The Gaslighteur

By James Field

Sean meets Penelope, a zany woman with whom he instantly clicks. She confides in him that she has suffered an abusive relationship in her past at the hands of her ex-husband, who orchestrated a ‘Gaslighting’ campaign against her. Gaslighting, Sean discovers, is a means by which an abuser is able to psychologically manipulate his victim by making changes to her immediate environment and by presenting false or ambiguous information with the aim of making her doubt her own memory, perceptions and sanity.

Penelope has a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. She informs Sean that her ex-husband employed Gaslighting to cunningly engineer her psychiatric diagnosis with this mental disorder characterised by psychosis and perceptual dysfunction, and then planned and perpetrated an act of sexual assault in the knowledge that this diagnosis would allow him to evade prosecution on the grounds that her testimony would be afforded little credibility. She gives Sean a disturbing account in which she asserts that her abuser was able to cover up his emotional and sexual abuse by both exploiting her diagnosis and engaging in a ruthless act of blackmail.

In time Sean develops a deep connection to Penelope. He reveals to her some troubling memories of his childhood and she helps him to gain an insightful understanding of the ways in which emotionally wounding past experiences are continuing to exercise a detrimental influence upon his current day-to-day life, that manifest as a predisposition for exhibiting an excessively hypervigilant fear of ridicule, humiliation and rejection. She inspires him to believe that he can heal from these fears by embracing a journey of personal growth and recovery.

However, before long Sean begins to suspect that Penelope may be hiding her true intentions.....

The Gaslighteur is a work of both literary fiction and darkly disturbing psychological fiction that offers a fascinating and in-depth exploration of a range of issues, including Gaslighting/The Gaslight Effect, emotional and psychological abuse, sociopathic and psychopathic behaviour and narcissistic personality disorder. The story also embraces a critique of the dominant influence of psychiatry upon the mental health system, and promotes the concepts of healing, recovery and personal growth.

The Gaslighteur is every bit as disturbing as it is thought-provoking, and is a must-read for those of you who love literary fiction or psychological fiction, and for those of you who have an interest in the response of the mental health system to individuals' experiences of mental and emotional distress.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Field
• Release date: Mar 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370797363

James Field

I was born in Essex, England, in 1951.My early days of work as an engineer led me to Norway where I met my future wife Kari. She moved to England where we married and raised our two daughters. We moved back to Norway in 1985.My wife and I now live far in the north, well within the Arctic Circle, in the land of the midnight sun. Life here is slow and comfortable, blessed by unspoilt nature and its magnificent moods.Being creative in the written form gives me vast pleasure. I hope, dear reader, you will take a break from your world and lose yourself in one of mine.

Book preview

My first urge is to tell you that I met Penelope one pleasant summer’s day in August 2001. I had cycled over to Pershore to visit my friend Simon, which I tended to do on a weekly basis. Simon often attended a drop-in centre for people with mental health challenges, which was run by the MIND group. He found this centre to be a source of support in relation to his own mental health challenges. It was here that we had decided to meet on this occasion. As I was not part of the mental health system, my admittance over the threshold was sometimes greeted with a polite but firm exhortation from one of the mental health staff to leave the premises, and this was enough to lead me to prefer to stay outside the building on the ramp-like walkway leading up to the entrance, where I mingled with those drop-in service users who were smokers. Since pretty much all of the service users were smokers- an activity they were obliged to partake in outside the building’s premises- I usually got to socialise with most of them in spite of my entrance being barred. This often led me to muse upon the extent to which the description of ‘drop-in’ was befitting of the centre’s purpose in relation to the service users’ spatial movements.

Upon my arrival, Simon would come and join me on the ramp. He and I had been friends for nineteen years. He was a very good-hearted kind of fellow.

On this occasion I was standing upon the ramp as usual, surrounded by a convivial throng of service users, enjoying a joke or two. Then I looked to my right and saw Penelope for the first time. She was ascending the walkway, clutching four egg custards. Though I was encircled by many people, she established firm eye contact with me; a contact that was reinforced upon her approach by an invasion of my personal space. However, as it happens, it was a most welcome invasion. As her visage lightened and her eyes softened, I saw that she had very sharp and striking features. Her pointy nose was the longest, tallest, and most voluminous I had ever seen in a woman. Her cheekbones were high. Her smile revealed a great breadth to the flesh of her cheeks and, owing to a tapering quality, I received an impression that her face was framed in the shape of a love heart. I thought this combination of shape, sharp and strike rather humorous. There was an intensity to her gaze which held my own. Her frame was slim and she was of above average height. She looked to be in her mid to late forties.

She appeared to hold the egg custards aloft with a triumphal flourish. I’m Penelope. Well thank the Lord for the marvel of egg custards! she exclaimed. I have been assured that if I eat four in one go and then do a handstand, they will cause my breasts to increase in size!

The smokers, who were unanimously male in composition, stopped to look at her. Some looked nonplussed; some looked nonplussed and mildly amused, while others, such as myself, were more than mildly amused. I feel that some might perceive it to be socially unacceptable to blatantly observe the breasts of a female in a public place, whether she be known to the onlooker or not. One might be persuaded to think of this female as refreshingly avant-garde, for by making an explicit reference to her breasts she seemed to be instantly encouraging the males in her vicinity to challenge the conventional orthodoxy. So I glanced downwards to have a butchers. It seemed rude not to at the time. However, no social convention was contravened at all, since this poor mite didn’t have any breasts. In some circles she might be somewhat unkindly referred to as ‘vinegar tits.’ I felt a curious mixture of pity and mirth. Theoretically, you could stare at her breastbone all day without being accused of any misdemeanour at all. Yet I felt an admiration for this woman, since she had begun openly talking about a subject which, I felt, must have been a source of discontentment for her. Also, I can feel a little awkward when in the presence of a woman who has no breasts at all, since there seems to be a tacit agreement amongst the people present that talk on that subject is strictly prohibited, for fear of embarrassing the breastless person. Sometimes, when a topic of conversation feels prohibited, it seems to continually loom large in my consciousness, which leads to a tendency to blurt something out, at which point I become embarrassed on an attendee’s behalf. Penelope, on the other hand, wasn’t showing even a smidgeon of embarrassment, and seemed to be inviting the males present to tease her breastlessness. Indeed, some of those males seemed to have breasts of their own.

I felt an urge, out of pure curiosity, to ask her whether she thought good nipples made up for the lack, and whether she saved money on bras, but thought much better of it.

Do you really believe that your breasts will grow if you eat those egg custards? I asked her.

Why of course! she replied with a wide smile, laughing out the words. "The key is to eat them regularly and do frequent handstands, and most importantly to believe. Without belief the whole exercise is pointless."

Now I suspected that part of this woman’s problem was that she seemed underweight. It seemed to me that consuming a considerable number of egg custards could well, besides other consequences, have the effect of causing her mammaries to expand. I was wise enough to know that neither handstands nor belief would be likely to be a necessary part of the equation. Penelope struck me as an enlightened soul who would naturally recognise the claim to be spurious. Yet I couldn’t help but laugh as I imagined a delightfully whimsical scenario in which Penelope, after carrying out a consistent regime of consumption, handstands and fervent mindfulness, finds to her surprise that her breasts have indeed expanded, and proceeds to attribute this success to her commitment to this trio of interaction.

Just in case you find that trying to physically goad and encourage the saturated fat in the egg custards down towards your breasts fails to cause any perceptible burgeoning, you could always consider that breasts aren’t the be all and end all you know! I said with a leavening of light sarcasm that I didn’t fully intend to express.

She flashed her eyes momentarily in mock annoyance. No no! It’s important that you believe as well! she chided merrily. It’s very possible that your disbelief will cause the entire enterprise to fail quite spectacularly. This means I could be holding you personally responsible if I find no difference, because the fault certainly won’t lie with me. I’ll be doing my part, I need to know you will be doing yours!

Ok, ok, obviously I’ll be accountable if you find no difference, I replied in amusement, and no doubt I’ll feel it incumbent upon me to pay for a silicone breast enhancement operation. I mean, it would only be fair to you, right? I looked around enquiringly at the other men.

You may jest, but I would consider that contrary to your somewhat hastily considered opinion, breasts are indeed the be all and end all for women, they are very much the be all and end all, particularly if one is rather under-endowed like me, Penelope declared in her charmingly flippant tone. They are the source of a woman’s confidence, and I feel somewhat aggrieved that I have been impoverished in this regard through no fault of my own. But I’m prepared to forgive you because these egg custards have put me in a rather buoyant mood.

Without further ado Penelope breezed past and entered the drop-in. I felt that if one was to study Penelope as a stand-alone objective measure of the relationship between breast size and confidence, one would be inclined to conclude that there may be an inversely proportional relationship. It struck me that women might sometimes make references to the smallness of their breasts in an attempt to elicit reassurances from males about how their legs made up for the lack, or that breasts aren’t the be all and end all, and I had assumed that this was what Penelope was looking for. And so I had a peculiar feeling that I had been unjustly admonished for my well-intentioned consideration. However, this was a feeling that was unaccompanied by any tinge of resentment, because she had expressed herself with such skilful persiflage. In fact, I felt it had been a delight to receive her admonishment. As an afterthought, I made a bet with myself that there is more acceptance within society of a girl who is boysterous than a boy who is girlsterous.

I could see that my friend Simon was rather amused by the interaction that had taken place before him. I decided that I was willing to risk incurring the annoyance of the mental health staff by following Penelope into the drop-in. Sometimes I managed to get a good fifteen to forty minutes of socialising in there before the staff decided to eject me. Upon entering the building, I could see that Penelope had taken a seat on her own and had begun munching daintily on one of her egg custards. She smiled through a mouthful of crumbs at me as I made my way towards her. I sat down opposite her.

You know what Penelope? I asked, looking over my shoulder to check to see whether my entrance had been noticed. You have given me food for thought. When you indicated that you had a desire to have bigger breasts, my immediate, almost unthinking and unnecessarily automatic response was to tell you that breasts aren’t the be all and end all. I said this in order to make you feel better about yourself. But on reflection, it strikes me that attempts at reassurance come sometimes at the expense of sincerity. For I can certainly see, now that I’ve had time to reflect and put myself in your shoes, having small breasts must make you fear that on some level you may be less bountiful and have less capacity for giving or nurturing than the next female who comes along….

In response to my words Penelope looked on in disbelief. Her mouth fell open and she gave two jarring exhalations of indignation.

I tell you what, she replied, instead of putting one foot in your mouth, why not put both in for good measure? Though I didn’t let on, I did in fact find it reassuring when you said breasts aren’t the be all and end all, but now you’re telling me you were being insincere! And even though I appreciate you’re clearly trying to empathise and understand my feelings on the subject from my perspective, I actually said nothing at all about a fear of having less capacity for nurture than other women. I know that I myself have an exceptional capacity for nurture, thank you very much. So clearly, unwittingly you have revealed your own unsupported and totally unsubstantiated perception of women with under-endowed breasts….

I bowed my head, blushed, and felt rather sheepish. But my disgrace was mercifully short-lived. Contrary to the treatment I felt I probably deserved, Penelope proceeded to magnanimously beam a bright smile upon me.

There’s no need to feel embarrassed about it, she cooed. I can see I’ve been most remiss and far too harsh on you. I hold in good esteem anyone who feels so troubled by an act of insincerity that he feels a pressing need to confess it. What’s more, I really do appreciate your desire to empathise with my position, rather than just brush me aside and laugh at me like the others do. Not that I can blame them, because if I present myself as a clown then I guess I’m the only one to blame if I am treated like one.

I immediately felt a lot better. I smiled with relief, feeling a degree of mirth which bubbled laughter into my words. Penelope laughed too.

Honestly, egg custards and handstands are silly, but not as silly as how I was feeling just now! I exclaimed with a chuckle. I said breasts aren’t the be all and end all in order to make you feel better, and yet the immediate consequence of expressing this was worry about the insincerity of the comment, and then it became necessary to make myself feel better by confessing this to you, at which point to my shame your feelings suddenly seemed to become irrelevant!

Penelope seemed to be becoming more intrigued and enthused by the minute. She replied chattily, But the interesting thing for me is that if you were unhappy with your level of sincerity, all you needed to do was make a mental note of this and ensure for the sake of similar future situations that you made provision to deal in an appropriate way with the tension you experienced between the need for sincerity and the need for reassurance. A comment such as ‘breasts aren’t the be all and end all’ in any case isn’t very reassuring, because it sounds too glib. For instance, as long as you sincerely believed it, you could consider saying something like, ‘While breast size is important, it is of far greater importance to accept yourself and be comfortable in your own skin, wherein lies true confidence, which is the most attractive trait of all.’ The fundamental problem with this of course is that perhaps some women with small boobs might well find it devilishly hard to accept themselves and be comfortable in their own skin. Boob size may in actual fact be the objective root to all confidence. Then a wry frown crossed her visage. Or should that be women with big confident boobs will always find themselves objectified? But that’s a debate for another day perhaps.

I know what you mean! I enthused. I saw a woman the other day standing smack in the middle of a pub that was as busy as a termite’s nest, bold as brass, looking for the entire world like she had two sandbags on her chest. Her car would not have needed to be fitted with an air bag, oh no! She positively oozed with confidence. After a pause I added, Maybe the source of all her confidence wasn’t the massive size of her boobs per se, since they were so huge they had lost all attractiveness, but more specifically pride arising from the habitual objectification she endured from gawpers. But I think we’re straying from the issue here aren’t we….

With a frowning smile, Penelope returned to the original issue. A lot of men would probably say the same thing as you did. They would say something along the lines of ‘breasts aren’t everything’, while simultaneously suspecting that the female knows they are just trying to make her feel better. Yet it would not lead most men to agonise over the extent to which they’d given their honest opinion. This suggests to me that it is particularly important for you that I perceive you to express sincere opinions.

I nodded encouragingly.

It really is very funny, she continued cheerfully, "that after stipulating that breasts aren’t the be all and end all, you began to feel that your own kind-heartedness had inadvertently deceived you into expressing a lie of such horrendous magnitude, that you were immediately impelled to confess. It is a constant source of hilarity to me that I reckon most blokes would, if induced to be sincere, say that breasts are the be all and end all to them. Yet faced with a vulnerable female in need of reassurance, insincerity would heroically prevail eleven times out of ten. And what’s more, even though there is part of you that sincerely believes boobs are the be all and end all, there may be lots of women out there who know the truth: that boobs are definitely not the be all and end all. No amount of sincere male conviction putting forward the contrary belief will change that. I was of course joking with you outside."

After considering her words I told her, "While I certainly know that boobs are not the absolute be all and end all, they are surely the be all and begin all. A baby can have no healthier beginning than to be firmly clamped to his or her mother’s breast. But getting back to the point, I just wanted to let you know that I understand that boobs are important to women, and I am keen to try to understand your feelings on the matter…."

Penelope smiled in amusement, which was augmented when an elderly service user whom I recognised to be an acquaintance of Simon’s moved near, and upon hearing the content of our dialogue, frowned and decided to find a seat a little further away from us than she had originally intended.

Penelope was refreshingly unabashed. This desire to gain a deep understanding of my feelings on the matter is remarkably commendable, she exclaimed, and perhaps marks you out as a highly empathetic young gun, even if you did project onto me your own disturbing interpretation of the reasons for my discontent!

I blushed again, remembering my presumptuous comments relating to lack of nurture. However, her follow-up words were comforting. There’s absolutely no need for you to be hard on yourself for that, she said, because believe you me, empathy is a universally elusive phenomenon, and a quality which is in chronically short supply. She paused briefly before issuing a stumbling laugh and flattering me with, I suspect you’re responsible for that, I bet you’re hogging the lot!

We both laughed at length, but it turned out that I allowed my mirth to flow at the expense of discretion, as one of the mental health staff became alerted to my illicit presence. This staff member had already told me once before that I shouldn’t be inside the drop-in. She approached me with a stern look, saying, Sean, I know you’re a friend of Simon’s, but I’ve told you once before this drop-in’s for service users only. It’s the rules I’m afraid.

I apologised profusely, though not particularly sincerely, and got up to leave. I always felt that the staff were sacrificing sentiment to unsound principle when they insisted on my ejection from the building. While it was true that I did not have a diagnosis of mental ill health, many of these people were my friends who needed my support just as much as I needed theirs. The entire purpose of a drop-in centre was to help meet the social needs of these vulnerable people. And vulnerability is not exclusively the preserve of people who have a label of mental ill health.

So you mean to say you’re not a loony like the rest of us? Penelope asked in a surprised tone. Well, I say…..

On that note, Penelope and I said some hurried goodbyes, and I left. As I descended the walkway, I caught glimpses of Penelope through one of the windows. She was performing handstands rather nimbly in the middle of the room.

I thought to myself that Penelope probably really could get away with walking down the high street topless if she wanted to, because there wasn’t very much at all to indecently expose. The pang of shame I felt at this urge to objectify her was thankfully usurped by my consideration that she certainly made up for whatever she lacked in that department with oodles of charm.

Light underneath a bushel

The following week I cycled over to the drop-in centre to see my friend Simon as usual, whereupon I met Penelope for the second time. Simon and I were chatting with some of our mutual friends from the drop-in centre on the walkway when I noticed Penelope join the throng.

It was a very hot day and in order to seek respite from the weather, Howard offered to drive four of us over to Simon’s house in his car. Four of us eagerly accepted his offer and climbed inside his vehicle, which was parked nearby. Penelope joined us in the passenger seat. During the journey she was talking about her desire to take an IQ test. I wonder what my IQ is, I’ve never felt a need to have it measured before, she said in her pleasant and well-spoken voice. I’ve decided its imperative that I find out, in case I’m a prodigy and I’ve been unwittingly depriving the world of my genius. I know that sometimes I feel as thick as a brick, but I don’t see any reason why genius and being thick as a brick can’t co-exist harmoniously together.

Once in my student days I lived with a friend who was a member of Mensa, I informed her. He used to regularly get the Mensa magazine through the letterbox. He claimed that he didn’t read them and seemed almost ashamed that he was a member, when really he should have been proud. He was one of the most charming men I’ve ever met in my life, and I suppose modesty was part of that charm.

Do you think his modesty was genuine? enquired Penelope. After all, I imagine most people who undertake an IQ test usually do so with the expectation of a favourable result. And there are lots of clever people out there who enthusiastically take an IQ test hoping that they will discover that they are eligible for Mensa membership. Her tone became playful. Unless you’re about to tell me this friend of yours reluctantly took the test and then was disappointed to find that he was eligible for some elitist pampering? Sounds rather unlikely to me! How do you know he didn’t secretly love the fact that his superior intelligence was being waved in everyone’s face? There’s nothing unobtrusive about a magazine on the doormat as a constant reminder, and he could have easily cancelled it if necessary.

I decided to stick to my guns. All the same, he seemed genuinely embarrassed by it to me, I replied. You would think that there is no need to apologise for one’s cleverness within an academic culture at University, but maybe he was just displaying sensitivity to how some people may feel intimidated by it. Maybe amongst his family he felt a lot less apologetic. Or maybe he only just scraped through with his IQ score, and felt relatively stupid compared to the other members. Now that would be embarrassing. Just imagine being called a thicko by the others! But I very much doubt that he scraped through. No, modesty’s a consistent characteristic of this chap’s make-up, and he’s quintessentially English in the sense that if he stumbled upon burglars in his house late one night, his first instinct would be to apologise for the lack of valuable goods, despite there being plenty.

Penelope laughed gleefully. I’m afraid I’ve got to find a way of making you see that there was probably egotism at large here, even if it was thickly veiled. After all, he’s a man. She scratched her chin before crying out with enthusiasm, Aha! You say that he claimed he never read the magazines?

That’s right, he often told me that, I replied. In fact, once he said he felt really pretentious and wished he wasn’t a member at all.

Well that settles it then, Penelope breathed. That’s where the concept of modesty will always implode messily all over itself. His constant boast was to brag about how modest he was. And the greater the achievement one understates, the greater the boast becomes. Most Englishmen believe that modesty is a very attractive virtue, and will be at pains to be quite showy about it. As for me, I think that modesty is very much over-valued. After all, they say ‘I’ is the most popular letter in the alphabet. What’s the point in a culture where people are actively encouraged to understate their talents and abilities? That smacks to me of insincerity. She glanced at me mischievously. Particularly when some of us are being actively encouraged to test our own IQs and celebrate by joining Mensa if we find it to be high.

Well I for one found his modesty very charming, because it left me with a strong impression that he was sensitive to the feelings of others, I countered. Then I returned her mischievous look and gave a playfully sarcastic edge to my voice. But just think all long I was being duped, and he was bragging about how modest he was about his superior intelligence.

There’s always ambiguity in the world and it’s wise to look for it, Penelope threw back cheerfully. Always consider as many angles as you can conceive. I’m never hasty to discard a plausible theory, and I’ll wager there is more false modesty in the world than genuine modesty. I think it was Oscar Wilde who said that a modest man is a man who is waiting for other people to discover how wonderful he is by themselves. If you ask me, there’s no point in being falsely modest or genuinely modest, as both constitute hiding your light underneath a bushel.

We arrived at Simon’s house and the five of us arranged ourselves on his sofas. Penelope chose a seat next to me and began telling everyone that she generally preferred the company of men to women. I’m a tomboy through and through, she announced airily, and I feel totally comfortable being the only female amongst five males. Then with a mirthful chortle she added, I hope all you guys are comfortable with me being the only female in the company.

Suddenly Howard became surly and snapped, Penelope, why are you talking about yourself all the time, no-one wants to hear it. You’re not talking about anything anyone else in the group is interested in. Give it a rest will ya?

I had been getting to know Howard for the last couple of months and this was the first time I had seen him visibly irritated about anything. My experience up until this point was that he was very friendly and mild-mannered, and I liked him immensely. I thought this surly snappiness was probably uncharacteristic behaviour for him. Nevertheless, my immediate impression of this outburst was to suspect that it was an unjustified admonishment, because I rather liked Penelope’s zany way of talking about herself. I found her really quite charming. I thought Howard’s outburst was rude, and resented his seeming to assume the role of mouthpiece for everyone else in the room. However, I didn’t express these feelings, as I’m not characteristically very outspoken.

It appeared that Penelope had been struck into a mildly surprised and then an amused silence, the latter emotion being expressed through the essence of laughter that shone from her eyes. Thus it seemed to be only her voice which had been suppressed.

After the effects of surprise and amusement had worn off, Penelope seemed to become dejected. She looked cowed. I couldn’t endure the notion of her feeling that way for longer than a few moments, so I engaged her in conversation as soon as the others had begun talking amongst themselves. I was thankful to discover that she quickly regained her cheeriness, shortly after which Howard decided he needed to take his leave.

Need a lift home Penelope? he ventured.

Yes of course, she replied, after a brief moment of hesitation.

Penelope and Howard said their goodbyes and headed off.

The menace of manners

That night I paid a visit to my girlfriend, whose name was Joanna. She was twenty-three and I was twenty-eight. We had been together for a couple of years.

During the journey to Joanna’s house, my head was filled with thoughts of how well Penelope and I had clicked. Despite an approximate age difference of about twenty years between us, she seemed remarkably young at heart in comparison to many other middle-aged women. I relished a hope of potentially befriending her on a stable basis. I informed Joanna about her and how amused I was by her zaniness, and that she reminded me a little of my mother. Joanna encouraged me to pursue a friendship with her, and expressed a belief that this would be good for me as I had lost my mother only five years before.

The following week, on my next visit to the drop-in centre, I was chatting with a throng of people on the walkway when Penelope approached and invited us all to come to her house for tea. Everybody politely made their excuses, but I accepted with enthusiasm. Without further ado, I accompanied Penelope to her car. She explained that she part-owned a three bed-roomed house which she had bought jointly with her husband, from whom she had been separated and estranged for several years. She had two daughters from this marriage; one aged thirteen and the other aged fourteen, who both lived with her. Their names were Louise and Rachel respectively. She expressed pride in them both excelling academically at high school.

After a short journey, we arrived at her house which was situated in what might be amorphously referred to as a respectable area. I saw that the front garden was about thirty feet square, unkempt and overgrown with tall grass and weeds, which were obscured from view by a large privet hedge if one approached the house from the right hand side. Most other gardens on the road were, by contrast, impressively kempt and colourful.

On arrival, Penelope parked her Citroen on the driveway.

As I stepped over the threshold of Penelope’s home, she invited me into a large kitchen area. Two adult Yorkshire terriers greeted us there. The first was elderly and had a grey and dishevelled coat. Long hair obscured its face. The other dog also had a long, dishevelled coat, but seemed younger and sprightlier than the other. It leaped upwards gleefully, pawing my thighs as it did so, whereupon I saw that its nails were sorely in need of a trim. In fact, that was an understatement. I felt that were I to attach a shaft to him, he would make a very adequate garden rake. I hastily patted him down as I felt that wearing ribbons on my legs would let in a little too much ventilation for my liking.

Oh, in order of bounciness they’re called Rory and Sammy respectively, though not always respectfully, Penelope informed me.

She explained that even though there was a lounge and a living room off to the right, the kitchen was her favourite living area as it was by far the largest room in the house and afforded a good view of her back garden. There was a many-chaired, large round table in the centre of the kitchen, upon which lots of assorted female garments had been laid. Some of the chairs were being used as tables, upon which also rested various bits of laundry. Penelope cleared the table of garments and invited me to take a seat.

While Penelope made us both a cup of tea, I took the opportunity to look around and observe the kitchen. It was in a very untidy state, with items strewn all over the floor. Then I spotted what was unmistakably fairly fresh-looking faeces on the floor next to a cupboard. I recoiled a little but tried to disguise my reaction, to avoid embarrassing my host. At this point she aproached me with a grave look upon her face, handed over a cup of tea and took a seat opposite me at the table.

Speaking with a sense of urgency, she said, There is something I need to clear up first of all.

I thought to myself that this was not an assertion I would oppose, given what I had just spied.

I know you have seen the shit on the floor, and I am….so very sorry about that, she continued hesitantly.

Did the urge come upon you so suddenly that you didn’t have time to get to the toilet? I asked levelly, trying to keep a straight face.

She hacked mirthfully at the air in a fit of coughing laughter. Bloody cheek! she said in mock indignation. I wish you to understand that I am in the unfortunate position of owning a dog- poor Sammy that is- who has about as much control over his bowels as I do over the size of my breasts.

Well in that case, in the light of this explanation, you are entirely excused for having shit on your floor, I replied with a smirk. And there was me thinking it was an intolerable sight.

I suspect seeing dog shit on the floor of an otherwise admirable kitchen must be nearly as intolerable as seeing a flat chest on an otherwise admirable woman, she mused as she took a sip of her tea.

I’ll let you know as soon as I have experience of either, I laughed.

Then there was a knock at the front door. Penelope went to answer it, and a few moments later she returned, accompanied by Howard. At first he seemed surprised to see me, but his surprise was mitigated by the need to fend off Rory’s bounding, affectionate attack. Once Rory was mollified, Howard and I exchanged pleasantries and struck up a convivial conversation.

After cleaning up the array of messes in the kitchen, including the faeces, Penelope began to throw her energies into cooking us a roast dinner. She informed us she was cooking for five people, as her daughters would soon be arriving home from school.

Louise and Rachel arrived home just as dinner was about to be served. They were both remarkably pretty girls, with markedly blonde hair. There was plenty of room around the kitchen table for all five of us. Penelope began by serving her daughters’ dinner, followed by her own. She allowed Howard and me to help ourselves.

Howard, who worked for a gas company and had been busy digging roads for most of the day, had clearly worked up an appetite, as he set about devouring his food with great speed, thus abandoning any rules set down by social etiquette which require one to converse with the assembled company. Sometimes his fork would push the food into his mouth incompletely, at which point we were all treated to a demonstration of the dexterity with which he was able to use his tongue to herd the food towards his grub tunnel. For a few moments his eyes boggled appreciatively at my own boggling eyes as he performed his facial theatre.

I looked at Penelope to try to gauge her reaction to this. For the most part she was engaged in multiple and overlapping conversations with her daughters, but she did notice Howard’s performance and I perceived that once or twice her upper lip curled upwards almost imperceptibly, as though someone had tweaked on her whisker. I thought that this indicated an effortful suppression of a feeling of disgust. Given that the dog turd incident still loomed large in my mind, I deemed this reaction of disgust to be a little hypocritically harsh. However, I decided to suspend my judgement of Penelope’s lip curling behaviour and contrarily take a complimentary view of it, since disgust is probably a subjective and involuntary human reaction, the physical signs of which, on this occasion, she seemed to have suppressed quite effectually. I presumed that she had performed a dinner table feat of ‘turning the other cheek’ in the face of effrontery, which was no less admirable than Howard’s facial theatre.

On reflection, I felt mightily gladdened by both the presence of dog shit and Howard’s performance. While I was growing up, my father and my brother Duncan and I hardly ever sat at a dinner table together as a family unit, even though we owned a very fine, large oaken table. Many a time Duncan would cook us all a Sunday dinner. Dad would eat at the oaken table in the living room, while Duncan and I would eat together at the kitchen table. I grew up eating speedily and without decorum, stooping my head towards the fork in a similar manner to Howard, since I didn’t feel any need to behave otherwise. There was no-one there to appreciate airs and graces, and I had not yet learnt the importance of decorum. Somewhat as a result of my practised gracelessness I have always felt awkward during table dinners and the less acquainted I happen to be with the people in attendance, the greater my sense of awkwardness. My awkwardness partly stems from the social expectation to make polite conversation, which I feel to be an inconvenience and a distraction from the pleasure of dining, though I have learned to show some forbearance since by nature I’m usually a stoical kind of guy. And so I found Howard’s unwillingness to divide his attention between his food and social expectations to be an agreeable surprise. It helped me to feel more relaxed. Moreover, I suspect that the prior presence of dog shit relinquished me from social obligations pertaining to politeness, both in terms of making verbal enquiries and most emphatically in terms of table manners.

Many months later, once the friendship between Penelope and I had deepened, I took the liberty of facetiously informing her that she need not fear my disapproval if she wanted to get Sammy to shit in full view of us just before every mealtime. I told her it ought to become a cherished ritual of subversive hospitality, marking an eschewal of conventional etiquette, thus allowing diners such as myself to partake of their food pleasurably at all times. You poor thing, she responded in a tone of mock sympathy. Manners and etiquette really are a menace to you aren’t they Sean? If only I could really protect you from such suffering!

Penelope almost invariably showed an excessive degree of tolerance for my tasteless and revolting comments, which was one of the many reasons I liked her so much. She chided me for them, but in such a charming manner. Nevertheless, since Penelope seemed to me an unfathomably sophisticated person, I was conscious of the unseemliness of these tasteless comments and accordingly tried to make sure they were few and far between. Sometimes I experienced a peculiarly shameful feeling in my belly, which I imagined was similar to the feeling I would experience if I were to vandalise a piece of valuable art.

Once the five of us finished the meal, we moved into the living room. Howard was passionately interested in paranormal activity and the existence of extra terrestrial lifeforms and Louise and Rachel, who appeared to be intrigued by his beliefs, encouraged him to talk about aliens. He obliged them.

Slowly raising his eyebrows, he ventured, Did you know I have personally sighted UFOs in the night sky, which exhibited flight paths and flight behaviour very similar to that of a bumblebee?

Louise asked in a disapproving tone, Were you drunk? which prompted Rachel to laugh girlishly. Howard laughed good-humouredly before stooping to pick up a bottle of water by the side of the couch, which he proceeded to empty out onto Louise’s mirthfully screaming head.

During these shenanigans, I observed that Penelope seemed to be lacking the vivacity that I had grown accustomed to seeing. I thought that perhaps she was tired. But I also noticed that in the course of the evening, whenever she offered an opinion on any subject, her daughters would dismiss it without bothering to give the idea much thought, whereupon she seemed to become subdued and more than a little crestfallen. I felt sorry for her, though at the same time it seemed slightly ridiculous that she should allow a thirteen year old and a fourteen year old to get her so down-hearted.

The relationboat

I liked to find time to pop over to Pershore every week, but I remember that I was obliged to skip my visit for the following week. At the time I had just moved to a shared student house, since I had been accepted onto a PGCE teacher training course which was due to start in September of that year. That week I skipped my usual visit to Pershore in order to unpack my stuff and settle into my new accommodation properly.

On Friday evening of that week (which happened to be Friday 13th) my mobile phone rang while I was sitting in my room and messing around on my new laptop. I didn’t recognise the number that appeared on the display. I answered it and found that the caller was none other than Penelope herself, which was a surprise as I did not recall exchanging phone numbers with her. She was in a state of great distress.

Her first anguished words were, God I want to die, die, die, die….

It occurred to me that it seemed to be lucky that Penelope spoke with exemplary elocution, as her sobbing was so pronounced that it wasn’t easy to make her words out. In the recesses of my mind, a timid voice said I should pretend it wasn’t me and hang up, but the problem with that course of action was that a bolder accompanying voice very earnestly wished to help her. When a person expresses a sentiment of this nature, it tends to have an effect of making one sit up and take notice. I hastily muted the sound on my laptop, which was playing the exquisitely cheerful but now entirely inappropriate, thumbs-in-bracers Queen song, ‘Seaside Rendezvous.’

What on earth’s happened Penelope? I asked with concern.

Howard has left me. Howard and I have been having a secret relationship but now he’s gone and moved to Bedford and he doesn’t care about me at all.

I deemed that while drawing such a conclusion from this premise was likely to be an exaggeration, it was admittedly unlikely that Howard would move so many miles away in order to demonstrate his ardent feelings for her.

But I care about him very much, Penelope sobbed. All the men in my life treat me like a doormat and then leave me feeling distraught. Right now I really feel like ending my life, because I really can’t stand the pain. It’s totally unbearable, and I don’t know what in the world to do….

You mustn’t do anything like that, you’re such a lovely woman, think of your family, I interjected imploringly.

My words seemed to calm her a little. Oh don’t worry, she sniffed. Even though I feel so terrible and feel like ending it all, I know that I will never act on that feeling because I have something strong at my core that prevents me from taking such a drastic step. All the times in the past when I have felt so incredibly low and distressed, I have been tempted by suicide because of the allure of the sweetness of oblivion, yet I have never carried it out because right at my core there is a kernel of hope that I hold onto and cherish.

But what on earth has happened between Howard and yourself to make you feel the way you’re feeling you poor thing? I asked inquisitively.

Well a couple of months ago, Howard and I struck up a friendship at the drop-in, and we swiftly became quite close as a result of having long talks into the night at my house, she explained tearfully. We became really quite comfortable with one another and disclosed a lot of personal information, as people do when they share an affinity. Then I made an arrangement to have some of the folk at the drop-in gather at my house for a party, which was to include Howard and several others. In the end it was only Howard who turned up. I now believe he had deliberately told the others that the party was off in an attempt to get me on his own so he could begin his charming seduction. Penelope began to cry more audibly once again. We drank wine together and he played me love songs from a CD that he had brought along with him for the ‘party.’ We discussed relationships and how complicated they can become, and talked about the concept of friends who can fulfil one another’s sexual needs, without the complications of being an emotionally attached couple. He took up the concept and made the idea sound very attractive indeed and told me that he would very much like the idea of no-strings attached sex with me, as long as it was predicated upon a mutual understanding that it would be free of emotional attachment and remain secret....

Not that old chestnut, I said wryly.

Well anyway, she sniffled, I was enjoying his company so much, and aided by the intoxication of the wine, I fell for his charms. We kissed and….

Please spare me the gory details, I interjected as gently as I could. Did you honestly like the idea of strings-free sex without emotion?

Well, deep down I didn’t like the idea of strings-free sex one bit, she replied meekly. After all, by this time I had already developed feelings for him.

Well then, if in fact you had developed feelings for him, how come you engaged in sexual relations, allowing him to believe it would be predicated upon a lack of emotional attachment? I enquired, horribly conscious that I might be beginning to sound far more judgmental than I intended. Nevertheless, I did not detect any tone of indignation in her response.

Well, sometimes when the prospect of sex with someone you care about crops up you don’t tend to say anything that might spoil your chances, she said breathlessly without pause. It seemed she had anticipated that question. But the love songs from his CD playing in the background gave me the hope that sexual intimacy between us would cause a mutual emotional bond to grow, despite his predication. After all, I believe that when sex takes place, it reinforces a pre-existing spiritual bond, even though the individuals involved may not be consciously aware of the presence of such a bond, or even though one or both individuals may be in denial of its presence. I thought that it can never be a bad thing to take the opportunity to reinforce something so spiritually wholesome.

Well I see what you mean, now that you put it like that, I said, though I felt like I needed more time to unravel that particular rope knot. I feared that my fingers would just end up picking at the knot feebly and ineffectually.

This secretive state of affairs continued for a while, Penelope said in a sad voice, until I’d had enough of all the sneaking around. I wanted to go public as a couple. I swiftly found that secretly having sex with someone who has openly declared that he has no wish to have feelings for me, brings on a grinding shame. I wanted our relationship to become life-affirming for me. But all it was doing was reinforcing my low self-esteem. I couldn’t stop thinking that what we were doing was disgracefully contrary to the parlance of romance. When I told him that I would like to go public as a couple, believing that he was falling for me, he told me that we were just friends who have sex, as we had agreed at the start. I felt degraded and worthless. I felt cheap and totally undervalued, like the idea of anyone finding me to be special was unthinkable.

Oh dear, you’ve really been through the mill you poor thing, I offered her as consolation. I wish you hadn’t felt and thought those things because they’re not true.

Thank you Sean, you’re very kind, she said in a slightly more genial voice. Anyway, one night Howard took me to his friend Charlie’s house for a social get together. I found Charlie to be a friendly person with a lovely sense of humour. I desperately needed some indication that Howard felt something for me. I was convinced that he did feel something but his pride and misguided values were preventing him from admitting it to himself. At Charlie’s house we all grew tipsy on glasses of wine, at which point an idea flashed into my head. I remembered in my childhood in autumn sometimes I would find a conker still in its shell, and the shell would be split enough for me to glimpse the brown richness of the horse chestnut within. I would ease that thorny shell off gently underneath my foot to get at the beautiful conker. The conker might sometimes be a little pale- or sometimes even vividly white- on one side owing to having ripened incompletely. However, to me that just seemed to be another facet of its beautiful fascination. And so I thought I’d apply a little pressure to prise out Howard’s feelings. I chose an opportune moment to say out loud to Howard and Charlie, ‘So when are we going to have this threesome then?’

Did you take leave of your senses? I cried. No. On second thoughts, I’ll rephrase that. Did your senses take an astonished look at you and start backing very slowly but deliberately away until they had reached a safe distance, then turn and flee with their hands waving wildly in the air?

Penelope laughed now, which was a very welcome sound.

But you have to understand Sean that I had no real desire for a threesome; I’m not that kind of girl, she protested gaily. I just wanted to get some reaction from Howard. And by Jove I got it. He told me to stop being so incredibly embarrassing, stupid and selfish. Charlie just laughed, but Howard was angry. So I decided to repeat my request, in order to augment Charlie’s mirth. I do so like to see people enjoying themselves. I figured that I couldn’t possibly have caused Howard’s anger, since that would have implied an emotional attachment. As Howard himself stated, he and I were simply friends who were having sex without any emotional attachment. Penelope’s voice had acquired a subtly sardonic edge. This meant I was free to secure other attachments if I so wished.

At this point I drew my fingers gently but deliberately over my eyelids and pulled them closed, like you see people do in the movies to corpses in some futile attempt to imbue them with some sense of peacefulness. And did Howard, upon hearing this repetition, suddenly declare his undying love for you? I asked drily.

Sadly not, though that would have been rather nice, and by far the most sensible and virtuous course of action, she giggled. Would you believe that instead of this, he said that he really should never had invited me over, and needed to drive me home immediately? So he whisked me away without further ado. During the return journey home, I found that my inspirational humour had not yet left me, as I decided to tell Howard that on second thoughts, he was right. I told him, ‘It’s very presumptuous upon first meeting someone to ask if they would like a threesome.’

But just think how Howard must have been feeling at this point, Penelope! I implored.

Yes Sean, you’re right of course, she agreed, in a more serious tone of voice. But you have to understand that I was in triumphal mood, because I took his anger to be a positive sign. I was convinced that it was a sign that he did have feelings for me, but he had been trying to suppress them. They had come to the surface in the form of blessed jealousy! As soon as we got home I assured him that of course I had not really wanted a threesome at all; I just wanted him, and I had just said it in my desperation to find proof that he had feelings for me.

So I’m guessing he was still refusing to confess to that particular crime? I asked tentatively.

Right again Sean, she said, her voice becoming plaintive and tearful once more. "I think I will always have the effrontery of his words etched on my memory. He said: ‘Penelope, I would never, ever go out with you.’ He was still, even now, perversely choosing to deny and suppress his feelings for me. This really was more than I could stand, and I told him straight that the sex was going to have to stop, because I had had enough of feeling like nothing special. Then he left without saying another word and I haven’t seen him since."

Well, I sighed after a pause. "Let’s just say that if he doesn’t have any feelings for you, then I’m immediately struck with a sense of the man’s integrity. I’m pretty sure there are lots of men out there who would have falsely declared their feelings in order to perpetuate their cushy little situation. But maybe Howard was not prepared to lie to you in that manner. Moreover, lots of men would not even attempt to explain their predication before trying to sleep with you. They would feign emotional connection or love if necessary, just to get a chance of sleeping with you. At least Howard’s predication seems to be informed by a notion of sincere principle.

But there is something more to his behaviour if you ask me. His eschewal of emotional attachment indicates he has probably been hurt in the past, and he may feel very vulnerable as a result. Or alternatively, he may even be showing a strenuous regard for your estranged husband, very eager to ensure he doesn’t give the impression that he’s trying to gain influence over his children, Louise and Rachel. And what’s more, if I know anything of Howard, his comment about never ever wanting to go out with you gave more offense than he ever intended, as he is a good-natured man. His reasons are most probably more to do with his own vulnerable history and his own sensitivities rather than anything to do with you, Penelope. When people are hurt, they are capable of saying things they don’t really mean.

Really? I am inclined to believe that when people are upset, they have a disconcerting tendency to tell the truth, and say exactly what they are thinking, Penelope said matter-of-factly. Some women think that upsetting men is an unfortunate necessity, as it’s the only way to elicit their true feelings. But I can’t abide the thought that he doesn’t care about me in the way I so want him to.

I felt so deeply concerned for Penelope, that I could countenance ending the phone call only once we had agreed that I would visit her at her home that very next day.

I don’t want to be a burden to you Sean, Penelope protested weakly.

I replied with a smile, It’ll be my pleasure.

When I arrived early in the afternoon that very next day at Penelope’s house, she greeted me warmly at the front door. She was wearing a heavy, pink dressing gown and looked rather dishevelled. I could see she had been crying. I was struck by how thin and frail she looked. I was as happy to see the bounding Rory as he was to see me, and was reassured by the thought that his faithfulness must be a great comfort to Penelope in this current crisis, as she could seek relief from her emotional pain anytime by allowing Rory to rake her a little with his fearsome toenails.

We sat at the kitchen table, each with a mug of tea, while she rolled herself a very thin cigarette.

Then she fixed me with her watery eyes.

Sean, I’m so glad you’ve come to see me, she said in a well-spoken voice quivering with emotion. I feel like I must be so naïve in relation to male behaviour and practices to allow all this to happen to me. I’m hoping I can learn to become wiser as a result of your male perspective on what has happened between Howard and me.

Please Penelope, don’t be too hard on yourself, I said sympathetically. While we do need to learn from our experiences so that we can behave more constructively in future scenarios, we must always be on our guard against dwelling too much on our negative experiences.

Penelope stiffened a little. I admit that the comment about the threesome was thoughtless in hindsight Sean, she said, But it was borne of a high-minded desire to elicit what I was foolish enough to believe were Howard’s feelings for me.

I had entered Penelope’s house with a mindset of being as non-judgmental as possible towards both her and Howard. But through my words, ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ I feared that I had unwittingly conveyed an implicit judgement of her actions. I took note of the need to be more sensitive to Penelope’s needs. To say the wrong thing now would be like shitting on a dinner plate full of wholesome food.

I can see you are distraught about the entire situation, I replied. I wanted to make everything right for her, and felt so frustrated that this was the best I could trot out under the circumstances. Even so, she seemed to brighten a little at this.

I’m very glad indeed you’re here for me Sean, Penelope said, before continuing irritably, "It was my own stupid fault for starting the sex in the first place. In some respects I am as thick as a brick when it comes to relationships with men and I end up demeaning myself liberally, and then woefully demanning myself. In hindsight I can see that it was little short of buffoonery to start sleeping with a man who could only stomach intimacy from within the confines of disconnectedness. It was so naïve to justify it by hoping that feelings would grow. In honesty I absolutely cannot say I’ve been used because he was sincere with me, as you rightly assert. And if you’re right about his emotional diffidence being a result of past hurts, then I deserve to be decapitated and my head fashioned into an effigy of a dunce’s cap, as a macabre warning to all women who are stupid enough to make thoughtless comments which drive lovely but vulnerable men of whom they’re extremely fond way way away. And you know Sean, I’ve revised my opinion: how dare I suggest my thoughtlessness was borne of a high-minded place? There were a million and one better ways of going about it.

I mean, whereas once we would sit up for hours talking contentedly into the night, now he wouldn’t even entertain the thought of being in the same room as me. And who could blame him? Furthermore, what respect can he have for a woman like me who gives herself to a man so readily and naïvely?

I took advantage of her pause by jumping in, as a referee jumps in to save a boxer in a ring from being bulldozed. I have never known anyone beat themselves up as much as this you know Penelope, I counselled. "You care for him very much, and you had an ardent desire for him to express some mutuality. We all crave love. I can see how these desires can hatch plans which seem rash in the cold light of day. Show me a man