Free 100 Days of April-May by Edyth Bulbring Page B

carpet a slitty-eyed look.
    I stand up, give Fatty a nod and say, ‘Have you ever tried group therapy before?’ I use my cordial voice, the one I have developed to deal with him and Mom and Sarel The Leech and Sam Ho the boy-troll – in line with my pact with the gods.
    â€˜No,’ Fatty says, in his version of the cordial voice, which he has cultivated since our last meeting in the park. ‘Why?’
    So Dr Gainsborough tells Fatty (and me for a second time) that we are about to embark on the non-Freudian form of healing called group therapy. And as he does so he rolls his eyes in apology at the little busts of Dr Sigmund Freud on his shelves. ‘I am of the view that you and Ericca have much in common,’ Dr Gainsborough says. ‘I feel it in my gut.’ And he pats his tummy.
    I tell Dr Gainsborough that psychoanalysis is not a craft that one can practise based on what one has for breakfast. As someone who has single-handedly trained myself in the art of fact and logic I can tell him categorically that the only two things that Fatty and me have in common is that we are both bursary kids and we are both born of a woman.
    Dr Gainsborough says that he had oats and a slice of pawpaw for breakfast and he is of the view that the two of us could help each other. ‘Freud willing.’ He manoeuvres me out of the way and takes the chair that I usually occupy during our sessions. Then he points Fatty and me to the two less comfortable chairs. ‘And your last comment about you both being born of a woman shows much insight. You are an extremely perceptive young lady.’
    Dr Gainsborough strokes his beard, arranges his features into a Freudian grimace and gives me a penetrating stare. Then he makes a note on his shrink pad. I have learned to read his scrawl from a two-metre distance and decipher the scribble as
Remember to pick up dog food on the way home
.
    The rules about confidentiality for group therapy are even stricter than those for one-on-one confabs, so when I get home at the end of the day I can’t write to tell Melly about my one-hour torture session with Fatty and Dr Gainsborough. Instead I tell Alistair, who has got until the end of next weekend at Chez Matchbox (before he gets boarded at Miss Frankel’s house). Fluffy tells me that Miss Frankel tells him that there is no room at any of the thirteen kennels in Jozi, so Alistair has to board at the old house (with the caretaker). I tell Fluffy that I think Miss Frankel is trying to save on kennel fees – like she tried to save on a pool net (and look how badly that ended). But Fluffy says that Miss Frankel says that the caretaker will be glad of the company and will take care of Alistair along with the house.
    In between him mauling Mrs Ho’s toothbrush and digging a hole in the left side of the sofa, I tell Alistair that Dr Gainsborough started the session off with a little ditty which he wrote himself. It encompasses the principles and rationale of group therapy and he asked that Fatty and me hold hands with him while he recited it. It goes like this:
    We are here to affirm, to nurture, to share and bear
    Each other’s burdens and show we care.
    We have in common the issues that can break us,
    And the wisdom that for sure will remake and heal us.
    Dr Gainsborough gave Fatty and me a copy of his composition, which is why I am aware of the line breaks. He said it was for us to look at if we are ever in doubt about group therapy. Like now, for instance.
    I take out Dr Gainsborough’s verse and read it out to Alistair. He gives a sort of sniggery bark, which doesn’t sound like the kind of response Dr Gainsborough was aiming for. ‘Listen up,’ I say. ‘There’s more.’
    After the ditty-reading Dr Gainsborough asked Fatty and me to describe our mothers in one sentence. And this is when it started to get really interesting. I asked Dr Gainsborough if I could go first and Fatty said,