At the Café Nervous
byPeter FlemingRAIN CAME THROUGH SUNSHINE AT THE START OF HIS THREE HOURS OFF FROM THE MORTUARY.
Tolson had arranged to see Amy at the Korner Kabin in Williamson Square. The cakes were cheap there and early in the morning you could sit for ages with half a cup of coffee. He had met her at Sensible Classes - his name for the Trauma Recovery Group for those dealing with breakdowns, phobias or who were just worn out with nervous anxiety, There were bus-drivers in it and a policeman, teachers, down-and-outs, a past Miss Great Britain, some ordinary folk like him and one or two exceptional people like Amy, who said she was an artist. One man always brought a violin. An inscrutable woman pushed a pram loaded with old newspapers. A fashion student surprised them with her sensational outfits.
Tolson was apprehensive about Dr Swann's stress relief techniques and their strange effects on him. Perhaps he could reveal his fear to Amy. She was confident and lively - not at all like the rest of them. She had helped him during the relaxation time at the first meeting. He had been fidgeting and felt strained and nervous. With just a few words she had got him to settle down. Her nearness had comforted him. For a short while his vivid, stress induced daydreams were forgotten and he drifted away to a little peace. He often wondered why Amy was on the course at all.
He was hungry. He selected a Nelson slice, a cream bun and a cup of rose hip tea. At the cash desk he knew he had a problem as he fished in his empty trouser pocket. His face felt hot, and an icy feeling crept down his back. He must have forgotten his money. A mad scene flashed before his eyes: The cashier, a bored flint-faced woman with execution eyes swept over him with her Tommy Gun. His hands shook. He rummaged in his back trouser pocket where he found a ball of paper. Thankfully he unrolled a five-pound note. "One powd niney fye" she said and gave him the change which he hadn't the courage to count. He was shaking all over as he moved to a chair by the window. The cup and saucer rattled and spilled a little as he put them down. "Burst them like a bubble." Dr Swann had said in the class about people who caused them stress. "Take the sharpest needle and pop them in your mind." To his horror he saw the cashier coming over to him. In the panic he could not find his needle. "Ye drop'd diss" she said and held out a rumpled ten pound note which she slammed onto the table. "Thanks" he gasped, trying to tackle his quickening breathing. He was certain the tenner wasn't his but he dare not argue. Quickly he put the "stolen" money into his pocket and wiped some sweat from his brow. He was going into a turn. He knew it. There was a pain in his chest and he could hardly breathe. He was sweating heavily now. Then came a searing headache. Something inside him was tightening the belt of his trousers. Another thing was pulling the eyes back fiercely into his skull. Remember. Remember. He reached for the emergency card in his jacket pocket. It said: "Use the technique." He tried to slow down his breathing to the pulse of slow waves on a sunlit beach. In - one - two - three - four - five - out. After a time the symptoms seemed to recede. "Imagine something pleasant." it said. He was in that little boat again rowing slowly on a lake between bright mountains and the sun was warm on his back. His breathing became steady with the strokes. In. Out. In. Out. He shut his eyes hard.
A door at the back of the kitchen slammed open and three raucous mummers came singing a madrigal. Busto flapped a tambourine and sang syllables punctuated with luscious yodelling in a resonant falsetto. Faddle's cheeks were oysters of red and his constabulary helmet was adorned with bright ribbons the ends of which had tiny bells that clattered against the sink and among the ovens and pans where his loud bass tone hovered like a hurricane disturbing the surface of the soup and mashed potato. Slugg had his face blackened and wore a coat of hideous badges stolen from motor cars. He was the quietest of the three, trilling musically on his tin whistle, between verses in a sweet tenor.
From the centre of the ceiling a tiny girl dressed as a bright fairy descended slowly clutching a mother-of-pearl accordion on which she played the exact tune sometimes to the disgust of the trio who loved to extemporise. Arriving at the floor, she deftly unhooked herself from two thin wires which ascended back to the sky. Confidently she went to the corner of the cafe and pulled out a scenery flat depicting a magic forest out of which bounded an Old English Sheep-dog with a jester's hat on its head. It sat in the middle of the room and as the Mummers declaimed some comic verses, the dog's mouth moved in complete synchrony with the words. Inside his personal darkness, Tolson began to laugh.
"Are you practising the remedy for dysfunctional thoughts?" Amy said loudly. Tolson came to and blushed. She was pointing to the card in his hand. "Yersss" he replied, feeling caught out. She looked wonderful and smelled of Chanel No.5.
"You are my remedy." He shocked himself.
"You're hot and bothered" she said, "have a drink of your tea." She picked at a piece of toast and left the crust.
"Why on earth do you come to the classes" he said, boldly, "er, because you seem so normal?"
"I have my moments" she replied, "you'll see." She opened a plastic bag from an exclusive shop. "What size do you take? Large? Extra Large?" It was the most expensive sweater he had ever seen. "Well, try it on" she demanded.
"Is this a gift?" He pulled it over his head and the crumbs from his Nelson slice fell onto his chin.
"Why not? Hey, it looks really great on you. Stand up. Turn around. Yes, very good. Those trousers will have to go. I'll get you some later."
"Oh, these are just some I use for work in the, er, office."
"Is that blood on your knee?"
"No," he blushed wetly, perspiring like a freshly cut pomegranate. He tried to think of a lie but couldn't. Busto and Faddle were smirking at him from behind the coffee machine. "She's beautiful, she's friendly, she brings me presents" he tried to tell them but they laughed and shook their fingers at him. He started to take the sweater off.
"But you must wear it for the class" Amy said. "You look so fine."
"She's taking me over" the voice of his deepest dread was saying, "pushing me into a corner."
I'm trapped. He looked at the card again:- "Do what you want to do. Don't forget the needle." He pushed the sweater over his head into the posh shop bag and dropped it at her feet. "Not my style" he said, knowing she must hear the shake in his voice.
"Oh, no" she said, sounding genuinely upset. "I got it specially for you." Her full red lips made a rosebud that faded to a pout as she got no answer. She was a bubble now, shiny and thin. He stood up with a six foot needle in his hand. The sun flashed on its point. The hard grapefruits on her silky chest were heaving with emotion. She may be about to cry. The needle fell from his hand.
"Must go to the loo" he said and bolted like a battle coward past the girl with the accordion who was going round with the hat. A nun, wizened as a walnut, gave her ten pence. "Jellyfish! Doormat! Shrinker!" shouted the mummers over and over again until it became a verse of their song.
He looked at his tongue in the mirror of the wash-basin in the men's toilet. It looked hairy and black. He went and sat on a toilet and looked at the card. He tried the slow breathing but the sea was in a storm, lashing at menacing rocks. On the lake, his rowing was too fast and he splashed a lot, almost falling from his seat. "Heave ho" he said in a resigned way, quietly. "Heave ho. Steady as we go." The sun came out and the high meadows on the mountains were the purest green. The waves lapped at the sides of his skiff like chuckles.
There was some commotion in the cafe. A chair went over and a table scraped along the floor. Old ladies screeched. He headed for a little wooded island in the sun which had a white cottage on it. The rowing made him feel healthy and strong.
Amy was shouting. "It wasn't me. I haven't been near there. I've been here for an hour. How could it be me?"
There was a little wooden jetty at the tip of the island. A woman was standing on it. She had a white dress on and was waving at him. There was a breeze that freshened his face.
There was turmoil in the cafe. "You're not taking me." Amy was screaming. "You're just picking on me because I've done so much time."
"Come on now, miss" a man was saying loud enough to be heard above her protests, "you're under arrest for shoplifting. It would be better if you came quietly." Then the struggling seemed to have stopped. "Bastards!" she shouted, and then all was silence as he came alongside the neat wooden pier. He threw a rope around a stanchion and climbed onto the firm decking. The woman in white was waving and calling to him from the edge of the trees. White, all white, she was. It could have been his mother.
Back at the morgue, he made them all a strong cup of tea. "You seem well today" a colleague said, warmly. "I am, thanks" he replied and his hands shook not once the rest of that day as his mind recovered itself from a peculiar sort of mild indigestion.
Peter Fleming, an anxious 55, is a retired police detective whose imagination still refuses to come quietly. He has an MA in Writing Studies and is married with 3 children.