David did not know if Janet had been to bed with McAllister, but he thought it unlikely, or if Mrs Ballantyne had, which he thought very likely. Mrs Ballantyne had looked the kind of woman who would willingly comfort a man in that way, whereas Janet, of course, was not that kind of woman at all. With most to forgive, Ballantyne would do it gladly, being eager to be reconciled with his wife, but Douglas, though in the wrong, would be incensed and might rush out to Ardnave looking for revenge. McAllister was innocent in that the two women, or rather the three women, had descended upon him uninvited, but that might not save him from having his nose punched by Ballantyne or his bones broken by Douglas. Having forgiven his wife, Ballantyne might still want to punish her seducer, even if he suspected she had done the seducing, while Douglas was always looking for an opportunity to use his karate skills in earnest.
Then there was the advent of Gomez and his lawyer. Janet had explained Mrs Gomez’s position. David had got a glimpse of her and her daughter in the car at the door of the hotel on Thursday, on their way out to Ardnave. He had been touched by her sadness.
4
Ballantyne and Douglas had lunch together at a table in a corner of the dining-room. Saying that he might soon have something to celebrate, Ballantyne ordered a bottle of the hotel’s best wine, but before he had drunk so much as a glassful, he was talkative, more like the brash coarse-tongued Australian Douglas would have expected.
The golf match was arranged for three o’clock. Douglas had telephoned the secretary of the club at his home to book the tee for that hour but had been told it wasn’t necessary. He was reminded that the green fees were to be put into the box in the shed.
‘How about thirty pounds to the winner, and a fiver for every birdie?’ said Ballantyne.
Such large sums were ungentlemanly. ‘Isn’t that rather a lot?’ said Douglas.
‘Come off it, Maxwell. You think you can knock hell out of an old man like me.’
Douglas wished he would speak less loudly and use politer language. Two silvery-haired old ladies at a nearby table were well within hearing. So were other guests, without much straining of their ears.
‘As amateurs we play for fun, don’t we?’ he said.
‘I play to win. Always. But if the idea of money changing hands offends you, how about this? I’m having dinner tonight with Nell. Why don’t you and Janet join us? The loser pays the bill. Excluding booze.’
Douglas could not bear to say that his wife, thrawn besom, might refuse to come. Nor could he point out that the bill could amount to more than £50. For the sake of his country he must not appear hen-pecked or mean. So he nodded.
‘Good. I want to meet your Janet, to thank her for being friendly with Nell.’
By this time Ballantyne was on his third glass of wine. Douglas was still sipping his first: he did not approve of drinking before a game. If Ballantyne was beaten, he would claim it was because he was drunk.
‘I’m going to tell you something, Maxwell, that I ought to keep to myself. I don’t know if Nell will show up tonight. She didn’t come to UK just to visit her sister. It was also to get away from me.’
Douglas managed to look shocked and sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, old man.’
‘She’d got it into her head I didn’t want her any more. I guess I was doing a bit of fucking around. She was drinking too much and letting herself go to fat.’
The two old ladies were fairly enjoying their roast lamb.
‘Her age, the doctor said. Menopausal stress. Poor Nell. Have you any kids, Maxwell?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you waiting till your handicap’s in double figures?’
Douglas laughed. ‘I’ll be sixty before that happens. If you’ve got a good solid swing, it never leaves you.’
But Douglas was not thinking about golf. Himself invulnerable because of Janet’s peculiar attitude to sex, he was wondering, with a malicious little thrill, about Mrs Ballantyne’s relationship with McAllister. Had she come, fat though she was, to find revenge in McAllister’s bed?
Douglas’s own roast lamb was delicious.
‘Nell met this turd McAllister in Basah. Let me tell you, Maxwell, when she was young Nell was magnificent. Marvellous body. Masses of red hair. Gutsy sense of humour. Lion-hearted. If it had been any other cunt than McAllister she’d gone to, I don’t think I would have minded so much, but he’s a selfish bastard. He takes all right but he doesn’t want to give. Artists say they’ve got to be selfish bastards if they’re going to turn out masterpieces but his paintings are a lot of crap, so he’s a selfish bastard under false pretences, if you see what I mean.’
Someone in the dining-room tut-tutted loudly.
‘For heaven’s sake, old man,’ whispered Douglas, ‘take it easy. Ladies present.’
‘I don’t mind telling you I came here intending to wring his neck but I don’t feel like that now. In fact, if he’s helped Nell in any way, I might even thank him. Let somebody else give him his comeuppance.’
Douglas heard someone mutter that he was going to complain to the management. One of the old ladies, though, gave him a wink.
Ballantyne ordered another bottle. ‘Tell me about your wife, Maxwell. What’s she doing on Flodday without you?’
Douglas was instantly defensive, not on Janet’s behalf but his own. ‘She wanted a little break, that’s all.’
‘Funny her not staying at the hotel her cousin owns.’
‘Janet likes quiet places. It’s very quiet out at Ardnave.’
‘I’ve got the impression she’s got a mind of her own.’
Douuglas smiled warily but said nothing.
‘Like all the Scotch, Maxwell, you’re too buttoned up. I would say, looking at you, that appearances mean a hell of a lot to you. Am I right?’
Whether or not it was meant as a compliment, Douglas took it as one.
‘As long as the neighbours don’t know. That’s the principle you Scotch go by.’
‘With a name like Ballantyne, your ancestors must have been Scottish.’
‘My grandfather came from Ayrshire, my grandmother from Carnoustie. There’s a good golf course there.’
‘There are lots of good courses in Ayrshire.’
‘To get back to your wife, Maxwell, is she just having a little break or has she run away from you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. What gave you that idea?’
‘You did. You spend a lot of money on that face, but it’s easy to read. Is loyalty important to you, Maxwell?’
‘Loyalty to my country, do you mean?’
‘Hell, no. That’s easy. I meant loyalty to your wife. I’m sorry to say I’ve let Nell down more times than you’ve got hairs in your moustache.’
Douglas could not resist touching his moustache. After his golf clubs, his job, his degree, his bank-book, his semi-detached villa in Clarkston, and Janet, it was his proudest possession.
‘I bet you’ve been disloyal as often as me, Maxwell.’
That was absurdly unfair. For one thing, Ballantyne was twenty years older, which must have given him many more opportunities. Also Ballantyne was the kind of man who used obscene language in a public dining-room in the presence of ladies, and even worse, who drank two bottles of wine before a golf match. He had no breeding.
Besides, in Douglas’s case, were those little adventures with Cissie McDade, Elsie Hamilton, and a few others really acts of disloyalty? Janet would say so, but she was biased. So would David and Mary, but they were religious prudes. So, no doubt, would thousands of other people. But what if they knew all the facts? Remembering Gomez at the airport, he thought enviously of Arab princes. They had dozens of concubines. Their wives probably helped to pick them. Oriental women were wiser in this respect than Western women. They knew that men, especially if they were exceptionally potent, needed more sexual release than any one woman could provide. And what if that one woman for abstruse reasons turned her back on her husband? If she had said she had a headache o
r it was her period or even that she wasn’t in the mood, he would have understood and might even have sympathised; but she baffled him with gibberish about mystery and sacraments. Was he not in such circumstances entitled to appease his natural appetite with other women? Somewhere in the Bible there must be a text granting that entitlement. Had not God ordained that it was a wife’s duty to succumb to her husband, preferably in silence? It was one of Douglas’s reasons for believing in Him.
5
When Agnes, aged ten, and Jean, aged eight, the one wearing glasses and the other a brace on her teeth, learned that their father was driving out to Ardnave to speak to their Aunt Janet they clamoured to be allowed to go with him. They were fond of Aunt Janet and were anxious to find out how she was getting on in Mr McAllister’s house, about which they had heard terrifying tales.
On their father they always used guile: it worked with him but not with their mother. So they gathered some of their oldest picture-books and told him they wanted to give them to the little foreign girl who must be feeling lonely among all the grown-ups at Ardnave.
He was delighted by their thoughtfulness but had to remind them that they must get their mother’s permission. They made faces at that, for, like him, they did not think their mother would give it, especially if their father asked for it. He would give in at the first yelled ‘No!’
‘We’ll ask her, Daddy,’ said Agnes.
‘Well, all right, but don’t pester her. She’s got a headache.’
The headache had been brought on by the rumpus after lunch. There had been complaints about the language of the Australian, Mr Ballantyne, in the dining-room. Mr and Mrs Donaldson had threatened to leave if he was allowed to stay. Other guests, they said, were of the same mind. The two Misses Cramond, on the other hand, had spoken up in his defence, saying that so robust and virile a man was bound to use robust, virile language. They had found it exhilarating. It was the high spot of their holiday so far.
Mary had a wet cloth over her face. Her daughters took up position in front of her.
Agnes spoke first. ‘Mama, Daddy is going to Ardnave to see Aunt Janet.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘We would like to go with him,’ said Jean.
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘But it’s very nice at Ardnave,’ said Agnes. ‘Miss McBride told us holy men lived at Ardnave hundreds of years ago.’
‘And there are lots of butterflies and sheep and lambs,’ said Jean.
That morning Mary had said that McAllister’s house should be called Gomorrah.
‘Aunt Janet would look after us,’ said Agnes.
‘Aunt Janet can’t look after herself.’
That amazed them. Aunt Janet was the most capable person they knew. They could never take her in as they could Uncle Douglas. They believed utterly in her magical powers of second sight.
‘Anyway, Daddy will be with us,’ said Agnes.
‘Your father can’t look after himself either.’
That was true but they loved him for it.
‘What’s wrong with Ardnave?’ asked Jean.
‘There are foreigners there, from a country where there are terrible diseases, like cholera and malaria. I don’t want you catching anything.’
‘We’ll gargle with Dettol before we go,’ said Jean.
‘Why do you want to go there anyway? Why aren’t you playing with your friends?’
‘We want to take some books to the little girl,’ said Agnes.
‘Doesn’t the Bible tell us to be kind to strangers?’
Mary felt a sudden fear. Ought she, in a wicked world, to be discouraging her daughters’ Christian instincts?
‘Would you stay in the car?’
‘That would be silly, Mama,’ said Agnes.
‘It wouldn’t be polite,’ said Jean.
‘You mustn’t go into the house.’
‘But we’d like to see all the things that Mr McAllister brought from abroad,’ said Agnes. ‘Miss McBride said it’s very educational to see things from other countries.’
‘Tell your father I want to see him.’
‘Can we go to Ardnave?’ asked Jean.
‘I want to speak to your father first.’
They rushed away to find him.
A few minutes later he came in, well briefed. They had told him their mother was giving in. He had been warned not to annoy her.
Mary had removed the cloth from her face. She was holding a Bible on her lap.
‘Why did you put the idea of going to Ardnave in their heads?’
‘I didn’t. They were keen to go. They want to make friends with the little girl.’
‘Who is this little girl? What’s she doing at Ardnave? What’s her mother doing? Who is her mother?’
‘Janet didn’t tell me very much. Mr McAllister knew them in Basah.’
‘Just as he knew Mrs Ballantyne? All right, I don’t want to hear any more about that.’
‘You see, Mary, Mrs Gomez has come to Flodday to escape from her husband. It seems he has legal authority to take the child from her.’
‘I don’t wonder he got it, considering the immoral life she seems to have led.’
‘But, Mary, the child’s been with her mother since she was born. Previously her father wasn’t interested in her.’
‘But he is now and he’s come to get her?’
‘He was on the same plane as Douglas. He’s staying at Ascog Castle.’
‘He must be rich.’
‘He’s very rich.’
David’s heart sank. It had been sinking ever since he had seen the Bible. Mary would think that Gomez had morality on his side, as well as the law, and she had a Biblical respect for wealth.
‘All right,’ she said, in her grimmest voice.
He didn’t understand.
‘They can go. Make sure they wash their faces and put on clean dresses.’
6
The girls travelled in the back of the car, for safety. They never sat still or kept quiet. Their interest was in people, not scenery.
‘Daddy, why do all the ladies go to stay in Mr McAllister’s house?’ asked Jean.
‘Because they’re his friends.’
‘Aunt Janet wasn’t his friend. She didn’t know him.’
‘Ronnie McDougall said there are devils in Mr McAllister’s house,’ said Agnes.
‘They won’t harm Aunt Janet,’ said Jean. ‘She’s got magic of her own.’
‘Is she going to marry Mr McAllister?’ asked Agnes.
‘Don’t be silly, Agnes,’ said her father. ‘She’s already married to Uncle Douglas.’
‘But she’s fallen out with him.’
‘I think Uncle Douglas is better-looking than Mr McAllister,’ said Jean. ‘Mr McAllister’s got a beard. I wouldn’t marry a man with a beard.’
‘Uncle Douglas has got a moustache,’ said Agnes.
‘That’s not as bad as a beard and he puts scent on it. He wears nicer clothes than Mr McAllister. Doesn’t he, Daddy?’
Asked to choose between a navy-blue blazer with gilt buttons and a green corduroy jacket, David played safe and offered no opinion.
‘Daddy, was Mr Ballantyne swearing in the dining-room?’ asked Agnes.
‘He was just talking too loudly, that’s all.’
‘I heard Mr Donaldson saying that Mr Ballantyne said—’ here Agnes stretched forward and whispered into her father’s ear – ‘c-u-n-t.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Agnes.’
‘Lots of boys at school say that word,’ said Jean.
‘Some girls too,’ added Agnes.
‘Well, I hope neither of you say it.’
‘Just into ourselves,’ said Agnes.
She and her sister laughed. Their father felt flummoxed.
‘I like Mr Ballantyne,’ said Jean. ‘He put his hand on my head and said I reminded him of someone.’
‘He’s got a daughter in Australia.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Agnes, unconsciously copying her mother’s voice, ‘is why Mr Ballantyne and Uncle Douglas went to play golf instead of coming with us to Ardnave.’
‘Uncle Douglas said it was a perfect afternoon for golf,’ said Jean.
‘Well, if one of them was my husband, I wouldn’t like it,’ said Agnes.
‘Can you get a divorce for playing golf?’ asked Jean.
‘Of course not,’ said her father, though he wouldn’t have been surprised to be told that golf had been the cause of quite a number of divorces.
‘What’s the little black girl’s name?’ asked Agnes.
‘She’s not black. You two are darker than she is.’
Like all Flodday children they were sunburnt and weather beaten.
‘I think she’s called Letitia.’
Jean tried to pronounce it but couldn’t because of the brace on her teeth. ‘What will I call her if I can’t say her name?’
‘I think it’s shortened to Letty.’
‘I can say that easily.’ She said it three times.
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Agnes, ‘is why they’ve come to Flodday? Her and her mother, I mean.’
‘Mr McAllister knew them when he was abroad. They’ve come to visit him.’
‘Has Letty’s mother got a husband?’ asked Jean.
‘I think so.’
‘Why didn’t he come too?’
Her father preferred not to answer that.
‘It’s very funny Mr McAllister having all the ladies in his house without their husbands,’ said Agnes.
‘I don’t want you two asking nosy questions.’
‘Miss McBride said we had to ask to find out,’ said Jean.
He was never sure when they were teasing him. They seemed to know more about the ways of the world than he or Mary.
‘People don’t like being asked nosy questions.’
‘Is it because they’ve got secrets?’ asked Jean. ‘Mr McPherson told us in Sunday school that nobody should have secrets.’
Agnes corrected her. ‘He said that nobody could have secrets, because God knew everything.’
Poor Angus Page 13