Irene took the inkblot of Scotland and frowned. “A cloud of guilt?” she suggested. “Yes, a cloud of guilt.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Dr Fairbairn. “That is Scotland!”
“Nonsense!” cried Irene. “That’s a cloud of guilt.”
Dr Fairbairn bent down and retrieved the inkblot of the Queen. “And this?” he asked, thrusting it into Irene’s hands.
“What’s this?”
“Mother,” said Irene, without hesitation.
Dr Fairbairn snatched the paper back from her. Then he turned to face her and spoke very quietly but firmly.
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“You know something?” he said. “You know something? I’ve decided what the problem is. It’s
Bertie knew that something was wrong the moment that he heard shouting issuing from Dr Fairbairn’s consulting room. He had been engrossed in a copy of
Bertie moved over and put an ear to the door of the consulting room. The sound of shouting had dropped, and now there seemed to be silence within the room. That was a very bad sign, he thought. Perhaps Dr Fairbairn was even now lowering his mother’s body from the window, on a rope, with a view to hiding it in the Queen Street Gardens. But then, there was a voice, and another – voices which were no longer raised and seemed to be making casual conversation. Bertie heaved a sigh of relief.
The row was over. They had got back to talking about Melanie Klein.
Inside the consulting room, Dr Fairbairn sat at his desk, his head in his hands.
“I don’t know what came over me,” he said remorsefully. “It was all so sudden. I don’t know why I said it.”
Irene looked at him. She understood how stress could affect people. Dr Fairbairn’s job was undoubtedly stressful, dealing
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with all sorts of harrowing personal problems. It would be easy in such circumstances to say something rash and, as in this case, completely unjustified.
“I understand,” she said gently. “I really do. You mustn’t reproach yourself unduly.”
She looked at him as he continued to stare down at the surface of his desk. Of course this might be an opportunity to probe a bit; there was a great deal she would like to know about Dr Fairbairn and now might be the time to do that probing.
“Of course, it might be better if you talked to me about it,”
she said.
Dr Fairbairn looked up. “About what?” he asked.
“About all the things that you’re so obviously repressing,”
Irene said quietly. “About the guilt.”
Dr Fairbairn was silent for a few moments. “Is my guilt that obvious?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” said Irene, trying to sound as sympathetic as she could. “It’s written very clearly. I’ve always sensed it.”
“Oh,” said Dr Fairbairn. It was like being told that one’s deodorant was less than effective. It was very deflating.
“Guilt has such a characteristic signature,” went on Irene. “I find that I can always tell.”
She watched Dr Fairbairn from the corner of her eye. She was not sure what his guilt was based on, but it was bound to be something interesting.
“You can tell me, you know,” she urged. “You’d feel much relieved.”
“Do you think so?” asked Dr Fairbairn.
Irene nodded. It was a time for non-verbal signs.
“I feel so awful,” said Dr Fairbairn. “I’ve been carrying this burden of guilt for so long. And I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s not there, but my denial has only made things worse.”
“Denial always does,” said Irene. “Denial is a sticking tape with very little sticking power.” She paused and reflected on the adage that she had just coined. It was really rather apt, she thought.
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“And yet it’s so difficult to confront one’s sense of shame,”
said Dr Fairbairn. “That’s not easy.”
