“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 Pat and Bruce Work It Out
43
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 dishar-mony. 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 in-secure, 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 44
Pat and Bruce Work It Out
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.
Pat and Bruce Work It Out
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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.”
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Pat and Bruce Work It Out
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.