Cards of Identity by Nigel Dennis

clear in your mind that the theory by which I work is unalterably complete. It was made watertight many years before you came along, and there is simply no argument you can raise which has not been anticipated and answered. Try and imagine this theory as a big hall, in which you find yourself. Unwilling to remain, you walk to the nearest exit, only to find a huge sentry barring your way with a friendly smile. Well, our theory has such a sentry posted at every possible exit, including the skylight and the main drain. The sentries are infallible; they never sleep, they know no error. They were awaiting you many years before you entered the hall, they already know by heart every word of the pleadings and tearful briberies that you will use against them. They are the perfect servants of a perfected theory – by which I mean, a theory which no conflict with experience can ever alter or revise.’
    ‘I’d love to know which one is your theory, doctor.’
    ‘I don’t think it would help you, to know. There are so many nowadays, and all divided and subdivided into groups, splinter-groups, and even chips off the old splinter-groups. As they are one and all infallible, despite being utterly different, there’s little point in describing the differences. What does it matter to you, after all, whether you are diagnosed on a principle of ancestry, heredity, environment, instinct, the lavatory, or genetics? Nothing you can say is going to make the slightest difference to the outcome.’
    ‘Will I have to give up my surgery?’
    ‘Dr Burke thinks so. So do I. We want to extract your surgery-image, like a decayed tooth, sluice Mrs Finch out of it, and then give it a few new screws and a lick of fresh paint before we put it back.’
    ‘How will I occupy myself?’
    ‘I suggest you help Towzer in the garden. We can give you the proper corduroys. Towzer is a shy, charming, bearded man, and you could share the gardener’s cottage with him.’
    ‘Would that be proper, doctor?’
    ‘At this stage of treatment it might be invaluable. Incidentally, he has temporarily lost his beard as a result of illness, and you may think he resembles someone you once knew. If you do, don’t be alarmed; it is a common illusion in the Finch stage of neurosis. After all, we only see what we think, don’t we? Gradually, as we change your apparatus of thought, you will find yourself with a brand-new set of images.’
    ‘It sounds quite exciting, doctor. Shall I tell the other Towzer, the Dr Towzer, while he’s here? Oh, I see his car’s gone. It was here, wasn’t it? Didn’t I see it?’
    The captain gave a broad, very human smile. ‘What a little sightseer it is!’ he exclaimed, wagging his forefinger. ‘Not content with mother and surgery images, it must have car and doctor images to boot – and all in a single morning.’
    ‘Oh, doctor, somehow I want to cry!’
    ‘That’s just joy, my dear: you see the broad new path ahead. We’ll chat about it together nearly every day. It won’t be a lengthy business. I am not a believer in the analysis that goes on for ever. It makes the psychiatrist so dependent upon the incoming image of his patient that when, after ten or twenty years, the patient fails to show up, the analyst feels like the victim of an optical levy. No, Miss Tray; by all means let me be your father, but not your grandfather.’
    ‘You are so kind,’ she said, sighing; ‘and if you keep calling me Miss Tray, I suppose you must have good grounds.’
    ‘They will emerge as we proceed, my dear … Ah, splendid! Here comes my intern with your corduroys.’
    *
    ‘The place is beginning to feel like a home already,’ said Mrs Mallet at dinner a few days later. ‘Bitterness, rivalry, and questions of dignity are apparent everywhere. Florence is being sweet to old Mrs Finch, to stop her becoming an ally of Jellicoe. She has taken also a wine jelly to Towzer, much to Tray’s annoyance. Beau, dear, you are eating like a pig; what