out of bed and came here. So you might as well tell me,’ she says, as though she can hear my thoughts.
I tell her. I describe the dreams in all their detail – and I find I can remember way more than I thought I could. As I talk I feel the hairs on my arms standing upright and the fear returning. No, not fear. It’s like fear but different. It’s more like dread. I shiver.
She’s frowning, nodding her head every so often. Active listening, they call it. I learnt that phrase from my therapist. He said Dad and I should listen to each other more. He told Dad that listening didn’t mean just sitting there; it meant taking an active interest, nodding, saying things like, ‘That must be hard for you,’ or, ‘And how does that make you feel?’ That was when I realised that the shrink was doing it too; that he wasn’t really interested, he was just pretending to be interested by saying the right things. Active listening. Phoney listening. I stopped going to him after that.
But Claire isn’t nodding and saying things because she learnt how to do it. She’s doing it genuinely. I feel a sudden burst of love for her, a huge surge of emotion that threatens to take hold of me, make me grab her or do something else crazy. I swallow. I box it as quickly as I can, push the emotion away.
I tell her about the least scary dreams first; I want to ease her in gradually. I describe a dream where I was in a ship. I felt seasick. There were too many men down there with me.
‘A ship?’ she asks seriously. ‘You were at the bottom of it?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Describe it,’ she says. ‘As best you can.’
I describe what it was like. I describe the smell, the atmosphere of fear and desperation. I describe the walls of wood, the deafening sound of the waves crashing against them, the feeling of claustrophobia, the knowledge that for good or ill we were all in this together, that we would all sink or swim together.
‘Right . . . OK. Wait there.’ She gets off the bed and moves over to her computer, turning it on and staring at it seriously. She starts to type something, then she turns back to me.
‘Tell me about the next dream.’
I take a deep breath. Then I start talking. About the comrades, the strange bitter chocolate, about the lines of people. And somehow I don’t stop. It’s 5 a.m. by the time I’ve finished. I feel exhausted, as though I’ve run a marathon or something. But the release . . . it’s incredible, like gasping for air when you’ve been drowning. I don’t show it, of course. I do nothing. I box the feelings, hide them.
Claire’s still clacking away at her computer. I lean back on her bed and close my eyes. It’s warm here. Cosy. Safe. There’s something about girls’ rooms – the smell of creams and sweet things, the layers of things. Like not just a duvet, but a duvet and a sheet and a blanket and a throw and cushions and a teddy bear. Girls get away with having teddy bears when they’re way too old for them. No one thinks they’re pathetic. Even the lighting’s good – she’s got a little lamp and she’s draped a scarf over it so it emits this low-level pinky sort of light that makes you feel as if you’re in a womb or something. How do girls think of things like putting scarves over lamps?
‘OK.’
I open my eyes slowly. I must have drifted off. ‘OK what?’ I pull myself up; I’m sheepish suddenly – I’ve been sleeping on Claire’s bed. I’ve still got my shoes on and I can see I’ve left traces of grass and mud on her yellow checked blanket.
‘OK, I know what these dreams are,’ she says. She looks excited, like she’s solved a puzzle. Triumphant, in fact.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You do?’
‘Yes!’ she says, grinning now. ‘So the first one: you were dreaming you were on a slave ship. Look!’ She pulls an image of a ship and my eyes widen in recognition. ‘This was the sort of ship they transported slaves
I tell her. I describe the dreams in all their detail – and I find I can remember way more than I thought I could. As I talk I feel the hairs on my arms standing upright and the fear returning. No, not fear. It’s like fear but different. It’s more like dread. I shiver.
She’s frowning, nodding her head every so often. Active listening, they call it. I learnt that phrase from my therapist. He said Dad and I should listen to each other more. He told Dad that listening didn’t mean just sitting there; it meant taking an active interest, nodding, saying things like, ‘That must be hard for you,’ or, ‘And how does that make you feel?’ That was when I realised that the shrink was doing it too; that he wasn’t really interested, he was just pretending to be interested by saying the right things. Active listening. Phoney listening. I stopped going to him after that.
But Claire isn’t nodding and saying things because she learnt how to do it. She’s doing it genuinely. I feel a sudden burst of love for her, a huge surge of emotion that threatens to take hold of me, make me grab her or do something else crazy. I swallow. I box it as quickly as I can, push the emotion away.
I tell her about the least scary dreams first; I want to ease her in gradually. I describe a dream where I was in a ship. I felt seasick. There were too many men down there with me.
‘A ship?’ she asks seriously. ‘You were at the bottom of it?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Describe it,’ she says. ‘As best you can.’
I describe what it was like. I describe the smell, the atmosphere of fear and desperation. I describe the walls of wood, the deafening sound of the waves crashing against them, the feeling of claustrophobia, the knowledge that for good or ill we were all in this together, that we would all sink or swim together.
‘Right . . . OK. Wait there.’ She gets off the bed and moves over to her computer, turning it on and staring at it seriously. She starts to type something, then she turns back to me.
‘Tell me about the next dream.’
I take a deep breath. Then I start talking. About the comrades, the strange bitter chocolate, about the lines of people. And somehow I don’t stop. It’s 5 a.m. by the time I’ve finished. I feel exhausted, as though I’ve run a marathon or something. But the release . . . it’s incredible, like gasping for air when you’ve been drowning. I don’t show it, of course. I do nothing. I box the feelings, hide them.
Claire’s still clacking away at her computer. I lean back on her bed and close my eyes. It’s warm here. Cosy. Safe. There’s something about girls’ rooms – the smell of creams and sweet things, the layers of things. Like not just a duvet, but a duvet and a sheet and a blanket and a throw and cushions and a teddy bear. Girls get away with having teddy bears when they’re way too old for them. No one thinks they’re pathetic. Even the lighting’s good – she’s got a little lamp and she’s draped a scarf over it so it emits this low-level pinky sort of light that makes you feel as if you’re in a womb or something. How do girls think of things like putting scarves over lamps?
‘OK.’
I open my eyes slowly. I must have drifted off. ‘OK what?’ I pull myself up; I’m sheepish suddenly – I’ve been sleeping on Claire’s bed. I’ve still got my shoes on and I can see I’ve left traces of grass and mud on her yellow checked blanket.
‘OK, I know what these dreams are,’ she says. She looks excited, like she’s solved a puzzle. Triumphant, in fact.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You do?’
‘Yes!’ she says, grinning now. ‘So the first one: you were dreaming you were on a slave ship. Look!’ She pulls an image of a ship and my eyes widen in recognition. ‘This was the sort of ship they transported slaves
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