Rachel's Holiday
Page 15
‘Nemesis?’ asked Helen, in excitement. ‘What do they sing?’
Although, I thought, trying hard to tune her out, it had a certain kind of austere charm. It couldn’t go round just looking like a luxury hotel, even if that was exactly what it was. No one would take it seriously.
‘Are any of them good-looking?’ clamoured Helen.
It was great to be out in the countryside, I told myself, determinedly refusing to hear Helen. Just think! Clean air, simple living and the chance to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city.
‘Are they all here?’ whinged Helen. ‘Or only som…?’
My anxiety overflowed. ‘Shut up!’ I shouted. I wished Helen hadn’t come, but she had been insistent ever since she had heard about the pop stars.
Helen looked thunderous and Dad intervened quickly. ‘Go easy on her, Helen.’
She glared, then wavered. ‘OK,’ she said, in a burst of rare altruism. ‘I suppose it’s not every day she’s committed.’
When we got out of the car, Helen and I did a quick scan of the grounds, looking for stray celebrities, but nothing doing. Dad, of course, had no interest. He had once shaken Jack Charlton by the hand and nothing could top that. He trudged ahead of us up the grey stone steps to the heavy wooden door. He and I weren’t speaking much, but at least he had come with me. Not only had Mum refused, but she hadn’t let Anna come either. I think she was afraid they’d keep Anna in too. Especially after Helen swore blind she’d read that the Cloisters was doing a special ‘Two for the price of One’ offer for the month of February.
The front door was good and heavy and wooden and swung open with solemn weight. Just as it should. But then I was surprised to find that we were suddenly in a modern office reception area. Photocopiers, phones, fax machines, computers, thin cardboard walls, a sign on the wall that said ‘You don’t have to be a drug addict to work here, but it helps.’ Although maybe I imagined that bit.
‘Good morning,’ sang a bright young woman. The type of young woman who answered ads looking for someone ‘Bubbly’. Blonde curly hair, bright smile, although not too bright as to seem insensitive. After all, this was not a happy occasion.
‘I’m Jack Walsh,’ said Dad. And this is my daughter, Rachel. We’re expected. And that’s Helen, but don’t mind her.’
The bubbly one flicked a nervous glance at Helen. She probably didn’t often find herself in a room with a girl who was better looking than herself. Then she gathered herself enough to smile a professionally sympathetic smile at Dad and me.
‘She’s, ah, had a bit of trouble with, you know, drugs…’ said Dad.
‘Mmmm, yes.’ She nodded. ‘Dr Billings is expecting you. I’ll just let him know you’re here.’
She buzzed Dr Billings, smiled brightly at Dad, smiled sadly at me, scowled balefully at Helen, and said. ‘He’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘It’s not too late, is it?’ asked Dad. ‘For Rachel. She can be helped, can’t she?’
Bubbly looked alarmed. ‘It’s not for me to say,’ she said quickly. ‘Dr Billing will do the assessment and only he would be qualified to…’
Mortified, I elbowed Dad. What was he doing asking this child if I could be saved?
My father always behaved as if he knew everything. What had I done to reduce him to this?
While we waited for Dr Billings I picked up a glossy leaflet on her desk. ‘The Cloisters. Deep in the ancient Wicklow hills…’ For a minute I thought I was reading the back of a mineral-water bottle.
Dr Billings looked uncannily like John Cleese. He was about eight foot tall and nearly bald. His legs ended somewhere up around his ears, his bum was up around the back of his neck and his trousers only came to mid-calf where they flapped around showing a good six inches of white socks. He looked like a lunatic. I found out later that he was a psychiatrist, which made perfect sense.
To a backdrop of Helen’s sniggers, he ferried me off to be ‘assessed’. Which consisted of convincing both of us that I was bad enough to be admitted. He did a lot of staring thoughtfully, saying ‘Hmmm’ and writing down nearly everything I said.
I was discomfited to find that he didn’t smoke a pipe.
He asked me about the drugs I took and I tried to be truthful. Well, truthfulish. Strangely, the amount and variety of drugs I took sounded far worse when described out of context, so I toned it down a lot. I mean, I knew my drug-taking was perfectly under control, but he mightn’t understand. He wrote stuff on a card and said things like ‘Yes, yes, I can see that you have a problem.’
Which I didn’t like to hear. Especially considering I’d lied. Until I remembered that me being a drug addict was worth several thousand pounds to him.
Then he did something that I’d been tensed for him to do since I went into his office. He rested his arms on the desk and made a steeple of his fingers. Then he leaned forward and said ‘Yes, Rachel, it’s obvious that you have a chronic drug-abuse problem, etc, etc…’
Basically, I was in.
Then he gave me a lecture about the place.
‘No one is forcing you to come here, Rachel. You’re not being sectioned. Perhaps you have experience of other institutions?’
I shook my head. The cheek of the man!
‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Many of our clients do. But once you have agreed to come here, there are certain conditions that we expect you to adhere to.’
Oh yes? Conditions? What kind of conditions?
‘The usual length of time people stay here is two months,’ he said. ‘Occasionally, they may want to leave before the two months have elapsed, but once they’ve signed in they’re committed to staying three weeks. After which they’re free to go, unless we think it would be against their best interests.’
That started an icy little trickle of something akin to apprehension. It wasn’t that I minded staying three weeks. In fact, I planned to stay the full two months. It was just that I didn’t like his tone of voice. Why did he take it all so seriously? And why would people want to leave before their two months were up?
‘Do you understand this, Rachel?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Dr Cleese,’ I mumbled.
‘Billings,’ he frowned, and dived for my card and wrote something. ‘My name is Dr Billings.’
Although, I thought, trying hard to tune her out, it had a certain kind of austere charm. It couldn’t go round just looking like a luxury hotel, even if that was exactly what it was. No one would take it seriously.
‘Are any of them good-looking?’ clamoured Helen.
It was great to be out in the countryside, I told myself, determinedly refusing to hear Helen. Just think! Clean air, simple living and the chance to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city.
‘Are they all here?’ whinged Helen. ‘Or only som…?’
My anxiety overflowed. ‘Shut up!’ I shouted. I wished Helen hadn’t come, but she had been insistent ever since she had heard about the pop stars.
Helen looked thunderous and Dad intervened quickly. ‘Go easy on her, Helen.’
She glared, then wavered. ‘OK,’ she said, in a burst of rare altruism. ‘I suppose it’s not every day she’s committed.’
When we got out of the car, Helen and I did a quick scan of the grounds, looking for stray celebrities, but nothing doing. Dad, of course, had no interest. He had once shaken Jack Charlton by the hand and nothing could top that. He trudged ahead of us up the grey stone steps to the heavy wooden door. He and I weren’t speaking much, but at least he had come with me. Not only had Mum refused, but she hadn’t let Anna come either. I think she was afraid they’d keep Anna in too. Especially after Helen swore blind she’d read that the Cloisters was doing a special ‘Two for the price of One’ offer for the month of February.
The front door was good and heavy and wooden and swung open with solemn weight. Just as it should. But then I was surprised to find that we were suddenly in a modern office reception area. Photocopiers, phones, fax machines, computers, thin cardboard walls, a sign on the wall that said ‘You don’t have to be a drug addict to work here, but it helps.’ Although maybe I imagined that bit.
‘Good morning,’ sang a bright young woman. The type of young woman who answered ads looking for someone ‘Bubbly’. Blonde curly hair, bright smile, although not too bright as to seem insensitive. After all, this was not a happy occasion.
‘I’m Jack Walsh,’ said Dad. And this is my daughter, Rachel. We’re expected. And that’s Helen, but don’t mind her.’
The bubbly one flicked a nervous glance at Helen. She probably didn’t often find herself in a room with a girl who was better looking than herself. Then she gathered herself enough to smile a professionally sympathetic smile at Dad and me.
‘She’s, ah, had a bit of trouble with, you know, drugs…’ said Dad.
‘Mmmm, yes.’ She nodded. ‘Dr Billings is expecting you. I’ll just let him know you’re here.’
She buzzed Dr Billings, smiled brightly at Dad, smiled sadly at me, scowled balefully at Helen, and said. ‘He’ll be with you in a moment.’
‘It’s not too late, is it?’ asked Dad. ‘For Rachel. She can be helped, can’t she?’
Bubbly looked alarmed. ‘It’s not for me to say,’ she said quickly. ‘Dr Billing will do the assessment and only he would be qualified to…’
Mortified, I elbowed Dad. What was he doing asking this child if I could be saved?
My father always behaved as if he knew everything. What had I done to reduce him to this?
While we waited for Dr Billings I picked up a glossy leaflet on her desk. ‘The Cloisters. Deep in the ancient Wicklow hills…’ For a minute I thought I was reading the back of a mineral-water bottle.
Dr Billings looked uncannily like John Cleese. He was about eight foot tall and nearly bald. His legs ended somewhere up around his ears, his bum was up around the back of his neck and his trousers only came to mid-calf where they flapped around showing a good six inches of white socks. He looked like a lunatic. I found out later that he was a psychiatrist, which made perfect sense.
To a backdrop of Helen’s sniggers, he ferried me off to be ‘assessed’. Which consisted of convincing both of us that I was bad enough to be admitted. He did a lot of staring thoughtfully, saying ‘Hmmm’ and writing down nearly everything I said.
I was discomfited to find that he didn’t smoke a pipe.
He asked me about the drugs I took and I tried to be truthful. Well, truthfulish. Strangely, the amount and variety of drugs I took sounded far worse when described out of context, so I toned it down a lot. I mean, I knew my drug-taking was perfectly under control, but he mightn’t understand. He wrote stuff on a card and said things like ‘Yes, yes, I can see that you have a problem.’
Which I didn’t like to hear. Especially considering I’d lied. Until I remembered that me being a drug addict was worth several thousand pounds to him.
Then he did something that I’d been tensed for him to do since I went into his office. He rested his arms on the desk and made a steeple of his fingers. Then he leaned forward and said ‘Yes, Rachel, it’s obvious that you have a chronic drug-abuse problem, etc, etc…’
Basically, I was in.
Then he gave me a lecture about the place.
‘No one is forcing you to come here, Rachel. You’re not being sectioned. Perhaps you have experience of other institutions?’
I shook my head. The cheek of the man!
‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Many of our clients do. But once you have agreed to come here, there are certain conditions that we expect you to adhere to.’
Oh yes? Conditions? What kind of conditions?
‘The usual length of time people stay here is two months,’ he said. ‘Occasionally, they may want to leave before the two months have elapsed, but once they’ve signed in they’re committed to staying three weeks. After which they’re free to go, unless we think it would be against their best interests.’
That started an icy little trickle of something akin to apprehension. It wasn’t that I minded staying three weeks. In fact, I planned to stay the full two months. It was just that I didn’t like his tone of voice. Why did he take it all so seriously? And why would people want to leave before their two months were up?
‘Do you understand this, Rachel?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Dr Cleese,’ I mumbled.
‘Billings,’ he frowned, and dived for my card and wrote something. ‘My name is Dr Billings.’
