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Authors: Charlotte Williams
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happened.
‘The paramedics examined her. They confirmed that she was dead.’ Elinor’s voice shook slightly as she said the word. ‘They said I’d done all the right things, not
moving her, keeping her warm. That I couldn’t have resuscitated her, whatever I’d tried to do. That was important to me.’
Jess nodded silently. She’d heard that paramedics were now being given training as to how to deal with relatives when a death occurs. She was glad that, in this case, it had benefited
Elinor.
Elinor took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out again. She seemed more comfortable now, relieved that she’d got near the end of her story.
‘After that,’ she went on, ‘everything started to happen at once. The studio seemed to be full of people. The police were called, and the coroner, and the undertaker, who took
away the body. I was in a daze. The police started questioning me, asking if anything in the studio had been taken. It was only then that I realized the painting wasn’t on the wall. I
hadn’t noticed it up to that point.’ She paused. ‘The funny thing was, although it had been my prize possession, I wasn’t really bothered. I felt a sense of relief that it
was gone, actually.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘But then they asked me if anything else was missing, so I went over to my desk at the window, and saw that my paints and brushes had
been meddled with. In particular, there was a phial of ochre that had been spilled. When I saw that, I suddenly felt absolutely furious. I couldn’t understand it. My mother had just been
murdered, and all I seemed to care about was the fact that someone had been mucking about with my paints.’
‘That’s quite a common reaction, you know.’ Jess spoke quietly. ‘It’s a kind of displacement. When someone’s had a shock they often find something
insignificant to focus their emotion on.’
‘But the feeling hasn’t left me.’ There was a note of anger in Elinor’s voice. ‘I’m terribly upset about what happened to my mother, of course, but sometimes
I just feel fed up that my life has been disturbed. I’ve got this bloody claustrophobia to cope with now. I can’t go into the studio. Or concentrate on my work.’ She paused.
‘And then, of course, I feel guilty about being so selfish.’
Jess chose her words with care, aware that she didn’t want to offer meaningless reassurances.
‘Well, your life has been disturbed. The shock does seem to have triggered this claustrophobia. You can’t lead a normal life. You can’t paint any more. It’s not
surprising you should feel frustrated about that.’
Elinor sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. There are so many things to deal with now, it just seems never-ending. It took ages for them to release the body for the funeral, the inquest
seemed to go on and on, and in the end they just told us what we knew already – that she’d been beaten about the head and had died as a result of brain injury. Then there was this
police investigation, which hasn’t yielded anything, either. And now there’s a ton of legal stuff to sort out. I’m absolutely sick of the whole thing.’
Jess was concerned. Elinor seemed strangely detached – a coping mechanism, she knew, as was her anger at having her paints disturbed. But she also wondered whether there might perhaps be a
grain of truth in the way Elinor had described herself, as selfish. That was what artists were like, she knew – she’d had quite a few of them in therapy. In general, she’d found
them obsessed with themselves and their work, frustrated by intrusions of any kind – often to the point where they seemed unable to understand that anything else, including the death of a
family member, could be more important. And she found herself questioning certain aspects of what Elinor had told her – if the police had no leads on the robbery, why did this policewoman
keep turning up at the house? What was she after? And
‘The paramedics examined her. They confirmed that she was dead.’ Elinor’s voice shook slightly as she said the word. ‘They said I’d done all the right things, not
moving her, keeping her warm. That I couldn’t have resuscitated her, whatever I’d tried to do. That was important to me.’
Jess nodded silently. She’d heard that paramedics were now being given training as to how to deal with relatives when a death occurs. She was glad that, in this case, it had benefited
Elinor.
Elinor took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out again. She seemed more comfortable now, relieved that she’d got near the end of her story.
‘After that,’ she went on, ‘everything started to happen at once. The studio seemed to be full of people. The police were called, and the coroner, and the undertaker, who took
away the body. I was in a daze. The police started questioning me, asking if anything in the studio had been taken. It was only then that I realized the painting wasn’t on the wall. I
hadn’t noticed it up to that point.’ She paused. ‘The funny thing was, although it had been my prize possession, I wasn’t really bothered. I felt a sense of relief that it
was gone, actually.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘But then they asked me if anything else was missing, so I went over to my desk at the window, and saw that my paints and brushes had
been meddled with. In particular, there was a phial of ochre that had been spilled. When I saw that, I suddenly felt absolutely furious. I couldn’t understand it. My mother had just been
murdered, and all I seemed to care about was the fact that someone had been mucking about with my paints.’
‘That’s quite a common reaction, you know.’ Jess spoke quietly. ‘It’s a kind of displacement. When someone’s had a shock they often find something
insignificant to focus their emotion on.’
‘But the feeling hasn’t left me.’ There was a note of anger in Elinor’s voice. ‘I’m terribly upset about what happened to my mother, of course, but sometimes
I just feel fed up that my life has been disturbed. I’ve got this bloody claustrophobia to cope with now. I can’t go into the studio. Or concentrate on my work.’ She paused.
‘And then, of course, I feel guilty about being so selfish.’
Jess chose her words with care, aware that she didn’t want to offer meaningless reassurances.
‘Well, your life has been disturbed. The shock does seem to have triggered this claustrophobia. You can’t lead a normal life. You can’t paint any more. It’s not
surprising you should feel frustrated about that.’
Elinor sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. There are so many things to deal with now, it just seems never-ending. It took ages for them to release the body for the funeral, the inquest
seemed to go on and on, and in the end they just told us what we knew already – that she’d been beaten about the head and had died as a result of brain injury. Then there was this
police investigation, which hasn’t yielded anything, either. And now there’s a ton of legal stuff to sort out. I’m absolutely sick of the whole thing.’
Jess was concerned. Elinor seemed strangely detached – a coping mechanism, she knew, as was her anger at having her paints disturbed. But she also wondered whether there might perhaps be a
grain of truth in the way Elinor had described herself, as selfish. That was what artists were like, she knew – she’d had quite a few of them in therapy. In general, she’d found
them obsessed with themselves and their work, frustrated by intrusions of any kind – often to the point where they seemed unable to understand that anything else, including the death of a
family member, could be more important. And she found herself questioning certain aspects of what Elinor had told her – if the police had no leads on the robbery, why did this policewoman
keep turning up at the house? What was she after? And
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