‘Don’t fwet Chwissy.’ Malise smiled. ‘We have to fend for ourselves in the big world. No more sitting around listening to Just William.’
Most days Malise wandered in the garden and took stock of its charm – noting that it was extremely well tended. It was filled with a mixture of flowers, vegetables, (mostly looked after by Christian), bamboos, grasses and fruit trees. He had learnt that it was almost entirely cared for by one toothless old man. Not extravagant, he noted. Alyson did her bit and even the ageing father pruned roses in summer months. The trees were fluffed out with blossom and the smell of lilies was stupefying. Against one wall stood a creaking greenhouse, bulging with ripening grapes. Altogether a reasonable inheritance. Nothing tremendous, of course, but some of his school mates lived in town terraces.
One afternoon he heard Alyson say, as she led a visiting neighbour, a Mrs Ruggles who came to take cuttings, round the paths ‘We own, they say, two hundred acres.’
The Ruggles family owned two thousand acres and lived in a truly impressive house. Mrs Ruggles had smiled in discreet pride as Alyson told her about their modest plot and Malise squirmed with shame on behalf of his father and his illustrious ancestors.
Malise’s mother’s teaching had not taken root and, only last term, he had responded to a tract, smuggled in by Mr Scarlatti, on positive atheism by Bertrand Russell. This tract told him that his mother had barked up the wrong tree. Christian would do well to change his name. His own was less telling to the world at large.
6
Christian, clutching his Teddy bear, was terrified. He started his first term at boarding school while Malise made it clear that they were to see little of each other. ‘Learn to stand on your own two feet’, he advised as the train stopped at the school station before they shuffled off it with their trunks.
Mr Scarlatti, frustrated to a point of near madness by the emotional remoteness of his protégé, (although rewarded to have interested him in the works of Bertrand Russell and to have, therefore, something with him to discuss – in however a stately way) was dreadfully disappointed by the appearance of his brother. He was not entirely sure what he had expected. What he saw was a boy, low-browed, ruddy-cheeked, and lacking in coordination. Shy, awkward and unhappy. A poor replica of the Adonis he had come to worship.
Nothing much developed for any of them during that term. Mr Scarlatti’s disappointment, Malise’s interest in atheism and Christian’s lonely misery were the features that distinguished it from other terms.
At home, Alyson made suggestions as her husband listened obediently.
‘Don’t you think, dear, it’s time that Malise mixed with some of the young round here? He will, by the time the Christmas holidays come round, have that lovely kilt and I am willing, as you know, to drive him to any local hops.’
She had actually already heard about a ‘hop’ to take place during Christmas week. It was to be thrown by Mrs Ruggles (the one who Alyson had boasted to about her two hundred acres) and it was known that Mrs Ruggles was frantic to gather in some boys to partner her daughter and two of her nieces. Some suitable ‘lads’.
The term moved slowly for both boys. For Christian because he was homesick. For Malise due to impatience after hearing from Alyson that he had been invited to no fewer than two ‘hops’ in the holidays, by which time his kilt would have arrived.
‘They say’ Alyson had written ‘That the Ruggleses live in some style and it will be a good introduction for you in this part of the world.’
7
The evening of the ‘hop’ came round. As luck went, it was on a Monday evening and Alyson, having driven Malise to the Ruggles’s house, was able to get back in time to listen, with Christian, to their favourite programme after making him a mug of Ovaltine.
Earlier, Alyson had learnt that reels were going to be danced and had passed the news on to her stepson by postcard. Malise had, with the help of Mr Scarlatti – who strained every muscle in his body in order to please – discovered a Scottish reel expert to teach steps in secret towards the end of the term. He learnt how to dance some of the more popular ones and became particularly expert at reversing.
With Alyson at the wheel, they followed a drive, flanked by iron railings, to a sweep in front of a house that had once been a small manor – added to before the first war to produce several handsome panelled rooms and some columns at the front.
Once inside, Malise was much taken by a large hall from which a staircase wound up. A great fire roared. There were several heads of game on the walls, bunches of holly hanging from them. A tall tree stood in the well of the stairs, an angel on the top. He was greeted by Mrs Ruggles – all curls and teeth – as Alyson slipped away.
The hostess, as were others, were astounded by Malise’s appearance. More handsome than any had, or had ever expected, to see. He was contented in his kilt. All guests were offered fruit cup and vol-au-vents. ‘To warm you up’ Mrs Ruggles said although both the cup and the vol-au-vents were cold. Mr Ruggles was nowhere to be seen.
After the introductions (there were more girls than boys and one or two of the girls wore white frocks and coloured sashes – ready for reels) they were all summoned into a large room in which the carpet had been rolled back. There was a huge radiogram in there and by its side stood a lad, the gardener’s son who manned it, dropping in eight records at one go.
The music began and Mrs Ruggles touched Malise’s arm. ‘The one with the blue sash. You can partner her for the Gay Gordons.’ She was already a bit rattled and picked out the first girl who looked animated.
His kilt rippled as he kept impeccable time, paying particular attention to his reversing skills. The girl with the blue sash did well too and, when the reels were over, they sat together and sipped fruit cup and ate more of the vol-au-vents – ignoring all others.
The girl, not more than fifteen years old, wriggled and squirmed as they talked of local spots. Her lips parted and her bosom heaved as she lost her being in the aura of the handsomest boy she had ever seen – even in advertisements.
Reels were over and the gardener’s son, much enjoying himself, plopped dance tunes, a Viennese Waltz or two included, into the machine. Shy and agonised teenagers moved again towards the patch of floor from which the carpet had been rolled up. Several girls were left without partners (the hostess’s daughter and one of the visiting nieces among them) and talked frenziedly to each other as they stuffed more and more vol-au-vents between their discreetly painted lips.
Malise signalled to the girl by his side. ‘Shall we tread a gay measure?’
He decided that he was not the sort of partner who cared to talk while dancing but wished to fit himself to a correct style with a flourish at the turns. They danced and Malise held the girl, whose name was Dawn, around her waist. She began to writhe, to heave and to quiver all over. Steamed and all but exploded as Malise realized that he was having trouble beneath his kilt. Noticing no others, the pair sweated and became ecstatic. They danced and danced – Dawn in a state of bewildered blindness;|Malise not bewildered exactly – but blind to surroundings. This went on until Mrs Ruggles announced ‘Now. Dancing over.’
She had spotted the writhing but showed no outward sign of anguish other than to send a message via one of her daughters to Mr Ruggles who hid in his study. His presence was needed immediately.
A sheepish and diminutive Mr Ruggles, at the side of his wife, spoke hesitantly. ‘Dancing over and now a bit more to eat before your parents join us all for a nightcap and then take you all home.’
Malise gave Dawn a vague look – as to bestow a promise. He forced his eyes to water as they gazed into hers.
‘Here come the parent-birds’ Mrs Ruggles shouted as the front door opened and middle aged couples – Alyson among them – arrived, bringing with them an icy draught.
Alyson had no idea why Mrs Ruggles was less friendly than before but did not query Malise’s social skills.
After fruit salad and meringues, the fathers were offered a
glass of whisky each by the unwilling and desiccated Mr Ruggles.
Alyson, her double chin wobbling, wanted to hear more about the evening as they sat beside each other in the car but Malise was still uncomfortable in his kilt and offered little in the way of answer.
‘Did you join in the reels dear?’
‘Yes. Yes. I did.’
‘One or two of the girls were pretty weren’t they?’
‘Yes. Yes. They were.’
‘I expect you enjoyed the music and getting to know some neighbours.’
‘Yes. Yes. I did.’
Small reward for all the ferrying she had done.
After he had folded his clothes in the bathroom, Malise placed the sporran beside the kilt and noticed a scrap of paper peeping from it. It gave the name ‘Dawn Willis’ as well as an address. She did, he realised, live not unreasonably far away.
When he had cleaned his teeth he called out to Alyson who was in the passage wearing a pink bath cap, ‘Did you say there was to be another ‘hop’ before Christmas?’
‘Yes dear. I’m pleased you enjoyed it. The next one won’t be quite as splendid as the Ruggleses but it will do you good to mingle with the young again. It’s a lovely neighbourhood.’
Christian pretended to be asleep when Malise switched on the overhead light. Although Alyson had always done her best to mother the boys she had never got round to helping them out with bedside lamps. Malise had removed his copy of the Bible – once hopefully placed beside his bed by his mother. It had been replaced by Bertrand Russell’s Why I Am Not A Christian.
Christian’s much studied holy book still sat on his spindly table. As did his Teddy bear.
8
Christmas drew near. Alyson answered the telephone as the four of them lunched in the kitchen. The others heard her say ‘No sign of it here. Well. You may be right. Better safe than sorry but Malise will be disappointed.’
The second ‘hop’ had been cancelled owing to the threat of a snow storm. Nothing had been forecast on the wireless. Malise was perplexed, as were they all.
Alyson tried to comfort him. ‘They say it might be here in time for Christmas. I daresay they didn’t want to risk it.’
He decided to call on Dawn. He had looked up her address on an ordnance survey map – translating it from the poorly written scrap she had popped into his sporran.
Wearing boots but with shoes strung around his neck, he set forth. He pulled on his only overcoat – dark brown and with a belt across the back of it. Might Dawn come to life again as she had on the dance floor? Having walked for two miles he arrived at the front door of a farm house – a large one – not unlike the one he proposed to own. Perhaps the farms matched? He rang the bell. Dawn’s father came to the door and instantly recognised Malise. He had been the parent to fetch his daughter from the Ruggles’s ‘hop’ and realised that there stood the young man to have so disturbed Dawn that fatal evening. She had not been the same since. Her simpering, pert prettiness had faded into a grumpy, pasty one and she seldom spoke.
‘Hello there,’ he said.
Malise, thrown by the look he was given, cleared his throat and asked if he might be granted a moment with the daughter of the house.
Dawn’s father made as if to shut the door on him but Malise hadn’t finished.
‘Might you know if your daughter is to attend the party tomorrow? People called Haslip?’
Door still open by a crack, he answered ‘yes, as far as I know. Is that all?’
It wasn’t snowing and it didn’t look as if it was going to.
He trudged, deflated almost for the first time in his life, across the fields.
As he swung himself over a style he heard Dawn panting up behind him and squeaking slightly. She caught up and, after they had both crossed the style, he hooked her arm in his – as curious to see her in woolly clothing as she was to see him without his kilt. It neared the shortest day of the year.
His home barn was as likely to be as safe as anywhere unless, by unlucky chance, Christian lurked around there.
Malise tried a joke. ‘What about a bit of a barn dance?’
Dawn needed no joke to encourage her.
The inside of the barn was cold, dark and uncomfortable. A scary bull looked in from the paddock but there was no sign of Christian lurking.
Malise left his shoes there for later collection. No point in carrying them to and fro. He walked Dawn home, or nearly. Not near enough to be spotted by her father. He promised to write to her but never did so.
9
‘Malise. We were looking for you dear.’ Alyson was agitated. ‘It’s after six and dark.’
The cancellation of the second ‘hop’ remained a puzzle at the farmhouse and it was not until many months later that she discovered it to have taken place. By that time it was too late to make attempts to get to the bottom of the mystery.
Nothing startling happened to either boy during the following two terms or holidays. Malise was a trifle nervous of being tracked down by Dawn when he was at home. He hankered after her body but dreaded her company. He was safe, however, for she had been placed under strict curfew by her parents when it was known that the young ‘neighbours’ were around.
Malise was grateful to Dawn for proving to him that he would, at a later stage, be able to interact with girls and imagined himself cutting a dash at debutante parties when the moment came in the not too distant future. With his looks and lineage he was sure to get many invitations.
But, by the summer of 1937, there were threats of war. A terrible war seemed likely.
To Mr Scarlatti’s sorrow, Malise had not done well in his studies. Besides the motorbike, he had developed an almost obsessive interest in atheism combined with science. His examination results were poor. That, however, made little difference to the lottery of his future for, before the end of his school-leaving year, he had been called up and sent to a military training camp where he clean forgot to ponder on the views and fate of Bertrand Russell.
10
Malise was interviewed for a rifle regiment and started, democratically, at a barracks near Lewes in Sussex. Until that time he had never felt affection for anyone. His family were passable and Mr Scarlatti had been useful but not one amongst them had ever excited his sympathy.
He appeared haughty. At his first inspection the Sergeant Major asked ‘has a camel been shitting on your boots?’
Malise was taken aback by that. His boots were perfectly clean and he imagined the man to be joking so, clearing his throat as was his wont, he decided to reply in the same vein.
‘Yes Sergeant. I bumped into one outside the latrine.’ That went down badly. The Sergeant Major sneered at him and told him not to be facetious. Malise almost accepted, then, that he was no good at jokes.
His emotions had been underfed and stunted by his bible-bashing mother, his silent and withdrawn father, his heavily built step-mother and his slow, simple doting brother. Not that Christian was exactly stupid. He had begun to show signs of ability to learn in some areas and occasional flickers of sly cunning shone in his dull eyes.
Later at a training Battalion in the North, Malise found himself swallowed up in mechanical tasks that interested him and in daily contact with boys from a very different background to the one he had known.
It was uncomfortable and there were many rough cadets – but he got on well enough with them. He began to be accepted although his looks and demeanour were intimidating. One night a boy urinated all over his face whilst the others gathered round the hard bed and asked, ‘What do you think of us lot?’
Malise, not knowing where he had picked up such language, answered ‘I think you are all bloody, fucking idiots,’ whereupon they all clapped and said ‘He’s one of us after all.’ That was the nearest moment that Malise had ever come to happiness.
Then came the war. He was called up.
He lived through horrible things. Death, wounds, guns, tanks, pain and despair. For much of that time he was in Italy
as retreating Germans fought back. His kilt and Dawn were almost forgotten but not the memory of experiences on the dance floor or in his father’s barn. He often pined for a woman’s body and, by chance, occasionally found one on farms in Italy. He took a great fancy to Italy and to the courage and virtues of its inhabitants – although he deplored the fact that so many cigarettes were smoked by the denizens of that, otherwise, magical country.
11
He returned, a young and handsome man, as a Captain and with the brotherhood of war swiftly forgotten.
Back at the farm it was clear that he was expected to sleep in his old, shared bedroom.
Christian, although he had worked sturdily and single-handedly on the farm, had become stout. His eyes were not strong and he had been excused from the army – sleeping alone in his double bedroom but for the Bible and the Teddy bear. He had though, when summoned, done his bit for the Home Guard and a letter of thanks from a local authority, framed by himself, was propped up on the table between the beds.
It read ‘Dear Mr Mc Hip, Now that hostilities are over we want to send you a little token present in gratitude and pride for all you have been doing in these long years of war and we ask you to accept the enclosed postal order for thirty shillings with our best wishes for a time of prosperity and peace.’
Malise sneered and asked, ‘what did you do when I was fighting? Cleaned out the odd ditch and walked the dog, I suppose.’
Patricia and Malise Page 2