Disconnected. Sherry Ashworth

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СКАЧАТЬ look – you’re starting me off! Come on, you’ve got so much going for you. Nobody’s angry with you – I can promise you that.”

      You didn’t realise they were tears of rage.

      “I don’t think I want to work any more,” I said, testing you.

      I could see you floundering. It was a terrifying thought to you, that someone could choose not to work. Work, work, work. It was the teachers’ mantra. Hard work and moral virtue were interchangeable.

      “I know how you feel. We all feel like that from time to time. I know I do. But stick in there, Cathy! Remind yourself how much you love what you’re doing. And good A-level grades could open the door to any university!”

      Your cheery tone didn’t deceive me. You’d snapped the handcuffs tight. So I should start working in order to get the opportunity to work more. It all made perfect sense.

      “English Literature is your first love, isn’t it?”

      I knew what you wanted me to say. I didn’t have it in me to disappoint you.

      “Yes, I suppose it is,” I replied.

      “Cathy, listen!” you said, bending forward intently so I didn’t have the choice. “If literature is what you want to study, then you MUST. It’s a myth that’s there’s no job at the end of it. There’s advertising, business, law conversion, publishing – even teaching. Look – I’m going to suggest something really naughty, really unprofessional!”

      I could hardly wait. The most unprofessional thing I had ever seen you do was end a lesson twenty seconds before the bell.

      “Go home tonight and do nothing but your English. Do something you love and rediscover why you’re studying in the first place. You’re in the sixth form – you chose your AS-levels yourself, you’re not following the National Curriculum any more.”

      You were breathless with excitement.

      “OK,” I said. Because I wanted to please you. I wanted to enter into the fantasy that I could go home and get turned on by Shakespeare and write and write and hand in an inspired essay. And if I believed I would, maybe I would. Maybe I’d just lost faith in myself. Your optimism boosted me like a dose of caffeine. I didn’t want all your hard work to be wasted. I knew you’d given up a free period to talk to me, and that you’d have even more marking that night as a result. The least I could do was make you think your efforts had been worthwhile.

      “Perhaps I need to prioritise a bit.” I knew this was talking your language. I saw you smile.

      “That’s absolutely it, Cathy. I hardly know why you need me, you’re so good at analysing your own problems. Prioritise. It’s just to do with your time management. Sometimes very clever people find difficulty with the simpler skills. That’s you all over.”

      And like an ebbing wave that rush of optimism left me. It was the words ‘very clever’ that did it – don’t ask me why. They made my limbs ache.

      “Just try the Othello tonight – or the poetry – either one will do. Even if you only spend half an hour. As long as you enjoy it. That’s what counts. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

      So you do understand, I thought. There is no point, because I’m not sure I enjoy working any longer. The panic returned. And I gripped the base of the chair I was sitting on, and tried to breathe steadily and deeply. No good. I had to change the subject.

      “So both your sons swim, then?” I asked. It was a lucky hit.

      “Yes. Michael swims for the county – he’s the butterfly champion. Only I do wish they’d call it something else. He’s fourteen now and it doesn’t sound very macho. The butterfly champion. Though when you watch him you can see the power that goes into that particular stroke. Once he almost dislocated his shoulder. You don’t have any brothers, do you? But perhaps you have a boyfriend?”

      “Not exactly,” I said. And thought of Taz.

      “You will,” you said, with an inward smile. Then you asked shyly, “Has this little chat been helpful?”

      “Oh yes,” I said. “Very.”

      I could see you looked a whole lot better.

       To Dave

      The night the drinking started I was getting hassle from my mother. I don’t mean she was shouting her head off or anything – it was worse than that. There was all this tension swimming around in the kitchen. She’d drop in an innocent-sounding question. Did I have a nice day at school? She meant, had anyone been speaking to me about why I was so behind. Did anything happen today at school? In other words, she actually knew Mrs Dawes had spoken to me – she was probably behind it – and she was letting me know that she knew. And then there were these awful silences. I could hear her chewing and swallowing her food. It made me feel sick. I couldn’t eat while she was eating. Have you finished your Economics assignment yet?

      I knew what would happen. She’d hold herself in until she couldn’t stand it any more and then she would start. You don’t know how much your father and I are worried about you. You’re throwing opportunity away, Catherine. If you tell us what’s wrong we can help you. And she sounds so reasonable and it makes me feel worse than ever. The only way I could see myself escaping a nightly lecture was if she was called out. I told you my mother’s a GP – that was her night on call. I even found myself wishing someone would have a heart attack or something, then felt guilty, and hoped instead someone was having a baby suddenly. And believe it or not, the telephone rang, and there was some emergency.

      Reluctantly Mum got her stuff together and asked me to load the dishwasher. Believe me, that wasn’t a problem. I heard the door bang and her car engine start up. Peace at last.

      Except it wasn’t peace. The peace suffocated me like fog. Then I wondered again if I was suffering from depression. I knew about the various sorts because I skim-read newspapers and magazines. Clinical depression – that’s the serious one you have to go to the doctor about. Manic depression – where you have mood swings. Mild depression – how everyone feels most of the time if they’re honest. Chronic depression – but that wasn’t me either. I could feel OK, sometimes. I wasn’t working simply because I couldn’t see the point any more. And also I wanted to see what would happen if I didn’t work. Mrs Dawes – my English teacher and form tutor – she said I’d chosen to be a sixth former. Only I was beginning to see that wasn’t true. There’d always been this pressure on me to do what everyone else expected. I reckoned the first real choice I was making was this one. I was choosing not to work.

      Then I felt mean. I knew I was freaking everyone out, making them worry about me. That wasn’t part of my plan. That afternoon I’d promised Mrs Dawes I’d try an essay, so I pulled in my school bag from the hall where I’d dumped it and put all my books and notes and files on the breakfast bar. That alone made me feel better. Just creating the appearance of work restored normality.

      There was a lot to do before I actually started work. I had to find where I’d written the title of the essay. Then I had to find the place in the play. Then some blank paper. Then a biro or pencil from the bottom of my bag that hadn’t run out of ink or had a broken lead. СКАЧАТЬ