Becoming Tess Read online

  “I don’t know where to start,” Tess said, reiterating Evelyn Doyle’s words.

  She felt in the throes of a conflict. She was not dissembling but reluctant to show anything of herself to a stranger. She had a menacing sense that what she had to say would be overwhelming. She did not know if she would be able to control what might emerge. At the same time she felt uncontrollable tears well up suddenly in her eyes and spill down her face. She felt a sob build in her chest and erupt through her mouth into the room. It sounded and felt to her as if she had been hit hard in her solar plexus and the air had been knocked out of her. She had the strangest and most powerful feeling that she had arrived safely home after a long journey through a hostile and fearful land. Her conflict felt momentarily resolved in a single outburst of pent-up emotion.

  Evelyn watched as the sob built inside Tess. She had understood and sympathised with Tess’s statement even though it might mean a delay, a resistance perhaps to beginning. As it turned out, the statement had been the key to releasing stored-up emotion. Evelyn understood the emotion as relief. The sob had been preceded by what seemed to her like something intensely painful in the tears that flowed down her cheeks. It was more the pain of hope, she felt, than the pain of fear or loss. All this time she had looked at Tess warmly, feeling an empathy that deepened as Tess’s emotions were released and she slowly looked up at Evelyn again.

  Evelyn said: “Sometimes expressing emotions like you’ve just done is the only thing that can be said.”

  Tess pondered on this. It sounded to her as if Evelyn Doyle was saying that her painful emotions were a good thing. This was a strange idea to her and it took her a moment to take it in.

  “It didn’t feel good. It hurt.” She was angry in a guarded and muted way, hardly daring to be honest about the new experience she was having.

  “It’s OK for you to feel angry here, just as it’s perfectly acceptable for you to feel pain and hurt here too. That is what your being here is partly for. As time goes on you will find emotions in you that may be new and unfamiliar. That’s part of our work, for you to get to know yourself,” Evelyn replied.

  Tess wiped her face with her fingers and the back of her hands. She was still surprised at what had happened. She had no power to stop the flood. She had been astonished at the feeling of homecoming and the moments of peace that had followed. Evelyn Doyle was a stranger but perhaps that had been why it seemed to have been so effortless. In this stranger there were no complications. Evelyn proffered a box of tissues and Tess took one and blew her nose. She felt more comfortable now.

  “I think I will have to learn to trust you,” she said.

  Evelyn Doyle was impressed by Tess’s quiet declaration. It demonstrated, she thought, a guilelessness that was positive in a first meeting. Not much had been actually said out loud. But in the long silences of the session Evelyn felt that Tess had been involved in a process of orientation, of reflecting and assessing, and that had led to her simple statement about trust.

  Evelyn said: “We’ll have to finish in a couple of minutes. I look forward to our next meeting on Thursday at the same time and here again.”

  Tess looked surprised: “How long have we been here? I thought we’d only just begun.”

  Evelyn smiled, stood up and walked to the door. She opened it and held it for Tess to exit.

  “Goodbye ‘til Thursday,” she said.

  Evelyn closed the door after her patient and walked back across the room to the small table and chair in the corner. She switched on the lamp, sat down and focused her thoughts. She opened the file that lay on the table and began to write notes on the session.

  *

  Tess sat in the autumn sun inside the potting shed, taking the benefit from the warmth that surrounded her. She was thinking about her first session. What she had experienced were unnamed emotions. Something that felt curative to her had happened. She felt that a joint venture had been made with her therapist. She had allowed herself to think freely for most of the session and she had found that stimulating. She was quietly amazed as she remembered her sudden outburst of emotion and the tears that had fallen down her face. She was even more amazed that in retrospect she felt no embarrassment or shame at the outpouring.

  She was beginning to sense that being freed from the past might be possible. That gave her a sense of hope and expectation. She was beginning to feel strongly motivated and she felt pleasingly free of anxiety. She felt tired too, drained by her feat of concentration and the catharsis that she had experienced during the process. She even looked forward to the next meeting. She closed her eyes and watched the blood vessels in the back of her eyes wriggle and pulse in the light of the sun through her eyelids.

  Chapter 5

  Tess sat in the potting shed sheltering from the rain and the psychodrama of Wellbridge House. She was preoccupied. That morning Mark had found her at breakfast and told her that a letter had arrived for her in the post and was waiting for her to collect from the office. She had received only two letters since her arrival at Wellbridge House, both from her mother and both of meandering complaint, and she was thrown into confusion as she wondered who could possibly have written to her now, fearing it was her mother again. Her heart sank when she found it was. She sat in the potting shed on the wooden bench with the unopened letter in her hand. She was transfixed by the handwriting on the envelope. She was confused by her feeling of expectancy. She had never expected anything good from her mother but there was still a remnant of hope inside her, tenacious and poignant, that clung to a remote possibility.

  She was finding it extremely difficult to open the envelope. Opening the letter felt complicated and menacing. She had no idea why her mother would be writing to her again. In an impulsive moment she eased open the corner of the flap, slid her finger into the fold and tore open the paper. She withdrew the letter and opened it tentatively to reveal the undeniable form of her mother’s handwriting. She took some moments looking over the calming vista of the garden before she began to read.

  Tess, it began.

  There was no ‘Dear’ prefix before her name, just Tess. I am writing to tell you that your brother Stephen is dead.

  Tess took a moment to register what had been written and then reread the terse sentence:

  I am writing to tell you that your brother Stephen is dead.

  Tess frowned. Even on second reading she found what her mother was writing difficult to take in. It was as if she could not quite understand what her mother meant, the statement was so bald and shocking. In search of confirmation and clarification she read on:

  Stephen died in suspicious circumstances somewhere in West Wales. I don’t know the place but it seems he was living there in some cottage in the back of beyond. Anyway, he was found by the postman and he was in the kitchen on the floor. This was in February. I know that’s a long time ago but I didn’t know whether you would have been told or not. I can’t tell you how upset I’ve been by the whole business. The police say he was murdered but so far they’ve drawn a blank about who did it. They didn’t find out about me for quite a while. They didn’t tell me until April. There wasn’t much for them to go on, they said. No one really knew much about him. He kept himself to himself. They found a letter from me eventually. I don’t think they did a very good job. No one seemed to care. I could have done with you being here. I was so shocked and your father was no help. He came round after the local police had told him. I gave them his address. He was no use at all. Quite honestly he didn’t seem all there. I think he’s drinking.

  Tess looked away from the letter and surveyed the garden again, seeking reassurance. She was already being drawn into her mother’s depressing world. There was the same monotone of injury and mild indignation that she was used to, the same carping about the wrong that had invariably been done to her. There was the same familiar criticism of everyone and the unquestioning devotion to Stephen.

  I can’t bear to think of my Stephen lying alone in the cold. I don’t
know how long he’d been there. They said that the place was a tip, everything had been smashed up. I expect Stephen was smashed up too.

  It began to sink in that Stephen was dead. Everything else that her mother had written seemed unimportant. She read on anyway, there was more.

  I hadn’t seen your brother for such a long time. He never came to see me after he left home. I missed him a lot. I tried to keep in touch with him. He went to London and I went up to visit him. This was years ago. He lived in an awful place, a damp basement. I think he was on drugs. He was going through a bad patch and he had some very strange friends. I’m sure he was led astray by them. Stephen was alright really. I know you and him never got on. It was six of one and half a dozen of the other.

  Tess felt a sudden rush of fury at the injustice of her mother’s pronouncement. The thought that her mother was a stupid, foolish woman rushed through her in a flood of anger. Thinking such a thing about her mother even now gave her a pang of guilt at her own disrespect.

  Anyway, I thought you ought to know in case no one else had told you in your unit or whatever you call it. I’m sure the police will have got onto your place by now and you will have been told. But I thought I’d write just in case. She signed it: Your mother.

  Tess knew that her mother had written because Stephen had died and Stephen was the only person who mattered to her. She wanted her daughter to know that she was suffering, the victim of a terrible event that had ended in the death of her son. Anger grew in Tess, as she imagined her mother’s reasoning about Stephen’s death, her justifications for why it was not his fault.

  Tess’s anxiety began to mount and she felt the unmistakable signs of panic. Her stomach turned over and her head filled with pressure. Irrationally, she tried to stand and found herself reeling down to the bench with a thump. She slumped with her head in her hands as waves of dizziness swept through her. She had been reading her mother’s plaintive letter and it had sucked her into something that she did not like. She was her mother’s victim again, weak and helpless, just like she always had been. To put this fact so bluntly to herself made her pause and think some more. She felt angry, not just about what her mother had done to her but about her own acquiescence. She was no longer ten years old. She was no longer a child. She felt her back straighten and her shoulders square up to the realisation.

  She looked out at the garden. She stood up slowly, the letter still in her hand. Leeks, parsnips and greens remained in the soil. The leaves were turning on the fruit trees. She breathed in cool air. In her meetings with Evelyn, she decided, she would work against everything she had been brought up to think and feel about herself. She thought of Evelyn Doyle with a strange and unfamiliar feeling of warmth and looked forward to their next meeting.

  Chapter 6

  Detective Inspector Ann McKenzie was having a very bad day. Her boss had been pursuing her during the morning for crime figures that she had not had time to research. She had an argument with the Custody Sergeant about a suspect she had brought in for questioning about a burglary. Unbelievably, he had forgotten to caution the man and placed her enquiries in jeopardy. The office was a mess and she struggled continually with officers who seemed to enjoy chaotic desks and overflowing rubbish bins. She was soaked crossing the car park when she arrived that morning in a downpour, and still had not completely dried off. Added to that, it was Monday and she was tired. She had spent most of the weekend visiting her mother who was ill, and trying to catch up on paperwork, which had not included the figures that her Superintendent was chasing her for. At mid-morning she fetched a cup of coffee and a doughnut from the cafeteria, closed her office door and sat at her desk to take stock and decide upon priorities.

  She had been on the force for a long time. It was over twenty years since she entered as a cadet. She had worked her way up the ranks and at forty was awaiting a promotion to Chief Inspector. She was not overly ambitious but she was conscientious and dutiful. For her superiors, she was a safe pair of hands.

  She took a large bite of her doughnut and savoured the sensation as the fatty, sugary confection coated her mouth with its incomparable oily, sweet slick. She chewed slowly with intense pleasure, taking a small swig of coffee to perfect the combination of flavours that filled her mouth. There was a knock at the door as Sergeant Haskins simultaneously poked his head into the room. She looked up with a start, awoken from her momentary euphoria.

  “Message for you, Gov,” he said. “An Inspector Alun Davies of Dyfed-Powys Police would like to see you this afternoon,” he read from the piece of paper he was holding. The Sergeant then referred to the note again and continued, this time reading: “He’s here on other business but he would like to have a chat with you as he’s here. He’s left a mobile number for you to let him know whether two-ish today would be convenient. He’d quite understand if it’s not. I’ve written the number down,” he said, handing her the note. “He said it’s quite important, but if not he could do it on the phone.”

  Inspector McKenzie took the note. “Thanks, Sergeant,” she said, through doughnut and coffee as Haskins withdrew and closed the door. She swallowed and sighed. She could not remember ever having dealings with Dyfed-Powys. She felt reluctant to make the space for Alun Davies but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She picked up her phone and tapped out the long number. After a couple of clicks and a ring tone a voice answered. “Alun Davies here,” it said.

  Ann McKenzie replied: “Hello, it’s Inspector Ann McKenzie, South Midlands Police. You left a message for me here today. You wanted to see me this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes. Thanks for getting back to me.”

  She could hear his South Wales accent. It reminded her of holidays in Pembrokeshire. She saw beaches and green hills. Fleetingly, she saw herself exploring rock pools as a child, content and fascinated by the still, clear sea water that held all kinds of teeming life. He interrupted her images.

  “Do you have about half an hour this afternoon around two o’clock? I’d very much appreciate it and then I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Sure,” she replied. “I’m in the main building, room 204. Come through the big office on the first floor and my door is in the corner. I’ll see you then. Do you want to give me a clue over the phone what this is about?”

  “Nothing serious,” he said. “At least I don’t think so. You never know. See you then.” And he was gone.

  Ann McKenzie replaced the receiver and took another bite of her doughnut.

  *

  The rest of the morning did not improve. The best part about it had been the doughnut and the coffee. After that Ann McKenzie had been involved in an endless round of meetings and phone calls and avoidance of her Superintendent. She saw no possibility of having time to prepare figures unless it was at home. She began to deeply regret making a precious half an hour available to Alun Davies. The only thing to say in its favour was that she would be able to sit down for that brief time.

  After lunch, at about 1.45pm, she returned to her office, picked up the file on crime figures (entirely unmotivated) to fill the time and wait for his arrival, her curiosity aroused. At exactly two o’clock a stocky, dark haired, fortyish Welshman arrived at her door. She saw his approach through the glass panel that divided her office from the hubbub of the main office. He knocked as she was on her way to the door, which she opened. She smiled and said:

  “You must be Inspector Alun Davies of Dyfed-Powys Police. Come in.” He entered, verbally confirming his identity and reaching for his ID, which he opened for her to see.

  “Thanks for that. What can I do for you? I’m intrigued. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever really had any dealings with your force? But I do love Wales very much. You’re a South Walian, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. I’m actually from Pembrokeshire. Do you know it at all?” he enquired.

  “I spent many happy holidays there when I was a child. I’ve been there on holiday only once since I’ve been in the force,
sadly. Don’t know why that should be so, given how much I love it. Anyway, how can I help?”

  “It’s a rather strange matter. At the end of last February there was a particularly violent murder in Dyfed, in Pembrokeshire. We’re not used to murders let alone very violent ones in Dyfed-Powys, but it was nasty. We’ve made no progress in finding out who did it but we suspect that it is drugs related. There are lots on inlets on the Welsh coast and from time to time we know that certain drug runners use the coves to land drugs from Europe and more recently from Africa. They’ll have been trans-shipped from South America, most of them. The man who was murdered had been known to us for some time, although we’d had no dealings with him for a few years. He lived up in the hills about two miles from the nearest town in a fairly out-of-the-way cottage. No one really knew him. We’d always suspected that he might be involved in bringing in drugs and their distribution, probably in Newport, Swansea and Cardiff and other towns along the south coast. He would have sold on to other dealers in the cities but we think he did some small-scale distribution himself in places like Haverfordwest and Tenby and further east.”

  Ann McKenzie began to fidget in her chair. It was still not clear to her where the story was leading. Alun Davies picked up her restlessness and continued:

  “Anyway, the man’s name was Stephen Dawson. He was known to the postman and postmistress in Newport, the nearest town. When we searched his cottage after the murder we found an address in Faversham, Kent, for his mother, Irene Dawson. We contacted her to confirm that she did have a son called Stephen. The local force had to break the news and apparently she took it very badly. Not really surprising. This was a while back and I’m afraid there was some delay in contacting her.”