The Last Summer

by Iain Crichton Smith

  A choice was killed by every childish illness,

  The boiling tears among the hothouse plants,

  The rigid promise fractured in the garden,

  And the long aunts.

  Dicky made his move and looked up at Malcolm, his eyes beginning to glitter again. Malcolm looked down at the board and knew he had lost.

  “Ah well,” he said, inwardly seething, “you’ve won again. I can’t see you losing now. You’re like Matthews. I can’t stop you.” He looked at the small green clock. “I’ll give you ten minutes to finish it off and then I’ll have to go.” Dicky looked at him without saying anything. It occurred to Malcolm that hardly anyone else came to see him.

  But be my good,

  Daily, nightly

  The game was over in less than the ten minutes. Malcolm got to his feet.

  “I’ll come and see you next Saturday, or perhaps a night during the week if I don’t have much homework.”

  Dicky leaned back and took another sip of milk, nodding his head and looking down at the board. He began slowly to put the pieces back in the box. The game had taken a lot out of him.

  “Look after yourself,” said Malcolm, with false bonhomie, “and we might get out for a walk one of these days.”

  He felt very moved and pleased with himself that he had got another visit over.

  He looked down at Dicky’s bent head. “Cheerio just now.”

  He moved out into the sunshine, getting away before Mrs Morrison could offer him tea.

  He began to run through the warm day, jumping and cavorting as he left the shadow of the house and entered the sunshine. He jumped a ditch and rushed up to his own house, travelling like the wind.

  7

  AFTER LEAVING DICKY he went and sought out Dell, whom he found sitting on a wall, carving a wooden duck with a knife.

  “Want a game?” he said.

  Dell immediately swung himself down from the wall and they went off together up the brae, over the bed of the dried stream, to the full-sized football pitch laid out with goalposts, though there were no nets.

  As they were walking along Dell said, “Saw Peggy today.”

  “Where?”

  “In a cornfield with Danny,” said Dell, spitting reflectively on the ground. “They never saw me. I watched them. Wished I had spying glasses.”

  “What were they doing?” said Malcolm, with a thrill of delight.

  “What do you think? Their arms were round each other, and they were lying down. What do you think?”

  Dell himself went about with Sheila, who lived in the house where Malcolm bought the butter. She was the small dark rank girl who was rather like Peggy: Peggy worked in a shop.

  Dell would soon start work as a cook on a fishing boat when he had finished school, as he would that year. He was in Colin’s class: neither of them did a stroke of work and were simply waiting till they could leave a building which was becoming more and more unreal for them.

  “Lawton’s a great footballer,” said Malcolm suddenly. “He’s great with the head, isn’t he?”

  “I like Carter better,” said Dell. Then, a bit later: “There’s none of them to touch Alan Morton. They called him the Blue Devil,” he added.

  They climbed the brae on the opposite side of the stream till they came to the football field.

  “Got the cork?” said Dell.

  For answer, Malcolm took it out of his pocket. It was an ordinary fishing cork whose great disadvantage as a football was that it screwed away at an angle when you hit it. They had no football. At one time they had a glossy rainbow-coloured ball but it had disappeared.

  “Pitch is dry,” said Dell, bending down and feeling it with his hand.

  “Toss for sides?” They tossed, and Malcolm won.

  They placed the cork in the centre of the field and began to play. They could keep this up for an hour if necessary on a full-sized football pitch, but it was hard going and they would be sweating like pigs before they were finished.

  Whenever Malcolm got to the football pitch he immediately forgot about everything except the game. He played right-footed and wished sometimes that he could use his left foot, but he didn’t have the patience to practise with it. The difficulty about playing on a full-sized football pitch was that after about twenty minutes, when one of them got past the other, there was no point in trying to run after him so Malcolm usually tried to conserve his energies.

  Dell was allowed to kick off. He tried to flick the ball through Malcolm’s legs but the latter, anticipating this, had brought his boots together and caught the cork between them. He flicked the cork to the right and began to run down the right wing, Dell trying to force him over the touchline.

  When he was playing, Malcolm thought of himself as Willie Waddell or Gordon Smith. Which one he was depended on what he preferred at the time. If he was in favour of skill he preferred Smith, if in favour of strength he preferred Waddell. Today he was in favour of Smith. He imagined himself graceful in green with white cuffs against a sky of deepest blue, his thin jersey winking in the wind. Forced over to the right he swung abruptly to the left, though this was awkward for him, and warding off a challenge from Dell he moved into the centre. As Dell lumbered after him he suddenly stopped dead, holding the cork under his foot. Dell careered past. He himself took the cork over to his right foot and hit it as hard as he could, but it veered past the goalpost.

  Dell placed the cork inside the penalty area and began to dribble out, eye over the cork as he had been taught. He swung over to the right, passed Malcolm and kept on going up the touchline. Suddenly he unleashed a terrific shot to gain ground and the two of them raced for the cork but Malcolm was faster and beat him to it, giving away a corner. Dell placed the ball at the corner flag (or where the corner flag would have been had there been one) and began to dribble outwards. He kicked suddenly and tried to round Malcolm but Malcolm stuck out a foot, stopped the cork and began to run as fast as he could down the right wing, his jersey billowing in the slight breeze. Now he could sense fluidity and power in his whole body, now he was impregnated with purpose and poise, now he could hear the phantom cheers from ten thousand throats; his legs suddenly blossomed with real football stockings and real shinguards. The right foot was controlling the cork. He flicked it forward, holding it as it veered over to the right, came into the penalty area and dribbled it casually into the open goal.

  One up.

  He ran back to the centre as footballers always did, looking down at the ground and feeling proud and humble at the same time. He had thought for a moment of leaving the cork at Dell’s goal as professional footballers did but thought that this would be rather unsporting and excessive in the context. Dell began again. The trouble with him was that he had no fresh ideas. Again he tried to flick the cork between Malcolm’s legs and again Malcolm stopped it. This time he held it and tried to do the same thing to Dell. He flicked the cork between Dell’s legs, sprinted round him and got away before Dell could catch up. He tried gallantly to catch Malcolm but was too late.

  Two up.

  By this time they were both puffing and blowing, their faces white and strained. But neither wanted to be the first to ask for half time. Dell centred again. Malcolm managed to stop the cork but his foot caught in the turf and the cork swung away from him. Dell seized on it immediately and using his left foot brought it under control, ran up the touchline before Malcolm could catch him and scored easily.

  Without a word being spoken they sat down on the turf, signifying half time.

  After a while, Dell said: “You going to play for the school?”

  Malcolm picked up a blade of grass, put it in his mouth and said: “I might.”

  “You should play for the village,” said Dell, the splotches of red still on his face.

  “I don’t know,” said Malcolm. “I’d like to play for the school. They travel more.”

  Of course, that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was that playing for the school was more g
lamorous and they had better strips, claret coloured with white cuffs.

  “I think you should play for the village,” Dell insisted, and added, almost reluctantly: “You’re pretty fast.”

  Dell himself would be playing for the village and, in fact, the two teams would be meeting soon in a cup game.

  “I’d play for the village if I was you,” said Dell; and then: “You should have seen Sheila the other night. I nearly …”

  He stopped talking, looking slyly at Malcolm who felt slightly disgusted yet thrilled at this talk.

  “It was coming home from the bus,” said Dell. “I put my hand on her breast and she didn’t take it away.” He continued: “Jimmy was saying he was with her in the cemetery one night.” He stopped chewing and kicked viciously at a stone. “Wish I’d got proper football boots,” he said, “yellow ones.” Then he lay down flat on his back and looked up at the sky. “Another time,” he said, “we were round at the privy behind the school you know. She’s got garters. I saw her garters. They’re pink. She sits just in front of me in the class.”

  He smiled into the sky contemplatively, his hair tousled, one leg crossed over the other.

  “She goes to the flicks two nights a week, you know. I think you should play for the village,” he added, again standing above Malcolm, who was thinking about Gordon Smith and wishing he also had a pair of yellow football boots.

  He was also thinking of Janet and wondering if he could ask her to go to the pictures with him. Somehow, Sheila and Janet seemed to belong to two different worlds. He had a feeling that Dell was not telling the truth about Sheila. She would never go to the high—she would always stay in the village school—but she was sensitive too in her way, and ambitious. He shut his eyes, feeling the heat of the sun on them.

  “One more goal,” he said. “We’ll stop whoever gets the first goal. It’s hot.”

  They lined up again (if one could use such a term) opposite each other and this time it was Malcolm’s turn to start. He feinted with the cork instead of kicking it, drew Dell over to the left and then swung over to the right. Dell recovered himself quickly and came in with a heavy shoulder charge, throwing him to the ground as the cork went into touch. Malcolm felt resentfully at his shoulder, looking up at Dell panting above him, his huge hairy legs like columns, with the stockings fallen down to his boots.

  “Hey,” he said, “watch what you’re doing.”

  But Dell didn’t say anything, his face white and determined. After a while he did speak:

  “A fair charge,” he said.

  “That’s what they do to Matthews and Gordon Smith,” said Malcolm, complainingly. “They cut them down.”

  “If you play against us for the school,” said Dell, “I’ll do it then too. It’s fair enough. Fair warning.”

  They glared at each other. Malcolm placed the cork on the touchline, diddled about without touching it, pretended to swing right and then kicked the cork through Dell’s legs. He rounded him quickly, running at great speed, not wanting to be charged again, held it, kicked it forward as far as he could, then swung in on goal before the cork could over-run the touchline. He kicked the cork into the empty goalmouth and raised his hands above his head in the gesture of victory.

  “That’s it,” he shouted triumphantly.

  “Another one,” said Dell.

  “No, we agreed,” said Malcolm, stubbornly. “We agreed.”

  “Go on. Another goal,” said Dell.

  “No, I told you we agreed. Fair’s fair.”

  “All right,” said Dell walking away, “it’s your cork.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it.” Dell’s gipsy cheeks flushed.

  “It’s got everything to do with it.” He clenched his hands against his side.

  They walked along in silence for a while and then, in an impulse of friendship, Malcolm put his hand on Dell’s shoulder but Dell turned away.

  “Want to play for the village?” he asked.

  “No,” said Malcolm.

  By the time they had climbed the other side of the stream they were on friendly terms again.

  When Malcolm got home Colin said to him, “I’ve been picked for the village team.”

  Malcolm looked at him in surprise, for Colin wasn’t really a very good footballer. In fact, he was pretty plodding, though fanatically fond of the game.

  “Good for you,” said Malcolm, unlacing his boots.

  “Do you want to go to the dance tonight?” said Colin.

  “No,” said Malcolm, without thinking. “I’ve got homework.”

  “Have you a good team in the school?” said Colin, looking speculatively into the mirror.

  “Yes, pretty good, We’ve got a chap called Ronny Black. He’s centre forward. He’s pretty good. And Murdo MacMillan, outside left. They’re about the best.”

  “Aside from yourself?”

  “Aside from myself,” said Malcolm, laughing. “Have you finished that Wild Western yet?”

  “No. It’s not very good. Not enough action. What’s that Latin stuff like?”

  “Hard,” said Malcolm, “pretty hard.” He filled a basin with water to wash his feet.

  “Old Thorny once asked me if I wanted to take Latin,” said Colin. “Imagine that.” He laughed in a way that was half dismissive, half honoured.

  “Yes,” said Malcolm, “I know that. He always does that in first year.” Casually he asked. “What position are you playing?”

  “Left half.”

  Malcolm didn’t say anything else. He knew his brother was a defensive player but he thought he would have been better on the right as he couldn’t use his left foot very well. They were only playing him on the left because it was difficult to get left-footed players anyway, and there would be plenty of better players for the right side of the field. It was very odd that Malcolm should be a better footballer than Colin since Colin was much more agile than him in most ways.

  “I’m sure you’ll keep your place,” said Malcolm, reaching out for a piece of sackcloth with which to dry his feet. “I saw Dicky this afternoon.” He gazed at his feet, which were curiously white and vulnerable like feet seen in a mediaeval picture.

  “Oh?” said Colin, combing his hair at the mirror.

  “He’s not too well. Why don’t you go and see him?”

  “I was meaning to but I didn’t have the time. I don’t know what to say to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s always reading these books of his.”

  “I see. Do you never get any homework yourself?” said Malcolm, studying his nails and wondering whether he should cut them or not.

  Colin laughed briefly, then turned round and looked at his brother. He really liked Malcolm, though he was a bit of a drip sometimes, and he was rather proud of him. If he envied him for anything it was for his football ability.

  At that moment it was curious to see them looking across at each other; Malcolm, thin faced, brown haired, ears slightly projecting, eyes brown and the brow rather narrow, Colin with the wider brow, blue eyes, ginger hair, full lips, roundish face, with the down still on it.

  Malcolm looked down at the basin again. Colin stood there with the red comb in his hand. Sometimes, moments like this came to Malcolm, moments of vision when he could see people, himself included, as if in a strange unreal place, as if he were looking across a no man’s land. Once he had been walking along the road when he stopped to allow a funeral to pass. It was actually a very long funeral and he could see the hexagonal yellow coffin quite clearly. However, there was no funeral that day, as he had found out from his mother. He had been extremely frightened when she had told him this. So it was at this moment, raising his face and watching his brother with the comb in his hand. It was almost as if he wished to stretch his hand across a great divide which he could see rapidly widening and filling with the salt sea.

  “We’d better do something about the peats soon,” said Colin, as if he were the head of the house.

>   The spell was snapped.

  8

  ON A SUNDAY afternoon Malcolm would sometimes go down to the seashore or sit on a headland overlooking the water. Often he would take a book with him and lie there on his private promontory, as if overlooking Marathon.

  He liked sitting on the headland, watching the ships sail past, metal grey, far out in the water. Sometimes through the haze he could see a convoy going past, half hidden by the heat mist. It was strange to chew a blade of grass and watch these ships. Perhaps on board one of them was a lad from the village, staring desperately towards his own village as the massive ship carried him past it over the ruled water. It was almost like seeing yourself looking back at yourself out of that mirror of exile and longing.

  At times he would think of things that had happened to him during that week. For instance, he thought of the Latin teacher, Mr Collins, drawing him aside the previous Tuesday and asking him what subjects he intended taking in the Bursary Competition, which he would be sitting that summer in order to get additional money for university. Mr Collins was a small, quick, brash man who had a forelock of reddish hair falling over the right side of his brow and who spoke like a machine gun. He came into the classroom like a tornado, the book already open in his hand, the other hand closing the door behind him, his large nose like the beak of one of his Roman ships. Rostrum …

  “Latin’s difficult,” he was saying. “Latin’s not easy, not easy at all. I sat Latin myself in the Bursary Competition. Very different from the Highers. Very different. Standard much higher than the Highers.”

  He laughed quickly as if he didn’t have too much time, not even for laughing, as if he had made a joke, but as if the joke were a concession to barbarism.

  “I once got 106 out of 100 in a paper in the university, but I didn’t get that in the Bursary Competition. Don’t believe me, eh? But it’s true. I got 106 marks out of 100. You’ll have to work hard, you know. No substitute for hard work. What are the subjects you’re thinking of taking?”

  “English, mathematics, history, as well as Latin,” said Malcolm, sniffing the resin in Mr Collins’ small room and gazing at the white head of what could have been Cicero or Vergil.