An Afternoon Appointment
Every day, the same client visits in different forms, and every day this metamorphic changeling wishes to have his or her head rubbed, hair played with, or to be read to.
When will it be enough? When my fingers are worn down to the knuckles? When I refuse to drink the dreadful tea and die of thirst?
For now, I wait and keep this diary to maintain my sanity.
Date: 16th of April 1935
The first afternoon appointment
When one sits in the same room for most of the day, day after day, listening to people pour out their problems, it stands to reason that one may become a little mad.
This was why it took two appointments with the client before I understood that it is reality which is beyond the edges of mankind’s sanity not my mind.
The afternoon we met had proceeded like any other.
I sat in my leather chair. I’d chosen this one for my consulting room for its comfort when sitting for long periods of time; it does no good to stand or wander about when clients are expecting your undivided attention. I was waiting for Dot to bring in my afternoon tea.
I was thinking Dot’s services as a secretary were somewhat inconsistent when I noticed that, once again, she’d forgotten to dust the frames of my doctoral certificates hanging on the wall. I ran my finger over the gilt edge framing my PhD of Psychological Philosophy from the University of London when the door opened with a creak, and Dot entered carrying a tea service on a silver tray.
‘On your desk, Dr. Ward?’ she asked.
Why she continued to ask the same question bothered me. I was beginning to wonder if I should probe her to determine where this damn diffidence originated, but she stood there waiting for my response, so I simply said, ‘yes, yes, Dot. Always on the desk at 3 pm, please.’
‘Dot. One takes lemon or milk in tea. Not both. The acid from the lemon curdles the milk.’
‘Sorry, Doctor.’ Her brown eyes momentarily met mine in respect before she dropped them in deference. She poured the tea into the cup.
‘I take lemon.’ At this, she placed a slice of lemon into the cup with a pair of silver tongs.
‘Yes, Doctor. I’ll pour the milk back into the bottle.’
My eyebrows lifted at this whiff of self-efficacy as Dot took the silver jug and proceeded to exit my room, but then I lowered them as I recalled instructing her to do that very thing the previous afternoon. I shook my head. Waste is such folly at the moment. Over in the U.S., Hoover had called this downturn a ‘depression’, a kind of melancholia of the economy, and just last night the wireless had announced the Black Sunday dust storms that Teddy would be cleaning up after for a very long time. Here in the United Kingdom MacDonald, the first ever Labour Prime Minister, spoke of a burgeoning democracy. Dark times indeed. Thriftiness was essential.
‘Are you ready for your next client, Doctor?’ Dot asked, standing in the empty centre of the door frame.
‘Yes, Dot. Send them in. And please, dust these frames on the walls before you leave today.’ I waved my hand towards my credentials.
‘Yes, Doctor.’
I sat again, comfortable in the deep impressions I’d made in the cushioning of this chair over the many years. I picked up my teacup, sipped the hot lemon tea, and as I lowered my teacup, I saw my client standing in the doorway over its porcelain rim.
He was a teenager of about sixteen or seventeen with white skin where it wasn’t smudged with grime, blonde hair, and blue eyes that suggested Germanic stock. He wore pants, a shirt, and a tweed jacket that had once been worn by a man with money much bigger than he. On his head of unbrushed hair sat a cap. Nothing remarkable even about the dull vacancy of his eyes. Hope had parted company from many of the young.
‘Excuse me,’ I addressed the young man. ‘Dot!’
She entered the room. ‘Yes, Doctor Ward?’
‘Please close the door.’
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the boy and did as instructed, blocking him from view.
‘Come here, Dot.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’ She approached my chair, and stood very straight, hands clasped together in front.
‘Have you taken payment from this boy?’
Her eyes cast about nervously. ‘That’s not our usual procedure, Doctor.’
‘Well, no. Have you informed him of the cost?’
She relaxed. ‘Oh, yes, Doctor. He said he has “all the clams in the world.”’
‘All the clams in the world?’ I may have cocked my head at her.
‘They were his words.’
‘Dot. Many of our clients don’t have a firm grasp on reality. Is he here with parents or a guardian?’
‘No, Doctor.’
‘Take payment for one hour first before you send him in.’
She nodded and briskly exited, closing the door once again behind her. I took the opportunity to finish my tea and listen to the sounds of traffic and pedestrians coming from the streetscape below the window.
The door opened. Dot stood aside for the teenager to enter. He walked over, pulling off his cap as he did so, and threw himself onto the sofa. His face was sullen, and his arms folded. Dot closed the door.
Silence passed.
‘How can I be of service to you?’ I began quietly.
The pressure of his thoughts built.
‘It’s no good,’ he shot out finally as if his mouth were a BB gun.
I waited for more.
‘What’s no good?’ I prompted.
‘Nothing. Nothing makes me feel good. I thought the war would help me feel better, but it was just a flash in the pan. All those deaths.’ He swung his legs down suddenly and leaned in towards me, blue eyes burning with intensity. ‘I come away as empty as ever.’
I picked up my pen and notebook from my desk and started to write in it.
May be older than he looks or lied to serve in war? I wrote. ‘How old are you?’ I asked.
‘In years? I don’t know when I was created.’
My pen stopped. I tapped it twice on the paper as was my habit when I realised something was amiss. Dot had not introduced the client.
‘I didn’t serve in the war,’ the boy said. ‘I started it. Lucifer. And my name is Lucifer, since you’re wondering. Call me Lucky. Everyone else does.’
I scribbled calls himself Lucky Lucifer at the top of the page. Religious delusions?
At this stage, I was not surprised by him guessing that I was wondering what his name was. Intelligent clients often anticipate the questions about to be asked.
‘You started a war? Tell me more about that.’
I hummed my appreciation of his comments while I wrote:
Delusions from war strain?
Lucifer looked at me, eyes sharpened. ‘You’re not going to be any good to me.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked evenly.
‘You’re not listening. You’re too busy writing down notes.’
My pen stopped. I looked up at him. ‘I need to take notes as a record of our conversation. It’s an important part of the process.’
‘No. You need an electric sound recorder. Then you can listen without all the scribbling. They’re the — ‘ he smiled with a glint of cheek in his eye — ‘bee’s knees.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Thank you for that suggestion. I shall keep it in mind. Do you live with anyone?’
‘Yes. My brothers.’ Lucky threw himself into the backrest cushioning of the sofa.
‘And your parents?’
‘My father kicked us out. He’s the Lord. It’s easier to stay out of his way.’
Bastard child of aristocracy? Schizophrenia? I started to take mental notes.
‘Why do you think he asked you to leave?’
‘He only wants people to do things his way.’
Authority issues.
‘Would you like to go back to him?’
Lucky looked past me to the narrow view of the Thames and London skyline visible through the window. He said nothing, but his face darkened.
A shadow came across the window. Outside, rain began to hiss and splatter.
I stood and pulled the window down shut.
‘How about your mother?’
I sat back in my leather chair and immediately, he stood up and walked over to one of my bookcases. Many psychology books, old and new, stood on the shelves alongside a model of a human head with a map printed on it.
He picked it up. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘It’s a phrenology model. From a time when the idea that the size and shape of the skull and brain were determining factors in a person’s intelligence, personality, and abilities. The theory has since been disproved.’
‘Take a look at my noggin. I’m interested,’ he said passing me the phrenology model.
I saw no reason not to humour the boy. Especially if the assessment I relayed was favourable. It might help him relax.
‘Sit in the chair there. I’ll stand behind you and assess your skull — as a game, mind you. This is not to be taken seriously. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he replied impatiently.
I placed the model head on my desk and stood behind Lucky, who’d made himself comfortable in the wooden chair. My fingers hesitated diving into the straw blonde morass when I realised he’d probably have head lice. Nevertheless, I’d assured him I’d perform this favour, so I started with his forehead.
I pressed the tips of my fingers onto two points equidistant from each other above his brows.
‘ — there are protuberances which match area 23 on the model. That represents mirth. Therefore, according to the theory of phrenology, you have a well-developed sense of humour. There now.’
I removed my hands.
He turned to look up at me. ‘And the rest of my noggin’?’
‘Ah, just here,’ I said as I rubbed a spot on either side of his skull, ‘number 15. You are conscientious. Do you know what that means?’
‘Of course I do! I know everything. Nearly everything.’
‘I see.’
‘Have you had a recent knock to the head?’ However, even as I said it, I knew this could not be a logical explanation for the aberrations I’d felt a moment ago.
Lucky looked at me, eyes glittering. ‘Did you feel something unusual, Doctor Ward? What does it mean?’
He picked up the model head from the desk and held its diagram-lined crown towards me.
He sat and I checked over his head once more, but felt nothing. It felt completely normal.
‘I must have been mistaken,’ I said.
Lucky stood and looked at the books standing on my shelves. ‘I’m sure that doesn’t happen often.’ He ran his finger across their leather-bound spines. ‘When do you think all these ideas will be out-dated?’
A cold shiver ran up my back. ‘Let’s talk some more about your mother.’
‘No. I’ve had enough.’ He crossed his arms.
‘You still have some time during this appointment.’
‘No. I’m leaving. I might be back.’
‘We don’t give refunds.’
He started towards the door. ‘I’ve got all the dough in the world, remember?’
Just before he opened the door, he shot me a look. ‘Your girl out there. Dot? She’s a doll. I’d liked to get into her.’
He exited before I could reply and slammed the door shut behind him. His last comment hastened me forward over my chair to the door. I flung it open, looking left for a sign of him, down the stairwell, and right, up the hall, and straight ahead at the reception desk where Dot usually sits. There wasn’t even a hint of him.
‘Dot?’ I called. ‘Dot?’
‘Yes, Doctor. Is everything OK?’
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, greatly concerned.
She looked taken aback. ‘Yes. Shouldn’t I be?’
‘Yes. No. That client. The boy. Did you see him leave?
‘Half an hour ago?’
‘Yes, Dr. that’s correct.’ She looked at me with complete earnestness. I frowned. That wasn’t possible. Was Dot losing her mind?
‘Your next appointment is scheduled for 4:15 pm. Would you like a fresh pot of tea beforehand?’ Dot asked.
‘No, thank-you Dot.’ I returned to my consulting room.
Date: 17th of April, 1935
The second afternoon appointment
This afternoon, Dot entered with the tea tray and announced that Lucky was here for his 3 o’clock appointment.
I looked up from the manuscript I was reading at my desk. ‘Oh, he booked another session, did he? My tea, Dot? Lovely. Lemon only? Please send him in. Make sure he pays first though. Be mindful of him Dot. Don’t smile at him or speak any more than necessary.’
‘Lucky,’ I said, still looking at the manuscript.
‘Dr Ward,’ came the reply and there was something about his voice that caused me to look up sharply.
The boy sitting on my sofa was not the same boy who’d come for a consultation yesterday. No. Indeed, this boy was quite different. He was brown, from his hair and his eyes to his skin, which was the colour of milk coffee. He could’ve been from the continent: Italian, Spanish, or Jewish.
‘Is this some kind of joke, young man?’ I bookmarked the page about the principle of ‘beginning in a friendly way.’
‘Is what some kind of joke, Doctor Ward?’ He looked at me, eyes big with innocence.
‘You do call yourself Lucky, do you not?’ I peered over my spectacles at him.
‘Yeah. It’s my nickname. Short for Lucifer. You’ve got a bad memory, Doctor.’ He shook his head at me.
‘We’ve never met before,’ I said this firmly enough to sound convincing even to myself.
‘What do you mean? I came in here yesterday. You checked me noggin, remember?’
Lucky cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. About mothers. Why do people need mothers anyway?’
‘Mothers provide the love and care needed for infants to establish a secure attachment, not only to their mothers, but also to others. A mother’s love is the foundation of trust.’
He scowled. ‘Sounds weak to me.’ At that, Lucky stood and started pacing about my room, touching and playing with my possessions as he’d done yesterday.
I watched him. He stopped in front of a print I’d hung on the wall only a month ago.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a drawing of an impossible triangle created by a young Swedish artist. His name is Oscar. Oscar Reutersvärd.’
Through the glass, Lucky traced his finger along one of the 3-D planes of the triangular prism that twisted and twisted before folding back to merge with its own beginning. He chuckled in a way that gnawed at my feeling of calm. ‘It doesn’t go anywhere, does it Doc? Look at the centre: the star of David.’
‘It’s interesting because it subverts expectations. It’s a 2-dimensional drawing that looks 3-dimensional, but it would be impossible to create in reality.’
‘Nothing is impossible.’ Lucky looked at me seriously.
I scoffed unintentionally.
He dragged out the wooden chair from the other side of my desk and dropped himself down onto it.
‘Young man, I’m not a barber or a masseuse.’
Lucky glowered. ‘You will play with my head.’
‘I beg to differ. That is not my profession.’
‘I told you to play with my head.’
‘I’m afraid, I cannot entertain that game again.’
Lucky stood. ‘Play with my hair now, you old cow,’ he yelled.
At my refusal, he seized the phrenology model on my desk and hurled it at the wall. It smashed loudly into sharp porcelain pieces.
He puffed in anger, yet I held myself in check.
‘Perhaps you can come back when you feel calmer and we can talk — ’
‘ — You will rub my head!’
The spectre of his rage exploded into shadowy flames that danced on the ceiling and walls and shook the room.
‘You will be my mother,’ he screamed, ‘and you will rub my head and play with my hair every single day. And I will keep you here until you do as I tell you.’
A palpable after-shock of discomfort afflicted me. It wasn’t until his footfalls had faded completely that I called for Dot.
‘Yes, yes, Dot. All part of the profession. Fetch me a fresh pot of tea please, Dot. Lemon.’
‘Of course, Doctor.’
My fingers shook as I re-opened the manuscript and found the beginning of the next paragraph. Try as I might, I could not process the sentences. The words jumped around as they would in the aftershock of a bomb.
Dot returned with my usual tea tray. She set it down on the desk. I kept my gaze on the meaningless printed letters of the manuscript’s page to avoid appearing nervous to my secretary.
Dot poured the tea, and put in two slices of lemon, just as I liked it, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her suddenly pour milk — yes, milk — into my cup.
‘Dot!’ I gasped. ‘Have you lost your faculties?’
‘Sorry, Doctor.’ A smile squirmed on her lips.
I huffed. ‘Dot, I cannot drink that. Why did you even bring milk on the tray? That kind of waste is unforgivable. I’m going outside for a breath of air. Please get me a fresh cup.’
I walked out of my office, past our reception desk and turned down the narrow stairwell that led to the street entrance. I went down three flights, turning a corner on each landing as I did so, watching my black Mary Jane shoes land in the middle of each timber tread. Howbeit that when I looked up, I found my descent had finished at the very place I started: the reception area and the door to my office.
‘Just preparing your tea now, Doctor,’ Dot called from the small kitchen upstairs.
I remember thinking that I must’ve been disorientated.
‘Dot?’ I called.
‘Yes, Doctor.’
I followed her voice up the stairs, the sound of my own breath wheezing in my ears, twisting and twisting, only to find the same empty reception desk and my office door.
I spun about, looking at the room in a series of broken images.
Dot carried my tea tray down the stairs with the serenity of an angel of mercy descending from heaven.
‘Are you okay, Dr. Ward?’
‘Here, let me pour you a cup of tea.’ She set the tray down on the reception desk, turning her back to me as she poured and then approached me with a cup and saucer. I noticed her pupils, wide enough to engulf me.
‘Here, Dr. Ward. Tea, just the way you like it —
A lemon slice floated in a curdled, creamy tea-brown swamp.
‘ — with lemon and milk.’
Date: Unknown
I’ve tried escaping through the windows into that afternoon upon which the sun never sets. Each time I climb out, I fall straight back into the room. I even looked up the fireplace chimney with hope at the wedge of light at its top rim but, of course, the shaft is far too narrow.
Credit : J. J. Dunmill