This Too Shall Pass by S. J. Finn Page B

below it.
    â€˜Yeah.’ I was walking around, looking at his displays of plastic dinosaurs, animals carefully placed.
    â€˜So, how long’s it been?’ I asked.
    â€˜Three and a half months.’
    â€˜Passed your probation.’ I grinned at him.
    â€˜No one’s said anything.’
    â€˜If there’d been a problem, you’d know. Mind, we should be asking if you’ve got a problem with us?’
    â€˜Only problem is Nigel.’ James was tapping his pen on the file he’d just noted something in. ‘He told this kid’s mother that her son found her annoying and the way he could tell was because he found her annoying.’
    My mouth fell open. For a minute I held back and then, ‘How has he gotten away with being himself for so long?’
    â€˜Does anyone ever challenge him?’
    â€˜Elliot has attempted. But like un-detonated missiles his comments sail over Nigel’s head. Everyone else seems inoculated against him.’
    James laughed.
    â€˜Seriously. It’s like the place has created a completely separate set of social norms just for him.’
    â€˜He’s in a powerful position.’
    â€˜Power the organisation has willingly handed him.’ I sat heavily in one of his armchairs. ‘The whole thing’s weird. At one end of the stethoscope he does exactly what I ask. Follows my instructions or impressions about a family to the letter, which doesn’t necessarily make me feel confident. And at the other…’ I shake my head. ‘It’s like he’s a compliant, necessary evil.’
    â€˜But exactly how evil?’ James said. ‘That’s the question.’
    â€˜He’s got that Christian thing. You know, always smiling and nice even when he’s thinking condescending, judgemental things.’
    â€˜God-lover. Send me to hell any day.’
    â€˜They’re not going to take you in hell!’ I said. ‘Your neatness, it wouldn’t be tolerated.’
    James was the one person I could talk to on that level. Two frogs amongst toads, or, of course, the other way around. The best thing was to share a client. Words were the enemy in Marlowe Downs and when you came across someone who spoke clearly and precisely, or, even better, if they spoke in your vernacular, it saved hours of tedious barking-up-the-wrong-tree. James and I would go on a hunt for what we thought might be the thread, the key, the computation of what was going on for a kid, while a considerable few would kill any enthusiasm or outside possibilities by wanting to dissect everything you meant when you said things like: The child is protecting herself against sadness, or, The child’s omnipotence has taken a road that leads south. Even worse, others actually passed over completely central and crucial points to laboriously concentrate on something unimportant, such as wanting to investigate the type of laundry detergent being used at home if the kid was bedwetting.
    James and I made an alliance without ever naming it. We bitched, we debriefed and we unofficially supervised each other. When James ran testing for me I’d repay him by seeing the mums of some of his kids. Although we probably didn’t share any more work with one another than we shared with others, it was always easier than alternate collaborations I entered into. In work and play our friendship was like a shining light on a very dull horizon.

SEVENTEEN
    I t would be nice to think that in the aftermath of separation the things people said and did could be excused as emotional flotsam, that the thoughtless comments meted out in the grief of having lost something – even if you’d been the one to drop the bundle – could be forgiven. And, while it’s true that some of the incidents between Dave and I fell into that category and were allowed to drift away without bitterness, there were others that never receded from our minds. It was these events that