Josie

Nine of us here today. Me, Shani, Jon, Mark, Carol, Bruce, Geoffrey, Elaine. Some new bloke, too – thirties, or maybe early forties. Nice-looking. Not ravaged like most of us. You can’t see inside, though. You can never tell. I catch his eye a couple of times and offer a reassuring smile. He’s shy, though. He fidgets a lot. We all do. It’s part of it.

It’s a nice group. I don’t like them too big. Almost even – five men, four women. Geoffrey starts talking to the newbie, filling him in. He seems to relax a bit. Geoffrey’s always the first in with new people. He’s good like that. Puts them at ease – like he did me when I first started coming. Takes you under his wing, he does. We think of him as the old man of the group, though he can’t be much more than fifty. He just looks older. It’s his experience, too. Nine years he’s been coming. Every day except Bank Holidays and weekends, when the Centre’s closed. And Christmas. Christmas. The time when we need it the most. But there you are. Geoffrey’s had his lapses, as we all have. You go for ages… and then it just happens. It’s always there. Waiting. It never goes.

I check my watch. 12:58. Carol’s fiddling with her phone, switching it off. I’ve already done mine. Bruce is sitting as he always does, staring at a corner of the ceiling, looking uptight and edgy. Jon is twiddling with the straps of his rucksack. He pulls it open, looks inside, closes it again. Wonder what’s in there that’s so interesting. Has he brought something in? God help him if he’s found out. He’s the youngest here, next to Carol. Elaine’s the oldest woman. She’s a solicitor – or she is when she’s not sick. She could probably afford private treatment, but who’s to say? We don’t judge. She’s probably spent most of her money on booze, anyway. Doesn’t matter who you are, how much you’ve got. We’ve all been there. I don’t like to think about it. I’ve been dry for 46 days now. Today’s my 47th. One day at a time, as they say. One hour at a time is more like it. I can’t believe the money I used to spend. I can’t believe the money I’ve saved lately. Though I spend more on fags.

Mark’s talking to Shani. She looks at me and smiles, lifting her hand from her lap. She mouths ‘alright’ and I show her my thumb. She winks back. She’s the same age as me. We started at group at about the same time. She’s from Zimbabwe, and has those gorgeous braids in her hair. If you ask her about her family back home, she doesn’t say much. Just looks sad. A lot of it’s what’s behind the drinking. Family problems. That’s it for most of us in one way or another. She looks so well, Shani. She can put away a litre of vodka a day when it’s on her.

12:59. Could probably have squeezed in another smoke in this time. It made me late one day, though, and they’d already started group and wouldn’t let me in. That was bad. Seriously bad. I cried that time. Went off the rails a bit. Went straight out and bought a bottle of port and got through that on the bus home. Just to spite them, I thought. Stupid cow. I’ve got 2 left in my packet, so I’ll have to get some on the way down to the bus station. The Happy Shopper by the football field. They have drink in there, too. But I just want my fags, then down the hill for the bus. Maybe Shan’ll come with me. I’ll ask her. Maybe she’s got her car today. She’ll always drop me off.

Day 47. Two more and it’ll be seven weeks. Eleven more will be two months. A sixth of a year. Two-thirds of a quarter…

At one on the dot, June comes in and plonks herself down between Shani and Mark. She’s leading today, then. Good. I like it when she takes group. She’s tough. She doesn’t take any crap. She evens up the numbers, too – even though she’s not one herself. Been there, though – I’d stake my life on it. She knows all about it, anyway. It takes more than just training and books.

“Hello, everyone.”

“Hello, June.”

She rubs her hands together.

“So… all bright and shiny and ready, then?”

Bruce suddenly gets up and walks to the middle of the room.

“I’m sorry, June. I can’t do this today.” He doesn’t look at her.

“That’s okay, Bruce. It’s your choice.”

He goes to the door quickly and opens it.

“Sorry everyone.”

“Are you going to be alright?” June asks. “Do you want to see anyone?”

“No, thanks. I just need to be out in the air.”

Carol looks worried for him. “Take care, sweetheart.”

He goes out, looking very agitated. He gets these funny times. Claustrophobia or something. Panic attacks. It could be his meds. Or maybe he just needs to get something. He self-harms, too. But then, what’s drinking anyway?

We settle down again. June looks around at us all.

“I see we’ve got a new face.”

Keith looks up.

“Can you tell us your name?”

He shifts nervously in his chair.

“Keith.”

“Can we all introduce ourselves, everyone?”

We say our names to him in turn and he nods.

“And I’m June. Would someone like to tell Keith the ground rules, please?”

Geoffrey sits up.

“I was just explaining to Keith before you came in, June.”

June looks at him. “Well, why not remind us all, Geoffrey. In case someone’s forgotten.”

Geoffrey sits back again and takes off his hat.

“Basically, Keith… no smoking, eating, drinking or chewing while the group’s in session. No bringing drink into the group, either – even a coffee or a glass of water. No being abusive to other group members. Feel free to speak, and speak about whatever you like, but don’t feel obliged to speak if you don’t want to. If you just want to sit there and listen, that’s fine. Listening’s just as important. But remember that whatever gets said in this room stays in this room. Try not to leave once the group’s started. If you have to leave, ask the group leader.”

Keith nods again.

Then Carol lifts her hand. “Make sure you switch off your phone before the group starts, too.”

“Oh, yes,” says Geoffrey. “I haven’t got one, so I always forget that.”

Keith takes out his phone and checks it, then puts it away.

“Thanks,” says June.

She sweeps her eyes around the room again, taking in all our faces again.

“So… what are we talking about today, folks?”

And then there’s silence. It’s the bit I hate. I always feel I should be saying something, but I don’t have anything I want to say today. Not yet. I was going to say something about 47 days, but I don’t want to jump the gun. I want to see what everyone else has got to say first. I hope Carol’s having a good day. If it’s bad, she just starts and doesn’t stop. She goes into all the miseries. She digs everything up. It can get really upsetting, and it seems to take over, until all we end up listening to and talking about is Carol. She needs all the help she can get, though.

But no one says anything at all for over a minute. We all look at the walls or the floor, or out of the window. I see a blackbird settle in a tree outside, glance sideways at the window a couple of times, then fly off again. In the distance, a plane is crossing the sky.

Geoffrey clears his throat and a couple of us look at him. He often kicks things off. But he says nothing. Just doing that – clearing his throat.
The picture on the wall above June’s head shows a view over the sea, looking down a narrow cobbled street between some small white houses. It must be a foreign country. Spain or Italy. Greece, even. Somewhere like that. I wouldn’t know any different. You can tell it’s somewhere hot, though, because there are people sitting in shaded doorways, crouched up, with their heads resting against their bare legs. Like they’re on one of those… what do they call them? Siestas. It looks restful. It’s meant to, I suppose.

I could really do with a fag now. I try not to think about it. Mark pulls at his beard. Elaine breathes in sharply and I turn my eyes towards her. But she just breathes out again and lets her chin settle as she looks down at her dress. She swipes a hand across her lap, like she’s brushing off some ash.

Keith leans forward suddenly and looks at June.

“Do I… do I have to say that I’m an alcoholic?”

June gives him one of her looks – like she’s not sure what he’s made of and is trying to weigh it up. “You don’t have to say anything, as Geoffrey said. It’s not like A.A. But you can say it if you want to say it.”

Keith nods. June pushes up the sleeves of her cardigan. The size of her forearms makes me think of Popeye.

“Do you want to say you’re an alcoholic, then? Do you think you are an alcoholic?”

“No,” Keith says, without hesitating. “I don’t think so.”

June widens her eyes. “Oh,” she says. “Well, that’s good to hear. That’s always promising. So… what’s brought you here then, Keith?”

Mark sits up now.

“With respect, June… if you don’t mind me saying it. You don’t need to be an alcoholic to come to group.”

“I didn’t say you did, Mark,” she says, straight back.

Mark’s forehead creases. “Oh… only it sounded like… like you were saying to… to… Keith? Yeah, it sounded like you were saying ‘what have you come here for if you’re not an alcoholic?’ Or that’s what I thought it sounded like, anyway.”

June’s face widens, as if she’s shocked – though she’s only putting it on.

“Did it sound like that? If it did, then I apologise, Keith. All I was really asking was, what’s brought you here? I was curious to know, that’s all.”

Keith looks at her, then at his knees, then out of the window.

“Perhaps,” she goes on, “you’re not an alcoholic, but you’re afraid you might become one? Or perhaps you’ve got a drink problem that you want to deal with before it gets any worse. I certainly didn’t mean that you shouldn’t be here if you’re not an alcoholic, Keith.”

Keith smiles quickly and nods his head.

“The fact is,” June says, taking us all in, “that no one is here if drink isn’t an issue in their lives. Your doctors and key workers have recommended you all to come here for one reason or another – whether you can’t get through the day without a drink, or you can’t get out of bed without a drink.”

Elaine breathes in sharply again and everyone turns to her.

“It’s a question of definition and degree, isn’t it,” she says. “I mean… when does drinking become a problem, and when does a drink problem become alcoholism? And how much of it is in your head anyway? I mean, someone who drinks half a bottle of wine a day might not think they have a drink problem. It might not even occur to them. They might have done it for years. But over a week, that’s much more than the recommended safe units. Much, much more if you’re a woman. Does that mean they’ve got a drink problem?”

June crosses one foot over the other and leans back in her chair. “Well… perhaps that would depend, Elaine, on whether they ended up finding they couldn’t get through the day without that half bottle of wine. On whether, if you took it away from them, they found themselves craving it. Not being able to stop thinking about it. You might say then that they had a problem. If they could take it or leave it without bothering one way or the other, that might be different. That’s what we mean by addiction… but you don’t need me to tell you about that.”

“Right,” says Jon. “That’s what I’ve wondered about. ‘Cos I get made to feel like an alcoholic by some of the people who know I come here. But I don’t think I’m one.”

June peers at him – the same as she did at Keith before.

“How long have you been coming to group, Jon?”

He starts fiddling with his rucksack straps again. “About… four months. Under four months. Something like that.”

“Well, let’s say four months for argument’s sake. And that’s how many times a week, would you say.”

He sighs. “I dunno. It varies.”

“Yeah… on average, though. I mean, I’ve seen you here quite a lot and I’m not always doing the group.”

“Three or four times.”

“Alright… we’ll say three. And what about the days you don’t come? What do you do on those days?”

“Sit at home. Or I work sometimes… with a mate. Or I might go fishing.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“Or go out around the shops.”

“Or the pub? Do you ever go in the pub?”

“No. I don’t drink in pubs. I can’t afford it.”

“Alright. So, do you ever drink at home on those days?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“What, just a can?”

“A couple of cans, usually.”

“And what’s usually in the cans?”

“Brew. Or Tennant’s.”

“Ahh…”

“Sometimes it’s only one.”

June uncrosses and recrosses her feet.

“And what about when you come here? Do you ever drink after group? In the evenings?”

“Sometimes. But I don’t get drunk ever. I always make sure it’s a twelve-hour gap.”

“I’m glad to hear that. So… what do you drink, then? When you drink after group? The same?”

“It’s all I ever drink. I don’t touch wine or the hard stuff.”

June narrows her eyes again.

“Tennant’s is pretty hard, Jon. Brew’s pretty hard. They’re what… about five units a can? The equivalent of half a bottle of wine. Maybe a fifth of a bottle of whisky. And that’s just one can. How many do you reckon you drink a week?”

“Well, I’m trying to cut them down.”

“But on average again.”

Jon stares at his hands now. He looks really uncomfortable. I feel for him. But June’s not bullying him. She knows what she’s doing. We all know what she’s doing.

“I don’t know. Maybe ten a week. Three four-packs. Sometimes it’s more than others. About nine or ten a week now.”

“Nine or ten a week.”

“About. Sometimes less.”

“But sometimes more. You have a good week, so the next week you take up the slack… something like that?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His face says it all.

“We’ll say ten a week on average, Jon. About fifty units. That’s over twice the safe limit.”

He looks up at her now.

“Yeah, but who takes any notice of that? Everyone drinks above that.”

He’s made a mistake there. He knows it, too.

“Everyone?”

“Most people.”

“Most people?”

He looks at his hands again.

June says “I certainly don’t drink anything like that amount – but then, maybe I’m the exception that proves the rule. But if statistics are to be believed, and you can take them any way you want, the average person in the UK drinks the equivalent of half a pint of bitter a day. That’s a lot less a week than ten cans of Tennant’s.”

He says nothing.

“Fifty units. That’s getting on for two bottles of scotch a week. Five bottles of wine. Quite a lot. Why do you have to drink that strong stuff, Jon? What about swapping to a weaker sort of beer.”

“It doesn’t work,” he says. “I’ve tried it. I just end up drinking more of it anyway. Besides, it costs more. Why get two cans of Stella when you can get the same effect from one can of Tennant’s or Brew?”

“Hm,” says June. Then she says “Are there any days when you don’t drink at all, Jon?”

He’s fiddling with those straps again.

“Now and then.”

“How many days in the last week, would you say?”

He doesn’t answer again. He wipes his eyes with the palm of one hand. Carol passes him a tissue.

“I’m doing my best,” he says.

June lowers her voice now. “I’m sure you are, Jon. No one’s saying your not. That’s why you’re here. I’m not picking on you. But I think sometimes we all need reminding about what we’re doing, and why we’re doing it. We all do it. It’s called denial. I’m the same with chocolate. I think ‘ah, there’s no way I’ve eaten six bars of Bournville since the weekend’ – but I know I have. My waistline knows it, too. I’m only kidding myself in the end.”

Mark suddenly sits up.

“I think what Jon’s describing is a problem, but it’s not necessarily alcoholism. It could develop if he doesn’t watch it, but at the moment its problem drinking.”

June smiles and swings her eyes towards the ceiling. It’s that ‘Ah yes, but…’ look of hers.

“You’ve said it, Mark. It could develop,” she says. Then she looks around at all of us. “You see, what I’m hearing here is something that sounds to me pretty much like a form of dependency. Drink most days, got to be the strong stuff, trying to cut down but finding it difficult. The need to get to a certain level, even if it’s not drunk. And, as we all know, the more the body gets used to a thing, the more it needs.” She turns to Jon again. “How long have you been drinking at your current level?”

“About… about a year, maybe. Since me divorce.”

“And before then?”

“Just a few beers now and then.”

“Right. Well, you’ve reached quite a high level of tolerance in that year. So, it was your divorce that made you start drinking more.”

“Mainly.”

“To drown your sorrows.”

“Yeah. It made me feel better. Took me out of things. That and the baccy.”

June raises her hands. “Baccy too, eh? It’s all coming out now.”

“But I’ve kicked that,” says Jon. “Ain’t had a spliff since I started coming here.”

“But you’re still on the juice, though. And it takes you out of it, like you said. Makes you feel better. Stops you from having to feel what your body naturally wants to feel. Grief. Pain. Hurt. Who wants to feel them? So, that’s what the drink does. Takes it away. Temporarily, anyway. Until it starts making things worse.”

There’s quiet for a moment. June continues to look at him.

“What are you, Jon… twenty-five?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Ah, well that’s made you feel better, I should think. You look younger than you are. Or maybe I’m just a bad judge. Either way, you’re a young bloke. In the prime of life. Lots to look forward to. Maybe it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

“It doesn’t,” he says.

“No… but it could. Perhaps a lot of it’s up to you, and the choices you make.”

“What choices? I don’t have a lot of choices, do I.”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe you have to think about that. Maybe you need to discuss that with people who can help you make the right choices. In the end, we all have to try and help ourselves, though. That’s what it comes down to. I need to lose weight – but it ain’t gonna happen until I stop eating so much. I know I have to make that choice.” She pauses, looking around at the rest of us. “I also know I’m doing too much of the talking here.”

She leaves it there, and it’s quiet again for a few moments. Then Geoffrey takes it up.

“June’s right you know, Jon. She knows what she’s talking about, mate.”

June laughs. Jon just shrugs again.

“No, I don’t really,” says June. “I just make it all up as I go.”

Geoffrey puts his hand on Jon’s arm.

“Look at me, Jon. I started off on a couple of pints a night. You know what I was on come the end? Twelve pints. Every night. The worse things got, the more I drank, the worse things got… the big viscious circle. The biggest of the lot. It’s the old story, mate. I lost my car, my house, my wife. Still didn’t stop me. When I lost my job, I still kept on. I just nicked stuff to sell for drink money. I once rented a telly and video player, and when they brought them I took them straight out and flogged them down a second hand shop. I’m not proud of it, but I had to do it. All I was thinking about was the drink. There’s always a way to find the money. June’s right. And Mark. One thing soon leads to another. That’s why you’re doing the right thing in coming here. It takes courage to do it, Jon. A lot of courage. You’ve got a lot of courage, and I’m proud of you. Because you’re accepting it. You have to have that first. Acceptance. That’s the start of learning to help yourself, my friend. You’ve come that far. Same as me and Carol and Josie and Mark, and all the others.”

Jon smiles for the first time and there are tears welling in his eyes again.

“Thanks, Geoffrey,” he says.

“That’s alright, my friend. You don’t have to thank me. We’ve all been there.”

There’s quiet again. This time it lasts a bit longer. People are thinking over all that’s been said. I am, I know. It’s a lot to take in, and it’s gut-wrenching stuff. Talking about drink all the time. Just talking about it. It works both ways, sometimes.

I look at my watch. Twenty past one. Forty more minutes.

Mark speaks up then.

“So… we’ve talked about problem drinking. No one’s yet said what alcoholism is.”

June looks around the room.

“Anyone want to try for a definition? The floor’s all yours.”

That’s it. It’s there in my head all of a sudden. I sit up.

“I’ll have a go." I take a deep breath. "I think it’s got nothing whatever to do with units – fourteen or twenty-one or fifty, or whatever. What it’s all about is the next drink. It’s about waking up in the morning, or the middle of the night, and knowing the first thing you need is a drink. It’s a drink before anything else. It’s about planning your whole day around it. About making sure you can get it. It doesn’t matter about food. It doesn’t matter if your flat’s a shit hole. It doesn’t matter if you’re on a warning from work about all your sick time. All that matters is the drink, ‘cos that puts it all right. It stops the shaking. It sets you up. It keeps you going. Someone else can do the work. I’ve been on three-day sessions when I’ve rung in on day one, then gone down the offy for three bottles of vodka, and seen those out. Woken up sometime on the third day. Sick in the sink. Empty stomach. Head pounding. Hands shaking. And all I can think is… I need a drink. Nothing else. I need a drink. I need to get out for a bottle. Nothing else in the world matters a fuck. I need a drink.”

I’ve finished now. Christ, I need that fucking fag. “That’s alcoholism,” I say.

You could hear a pin drop. I look down at my feet. I almost feel ashamed, but I don’t know why. It’s like exposing yourself, I suppose.

Then Carol clears her throat. “Except I do think about my units, Jose,” she says. “I worry about them. I’ll drink a bottle of sherry or port every day. But I still worry about them.”

Then it’s quiet again. We all look around at each other, then at something else. Shani takes out a tissue and wipes her eyes. I raise my hand and she smiles back.

Then Keith speaks again and we all look at him.

“I’m an alcoholic,” he says.