Ned (7)

The psychiatrist Helen had arranged Robert to see was a Scot. His name was Marshall and he practiced his own curious brand of analysis – a kind of puritan Jungianism, according to Helen’s work colleague who had recommended him. His practice was a single room above a butcher’s shop and, arriving a little too early, Robert found himself loitering a while in front of the butcher’s window, face to face with a plate of burgundy coloured ox tongues. Cursing himself for being talked into such a useless rendezvous and filled with self-loathing he made his way up a flight of stairs and knocked on the door.

   Marshall was tall and broad, early 60s but with the weary mannerisms of a man ten years older. He possessed a raffish grey beard and full head of hair and was given to wearing sombre tweeds, button down check shirts, autumnal Argyll sweaters and highly polished brown brogues. As Robert entered he half expected to see a panting Labrador and a brace of pheasants hanging from a barn door, but saw none. Instead he came upon a room as sombre as its occupant's dress sense – heavy velvet curtains, a frayed brown carpet, a substantial kneehole desk (original). Against a wall stood four industrial metal cupboards, hideously at odds with everything else in the room. A sickly-sweet mixture of smells – offal and tobacco – lingered in the air. Looking out of the single window behind Marshall’s desk Robert could see the accident and emergency department of the city hospital. Was Marshall patient or analyst ? Or an extra in a Hammer horror movie ? Suddenly, Robert wasn’t too sure.

   ‘Come in, come in. Your wife Helen has told me all about you.’

   I bet she bloody has, thought Robert. He sat himself in a soft leather chair by the side of the impressive desk. There were a number of things to admire. Robert chose to admire the inkwell.

   ‘Chinese’ said Marshall.

   Robert, still affecting his air of contempt, didn’t answer. Marshall bit into the stem of his pipe. From his inside jacket pocket he produced a box of England’s Glory and struck a match. ‘Let’s begin, shall we ? Jump right in the deep end. I don’t believe in preliminary tittle-tattle, Robert…Robbie…can I call you Robbie ?

   ‘No’ said Robert.

   ‘As you wish, laddie. Now, I believe you’ve been having problems with your wee todger. Is that correct ?’

   The match having nearly burned itself out, Marshall made a last-gasp attempt to use the diminishing flame but without success. Robert remained silent.

   ‘Now I’ve upset you. Let me start again’ Marshall said, fumbling for another match. ‘Whose idea was it that you seek – and I use the word pejoratively – help ?’

   ‘Not mine’ said Robert.

   Marshall nodded his head and struck another match. A plume of smoke billowed from his pipe. ‘I thought not. No. As soon as you walked through the door I said to myself: “Here cometh a man under duress”’.

   ‘I came here by bus if you must know.’

   Marshall laughed and Robert began to revel in his impudence. He felt like he was six years old again and a fairy godmother had granted him dispensation to terrorise his teacher. He began to cough.

   ‘Does the smoke bother you ?’

   ‘What do you think ?’

   ‘I don’t know, laddie. That’s why I’m asking. You’re a very anxious fellow, aren’t you Robert ?’

   ‘You’re the doctor.’

   ‘I’d say you were anxious.’

   ‘Let’s settle with that, then. Anxious. Can I go home now ?’

   Marshall laughed again. He was a good audience. ‘The ability to retain a sense of humour. I like that, Robert.’

   ‘I’ll tell you a joke if you want and you can psycho-analyse it.’

   ‘Jokes aren’t my field.’

   ‘Ah yes. I forgot. You’re a Jungian, not a Freudian. More Dionysus than Apollo. But tell me – how is all this nonsense supposed to help me get a hard-on ? Help me conquer this penile dementia I’m suffering from ? Or should I say penile xenophobia?’

   Robert, unaccustomed to being so forthright, blushed. Marshall got up and walked to the window. ‘Look here, laddie’ he said. ‘Why don’t we lay a few ground rules, eh ? If I’m going to be of help you’ve got to be straight with me. I know all the gory details. There are problems between you and your wife, problems in the sexual department. But you’ve got to be straight with me, Robert. Otherwise you’re wasting your money and I’m wasting my time. Do you get my drift ?’

   When Robert didn’t answer Marshall walked round the desk and stood next to Robert’s chair. He asked Robert to stand up and, after a moment’s hesitation, Marshall’s patient complied, whereupon the doctor knelt down and manoeuvred a lever hidden underneath. The back of the chair reclined and a foot attachment sprang into place.

   ‘There now, Robert. A wee bit of magic and suddenly it’s a psychiatrist’s couch. You didn’t think I’d forgotten to arrange a couch for my patients, did you laddie ? Eh ? What do you take me for ? Now, why don’t you sit down and relax and tell Doc Marshall all about it.’

   Robert did as he was told. He lay back on the chair that was now a couch and began to talk.

*

After Robert had recounted to the doctor the vigorous swelling in his underpants which had accompanied his first encounter with Kirsten, Marshall held a courtly vigil before murmuring a soft, lilting sound that seemed to drift around the room. Then, like a benevolent spirit, he walked over to one of the industrial cupboards and produced a fold-up table which he snapped into shape. Then he scurried back across the room and brought out from a second cupboard what looked like an old wooden seed tray. As he set the tray on the table Robert could see that it contained a sizeable lump of dark, grey clay and a plastic apron. Marshall – excited now – ushered Robert off the couch towards the table. ‘Playtime’ he announced.

   ‘What do want me to do ? Shit in the seed tray ?’

   Marshall wasn’t in the mood for wisecracks. He explained that the nature of the exercise was to mould a small scale environment of Robert’s choice, the contours of which had to remain contained within the oversized seed tray. ‘It can be anything’ he enthused. ‘You can build houses, roads, bridges – whatever you want. Or you can dispense with architecture completely and create a single landscape. All I ask is that there’s at least one dwelling. Then, when you’re satisfied with your environment, you can populate it with objects from one of the cupboards.’

   Robert stared at the clay. ‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you’ he quibbled.

   ‘What's the matter, laddie ? Frightened of getting your hands dirty ?’

   ‘Something like that.’

   ‘Nonsense’ said Marshall, producing a jug of water to help render the clay malleable. ‘Get stuck in!’

   As Robert cautiously began to knead the clay, Marshall put on a green wax hunting jacket.

   ‘Where are you going ? Aren’t you going to watch over me ?’ Robert asked, somewhat disappointed.

   ‘I’ll be back in a short while. But don’t rush on my account. Take your time. Enjoy yourself. Be a kiddie again!’

   ‘Nice work if you can get it!’ Robert shouted as the psychiatrist closed the door. He couldn’t believe it. Fifty quid a session and he was playing with a lump of wet clay. Determined to get his money’s worth he plunged his hands into the cold, sticky goo and began ruminating on what form his expensive model was going to take.