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Marcus, I decided, as he proceeded to outline a conniving divorce strategy rendering his long-suffering wife penniless, would head up the other list.
My therapist refused to let me phone Florian. Which placed her in grave danger of ending up on the other list too. She laughed when I threatened her with it.
“Whatever. You’re not supposed to like me, Charles.”
“Good, because I don’t.”
At some point during my illness, I’d become quite childish. Especially when I didn’t get what I wanted. I had been warned that was normal, thus my mini-tantrum left her unfazed.
“Florian won’t appreciate hearing from you when you’re like this, I can assure you,” she declared, for about the fifth time. “You’ll thank me later for not letting you phone him.”
“And I can assure you, I really won’t.”
“Ask me again a year from now.”
“I hope I don’t know you a year from now.”
That made her laugh, too. “So do I.”
I sulked after that. For at least a couple of weeks. On some days, Weetabix and the bloody medications were the only sustenance that passed my lips. So they started mumbling about feeding tubes and electroconvulsive therapy, and although I told them to fuck off, I began eating ham and mustard sandwiches. Meanwhile, the list of things I liked grew. I added painting to it, so they brought me an easel and some oil paints. I made a complete fucking mess with them but thoroughly enjoyed myself. Or as much as a person locked up in a psychiatric unit was able.
“You’re much less grumpy,” she said one day. At long last, I was allowed to take supervised walks outside. Years ago, the psych hospital had been converted from a stately home and boasted extensive walled gardens. The bills were eyewatering, according to Marcus. He still pitched up to visit every week, God knew why. Guilt, my therapist suggested. For being such a rubbish, selfish friend. She didn’t like him much, either.
“Thank you.”
Along with my appetite, my manners had improved. The fresh air made me feel better too. They had even begun muttering about a community step-down unit.
“Do you still want to phone Florian? You can if you like. Now you are well enough. I’m sure you’ll want to thank him.”
We walked another loop of the vegetable plot in silence. Even in the nadir of my madness, Florian’s pictures had hung on the walls of my mind. Now he occupied my thoughts more and more, and over the last few days, I’d begun catching glimpses of silver, especially at times like now, surrounded by so much nature. I’d hurt him, badly. And even though the therapist insisted my illness was to blame, I couldn’t escape an uneasy sensation I should have done better. Guilt, my therapist explained, for how I had treated people who cared for me, was a normal reaction too. And I sign I was on the mend. Not that it helped.
Recently, I’d added my therapist to the list of things I liked, although I had no intention of telling her. Though we still referred to the lists, my therapist and I had moved on a few steps in my recovery. We’d passed the milestone of being able to discuss my future without orange insisting on a seat at the table. Green was there most days, yellow now and again too, especially on crisp late winter afternoons like this one, when the sun sat high in a cloudless blue sky.
“You don’t have to decide today. There isn’t any rush.”
“I know.”
A slight bone of contention between us was the word business, which had finagled its way onto both lists. Somehow, we hadn’t yet squared that circle. Without question, my mad brain enjoyed being put to work; it enjoyed the mathematical conundrums, the puzzle-solving. Success and ambition rewarded me in sharp navy, not necessarily a bad thing, in moderation. That was my argument anyhow; my sage therapist wasn’t so sure. She compared navy to an addiction, like alcohol. Ergo, becoming teetotal was the next obvious step. Which had made me see orange.
We stopped to admire a neat row of early potato plants. I told her about the best potatoes I’d ever eaten and how they were fertilised with seaweed. I wasn’t certain she believed me, but I made a mental note to add potatoes to the likes list.
“I’m not going to phone him, but I appreciate the offer. I’m going to wait. Until I’m well enough to thank him in person.”
“You’re very wise, Charles.”
“No I’m not. I’m fucking loopy, and you damn well know it.”
CHAPTER 30
FLORIAN – THREE MONTHS LATER
“Hey, el capitano!”
I felt like anything but.
The start of the new harvesting season was always the same; a molehill of salt and a responsibility to turn it into a mountain if I hoped to put food on the table. And an overriding sensation of aching cold muscles relearning forgotten paths. Shivery misty mornings gave way to cool breezy afternoons, and the brisk wind settled in my bones.
Furthermore, this season came with the added burden of overseeing the smooth running of the cooperative and proving all the naysayers wrong. Oh, and a dull, lingering heartache, too. How could I forget that?
