The Grange was perched on a windy hill overlooking the terraces of Mount Florida and Cathcart. Like many of the old Victorian properties that had survived conversion into service flats after the war, it now served as a medical clinic. A wide strip of lawn curved around the chipped driveway then fell sharply away to a steep bank, ending at the path below in a mass of shrubbery. Tom Coutts noticed the huge buds of the rhododendrons tipped with scarlet. A few more weeks of sunshine and the whole lot would be a blaze of colour. As he approached the massive front door his eye rested on the ancient brass bell that pulled straight out of the stonework. There were still so many original features in this rambling place and Tom had some times wondered why they hadn’t been swept away with all the other alterations to the old house. He heard the jangle of the bell and almost immediately footsteps came hurrying towards the frosted glass door.
Her smoky blue uniform appeared as an Impressionistic blob then the door was flung open and a young nurse stood there staring at him. Tom frowned at her then his brow cleared in recognition.
‘Kirsty? Kirsty MacLeod?’
‘Dr Coutts. Gosh. It’s a while since I saw you. What brings you here?’ The nurse ushered Tom into the darkened hallway where light from outside filtered through lozenges of stained glass flanking the main door, casting streaks of green and yellow across the pale emulsioned walls.
‘I’m a patient,’ Tom grimaced but saw that his half-smile had brought a look of curiosity to the young woman’s eyes.
‘Depression. Like most of the cases in here.’ Tom shrugged. ‘Just never got over her death, I suppose.’
‘Oh,’ the girl suddenly seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. Are you in for a therapy session, then?’
‘Yes. I’ve been coming for a while now,’ Tom answered, directing his gaze at a spot on the floor. ‘Anyway, I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He looked up then put out a hand, touching her sleeve.
‘Community nursing wasn’t…’ she broke off as if stuck for an answer.
‘Satisfying enough?’ Tom suggested.
‘Something like that. There was a post going here and I grabbed it. Not too many private clinics for nurses specialising in neural diseases, you know. I was lucky to get it.’
‘Nonsense,’ Tom chided. ‘Nan always said you were the best.’ He hesitated as if trying to find the right words. ‘We couldn’t have survived without you, you know.’
Kirsty looked away from him and he tried in vain to see her expression.
‘Funny I’ve not seen you here before.’
‘I’m normally on nights. Just covering for someone today,’ she replied. Kirsty turned back towards Tom but did not meet his eyes. ‘Your appointment,’ she reminded him, stepping towards the corridor that led to the therapy rooms.
Tom followed her, his heart thumping. It was the same every time. He had come to banish his demons but now the very act of entering this place had added to them. What tricks would they have in store for him today, he wondered, giving Kirsty MacLeod a little nod as he turned the door handle of a room marked ‘patients’ lounge’.
Inside there were several people seated in a circle. One metal chair was empty and as Tom entered all eyes turned towards the latecomer. His mind shifted briefly to the comforting familiarity of the lecture theatre where his students would meet his arrival with friendly enthusiasm. Now, as he faced this room full of people who were still strangers, all he could feel was a clutch of fear deep in his stomach.
‘Tom, come on in,’ the psychotherapist beckoned him over to the only remaining chair set in the circle. On either side of the empty seat were the two men he least liked in the group. One was a young man whose shaved head bore strange Celtic tattoos. His faded black t-shirt was torn at the shoulders with another twisted design circling each pale, muscular upper arm. Bron had been in hospital for his depression, a fact that he flaunted to mere day patients like Tom.
On Tom’s other side was Sam, a former shipyard worker who had been redundant for years. In the beginning they had told one another of their occupations and Sam had been openly contemptuous about Tom’s profession.
‘Psychologist, eh?’ he had sneered. ‘How come ye cannae sort yourself out, then?’
Now as Tom sat down, he glared at the University lecturer as if he had no right to be there at all. Even the therapist came in for some verbal abuse but Tom knew this was part of his job. He probably expected it. How about the nurses, though? Were they trained to take that sort of crap, too?
As the therapist began his session Tom tried to concentrate on his words, using them as a mantra to focus on the topic. Anxiety. It was ironic that the very act of coming into this group situation should create anxieties for him, he thought. Being a psychologist didn’t help in the least, in fact it had made him even more self-critical. Nan’s death had been the trigger. But now he must move forward, he’d been told. Be positive. Affirmation was the key.
He would heal. He would be well again. Then there would be no need for him to sit with these patients whose anger reached out at him with invisible tentacles.