The Last Summer

by Iain Crichton Smith

  Lord, how hot it was. Two girls went past him, their heels tap-tapping on the road. Another few minutes. No sign of her yet. He would wait here. No, he wouldn’t go down to the cinema. He would wait. He would wait till quarter past two and then he’d decide. Ronny had told him that she was always early. The sun was blazing down on him, and he could feel the sweat at the back of his neck. He squinted down at the ground, at his left shoe, and was reminded that this was a mannerism of Ronny’s. He felt like running. I’ll go along now. I’ll play in that game. I’ll play him into the ground. He felt his body winged for flight. What could he not do? How he would run! With what power he would run!

  And then he saw her from the brae above the cinema. She was standing outside the cinema looking up at the trailers. She must have come by some other road. He stood watching her, she unaware of him. She had a glossy black handbag slung over her arm. She absent mindedly touched her hair looking casually around her, waiting. Should she not be watching if Ronny was playing? But, of course he was playing. It was she who had decided that she would come, not Ronny.

  The clock showed a few minutes past. He must hurry. What was he going to do? If he did go to the cinema with her, what would Ronny say? Would he say he had won? Had he instructed her to be early—as she was—so that the last exit would be closed? After all she was really rather early. She was standing looking up towards him, though she couldn’t see him against the dazzle of the sun. He couldn’t move. He was going towards her but found that he hadn’t moved. All the time his mind was going round and round. “If I go, and Ronny and she spend their evenings laughing at me? Is that what it will end up as? But then she looks so desirable in her yellow dress, her bare legs. Will she report everything to Ronny? Is this all it is, an experiment on his part? Will she tell him about my gaucheness? Can I believe her? Is that what she is? Another gossip?”

  She was looking at her watch and then straight into the sun as if she were expecting him to come from that direction. She looked beautiful in her summer frock with the handbag over her arm in the blazing fire of the sun. He walked towards her. She saw him and waited for him. As he came up to her she looked at her watch but didn’t say anything. The clock above her said eleven minutes past two. He looked from her to the cinema and was overcome with a feeling of desolation. She was standing there so poised and arrogant and blazing and suddenly he knew that he wouldn’t be going to the cinema after all. It was a dream. That darkness was all a dream.

  The cinema doors were opening. The commissionaire was standing there in his bright plumage and then suddenly he began to walk away from her. And then he began to run into the light towards the football ground. She shouted after him “Malcolm,” but he didn’t listen. He wanted to throw it all away, true or false. It was more heroic after all. He wanted to lose her. It was necessary to lose her. She shouted only once. He found himself in among a crowd of people going to the match, all jammed together. He tried to get out but the road was so narrow and there were so many people. He looked back and saw her turning away. He made as if to go back but an old man with a stick was waving it at him, “Look where you’re going, can’t you? No respect nowadays. No respect for the old.” He bent to help him and all the time the old man was showing white spittle at his mouth. There was no one at the cinema now. He got out of the crowd and ran back. What had he been thinking of? What heroic gesture did he think he was making, like a corny Western hero? There were two or three streets she could have gone down. She might even have gone into the cinema. He ran up to the door of the cinema and saw a drowsy-looking commissionaire. “Tell me, did a young girl just go in?” The commissionaire looked down at him from a great height. “No young lady, sir.” Then he stared impenetrably out to sea. Malcolm dashed away from the cinema. He saw a small car race past. In it, he could have sworn, was Ronny—and Janet. Was Ronny leaning towards her and smiling? It couldn’t be true. It must be a mistake, a trick of the light. Had Ronny known exactly what he would do all the time? He rushed down another street but could see no one except two old ladies in black talking earnestly. Janet was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it really had been she in the car. He looked at his watch, swaying. Fifteen minutes. What should he do? Go to the match? Hunt for her?

  He ran up towards the park. That must have been the two of them in the car all right. How else could she have disappeared so quickly? He pushed his way in among the people, made an opening and was soon at the gates of the park. The spectators were already crowding round the touchline. He was about to sprint for the dressing-room when he stopped. Colin would be in there waiting. He would be putting on his boots ready to go out. And soon the two teams would be coming out, the school team with Ronny at their head. Who was that at the far end of the field. Was it Janet? The dark hair shining in the sunlight. Up near that goalpost, the right-hand one. He ran towards her. He could see her, hair shining against the sun, her yellow dress. It must be her. It could have been the two of them in that car all the time. How could one not recognise that face of Ronny’s, that cool, calculating face? But now perhaps if he confronted her and asked her again. That might surprise her. She wouldn’t expect that. Now there was the team out, Ronny not yet to be seen. There was a loud cheer. The yellow ball was thrown forward on to the green turf. He should be out there. He had three minutes left. He sprinted towards the dressing-room, which was just behind her. But as he passed he saw that it wasn’t Janet after all. It was Sheila. And as he stood gazing at her in amazement and confusion he saw the village team running out in their maroon strips and his brother third from the front, looking round at the spectators, and appearing rather nervous, his slightly freckled face white. And he thought: Well that’s solved.

  Sheila said: “Look who’s here.”

  27

  HE STOOD BESIDE her. Her hand was gently resting on the rail. She said:

  “I thought you’d be playing. Why aren’t you playing?”

  He said nothing, thinking about why he had left Janet. Ahead of them the game was in motion. He could see Colin dancing up and down and knew that he was very nervous. “I don’t care whether you have a good game or not,” he thought. “I don’t care about anything.” Ronny arrogantly straddled the middle of the field like a god. Only he was capable of going with Janet. Only he was capable of loving her on equal terms. Only he had the power. Was that Janet over at the other goalposts or was it another reflection of Sheila?

  “No,” he said, “I got out of it.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s queer.”

  Their hands rested beside each other, touched. Colin cleared the ball at the same moment and then Malcolm knew that he was going to have a good game. He himself didn’t look much at the game after that.

  “Do you want to watch this?” he said roughly.

  “Why, don’t you?” said Sheila in surprise.

  “No. Come on, let’s go to the flicks.” He sounded masterful because he didn’t care whether she came or not. “You can see the team when they come off the bus. It’ll last an hour and a half and anyway they won’t go home at once.”

  “But …” she began.

  “We can see the first picture anyway and then you can come back if you like.”

  “If that’s what you want,” she said. They made their way through the crowd over to the wrought iron gates, which were open. He saw the ball rising in the air and then turned away.

  They walked in step down the street till they came to the cinema. It was still as hot as ever but the streets were deserted like a frontier Western town. His feet were blazing after his run to the pitch. He looked down at her black shoes and then upwards to her stockings. Their shoes clicked along together.

  “Mind you,” she said, “I’d have liked to watch the game.” She glanced sideways at him coquettishly.

  He took her arm and then she put it in his. He was very tense and fed up. They came to the cinema and he stopped at the spot where Janet had stood. Already it was like a significant monument in his life. Sheila stood beside him
for a moment at the very same spot while he dug into his pocket for money for the tickets.

  “Come on,” he said, still half roughly, and they walked in.

  “I have to go to the place,” she said as he paid for their tickets.

  He nodded. He waited for her in the foyer, studying the next coming attraction which showed Bob Hope and Bing Crosby wearing white hats, dancing in step, each of them with a cigarette in his mouth. They walked up the stairs together. They went up to the back seat. He let her go in first and then he followed, finding the cinema dark after the bright dazzling light outside. There were a few people in but not many. In front of him a couple were clasped together tightly.

  A voice was coming from the screen. “You’re a spy, Englander.” Surprised, he turned his eyes to the picture. The Western must be coming on later unless they had started putting Nazis into Westerns. A Nazi, all silver, was standing looking down at a man in a chair. He had a proud arrogant bearing and bright eyes. They sat in a little constraint for a while. Then he tentatively put his arm around her. She put her hand on his shoulder, sighing. After a time they were sitting cheek to cheek.

  “Englander, you tried to get the plans but you failed. You are now in our hands. You will discover what happens when you spy on the Reich.”

  Cheek to cheek they watched the screen, Sheila chewing steadily so that his cheek moved as she chewed.

  The Englander was pulled to his feet. His tie was askew and his shirt open at the back. The silver Nazi lashed him across the face.

  Malcolm’s hand stole up and down her side while she crept closer. “I’ll be coming in on Saturday as usual,” he said, “to play draughts.” The thickness of his voice seemed to give the ordinary phrase a different meaning.

  The Englander rocked back on his heels from the blow. A man came up and saluted theatrically.

  “Herr Oberleutnant,” he said curtly.

  “What ees it?” in gutturals.

  “English planes reported approaching in mass, Herr Oberleutnant. They are attacking the oil installations.”

  The children at the front began to cheer frantically. Malcolm could hear someone saying “Ssh.” The two of them were kissing now. He could feel her heart beating so strongly that it was like a hammer against his chest. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. Her eyes were half closed as he remembered having happened once before. She seemed to have gone all heavy in his arms. He put his arm all the way round her so that they were clasped together as tightly as they could be. His hand rested on her knee.

  A roar came from the screen. Flash of bombers going in, fighters engaging each other in the sky, the sign of the swastika. Flak, gunners at their anti-aircraft guns. A face in a cockpit in a black helmet. A parachute opening like a flower or an umbrella, drifting, twisting.

  His hand crept above her knee. She made a small sound. Her hands caressed the hair at the back of his neck.

  “It will not save you, Englander. You directed these planes here. It was you. You shall pay for it.”

  The silver Nazi had a gun in his hand. With the other he was scooping documents into his pocket.

  They were wound so tightly in each other’s arms that they could hardly breathe.

  “Do you love me?” she said suddenly out of the darkness.

  “Of course,” he said, kissing her nose. “Of course I love you,” he said thinking of something else, his hand exploring. Her hand tried to stop him weakly, then gave up the struggle.

  “We’ll play draughts,” he said to her in that voice.

  “Yes.”

  But all the time his mind was somewhere else.

  A shot rang out from the screen. Three men had burst the door open and were firing with sten guns, crouching. “Come on, Harrison, let’s get out of here. We haven’t got much time.”

  “It’s no good, fellows, we’ll never get away.”

  “Come on.”

  The door opened. “Herr Oberleutnant …” and then the sten gun opened fire and the silver figure with the high collar collapsed. Crescendo of cheering from the front, crescendo of music.

  Their hands were clutched together under the skirt. She sat up suddenly and pushed her hair back.

  “Oh really, you are a one.” He turned away. He handed her a piece of chocolate, his eyes on the screen. The picture faded away and in its place the credits from the Western were rolling up.

  She kept her hand on his arm. The credits rolled on. “You’ll write to me when you get to university?” she said.

  “Yes,” knowing he wouldn’t.

  “I’ll be expecting you to, remember.” She laughed as if she had said something funny. She took out a comb and began to comb her hair.

  A Western rider was standing on a hill looking down at a town. He and his horse were perfectly still, outlined against the sky. Malcolm’s interest was caught by the perfect repose.

  “Malcolm.”

  “Sh. Don’t you want to watch this?”

  “All right.” She snuggled against him but not quite so close as before, though in a more possessive manner.

  The rider was riding down the slope towards the town. He rode clattering up the one street. The people in the street looked at him as he passed, tall and proud in his black hat and black jerkin. One man was tying a horse to a railing, looked up at him, then down again. Suddenly, when the rider had passed, he scuttled along to the saloon. The rider tethered his horse to a rail and gave it an affectionate clap, took down his saddle roll and entered a small hotel. He banged a bell and a man came to him, a little old man with bowed legs and a sharp expression.

  “Room please?” said the rider.

  “Fer how long?”

  “One night.”

  The hotel keeper looked up at him with the same quick glance, and then took out a book. “Sign here, feller.”

  The rider hesitated. It was clear that he wasn’t going to write his own name. Then he took his saddle roll up to his moth-eaten room with the fly-speckled mirror and stood staring for a long time into it. He adjusted his guns in front of the glass, gave his hat a twitch and walked down the stair on high rotating heels.

  “That’s Gary Cooper,” said Sheila.

  “No it isn’t,” said Malcolm warmly. “Fathead.”

  She laughed a little in her throat.

  Shot of a saloon. The rider pushed batwing doors open. People at the table looked up, including a man wearing a green eye-shade who was sitting with a hand of cards. The arrogant rider looked slowly round before ordering. How beautiful he was, thought Malcolm, how beautiful. Casual. Competent. A girl wearing red and with gold hair was staring at him through half-closed eyes, and smoking a cigarette. She walked over. “Howdy, stranger.”

  “Howdy,” said the stranger indifferently, turning away to his drink, cupping the glass in his hand.

  She put her hand on his arm. “You here long, stranger?”

  “No, passing through.”

  “Looking for Whitey?” she looked up into his eyes.

  “Mebbe. Mebbe not.”

  “What do you think will happen next?” said Sheila.

  “They’ll fight at the end. They’ll have a duel at the end,” he said. “On the sidewalk.”

  “He killed my kid brother, Whitey. Look, you keep out of this.”

  “You’ll be killed.”

  “Up to him, if he’s quick enough.” Indifferently.

  And so on till the end.

  Whitey and the black stranger are standing together at the bar. The stranger says, “Drink, Whitey. One for the road.” Lazy but watchful.

  “One for the road, pardner,” says Whitey laughing, more open, more reckless. “It was an accident. He tried to gun me down but I don’t reckon you’ll believe me.”

  “Drink up, Whitey. One for the road.”

  They walk out, Blackie first, to show that he isn’t afraid, Whitey next, his hands hovering over his guns, that rolling walk.

  The sidewalk. “I’m coming for you, Whitey, are you ready?” I
n the sunlight.

  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  They draw. Whitey falls. The girl in red—Brenda—runs out. She puts her arms round Blackie. “Oh, Lord, I’m glad you’re safe.” She brushes her hand against his jacket.

  “I said I was passing through, Brenda.”

  “Yes, but you’re finished now, aren’t you. You can stay as long as you like.”

  “Sorry. Got to go. You know how it is. Someone waiting for me over there,” pointing across the blue hills. He gets up on his horse, the townspeople gaping, most of them with bad teeth. He waves his hand just once as the horse clatters over the cobbles. He climbs the hill to where he was at the beginning. And then he is lost on the other side of the blue crests. Music.

  The two of them walked together downstairs into the blinding sunlight, so bright it hurts their eyes.

  He looks at her. She looks at him.

  “Look,” he says, “I’ve got something to do.”

  “Aren’t you coming on the bus then? Don’t you want to hear how the game went?”

  “No, I made an appointment. Do you know Dicky? I said I’d go and see him. You know Dicky. He’s in the sanatorium.”

  “Dicky? Yes, of course. Can I come with you?”

  “To the sanatorium?” he said. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “What for? I can go if you can.”

  He stopped thinking. “What about Dell?” he said. “Aren’t you going with him? He might be expecting you on the bus.”

  “No, I’m not going with Dell.”

  “Don’t you want to hear if they won?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No. I’m finished with football.”

  “What ever for?”

  “I’m not going to play again, that’s all. And when I go to university I’m going to do maths.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you want to come then?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right then. Come on. It’s a good walk from here. We might see them on the way.”