Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [26]
“So you don’t have to have a bath after all?” said Wolf.
“No,” she said lamely. “I forgot. I don’t.”
Wolf smiled at her, his teeth white against his lips. “Oh well,”
he said. “I’d better be going. So long.”
“So long.”
He closed the door, and Pat sat down on her bed. She felt confused and raw; unhappy too. And in her unhappiness, as ever, she retrieved her mobile from her bag and pressed the button which would connect her immediately with her father. He answered, as he always did, in the calm tones that she had always found so reassuring. He inquired where she was and asked her how she was settling in, and then there was a brief silence before she spoke again.
“Can you tell me something, Dad?” she asked. “Why do we utter words that don’t mean anything?”
Dr MacGregor laughed. “Perhaps you should ask a politician that. They’re the experts in the uttering of the meaningless.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I’m talking about when you murmur a word to yourself. A name perhaps. The name of a place.” She did not say the name of a street, of course. Anguish
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There was a moment’s silence at the other end. Dr MacGregor realised that this was not theoretical inquiry; doctors were never asked theoretical questions. They were asked questions about things that were happening to real people, usually to the questioner.
“Why?” he asked gently. “Have you found yourself doing this?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “I suppose I have.”
“It’s nothing too worrying,” said Dr MacGregor. “It’s usually an expression of agony. Something worries you, something haunts you, and you give verbal expression to your anguish. And what you say may have nothing to do with what you feel. It may be the name of somebody you know, it may be a totally meaningless word.”
“Such as . . . such as Spottiswoode?”
“Yes. Spottiswoode would do.” Dr MacGregor paused. So that was what his daughter had uttered. Well, Spottiswoode was as good as anything. “You’re unhappy about something, aren’t you? That’s why you gave a cry of anguish. It’s a perfectly normal response, you know. Lots of people do it. They don’t admit it, but they do it. People don’t admit things, you see, Pat.”
“They don’t?”
“No, they don’t. And that’s very sad, isn’t it? We’re all weak, human creatures, with all those foibles and troubles which make us human, and we all – or most of us – feel that we have to be strong and brave and in command of ourselves. But we can’t be. The people with the strong, brave exteriors are just as weak and vulnerable as the rest of us. And of course they never admit to their childish practices, their moments of weakness or absurdity, and then the rest of us think that’s how it should be. But it isn’t, Pat. It isn’t.
“And here is another thing, Pat. When you find yourself doing something like this – something which appears to have no meaning – remember that it might just be plain old superstitious behaviour. A lot of the things we do are superstitious. And although we don’t know it, we do them because we think that our actions will protect us from things getting even worse.”
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Fibs
Pat was intrigued. For the time being, she had forgotten about her misery and about Spottiswoode and its attendant embarrassments. It was so like her father to understand so completely. And it was so like him, too, to make it that much easier.
“Of course,” went on Dr MacGregor, “this will all be about a boy, won’t it?”
She drew in her breath. He always knew; he always knew.
“Yes, it is.”
“In that case,” he said, “your options are very clear, you know. You find out whether it’s going to work out, or you forget him. If he’s unattainable, or not interested in you, then you simply have to forget him. Forget he exists. Tell yourself that he’s really nothing to you.”
Their conversation continued for a few minutes after that. Then Pat went to the window and looked out. Wolf is nothing to me, she said to herself. Wolf is nothing to me. She heard a noise outside the closed door, and she spun round.