“We actually come from Motherwell originally.”
“Motherwell!” exclaimed Irene, and then checked herself.
246 Cyril’s Moment of Glory
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 psycho-analysis thought that they could point the finger at mother; but to hear that coming from somebody like Dr Fairbairn, who had Cyril’s Moment of Glory
247
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 248 Cyril’s Moment of Glory
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 Bruce Has Uncharitable Thoughts about Crieff 249
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.