A History Maker

by Alasdair Gray

  “Aye.”

  “Do you promise not to ask more than two questions a day?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you promise to go on playing in the garden with your nephews and nieces?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then stay for a while and I’ll teach ye to read.”

  She had taught him to read very fast, he thought, remembering how shocked he had been when the lessons stopped. She had promised to cuddle him all night when he had read her a Rudyard Kipling story aloud from start to finish. In bed she always lay with her back to him; he hated that so worked hard and read the story aloud perfectly.

  “Good,” she said briskly, “My teaching days are over. Now you can teach yourself.”

  “But you’ll cuddle me all night?”

  “Aye, for the first and last time. You should cuddle lassies of your own age.”

  Because it was the first and last time he couldn’t enjoy being cuddled by her that night. He told her so.

  “Good!” she said pleasantly, “Neither of us is being used as a doll.”

  “Are you my mother, Kittock?”

  “Mibby. I had a wheen of bairns before I tired of housework. I was good at childbirth but never nursed the gets for more than a week because I didnae like small thoughtless animals. Luckily there are a lot of women who do. Folk who cannae talk bore me. I went to the stars to hear a brainier class of talker.”

  “Why did ye come back?”

  “The talkers up there are all specialists.”

  “I hope you’re my mother, Kittock.”

  “It doesnae matter who is your mammy and daddy, you’re the world’s son, my man, born into the world’s house, and if it’s too big for you, leave it and crawl into a satellite or a crater with a roof over it on a dead world. Ask the grannies who your mammy is. They told you about your daddy because boys are supposed to feel safer with a manly pattern ahead of them, just as girls are supposed to feel safer with a mother. Mibby they do feel safer but it’s idol-worship or doll-cuddling just the same. The only pattern we should learn to follow is the one that grows inside us. You have to look in, not out to find that.”

  “I don’t know what ye mean Kittock.”

  “Then forget it.”

  He had never asked the grannies who his mother was in case she was not Kittock at all.

  There was every kind of book on Kittock’s shelves, many with pictures. He found one with tiny engravings of many naked women and a few men wearing curly wigs, knee breeches, embroidered dressing-gowns and buckled shoes. The men seemed to own a vast palace where they used the women as furniture and ornaments. The text was in words he could not read.

  “What does play-sir dam-our mean, Kittock?”

  “Pleasure of love, in French.”

  “Will you teach me French?”

  “No. Learn it through a telecom in the big house. Contact a French boy who wants to learn English. Show him that book and ask him to explain.”

  “I wish you had a telecom.”

  “I don’t want to learn another language.”

  “You could watch films.”

  “It would waste my mind.”

  He wanted to ask why, but it would have been his third question that day. He watched her hard and expectantly instead. She sighed and said, “When a lot of folk watch something on a screen they all see the same thing. What a damnable waste of mind! Readers bring books to life by filling the stories with voices, faces, scenery, ideas the author never dreamed of, things from their own minds. Every reader does it differently.”

  “So when you and me read The Cat That Walked by Itself we read a different story?” said Wat, disliking the idea.

  “Exactly!” said Kittock with great satisfaction.

  “Can a man say a sensible word?” said a fat, thickly bearded gangrel sitting in a chair near the Aga where he had been examining a book, “You undervalue intercourse between people, Kitty my love. Yes, in Hegelian terms every book is a thesis to which each and every reader’s reaction — no matter how enthusiastic! — is antithesis and uniquely private. This would turn us into Babylonian chaos or a swarm of solipsistic monads if natural garrulity did not make us chorally symphonic. We mingle our private and divergent responses to what delights or exasperates us, thus instigating a plurality of new syntheses. Glory be to God, you’re a lovely woman, Kitty. Let a man tip another drop of real stuff into your glass.”

  “Ignore him, Wat,” said Kittock amiably, “None of his words are sensible except a few at the end.”

  Gangrels visited the tower to return and borrow books, usually bringing a hare or salmon for the larder, sometimes a load of peats or logs for the Aga. Wat hated them because he wanted Kittock to himself. He hated the fat man most because he had come early, seemed perfectly at home and showed no sign of going away. Kittock had produced two glasses which the fat man kept filling from a labelless bottle of clear liquid. At one point he asked Kittock,

  “Should a man offer a drop of real stuff to your solemn young husband here?”

  “Aye, but he’ll refuse. He hates you.” The man asked Wat politely, “Is she telling the truth?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ah well, here’s a health to you anyway.”

  Later they were joined by another gangrel just as bad: a small thin one with a deeply wrinkled brow, moustache so bushy that it hid his mouth, a sack from which he removed another bottle of real stuff, a copy of Catch 22, rabbits, birds, potatoes, onions and a turnip which he suggested would make a good game stew. Kittock started preparing it. The men exchanged tobacco pouches, filled their pipes, filled their glasses again and discussed whether ten thousand years of civilization should be called The Dark Ages because of their greed and cruelty, or The Middle Ages because they had achieved some splendid things. The discussion lasted throughout the afternoon, through a meal of game stew, through the evening until long after nightfall. During it Wat heard so many people confidently quoted that he thought the gangrels had recently met Socrates, Pericles, Voltaire, Frederick of Prussia, Pushkin, Czar Nicholas, James Kelman and Margaret Thatcher in remote cities. In Dryhope house he sometimes saw films of people living in cities, so did not know they had disappeared. And all the time Kittock listened closely to the men with quiet amusement which infuriated Wat because he could not amuse her that way. Without bidding anyone goodnight at last he climbed the ladder to bed and, despite the loud voices below, fell asleep without undressing.

  And was shaken awake by Kittock saying, “Home to your aunties, Wat! Home to your aunts!”

  There was a smile on her face giving it a youthful beauty he had never seen before. When he understood what she meant he yelled, “No!” and clung to the side of the bed.

  “Help me men!” she cried gaily, “Up here, Tiger Tim. Stay below and catch him, Desperate Dan.”

  She and the small man lifted him and dropped him screaming into the arms of the fat man who carried Wat to the door, pushed him out, slammed and locked and bolted it behind him. The night was warm, a full moon in the sky. He rushed at the door, banged it uselessly with his shoulder, kicked it, hammered with his fists and yelled furiously for minutes on end till he was suddenly drenched by a big cold lump of water. It had been tipped from a pail by the fat man who, looking down from the broken tower top, said, “Moderate your transports you misfortunate wee bastard! It’s a big bed but there’s only room for two men when Kitty goes wild.”

  Then he was being led back to his first home by a mother who said softly, “Poor Wat, poor Wat, why did ye attach yourself to her? Tonight you’ll sleep with me.”

  “No!”

  “Well I’ll put you in with Joe — he likes you.”

  “No!”

  “Then where can I put ye, Wattie? Who in this great big house do you want to sleep with? I can arrange it with anyone for tonight, maybe for longer. Peggy is loving. She’s ten and plump and likes wee lads.”

  Snatching his hand from hers he hardened every muscle till his body v
ibrated with tension and roared, “Can a man not have a bed of his own?” “O yes,” she said, smiling sadly down on him, “A man can have a bed of his own.”

  A day later he saw Kittock at the morning service and glared at her. She smiled and shrugged back. His feelings then were exactly what he felt now for Delilah Puddock. Before returning from the stars he could not think of Kittock without pain; afterward he was as glad to see her as any of the rest.

  Yes, he had come to this small room at the age of five. Most children were given a bigger room when they left their chosen granny at that age, sharing it with two or three others. They slept, played, squabbled together until puberty, when each wanted, and was given, a room of their own to entertain privately invited guests. Wat had never wanted another room. He wanted attractive nieces and young aunts to stand outside his little room and say timidly, “Wat, O Wattie, please let me in.”

  He found cruel pleasure in imagining their sufferings when they heard him say very coldly and casually, “Leave me alone, I’m busy.”

  Unluckily the only girl who had begged to enter his room was a tall awkward eleven-year-old lassie from Mountbenger who visited him when he was nine. She had been so awkward and unattractive — so like himself — that there was no satisfaction in keeping her out. She had sat for hours on his floor but eventually stopped coming because he answered her questions with monosyllables, said nothing else to her, never looked at her and went on reading or playing with his screen as if alone. Later he heard she had grown into a uniquely intelligent and attractive woman, so her dull remarks to him had been caused by shyness. He still fantasized about excluding women who loved him. When twelve he had refused an offer of a bigger room, saying he would soon be leaving for the satellites as soon as possible so must get used to cramped spaces. He bitterly enjoyed the sorrowing wonder with which the mother heard this crisp, quiet statement. It had proved he was cared for. But those he most wanted had never cared much for him. Kittock had not wanted him near her. Nan was more of a mother than an equal. Annie had talked to him as if she was an older sister. He had certainly loved them but none (except Kittock, perhaps) had occupied his mind as wholly as the woman in the tent who had treated him with absolute contempt.

  “Why am I a perverse bugger?” he whispered then noticed someone on the veranda watching him.

  It was Kittock. She nodded without smiling and turned and walked back to the tower. He put his shoes on and scribbled a note: A political matter — someone you do not know is listening to us.

  His room lacked a door onto the veranda. He caught up with her in the living-room library he had not visited for over twenty years. She stood facing him, hands clasped before her in perfect silence. He said, “You’re angry?” She nodded.

  “Why?”

  She took his first note from her pocket, showed it to him, lifted a plate from the Aga and dropped it inside saying, “I never mothered you.”

  He humbly shrugged his shoulders and handed her the second note. She read it, looked at him, smiled and burned that too. She said kindly,

  “Sit down Wattie. If false folk are listening the truth cannae hurt you. You arenae false.” It was what he wanted to hear.

  “Are ye sure?” he said, thankfully sitting, “I met a very bad woman last night, Kittock.”

  “I think ye met a woman who was bad to you, Wattie.”

  “If what she said is right she wants to be bad to everyone and I love her, Kittock!” said Wat with a wild chuckle, “There’s been naething like me since José fell for Carmen. I’m corrupted!”

  She brewed and served camomile tea while he talked, then she sat opposite and gave him such full attention that he felt as safe at home with her as when he was three. She asked questions which helped him recall details, like the colour of Delilah’s eyes. He also told her the news he had gathered through the telecom, growing excited about it.

  “Surely there’s more than one of her, Kittock? The public eye presenters and telecom gurus and commanders broadcasting just now all seem part of her conspiracy, but so do I — the worst part. An hour ago a veteran strategist called me the spearhead of a great new movement restoring manly courage to its ancient prestige — he predicted that in a year we’ll be battling in leagued armies as big as those of the defunct nations and based on the same territories. Weapons and war rules must be modified for larger areas of manoeuvre, he said, but only the commons will be seriously encroached upon. A woman asked if this meant future battles would not only be fought on the commons, but also for them. He said Why not? Territorial instincts will add zest to manly contests and in no way endanger our houses. Why are so many so sure of this? Why are only a few women worried about it? I must fight this daftness — ”

  “Fight it?”

  “Speak against it. Every commander in Scotland will be at a banquet after the circus tonight with nearly a hundred foreign champions. As guest of honour I’ll be expected to make a speech. What if I tell the world that there is a conspiracy against the safety of our homes?”

  “You will sound like a quotation from a history book,” mused Kittock, “At first the whole audience will think you a fearmongering maniac from the worst period of human history. Then your sincerity will move folk who like you, and others who also fear the effect of the bigger armies, to start a crusade, a witch hunt, a police force to denounce or arrest plotters. The folk any such force arrested or threatened to arrest would mostly be innocent, of course. The new police force, like previous ones, would become the evil it was created to prevent and would provoke a resistance exactly like it. That would delight the puddock you met in the wood.”

  “Shall I kill her and then myself, Kittock?”

  “I believe she would like that too, Wattie. Finish your tea while I think.”

  He sipped lukewarm tea, watched her ponder and relaxed into the comfort of the high-backed armchair. Since explaining his problem to her he was enjoying a pleasant drowsiness. The colour of a winking light on his wristcom showed three people had left urgent messages and a fourth wanted to talk to him at once. He let the winking light hypnotize him into shallow sleep which suddenly deepened and banquet, Wat,” said Kittock loudly. He yawned and muttered, “I didnae catch that.”

  “Don’t go to that circus and banquet. Don’t even speak to these people, let Jenny do it for you. Tell him you’ve a viral infection, but don’t say you cannae go. Say you won’t go, and mean it.”

  He took the ticket from his pocket, re-read the message, sighed and said, “All right mother, though it will be hard. Every bit of me but my common sense hungers for that woman.”

  “Stand firm. Hold on to your common sense and she’ll come to you,” said Kittock grimly,

  “I won’t let you out of my sight today, tonight or tomorrow, Wat. Stop looking excited! She can only harm ye.”

  “I told you I’m corrupted, mother,” said Wat with a despairing smile, “I know she can only harm me so my only hope is she needs me to do it to. Why are ye sure she’ll come?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’ve seen the great-grannies of Dryhope,” said Kittock, standing, “Come! We must tell them everything.”

  “Why?” asked Wat, perplexed, “What use are a wheen of old housewives to anybody but the bairns they care for? I ken they like knowing all about everything but gossip won’t save the world — or save me either.”

  “Sometimes you have fewer brains than a headless hen Wat Dryhope! You always thought too little of the women who bred and nursed you because you wanted danger, not safety — that’s why you fell in love with me, and history books, and going to the stars, and warfare, and with Delilah Puddock. I wish I could have made you a gangrel, Wat. That life has all the healthy danger a sane man needs and no time for communal crazes and elite conspiracies. Among settled people it’s the great-grannies who stop these things becoming dangerous. Their gossip has been the only government and police the world has needed for more than a century — if you’re ignorant of that then you don’t
know what keeps modern society stable. If she is as ignorant as you in that respect (and she may be, you and she were very alike) we can stop her doing much damage.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The bonny, merciless puddock you met in the woods, Lulu Dancy, who was sweet on you when you were wee.” Wat jumped up and walked to and fro saying,

  “That scrawny, lanky thing? She wasnae a Lulu — they cried her … What was it …?”

  “Meg Mountbenger. You paid her no attention so she came to me, asked all about you and read the books you read. I got her hooked on books. She borrowed more than anyone I ever knew, history, art, poetry and novels. A very clever lass she became and a good looker with it, but she was scunnered by the Ettrick lads after you and didnae care much for her aunts and grannies either. She became an artist and went to the stars. She was one of the team designing the hollow world, K20, but she loved sounds and appearances more than solid forms so changed her name to what it is now, returned to earth and joined Cellini’s Cloud Circus last year — what’s suddenly right with ye, Wattie?” With tears on his cheeks he said hoarsely, “I’ve never been happier. She needs me like I need her! There was hatred in what she did with me last night but nothing calculating, nothing political! It’s a miracle that she’s needed me all these years. I’ll go to her.”

  Kittock grasped his hands and tried to keep him seated saying, “And she wasnae false when she said she wanted to restore poverty and greedy governments! Does her brand of nooky mean more to ye than the proper feeding of the world’s bairns? The safety of our sisters, aunts and grannies? The happiness of Annie, Nan and your other kind sweethearts?”

  “She cannae hurt them,” said Wat impatiently pulling his hands free, getting up and going toward the door, “And I’ll stop her if she tries to, that’s a promise Kittock.”