He tried to take shallow breaths, breathing through his mouth to avoid the odours that assaulted his nostrils. Light and sound assailed him. A young man jostled him and his stomach lurched. His head throbbed and the bright lights whirled around him. He staggered to the railings, clinging desperately for support and retched.
‘Go home and sleep it off, Duck,’ voice said behind him.
Wiping his trembling lips with a handkerchief, he stumbled into a side street away from the noise, the lights, the confusion and the smell of frying fish. Still feeling a vague nausea, he took a moment to look around him. Yes, this was the right street. How fortunate that he would not have to return to the seafront in his search for Stansky’s house.
The address he sought was a terraced house, a dirty green door with paint peeling from the jamb and a brass knocker that looked as if it might come off in his hand. He rapped smartly and used the pause before the door swung open to gather his thoughts and his breath.
‘Ah! Well done, John you got here, an achievement in itself, come in.’ Stansky took him by the shoulder and drew him in. They passed through a darkened room and into a high-ceilinged room, comfortably furnished and warmly lit.
‘Sit down my friend; let me get you some coffee before we begin.’ Stansky disappeared through a door into what John glimpsed as a small kitchen. He returned with a laden tray.
‘There you are John, coffee, just as you like it. Well, you passed the first test. I knew could do it.’
‘Why couldn’t we meet at your office?’
‘But there are no fish and chip shops near my office and so no smell of frying fish. Therefore, you would not have to begin confronting your fears.’
‘I would have been thankful for that,’ John said.
‘The way to conquer a phobia is to confront it John, and I, as your therapist, need to help you do that. Your case is fascinating.’ He sipped his coffee and watched John over the rim of the mug. ‘I am determined to make a success of it. When you came to me and said what you were afraid of I thought, what a novel case, could be a paper in this. When I had spoken with you for a while I realised that you are not suffering from ichthyophobia, a fear of fish, but rather from a form of olfactory phobia, specifically the smell of fried fish. Surely there can only be one worse olfactory phobia for an Englishman, that of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
Stansky’s continental pronunciation of ‘Yorkshire’ made John smile.
‘Come off it Stan, you’re no more a Russian than I am. I know your family come from Barnsley.’
‘Sorry John, sometimes the professional front gets the better of me. But which would you rather have, a psychiatrist called Stanley Bates or one called Stanislav Stansky?’
‘I don’t much care as long as he can help me with this damn phobia. A man can’t live in Cleethorpes without regularly meeting the smell of fried fish and the results are so debilitating that I can’t function properly.’
‘I told you I could help you and I can. Just refresh my mind. Tell me about your childhood.’
‘We’ve been through this.’ John said.
‘Humour me.’
‘Oh, very well. I was an only child brought up by an aunt and uncle who took me to Austria when I was about seven. I had what I considered to be a normal childhood and lived happily with my aunt until she died last year. My uncle had died ten years earlier. I decided to come back to England and to my roots, as it were. When I came back to Cleethorpes I discovered this total aversion to the smell of fried fish.’
‘Not just any fried fish?’
‘No, funnily enough, it seems to be only the English chip shop variety.’ John paused to sip coffee and Stan gave him an encouraging smile.
‘I have been doing a little digging, John, and I am now able to tell you a little story. Once upon a time there was a happy little boy who lived with his mother and father. They owned a successful business and they were a very happy family. The little boy was quite bright and was about six years old.
Now, one Saturday evening and the little boy was happily sleeping his bed while mummy and daddy cleared up downstairs. At about half past ten, someone, and it have been two or three, entered the premises to steal. The little boy’s parents tried to prevent it but they were not successful.
Early the next morning the little chap found his parents where they had been left by the robbers. He tried to wake them they seemed very deeply asleep. The little boy cried and cried until he eventually fell asleep by their bodies. It was Sunday and no one came to the door all day. In fact, it was Monday morning before the bodies were found and the little boy was taken by the police to his aunt and uncle. Imagine what the little mite had gone through. The aunt and uncle knew their duty, taking in their nephew and raising him as their own, even though they were in the middle of plans to move to Austria.’ Stan drank coffee and John sat in silence.
‘Your aunt and uncle seldom spoke to about your parents, did they?’
‘I just knew that had both died. They said it was an accident.’
‘You must have been much traumatised. They wanted to spare you.’
‘And the phobia?’
‘Come on John, you’ve worked it out. Your parents ran one of the best chip shops in Cleethorpes. They had won awards. Then thieves robbed the till. They ran off with the day’s takings. Why your parents didn’t just let them go I don’t know but they were badly beaten. They must have been an awful sight for a young lad to find.’
‘My God!’
‘Well, now you know why you have such a strange phobia and we can take the next step to cure you of it. I’ll take you home in the car. It will keep you away from unwanted smells. We may never enjoy a haddock and chips together, but you may soon survive the smell of England’s finest.’
