Early August 2014

So, they came together. Bink and Gatsby. To my father’s seaside house. We sat around the table, the five of us: with my father and Shaun.

I am reminded of how my father, aged ninety-three or so, managed to persuade a recalcitrant builder – who had installed Bink’s disability shower in such a way that water was pouring into my father’s bathroom below… and then scarpered; who had been ignoring telephone calls and emails and even visits at to his house and church, from the rest of us, for weeks – not only to answer his telephone but to turn up, one or two minutes earlier than promised, on the doorstep, looking for all the world like a prep school boy twisting his cap apologetically in his hands. Not meeting anyone’s eyes. Dashing upstairs to spend the rest of his Saturday fixing it. Without asking for any more money.

How on earth did you do that?

My father wasn’t giving anything away. I wasn’t a head master for nothing, you know.

(He was once asked, by the head of a neighbouring school, how he balanced the books without a school bursar. Give me thirty quid and I’ll tell you...)

If Gatsby could have looked like a naughty schoolboy...

Yet again, I was struck by how he wasn’t in control.

Desperately ill, desperately vulnerable though Bink is, tiny and petite and unable even to care for herself, she nonetheless has an energy, a vitality and personality that outshines people far more outwardly functioning than she is. This is partly why therapy has such a struggle to help her: she is so much more bright and perceptive and quick-footed than the average therapist. Rings and rings around…

(Professor Veale can keep up with her. And more. But Prof Veale is the exception.)

So it always was with Gatsby. Twice her age, double-first, director of his own company... and nothing but plasticine in her nimble hands. Which was why he was so dangerous: she could make him into any shape her dæmons demanded.

I can no longer remember what we discussed that day. Except that after my father had finished, Gatsby had protested, Bink had smoothed oil over the waters, Shaun had listened and listened and said nothing and the meeting was officially over, we moved into the kitchen so I could prepare supper and I said I’d like to know how we’ve lied about you. Please.

Because that needed to be put right.

You have accused me behind my back – hard to say without childish resentment – of being Lara’s drug-runner.

I accused you, I said, of what I understood to be true. Because Lara herself told me. That you shared a spliff with her. At your own party. In your own house.

Which is not only illegal, but very, very stupid and dangerous. Given her vulnerability. And the potential of cannabis to cause psychosis. And other mental illnesses.

Which therefore makes me very, very angry indeed. On account of how incredibly irresponsible it is.

Doesn’t make me her supplier, he said, the truth taking the wind right out of his sails.

But hang on. Bink came to his defence. Again stronger, calmer. In many ways.

You’ve turned a blind eye to it yourself.

I have never knowingly turned a blind eye to cannabis in my life, I said. More vehemently even than before.

It can do extreme damage. Shaun and I have witnessed its devastating effects, first hand, in a parishioner who lost his mind to it and has never recovered. I’ve also read Henry’s Demons and Julie Myerson’s book. And I’m not completely Guardian-reading-stupid.

Added to which it is against the law. And the law in this country is extremely benign, by and large: I’ve not yet come across much justification for civil disobedience in our gentle, liberal democracy.

(Civil disobedience is Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Civil disobedience is my father, preparing to face a firing squad for refusing to carry arms as a member of the Medical Corps. Civil disobedience is not wanting a puff of pot.)

Really? Bink said. Surely there was a time, when we were teenagers...

There was a time, I said, when you were teenagers, when I said to all of you that if I ever found any of it in the house, or any of you using it, even one drag, I would have absolutely no hesitation whatsoever in calling the police.

Oh, she said. Really?

Really.

So. I take it we haven’t lied about you, after all?

Gatsby was silenced.

Writing this, it has occurred to me that the conversation was perhaps not wasted.

It must have been around this time that Bink realised the terrible, terrible, life-destroying damage that even tiny, minute traces of the stuff was indeed doing to her.

Her psychiatrist didn’t stop her.

Her therapist didn’t stop her.

She stopped herself.

Else she might not be nearly as coherent as she is today.