The Touch of Innocents by Michael Dobbs Page A

intelligible to her, let alone to flaccid men such as these. It took a woman, or at least a better man than these, to acknowledge that simply because someone was less than forty – indeed, less than four – their opinions might yet carry weight.
    The psychologist, too, had concluded that the interchange was going nowhere. The spectacles were already waggling at her. ‘You must accept, my dear, that emotional doubts are absolutely natural in a woman who has been through a harrowing experience such as yours. They are to be expected. Quite normal. What we have to do is to enable you to release your anxieties, to come to terms with the tragic events. What I am going to do is to recommend that we arrange for you, via our excellent social services staff, to visit the scene of the accident. It will be painful, of that there is no doubt, but it will help act as some sort of … catharsis, a purgative for your doubts and emotions. Help to face up to the reality of your baby’s loss. And we shall arrange for you to talk to some of those who would have helped take care of little …’ – he glanced down at his notes – ‘Isabella.’
    ‘I’ve already done that. I talked to the mortuary technician. Didn’t help too much, did it?’
    Damn the woman and her intransigence! The glasses were rammed back on his nose. Already the bridge was beginning to shine brightly, to appear angry and sore, belying the fixed smile which split his features. ‘And I suggest that we have a regular session, just the two of us, every other day while you are an out-patient here. Get to know each other.’
    ‘And I’m sure we can prescribe something to help you sleep – if you feel you need it, that is,’ Weatherup offered, trying to be helpful.
    That’s it, she mused, the traditional medical response. Surround and sedate.
    The psychologist had dived into the pocket of his waistcoat and produced a small appointments diary. ‘Let’s start our counselling on Mon … No. How about Tuesday?’ His silver-encased pencil was poised ready to strike. She was about to be arranged, filed, written in and written off.
    God, but she knew she needed help. An angry and insatiable dog was scratching away within her, a mongrel whose father was pain and whose mother was Izzy’s own sense of guilt that somehow she had been responsible for her baby’s fate, that she had let Bella down.
    She would find relief only in facts, yet she knew there were no answers lying on this man’s couch or sitting at his feet upon his undersprung chair. She had to accept the possibility that he may after all be right, that the neurotic and emotionally unstable woman reflected in his bespectacled eyes was deluding herself, clutching at illusions in an attempt to by-pass reality and create a hope and a world which simply didn’t exist. Bella was dead, almost beyond a reasonable doubt.
    But Izzy was a professional sceptic, trained to be unreasonable, to believe no evidence that couldn’t be grasped with both hands and dragged out of shadows into the remorseless light of day.
    She was also a woman who would bleed rather than be snowed under by the patronizing concerns of the male Establishment.
    Be reasonable, they said. Yet how could a mother be reasonable?
    They were looking at her, waiting, the silver pencil still poised. There were times to strike, times to dissemble, times simply to lie. She had their attention. She settled back into the foam-filled embrace of the chair, crossed her legs in a manner which raised the hem of her second-hand skirt to expose her knees, and smiled. If they insisted on a silly, simpering woman, that’s what she would let them think they had.
    ‘Of course. You’re right. I’ll telephone to arrange an appointment. Soon as I’ve settled in.’
    The psychiatrist braced his shoulders in victory. He pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, put away his diary and silver pencil, relished his small triumph. He thought he had the measure of