Poor Angus

by Robin Jenkins

  Angus had to keep tears out of his eyes.

  Janet then went off on a tour of the other bedrooms. She chose one at the front with a view of the sea-loch. ‘Would you bring up my suitcase, please? I’d like to change into jeans and walking shoes. They’re more suitable if we’re going to climb cliffs.’

  He had said nothing about climbing cliffs.

  5

  When he was gone, puffing from the exertion of carrying her suitcase up the stairs, she opened it and took out the coloured photograph of Douglas. Where Angus’s father looked anxious, as if afraid that his happiness was going to be taken away from him, Douglas looked self-assured to the point of cockiness, with nothing in the world, or out of it, threatening or daunting him. He scoffed when she told him what she had discovered with her second sight, that he was one of the lucky ones, favoured from birth; but it was true. He thought that his success, at golf and in his profession, was entirely owing to his own merits, but promotion had come to him more rapidly than to others equally hard-working and proficient, and he had beaten better golfers by what he himself called inspired play and his opponents a series of flukes.

  It was a great disappointment to her that though an Elect he was utterly lacking in a sense of mystery. His golf clubs were his evidence that in inanimate things there was no magic: if a ball was well struck it travelled far and straight; if hooked or sliced it flew into the rough. And if people were sensible they would come to no harm: if they were foolish they deserved what they got.

  He considered golf not only a game but a religion – did it not have a book of rules as thick as a Bible? – and if he put love-making on the same level of importance, what was she complaining about? The trouble was, she found it hard to explain what she wanted from him as a lover. When she had called him a crocodile, she had not been referring to his demands on her when she was not in the mood – though no doubt female crocodiles were crawled upon without being asked – nor to his grunts, nor the smell off his breath, whisky in his case usually, rotten meat perhaps, in the crocodile’s, nor the abrupt endings just when she was arranging some romantic situation in her mind, nor his going to sleep immediately afterwards, with snores of contentment. What she had meant was his belief that a woman who enjoyed love-making, or even wanted to enjoy it, was immoral. He had claimed to have read that in the Bible somewhere.

  A crocodile, whatever its attitude to its offspring, made no attempt to prevent their conception. Douglas did not want children until he was 30. What could be more disenchanting than the furtive slipping on of a contraceptive?

  If he had been an ordinary man, like his fellow golfers, she would have borne her disappointment, as golfers’ wives had to bear theirs. She had not expected him to perform miracles or have a golden umbilicus or be extraordinary in any obvious way, but she had looked for some spiritual quality, and so far had looked in vain.

  When she had surprised him and Cissie McDade in the sitting-room practising putting, with no clothes on, what had disgusted her most was how silly, cringing, and common he had looked, like any other man caught in the same circumstances.

  If he had stood up boldly, like a Greek hero, his hand his fig leaf, and with his other hand pointed the putter at her like a magic wand such as Perseus might have possessed, she would not have gone down on her knees exactly, nor would she have forgiven him without his doing penance, but in her heart she would have admired and adored him. As it was he had let her grab the putter from him and hit him on the left shin with it. The blow he had struck her in retaliation had been that of a lamed golfer, not of a Chosen One roused to wrath.

  Here he was, in the photograph, smiling at her brazenly, his brown hair expensively coiffured and his little moustache neatly trimmed. His blue blazer with the golf club crest on it in gold, and his tie to match, and his white shirt, were all the best money could buy. If his after-shave could have been smelled, it would have overcome the fragrance of incense now strong in the room. If his hands had been visible, his cufflinks would have been seen to be of gold, and his fingers expertly manicured. He patronised an establishment whose assistants were nubile young women in thin pink overalls.

  She put the photograph on the dressing-table, and then began to rummage through the drawers. Douglas would have rebuked her. He was a staunch respecter of other people’s property, in order that they would respect his. It was easy for him really, because he wasn’t interested in other people or their property. Janet, on the contrary, even as a child, had been interested in other people’s lives; indeed she had been accused of trying to run them.

  In one of the drawers she came upon, wrapped in tissue paper, two feminine garments, one a sleeved blouse, the other a long skirt, both red with black designs. She had seen pictures in magazines of Eastern women wearing clothes like these. Was the skirt called a sarong? There was a perfume off them, musky but not unpleasant. She was sure they had belonged to Fidelia. She soon found that they could well have, so far as size was concerned, for, quickly stripping to bra and pants, she put them on, finding the blouse too wide across the bosom and the skirt too slack across the buttocks. In spite of their poor fit, the strange clothes made her feel strange. She was no longer Janet Maxwell, suburban housewife, who lived in a semi-detached villa called Blaven in Clarkston, did the washing on Monday, the hoovering on Tuesday, the supermarket shopping on Wednesday, other shopping on Thursday, was taken on Saturday evening to a golf-club function, and on Sunday went to church with her next-door neighbour Maggie Brown, whose husband also was a golfer. She was instead a hostess in a night-club in Manila, entertaining swarthy millionaires. Wailing music coming up from below and the smell of incense gave backing to her fantasy.

  There she was, hardly herself, far away in imagination, when suddenly a fit of second sight came upon her: her scalp turned icy cold. Forced to the window, she looked out. On the grass in front of the house was a tall woman she recognised as Angus’s Fidelia, though she was wearing European dress, a blue coat with a white skirt under it. There was someone with her, a small girl of about ten, whose face and legs looked all the darker because of her white coat and the white ribbon in her hair. Though they were visions they were as clear as the ewe that ran past, with its two lambs.

  The woman was Fidelia, but who was the little girl? Was Angus reluctant to talk about his relationship with Fidelia because they had had a child? It would account for his evident feelings of shame – he must have deserted the child – and also for his providing himself with so many guardians. Several times Janet had been about to ask him what he was afraid of. Had she now found out?

  She shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the apparitions had gone.

  She had to sit down on the bed, so weak were her legs.

  Should she tell Angus that Fidelia was coming, and bringing their daughter with her? He would not want to believe her but when they did come he would be prepared.

  He was calling up that lunch was ready.

  She changed into jeans and went down.

  He had been busy. The table was set in the dining-room. There were plates of chopped melon, coconut, banana, pineapple, lettuce, and tomato. A bottle of white wine stood in a pewter bucket full of water.

  ‘I hope you like curry,’ he said. ‘Malayan. Not as hot as Indian.’

  ‘It smells very nice.’

  ‘Would you like a sherry?’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t drink.’

  She had to tell him. She had to pass on the message. That was why it had been given to her.

  ‘Has Fidelia got a sister?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about her.’

  ‘But I have to. I saw her, just five minutes ago, outside the house. She had a little girl with her.’

  She read his face. He was annoyed with her for talking about Fidelia and he was trying to remember if he had told her about the little girl.

  ‘They’re coming here,’ she said.

  ‘Those two monks you said you saw, are they coming here too?’

 
‘They’re different. They’re here all the time. Who is the little girl? Is she your daughter, yours and Fidelia’s?’

  ‘No, she isn’t.’

  ‘But she’s Fidelia’s. They looked like mother and daughter.’

  ‘She’s Fidelia’s. Fidelia’s married, or I should say has a husband. She hasn’t seen him for years. He lives in Manila. He owns nightclubs and brothels. Letty’s his daughter.’

  She frowned, thinking he was making fun of her. ‘You’re joking aren’t you, about him being the owner of brothels?’

  ‘Vice is a lucrative trade in the Philippines. It is also respectable.’

  ‘Have you ever met him?’

  ‘No. Now shall we sit down and enjoy lunch?’

  They sat down.

  ‘If he’s so nasty and she hasn’t seen him for years, why doesn’t she get a divorce?’

  ‘She’s a devout Catholic. She does not believe in divorce.’

  ‘Is that why you left her behind?’

  He did not answer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Angus, but I had to tell you. They’re coming here, very soon; perhaps today or tomorrow.’

  ‘Let me say, you believe you saw them in some absurd vision, but there’s no reason why I should believe you. Let’s talk about something else. Douglas, if you like.’

  6

  During lunch Angus was huffy and depressed. Janet wondered if it was because of the news she had given him. Since she drank none of the wine, he drank it all. It had the effect of causing him to talk, not about Douglas, but about painting. She had not realised as she should have how important it was to him. He did not actually say it but it was implied in half-a-dozen things he said, that being married would cripple him as an artist, though it might benefit him as a man. She was not sure whether or not to sympathise with him.

  ‘I’ve only seen one of your paintings,’ she said. ‘The one upstairs. I think it’s very good, but I don’t suppose I’m a good judge. Have you ever sold any?’

  ‘In Basah I sold more than a hundred.’

  ‘My goodness! What was the most you ever got for a painting?’

  ‘Two hundred pounds.’

  She was impressed. ‘If you were to do three a week – and that wouldn’t be so hard, would it? – you’d make more than Douglas.’

  ‘More than diligence is required.’ He spoke bitterly.

  ‘What was it about, the painting you got two hundred pounds for?’

  ‘Three Chinese whores, on the balcony of the bar where they worked.’

  ‘Not a very nice subject. Who bought it?’

  His bitterness increased. ‘A man who did not like me. He was prepared to pay two hundred pounds to show his contempt for me. He and his golfing cronies used it as a dartboard.’

  ‘Why did he throw away his money like that?’

  ‘I was having an affair with his wife.’

  ‘Well, what could you expect?’

  ‘He was a notorious womaniser himself. He corrupted girls half his age.’

  ‘Did he work at the College too?’

  ‘He was in the timber business. Basah is covered with forests. An Australian. With typical beer-belly.’

  ‘What was his wife like, that you had an affair with?’

  ‘Would you like to see her?’

  ‘Yes, I would. Did you paint all your lovers?’

  ‘If the affair lasted long enough.’

  ‘You’re talking as if you had a lot. Would you believe it if I was to tell you that Douglas is the only man I’ve ever made love with?’

  ‘Yes, Janet, I would believe it.’ He grinned. ‘Are you finished? Shall we go and look at Nell?’

  He led the way to his studio, which had once been the schoolroom. There were paintings stacked all round the walls. On an easel was his work in progress.

  Janet stared at it, dubiously. ‘What’s it supposed to be?’

  ‘Mist on water.’

  She frowned, as schoolmistresses had often done in that very room to wrong-headed pupils. ‘Where’s the one of your sweetheart Nell?’

  He let the term pass. Sweetheart denoted some degree of docility. Nell had been the most rumbustious of lovers.

  He knew where to find her portrait among all the other canvases. He looked at it quite often: not because he missed Nell so much but because it pleased him as a painting. He had taken risks in it. He thought they had come off, though others, including Nell herself, had not.

  He put it up on the easel.

  Admitting that she knew ‘fuck-all’ about art Nell had never taken any of his painting seriously. This portrait made her look, she had said, like a female orang-utan begging for a banana. This, he supposed, was because he had, deliberately, exaggerated the redness and abundance of her hair, on head and body; and also because he had tried to depict an elusive wistfulness which had not sat well on her damn-you-all features.

  ‘Did she really have all that red hair?’ asked Janet.

  ‘Her hair was beautiful.’

  ‘On her head maybe, but not there surely.’

  Prudish bitch, he thought. But he smiled bravely. She was entitled to her opinion.

  ‘Well, you would know, wouldn’t you?’ she said, being smutty this time. ‘She looks vulgar. Was that just the way you painted her or was she really vulgar?’

  ‘She was honest. Some people thought she expressed her opinions too frankly.’ He had been one of them.

  ‘I must say, Angus, she doesn’t look your type.’

  Many had said so. What had fat boozy foul-mouthed good-hearted Nell Ballantyne seen to admire and like in prim, selfish Angus McAllister? And, of course, vice versa.

  Well, setting aside the malicious unfairness of those descriptions, what had been the attraction between them? He could speak only for himself. Himself unwilling or perhaps unable to give much of himself to anyone, he had been fascinated by Nell’s openness and generosity. Also he had soon discovered that beneath her outward swagger there was a vulnerability that not many knew about: it had put her in his power. But, above all, he had got from her sex without responsibility, which every creative artist needed. Rather a finicky lover himself, he had found in her ample embrace all his Calvinistic reservations being swept away, so that he emerged exhausted as a man, but liberated as an artist.

  If this inquisitive suburban housewife beside him was to ask which of the two, Nell or Fidelia, he had loved more, he would not have known what to say. In spite of the menace in the background of her brawny husband Bruce, he had found Nell’s love-making more fruitful to him as an artist, which was really all that mattered. Fidelia had given herself body and soul; but that had been the trouble, he had not wanted her soul and its agonisings. He had loved her more deeply than he had Nell or any other woman, she was the only woman for whose sake he had shed tears, but he had known all the time, every minute of all the time, that one day he would be glad to leave her behind. Even if she had not been married or had been divorced, he would never have asked her to marry him. He could have overcome his instinctive prejudice against her colour and he could have accepted little Letty as his step-child, but there were other things, only vaguely understood, that had deterred him. Put simply, he had been too much of a coward to take Fidelia and Letty home with him.

  Meanwhile Janet had been looking at more of his paintings. By this time she had seen enough.

  ‘Well, shall we go and wash the dishes?’ she said, in her role of suburban housewife, and then added, as the Old Testament doom-bringer, ‘After that we’ll go and climb the cliffs.’

  7

  For the walk across the promontory to the Atlantic cliffs, Angus took a knapsack with sandwiches and a flaskful of whisky, just in case. He also carried binoculars with which to study the seabirds, which were multitudinous on the cliffs, and to keep an eye on Charlie the bull. He needn’t worry, Janet remarked, bulls weren’t dangerous if they were with cows.

  Ardnave that afternoon was at its most magical. The immense sea-meadow sloped up gently, so that w
alking on the springy turf was easy and delightful. The air was warm but not enervating, and it was fragrant with the scent of many thousands of little wild flowers. Bees buzzed and small blue butterflies fluttered. In the sky larks sang unceasingly, and from the beach curlews kept calling. Sheep and lambs were everywhere, galloping out of the way with sour bleats. Away in the distance Charlie and his harem could be seen; an occasional lowing was heard.

  Janet soon broke into a Gaelic song about a girl herding cattle. Angus at first joined in but had to give up because of the flies. They rose in hordes from cowpats and bumped against his lips; one indeed got in his mouth and had to be spat out. As an artist he was bound to admire the iridescence of some and the bright blueness of others, but it did not quite compensate for the irritation they caused, especially as his companion was again immune. Only one or two went near her and were easily waved away. At last he asked, with a forced jocularity, how was it that they pestered him but not her. She replied that perhaps it had to do with the kind of skin and blood she had. A red-haired fair-skinned person like his friend Mrs Ballantyne, particularly if she had got fat, and she was the sort that would, would be driven mad by clegs and midges, so it was just as well that she wasn’t coming here. Ah, he said, sarcastically, so there had been no prophetic vision relating to Nell? No, there hadn’t been, not yet anyway.

  Their way took them up and down across several natural amphitheaters, sheltered from the breeze and therefore very warm. The ground was one great mattress of sand, grass, feathers, tufts of wool, flowers, sheep’s pellets, and cowpats. Here, mused Janet, would do very well for her purpose, which was to entice Angus into making love to her, not for her own sake or for his but for Douglas’s.

  If she was ever to shock Douglas out of his golfer’s view of things, as good a way as any would be for her to be in a position to tell him that she had made love with another man. That other man would have to be someone unusual. A golfer would not do. Angus, being an artist, would do very well. Douglas had decided all artists were frauds, after a visit to an exhibition of Picasso’s paintings. If she was to tell him that she had been unfaithful to him with an artist with a beard, his thoughts and emotions, all carefully in place, like his shirts and suits in his wardrobe at home, would be scattered like a flock of sheep disturbed by a dog. He would whimper that if it had been her intention to get her own back she ought to have borne in mind that, while a man’s extramarital adventures did his wife no harm, a woman’s could leave her husband with a child that wasn’t his. If that was unfair, don’t blame him, blame biology. But when his bluster had died away, he would never be the same self-satisfied, cocksure, know-all young man again. He would have learned about mystery. She thereafter would love him all the more.