"Let me get this straight: you took Isis into Starbucks with you because it was raining." Sybil kept her voice professionally calm and level, although frankly the whole incident amused her and she was definitely on her client's and the dog's side.
"Yes" her client replied just as levelly if a little more earnestly. "She isn't used to it again yet; she's been in Afghanistan for three years, and she was only eighteen months old when she was deployed. And she hasn't quite recovered from her injuries, you see."
"But you have?" Sybil wanted to make sure she understood the situation.
"As well as they ever will" he said in a softer, more bitter tone and glancing down at his right arm in its sling.
"So, tell me in your own words what happened when you went in."
"The barista told me to take Isis outside and leave her there. I asked why. He said it was against the law to have a dog in a coffee shop. I told him that, actually, he would find that it wasn't illegal, as long as she wasn't in the food preparation area. He then…cast doubt on my parentage. I put him right and informed him if he wanted to refer to me again he should call me 'Major' or 'Sir', and that Isis was, in fact, Sergeant-Major Isis. There was a couple who got up from their table to support us; they were very civilised and kind, but there was a young man in the queue who just told me to…well, hurry up and get out, although not in as many words. An argument broke out, and another barista became involved and called for the manager."
"What did you do while all this was happening?" Sybil asked even though the incident report was in front of her. There was a long silence.
"Sir Anthony?" she prompted, kindly.
"I…I couldn't cope…with all that…confrontation and bad feeling. Isis and I…we'd served our country for…what? For this?...I sat down on the floor next to Isis and hugged her and…wept."
"And that's when the Starbucks manager called the Police."
"I suppose…" He continued stroking the dog lying at his feet as he had all through the appointment. Sybil read from the paperwork before her.
"They didn't arrest you but they did call a paramedic who took you to an Accident and Emergency Unit with psychiatric support."
"And none of the doctors or nurses were the least bit bothered by a dog about the place. Poor Isis was a bit worried by all the people and the pushing and shoving and going from one place to another. She was whining a bit by then, picking up on my distress, I expect. She can cope with bombs, IEDs, explosives, and drugs, but not with people shouting."
"A bit like you, in fact." Sybil smiled gently. "So, that's how you came to be referred to us, Major. Well, as I said before, I'm Sybil Crawley and I'm a specialist psychiatric nurse, funded jointly by The Royal British Legion and Help for Heroes. I specialise in supporting people like you…and the furry Sergeant-Major here…who have found themselves affected mentally as well as physically by their experiences in the field. I believe you've been discharged because of your injury?"
"Yes…for three months now."
"Have you felt up to looking for work?"
"Hardly" Anthony scoffed at the thought. "Besides, I'm extremely lucky. I have a private income. I don't need to find another job; the army was my life."
"Family tradition?" Sybil guessed from the clues of wealth and title.
"Yes, partly. My grandfather was in the Intelligence Corps in the First World War. I had rather hoped I might have outranked him before I retired, but Major isn't so bad."
"Better than many" Sybil agreed. "I suggest that we meet once a week to begin with and we can review whether it's being of any use to you after eight sessions. Does that sound appropriate?"
"You're very kind, thank you" replied Anthony, still focussing mostly on Isis.
"I had one more thing to ask, Sir Anthony. Please don't hesitate to say if this makes you uncomfortable in any way, but my sister is an investigative journalist for The Sentinel. Her name's Edith Crawley."
"Yes, I know who you mean" Anthony nodded.
"She's writing a piece on the reception of soldiers returning from Afghanistan and how they are treated by the general public. I wonder, would you care to consider being interviewed by her? Your story involves a dog, which always goes down well, and shows both extremes of how veterans are treated. You don't have to tell me whether you've done it or not, but here's her business card, in case it would interest you. I'll see you in a week, Major."
Anthony picked up the rectangle of cardboard and muttered his goodbyes to the pleasant young lady.
"What do you think of that, eh, Isis? Would you like to be a media sensation?" He considered the possibilities, and decided that if his story being publicised stopped any other homecoming soldier going through the humiliation he'd suffered, then it would've been worth it. When he returned home, he rang the number on the card, got through to the messaging service, and left the message that would change his life.
.
Edith Crawley wasn't picking up her phone because she was at the daily budget meeting for The Sentinel. She'd just got herself settled with the stories she wanted published in front of her, when Tom Branson slinked into the chair beside her at the board table.
"Hello, m'lady!"
Edith sighed.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Tom? I don't like being called that!"
"Oh, but it suits you!"
"Stop it, you silly Irish twerp!" They were both smiling. This teasing had been going on since Edith had started there as a rookie investigative journalist, with a determined face and believing that she could change the world. She still believed this, but with more circumspection now, some years and two promotions later. Tom was still the motoring correspondent, a title which didn't quite cover the mixture of good advice, self-deprecating humour, and general entertainment that characterised his column.
"Is that the best you can do? Oh, how adorable!"
"What do you mean?" Edith huffed.
"You swear and trade insults like a schoolgirl. It's so sweet! Do it again!"
Edith elbowed him in the ribs, just as the Editor, Michael Gregson, entered and a hush descended over the table.
"I have good news and bad news I'm afraid, ladies and gentlemen. The good news is that the owners have agreed to allow us to continue publishing for another month while they continue searching for a buyer. If they have still not found one then, I'm afraid that will be the end of The Sentinel."
There was a stunned silence among the assembled journalists. Michael let it sink in.
"The bad news is that there will be cuts, some effective immediately."
"Do you mean redundancies?" asked a voice from the back.
"Yes, I do. I hope most of them will be voluntary. If you think that might be for you, please do discuss it with Human Resources as soon as possible."
"Most of them? Does that mean there may be some involuntary redundancies?" Tom asked.
"I'm afraid it does." Michael's voice was harsh in responding to him. Tom knew he wasn't one of the Editor's favourites. He told too many truths too forcefully in his plain-speaking Irish way. Of course he wasn't going to get on with a well-oiled political operator like Gregson.
"Well, enough doom and gloom, let's get on with tomorrow's edition. Edith?"
"I've got a small piece about the rise in suicides among graduates, and the piece on conmen preying on older people even more since the recession."
"What about the veterans story?" Gregson asked.
"That will need interviews with veterans to flesh it out" she replied.
"Only one or two, I can't wait any longer for that article. Understand? Tom, what have you got, if anything?"
"Tax inequalities on petrol in Europe and around the world, sugared with some jokes, and a review of the new Range Rover."
"They don't grab me. I don't think they fit. Bring me something else next week, and please put a little effort into it this time. Susan?"
The conversation went on around them. Edith slipped her hand under the table to take Tom's, both of them needing the comfort.