Espresso Tales

observed, nor one of anybody he knew.

Even Mr Dalyell, that nice man he had met in Valvona and Crolla, was not pictured here. Bertie sighed.

Inside the consulting room, Irene sat in the chair so recently vacated by Bertie. She looked at Dr Fairbairn and noticed his tie. She always noticed his clothes – the lightweight blue linen jacket, perfectly pressed in spite of linen being such a difficult material. And the tie, with its enigmatic decoration; of course that was just right: life was a quest, and why should ties not reflect the fact?

“Linen’s so difficult,” she said. “How on earth do you manage to keep your jacket so uncrumpled? Linen defeats me.”

Dr Fairbairn smiled; a modest smile, thought Irene. There was nothing triumphalist about Dr Fairbairn, even if he had the insights.

“This is a mixture, actually,” said the psychotherapist. “It’s mostly linen, but they’ve added an artificial fibre – just a little.

It makes all the difference. I hardly have to iron this jacket.”

“I must get the details,” said Irene. “I have a linen top which looks just like Auden’s face.”

“After the geological catastrophe?” asked Dr Fairbairn. “Or before?”

This was a very clever reference – in fact, both of these were very clever references, and they both allowed themselves a small 76

An Astonishing Revelation Is Almost Made smile of satisfaction. Auden had referred to the sudden deep lining of his features – caused by a skin condition – as a geological catastrophe. Few people knew this, of course, but they did.

“He might have written In Praise of Linen, ” went on Dr Fairbairn. “If it form the one material . . .”

“Which we, the inconstant ones . . .” supplied Irene.

“It is chiefly because it is difficult to iron,” ended Dr Fairbairn, with a flourish.

They both giggled. Irene looked down at Dr Fairbairn’s houndstooth trousers – such a discreet check, she thought – and at his highly-polished shoes.

“You take such trouble with your clothing,” she said. “So few Scotsmen do.” She paused. “But I suppose we should talk about Bertie.”

“Yes,” said Dr Fairbairn, frowning slightly. “We did a bit of dream work today. Made a start on it at least.”

“He never says anything about his dreams,” said Irene. “He’s gone quite silent on me, in fact. It’s almost as if my little boy has become a stranger.”

Dr Fairbairn nodded. “You must expect that.” He paused.

“Any signs of further obsessional behaviour?”

Irene looked up at the ceiling. There had been nothing quite as bad as the setting fire to Stuart’s Guardian, but there certainly had been little things. There had been deliberate mistakes with Italian verbs (a mixing up of past participles, for example), and there had been reluctance, marked reluctance, to practise his scales for his grade seven saxophone examination. But apart from that, there had been very little one could put one’s finger on.

Dr Fairbairn waited for Irene to say something, but she was silent. “Of course, Bertie could be affected by tensions within the home – if there are any. Do you mind if I ask you about that? Do you mind?”

Irene looked down at the floor. “Of course, you can ask,” she said. “And the answer that I’d give you would be this. Yes. There are tensions, but they’re not my fault. It’s not my fault that I’m bored. Yes, I’m bored. I feel like a wretched Madame Bovary.

I’m trapped, and my only way out, my only way out to a life Bruce Meets a Friend

77

that is bigger, and more exciting, is through my little boy. My little boy who will grow up to be everything that his father is not. I am determined on that, Dr Fairbairn, I really am.”

Dr Fairbairn waited for her to finish. Her voice had risen; now it subsided, and she sat quite mute, as though exhausted by the dangerous intimacy of the confession.

“I’m trapped too,” he said very quietly. “And you know, I’ve got something to confess to you.”

Irene looked up sharply. “What is that?” she whispered.

“The time’s not right,” said Dr Fairbairn. “Perhaps later.”

24. Bruce Meets a Friend

Now that he had time on his hands, Bruce tended to stay in bed until well after eleven in the morning. He had never been keen on getting up early, in spite of having been brought up in an early-rising household, and now that he did not have to get in by nine to the offices of Macauley Holmes Richardson Black he was making the most of the opportunity to lie in bed, drifting between sleep and a delicious state of semi-wakefulness.

It was a time to think, or, rather, to dream; to luxuriate in fantasy – with thoughts of the ideal date, for example; or the car one would purchase if money were no object. The ideal date would be something like Sally – no, he would not think of her again, that stuck-up American girl who had the gall (and bad judgment) to tell him that she did not want to see him again.

How dare she! Who did she think she was, telling him that she didn’t want him to go over to Nantucket with her? And as for Nantucket – who had even heard of the place; some remote island with a thin beach and cold water? What made her think for even a moment that he really wanted to go there, rather than being prepared to accompany her as a gesture to her sense of disappointment over their impending separation?