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I regained non-analytic consciousness to find I had a baby, a home, no wife but a simple, shrewd and helpful woman, and a father to whom I had offered my home since the death of my mother left him unwilling to live in a house haunted by memories of a dead partner who had shared a tempest-tossed and responsible career with him. I also acquired a practice without ever having come to a deliberate, conscious and voluntary decision to do so. I was paid, but since I had no money of my own beyond the remnants of a gratuity long since exhausted and a fund originally intended to support my wife and child in the event of my demise, the outlook seemed bleak. It was redeemed partly by the fact that my professional work was interesting, if not particularly valuable to the world in which I lived. Still, I hoped it might become so, as I felt no urge to devote myself to money-making.
I learned to stifle the wish, constantly awakened, that my infant's mother could see her and that we three together would go and have tea on Saturday afternoons. The facts were otherwise. Even the fact that I was not unhappy was something I resented. My father could not resist the temptation of making himself miserable by concentrating his mind on some improvement that should be made by himself, or myself, or both. I knew, and resented knowing, that he was right in so thinking. But what improvement?
A wife, of course. I did not need a psychoanalyst to tell me that. But what wife? I did not know of anyone, did not want to be reminded of Betty, did not want to be reminded of the girl who chose not to choose me.
That winter was very cold. The train in which I went from Uxbridge to Baker Street had automatic doors. These were opened at
every station and left open so that passengers would have plenty of time in which to alight. Those who had not arrived at their destination found the time was adequate for losing any heat that they had acquired since awaking.
Harley Street in the Good Old Days was filled with