Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [116]
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 244 The Wolf Man, Neds, Motherwell
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.”
The Wolf Man, Neds, Motherwell
245
“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,