She allowed herself the luxury of these thoughts as they completed their journey, Bertie trailing slightly behind her, hands in his pockets, still, she noticed, trying to avoid standing on the cracks.
“Where are we going anyway?” muttered Bertie.
“We’re going for therapy,” said Irene. She had never concealed anything from Bertie and this, of all occasions, was one on which a frank explanation was required.
“What happens at therapy?” asked Bertie, a note of anxiety now entering his voice. “Do other boys have therapy? Will there be other boys there?”
“Of course other boys have therapy,” said Irene, reassuringly.
“You may not see other boys, but they do go there. Lots of boys have therapy.”
Bertie thought for a moment. “Am I having therapy because I’m suspended?” he asked.
Irene frowned. “Your suspension from nursery was a nonsense,”
she said. “You mustn’t feel that you have been suspended at all.
Just ignore it.”
“But am I suspended?” asked Bertie. “Like a cancelled train?
Am I cancelled?”
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“No,” said Irene, gritting her teeth at the persistent, worrying train references. “That woman tried to suspend you, but I withdrew you before she could do so. You can’t be suspended if you’re withdrawn.” She paused. They were now standing outside the entrance to the Institute, and it was time to go in.
“We can talk about all that later on,” she said. “Now we must go in and meet Dr Fairbairn. I’m sure that you’ll like him.” And there was certainly nothing forbidding in Dr Fairbairn’s manner when the two of them were shown into his consulting room. He was dressed in a loose-fitting cord jacket and a pair of slightly rumpled charcoal slacks. He greeted them warmly, bending down to shake hands with Bertie and addressing Irene formally as Mrs Pollock.
Irene knew that she would like him. She usually made snap judgments of people – it had taken her no more than a few minutes to get the measure of Christabel Macfadzean, for example – and she seldom revised her opinions after she had formed them. People were, in her experience, either possible or impossible. Hugo Fairbairn was clearly possible, and she would have judged him so even had she been unaware of his background and his writings.
Dr Fairbairn gestured to a small circle of easy chairs at one side of the room. “Let’s sit down,” he said, smiling at Bertie as he spoke. “Then we can have a little chat.”
They took their places and Irene glanced at Dr Fairbairn. In spite of her interest in these matters, she had never actually consulted a psychotherapist before (analysis was ruinously expensive, Stuart had pointed out; the cost of a mortgage, more or less). If she had been able to afford it, Irene would have shown no hesitation in undergoing analysis, not that she had any
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But that was not what Bertie needed. His conflicts were fresh and current, not buried deep in the experience of the past.
But how would Dr Fairbairn elucidate these things? Through Kleinian play therapy?
“What’s the trouble then?” asked Dr Fairbairn, rubbing his hands together as he spoke. “Been a naughty boy?”
Irene could not prevent herself from gasping. This was a very direct approach, almost naive in its directness, and yet he must know what he was doing. This was, after all, the author of
Bertie stared at Dr Fairbairn. For a moment he did nothing, and then he winced, as if bracing himself for a slap.
Dr Fairbairn’s eyes narrowed. He threw a glance at Irene, who was looking at Bertie and frowning.
“You aren’t here to be punished,” said Dr Fairbairn. “Did you think I was going to smack you?”
“Yes,” said Bertie. “I thought that you were going to smack me for thinking bad thoughts.”
Dr Fairbairn smiled. “No, Bertie, I’d never do that. Analysts don’t smack people.”
“Not even if they deserve it?” asked Bertie.
“Not even then,” replied Dr Fairbairn. He was about to continue, when he stopped, and appeared to think of something.
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