The House on the Cliff Read Online Free PDF Page B

“I’m sick of it. That’s why I’ve come to you.”
    I nodded. There was a silence, and then I said, “There’s probably a reason why you do wake up before the end of your dream.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “Well, maybe part of you doesn’t want to know what happened.”
    He frowned. “What, you mean because it might be too . . . upsetting?”
    “Yes. And until that part changes, you won’t find out.” I hesitated. “Because it won’t let you.”
    He didn’t respond. Instead he looked down at the floor, a puzzled expression on his face. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked at me.
    “You talk like a psychotherapist,” he said. “But you don’t look like one.”
    This was a familiar tactic, changing the subject. But I didn’t protest.
    “Really?” I smiled, but I began to feel self-conscious again. “And what does a psychotherapist look like?”
    “Sort of mumsy, I suppose. Sensible.” He stopped for a moment. I began to wonder whether he was engaging in some kind of flirtation with me. “Although that dress you’re wearing is a bit . . .”
    I was wearing a dove-gray woolen dress with a sweetheart neckline and pearl buttons down the front. I’d chosen it because I thought he might find the buttons a little less threatening than some. They didn’t really look like buttons at all, more like . . . well, pearls.
    “. . . a bit . . .”
    I didn’t take up his cue. Instead, I let him grind to a halt, and then I said, “Are you OK with these kind of buttons?”
    “Yes, fine. Thanks.” He paused. He seemed mildly discomfited by my question. “You know, I never asked you what your qualifications for this job were.”
    “Oh. Well, as a matter of fact, I trained as an existential psychotherapist.”
    “What on earth does that mean?”
    “It’s just a school of therapy. It emphasizes freedom. And choice. Rather than the idea that your life is determined for you by the circumstances of your birth.”
    He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I agree with that.” He paused. “Where did you train?”
    “In London. At—”
    He waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t mean anything to me.” Another pause. “And how long have you been doing this—what was it . . . ? Existential . . .”
    “Twenty years. More or less.”
    “I see.”
    He looked down at his lap, frowning. For a while, we sat there in silence together. And then, when the silence began to get too loud, he spoke.
    “Sorry if I seemed rude. About your dress.”
    “That’s OK. You weren’t.”
    “And nosy. About your qualifications.”
    “Not at all. You’re right to ask. After all, you’re entrusting yourself to me. I’m your therapist.”
    He nodded. There was a short silence and then he said, “You know that part of me you were talking about? The part that doesn’t want to know what happened in my childhood?”
    I nodded.
    “I’m going to have to change that, aren’t I? If I want to find out.”
    “Probably.”
    “And you think you can help me to do that?”
    “I hope so. It depends on you, really. And whether, deep down, you actually want to change.”
    “I do.”
    He looked up at me and, for the first time, he smiled. It was a sweet, sincere smile, like a little boy’s. I thought of the child in the box, blocking his ears and counting to ten. I smiled back at him, and then I looked away, up at the relief on the wall behind his head. I was inwardly congratulating myself on handling the situation so calmly, despite the fact that his remarks about my appearance had made me more uncomfortable than was usual with a new client. But, to my consternation, I noticed that the circle was still pulsating gently among the squares.
     
    I was standing at the cooker, grilling mackerel fillets for supper. Normally I enjoy cooking for my family in the evening; after a long day of intense encounters with emotional clients, I find it soothing to absorb myself in the simple rhythms of peeling, chopping,