\t\t\t\t
The day she meets her new client, Eileen is nervous. She is still training as a psychotherapist. Her office is cold and bare, its sash window leading onto a tiny courtyard lined with sooty bricks. Pigeons\u2019 wings flutter against glass in the leaden London air. She shrugs her shoulders. The new navy jacket weighs her down like armour. She looks at her hands, the trim nails, the little finger that she still bites hiding itself away underneath the others. When the client shuffles in she is for a moment lost for words. She must compose herself to speak. Wait for the lumps of that accent she thought she had suppressed forever to dissolve in her mouth. For that new therapist\u2019s voice to come.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0\u201cMr Lim.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0He has already taken the seat opposite her. He\u2019s on the edge of his chair, looking at her through thick, round-framed glasses. Hunched up, as if at any time he might startle and take flight.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u00a0\u201cI\u2019m Eileen Tay. Was it difficult to make your way here?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0He shakes his head.\u00a0 He speaks slowly, with a noticeable accent. <\/span>Flat,<\/span><\/i> she mentally notes. <\/span>Expressionless<\/span><\/i>. He took the tube to Tavistock Square, and then walked. Once he found the street it was easy to count off the numbers and find his way.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0\u201cMr Lim, tell me why you came to us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0He\u2019s silent. He meets her eyes briefly and then looks down at his feet. She snatches a glance at the clock on the wall, the red second hand moving in an arc, slowly somersaulting. Once. Twice. Breathe. Let the tightness go. You are here for the client, not for you. Do not rush to fill up silence with words.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0He looks up.<\/span><\/p>\u00a0\u201cYou\u2019re very young.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0Her cheeks burn. A thought like a wasp sting, pricking and leaving no trace. Don\u2019t scratch. Don\u2019t let it bother you. Reflect back his emotion, and the thought behind it.<\/span><\/p>\u201cYou\u2019re skeptical,\u201d she says, \u201cbecause you think I\u2019ve not seen enough of the world to understand you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u00a0His face scrunches a little in puzzlement. Then, finally, he starts to talk.<\/span><\/p>* * *<\/span><\/p>At the end of a long day of sessions, Eileen is still rehearsing what happened when she climbs up the stairs to her flat at Lancaster Gate. The boiler\u2019s out, and the radiators are stone cold. She lights the stove, holds her hands near the kettle for warmth.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>She sits down with her tea and begins to write up her notes. Most of the clients\u2019 stories are simple. Depression or anxiety driven by ingrained patterns of thought. A young man feels a sense of dread when he enters the office each day, as strong as a blow to the chest. A middle-aged woman finds that anger still flares whenever she talks to her mother, although each time she resolves to be calm. An old gentleman is insufferably lonely and finds himself unable to make new friends.<\/span><\/p>Such cases, her supervisor Harry tells her, show the nature of human beings. They are like onions, taking patience and some tears to peel, layer by layer, to the core. Her clients are caught in an eternal moment: when the trigger event occurs, emotions overwhelm them. The trick is to help them notice the thoughts that flicker, that connect event to emotion, thoughts that have become so habitual that the client no longer notices them. Peel off the layers. Find that hidden thought. The young man is convinced that nothing he ever does works out right. The woman feels her mother\u2019s judgment stab, even without words. The older man knows that he is fundamentally unlovable. Unwrap the thought. Look at it carefully. Is it really, completely true?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>This is how we progress, Harry tells her. Intellect governs emotion. We expose hidden thoughts to the clear light of day. It\u2019s good to gain a clients\u2019 trust, of course. To make them feel comfortable. But soon you need to discipline them. To make them, however recalcitrant, rule themselves.<\/span><\/p>She smiles and sips her tea. With Mr Lim, then, she surely shouldn\u2019t worry that in that first session she\u2019s simply let him talk and reflected back his feelings. She can introduce the process of change, the thought record, in the next session. She has saved his case notes for last. These should be clinical, Harry has told her. Factual. But she finds she remembers fragments of their conversation where words flew up beyond the grid of behaviour, emotion, and thought.<\/span><\/p>A great wave broke and left me on the shore.<\/span><\/i><\/p>Islands are never apart from each other.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\u00a0I see pigeons all around me, but I dream of doves.<\/span><\/i><\/p>She writes these words down and then crosses them out.<\/span><\/p>* * *<\/span><\/p>She does not think Mr Lim would return for the second session. And yet he is sitting there, in the waiting room, when she comes to look for him. He carries a bag of apples that he wants to give to her, and she says, gently, no, we are not allowed to take gifts.<\/span><\/p>She asks him, when he has settled in his chair, how his last week has been, and he tells her that there has been little change. He falls asleep easily, in the double bed he shares with his wife, but two or three hours later he is wide awake again. His boys sleep blissfully through the night. So does his wife. And yet when he wakes up, sleep refuses to come again. Thoughts race through his head.<\/span><\/p>He goes back over those things that happened, those stories that he has begun to share with her. Could he have acted differently? In agreeing to come here, in leaving Singapore, in writing that letter resigning from the party, did he betray his friends? Then there are the sounds of the street at night, even in the quiet of South London suburbia. Footsteps on paving stones, growing louder. The hiss of car tires on wet tarmac. Once, a police siren, in the distance, coming closer. He broke into a sweat. He was sure that it was coming for him. Despite the stuffiness, you keep the windows closed. You lie and wait for the knock on the door, the voices outside.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u201cWhat do you do if you still can\u2019t sleep?\u201d<\/span><\/p>He gets up. There is a small desk and an uncomfortable chair in the living room where he can sit and read. Books and magazines bought from Gwanghwa in Soho. Sometimes this works. After two or three hours he can return to bed, doze, only to be awakened again by the light leaking in round the curtains, the new day slapping his face.<\/span><\/p>Mornings are the worst, he tells her. He rises, and together they get the boys ready for the day. He prepares for work. He feels deeply tired, as if all the air has been sucked out of the world and replaced by thick treacle, clogging any movement he makes. This feeling persists until lunchtime, when the clouds suddenly lift. Weight vanishes from his temples and his shoulders. He sits on a bench in the park with a sandwich, dropping crumbs and watching a flock of pigeons peck and then rise up into the air. They are like a kettle boiling. There is the memory of the arms of his youngest boy, soft and warm with sleep, wrapping around the pillar of his leg. At times he smiles at this. At others he cries and the darkness returns.<\/span><\/p>\u201cLet\u2019s slow down,\u201d she says. \u201cYou\u2019re there, in the park.\u201d<\/span><\/p>He nods, gazes at the floor, and breathes.<\/span><\/p>\u201cYou\u2019re sitting there, on the bench.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cIt\u2019s cold,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019m alone. And then I think of the boy. He reaches out to me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cWhat does he say to you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>He looks up at her, takes off his glasses, and wipes the corner of his eyes.<\/span><\/p>\u201c<\/span>\u7238\u7238<\/span>.\u201d Father.<\/span><\/p>\u201cCan you stay there? In that moment.\u201d<\/span><\/p>He sighs, and then nods.<\/span><\/p>\u201cIt\u2019s very cold. And then I feel the warmth of my son\u2019s arms.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cWhat\u2019s the feeling that comes?\u201d<\/span><\/p>Silence again. His lips begin to move, but no words come. For a moment, she thinks she should back off. Like a record player, Harry has told her. Lower the needle very carefully into the groove, so you don\u2019t scratch. And then raise it again with equal care.<\/span><\/p>\u201cSickness.\u201d He is trying out words, almost as if reading them from a hidden dictionary. \u201cFear. Disgust.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cWhat\u2019s the thought that goes through your head?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cI\u2019m not a good father. I let you down. The world is not right. I am powerless to change it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cWhat is the deepest thought?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cI let you down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cAgain.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cI let you down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cI let you down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>She lifts the needle. She asks him how what has happened felt for him. They catch their breath. Then she asks him to find another moment at which he was most distressed. First the situation. Then the feeling. And finally, the buried thought.<\/span><\/p>At the end of the session, she gives him the Thought Record, a foolscap page with columns and pink, mimeographed headings. Homework. Just fill out the first three columns, she tells him.\u00a0 The situation when depression comes. The emotions. And then the buried thought.<\/span><\/p>When she passes the paper to him, she thinks she sees the ghost of a smile on his face.<\/span><\/p>* * *<\/span><\/p>Winter deepens. In late November, a sudden cold arrives. Ice on the footpaths and the roads. At Lancaster Gate, Eileen totters to the Tube on unsteady feet: she exits at Holborn to the first flakes of snow. She calls her parents up North. It\u2019s much worse here, they tell her, voices crackling with static. When she puts the phone down, she glances at the mantelpiece. Their wedding photograph.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>Father was caught in London, during the War. He thought he would go back to Malaya, to help make this new world out of the chaos. And then he met Mother. This slip of a Geordie girl who haunted the meetings of the Left Book Club. After the War he did not take the passage back; he followed her North. He was marooned. He learned to fit in. Even the way he talked, he told her, changed.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>They had both wanted their only child, Eileen, this pale serious girl, to keep something of him. Something more than her name, an infinite loop of translation: Eileen Ai Ling <\/span>\u611b\u73b2<\/span>. The long hours with Mrs Chiu on Saturday, when all her classmates played happily outside. Writing Chinese characters until her hand ached. Dictation. One day she had suddenly refused to go. Quite out of character: she was normally so compliant. She had cried: they had cajoled her, then bribed her, but she still refused.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>Now much later, she regretted her wilfulness. She tried to pick up the language again, attended evening classes after she came down to London to study. But it would not stick: words would perch on her lips only to fly away when she opened her mouth.<\/span><\/p>In London now, the deep freeze persists until January. Football matches are cancelled at the New Year: the Stamford Bridge and White Hart Lane pitches resemble Siberian permafrost. On Hampstead Heath, three men fall through ice into the ponds, and drown. Prime Minister Callaghan suns himself in the Caribbean. <\/span>Crisis? What Crisis?<\/span><\/i> he says at Heathrow Airport on his return. The train drivers strike, then the lorry drivers, and the bin men. Rubbish piles up. Ambulance drivers refuse to drive. In the North, even the gravediggers down tools.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>In all this chaos, Eileen senses the sweet taste of success. Winter is the worst time for depression, Harry warns her. Less light, and less time outside. And yet her clients continue to come each week. The young man has bought a new pair of boots to make his way through the snow. He does not fall. <\/span>Nothing I try ever works<\/span><\/i> becomes <\/span>If I put my mind to it, I can do it. <\/span><\/i>The middle-aged<\/span> woman no longer tries to read her mother\u2019s mind. <\/span>I count to ten<\/span><\/i>, she tells Eileen. <\/span>I know it isn\u2019t me that\u2019s her target.<\/span><\/i> In the depths of winter, the older man says, neighbours have rallied round. <\/span>I\u2019m not unworthy of love, but I am shy. If I reach out others will care for me.<\/span><\/i><\/p>Only Mr Lim, or George as she now calls him, doesn\u2019t respond. He comes every week with his thought record in a leather satchel. Each week, he tells her, he finds those moments of sadness, when the clouds descend and will not lift. He writes them down as she has instructed him. First the moment, then the emotion, and then the fleeting thought, caught in her purple net of lines and words. So far so good.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>But then something happens. Thoughts lead to memories. A speech at a rally, when his words caught fire, so that he became part of something much bigger than himself. The first years in prison, waiting for a freedom that would not just be his but also a nation\u2019s, and then release, the prison gates opening, and the assembled crowd. He and his comrades were carried on the shoulders of others. He remembers the garlands of scented flowers heavy round his neck, white doves rising like ashes into the sky. And then the second detention, the arrest in the night, the same prison as before, some of the same jailers, but under the new regime that had replaced the colonial order. Solitary confinement. Then optimism, and the solidarity of comrades imprisoned with him.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>Over the years, gnawing despair. To be released he had been forced to write two letters. The first to the Prime Minister, his erstwhile comrade who had now imprisoned him. The second to the Chairman of his Party, resigning from politics. The flight to England. The reply from the Party. <\/span>Do not think you have quit politics. What you have quit is anti-imperialist politics. You have become a willing and subservient tool<\/span><\/i>.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>* * *<\/span><\/p>The other clients, she tells Harry, are shallow. History does not weigh them down. But for George there is no bottom to memory, no return from layers on layers of words.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>Harry wipes a tiny speck of dust off the desk in front of him with a monogrammed handkerchief.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>Stop him, he tells her. Remember that we govern ourselves. It\u2019s difficult, of course, to whip flabby emotions into shape. But it becomes easier with practice. It\u2019s like making love: it\u2019s much easier the second time.<\/span><\/p>\u201cBut\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\u201cNo buts. Do not indulge him, Eileen.\u201d<\/span><\/p>She covers her confusion and mounting anger by scribbling away in her notebook, eyes down.<\/span><\/p>\u201cAnd the disputation?\u201d He asks her. \u201cHow has that been going?\u201d<\/span><\/p>Her face flushes, and she feels beads of sweat start on her temples. <\/span>The emotion is panic. The fleeting thought is, \u201cyou\u2019ve found me out.\u201d<\/span><\/i><\/p>\u201cIt\u2019s also been difficult,\u201d she says.<\/span><\/p>\u201cThe proof of a therapist, Miss Tay, is how you handle the most difficult clients. I\u2019ve seen so many of you fall at the last fence.\u201d<\/span><\/p>He resumes wiping imaginary dust off the white surface of the desk.<\/span><\/p>* * *<\/span><\/p>This is what disputation looks like. You\u2019ve worked with the thought record to identify those buried thoughts. You\u2019ve brought them out into the clear light of day. You\u2019ve used the first three columns\u2014the incident, the feeling, the thought\u2014to haul in your catch. Now the clients must do a different kind of work, must practice logic. They must dispute the thought, see how at the very most it is only a fraction of the truth. The young man, we\u2019ve seen, realises that he does not always fail; often if he tries, he will succeed. <\/span>It\u2019s hard, but I can do it.<\/span><\/i> The middle-aged woman comes to understand that her mother\u2019s rage is not directed at her.<\/span> I am not the cause of her anger.<\/span><\/i> The older man comes to see that rejection is not automatic. <\/span>If I reach out, some people will respond.<\/span><\/i><\/p>There\u2019s a trick to disputation, though. The buried thought is persistent. You\u2019ve brought it to the surface, but you haven\u2019t pulled up all its roots. Hack at it now and cover it over and then it\u2019ll grow again in the darkness. So you lure it out a little further. Imagine,<\/span> you tell the client, that you\u2019re in a Law Court. The case is to prove that the thought is untrue. But let\u2019s allow the defence to speak first. List as many reasons you can think of why the thought is reasonable. Only when you\u2019ve exhausted this will we turn to the prosecution, to list all the reasons why the thought may not totally be true. And then we\u2019ll have our trial.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>With George, there\u2019s first the barrier of a word.<\/span><\/p>\u201cWhat kind of court?\u201d he asks her.<\/span><\/p>A bubble of irritation swells within her. She presses her index fingers together, a gesture she has taught herself for times like these. Acknowledge what\u2019s happening. Let the bubble grow and then pop and dissipate. Observe. He\u2019s put on weight. His shoulders are stiff. Even after several sessions working together, he\u2019s often still on his guard.<\/span><\/p>\u201cAny kind of court.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>He\u2019s silent again. She waits. His hands move, as if trying to sculpt words.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\u201cWhat about a court that meets in secret, to which the defence has no access? Where the accused cannot speak? Or a court without a jury, in a country where juries have been abolished?\u201d<\/span><\/p>