Sartorial Evidence

by Jennifer Henderson

“Wear this for a week. See how you get on,” Caroline said to her last client of the day.
“A bow tie? I never wear bow ties. Ties, yes, but not bow-ties,” Malcolm said, frowning.
“Just give it a go. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Caroline smiled as she held open the door.

“What on earth is that?” Sheila asked the next morning, over muesli and decaff.
“Nothing, it’s just a bit of a change,” said Malcolm, spreading butter on his wholemeal toast and dipping his knife in the marmalade.
“Use a spoon for goodness sake!  How many times have I told you?” Sheila hissed.
“So, have they promoted you to professor or something? Is that it?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Malcolm opened the newspaper, held it higher than was strictly necessary.
“Reader, then?  Senior Lecturer?”
“No, I tell you, no.”
“It’s about time they did. We could do with some more income.”
“We’re fine as we are, Sheila. It’s not as if we have had to support a family,” Malcolm sighed, folded the paper and got to his feet.
“I’m off now. See you later. Do you need anything from the shops on my way home?”
“No, no, it’s fine, I’ll get it all after work. You’d only buy the wrong kind of lettuce and forget something, as usual.”

“Going somewhere interesting after work, Malcolm?  Didn’t put you down as the sartorially elegant type!” chortled Charlie as he arrived in the office.  
“No, no, just having a bit of a change,” Malcolm replied, settling in at his desk by the window.  He could see the sea out of it; blue and calm and peaceful.
“Oh come on, what is it?  Another woman? I wouldn’t blame you, you’ve been a saint …..”
“Stop right there, I won’t hear a word against Sheila, Charlie, you know that.”
Charlie raised his hands in submission, made a zipping motion across his lips, and swivelled his chair back round to his desk.

The students in his first lecture of the morning stared a little more intently than usual, whispered comments to each other and then generally behaved as they normally did. Yawned, drank their takeaway coffees and looked at their mobiles under the tables as if they believed he could not tell what they were doing.  The keen ones, who sat at the front, took notes diligently and even asked a few questions at the end.  
Later on in the afternoon, he had a meeting with one of his research students.  Lily was a mature student; she took life very seriously and seemed to want to prove her entire family wrong; she was a single mum with two teenage sons. She had left school at fifteen with no qualifications. Her research into the psychology of bereavement was proving very interesting; soon she would have enough data to start writing up. And then submitting. And then leaving, probably.  Malcolm brushed these thoughts aside as he ushered her into his office.  Charlie had gone home early, as usual, so they had some peace to discuss her findings.  

“So, how did you get on with wearing the bow-tie?” Caroline asked the following Tuesday.
“Well, it was a bit odd to start with, but I soon got used to it,” Malcolm said, trying to find a comfortable way of folding his long limbs into the low armchair.
“Any adverse comments?”
“No, not really, well…maybe some, but I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Good, glad to hear it.  Now, if you’d care to swap that one for this tartan one, we can get on with this week’s session.”
“A tartan one? Really?  Is this some kind of test?” Malcolm said, undoing the plain black bow-tie and handing it over.
“No, not a test at all.  I’d say you have enough to contend with, without me adding to your stressors! So, how have you been this week, Malcolm?”

“You’re late again!  Why are you coming home late on Tuesdays all of a sudden, Malcolm?” Sheila barked as he came through the front door.  The smell of burning cabbage assaulted him.  
“It’s not all of a sudden, Sheila. I told you we’re having team meetings at 5 o’clock on Tuesdays.  I’m not that late, it’s only 6.30 now”
“But we eat at 6pm on the dot!  You didn’t tell me, I’m sure. You must have misremembered.  I would have remembered if you’d told me something like that. Team meetings indeed! Whatever next!  And at five o’clock too.  How inconsiderate. Your tea is in the oven.”
“Thank you Sheila. I’ll just go and wash my hands.”
“What on earth is that?”
“What?”
“That!  That monstrosity below your chin!”
“It’s a bow-tie.”
“I can see that. But a tartan one, really?  What is going on Malcolm?  Are you having some sort of breakdown?”
“I don’t really see that wearing a bow tie is that extraordinary, Sheila.”
“Really?  After thirty years of wearing a tie, you suddenly switch to a bow tie? I call that very strange, very strange indeed, Malcolm.  What will the neighbours think?  And my mother?  Please tell me you won’t wear it when we go to visit mother at the weekend?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.”

A month later, Malcolm had worn four bow ties of differing hues, in successive weeks. The plain black one, the tartan one, then navy blue and finally burgundy velvet.  He had come to quite like their reassuring quality at his throat.
“I think we can stop the bow-tie experience now, Malcolm,” Caroline said on his next Tuesday afternoon visit.  “We have all the evidence we need. I can see that you have been telling me a version of the truth; the abuse is really a lot worse than you have said.  It is distressing to see how Sheila treats you.”
“Evidence?  What evidence?” Malcolm asked, leaning forward in the perpetually uncomfortable chair.
“From the cameras in the bow-ties. We often find that clients play down their experiences. Tell things in a way that minimises their pain and makes the perpetrators look less bad. But no-one should be treated like that. No-one. Ever. And now I can help you find a way out. And a way to tell Lily how you really feel.”