‘No doubt. I’d like to start early tomorrow. The light’s best then. Could you be ready at eight?’
‘Ready for what?’
‘To be my model.’
‘Won’t it be still chilly then?’
‘You’ll be fully clothed.’
‘Oh.’ She couldn’t have said why but she felt disappointed.
He got to his feet, stiffly. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going up to bed. You must be tired too.’
So she was, and her bruises were aching. ‘I’d like to take a hot bath first.’
The water was heated by gas. It took nearly an hour to heat a bathful. Sometimes the water was the colour of peat.
She heard him going up the stairs.
‘Did you remember to put out the food for the demons?’ she called, half joking.
He stopped. ‘Will you do it?’
‘They don’t know me.’
He came back down and went into the kitchen for some bread.
‘I was joking,’ she said. ‘I would have done it.’
‘No, it’s my job.’
Douglas would have scoffed at them both, as superstitious idiots. She would have been cross with him for denying the magic, and yet she would have found his presence reassuring.
Perhaps Douglas was right. The time for magic was childhood and she was no longer a child. He himself boasted that he had stopped believing in Santa Claus when he was three.
9
Next morning Janet opened her eyes to find Angus staring not at her but at Douglas in the photograph. He was dressed for outdoors.
‘Is that Douglas?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why?’ She was only half awake.
‘I wondered what he looked like. I suppose he’s big and strong.’
‘He’s six feet and twelve-and-a-half stone. What’s this about? He hasn’t come, has he?’
‘No.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Seven o’clock. I’m going out to do some sketching. I won’t be back for lunch. I’m taking sandwiches and a flask.’
‘I thought you were going to paint me this morning.’
‘Tomorrow will do, since you’re going to be here till Saturday. It’s a fine morning. I’ve got to take advantage of it. It could be raining tomorrow.’
‘What are you going to sketch?’
‘Cattle, mainly.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘No. You would be bored.’
‘Won’t it be dangerous on your own?’ There were no trees on the machair to climb or hide behind. She almost said that he ought to be back by twelve to greet Fidelia and Letty. The plane landed on Flodday at eleven. The taxi bringing them to Ardnave would take little more than half an hour.
‘I’ll be back about three,’ he said.
She heard him running down the stairs. All that urgency and dedication, she thought, to paint a picture that, to be truthful, not many people would think worth looking at. It seemed that not only great painters had to work very hard to produce their masterpieces, so had ordinary ones to produce their mediocrities. Douglas believed that with the invention of coloured photography painting had become unnecessary. When she had reminded him that some paintings fetched millions of pounds at auctions he had said yes, so they did, but as investments not as things of beauty.
Was Angus, user of women, timid, self-centred and self-satisfied, capable of creating a thing of beauty? She did not know enough about the great painters of the past to tell if they had all been brave, considerate, and gentlemanly, but she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they had not. So Angus had as good a chance as any to paint a great picture, provided he had the talent. But why had he been interested in Douglas’s photograph? She wished him good luck and went to sleep again.
She got up shortly after nine and went downstairs to make herself breakfast. Passing Angus’s room, she saw that the bed had been neatly made. She went in and stood for a minute or two looking at Fidelia but really facing some truths about herself. She had not given herself to Douglas as generously as a wife should. She had not been content with him as he was but had wanted him to change his nature to suit her. She had been like that when a child, to the exasperation of her playmates who were happy with themselves as they were. Did Angus want to paint her because he had seen in her face that witch-like discontent?
When Fidelia and Letty came, she must try not to interfere.
After breakfast she did what little housework was needed. Angus, she saw, was a more conscientious housekeeper than herself. Just the same she went round with the pink feather duster. She amused herself by imagining that today, 20th June, was when her husband, from the other world, paid his one visit of the year. His eyes were the colour of kelp, his hair yellow as withered marram grass. He would stay the night and they would make love. She would become pregnant. She would have a child, a girl, half-human and half-pixie.
You’re at it again, Janet McDonald, she said sternly to herself in the mirror with the silver frame. Douglas is right. You’re not grown up. If you’re not careful, you’ll go off your head like Auntie Chrissie. You’ve got a cheek making fun of Douglas because he wants a son who’ll be able to break par before he’s fourteen.
In spite of this self-reproof, when she went outside half an hour later and and saw that the bread had been removed from the scallop shell, she thought of demons, not birds.
Between half past eleven and twelve she kept expecting to hear the taxi arriving with Fidelia and Letty. By one she knew it was not coming today. It would come tomorrow.
After lunch she went out for a stroll about the house, wearing the red-and-black sarong and blouse. She soon got into the way of walking with the short steps enforced by the tightness of the skirt, and so was able to walk with Oriental elegance to meet the mail van. The postman, Donnie McMillan, middle-aged and an adherent of the Free Kirk, knew, as all Kildonan did, that Mr McNaught’s cousin, a married woman, was living in sin with the artist McAllister. Here she was, brazen besom, swanking in an outlandish costume. He frowned at her as he handed her some letters. ‘For Mr McAllister.’ But to his cronies in the public bar that evening he was to say that she reminded him of the Queen of Sheba.
Most of the mail was the usual junk. There were two personal letters, one from stockbrokers in Glasgow, as it stated on the envelope. At the other she stared in astonishment. On the outside were the name and address of the sender: Mrs Nell Ballantyne, 103 Orchard Road, Sydney, Australia. The stamp, though, was British and the postmark Diss, Norfolk.
Douglas, David, Mary, and Mr McPherson in her imagination gathered round and gasped in horrified disapproval as she sat on the step under the sheep’s skull and tore open the letter from Nell. At least I’m not being deceitful, she told them. I could have steamed it open so that he would never know. As a matter of fact I’m doing it for his sake. This woman who’s written to him, she’s an Australian, I know about her, he might prefer not to hear from her. He might be grateful if he never saw this letter, if I just burned it. I can’t tell until I’ve read it. He’s in the throes of painting what he thinks will be his best picture ever and will make him famous. Naturally, he doesn’t want to be interrupted or disturbed. It could mean him losing his inspiration. So, you see, I could be doing him a good turn by reading this letter.
It wasn’t easy to read, so slapdash was the handwriting, and the language, she soon found, was shocking.
‘Angus, you old Scotch bastard,
‘This will be the third letter I’ve written you and not one fucking word in return. All those promises to defy the hordes of hell and come to my rescue and yet, when I write and tell you my heart’s broken and I’m well and truly up shit creek, not a word to cheer me up. Nell’s a tough lady, they all said, nothing and nobody could break Nell’s heart, and she’d be a bloody fool to let a selfish cunt like Angus McAllister break it. That’s what they all said, wasn’t it, all those years ago? But you knew it wasn’t true. You knew there were times when I
was miserable. You tried to show it in that bloody awful painting you did of me.
‘I expect you’ve got married and that’s why you’ve never replied. I find it hard to believe. I’d got it into my head that you weren’t the marrying kind. You put your painting first. I used to hate you for it. When I squeezed your balls, lover, I meant to hurt. Why I loved you I’ll never know.
‘I heard that after I’d gone you found consolation with a big handsome dame from the Philippines, with sad eyes, but liable to stick a knife in you if you did the dirty on her. so my spies reported. But I believe you did the dirty on her too, and got away with it.
‘Sorry, Angus, jealousy talking, I suppose. Desperation too. You used to tell me that when Bruce went back to Sydney he’d change his ways, he’d give up hitting golf balls and chasing slim chicks half his age. Well, you were wrong, sport. I admit the circumstances in which we did go back, flung out ignominiously was how they all saw it, because of my big mouth, weren’t likely to make me precious to him again. Well, you might say, if you were to see me now, who would blame him? I’ve got a bit stouter than when you knew me. Statuesque, you called me then. Well, I’m more like an orang-utan now than when you made me look like one in that painting. Sorry again. I know you were proud of it and I used to think that, if that was how you saw me, what the hell, if it made you love me, and I still think that in your stingy Scotch way you did.
‘You will have noticed, being an observant bugger, that I’ve just put Diss at the top of this letter. Deliberately. I’m in England visiting my sister Elsie who lives in this pleasant little town that’s got a dignified old church where I go in and sit, and a small mere or lake where I feed the ducks. I’ve been trying to make up my mind whether I should pay you a visit while I’m here. Remember you said that if I ever needed help I was to come to you, even if it was ten thousand miles, as Robbie Burns said. Well, it’s not nearly as far as that and I certainly could do with some help. Elsie’s afraid I’ll drown myself in the mere. So I might if there weren’t so many ducks. Today I went to a travel agent and I’m booked to fly from Glasgow to Flodday next Tuesday arriving at 11. If you’ve got married bring her along. We can still enjoy a drink and a chat for old times’ sake. I promise to be very discreet. I can put up at a hotel and fly back in a day or two. I’d like to see your island hideaway. No harm done. Unless the woman you’ve married is the kind that can’t forgive things that had damn-all to do with her. In which case, to hell with her.
‘If I’d put my full address would you have sent a telegram telling me not to come?
Love.
Nell.’
10
There were no fences on the promontory, so that Charlie and his cows were free to roam all over it. They had favourite places for different times of the day. They always spent the night in the north-east corner, where, when the tide was out, it was possible to walk dry-shod across the sand to a small islet on which were the remains of a holy man’s cell. The cattle had never been known to venture across. On warm days they liked to stand on the sand or in shallow water, but their noses seemed to tell them that the grass on their own machair was lusher and sweeter than that on the rocky islet. In this and other matters Charlie let himself be guided by his cows many of whom were older and wiser than himself. They took care of him. They knew what his purpose was among them and made it as convenient for him as they could, keeping out of the way when it wasn’t their turn. If two were ready at the same time, one, usually the younger, stood by patiently. Sometimes, unable to control herself, she grew importunate. Charlie, his own patience exemplary, would turn aside and soothe her with a few loving licks. If some young stirk had the temerity, not to say the fond hope, to try to serve the cow Charlie was then courting, he would be pushed away with a gentle butt of the massive head. Charlie indeed seemed to have sympathy for those strong young bullocks whose manhood had been taken away. When all the cows capable of bearing young had been made pregnant – there were over 40 in Mr McCandlish’s herds – Charlie, much thinner, was left on his own, his duty done. If he wanted to follow the herd, he was welcome. If he didn’t, he could go and mope anywhere he wanted.
That morning he was on the shining sand with the cows. His copper ring glinted and the curls on top of his head were bright, as if he was wearing a crown: as indeed he should, being the king of all that domain. Rabbits, sheep, and birds all showed him deference. Yet, though magnificent, he was sad. All his progeny, as soon as they were big enough, were sold to the slaughterhouse. To say that he did not know and therefore could not mind seemed to Angus unjust. The rheum that sometimes appeared in those big bloodshot eyes might or might not be tears, but Charlie in the autumn when he was alone had the melancholy dignity of a king all of whose sons were doomed.
Angus had always been keen to paint a vast picture celebrating his love of the promontory and its creatures. For that reason he had studied the ways of Charlie the king, who would be at the heart of it. It would also be a lament for all the beautiful and innocent creatures that had loved this place where they had been born: and also for the people forced to leave. His mother had taken him to visit Ardnave when he was about seven. She had been particularly delighted by the profusion of little blue butterflies. Little blue butterflies would be in his picture.
When he had looked up and seen Charlie glaring down at him and Janet yesterday, the big white face had seemed curiously human. That had been the inspiration. In the painting he would give Charlie a human face. At first he had thought of using his own as a model, but he knew now that Douglas’s would be more suitable. There was something bull-like in Douglas’s face: the broadness of the brow, not signifying powerful intellect; the strong nose, adapted for lordly snorts: and above all, over the whole countenance, an assurance such as a king might have, a king, however, easily taken advantage of by cleverer men.
Charlie’s body with Douglas’s face would make a more evocative combination than the centaur. Janet’s face could be given to the cow whose turn was next. She looked more intelligent than Douglas but then cows were more intelligent than bulls. That was the reason why they were never used in a bull-ring. Bulls kept attacking the red cape. Cows would soon realise that the attack should be made on the holder of the cape. If this was done, all that pirouetting and all those fancy skips would be of no avail to the matador.
He would not attempt to paint the bodies meticulously. It would be enough to convey in the one case strength, vigour, and potency, and in the other femininity and beauty.
He walked down on to the sand and stood among the cows with his sketch-book in his hand. Charlie, aware of his presence, turned his head, peered at him – according to Mr McCandlish bulls had poor eyesight – swished his tail and went back to dreaming. A small bird landed on his back; sandflies leapt up and annoyed his legs: sea-going flies from the cowpats on the machair buzzed round his eyes: he paid them all no heed. His patience and amiability were admirable. He was enjoying this spell of off-duty.
One of the cows at last began to wander off towards the machair. Others followed, one by one, in leisurely fashion. As they passed Angus, they glanced at him with curiosity but without animosity. They did not know what he was doing there but whatever it was it was his business. Each weighed several hundredweight. If one had crashed into him he might have been seriously hurt. None did, though two or three young stirks pranced round him playfully.
When all the cows were back on the grass grazing, Charlie remained on the sand, still in a dwam. Terns dived close to his head, gulls made a clamour above him: it was as if they were trying to warn him that the tide was coming in fast. One of the cows, perhaps with the same purpose, lowed persistently.
At last, with the water up to his houghs, he came ashore, and at once resumed his duties, going from one cow to another sniffing at each, and then raising his head as if to savour what he had just sniffed, like a vineyard owner testing his wine. There was none in the right condition, so, with what looked like a shrug of relief, he began grazing like
the rest.
Angus sat on a bank amongst them and sketched undisturbed.
About 11 o’clock he heard and saw, in the distance, the daily plane from Glasgow, coming down to land at Flodday air-field. According to Janet the witch, Fidelia and Letty might be on board. He could think of nothing less likely to be true. Letty would be ten now, better able than ever to dominate her mother. For years she had urged her mother to go home to the Philippines. Perhaps they were already there. Letty could well be the means of re-uniting her parents. She was beautiful, clever, and astute enough.
He had said goodbye to Fidelia at Basah airport with sorrow, but also with relief, which he had kept hidden. He would never understand how he had found the courage to be her lover. It had needed duplicity too, but that had been easy to find. People had sneered at him behind his back and sometimes to his face. He had never been brave in confronting prejudice. Little Letty, more percipient than her mother or rather not blinded by love, had seen through him.
Mr Amaladoss, a white-haired Tamil on the College staff, had once whispered into his ear: ‘Mrs Gomez is a very beautiful lady, Mr McAllister, with a sweet nature, and we all love her, but do not forget that all of her ancestors were not, like yours and mine, civilised persons. She has the blood of headhunters in her, you see.’
Though what Amaladoss had said was malicious nonsense, she and Letty would have been out of place on Flodday.
About half past three, with a bookful of successful sketches, he set off for home.
11
He was surprised and displeased when he came in sight of the house and saw that his car had gone. He should have hidden the keys. When he took the sketches into the studio, he noticed that the portrait of Nell was on the easel. He promptly put it back among the paintings stacked against the wall. Janet would have to be told to leave things alone.
Poor Angus Page 6