Unawares

Reprinted with permission from Xenos.

Page 1 of 7

Tension. There was tension in the day, because the air hung on me like my three-year-old granddaughter in a mood. I saw mounds of bruised cloud boiling up over the sun when I pulled back the lace curtains to check the weather; I heard the sky grumble as I pulled my coat from the hall closet. And tension in me, because it was my first day. So I forgot my umbrella leaving the house. And my training notes. And my herbal teas (trying to cut down on caffeine, for my nerves). All told, I made three return trips to the house, during which time the rain started. Gently at first, but that didn't last long; soon I was fighting my way through a diagonal sheet of water, rain better to be naked in, rather than trifle with Macs and umbrellas in some foolish hope of protection.

Suicidal weather. Thunder tantrums over my head, flashes of temper erupting in the dark sky. I don't know, perhaps my trainer included the climate when he said, "Your first session on the Crisis Hotline will be your worst." Here I was going to make an early start (I couldn't see my wristwatch; I had to hold my umbrella tilted forward like a shield). Here I was going to keep myself relaxed (I stepped on a loose paving slab, and said good-bye to one dry foot). I arrived at the centre better prepared to have a crisis than to handle one. I shook myself off in the small foyer, reacquainted myself with my watch, which told me I was six minutes late. Without removing my hat or my coat, I slogged upstairs to the office.

Mabel the supervisor greeted me by saying, "We need you on the phones. I blame the weather. Let me take your wet things."

She stripped me while I stood, and steered me over to a desk facing the only large first floor window, looking out at a sky so low it threatened to set its weight on the roof . While I rolled my foot uncomfortably inside my wet shoe, she brought me another cardigan from somewhere, and a cup of my tea, before signalling to the switchboard girl to send me a call.

"Hello," I said, wiping rain off my nose that had dripped from my hair, "Crisis Hotline. How can I help?"

"Hello."

Such an even voice. Low in register, and not sinister, but powerful.

"Hello, how can I help you?"

A pause, during which the rain hammered on the glass in front of me, as it must have been doing while I was getting myself sorted, but either I'd not noticed or, as I felt, it had grown louder.

"I don't know," the voice said finally.

"Is there something on your mind?" I asked.

"Oh yes. Yes. Hundreds of things. Millions of things."

"So you're under a lot of stress right now?"

"Of course!!"