“You looked anguished,” said Irene. “It must have been a very painful memory.”
“Not for me,” said Dr Fairbairn quickly. “Well, the smack was painful for him, I suppose.”
“For whom?”
Dr Fairbairn shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
Irene laughed. “But surely that’s exactly what you get other people to do – you get them to talk about things.”
Dr Fairbairn spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I have talked about it in the past,” he said. “I certainly told my own analyst.”
“And did that not draw the pain?” asked Irene gently.
“For a short time,” said Dr Fairbairn. “But then the pain returned. Pain comes back, doesn’t it? We think that we have it under control, and then it comes back to us.”
“I understand what you mean,” said Irene. “Something happened to me a long time ago which is still painful. I feel an actual physical pain when I think of it, even today. It’s like a constriction of the chest.”
“We can lay these ghosts to rest if we go about it in the right way,” said Dr Fairbairn. “The important thing is to understand the thing itself. To see it for what it really is.”
“Which is just what Auden says in that wonderful poem of his,” said Irene. “You know the one? The one he wrote in memory of Freud shortly after Freud’s death in London. Able to approach the future as a friend, without a wardrobe of excuses – what a marvellous insight.”
“I know the poem,” said Dr Fairbairn.
“And so do I,” interjected Bertie.
Dr Fairbairn, whose back had been turned to Bertie, now swung round and looked at him with interest.
“Do you read Auden, Bertie?”
Irene answered for him. “Yes, he does. I started him off when he was four. He responded very well to Auden. It’s the respect for metre that makes him so accessible to young people.”
Dr Fairbairn looked doubtful, but if he had been going to contest Irene’s assertion he appeared to think better of it.
“Of course, Auden had some very strange ideas,” he mused. “Apropos of our conversation of a few moments ago – about psychosomatic illness – Auden went quite far in his views on that. He believed that some illnesses were punishments, and that very particular parts of the body would go wrong if one did the wrong thing. So when he heard that Freud had cancer of the jaw, he said: He must have been a liar. Isn’t that bizarre?”
“Utterly,” said Irene. “But then people believe all sorts of things, don’t they? The Emperor Justinian, for example, believed that homosexuality caused earthquakes. Can you credit that?”
Dr Fairbairn then made an extremely witty remark (an Emperor Justinian joke of the sort which was very popular in Byzantium not all that long ago) and Irene laughed. “Frightfully funny,” she said.
Dr Fairbairn inclined his head modestly. “I believe that a modicum of wit helps the spirits. Humour is cathartic, don’t you find?”
“I know a good joke,” interjected Bertie.
“Later,” said Dr Fairbairn.
Irene now resumed her conversation with the analyst. “I’ve often thought of undergoing a training in analysis,” she said. “I’m very interested in Melanie Klein.”
Dr Fairbairn nodded encouragingly. “You shouldn’t rule it out,” he said. “There’s a crying need for psychoanalysts in this city. And virtually nobody knows anything about Klein.” He paused for a moment. “It’s a totally arbitrary matter – the supply of analysts. There’s Buenos Aires, for example, where there is an abundance – a positive abundance – and here in Scotland we are so few.”
Irene looked thoughtful. “It must be very hard for analysts in Argentina, with their economic crisis and everything. I gather that some analysts have seen their savings wiped out entirely.”
“Yes,” said Dr Fairbairn. “It’s been tough for analysts there. Firstly the generals, Videla and that bunch. They banned the teaching of psychoanalysis, you know. For years people had to be discreet. Freud unsettles people like generals. Military types don’t like him.”
“Not surprising,” said Irene. “People in uniform don’t like to be reminded of the fact that we’re all vulnerable underneath. Uniforms are a protection for fragile egos.
“I would never, ever, send Bertie to a school that required a uniform,” said Irene firmly. “There are no uniforms at the Steiner School.”
They both looked at Bertie, who looked back at them.
“But I want a uniform,” he said. “Other boys have uniforms. Why can’t I have a uniform too?”
The question was addressed to Irene, who said nothing in reply. She would normally have refused a request for a uniform out of hand, but now she looked to Dr Fairbairn for a lead.
The analyst smiled at Bertie. “Why would you want a uniform, Bertie? Would it make you feel different?”
“No,” said Bertie. “It would make me feel the same, which is what I want.”
64. Post-analysis Analysis
Bertie’s hour with Dr Fairbairn passed extremely quickly – or so it seemed to Irene. She was very impressed with the psychotherapist, who quite lived up to her expectations of what the author of Shattered to Pieces would be like. They had discovered that they had a great deal in common: an appreciation of Stockhausen (not a taste shared by everyone; indeed, Irene had admitted that one had to work at Stockhausen), an enthusiasm for Auden, and a thorough knowledge of the works of Melanie Klein. All of this had taken some time to establish, of course, and this had left little time for Dr Fairbairn to say anything to Bertie, after their brief – and somewhat disturbing – exchange over Bertie’s fears that Dr Fairbairn would smack him.
That had been a potentially embarrassing moment and Irene had been concerned that the psychoanalyst might conclude that Bertie was used to being smacked by his parents. That, of course, would have been a terrible misunderstanding. Irene and Stuart had never once raised their hands to Bertie, not even when, shortly after the incident in the Floatarium, he had deliberately set fire to Stuart’s copy of The Guardian while he was reading it in his chair. That had been a dreadful moment, but they had kept very cool about it, which was undoubtedly the right thing to do. Rather than let Bertie think that they were upset by this, they had pretended to be completely unconcerned.
“Daddy doesn’t care,” Irene had said insouciantly. “It makes no difference to him.”
Bertie had looked at his father, as if for confirmation.
“No,” said Stuart. “I don’t need to read the newspaper. I know what it would have said anyway.”
Irene had been momentarily concerned about this, but had let the remark pass. She hoped, though, that Bertie would not interpret it as suggesting that The Guardian was predictable. That would never do. And he should certainly not develop ideas like that before he went to the Steiner School, where The Guardian was read out each day at school assembly.
Now, before going back to Scotland Street with Bertie, she decided that they would make the short detour to Valvona and Crolla, to stock up on porcini mushrooms. Bertie liked this shop, with its rich smells and its intriguing shelves, and she would be able to talk to him over a latte in the café. And it was always possible that one might meet somebody interesting in the café, and have a conversation about something important. She had recently met a well-known food-writer there and she had learned a great deal about olive oil – things she had never known before. Edinburgh was full of interesting people, Irene thought, provided one knew where to go to meet them. Valvona and Crolla was a good start, because interesting people liked to eat interesting food. Then there was Ottakars Bookshop in George Street, and Glass and Thompson in Dundas Street, where interesting people went for a latte.
She found herself thinking about Dr Fairbairn, who was unquestionably interesting. She had never seen him in Valvona and Crolla, which was surprising, but perhaps he bought his olive oil in a delicatessen in Bruntsfield – that was always pos
sible – or even in a supermarket, although that was unlikely. One would not expect to turn a corner in one of those ghastly supermarkets and see the author of Shattered to Pieces peering into the refrigerated fish section.
Where did Dr Fairbairn live, she wondered? This was a crucial, and very difficult question. The best place for a person like him to live was the New Town, although the better part of Sciennes was certainly a suitable place for psychoanalysts. He could not live in Morningside (too bourgeois) nor the Grange (too haut-bourgeois). This left very few locales in which Dr Fairbairn could be imagined, unless, of course, he lived in Portobello. That, Irene had to concede, was just possible. The most surprising people lived in Portobello, including at least some creative people.
And was Dr Fairbairn married, with children perhaps? This was even more difficult to determine than the question of where he might live. She had glanced at his left hand and had seen no ring, but that meant nothing these days. There were even some people who put rings on the relevant finger in order to flout convention or to throw others off the scent, whatever the scent was. And Dr Fairbairn might not be married at all but might have a partner, and children by that partner. Or he might not be interested at all.
That, of course, was the most difficult issue to determine. Irene knew that there were people who were just not interested at all, just as there were people who were not in the slightest bit interested in tennis. This did not mean that they were resentful of people who played tennis, or of people who liked to watch tennis; it’s just that tennis meant nothing to them.
They made their way slowly towards Valvona and Crolla. Bertie was still cautiously avoiding stepping on the lines in the pavement, frowning with concentration on the task, but this was unnoticed by Irene, who was still lost in speculation over the private life of Dr Fairbairn. There was something about him which suggested that he did not have a wife or partner. It was difficult to put one’s finger on this, but it was a rather lost look, a look of being uncared for. One sometimes saw this in men who had no women to look after them. Gay men were different, Irene thought. They looked after themselves very well, but straight men tended to look dishevelled and slightly neglected if they had nobody.
Mind you, she thought, that young man at the top of the stair, Bruce, looked far from neglected. He put that substance on his hair – what was it, lubricant? – and he was always rather smartly dressed. She had talked to him on several occasions and he had been perfectly civil. He had once even let Bertie touch his en brosse hair after Bertie had made a remark about how good it looked. Bruce had bent down and said to Bertie as the little boy had gingerly reached out to touch his head: “You could look like this one day too – if you’re lucky!”
It had been an odd remark, but they had all laughed. Afterwards Bertie had asked several questions about Bruce, but Irene had answered them vaguely. Little boys liked to have heroes, as Melanie Klein pointed out, and she was not sure whether that young man was a suitable choice. Nor did she encourage Bertie’s open admiration for that Macdonald woman’s Mercedes-Benz. Bertie had enquired whether they might ask if he could have a ride in it one day, and she had given an unequivocal no to that request.
“We have our own car,” said Irene. “A much more sensible car than that, I might add.”
“But we never go in our car,” complained Bertie. “Where is it?”
“It’s parked,” said Irene curtly.
“Where?” asked Bertie. “Where is our car parked?”
Irene did not know. Stuart had parked it somewhere or other a few weeks ago and she had no idea where this was. So she gave a simple reply. “Outside,” she said, as they arrived at their destination.
65. A Meeting in Valvona and Crolla
They walked past the shelves in Valvona and Crolla, each looking at the items at his and her particular eye-level. Irene gazed at packets of pasta; not ordinary, hard pasta of the sort that one might see in a supermarket, vulgar spaghetti and the like, but obscure, complicated egg-rich pastas – tagliatelle and other rare varieties. These cost twice as much as vulgar pasta, but tasted infinitely better. Vulgar pasta tasted like cardboard, Irene thought, and she could never understand how people could actually eat it. Probably because they knew no better, she decided. Ordinary people – as Irene called them – were remarkably in the dark, and often simply did not realise how in the dark they were. Fortunately, ordinary people were beginning to develop more sophisticated habits, brought about, in part, by overseas travel, not that Spain helped very much, thought Irene.
Down at his eye-level, Bertie saw tinned fish and sea-food, Portuguese sardines and Sicilian octopus. The pictures on these tins were intriguing. The Portuguese sardines were portrayed as swimming contentedly in a small shoal near the surface of the sea, while in the background there was a wild coast with high cliffs and mountains behind. Bertie had been to Portugal, and some of it, he recalled, had looked just like that. They had eaten sardines there, too, every night, though the sardines had looked less happy than those portrayed on the tin.
After they had completed their shopping, they had gone through to the café and latte had been ordered.
“Well, Bertie,” said Irene cheerfully. “What did you think of Dr Fairbairn?”
Bertie appeared to think for a moment. “He was very kind,” he said. “He didn’t smack me when he called me a naughty boy.”
Irene’s eyes widened. “He did not call you a naughty boy,” she protested. “He asked you whether you had been a naughty boy, that’s all. And I didn’t think that he meant it.”
“Why did he say it then?” asked Bertie. “Why did he call me a naughty boy?”
Irene drew in her breath. This would require very careful handling. It had been unwise of Dr Fairbairn to use the term “naughty boy” in the first place, but then he probably had not realised just how bright Bertie was. Other boys would have seen this remark as a bit of harmless banter – a joke really – but Bertie was far too sensitive for that. Bertie had cried when he had seen a picture of the unfinished parliament building in the newspapers. That showed real sensitivity. “It’s so sad,” he had said. “All that building and building and it’s never finished. Can we not help them, Mummy?”
She would have to mention to Dr Fairbairn – very tactfully, of course – that he was sensitive to suggestion, unlike Wee Fraser perhaps. Wee Fraser had not been a sensitive boy, by all accounts, and even when his ego had been re-assembled at the end of the analysis, he had not seemed to have developed any particularly sensitive traits. He had stopped biting people, of course, which amounted to a slightly more sensitive approach to life, but in other respects one could probably not hope for much change.
“Bertie,” she began, “when Dr Fairbairn asked you – asked you, mind – whether you had been a naughty boy, he was referring to how other people might have reacted to your behaviour. This is different from saying that you had been a naughty boy. His tone was ironic. If he really thought that you had been naughty, then he wouldn’t have used those words. You do understand that, don’t you?”
Bertie said nothing. He had been naughty, he thought: he had written on the nursery walls. Surely that was quintessentially naughty. And he wanted to be naughty. That was the whole point. If they kept making him learn Italian and play the saxophone and all the other things, he would show them. He would punish them, and they would stop. That was how grown-ups, people like Mrs Klein, whose book he had read, thought. And this Doctor Fairbairn person, who had hardly talked to him at all and who hadn’t even been interested in his joke – the only way to make him take any notice would be to do something really naughty. Perhaps I should bite him, thought Bertie. Then he will really take notice and tell them to drop the Italian and the saxophone. They might even be persuaded not to send me to the Steiner School and send me to Watson’s instead, where there are uniforms and rugby and things like that. And secret societies too, Bertie thought, although those might only be for after you’ve left.
Irene looked a
t her son. There was so much promise there – such an extraordinary level of ability – and she would not let her project for him be derailed. She stopped herself; train metaphors were not what she wanted here.
“Bertie,” she said gently, “I want you to know that Stuart loves you very much. It’s quite natural for boys to feel confused about their fathers and, well, I suppose one might say that it’s natural for boys to feel threatened by their fathers. Dr Fairbairn will help you to get over this. That’s what Dr Fairbairn is for.”
Bertie looked at her. What was all this? He liked his father very much, and when he had set fire to his copy of The Guardian it had nothing to do with his feelings for his father. Why would they just not leave him alone? Why did they force him to do all these things? Those were the questions which worried Bertie.
Irene reached for her latte and took a sip. She glanced around her. The café was uncrowded, and she let her gaze run slowly over the few people who were there. There was a woman in her mid-thirties, a blonde, with hair held back with an Alice band. Irene noticed that she had that look about her which goes with bored affluence. Her husband, no doubt, was a fund manager or something similar. There would be a couple of children, and she was whiling away the hours before it was time to collect them from school. The children would be exactly like her, thought Irene, right down to the Alice band (if they were girls). She smiled. People were so predictable.
Her gaze moved to the next table. There was a young couple poring over The Scotsman property section. Irene looked at their faces. Yes, they were anxious, she thought. How difficult for them, struggling to find a place to live in that competitive, overpriced market. And what would they find at the end of the day? A two-bedroomed flat for the price of a small farm in Australia. Mind you, she had no idea what small farms cost in Australia, but she imagined that it was not very much. She had read somewhere that people sometimes gave such farms away, just to get off them. I would never, ever farm in Australia, she said to herself, and shuddered at the thought. Heat. Dust. Drought.
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