The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 13: I Do Not Want to be my Mother

“Now how on earth did we get onto that subject?” asked Berthea Snark. “I thought we were going to talk about your boyfriend.“

“It was rather interesting,” said Caroline. “What you said made me think about my parents.”

Berthea put down her mug and signalled for Caroline to pass hers for topping up.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Most people think about their parents rather often. Every day, in fact. We find ourselves doing something the way our parents did it, or using an expression they used. It’s alarming, because we think that we’re turning into our mother or our father. But we aren’t really. We show some of their traits, perhaps, but we don’t turn into them. Not unless we have a very passive personality. Such people become their parents because they’ve nothing else to be.”

“I do not want to be my mother,” said Caroline.

“Of course you don’t,” said Berthea. “But the fact that you say it with such conviction indicates that perhaps you need to change the way you view your mother. You need to accept her.”

Caroline said nothing. Berthea Snark did not know her mother; if she did, she would understand.

“Acceptance is so important,” said Berthea. “Acceptance comes first, then liking. Accept yourself, and then you’ll end up liking yourself. Not that I’m suggesting that you do not like yourself – I’m sure you do.”

Caroline felt emboldened. “Do you like everybody?”

The question seemed to take Berthea by surprise, but she soon recovered. “Me? Well, no, I don’t think I do.”

“Who don’t you like, then? Your mother?”

Berthea shook her head. “Oh no, I admired my mother deeply. She was the most selfless of women. She did educational work in the East End – years of it – at a time when such things were encouraged. There were university missions – they thought of themselves as missionaries. Nowadays we’d find that very condescending. No, my mother was a good person.” She paused. “It’s my son I don’t like.”

Caroline gave a start. Mothers did not say such things. Mothers loved their sons. They had to.

“But let’s not talk about me,” said Berthea quickly. “Your boyfriend – what’s his name?”

“James.”

Berthea had fixed her with a gaze that Caroline found quite disconcerting. Perhaps it was time for her to look at her watch.

“James is such a solid name,” said Berthea. “Is he a solid type?”

It was as much as Caroline could do not to laugh. “I wouldn’t call him solid,” she said. “More artistic. He’s interested in fine art. We did a course together.”

“Then it sounds as if you have common interests,” said Berthea. “That’s always a good sign. But you said that he’s worried about germs.”

“Yes.”

Berthea looked thoughtful. “I don’t know why I’m discussing this with you,” she said. “As a psychotherapist, one is not meant to enter into attempts at diagnosing at one remove. Even if asked to do so – which you haven’t really done, have you? You haven’t asked me.”

Caroline hesitated. Did she want to know more about James, or should she leave matters where they were?

“I can see that you’re undecided,” said Berthea. “So let’s leave it at that.”

“Oh, no,” Caroline blurted out. “Please tell me.” She had not intended to offer Berthea encouragement, but now she seemed to have made up her mind anyway.

Berthea sat back in her chair. “There’s something called OCD,” she said. “Obsessive–compulsive disorder. It’s possible that your boyfriend has that. Probably a very mild form of it.”

Caroline said nothing. She had read about OCD in a magazine not long before. There had been an article about a woman who had been unable to stop cleaning her house. She never went out; she just scrubbed and vacuumed and dusted, finishing one part of the house and then immediately starting all over again.

“Of course, it’s astonishingly common,” Berthea went on. “You shouldn’t imagine that your boyfriend is all that unusual. So many of us have some degree of OCD – you and me included.”

Caroline smiled. Berthea was obviously trying to make her feel better.

“You don’t think I’m serious?” asked Berthea.

“Well, if you could see my room,” said Caroline, “you wouldn’t accuse me of being an obsessive–compulsive.” Her room was not tidy; it was, in fact, the untidiest room in the flat, and she could not remember the last time she vacuumed it. Last month? The month before?

Berthea was amused by the suggestion that a diagnosis could be an accusation. “We don’t stand accused of conditions,” she pointed out. “Conditions are things that happen to us. And tidiness and neatness are not the sole criteria. OCD has many facets. Intrusive thoughts, for example.”

Caroline frowned. “Thoughts that …”

“That you don’t want to think,” supplied Berthea.

“Such as?”

“Doing something terrible. Imagining the worst of yourself.”

Caroline looked down at the floor. What if she were to jump to her feet and accuse Berthea of being an interfering busybody? What if she swore at her – foully – turning the air in this mews house vividly blue with scatological invective? Or she could even reach forward and slap Berthea in the face – quite hard – without saying anything but by this gesture making it very clear that she did not approve of being corralled inappropriately into this community of obsessive–compulsive hand-washers and vacuumers.

Berthea was watching her. “Would I be right in saying that some – how should I put it – impermissible, but rather delicious temptations have just run through your mind? Those are intrusive thoughts, you see. I believe that you might just have demonstrated the phenomenon to yourself.”

Caroline did not reply.

“But don’t worry about it,” said Berthea. “To be mildly obsessive–compulsive is an indication of a certain sort of achieving personality. Creative people – people who have the urge to excel – commonly fall into this category. And if we didn’t have them, then we would be a terribly dull society, don’t you think?”

Caroline was not sure what to think; obsessive–compulsiveness had seemed to her to be a pejorative label but perhaps it was really a compliment. One interesting fact was emerging from this discussion: that she and James perhaps had more in common that she had imagined. She felt rather consoled by this; perhaps they could be obsessive–compulsive together, in a companionable way, sharing bottles of hand steriliser, or, if they wished to avoid possible cross-infection – and what obsessive–compulsive would not wish to avoid that – having his and hers bottles, carefully set out on the dressing table, lined up, of course, so that the edges of the bottles were in a perfect straight line.

After this unplanned meeting with Berthea, Caroline set out again on her trip to the shops. She had a great deal to mull over, and when she returned to the flat she found that there was even more to wonder about. There was a note, slipped under the door, addressed to her. I am having a little gathering tonight, she read, just a few people who belong to a society of which I’m a member. Would you care to join us downstairs? Tea and sandwiches. 6.30, for about an hour. And it was signed, Basil (Wickramsinghe).