Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

‘He said the medallion was of Hindu origin but I recognised its image. My mother’s butcher had worn the same talisman. Mr Da Silva was Roman Catholic and Portuguese. He had considerable body hair.’

Bijou Poulet frowned and shook her head at the mention of body hair. ‘We’re wasting time. Have you ever dreamed you’ve forgotten to put your underpants on?’

‘No.’

‘You dream you’re back at school and suddenly realise you’re not wearing underpants.’

‘No.’

‘You’re sitting an exam and panic when you realise you’ve forgotten your underpants.’

‘I have never dreamed about underwear, with or without.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Bijou Poulet exhaled loudly through her nose and slapped her notebook on her knee.

I did not need to be a psychological expert to recognise frustration when I saw it.

She let out a long, irritated sigh. ‘Tell me about your anxieties, worries, qualms. Give them to me in a nutshell.’

I tried to think of something to say. What I was most worried about at that moment was displeasing her but I doubted this was what she wanted to hear.

‘Hurry up!’ She tapped her wrist. ‘You’re over halfway through your session.’

I was thinking how best to describe Mr Chin and explain that my education and career plans were in jeopardy when Bijou Poulet’s words cut through my thoughts.

‘Hello, anybody home?’

I felt a jolt as if an alarm clock had gone off next to my ear and a small flash bulb had popped inside my brain. I started talking rapidly. ‘Dirty washing worries me. If I think about the way it piles up, I get an empty feeling in my chest. No matter how often I wash my clothes, there’s always more. The clothes I wear while doing the washing will be the dirty clothes I wash tomorrow. It’s endless, like infinity, the universe. It makes me feel small and meaningless.’

‘Ridiculous.’ She tilted her chin and tapped her lips with a palm to demonstrate a false yawn.

‘Could we discuss abnormality?’

‘No.’

‘I’d like to talk about how I feel disconnected from the human context, encased in Perspex.’

‘Think of a family member, a key family member with breasts.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Starts with M. Sounds like “other”.’

‘Mother?’

‘It’s like pulling teeth with you.’

It felt good to get something right. I smiled at Bijou Poulet and received a frown in return.

‘Describe a traumatic incident with this woman.’

‘You mean my mother?’

‘Whatever. Just pick up the pace. I haven’t got all day.’ She click-clicked the fingers of one hand and made an upward swirling motion with the index finger of the other.

My mind whirred, went blank, whirred, went blank. There had been many traumatic incidents but at that moment I could not think of a single one. I watched Bijou Poulet tap her pen on the notepad with impatience. I closed my eyes and heard her snort, a long ‘Hnihhh.’

Suddenly I could see my mother’s face. It was poked between the curtains of the fitting booth in the ladies department of Trout and Son and she was breathing heavily through her nose. I was naked from the waist up, struggling with the clasp of a Miss Teen Starter. Perspiration was running between the two things that had brought me there. They were as round and hard as walnuts and burned on my chest under my mother’s gaze.

‘Stop sweating. You’ll soil the thing and I’m not paying for soiled goods.’ She spoke in a hoarse whisper, twisting her neck out of the booth to make sure the shop assistant was out of hearing range.

The plastic clasp, slippery with perspiration, miraculously clicked shut. I pulled up the straps and raised the twin apricot cups over my breasts where they puckered for want of fill. My mother moved in close, breathing relentlessly through her nose. Her eyes were fixed on the cups.

‘Just lean forwards and fall into them.’

I bent at the waist and urged whatever flesh there was on my chest and underarms to fall into the cups. Nothing fell. I had no moveable flesh on my fourteen-year-old body. My mother looked at the empty cups and sucked air between her teeth before expelling it through her nose in a dissatisfied ‘Hnihhh.’ It was clear by the way she frowned that my chest was not good enough and never would be.

‘That’s it?’ Bijou Poulet raised her eyebrows and gave me an incredulous look.

‘Correct.’

‘That story has no entertainment value whatsoever. You need to learn the value of a good punch line. It makes all the difference.’

‘But I wasn’t trying to entertain. I didn’t think it was expected.’

‘What do you think it’s like listening to someone ramble on about personal problems? Psychotherapeutic dramatology is a two-way street. What did you expect from me?’

‘Mental therapeutics. I was hoping you could help me iron out the kinks of abnormality.’

‘I’m not a magician. It’s session number one and we haven’t even scratched the surface. Someone with your psychological profile needs extensive analytical attention. There’s layer upon layer of chronic disorder in your psyche. I’m seeing obsessive-compulsive behaviour and classic female hysteria. Then, of course, there’s the Joan of Arc business, the nub of your psycho-sexual problems.’ She leaned back in her chair and smiled professionally. ‘The good news is, you’re not alone with your psychoses. I treat sick people like you every day. The bad news is that your psychology needs reprogramming from the brain stem up. That sort of overhaul doesn’t come cheap. We’re looking at four, maybe five figures.’

‘I don’t have that kind of money. My funds are limited.’

‘I have an instalment plan with attractive rates for bulk purchase. You’ll need to buy bulk. I can assure you.’ Bijou Poulet smiled in an unnatural way and made a T with her hands. ‘Let’s take some time out. I’ll give you a minute or two to think over my generous offer.’

I should not have been disappointed by Bijou Poulet’s evaluation. Criticism is not new to me. I have heard it all my life and am vaccinated against it to some degree. But what surprised me was the finality of her assessment. I had naively expected some sort of miracle cure. The gift from Mr Chin and the timely assistance of Nigel had convinced me that something groundbreaking was about to happen. I should have known better. The brain is a complex and powerful organ. It consists of one hundred billion neurons and can generate enough energy to illuminate a twenty-watt light bulb. Psychology is not a simple science.

‘I’m afraid I can’t afford more psychotherapeutic dramatology but it would be helpful to know where my central problem lies.’

‘That would be revealed in session seventeen. Not before. Professional reasons, you understand.’

‘I don’t, no.’

‘I’m writing a screenplay, tentatively titled Cat Fight.’

‘About me?’

‘What kind of a psychological professional would I be if I couldn’t keep secrets?’