Alexander Smith - Unbearable Lightness of Scones

Irene laughed. “Why do you say that, Bertie?”

“Because when he gets bigger he might wonder why he looks different from me,” said Bertie.

“But that’s nothing unusual,” said Irene. “Members of families often look different from one another.”

Bertie conceded that this was true. Olive had a sister who looked quite unlike her, and Hiawatha and his brother certainly did not look remotely like one another. But was it not unusual, he pointed out, for a baby to look like the mummy’s friend?

Irene stopped. She crouched down so that she was at eye-level with Bertie. “Bertie, carissimo ,” she whispered. “Ulysses’s daddy is Daddy. I’ve told you that before. It’s just a coincidence that he looks like Dr. Fairbairn. These things happen – and it doesn’t make it very easy for the mummy if her little boy says things that some people might find a little bit strange. So, never, ever talk about it again, please.”

Bertie stared at his mother, wide-eyed.

“I mean it, Bertie,” she said severely. “If you mention it once more, just once more, then…” She paused. Bertie was watching her closely. What sanction, he wondered, did his mother have? He had no treats that could be taken away. He received no pocket money that could be cut. There was nothing that his mother could do.

Irene glanced over her shoulder. “If you say one more word about it,” whispered Irene, “Mummy will smack you really hard. Understand?”

Bertie reeled under the shock of this threat. His parents had never raised a hand to him, not once, and now this. He was stunned into silence, just as Little Hans must have been when, as reported by Freud, his mother threatened to castrate him.

“So,” said Irene, standing up again. “That puts an end to that.”

Nothing more was said as they made their way up the last flight of stairs and entered the consulting rooms. Bertie noticed that the brass plate, which had previously announced that these were the premises of Dr. Hugo Fairbairn, had been replaced with one on which the name Dr. Roger Sinclair PhD had been inscribed.

Bertie sat down in the waiting room while his mother rang the bell. He was still smarting from his mother’s unexpected threat when Dr. Sinclair appeared in the doorway and led Irene inside. Bertie reached for a copy of Scottish Field on the waiting room table. Scottish Field – his consolation, his reminder that there was a world in which psychotherapy, yoga and Italian lessons did not exist; where fishing and climbing hills and freedom thrived; a Scotland quite different from his own. Yes, it was there, but it was tantalisingly out of reach, and nothing seemed to bring it nearer.

It was fifteen minutes before Irene looked out of the door of the consulting room and called Bertie in. He set aside Scottish Field , sighed, and went to join his mother.

“Bertie,” said Irene, “this is Dr. Sinclair. He wants you to call him Roger.”

Bertie looked at the man on the other side of the desk. He was younger than Dr. Fairbairn and he had a much nicer face, thought Bertie. It was a pity, he said to himself, that Ulysses did not look like him, rather than like Dr. Fairbairn. Perhaps the next baby – if his mother had another one – would look like Dr. Sinclair. Bertie wondered if he should say this to his mother, but decided that it would perhaps trigger another curious threat; for some reason she seemed very sensitive about these things. Poor Mummy – if only she had more to do with her time; if only she would get herself a hobby… he stopped. A depressing thought had occurred to him: I am her hobby.

Dr. Sinclair was smiling – Dr. Fairbairn very rarely smiled – and Bertie was pleased to see that his jacket was quite unlike Dr. Fairbairn’s blue linen jacket.

“So, Bertie,” the therapist began, signalling for Irene and Bertie to sit down. “I’m Roger Sinclair and I’m going to be helping you in the same way as Dr. Fairbairn did. I know, of course, that you’ll be missing Dr. Fairbairn.”

I’m not, thought Bertie, and was about to say that, as politely as he could, when Irene intervened.

“Yes, he is,” she said. “But Bertie understands. And he’s happy that Dr. Fairbairn has got a chair at last.”

Bertie looked at his mother in astonishment. What was this? Had Dr. Fairbairn not always had a chair?

Dr. Sinclair nodded. “Dr. Fairbairn left some notes, Bertie,” he went on. “So I know all about the little chats that you and he had. Did you find them helpful, Bertie?”

“Yes, he did,” said Irene. “Bertie found them very helpful indeed.”

Dr. Sinclair glanced at Irene. “Good. But what do you think, Bertie?”

“He’s very much looking forward to working with you,” said Irene. “Aren’t you, Bertie?”

Bertie nodded miserably. He looked out of the window. The tops of the trees in Queen Street were moving – there must be a strong wind; strong enough to fly a kite really high, if one had a kite, that is, and Bertie did not. He wanted a kite. And he wanted a balsawood aeroplane with a rubber band that you wound up and then, when you let go, it drove the propeller. Tofu had had one of those and had let Bertie look at it. He was very proud of it and cried when Larch stamped on it and broke it. Even Tofu could cry; Bertie had never seen Tofu cry before. He cried, and when Olive saw him crying she crowed; she jeered. Tofu spat at her. It was always like that, Bertie thought. People did unkind things to one another, and he did not like it.

Dr. Sinclair was looking at Bertie. “Your mummy tells me that you’re at the Steiner School,” he said. “I had a friend who was at a Steiner School, you know. He liked it a lot. Are you happy at school, Bertie? Have you got lots of friends there?”

“He’s very happy,” said Irene. “The Steiner School is an excellent school. And there are friends there, aren’t there, Bertie? Olive, for example.”

Bertie looked at his mother. It was his mother’s idea that Olive was his friend, not his. But he did not think that there was any point in trying to persuade her otherwise, and so he merely nodded, and then looked at the floor.

“Olive?” said Dr. Sinclair, his voice rising in pitch. “That’s a nice name. Tell me about Olive, Bertie.”

“She’s a very nice little girl,” said Irene. “Bertie has her to play from time to time. I know her mother quite well. We go to lectures at the Institute of Human Relations together. You’ll no doubt be in touch with them, once you get settled in.”

Dr. Sinclair was silent. He looked at Bertie for a few moments, and while he did so he fiddled with a pen he was holding. Then he turned to Irene. “I think that perhaps Bertie and I are ready to have a little chat, just the two of us,” he said evenly.

Irene frowned. “I’m very happy to stay,” she said. “This first time, you know. It may be better for me to stay. I’m sure that’s what Bertie would like. Bertie…”

Dr. Sinclair rose to his feet. “That’s very good of you,” he said. “But I do think that it’s important that we have that little chat à deux . So, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Pollock, you can sit in the waiting room. I’ll call you if we need you.”

Irene had shown no sign of rising from her seat, but Dr. Sinclair was now standing directly behind her, gently tugging at the back of the chair, as if to dislodge her.

“Very well,” said Irene, her voice rather strained. “I shall wait outside.”

Once Irene was out of the room, Dr. Sinclair returned to his chair and smiled encouragingly at Bertie.

“You know where I come from, Bertie?” he asked. “Australia.”

“Oh,” said Bertie politely.