“Nothing,” said Dr Fairbairn. “But I should imagine that they’re still there. Fraser will be fourteen now, I should imagine.”
He stopped. “You know, I saw him the other day?”
Irene’s eyes widened. “Wee Fraser? You saw him?” She had read about how Freud’s famous patient, the Wolf Man, had been found not all that long ago, living in Vienna, as a retired Wolf Man. The discovery had been written up by an American journalist who had gone in search of him. Perhaps it was time for Wee Fraser to be discovered in much the same way.
“I saw him at the East End of Princes Street,” said Dr Fairbairn. “You see a lot of neds . . . I mean young men hanging about, I mean congregating, down there. I think they go shopping in that ghastly shopping centre at the top of Leith Street. You know the one that Nicky Fairbairn was so scathing about.”
Irene sat up at the mention of the name. Nicholas Fairbairn.
Why did Dr Fairbairn mention Nicholas Fairbairn? Was it because he was his brother, perhaps? Which meant that he must be the son of Ronald Fairbairn, no less – Ronald Fairbairn who had written
“Are you, by any chance . . . ?” she began.
Dr Fairbairn hesitated. More guilt was coming to the surface, inexorably, bubbling up like the magma of a volcano. “No,” he said. “I’m not. I am nothing to do with Ronald Fairbairn, or his colourful son. I am an ordinary Fairbairn.” He hesitated again.
“We actually come from Motherwell originally.”
“Motherwell!” exclaimed Irene, and then checked herself.
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There was nothing wrong with Motherwell, nor with Airdrie for that matter. We all had to come from somewhere, even Motherwell. She herself came from Moray . . . Well, there was no need for anybody to go into that. (Moray Place, actually.)
“Yes,” said Dr Fairbairn. The confessions had given him confidence and now he looked directly at Irene. “Where do you come from, Mrs Pollock?”
“Moray,” said Irene, prepared to continue to add Place (one should not lie, directly), but taking her time, and not having the opportunity to complete her sentence (no fault of her own).
“Moray!” said Dr Fairbairn. “What a pleasant part of the country. I love Moray, and Nairn too.”
Irene said nothing. It was not
“You have to seek out Wee Fraser,” she said. “You know that, don’t you? You have to find him and apologise for what you did to him.”
Dr Fairbairn sat quite still. He had no doubt but that what Irene said was true. Reparation was of the essence; Melanie Klein herself had said that. He would have to go out to Burdiehouse, find Wee Fraser, and ask his forgiveness. It was a simple thing to do, but a very important one, not only for himself, but perhaps for Wee Fraser too.
Irene had much to think about as she walked home with Bertie.
The session with Dr Fairbairn had been a traumatic one and she needed to order her thoughts. She had been astonished when the psychotherapist had turned on her in that unexpected and vindictive way, suggesting that she, of all people, might be responsible for Bertie’s troubles. Of course it was easy to blame mother; anybody with a smattering of knowledge of psycho-analysis thought that they could point the finger at mother; but to hear that coming from somebody like Dr Fairbairn, who had
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even held psychoanalytical office, was most surprising. And it was so dangerous too; she could cope with an allegation of that sort because she could stand up to him intellectually, and she was versed in Kleinian theory; but what if he had said something to an ordinary person? Such a mother could be extremely upset.
Of course the comment was an aberration, and Dr Fairbairn had been brought to his senses sharply enough by Irene’s reaction, but their relationship had very clearly changed as a result of the incident. Seeing him sitting so miserably at his desk, his distinguished head sunk in his hands, had brought out the maternal in Irene. And then the penny dropped. Indeed, it dropped so sharply that Irene stopped in her tracks, some way down Dundas Street, and gave a half-suppressed cry. Of course!
Of course! Dr Fairbairn had no mother. By coming up with the absurd suggestion that she was smothering Bertie, he was trying to divert her natural mothering instincts away from her son to himself. Do not be a mother to Bertie, he was saying, so that you can become a mother to me. It was quite clear. In fact, it was glaringly obvious.
Hearing his mother gasp, Bertie stopped and looked up at her.
“Are you all right, Mummy?” he asked.
Irene looked down at her son. She had been so immersed in her thoughts that she had forgotten Bertie was with her. But there he was, in his dungarees, smiling with that appealing smile of his. What an odd little boy he was! So talented, what with his Italian and his saxophone, but still encountering such difficulties in the object relations context.
“Yes, thank you, Bertie,” she replied. “I just had a very important thought. You know how some thoughts are so important they make you go ‘oh!’? I had that sort of thought.”
“A moment of insight, you mean?” Bertie said.
Irene looked at him. She was occasionally surprised by Bertie’s vocabulary, but it made her proud, too. All of this he got from me, she said to herself. All of it. Bertie is my creation.
