Karen Thodsen was a primary school teacher for many

years, specialising in teaching children with reading

and writing difficulties. She is taking a break from
teaching to pursue other interests, garden design and
travelling.

VIEW FROM THE

BOTTOM OF THE
WELL

To Chris who stayed the course

Karen Thodsen

VIEW FROM THE

BOTTOM OF THE
WELL

Copyright Karen Thodsen

The right of Karen Thodsen to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 84963 671 1

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2014)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Chapter One
Im not sure when it first dawned on me that I had developed,
quite unwittingly, an interesting; some might call macabre new
hobby reading and writing obituaries. Reading those of other
people and writing my own. My preoccupation with my own
obituary seemed perfectly reasonable, considering I was
having serious thoughts about death. Not death in general, just
my own.
When I picked up the newspaper, I always read the
obituaries page first. The more I read, the more I wondered
how accurate the descriptions were. I would like my obituary
to give my life colour and flair; which would require a certain
amount of creativity and embellishment.
My latest attempt to date was full of creativity.
Ffion Delaney, an inspiring and gifted educationalist, died
today at the age of 52.
One of the countrys visionary figures in education, Ffion
Delaney inspired hundreds of teachers throughout her
tragically short career. It was only last week Ms Delaney had
been given a much-deserved lifetime achievement award for
her contribution to raising standards in education.
A private funeral service will take place in her local
crematorium for the much missed Ffion Delaney, followed
later by a memorial service in Westminster Abbey where her
legion of grateful teachers can pay their last respects.
After some weeks I began to question whether my hobby
was entirely healthy. I began to doubt many people wrote their
own obituaries. Why was I having these persistent thoughts of
death?
Could I be depressed? Again? I ticked off a mental
checklist in my head.

Lack of energy.
Feeling sad all the time.
Not wanting to socialize.
Difficulty in making decisions.
Feelings of worthlessness.
The signs were all there.
Three months previously, I had met a lovely new man,
Richard. The first feelings of wanting to be with him, talk to
him, had all but vanished. Instead of being miffed if he didnt
ring when promised, I found I was pleased. It saved me the
bother of talking.
I was finding it hard to finish sentences as well; the
sentence was there, already formed in my head, it was getting
it out of the mouth that was the problem. And sometimes they
became malapropisms or spoonerisms. When Richard last
stayed over, I told him I was just going to mow the lawn for a
bit. It was 9 oclock at night! I had meant to say I was going to
iron a blouse, ready for the morning.
Recently, at a training session I was standing up the front
in my nice new suit, with pencil skirt (hoping my stomach
didnt look as if it needed a maternity support to keep it off my
knees), deep into an explanation, when I completely forgot the
noun. Its never the verbs or all the other bits that make up a
sentence. Its always nouns that escape me. Funnily enough it
was grammar I was talking about.
Whats the word for breaking words into bits? I turned to
Margaret in inquiry. Margaret is new to our team; on
secondment to the business of professional development, and
had come to watch a training session. She looked at me
blankly.
Syllable? the teachers called out helpfully.
Phoneme?
Segment?
That was the one. I was extremely grateful. I had explained
earlier that I didnt feel like the sharpest pencil in the box that

day. I had plugged in the iron to make toast and given the cat
cornflakes for breakfast. The middle-aged women in the room
nodded with complete understanding. We were nearly all of a
certain age and had already established we preferred all the
windows open, as it tended to get rather hot at times.
When I next glanced in her general direction, I noticed
Margaret had disappeared. Which was a pity because she
missed the best bit. We were discussing ways and means of
teaching small groups.
We use the withdrawal method, piped up one, innocent,
young woman. The teacher beside her couldnt resist. And
how is it for you dear? she asked.
Back at the office, Margaret appeared to be in a sulk. I
inquired if something urgent had come up. No, she snapped.
I thought I was there to watch, not take part.
I opened my mouth to explain, yet again, my problem with
nouns, then shut it again. Too much trouble. That was
happening a lot lately. At times of misunderstanding, I was
growing increasingly disinterested in explaining myself.
Margaret and I are doomed to be colleagues, not friends.
I was sitting thinking about going home but too tired to
make the effort when Lucy, another colleague came in.
Do you ever get tired of smiling? I asked her.
Unfortunately Margaret was still around. She looked at me
with the mixture of irritation and contempt Id frequently seen
on other faces.
You know, you smile all the time in school, being tactful
and sensitive. Then when you leave do you feel relief you
dont have to smile at drivers all the way back?
Know exactly what you mean, said Lucy thickly through
half a doughnut. Do you ever get face ache?
All the time, I said and nicked the piece of doughnut that
was left.
Sorry Marg, said Lucy. I was going to offer that half to
you.
Margaret hates having her name shortened. She glared at
us both and left for the kitchen. I smiled sweetly at her as she
left.

Predictably, she didnt make tea for me.

Petty, sighed Lucy. Very petty.
I wasnt sure whether she meant her, Margaret or all of us.
I dragged myself to my car and drove home.
I started the next day in a foul mood. I hadnt experienced
for years the intense, raw emotion that makes you want to lash
out either verbally or physically.
Starting the day cross was not new to me. I knew
irritability was on the list of depressive symptoms used for
making a diagnosis. During the other, mercifully short, periods
of depression I had suffered in the last ten years I had noticed a
tendency to become exasperated very quickly.
This was different. It was not the anger that arises when
you have been accused unjustly; or bearing the brunt of an
action, which has crossed the boundaries of societys accepted
norms of behaviour. Instead, it was the anger that leaps straight
to intense rage; a response that is far out of proportion to any
cause.
There had been periods in my life when I had stormed and
raged at my unfortunate family for no apparent reason. It had
always left me overwhelmed with remorse and self-hatred.
Once it started, I couldnt stop it, no matter how much I tried. I
couldnt stand what I was doing. But I couldnt stop feeling the
rage. At the time, I used to think of it as a type of pain.
I hadnt felt that kind of rage since I was a teenager and
suddenly that same feeling was there, just because Sukey
wouldnt stop meowing around my legs for more food. I had
lashed out with my foot, luckily missing her by millimetres,
and she had shot out of the cat flap and disappeared.
I was left with the guilt.
My obituary of the evening before had been less than
glowing, which could have affected my present mood.
Ffion Delaney, an uninspiring member of the professional
development team was found dead at her home by
environmental officers. They had been called by neighbours
complaining about a bad smell.

We thought it was a blocked drain, said one shocked

neighbour who didnt want to be named. We never thought
someone could be lying dead for weeks without anybody
noticing.
One of hundreds of people employed to deliver
professional development training to teachers, Ffion Delaney
will be easily replaced. I learnt more talking to the other
teachers during coffee and lunchtime than I did all day
listening to her, said one teacher after a training session.
But I concentrated on looking forward to meeting an old
friend, after work as a way of distracting myself.
Unfortunately the monthly meeting with the line manager
sent my temper soaring. Instead of getting on with usual
business, we spent an hour explaining the teaching techniques
we want teachers to learn to Margaret; the one who is
supposed to be going out to schools to show them! At the end
of the meeting I had deep crescents on my palms where I had
dug my nails in to stop myself yelling at her.
I was out the door before Michael had finished saying, I
think thats all for today.
By the time I had driven to the shopping centre, parked the
car and walked to the coffee bar, I had calmed down enough to
greet Hazel without snarling. I bored her for 10 minutes about
Margaret before we got chatting about the usual things work,
how there were some politicians who looked so smug you
wanted to smack them, kids today, clothes when Hazel said
something really profound.
My sister always dresses beautifully. Even as a girl, she
said. Always has to have the right accessories. She spends a
fortune on clothes. She hated going out with me when we were
teenagers. I always scuffed along with one foot in the gutter
and couldnt have cared less what I had on.
It suddenly hit me. Im like Hazels sister.
Does Eileen ever get depressed? I asked.
Hazel looked at me, surprised. I dont think so. Not that
Ive noticed, and shes never said. Shes just very well
very anal about everything.
Would you call me anal? I asked.

Hazel laughed at me. No, she said. Unusual perhaps, but

not anal.
No seriously, I said.
I was being serious, said Hazel, all innocent big eyes.
I poked my tongue out at her, like a child.
Hazel relented. You do try to do everything as best as you
can, but you dont get obsessive about it like Eileen.
Thats good, I said. I wouldnt like to think that about
myself.
Stop being silly, said Hazel. My sister and I dont get
on. In fact we barely see each other. And youre my friend.
Obvious isnt it.
Do you ever read obituaries? I asked her.
What, in the newspaper you mean? Hazel looked
surprised.
I nodded.
Occasionally I do, she said. If the person is a film star,
or author that Ive heard of, something like that. Why?
Do you ever, you know, compose an obituary, in your
head? I asked.
No, Hazel laughed. Like, Elizabeth Taylor, sultry siren
of the screen tragically died of heart failure after a long
illness type of thing? Why would anyone want to do that,
unless it was their job?
No, I said. Your own. Compose your own.
Just a minute, said Hazel, sitting forward and putting her
coffee cup carefully on its saucer, this is not idle conversation.
Youre serious. Have you been thinking about your own
obituary?
I nodded. Wouldnt, couldnt look at her. I felt tears
prickling at the back of my eyes. I blinked furiously.
Hazel put her hand gently on mine. Ffion, she said, you
must go back to the doctor.
I looked at her hand covering mine.
I think Im depressed? I muttered.
You know better than me how it feels, she asked gently.
Do you think you should visit your doctor?

I sniffed and blinked some more. I pulled my hand out

from under hers and patted it. Youre right, I said. When I
got better after the last time, I thought it was gone for good.
Promise youll make an appointment? Hazel said.
I smiled at her. Promise, I said.

Chapter Two
I rang the surgery first thing next morning and managed to get
an appointment for the next day.
The practice Im signed up to is a large one, and I never
seem to see the same person twice. I explained that I had had
short bouts of depression over the last 10 years, and after a
course of antidepressants I had improved and stopped taking
the medication. The doctor asked a few questions, insisted on
weighing me.
You could do with losing a little weight, he informed me
gravely. It could also explain why you are feeling so tired.
I felt myself slump in the chair. I didnt have the energy to
suck in my stomach.
He went on to tell me he had an interest in depression and
had been reading the latest articles on the subject only recently.
He explained the latest thinking from the National Institute for
Clinical Excellence. Apparently this body fears too many
patients are being given medication when therapy would work
just as well.
Have you had therapy before Mrs Delaney? he enquired.
No, I told him. Just medication.
It appears to work very well for mild depression such as
yours, he said. Before we go down the route of medication
and all its side effects I think we should give therapy a try.
What do you think?
I know I need help, I said. Ill give it a go.
The doctor turned to his computer and typed rapidly.
An appointment will be posted to you, he informed me
before showing me the door.
Margaret shadowed me round two schools the next day. I
could hear myself becoming terse.
At the first school I was to observe a teacher.

I think her subject knowledge is a little weak, the head

teacher explained. Id like you to watch her teach, and then
we can talk about how best we can support her.
In the classroom, there was a list of words written on the
whiteboard. I copied them down. Football, broomstick
doormat, carpet...
What are the two words that make up this word? asked
the teacher.
Hands shot up around the room. The word was divided
into foot and ball.
Thats right, the teacher agreed brightly. Football joins
two words to mean moving a ball with your foot.
I waited for carpet.
The two words are... Car and pet, chorused the
children. I waited for the explanation. None came. Instead
there was a short silence before the teacher said Carpet.
Another compound word.
At the end of the lesson a keen young fellow from the back
was waving his hand shouting, Miss, Miss, I know another
one.
Yes, Elias. The teacher smiled indulgently.
Jealous, Elias cried. Gel you put in your hair, and the
ouse that you live in.
When we arrived at the second school we found the head
teacher leaning limply on the newel post of the staircase.
I dont know whether to laugh or cry, she said. There are
three Year 6 girls in the hall. Theyve scared themselves silly
with an Ouija board. Now, they have shut themselves in the PE
cupboard and refuse to come out.
Im afraid I laughed. She looked at me bitterly. Its alright
for you, she said. Youre not the one having to write to the
parents.
Are all the schools we go into like the ones we saw
today? asked Margaret on the way back to the office.
I had no idea what she meant, but answered anyway.
Pretty much.

Too tired to cook when I got home that evening, I had

three slices of bread and butter, four chocolate biscuits and an
ice cream from the van that jingles its way round the streets at
irregular intervals. While I ate, I flicked through a magazine,
which wasnt easy, as Sukey was sprawled in my lap. I read an
article written by an American woman who had been
hospitalised with depression at the tender age of ten. Now in
her forties, she was still fighting off the thick black paste of
it.
She described how she, a journalist, could no longer
concentrate to read, and the idea of writing became a foreign
concept. Even eating became too much effort. She wrote ...
there is no more effective diet than clinical depression...
I looked at the half eaten chocolate biscuit in my hand.
Unfortunately I still want to eat, just not cook. I told
Sukey, who appeared to have forgiven me for this mornings
ugly episode. But then Im not clinically depressed, just
mildly depressed. I know because thats what the doctor said
and also I read it on the computer over his shoulder. Mind
you, I wagged the final chocolate biscuit in Sukeys face,
there were a whole lot of other words as well, like irritable
and agitated.
I looked at the empty plates with the telltale crumbs from
the bread and chocolate.
You could do with losing a little weight Mrs Delaney, I
mimicked out loud. I licked a finger and picked up the
chocolate-coated crumbs.
Is dieting going to help me feel happier? I asked Sukey.
She didnt stir.
I think not, I answered myself.
The phone rang. It was Richard. He offered to take me out
for dinner when I told him what Id eaten.
Ill only eat the pudding, I told him.
I moaned about Margaret and cheered up when Richard
agreed having to work with someone who didnt know the job
was enough to make anyone depressed. Then he returned the

favour by moaning about his day but I stopped listening. The

effort of commiserating became too exhausting.
When I got off the phone, the word failure kept running
round my head. I was failing to make myself happy, failing to
be thin, failing to suppress feelings of irritation with Margaret,
failing to change teaching practice in the classroom. And now,
failing to listen, let alone sympathise with a friend!
I picked up Sukey.
Today you have failed in Listening and Empathy, I said
into her fur. She mewed in protest and struggled to be free.
One thing Richard said had penetrated the fog swirling
around in my brain. His goddaughter was getting married in
York that weekend. Hastily I put Sukey down and went to the
wardrobe. As I thought, I had absolutely nothing to wear.
I rang my sister. Eves husband Howard was master of
something in the Masons and Eve was well endowed with
fancy frocks. Eve is taller than me and we dont share the same
colouring, Im dark, shes fair (well mousey really if she didnt
visit Raymonde frequently for highlights) but I knew she
would come up with something.
Eve was in a chatty mood so I told her about the Ouija
board.
Eve laughed as much as I had. What did she do? she
asked.
She was gathering strength to find the girls teacher when
I left, I said. After that I dont know. Which reminds me. Did
you ever do the Ouija board thing at school? Eve and I had
both gone to boarding school.
No, said Eve obviously intrigued. When did this
happen?
It was when I was in Year 10. Two girls had been holding
sances in the music room after lights out. Everybody in our
Year had a go, four at a time. It was a very risky thing to do.
We had to get downstairs, out the door and across the
quadrangle, all without being caught. For all we knew, it could
have been enough to get us expelled.
On the night it was my turn, the usual question was asked.
Name the person I would marry. The glass moved around the

board and stopped at the letters VD. The four other girls
around the table giggled. I didnt know why.
You always were young for your age, snorted Eve.
And I married Vincent Delaney, I pointed out.
Oh my god. So you did, gasped Eve.
Makes you think, I said
Indeed, said Eve. But you did divorce him.
There was a short silence.
Must get on, said Eve
Hang on, I said. I didnt ring you to tell you about Ouija
boards. I need a favour.
I heard Eve sigh, but when I explained about my
predicament she began to pay more attention. If there is one
thing guaranteed to interest Eve, it was clothes.

Chapter Three
After an exhaustive search through Eves wardrobe and
recalling there was to be a lunch party on the Sunday, I
borrowed two dresses. The dress I chose to wear at the
wedding was plain, slightly fitted at the waist with an A-line
skirt, paired with a short jacket. Eve grudgingly admitted it
looked better on me. Thats because on her it would be too
short, I thought but kept it to myself. I noticed she didnt say I
could keep it. The Sunday outfit was a wool and cashmere mix
dress, long and straight worn with a wide belt and dangly
jewellery. I felt very stylish.
Every wedding day clich applied. The bride looked
beautiful, the groom handsome, the bridesmaids dresses
elegant, the flowers gorgeous and the weather perfect. The
ceremony was neither too long nor too short and then the
wedding party disappeared for photographs.
The wait was interminable. What is there to do but drink
whatever is on offer and talk? I used up my quota of talk
within 15 minutes and after 30 I had had enough. Richard had
disappeared into the throng and I lacked the nerve to force my
way past elbows and expensive suits to find him. Instead, I
discovered a nice quiet corner, with a convenient chair and sat
there; with a drink.
May I join you? enquired an urbane voice. You seem to
have found the best seat in the house.
By all means, I said hoping he didnt expect to be
entertained with small talk. Have you come far? was all that I
could think of to say, so I stayed silent.
The gentleman, dressed in an impeccable morning suit,
deftly procured a chair and placed it on the other side of the
potted palm I was using as a shield.
Good God, look at that! exclaimed the man beside me,
suddenly. One almost needs sunglasses.

I followed his gaze and saw a large matronly figure

swathed in a fluorescent yellow, figure-hugging dress,
teetering on six-inch heels.
It turned out we were soulmates. We spent a pleasant 20
minutes or so watching the guests and imagining the
conversations they were having and (delete as applicable) who
fancied/loathed/was married to/about to divorce, whom. I was
in the middle of recounting a horsey womans (imaginary)
conversation when Richard strolled up.
Its the stable boys you know, I quacked. Keep age at
bay by a roll in the hay. Take once a day when possible.
Oliver keeping you amused then, Ffion? he asked. Oh
My God. Id only been slagging off the guests to the brides
father. The horsey woman was probably a close relation
sister even.
On Sunday, Oliver and his wife Jane (a woman who
manages to whip up a haute cuisine dinner for fifty, while
composing the speech for her guest appearance at the Royal
Horticultural Societys Annual Dinner, after a morning spent
restoring an antique chair; bought, incidentally, for 5 at the
church jumble sale and now worth hundreds) hosted lunch in a
marquee on the lawn below the house. Instead of taking the
steps, it was my idea (Richard insisted later) to walk down the
grass bank. I minced down the slope as Oliver and Jane took
their places to welcome the guests.
I made a grab for Richards arm as I felt my left heel sink
into the grass, but he was too far in front of me to reach. I
wobbled a bit, fell forward and slid across the grass like a
galleon in full sail according to Richard.
There was such a fuss. People rushed to pick me up, clean
me up and sit me down. Richard gave little choked coughs for
the rest of the afternoon and I sat down to four courses wearing
a frill of green grass embedded in a smear of mud down the
front of Eves once elegant dress.
The first thing I did when Richard dropped me back home
was run a bath for a good long soak.

Sukey padded after me and sat on the bathmat from where

she watched me balefully. It would take her a day or two to
forgive me for leaving her alone all weekend.
Ive made a complete fool of myself, I told her. Sukey
settled herself on the bathmat, tucking her front paws
underneath her chest and curling her tail around herself. She
appeared content to listen, if not sympathise.
I lay there, obsessing; going over every word I had said to
Oliver, the inanities I had uttered all weekend, I looked for a
funny side.
There was no funny side. I told Sukey. She had gone to
sleep. I flicked water at her to wake her up. She shook her head
and yawned in protest.
Well maybe from an observers point of view, I
conceded, visualising my involuntary representation of a ship
at sea (I wont forget that galleon remark in a hurry).
I had made a complete fool of myself, as well as being the
most boring guest possible.
I tried, I told the cat, but I could tell she wasnt
convinced.
What possessed me to attempt a conversation with that
tall grey man? I should have taken one look at his grey suit;
grey hair, grey skin, grey teeth I sat up too suddenly,
sloshing water over the side of the tub. Sukey jumped up in
alarm and retreated to the doorway, where she began
industriously cleaning her nether regions.
He couldnt be bothered replying, I informed Sukeys
bent head. He looked at me down his long grey nose and then
just turned his back. I suppose asking him whether he agreed
the bride looked beautiful isnt riveting or even original but he
could have muttered something. And what about that woman
with the breasts that reached her waist? Just as well she wore a
belt is all I can say. She couldnt get away from me fast
enough.
A gifted educationalist, Ffion Delaney, tragically died
today at the age of 52. Mrs Delaney had the ability to inspire
all those who were lucky enough to come under her tutelage