In the living-room he found, Sellotaped to Buddha’s brow, a message from her: ‘Borrowed the car to go into Kildonan for a few things. The cupboard’s bare. Janet.’ Whose money was she using, he wondered, and looked in the drawer where he kept his wallet. It was still there, with none of its contents missing. He always knew how much money he had. He had to be careful, for it had been some time since he had sold a picture. The last two he had sent to the gallery had been returned. He depended on his investments. He always waited anxiously for his stockbrokers’ monthly reports. He expected this month’s any day now.
Upstairs he discovered his guest’s impudent activities. In one of the bedrooms she had spread out sheets and blankets to air. So she was keeping up her lunatic belief that Fidelia and Letty were coming. Her claiming to have second sight was annoying, but tolerable if treated as a joke. Her acting as if her prophecies were going to come true was insupportable. No wonder her husband had skelped her.
Reminded, he went to her room to have another long look at Douglas in the photograph. He had had some doubts as to whether giving the bull a human face was an idea that would work. Now he was confident that it would, if the face was Douglas’s.
He was in his studio making sketches from the photograph when he heard the car. He rushed upstairs and replaced the photograph by her bedside.
He cringed when he went down and found her carrying in a number of parcels, but he had to pretend to be pleased. He had let her see that he was physically timid, he must not let her see that he was also parsimonious. When she produced a bottle of wine and announced proudly that it had cost nearly ten pounds he groaned, but inwardly. He himself never bought any that cost as much as that. Among other things, she had bought fresh salmon, avocados, and asparagus, which were dear anywhere but on the island exorbitant.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It was my own money.’
‘You shouldn’t. You’re my guest. If you tell me how much it all cost, I’ll pay you back.’
‘Twenty-nine pounds and fifty-seven pence. But I’m not really a guest, am I? I’m a lodger. Consider this is in lieu of rent. By the way, your mail came. Mostly junk. But a letter from stockbrokers.’
He was eager to see it. It was not likely he would be able to keep himself by his painting for some time yet, if ever. His investments were important. A glance reassured him. Substantial profits were reported. The cheque enclosed was for a bigger amount than he had expected.
It did not occur to him to ask if there had been any other letter. He so seldom received any.
She was busy in the kitchen. ‘Guess who I bumped into,’ she called.
‘Your cousin?’
‘No. Mr McPherson. He said he’s coming out to see you.’
‘What for?’
‘I think to threaten you with hell-fire for seducing a married woman.’
‘I hope you told him I have not seduced you and have no intention of doing so.’
She laughed. ‘I tried to but he didn’t believe me. I suppose it’s more interesting for him if people are wicked. Did you get a lot of sketching done?’
‘Yes, I did.’
That was a reminder that there was work waiting for him in the studio.
He was still hard at it when she knocked at the door about two hours later. He had taken the precaution of locking it. From now on nobody would be allowed to see his painting until it was finished.
‘Dinner will be ready in half an hour,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ He felt beneficent not only towards her but towards the whole world. The painting was taking shape and going well.
‘You could have a shower,’ she said. ‘I’ve had one. The water’s still warm. I think there should be enough.’
He smiled. She was a child, concerned about trifles. They were all childish. Only the artist was truly mature.
Though it was still broad daylight, she had candles on the table. His best napery, cutlery, and delf were in use. His pewter vase from Selangor was filled with wild flowers. She herself was comely in a sleeveless red dress. Fixed to her hair was the golden scorpion he had bought in Phnom Penh. He refrained from remarking how appropriate an emblem it was. He was still feeling beneficent.
She had boasted that she was a good cook and the meal proved it. The wine, now that he knew she had paid for it, was excellent, and he had the whole bottle to himself. She drank orange juice. She kept giving him looks that, if he had not been feeling compassionate, he would have called sly. He called them wistful. He almost teased her about getting the bedroom ready for mythical visitors, but his compassion fell short of that.
They went into the living-room to drink their coffee. He sat on the red divan, she on the green. Buddha smiled on them.
‘Was it good news from your stockbroker?’ she asked.
‘Very good news.’
‘Douglas has got a lot of shares in Glaxo.’
‘So have I. A most efficient company. May I congratulate you on a delicious meal?’
‘Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it. You see, I’ve got something to tell you that may come as a bit of a shock.’
He chuckled. ‘Are you thinking of leaving before Saturday? Has Mr McPherson put the fear of God into you?’
‘You got another letter today.’
‘Did I indeed? Where is it, may I ask?’
‘Perhaps you won’t want to read it when I tell you who it’s from.’
He frowned. Surely it couldn’t be from Fidelia?
‘It’s from Mrs Ballantyne. Nell.’
He felt relieved. ‘Oh, Nell. She’s written before. A most profane correspondent.’
‘She certainly is. I’ve read it.’
What with the wine, beneficence, and compassion, he had difficulty in finding the right reaction. ‘You’ve read it?’
‘Her name was on the envelope. I know that all you want is to get on with your painting undisturbed. So I thought I’d better read it first.’
‘How could you read it? Was the envelope not sealed?’
‘I tore it open. I could have steamed it open but that would have been dishonest.’
‘You mean to say you opened and read my letter without permission?’
‘In a way, I did ask your permission. Psychically. Didn’t you hear my voice when you were on the machair?’
‘Do you know what you are, Mrs Maxwell? You’re a damned impudent interfering sly bitch. Don’t you know it’s a criminal offence to open another person’s mail?’
‘The M15 do it all the time.’
That was a joke. He didn’t find it amusing but it put him off his stride.
‘You’re going to need my help, Angus, so it would be silly to fall out with me. Nell’s coming to Flodday. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow. She’s flying from Glasgow. I thought you might not want to see her. She sounds a vulgar coarse woman. I got out that picture you painted of her for another look. If you don’t want her to come here, I could easily prevent her by pretending to be your wife. She says in the letter that, if you’re married, then she’ll just go away again.’
All this was too much for him. The wine’s effect was growing stronger, and the dregs of beneficence and compassion were clouding his mind. ‘Where is the letter?’
She got up and took it from between the pages of the book of erotic sculptures.
He thought, wildly, that Nell’s bosom and bottom would have qualified her for an apsaras, but not her waist.
He read the letter and was surprised that his compassion revived, this time for Nell. It was not like her to feel sorry for herself. He also felt sexually roused, as he remembered that big soft hospitable body. After all, his present state of mind, edgy with creativeness, was akin to sexual desire. But she must not come to Ardnave. Janet the witch was right. His inspiration would wither and die.
‘What does she mean,’ asked Janet, ‘by saying that her big mouth got them flung out?’
‘She told an influential Malay politician to his face that he was a dirty little crook.’<
br />
‘Was he a dirty little crook?’
Little, because he was only five foot high; a crook, because he had used his position to award himself a timber concession worth millions of dollars: and dirty, because he had got two white expatriate women to sleep with him in return for promising their husbands a renewal of contract, with improved conditions.
‘Most people thought so.’ Most people had also thought that Nell should have held her tongue. She had not done the white expatriate cause any good.
‘But she was the only one with the courage to tell him so. Good for her. What age is she?’
‘I don’t know. About forty-four.’
‘And fatter than ever, as she says herself. Well, do you want her to come to Ardnave?’
He shook his head.
‘Then do you want me to meet her and tell her I’m your wife?’
‘You’d have to do it very convincingly. She’s not easily taken in.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a good actress. I’ll wear my wedding ring. She’s half expecting to meet your wife. She says so. So why shouldn’t she believe me?’
‘She might think that you’re not the kind of woman I would have married.’
‘What kind of woman’s that, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Do you think I should go with you to meet her?’
‘No. You wouldn’t be able to keep it up. I’ll tell her you’re too busy with your painting, which happens to be true. No woman with pride will go where she’s not wanted.’
He was too dispirited to jeer.
‘It’s different with me. I’m leaving on Saturday. She might want to stay for months or years. I don’t want to sleep with you. She might.’
What was worse, he might want to sleep with Nell. Let that happen and he was doomed as a painter. He had once accused her of being a succubus. Unfortunately he had had to explain what it meant: the effect had been spoiled. She had laughed heartily and been more succubine than ever.
How much happier and more creative he had felt on the machair with Charlie and his cows. Women brought too many complications.
12
Janet dressed smartly in a skirt of McDonald tartan, a white blouse and a lemon-coloured cardigan. She did not want to let Angus down.
‘Have you any message for her?’ she asked.
He mumbled. ‘Just say I’m very sorry but I know she’ll understand.’
‘She won’t but I’ll tell her anyway. I’m sure I’ll recognise her. Well, cheerio.’
This was the kind of adventure she liked. She was the heroine, Nell the villainess. Angus would have to do as the hero.
As she drove towards the airport she considered what she should do if Fidelia and Letty were also on the plane. It would be an awkward situation but she was sure she could cope. Angus, however, might have to be recast as the villain.
When she arrived at the airport, which consisted of a big tin shed, a Land-Rover was chasing sheep off the runway. The windsocks were limp. The sun shone. There would be a safe landing for the passengers whatever other misfortunes lay in store for them.
People were waiting to greet arrivals or to board the plane on its return trip. Most of them were Kildonan natives who knew that she was Mr McNaught’s cousin who was living in sin out at Ardnave with McAllister the painter. One or two of the men grinned lecherously, as if wishing she had chosen them instead of a shilpit creature like McAllister. The women frowned, as if to demand why they should have to stay at home like hens while she was free as a swan. One woman approached her. To her dismay, she saw that it was Mrs McPherson, the minister’s wife, grim-faced and dumpy, wearing a hairy green tweed costume and a hat like a chamberpot. Prepared for abuse or even a contemptuous slap, Janet was taken a back when the older woman smiled and said: ‘It must be paradise at Ardnave in weather like this.’ Without waiting for an answer she went back to her friends, low-heeled and stumpy-legged.
Janet was amazed. She had always thought of Mrs McPherson as puritanic and narrow-minded like her husband.
There was a roar overhead as the plane came in to land. Everybody took up position to watch the passengers come down the steps.
Janet recognised at once the big woman in the green coat as Mrs Ballantyne, but she looked in vain for Fidelia and Letty. There was no dark-faced woman with a little girl.
She went over and addressed Mrs Ballantyne. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Are you Mrs Ballantyne?’
Tired, rather sad, but shrewd, light blue eyes regarded her. ‘That’s my name. What’s yours?’
‘I’m Angus’s wife.’
‘Is that so? So you’re the reason the bastard has never written?’
Janet smiled warily. She had expected Nell to be fatter. Douglas would have called her a fine figure of a woman.
‘Where is he?’ asked Nell, looking about.
‘He couldn’t come.’
‘Why, has he broken a leg?’
‘He’s very busy with a new painting. He thinks it’s going to be his masterpiece.’
‘Doesn’t he think that about them all? He used to, anyway.’
‘To tell you the truth, Mrs Ballantyne, he thought that when you knew he was married you wouldn’t want to see him.’
‘Bullshit. I said in my letter that if he was married to bring his wife with him and we’d have a drink together.’
If Janet had taken a dislike to the big Australian it would have been easy to assume haughtiness and defend Angus, but instead she liked her and was ashamed of deceiving her.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ said Nell. ‘I think it was the island itself I wanted to see. It looked lovely from the plane. He used to talk a lot about it. Peace and quiet, he said. As I said in my letter, I’ll move into a hotel for a day or two and then go back. No harm done.’
‘Go back to Diss, do you mean?’
‘No, to Sydney. I’ve brought all my stuff with me. I’ve said my goodbyes to Elsie.’
By this time the luggage had been brought into the shed. Nell pointed out hers, with QANTAS labels attached. She carried one and Janet the other to the car.
‘I’m on slippery ground,’ she said, ‘but what kind of husband does he make? You see, I never thought he would ever marry. I would have bet money on it. Too bloody selfish, I used to tell him.’
‘He puts his painting before everything else.’
‘He always did. How long have you been married?’
It was then that Janet blundered. ‘Five years,’ she said. That was how long she had been married to Douglas.
They were at the car, lifting the suitcases into the boot. Nell looked puzzled.
‘Didn’t he leave Basah just three years ago? You couldn’t have got married there. I don’t remember you ever being mentioned.’
Mrs McPherson passed them. ‘Good morning, Mrs Maxwell,’ she said. ‘Be sure and give my regards to Mr McAllister.’
Disconcerted by that inexplicable cordiality, Janet was at a loss when Nell asked why the lady had addressed her as Mrs Maxwell.
They got into the car.
‘What did she mean?’ asked Nell.
‘She made a mistake, that’s all.’
‘A woman that’d wear a hat like that never makes a mistake. What’s your game, Mrs Maxwell?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You’re not Angus’s wife. For one thing he’ll never get married, and for another he wouldn’t marry a dame like you. That’s a compliment by the way. You look too tricky for him. Who the hell are you then?’
Janet decided the game was up. Besides, it would be more interesting with Nell at Ardnave. ‘You’re quite right. My name is Mrs Maxwell. At present I’m staying with Angus at Ardnave.’
‘You his girlfriend? That’s more like him. He’s always preferred women who were already married. Is there a Mr Maxwell?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he live here on the island?’
‘No, in Glasgow.’
‘You’re separated then? Is that i
t?’
‘Not really. He’s coming on Saturday for me. I ought to make it clear that I’m just a lodger at Ardnave. I don’t sleep with Angus. I met him for the first time last Saturday, just four days ago.’
‘How did you come to be his lodger?’
‘I invited myself’
‘Yes, I can see you would. He’d love that, I don’t think. You met him last Saturday. When did you move in?’
‘On Sunday.’
Nell laughed. ‘You’re a cool one, Mrs Maxwell. What’s your first name?’
‘Janet.’
‘Mine’s Nell. May I ask why you left Mr Maxwell in Glasgow?’
They were now approaching Kildonan.
Janet might tell her later but not now. ‘Let’s just say he’s too fond of golf. Like your husband, I believe.’
‘You believe right. Is there any place here where I could send a cable?’
‘The post office, I suppose.’
‘Would you stop there, please?’
Janet stopped the car outside the post office. She got out too, intending to go into the post office with Nell. She wanted to find out to whom the cable was being sent.
‘I’ll manage on my own,’ said Nell, brusquely. ‘They speak English, don’t they?’
Janet waited outside. People passing gave her inquisitive stares. She stared back haughtily.
About five minutes later Nell reappeared. ‘They were speaking a foreign language in there.’
‘But you managed all right? It would be Gaelic’
‘Thanks.’ Nell was looking at the little harbour, with yachts anchored in it. ‘I like this place. As he said, peace and quiet. Well, Janet, I can see you’re like me, a nosy bitch. The cable was to Bruce, my husband. I’ve come all those thousands of miles to get out of his way, and I’m waiting for him to come round that corner. If he did, I don’t suppose he’d give me a second look but me, I’d weep with joy. I said I would be away for five months but it’s only been two and I’ve sent a cable to say I’ll be back some time next week.’
If Douglas came round that corner, thought Janet, I’d be pleased to see him but I would have to tell him he’s come too soon. In the drama that’s going to take place at Ardnave in the next two or three days there’s no role for him.
Poor Angus Page 7