LITMIR.BIZ

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room, stripping the throws off what looked like just another shapeless sofa to reveal the hard flat couch underneath. This she raised by a hydraulic mechanism to about three feet above the floor. On a small table she set out a row of bottles of oil. She lit two scented candles, and smiled inwardly at the image of Carole’s reaction if she’d walked into Woodside Cottage at that moment.

      There was nothing magical about Jude’s preparations. Their aim was simply to induce calm and relaxation in her client.

      She asked Gaby whether she’d be more comfortable standing or sitting while she asked a few questions, and the girl opted to stand. Quickly, Jude ran through the details of Gaby’s medical history, scribbling notes on a file card. She started with her date of birth. Twenty-fifth of March 1974.

      The girl’s general health had always been remarkably good. Her eyesight was poor but was aided by strong contact lenses, and everything else worked as it should. Three years previously, she had had some stomach trouble and been worried that it might be bowel cancer. But extensive tests had ruled out the possibility and diagnosed Irritable Bowel Syndrome. A slight adjustment to her diet – the total exclusion of onions – had solved the problem almost completely. She had had very rare recurrences of the symptoms.

      ‘Pity, though,’ Gaby concluded, ‘because I really like onions. Still, small price to pay.’

      Jude agreed. Then she asked Gaby to remove her top, trousers and shoes, and manoeuvred her on to the bed. ‘See if you can lie on your front.’ With fierce intakes of breath as the pain stabbed at her, Gaby managed to achieve this.

      ‘Do you want me to show you where it’s hurting?’

      ‘No, I think I can see that,’ Jude replied.

      ‘See? Is it inflamed?’

      ‘No. I can see from the way your body’s moving, the movements you’re trying to avoid.’

      ‘Ah.’

      Now could you just do a couple of movements for me? Stop as soon as it hurts. Can you point ahead of you with your right hand?’ Gaby couldn’t. The pain stopped her dead. ‘Try the left hand. OK. Thank you. Now can you just try bringing your heels together?’ The mere attempt brought a whimper of pain. ‘OK. Stop it. Don’t push yourself.’

      Jude moved closer to the couch, and placed both her plump hands on the dent in the flesh at the bottom of Gaby’s spine. ‘That’s where the pain’s coming from, isn’t it?’

      ‘Well, I’m feeling it all along my arms and legs.’

      ‘Yes. But this is where it’s coming from.’

      ‘Do you think I’ve slipped a disc, or trapped a nerve or . . .?’

      ‘No.’ Jude’s fingertips ran lightly over the girl’s lower back, as if reading some Braille message from the hurt within. ‘No, it’s not an injury in that way. It’s just tension, and the tension is throwing you out of balance, so the way you sit and stand puts pressure on your spine.’

      ‘Do you think it’s something to do with the chair I have at the office? Because I spend most of my day on the phone.’

      ‘Yes, Carole said you were a theatrical agent.’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘I used to be an actress myself.’

      ‘Did you, Jude?’

      ‘You can tell how long ago it was, though, from the fact that I say “actress”. All of today’s young women in the theatre call themselves “actors”.’

      ‘Which I have to say I think is pretty silly. I mean, if a director’s casting something, he knows whether he wants an actor or an actress for the part.’

      ‘Of course he does.’

      ‘And in Spotlight – that’s the professional directory for actors—’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘Well, there they still have categories for “Actors” and “Actresses”. If they didn’t, nobody would be able to find their way around.’

      ‘No, that’s true.’

      Gaby wasn’t aware of the magic that was being worked on her. Jude had the same effect on everyone she met, and nobody was ever aware of what was happening. People just found it easy to talk to her. Her presence soothed anxieties and encouraged confidences. Jude herself didn’t even think of it as a skill, or a mystery, just a quality with which she had grown up.

      ‘Now, what I’m going to do, Gaby, is put some oil on my hands and work on the centre of the pain.’

      ‘When you say “work on”, do you mean manipulate it?’

      ‘No, I’m not an osteopath. And what’s wrong with you doesn’t need the attentions of an osteopath. You’re just out of balance. You need to get yourself back in alignment.’

      As she spoke, Jude was opening a bottle of oil on the table. A herbal aroma, redolent of Mediterranean hillsides, joined the scent from the candles. Jude poured oil on her hands, rubbed them together, and wiped the excess off with a small white towel. Then once again she stood over the girl on the couch.

      ‘So it won’t hurt?’ asked Gaby.

      ‘No. It certainly won’t give you any more pain. And, hopefully, it will diminish the pain you’re already suffering.’ Jude put her hands again on the small of Gaby’s back, and started to move her fingers. There was only the slightest of pressure, but the placing of the fingertips was very exact.

      Gaby sighed, as she felt the warmth melt into her locked-up vertebrae.

      ‘Funny,’ she said drowsily. ‘“Out of balance.” That’s what you say when someone’s off their rocker. Well, not that exactly. “Unbalanced”, I suppose is what you say.’

      ‘Very sensible description. Amazing how many of our bodily metaphors actually work on the literal level. You speak of someone “being on the back foot”. That’s how they are physically when confronting danger. “Showing a bit of backbone”, “backing off,” “putting someone’s back up”, “putting someone’s back out” – they all mean exactly what they say.’

      ‘Mm . . .’ Gaby murmured.

      There was no effort in the movement of Jude’s hands, but there was an intensity about her body. Though her ministrations seemed minimal, almost casual, a lot of energy was being put into her actions.

      ‘So,’ she asked lightly, ‘can you think of anything specific that may have “put your back out”?’

      ‘I don’t know . . .’ But the words weren’t said as a deterrent. As Gaby relaxed, she seemed increasingly ready to talk.

      Jude let the silence continue between them, knowing that, in her own time, Gaby would break it.

      ‘Well, you know I’m getting married?’

      ‘I certainly do. Living next door to Carole, there is absolutely no way I couldn’t know that you were getting married. She’s very excited about it.’

      ‘Yes, so’s everyone.’

      Jude caught on to the wistfulness in the girl’s words. ‘Meaning you’re not?’

      ‘No, not meaning that at all. I’m as excited about it as anyone else. God, they’re all sick to death of me at work. They can’t wait till I actually am married, and then they hope I’ll stop talking about it.’

      Again Jude let the silence stand. She wasn’t probing. If Gaby wanted to volunteer more . . .

      Inevitably, Gaby did. ‘I’m ecstatic about getting married. Steve’s the man I’ve been looking for all my life. And he seems to feel the same about me, which I sometimes can’t believe,

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