All I want to do is to play with other boys and do the things they do. I want to go fishing with a friend. I want to go camping with him and make a fire and cook sausages. I’ve never been allowed to do any of these things.” The arrow of blame pointed off to the right, to the word Mummy.
Dr Fairbairn frowned. All the blame seemed to be focused on his mother. It was not unusual for mothers to be blamed for many misfortunes, but to be the sole blame figure was excep-tional – and worrying.
He looked at the last item on the list. “Number 4,” he read out. “Having a pink bedroom. What if other boys saw this?
What would they do? What if it gets out at school that I have a pink bedroom? What then?” And the blame, again, was laid fairly and squarely at Irene’s door.
There was silence for a moment after the list had been read out. What puzzled Dr Fairbairn was that all this hostility was being directed towards the mother and none appeared to be directed against the father. This was unusual, because at this stage of his development Bertie might have been expected to be experiencing an Oedipal rejection of his father, whom, quite 42
naturally, he would see as a rival for the affection of the mother.
Yet Bertie in no sense appeared to be resenting his father’s share of his mother; indeed, it would seem that Bertie took the view that his father was welcome to his mother, if that’s what he wanted.
Dr Fairbairn looked at Bertie. This was a highly intelligent child – the most intelligent he had ever encountered, in fact –
and perhaps the psychic drama was playing itself out in a rather different way in his case. The underlying dynamics, of course, must be the same, but it was possible that Bertie’s understanding of adult feelings had enabled him to bypass some of the normal stages. So if Bertie had detected some fundamental pathology in the relationship between Stuart and Irene – a pathology which meant that maternal affections were in no danger of being diverted from Bertie to his father – then he might have decided that Oedipal feelings were simply unnecessary and a waste of energy. Why bother to view your father as a rival when he was clearly no competition?
Another possibility was that Bertie felt intense Oedipal jealousies, but was clever enough to conceal them. If this were the case, then he would have to try to winkle them out through dream analysis, as they would certainly turn up there. But before that, there were questions that could be asked.
“Bertie,” began Dr Fairbairn. “This list of yours is very interesting. Poor Mummy! Is she that bad?”
“Yes,” said Bertie.
“I’m sure she isn’t,” said Dr Fairbairn. He paused. The next question, and its answer, would be vital. Oedipus would be lurking somewhere, and it would require no more than a tiny cue to get him to display himself in all his darkness. “If Mummy were that wicked, then would Daddy love her? Surely not. And yet he does love her, doesn’t he? Mummy and Daddy must love one another, and you must know that.”
Bertie narrowed his eyes. This was obviously a trap and he must be very careful. He could tell that Mummy liked Dr Fairbairn, and possibly liked him even more than she liked Daddy. So this was Dr Fairbairn trying to find out whether he
43
had a chance of seeing more of Mummy. And that would mean more psychotherapy, because that was how they saw one another, at the beginning and end of the psychotherapy session.
At all costs he must discourage Dr Fairbairn from thinking that.
“Mummy and Daddy are very happy,” said Bertie firmly.
“They like to hold hands all the time.”
Dr Fairbairn raised an eyebrow, but barely noticeably. It was clear to him that Bertie was in denial of matrimonial dishar-mony. He had to be made to express this.
“I’m going to give you a little notebook, Bertie,” he said.
“And I want you to write down your dreams for me. Will you do that?”
Bertie sighed.
“So you’re staying?” asked Bruce. They were standing in the kitchen, the two of them. Pat was waiting for the kettle to boil so that she could make herself a cup of coffee. Bruce had come in to make toast: he liked to eat toast when he was feeling in-secure, and now he needed toast.
“If that’s all right with you,” said Pat. “I’ve given up my place at St Andrews and transferred to Edinburgh. I’ll need somewhere to live, and I’d like to stay on here if you don’t mind.”
Bruce shrugged. “That’s fine by me,” he said. “My first test of a good tenant is whether the rent is paid. You’ve always paid.”
“And your other tests?” asked Pat.
“Noise,” said Bruce. “And tidiness. You’re fine on both of those. I never hear you and you don’t mess up the kitchen. You’ll do just fine.”
“Thanks,” said Pat.
A silence then followed. Bruce raised himself up and sat on one of the surfaces, his legs dangling down over the edge. Pat looked at the kettle, which was slow to boil. She had to talk to 44
him, of course, but she still felt slightly ill at ease in his presence. It was hard for things to be completely easy, she thought, after what she had once felt for him.
