Speech Therapy
I wrote a short story for a competition that requested entries of 500 words about a life-changing event. It's no big thing, just a few words spoken by a middle aged woman thirty two years ago... but without them I probably wouldn't have had such a good time, wouldn't have met my wife, had the kids. Ok, so I'd have had a different time, met a different wife, had different kids... might even still have been around to write... something different...
‘Your stammer causes you problems at work?’ I nodded. The tilt of the speech therapist’s head was her prompt for me to continue.
‘I can’t answer the phone. I just freeze. It rings and I’m terrified. I’ve picked it up so many times and been unable to speak… they say hello a few times, then hang up. It’s awful. I just can’t do it anymore.’
‘But you’re OK now, in here? That was perfectly fluent.’
‘If I can choose my own words then I’m f… OK. It’s knowing that I have to say certain things. G…g…good mmmmorning. G…g…good… anything - the name of the bank I work in… my name… And it’s not just the phone - the enquiries counter is the same. That psychologist chap that had dogs… you know? Well I’m like them. Ding-dong and I’m paralysed, p p pretend I’m doing something else, anything… praying that someone else will answer it. It’s gone wrong so many times and each time I’m worse. They look at me like I’m mmmental, then blush, turn away… I blush, stammer more… they look at their feet while my face c… contorts, while I struggle for the word… or they interrupt me just as I’m about to say it… sometimes they try to help by saying the wwwword, but if it’s the wrong word then I have to ssstart again… it’s fffrustrating, horrible.’
Mrs Smith didn’t look at her feet, just kept a reassuring smile on her thin lips. There was a rustle of blue pleated skirt as she uncrossed her legs. The creases on her brow and around her clear blue eyes softened as she nodded her understanding. She leaned forward, conspiratorially.
‘Isn’t there something else you could do in the bank… some task that doesn’t require you to speak… so much?’ Then, hurriedly, so as not to admit defeat, ‘Just while we start our work here?’
‘No. I… I’m a junior. These things… it’s… it’s training. Dealing with customers, face to face… it’s important. We’re the face of the bank for most of ‘em, the only people they’ll ever see. That makes it worse. What must they think after seeing me?’ Fight or run away? The chemicals that pumped round my body gave me these two choices. Instead, I choked back a sob. Her florid face and grey hair smudged together as tears rose.
She pondered. My distress was destructive to our purpose. Clapping her hands on her knees she changed tack and enthusiastically posed me a new question:
‘What would you do for a living, if you could choose? Anything.’ Again her warm smile disarmed me. Immediately, I confided, told her the truth, knew she’d understand.
‘I’d love to be a singer… in a band, you know?’ There. My secret dream. Her smile twisted into an unexpected sneer, her voice crackled like shattering ice.
‘Well, that’s unrealistic, isn’t it… what else?’
I left the room angry, determined. Mrs Smith didn’t help my stammer. She helped me become a singer.
