The red telephone kiosk stood incongruously by a slope of conifers in the hilly landscape. From its rusting interior a lone bulb attempted to pierce the thick darkness of the late winter evening. Someone stood inside. A slim boy of seventeen of medium height and fair hair was holding onto the receiver with both hands. In the mini-bus parked in the gravelled lay-by next to the kiosk an attractively featured woman in her thirties sat alone, puffing at a filter tip. Above the desolate heathland a myriad stars pricked the ink-black sky. The elegiac hooting of an owl echoed through the forest. It became very quiet.

            Kevin replaced the receiver on the hook. As he came out of the kiosk he suddenly burst into uncontrolled tears.

            “I can’t, I can’t,” he repeated.

            Veronica stubbed out the cigarette and put her arm round him in an attempt to comfort him. “I know it’s difficult Kevin. But we’ve just got to live, that’s all. Be brave. You’ll pull through.”

            Kevin was spending what was known as a “residential”. A student with moderate learning difficulties at Eastwick College, he was taking a course which it was hoped would put him into the running for mainstream lessons. He wanted to take GCSE exams. He also liked helping people. At Eastwick he attended the local nursery as a volunteer once a week. The nursery supervisor had already written a glowing report to the college tutors about his caring attitude. “An invaluable help to the nursery staff” the report said. As a result his self-esteem, which often appeared low to his teachers, rose. He began to show more confidence.

            The “residential” involved going to a different part of the country and learning to manage living away from home. Kevin was staying at a cottage in the heart of Yorkshire. He had gone there with six of his classmates. Together with Veronica and her companion Richard he learned to do things together. The previous evening they had had a delicious ratatouille he had prepared using a recipe from his grandmother to whom he was very attached. Tonight it was George’s turn: Irish stew was promised.

            The residential had gone well so far. It had helped to take his mind partly off the personal devastation, which his brother’s attempted suicide had caused. He looked up to David and when the elder brother obtained a scholarship in engineering at Stephenson University Kevin almost envied him. His brother was so much more talented than he was. They enjoyed doing crossword puzzles but it was David who got all the right clues. Still, if he worked harder Kevin too hoped he might get somewhere with his life. His parents expected it of him, anyway. Some of his teachers thought they might be pushing him too hard. But he was afraid of letting them down.

            He remembered when the phone ran at the semi-detached army house where the father, who was part of the Medical Corps, and his family lived; the world seemed to turn upside down for him. A terse message from his brother’s university tutor: OD, an emergency ambulance to the hospital, two drips, three nurses and a life-support machine.

            His grief seemed to be without outlet. Used to the regimented, repressed military emotions of his Scottish mother and father Kevin felt he could not talk to them. And they in turn, instead of hugging him, displaying and sharing their grief with him, kept tight-lipped, silent. He could not stand the silent front they presented towards him.

            The phone-call confirmed that the situation was still grave. Kevin apologised for his tears to Veronica;

            “I’m sorry, it’s so awful. Here I am enjoying myself and having a good time when my brother is near death in a hospital bed far from home, far from me.”

            The residential ended and the small party returned to Eastwick College. It was judged a success by all who took part. Even the two girls, who had originally scorned the idea of going to “cow-pat” country, enjoyed their trip to the Yorkshire moors. They had skimmed stones along the freezing February waves that lashed against the seaport of Filey. They had mingled with happy shoppers on market day at the county town. They had even proved themselves good walkers and beaten some of the boys back to the cottage after a gruelling all-day hike in the surrounding hills, even if they admitted the decomposed corpse of a sheep they had come across covered with carrion crows was a little too much.

            Mick, who had been able to bring his customised mountain cycle with him on the mini-bus, had been glad to do a considerable amount of biking. He could now return to Eastwick and tell his cycling club how he had freewheeled at sixty miles an hour down the highest and steepest hill in Yorkshire. The stay had been crowned by what everyone considered was a scrumptious meal at the local inn, the “Red Fox”. The portions had been so large and they had even been allowed to drink a glass of beer without being asked their age.

            However, on the first day back at college Kevin looked even more distressed than ever before. His hands were visibly shaking. His face moved nervously around; his eyes could not fix themselves on any one object for long.

            Veronica was training as a councillor. She already advised students in emotional difficulties at the college. When she saw Kevin she could see that something else had happened. Had it come to the worst? Had his brother died? What could have happened this time? He sat in the privacy of her portakabin office situated in what had formerly been a school playground.

            “Kevin, what’s up now? Please tell me,” she spoke anxiously.

            “My dad, it’s my dad. When I got home last night my mum showed me a telegram sent from his unit in Bosnia. He’s been shot, badly. They had to airlift him back to the military hospital in this country. I am not allowed to see him. They say that he is in a coma,” stuttered Kevin.

            “That’s terrible. But you’ve got to be very brave now. I know your mother doesn’t like to demonstrate all that much affection to you. But she loves you, she really loves you. She needs your support, although she pretends not to want it. You can help each other,” comforted Veronica.

            “I have tried to but I feel so useless. I can’t do anything in this situation. I can’t change anything. These things are horrible. I feel helpless,” he insisted.

            “Why should you feel helpless? You can help just by being yourself. You may not sometimes realise the help that you can give people. At the nursery they tell me that you are the most caring young volunteer they have had for a long time. Don’t underestimate yourself, don’t.”

            “Thank you, Veronica,” he said, “you are so good to me.”

            He carried on with his course at the college. Mervyn, his maths and computer teacher, had heard from Veronica about the family tragedies that had fallen on Kevin and treated him with special consideration. Although Kevin often appeared not to understand his explanations, although he repeated them many times, Mervyn tried always to be patient with him. It would be unprofessional to be otherwise.

            One day he asked Kevin what the situation was like at home.

            “Much better,” he smiled.

             “How’s your brother?” asked Mervyn, curiously.

            “Oh, we went to the pub together two nights ago. Of course, he’s not supposed to drink but he had a little glass anyway,” beamed Kevin.

            “And your dad. Is he out of his coma?” questioned Mervyn.

            “Yes he is. The hospital says that they’ll discharge him soon. We really look forward to seeing him back at home.”

            “Has he told you anything about his experiences in Bosnia?”

            “No, he doesn’t want to tell me about them at all. The situation appears to be so terrible out there. So many people dying. I think he’s talked to my mum a little bit about it, though,” he replied.

            Mervyn was glad that things had started to take such a definite turn for the better. He was glad for Kevin. And anyway, without suffering there can be no personal development, no self-maturity.

            Pamela, the college’s Special Needs co-ordinator, was particularly scathing about Kevin’s mother.

            “When I phoned her up yesterday to sort out his grant I said to her “I’m sorry to hear about the problem with Kevin’s brother.” She replied “what problem? There’s no problem with his brother, none whatsoever.” That’s the kind of woman she is. Hard, doesn’t want to show any emotions, keep them well wrapped up. That’s what a Scottish Calvinist upbringing does for you. If that’s religion I want none of it. I fear something’s got to snap in Kevin soon. He’s not really that strong.”

            But he kept a proud face as he carried on with his course. His maths teacher was particularly pleased with his progress.

            “I think I’ll put you into the highest level for the maths exam this summer. I’m quite confident you will pass,” said Mervyn.

            Then, two weeks later, the bombshell landed.

            “How’s Kevin’s family?” Mervyn asked Veronica. He didn’t like to ask Kevin directly about his family.

            “His brother’s dead,” said Veronica abruptly.

            “Dead?” Mervyn froze. “But I thought he was on his way to a full recovery.”

            They sat together in silence for some seconds.

            “Evidently he had a relapse. The consultant did fear brain damage. Went back into a coma and died,” explained Veronica.

            “Christ,” exclaimed Mervyn, “how are the family taking it.”

            “The dad’s back in Bosnia,” replied Veronica.

            Two weeks later the news came that the father had been caught up in an ambush in central Bosnia. Snipers had got him while he was escorting an International Red Cross food aid convoy. Somewhere near Tusla. Kevin wasn’t too sure about where, exactly. This time, however, it was even worse than before. An emergency airlift had taken him back to the military hospital at home. Although he was receiving every care it was still doubtful whether he would pull through.

            “It’s an unfair world,” thought Mervyn when he heard the news.

            Veronica’s own experiences of school were not inspiring ones.

            “I didn’t learn much about the usual subjects. I admit I mucked about a bit,” she said to Mervyn over a coffee break. “But that was hardly surprising when I consider some of the teachers’ attitudes and the facilities my school had to offer. What I did learn was how to handle myself with other people although many of my relationships, especially with men, were mixed blessings.”

            Now she wanted to make up for all those years wasted as far as her education was concerned. Since her appointment as student advisor she had started an intensive degree course in counselling. She became very involved in her subject although she admitted many of the books she read were hard going with their sociologese jargon. When Pamela obtained funds to attend an international conference on student counselling at Biarritz she invited Veronica along.

            “But I haven’t really got much to say at the conference,” she protested.

            “Yes you have. I know you’ve been doing a lot of counselling work at the college, especially with Kevin. Perhaps you could include some of your experiences worked into a case study,” suggested Pamela.

            “Me, read a paper at an international conference in front of all those specialists and authorities. I just haven’t got the know-how and preparation. You must be joking,” she laughed.

            “No I’m not. You can do it,” affirmed Pamela.

            Three weeks later Veronica came back to work at the college radiant with confidence. She had written a paper using her experiences with Kevin. She had delivered her paper in front of a distinguished panel of international authorities and she had received praise for its unusual approach to counselling theory. She had also thoroughly enjoyed herself at the fashionable French seaside resort and had struck up an intimate friendship with Alphonse, a handsome professor at the Sorbonne. “My word, those Frenchies could teach these Brits a few things about love techniques,” she concluded to herself.

             Moreover, she did feel that some good had come out of her student’s despairing situation.

            On a bright, balmy, spring-like January morning Kevin was doing his turn working as a volunteer at the nursery. An assistant came into the room where he was organising a game of tag with excited toddlers.

            “Can I leave you with the kids,” said Kevin, “I’d just like to phone up my mum. She sounded very depressed this morning. I really feel the need to hear from her now.”

            Peter, the assistant, was pleased that he had become more concerned about his mother. Perhaps, in this time of family crisis, the two could really get together, remove the armour hiding their emotions and truly help each other.

            Kevin came back, ashen pale, from the ‘phone.

            “What’s the matter?” asked Peter anxiously.

            “I’ve got to get home urgently,” he replied. “It’s our next-door neighbour who answered the ‘phone. Something’s happened to mum. The neighbour said she went next door to borrow some vanilla essence for a cake she was making for her daughter’s birthday. She rang the doorbell and got no reply. She tried knocking and still there was no reply. Then she looked through the letterbox and saw a body on the hallway carpet. She rushed back and phoned up the ambulance. The paramedics found mum lying unconscious in a pool of blood. They rushed her to hospital and she’s now on a life-support machine.”

            Kevin stated these facts with stoic bluntness. He had obviously begun to handle his family situation with greater detachment.

            “Jesus. Is there anything we can do?” Peter, the assistant, was full of concern.

            Kevin continued: “luckily the doctors say that she is now out of danger, although she’ll take a long time to recover.”

            “But is there anything we can do,” reiterated Peter.

            “No, it’s all right thank you,” he replied, “I’ve been told I can’t visit her yet anyway.”

            Why had Kevin’s mother done this to herself? She had come across as a very self-contained person who rarely let others know what concerns were really on her mind. And apparently there were many of them right now. Without a release through conversation or confession she must have increasingly locked herself within herself, presenting a false “everything’s all right” front to the outside world. It could not last, Peter thought. Perhaps what happened now was inevitable. She must finally have given way to her emotions after all. She must eventually admit to her need for therapy, for help.

            When the rest of the nursery staff heard about the news they rallied round Kevin. “We’ll send her a get-well card,” they suggested.

            “She is not allowed any mail. Besides she’s been transferred to another hospital,” explained Kevin.

            He appeared shaky and uncertain on this point. Was there some doubt about what his mother had done? It was understandable, however. He must somehow, mistakenly of course, feel ashamed about what his mother had carried out to herself. False pride, that was all. Odd though, about not being able to receive any mail.

            Later that day Peter phoned up Kevin’s home from his staff-room. He had only recently been told that Kevin had a younger sister. Was she still staying at home? How was she coping with these events? Peter felt extremely concerned for her.

            The phone rang three times. Then the voice of a middle-aged woman with a strong Glaswegan accent came through on the line, loud and clear. It was Kevin’s mother.

            “Mrs McCormick…are you all right?”

            “Am I all right?” she laughed. “Why shouldn’t I be? Is that Peter at the nursery?”

            “Yes, it’s Peter.”

            “What’s the matter?”

            “Nothing. Kevin just thought that something might have happened to you and I phoned to make sure that nothing had,” replied Peter.

            “Of course nothing’s happened to me. Why, is this some sort of joke?” she quizzed him.

            Peter felt puzzled, uncertain. Was he losing his grip on reality?

            “But then what about his brother?” he asked hesitantly.

“His brother’s very well, thank you, and studying for his finals at university,” replied the mother confidently.

“And his father…Bosnia?”

            “What about Bosnia? His father has never been to Bosnia. These past two years he’s been a medical orderly at the hospital, thank God. Why all these questions? What has Kevin been telling you?”

            “It’s all right. Just wanted to confirm something, that’s all. Thank you Mrs McCormick. Goodbye.”

            As he replaced the receiver Peter stood momentarily stunned. He felt a mixture of disbelief and rage within.

            When he saw Veronica in her portakabin that afternoon he told her about his ‘phone call to Kevin’s mother. She turned pale and stood still, staring at him. Peter feared she might faint.

            “Sit down, Veronica please. Look, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

            “No sugar please,” she replied after a few seconds of silence. “This is unbelievable.”

            “You can say that again,” Peter commented.

            During the next few hours Veronica entered into a state of considerable shock. She had trusted Kevin, built a bond with him through her counselling. She had even suffered with him and learned about her professional attitude to her counselling through her experiences with him. And now her case, her world had been torn down in an instant. She felt she could no longer trust anyone. She could no longer trust herself. Where was her perception? How many other things which she had truly believed in were, in fact, full of sham, false? The paper she had delivered at the Biarritz conference. Funny, it had certainly fooled those professionals. It was all a hoax. Her life had become a hoax. She may have sometimes been a victim of liars before, especially men. She thought all that was behind her now. Her professional training would give her the detachment and cool approach, which she craved for. Now even that was gone. She felt betrayed, made an utter fool of. The praise she had received for her paper was empty false praise. They would start laughing at her behind her back like hyenas. She would give up her course, give up her job at the college and become a waitress instead.

            Why had Kevin done this to her? Well, perhaps, she shouldn’t take it so personally. He had done it to everyone else he met at the college, to a greater or lesser degree. There must be a deeper reason for his story. It must have been a plea for attention, a cry of help. Both his sister and his brother were doing so well with their studies. And he was struggling with elementary sums. But then why do it this way?

            The next day, his class having been prepared by Veronica, Kevin stood up and told them the truth about his brother, his father, his mother and most importantly, about himself.

            That evening at her home Veronica sat down before her typewriter. She had previously received an invitation to go to Berlin to speak at an international delegation of college councillors. She started typing.

“At least I know now what my next paper will be about”, she thought to herself, “and I’ll make it a really good one this time.”

            Outside, in the twilight of the flat’s courtyard, the evening clouds lifted and, through her window, Veronica could clearly see the constellation of the Little Bear with the Pole Star at the tip of its tail. The unrestrained song of a lone nightingale burst through the crisp March air.