‘Good, that’s the spirit. It might interest you to know that we believe one in four children who have experienced learning difficulties at school have dyslexia. However, many are never treated. The tests I’ve subjected you to this morning have given me an idea of the level of your problem. You can distinguish colours and have no issue with numbers. It seems words jump off the page at you.’ Helen nodded. ‘You muddle up the letters when you write, even though you know where they should go. It’s not uncommon, and I’ve definitely come across worse. I really do think with time and patience, you can learn to manage the problem. I’m going to start you off with some worksheets.’
Dr Allen handed Helen a sheaf of papers. ‘I want you to copy exactly the word above the space, over and over again. It’s boring and repetitive, but it’s been proven to work. Slowly you will train your brain to recognise the shapes. I also want you to be brave and read as much as you can. Start off with magazines. The sentences are usually short and there are always pictures to give you the gist. I cannot stress enough the importance of practice.’
‘Yes, Dr Allen. I’ll do anything to get better, I really will.’ Helen meant it.
‘Jolly good. My receptionist will make your next appointment. I’ll see you in a week and we’ll go through the worksheets and discuss any problems you’ve encountered.’
‘Thank you, Dr Allen. I’m very grateful.’
They both stood up and Helen held out her hand.
‘Good show, good show. Take care in that snow out there. Looks perilous.’
‘I will. Goodbye.’
Even though the pavements were treacherous, Helen walked along with a spring in her step.
I’m not stupid, I’m not stupid, she thought to herself, smiling. Even a half-hour wait for a bus that broke down at Wimbledon Hill could not dampen her spirits. She arrived home soaked to the skin, but feeling happier than she could ever remember.
The fortnight break for the Christmas holidays was initially something that Helen had been dreading. She had briefly contemplated going home to Ballymore, but had decided Christmas with her aunt in that big, empty house was an even more depressing prospect than spending two weeks by herself in London.
As it turned out, Helen did not feel the slightest bit low.
On Christmas Eve, she went out shopping on WimbledonHigh Street. She bought a small turkey, vegetables, a bottle of wine and a huge box of chocolates. Then she went into a newsagent’s and purchased a large pile of women’s magazines. Not only would reading the editorials give her the practice Dr Allen had stressed she needed, but she could enjoy the lovely glossy photographs of the models wearing the latest fashions.
Her shopping done, she staggered home under the weight of her bags.
Christmas morning was spent producing a fine lunch.What a shame it’s only for me, thought Helen, pondering how wonderful it would have been if Tony Bryant had been sitting opposite her.
Having watched the Christmas night film, Helen slipped into bed to have her ‘ten minutes of Tony’ fantasy. Afterwards, she picked up a pile of magazines from the bedside cabinet. Jean Shrimpton, Twiggy and a raft of nameless, beautiful women assailed her vision as she turned over the pages. With a sigh, Helen lay back on her pillows and stared at the ceiling.
Come on, Helen, get real. Tony could never find you attractive.You’re just a four-eyed nobody with no friends.
Tears of self-pity began to fill her eyes. Yet this time, rather than indulging in her sorrow as she’d done in the past, Helen felt rather revolted by it. Wiping her eyes, she climbed out of bed and went to stand in front of the full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door.
First, she inspected her face. Her skin was somewhat sallow and a little spotty. She remembered reading in one of the magazines that, if you cut out chocolate and drank silly amounts of water, you could improve your complexion.
Next, she took off her glasses and studied her eyes. There was no doubt they were her best feature: oval-shaped and an unusual aqua-green. Helen sighed. Unless she wanted to spend all day bumping into things, there was no way she could gowithout her glasses. There was, however, a chance that she might be able to find a pair of more flattering frames.
‘Eeee,’ she mouthed at the mirror. Her teeth were nice: pearly and straight with no unsightly gaps.
Helen ran a hand through her hair.It really is the dullest colour. Ditchwater meets dead mouse, she thought. But it was thick, and there was a lot of it.
Taking a deep breath, Helen removed her pyjamas and braced herself to objectify her naked body for the first time in her life. What had that magazine said? Fifteen minutes of exercise a day combined with a sensible diet and it was possible to shed pounds if one wished to do so. She buttoned up her pyjamas and climbed back into bed. Then she flicked through another magazine, tracing the slim, lithe bodies of the models.
Surely it was worth a try?
Settling down under the sheets, she reached and turned off the bedside light. There were ten days before she went back for the start of the new term. Ten days in which, if she could not completely alter herself, she could at least make a start.
‘There you go, darling. What do you think?’ The hairdresser held up a mirror so she could see the back of her head.
Helen swung her head from side to side and smiled. ‘I love it.’
‘The difference is incredible.’ The hairdresser ran his fingers proudly through the shiny, sharply cut bob. ‘As I said, take a bottle of our special shampoo for unloved hair and wash it twice through at least three times a week. The style is easy to maintain.’ He pulled the cape from around Helen’s shoulders. ‘See you again, darling.’
Helen walked out into the bright January sunshine. The sales were on, and Regent Street was crowded. She fumbled in her handbag for herLondon A–Z. Getting her bearings, she beganto walk in the direction of Carnaby Street. She’d read about it in one of her magazines and knew it was the place to go if one wanted ‘hip threads’.
‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ blared out from some speakers in front of a boutique. The next shop along was playing the new Rolling Stones single. Further down the street were a couple of buskers strumming their guitars. It was packed with young people, the cacophony of noise and colour overwhelming Helen. She’d never seen anything quite like it.
