Espresso Tales (6 page)

13. Bertie's List

It took Bertie no more than ten minutes to write down his list of things that distressed him and to assign an order of magnitude to each. But after a certain amount of crossing out and rewriting, he handed the paper over to Dr Fairbairn, who had been paging through a journal while Bertie worked.

“Now then,” said Dr Fairbairn cheerfully. “Let's see what's troubling you. Do you mind if I read it out, Bertie?”

“No,” said Bertie. “But don't show it to anybody else. Will you burn it after you've read it?”

“Heavens no!” exclaimed Dr Fairbairn. “I'll put it in this file where nobody else can see it. This list will be too important to burn.”

“I don't want Mummy to see it,” said Bertie anxiously.

“She won't,” said Dr Fairbairn. “You can trust me.”

“But you've already told her some of the things I told you,” said Bertie.

Dr Fairbairn looked out of the window. “Have I? Well, perhaps a few little things. And surely you wouldn't want to keep secrets from Mummy, would you?”

“Yes I would,” said Bertie.

“Very well,” said Dr Fairbairn. “This list remains absolutely secret. Nobody else–not even Mummy–will see it. You have my word on that.”

But Bertie did not trust Dr Fairbairn, and even as the psychotherapist started to read, he had begun to regret ever having committed these thoughts to paper.

“Number 1,” read Dr Fairbairn. “People making me do things I don't want to do. I hate this. I hate this. Every day I have to do things that other people want me to do and it leaves me no time to do any of the things I want to do. And nobody asks me what I want to do, anyway.” And then there was an arrow, rather like an ornate arrow of the sort used by Red Indian braves, pointing at the word Mummy, which was written in capitals.

Dr Fairbairn looked up from the paper and stared at Bertie for a moment over his spectacles. “Number 2,” he read on. “Not being allowed to go fishing or go to Waverley station to see the trains. This makes me very sad. Other boys do these things–why can't I? It would make me so happy to be able to do this.” And then the arrow, pointing again to the word Mummy.

“Number 3. Not having a friend. I hate not having a friend. 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 exceptional–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 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 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 disharmony. 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.

14. Pat and Bruce Work It Out

“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 insecure, 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 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.

At last she broke the silence. “There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Bruce,” she said. “Those other rooms. Is anybody ever going to live in them? Those two–those people who went to Greece–are they ever going to come back?”

Bruce laughed. “They paid until the beginning of August,” he said. “It was their choice. They wanted to keep the rooms while they went travelling. I was expecting to have heard from them by now, but I haven't. I suppose I'll give them a month's grace and then clear the rooms and get somebody else.” He paused. “Why do you ask? Do you know somebody who's looking for somewhere to live?”

“No,” said Pat. “I just thought…Well, I suppose I thought that it might be easier for us to have somebody else staying here.”

Bruce smiled. “A bit crowded with just the two of us? Is that what you mean?”

Pat drew in her breath. It was exactly what she had meant–and why should she not feel this? It was perfectly reasonable to suggest that the presence of a couple of other people should make life in a communal flat a little easier.

Everybody who had ever shared a flat knew that two was more difficult than three, and three was more difficult than five. Bruce must know this too, and was being deliberately perverse in pretending not to.

“All right,” said Bruce. “I know what you mean. I'll give them two weeks to get in touch and then I'll move their stuff into the cupboard and we can get somebody else. What do you want? Boy or girl?”

Pat thought for a moment. The presence of another girl would be useful, as they could support one another in the face of Bruce. But what if this girl behaved as she had done and fell for Bruce? That would be very difficult. A boy would be simpler.

“Let's get a boy,” she said. “Maybe you'll meet somebody at work…” She stopped, realising the tactlessness of her remark. She had quickly guessed that Bruce had lost his job, rather than resigned, as he claimed.

“I wouldn't have anybody from that place,” said Bruce quickly.

“Of course not,” said Pat. “What about Sally? Would she know anybody? Maybe an American student at the university. She must meet people like that who are looking for somewhere to live.”

Bruce was silent for a moment. He looked at Pat resentfully. “Sally's history,” he muttered. “Since last night.”

Pat caught her breath. That was two tactless remarks in the space of one minute. Could she manage a third? So Sally was history? Well, that meant that she had got rid of Bruce, and that he was the one who was history! She wanted to say to him: So you're history–again! But did not, of course. One never told people who were history that they were history. They knew it all right; there was no need to rub it in.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” she said. “What happened?”

Bruce slipped down off the surface and moved over to the toaster. He put two slices of bread into the slot and depressed the lever. Toast would make him feel better; it always did.

“Oh, she became a bit too clingy,” he said casually. “You know how it is. You're getting on fine with somebody and then all of a sudden they want more and more of you. It just gets too much. So I gave her her freedom.”

Pat listened to this with interest. It was as if he was Gavin Maxwell talking about an otter, or Joy Adamson talking about a lioness.
I gave her her freedom.

“You let her go?” she asked, trying to conceal her amusement.

“You could say that,” said Bruce.

“I see,” said Pat. “And where did she want to go? Back to America?”

“She would have stayed here to be with me,” said Bruce. “But I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to put her in a position where she had to choose between me and…”

“And the United States?” prompted Pat.

“Something like that,” said Bruce.

“Poor girl,” said Pat. “It must have been so hard for her.”

Bruce nodded. “I think it was.” His toast popped up and he reached for the butter. “But water under the bridge, as they say. Let's not talk about it any more. Let's look to the future. Plenty of other girls–know what I mean?”

“Of course there are,” said Pat. “And you've got a lot in your life as it is.”

Bruce looked at her. “Are you winding me up?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Pat. “Sorry. I couldn't help it. You see, wouldn't it be easier to tell the truth? Wouldn't it be easier to admit that you've lost your job and your girlfriend? Then I could tell you how sorry I am and that might help a little, just a bit. Instead of which you stand there and spin a story about resigning and giving people their freedom and all the rest. It's all a lie, isn't it, Bruce?”

Bruce, who had been buttering the toast as he spoke, stopped what he was doing. He looked down at the plate, and moved the toast slowly to one side, putting down the knife. Then his shoulders began to heave and he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Pat in the kitchen, alone with her sudden guilt.

15. Domenica Advises

“I feel terrible,” said Pat to Domenica. “I could have stopped myself, but I didn't. And then, suddenly, he seemed to crumple.”

“Crumple?” asked Domenica, taking a sip of her sherry. It was a lovely thought. “Deflate?”

“Yes,” said Pat. “And that was it. He left the kitchen–and I felt terribly guilty. After all, he's lost his job and now he's lost his girlfriend. I suppose he just felt a bit vulnerable–and I made it all the worse for him by crowing.”

Domenica shook her head. “You didn't crow. You just told him a few truths about himself. I suspect that you did him a good turn.”

Pat thought about this. Perhaps it was time for Bruce to be deflated, and perhaps she was the person who had to do it. And yet it had not been easy and she had felt bad about it; so bad that she had come straight through to speak to Domenica.

“Not that your good turn will have much effect,” Domenica went on. “I don't think that a few painful moments will have much long-term impact on that young man. Yes, he's feeling miserable, and he might do a little bit of thinking as a result of what you said. But people don't change all that radically on the basis of a few remarks made to them. It takes much more than that. In fact, there's the view that people don't change at all. I think that's a bit extreme. But don't expect too much change.”

Pat frowned. Surely people did change. They changed as they matured. She remembered herself at fourteen. She was a different person now. “People grow up, though,” she said. “They change as they grow up. We all do.”

Domenica waved a hand in the air. “Oh, we all grow up. But once the personality is formed, I don't think that you get a great deal of change. Bruce is a narcissist, as we've all agreed. Do you see him becoming something different? Can you imagine him not looking in mirrors and worrying about his hair? Can you imagine him thinking that people don't fancy him? I can't. Not for the moment.” She put her glass down on the table and looked at Pat. “How old is Bruce, by the way?”

“He's twenty-five,” said Pat. “Or just twenty-six. Somewhere around there.”

Domenica looked thoughtful. “Well, that's rather interesting. Men are slower, you know. They mature rather later than we do. We get there in our early twenties, but they take rather longer than that. Indeed, I believe that there's a school of psychology that holds that men are not fully responsible until they reach the age of twenty-eight.”

Pat thought this was rather late. And what did it mean to say that men were not fully responsible until that age? Could they not be blamed for what they did? “Isn't that a bit late?” she asked. “I thought that we were held responsible from…” From what age were we held responsible? Was it sixteen? Or eighteen? Young people ended up in court, did they not, and were held to account for what they had done? But at what age did all that start?

Domenica noticed Pat's surprise. “Twenty-eight does seem a bit late,” she said. “But there's at least something to it. If you look at the crime figures they seem to bear this out. Young men commit crimes–ones that get noticed–between seventeen and twenty-four, twenty-five. Then they stop.” She thought for a moment and smiled at some recollection. “I knew a fiscal,” she went on. “He spent his time prosecuting young men up in Dunfermline. Day in, day out. The same things. Assault. Theft. So on. And he said that he saw the same people, from the same families, all the time. Then he said something very funny, which I shall always remember. He said that the fiscals saw the same young men regularly between the age of seventeen and twenty-six, and then the next time they saw them was when they were forty-five and they had hit somebody at their daughter's wedding! What a comment!”

“But probably true?”

“Undoubtedly true,” agreed Domenica. “On two counts. Weddings can be violent affairs, and everything runs in families. You've heard me on genetic determinism before, haven't you? But that's another topic. Let's get back to excuses, and change, and Bruce. If you think that twenty-eight is a bit late for responsibility–true responsibility–to appear, then what would you say to forty?”

“Very late.”

Domenica laughed. “Yes, maybe. But again, if you ask people to describe how they've behaved over the years, you will often find that they say they've looked at it very differently, according to the stage of life that they're at. Here I am, for example, sitting here with all the wisdom of my sixty years–what a thought, sixty!–and I can definitely see how I've looked at things differently after forty. I'm less tolerant of bad behaviour, I think, than I used to be. And why do you think that is?”

Pat shrugged. “You get a bit more set in your ways? You become more judgmental?”

“And what is wrong with being judgmental?” Domenica asked indignantly. “It drives me mad to hear people say: ‘Don't be judgmental.' That's moral philosophy at the level of an Australian soap opera. If people weren't judgmental, how could we possibly have a moral viewpoint in society? We wouldn't have the first clue where we were. All rational discourse about what we should do would grind to a halt. No, whatever you do, don't fall for that weak-minded nonsense about not being judgmental. Don't be excessively judgmental, if you like, but always–always–be prepared to make a judgment. Otherwise you'll go through life not really knowing what you mean.”

Pat was silent. She had not come to see Domenica to discuss developmental psychology. She had come to talk about Bruce, and, specifically, to ask what she should do.

“Very interesting,” she said quietly. “But what should I do? Do you think I should apologise to Bruce?”

“Nothing to apologise about,” snapped Domenica.

“I feel so sorry for him,” said Pat. “I feel…”

“Don't,” interrupted Domenica. “Be judgmental. He told you a series of lies. And even if he isn't quite twenty-eight yet, he should know better.”

“More judgmentalism?”

“Absolutely,” said Domenica. “Silly young man. What a waste of space!”