Espresso Tales (27 page)

74. The Wolf Man, Neds, Motherwell

Irene was rarely at a loss for words, but on this occasion, faced with the extraordinary confession by Dr Fairbairn that he had actually raised a hand to Wee Fraser, the famous three-year-old tyrant, she was unable to speak for at least two minutes. During this time, Dr Fairbairn sat quite still, privately appalled at what he had done. He had spoken about that thing which he had for almost eleven years completely repressed. He had articulated the moment of aggression when, his hand stinging from the painful bite which Wee Fraser had inflicted upon him, he had briefly, and gently, smacked the boy on the hand and told him that he was not to bite his therapist. Wee Fraser had looked at him in astonishment and had behaved extremely and uncharacteristically well for the rest of the session. Indeed, had Dr Fairbairn not been as well versed in the dynamics of child behaviour, he might have concluded that this was what Wee Fraser had needed all along, but such a conclusion, of course, would have been quite false.

Eventually, Irene spoke. “I can understand how you feel,” she said. “That's a serious burden of guilt to carry around. But at least you've spoken to me about it.” She looked at him quizzically. “And, tell me, how do you feel now?”

Dr Fairbairn took a deep breath. “Actually, I feel quite a bit better. It's the cathartic effect of telling the truth. Like a purging.”

Irene agreed. Dr Fairbairn actually looked lighter now; it was almost as if the metaphysical weight of guilt had been pressing down upon his shoulders; now these seemed to have been raised, lifted, filling his blue linen jacket with movement and strength.

“Of course you won't be able to leave it at that,” she said, gently lifting a finger, not so much in admonition as in caution.

Dr Fairbairn looked momentarily crestfallen. “No?” he said.

“No,” answered Irene. “The striking of Wee Fraser is unfinished business, isn't it? You need to make a reparative move.”

Dr Fairbairn looked thoughtful. “Maybe…”

Irene interrupted him. “Tell me,” she said, “what happened to Wee Fraser. Did you do any follow-up?”

Dr Fairbairn shook his head. “Wee Fraser had been referred to me by a general practitioner. She managed to get the Health Board to pay for his therapy after he had been involved in an unfortunate piece of exhibitionist behaviour in a ladies' hairdressing salon out at Burdiehouse. He had been taken there by his mother when she went to have her hair done. Some of the other ladies were a bit put-out and so she took Wee Fraser to the doctor to discuss his behaviour. Fortunately, the GP in question had the foresight to believe that psychotherapeutic intervention might be of some help, and that's how our paths came together.”

“And the parents?” asked Irene. “Functional?”

“Oh, I think that they functioned quite well,” said Dr Fairbairn. “Or they seemed to. They were a respectable couple. The father was a fireman and the mother was a receptionist at the Roxburghe Hotel. They were at their wits' end with Wee Fraser, I fear.”

“And what happened to him?” asked Irene. “Did you not hear anything?”

“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
Psychoanalytic Studies of the Personality
, in which volume there appeared the seminal paper, “Endoscopic Structure Considered in Terms of Object-Relationships.”

“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. 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
her
guilt that they were meant to be talking about; it was his.

“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.

75. Cyril's Moment of Glory

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 psychoanalysis thought that they could point the finger at mother; but to hear that coming from somebody like Dr Fairbairn, who had 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.

“Yes,” she said. “You could call it a moment of insight. I just had an insight there into what happened a little while ago in Dr Fairbairn's room. You won't know, but Dr Fairbairn and I had a tiny argument. Nothing serious, of course.”

Bertie pretended to be surprised. “A wee stooshie?” he asked.

Irene frowned. “I'm not sure if I'd call it a stooshie, and I'm not sure if I want you using words like that, Bertie.”

“Is it a rude word, Mummy?” asked Bertie. “Is it like…”

“It's not rude,” said Irene. “It's more, how shall I put it, it's more vernacular, shall we say? It's Scots.”

“Is Scots rude?” persisted Bertie.

“No,” said Irene. “Scots isn't exactly rude. It's just that we don't use a lot of it in Edinburgh.”

Bertie said nothing. An idea had come to him. He would start talking Scots! That would annoy his mother. That would show her that although she could force him to wear pink dungarees she could not control his tongue! Ha! That would show her.

“Anyway,” said Irene, “we must get home. You have a saxophone lesson in half an hour, I believe, and you must do your homework before then.”

“Aye,” said Bertie quietly. “Nae time for onything else.”

“What was that, Bertie?” asked Irene. “Did you say something?”

“I didnae,” said Bertie.

“What?”

“No spikkin,” muttered Bertie.

“Really, you are a very strange little boy sometimes,” said Irene, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. “Muttering to yourself like that.”

Continuing down the street, they were now directly outside Big Lou's coffee bar. They reached it just as Matthew and Angus Lordie came up the steps to the pavement, their coffee conversation having been brought to an end by the sudden prolonged howling of Cyril. The canine angst which had produced this outburst had presumably resolved itself as quickly as it had come into existence, as Cyril now seemed quite cheerful and wagged his tail enthusiastically at the sight of Bertie. Cyril liked boys; he liked the way they smelled–just a little bit off; and he liked the way they jumped around. Boys and dogs are natural allies, thought Cyril.

When he saw Bertie, Cyril rushed forward and sat down on the pavement in front of him, offering him a paw to shake.

“Bonnie dug,” Bertie said, taking the paw, and crouching down to Cyril's level. “Guid dug.”

Cyril moved forward to lick Bertie's face enthusiastically, making Bertie squeal with delight.

“Bertie!” shouted Irene. “Get away from that smelly creature! Don't let him lick you!” And then, turning to Cyril, she leant forward and shouted at him: “Bad, smelly dog! Shoo! Shoo!”

As a dog, Cyril did not have a large vocabulary. But there are some words all dogs understand. They know what “walk” means. They know what “good dog” means, and “fetch”. And Cyril knew, too, what “smelly” meant, and he bitterly resented it. He had seen this tall woman before, walking in Drummond Place, and he did not like her. And now she was calling him both bad and smelly. It was just too much!

Irene's ankles came into focus. They were close, and exposed. He hadn't started this, she had. No dog, not even the most heroic, could resist. He lunged forward, opened his jaws, his gold tooth catching the light, glinting wickedly, and then he bit Irene's right ankle. It was glorious. It was satisfying. It was so richly deserved.

76. Bruce Has Uncharitable Thoughts about Crieff

Bruce had been deeply disturbed by what George had said to him over the telephone. He had been buoyed by his purchase of the Petrus at such a favourable price, but had been completely deflated by George's suggestion that the wine might be something quite different–an ordinary wine put into bogus Petrus bottles by calculating forgers.

At first, he had denied the possibility that George might be right. He had not even seen the wine in question; how could he pontificate on it? The problem with George, of course, was that he was so unadventurous. The idea of making an unconventional purchase, of buying something other than through the regular channels, was obviously alien to his cautious, accountant's personality. Poor George! He had always been the timid one, even at Morrison's Academy, where he would never do anything that was remotely likely to get him into trouble. What a mouse he was! But then mice sometimes had their uses, thought Bruce–especially if they had money.

But then, but then…perhaps George was right, to an extent at least, in saying that one had to be suspicious of bargains. If the Petrus was worth what it appeared to be worth, then why should Harry sell it to him at such a marked-down price? If it was worth more, and if, as Harry claimed, people were clamboring to get it, then why should he sell it to him at such a reduced price? It was not as if he had given him an extra few per cent discount–the sort of discount one feels that one has to give to a friend–he had cut savagely into the market price. He had effectively given away the three cases of wine.

The thought that George might be right made Bruce very uncomfortable. He had paid a lot of money for the wine and he had done so out of his own bank account. He had also paid the first month's rental on the shop, again from his own account, and the debit side of the business would be mounting up rather sharply. And yet he had not obtained a single penny from George, even although George had assured him that the money would be available once he had sold the bonds. But how long did it take to sell bonds? Surely a call to one's broker was all that was required?

He spent his second day in the shop taking delivery of stock he had ordered from a wholesaler in Leith. It was good, knockabout wine, in Bruce's view–the sort of wine that Stockbridge people would buy to drink with their dinner or take to their parties–large Australian reds, various Chardonnays and even a range of sweetish German wines which he planned to place in a special section called Wines for Her. That last idea he considered rather good, and he thought it not unlikely that other wine shops would follow suit when they saw how appealing it was to women.

The shelves in his shop were now filling up. The New World was in the front, in accordance with Bruce's personal tastes, and France and Italy were at the back. Spain was only represented in a very small way–again based on Bruce's belief that Rioja was virtually undrinkable (“I wouldn't even gargle with the stuff,” he was fond of saying; a rather witty remark, he felt) and there was a similarly small South African section. This was based on Bruce's dislike of the tactics of South African rugby, he being of the view that South African supporters had poisoned the All Blacks on more than one occasion when they were due to play the Springboks. “Entire rugby teams don't all get diarrhoea on the eve of a match by accident,” he observed. And had the Scottish team been similarly poisoned? Bruce laughed at the question. “Who would bother?” he asked, bitterly.

The Petrus was not displayed. It was in the back room, under a table, three unopened cases with the keys of St Peter stencilled on the side. Bruce looked at them and felt a pang of doubt and regret. If the wine was not what it purported to be, then he would not be able to try to sell it. The last thing he could afford to do at the beginning of his new career was to get mixed up in that sort of scandal; that would obviously be the kiss of death. But how could he confirm these uneasy suspicions? That was far from clear.

Towards mid-afternoon, when he had almost finished stacking the shelves, Bruce decided to telephone George. He would have to arrange a meeting to sort out the financial arrangements so that he could pay the invoice of the Leith wholesaler–slightly over eight thousand pounds–which had to be settled within fourteen days.

George initially did not answer his telephone, but eventually he did, and agreed to come to the shop after work and meet Bruce there.

“I'd like to bring somebody,” he said. “Somebody I'd like you to meet.”

“Who?” asked Bruce.

“A friend,” George replied opaquely. “A girlfriend, actually.”

Bruce chuckled. “George! Got yourself fixed up at last? A real stunner, no doubt!” Which is exactly what he thought she would not be. He could just imagine the sort of girl George would end up with. She would be the absolute bottom of the heap; bargain-basement material. Sensible shoes. Markedly overweight. Dull as ditchwater. And probably from Crieff into the bargain! That girl he used to see–what was her name?–Sharon somebody or other, who lived with her parents in one of those little bungalows off the Comrie Road; that sort of girl. Poor George! Bruce was uncharitable about his home town. There was nothing wrong with Crieff, of course, but that was not the way he saw it. He had escaped to Edinburgh and he entertained the idea that one day he might even escape from Edinburgh to a wider world beyond that. New York? Sydney? Perhaps even Paris? Any of these was possible, he thought, if one has talent, which, he told himself, he had. But poor old George! It was back to Crieff for him.