Did she already know about my absence, and was this therefore a trap? I tried to think on my feet, but that’s something I’ve never been good at.
Too slow, Eleanor, too late... “Mummy, I... I’ve been unwell.
I’m off work at the moment. I’m on sick leave for a while.I heard a deep breath. Was she shocked? Concerned?
The same breath rushed out of her, down the phone and into my ear, heavy and fast.
“That’s better,” she said, sighing happily. “Why on earth would you chew tobacco when you could smoke a lovely, delicious Sobranie?”
She took another deep drag on her cigarette and spoke again, sounding, if anything, even more bored than before.
“Look, I haven’t got long,” she said, “so let’s keep it brief. What’s so wrong with you that you’re skiving off work?
Is it serious? Life threatening? Terminal?” “I’ve got clinical depression, Mummy,” I said, all in a rush.
She snorted. “Stuff and nonsense!” she said. “There’s no such thing.”
I thought back to what the GP and Raymond had said, and how kind and understanding Bob had been.
His sister had depression for years, he’d told me. I’d had no idea.
“Mummy,” I said, as defiantly as I dared, “I have clinical depression.
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