Household Ghosts

by James Kennaway

  Still Barrow did not move. Then at last a little orderly from the office came out of the block and approached him. The Orderly gave an affected salute. His battledress was creased smartly in every direction and his bonnet had been clipped and shaped. The Orderly spent his evenings reshaping the clothes with which he was issued. Barrow stared at him with undisguised hatred.

  ‘Please, sir, d’you wish a doughnut with your tea, sir?’

  Barrow screwed up his face.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Sir, some of the lads have doughnuts with their tea on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. We get them across at the Naafi. They’re fourpence each, sir, but they’re very good. I strongly recommend them, I do.’ The Orderly smiled his mother’s smile. ‘I could arrange it, sir.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘Colonel Sinclair always used to like one.’

  ‘I don’t care what Colonel Sinclair liked for his tea.’

  The reproof did not seem to upset the Orderly. ‘No, sir; I thought I’d just ask you.’

  ‘O God,’ Barrow said suddenly, ‘O God.’

  FIVE

  THAT AFTERNOON AT five o’clock the flag had been lowered and Retreat had been played. But sundown was a technical point. The sun had been hidden behind a bank of cloud all day. Corporal Fraser took the pipes and drums back to the Band Block and it was his last duty of the day to see that the piping room was cleaned up and tidy.

  ‘Corporal, there’s a friend of yours out there, his bottom out behind him,’ Piper Adam said.

  Fraser was waiting patiently for all the kit to be cleaned and cleared away. He turned round slowly, and he looked down to the square to see Jock marching slowly across. It was just light enough for him to be recognisable, a black figure against the snow.

  ‘Is he no a friend of yours, Corporal, eh? Is he no a friend any longer?’

  ‘D’you see that broom over there, Adam?’

  ‘No, Corporal. I don’t see it.’

  ‘Get over to it and start away.’

  ‘It’s no my turn for the sweeping.’

  One of the other pipers, a serious boy with steel-rimmed glasses, now said, ‘What’s that he’s marching at, Corporal?’

  The Corporal turned back again. He said slowly:

  ‘Jock always marches at 120 to the minute.’

  ‘It’s no as fast as that. Not nearly as fast as that,’ Adam said. ‘Maybe it’s the weight on his mind that slows him down.’

  ‘You talk too much.’

  ‘That’s a terrible black eye you’ve got, Corporal. It looks terrible sore.’

  ‘Get on.’

  ‘Corporal, I’m sympathising with you. That’s what I’m doing.’

  The other piper said wistfully, ‘Whatever it is he never changes his pace. Look at his footsteps, too. If the steps were there in front of him he’d put his foot right in them.’

  ‘It’s no where he put his feet that worries the Corporal. It’s where he puts his fist.’

  ‘Your mouth’s too big, Piper Adam.’

  ‘That’s a personal remark, Corporal.’

  ‘If you don’t get on you’ll no get out the night.’

  ‘I’ve no money to go out the night.’

  ‘Then you’ll go on a charge.’

  ‘That’s bloody victimisation, Corporal. That’s what that is.’

  ‘You’ll be telling that to the Pipe-Major, d’you hear me?’

  ‘Och.’

  ‘D’ye hear me?’

  Piper Adam at last obeyed but as he moved across the room he continued to mumble.

  ‘… and it’s the bloody fiddle I should a’ taken up. No these pipes at all. I’m telling yous. There’s no all this bull in the Hallé. Aye, I’m telling you.’

  The Corporal turned to the square, but it was empty now. Jock was on his way. It was as bare as oblivion.

  Jock went down the dark alley to the stage-door, and without a word of explanation he passed a ten-shilling note to the porter behind the window. The porter winked and welcomed him back, but Jock only nodded. He threw the note to the man as if he were throwing it overboard, and then he walked up the stone steps. Turning to his left he climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor where Mary had her dressing-room. She was not there, but the unshaded overhead light had been left on, and the room had hardly changed since he had known it. Over the light-switch was a notice scrawled in lipstick on the lid of a shoebox: Please turn me off. It was balanced on the top of the switch. The walls were badly in need of redecoration; the dressing-table, which had been bought at some sale years before, was as untidy as ever, and the big mirror still had a postcard slipped into the corner and one or two official notes pinned on to the frame. All around the room budding actors and actresses had scrawled their names on the walls, but none of the names meant anything now. The sash of the window was broken and Jock walked across to try and force the top shut, but he had struggled with it before, in vain. At the top right-hand corner there was a gap of two or three inches. The window seemed to be set in a wall which was only one brick deep. Jock felt that if he shoved with his shoulder then the side of the room might collapse with a rumble into the alley below. He grasped hold of the shutters and pulled them together. The bar to lock them had broken off its coupling and the draught through the window pushed them open again. But the room was cold. Methodically he carried a chair across and placed it against the shutters to hold them close. There was a gas fire burning low in one corner and he turned it up.

  Finding the kettle half filled he lit the gas ring too, and put the kettle on. He had to kneel down to adjust it. Then with his knuckles he pushed his weight back and he squatted in front of the fire, warming his hands. At last he stepped back and sat on a little chair with a plywood seat which creaked as it took his weight. The legs were loose and he rocked gently, in a little circle, holding on to the seat at his sides. He was sick with tiredness now, and the gas fire made him nod. His eyes were smarting, and he was too exhausted to find himself a cigarette. He did not get up when he heard her coming: his chair creaked as the door opened and she entered, but he still could not be bothered to climb to his feet. He looked over his shoulder and said just, ‘Mary.’

  ‘Laddie, they never told me you were here.’

  ‘I thought I’d find you. I know my way. I mind it fine.’

  She moved with a rustle. She was wearing a long grey dress that did not bear close inspection. It had been mended and remended and the hem was very dirty. The lace at the sleeve was pink-brown with grease paint and the apron was marked with dust. They were performing an adaptation of The Heart of Midlothian, and Jeanie Deans was one of Mary’s star parts. Almost like a professional, because Jock never thought of her as a professional, she took some cotton wool and began to clean some of the make-up from round her eyes.

  ‘I’ll get the sack if they find you here. How did you get in?’

  ‘I tipped Mac.’

  ‘Och,’ she said. ‘There was no need to have done that. What did you give him?’

  ‘Ten bob.’

  ‘Ten bob!’ She was astonished. ‘Laddie, that’s far too much.’

  He shrugged, and climbed wearily to his feet. She was watching him in the mirror and now she turned. That smile of hers was not there any longer.

  ‘Ten bob’s about as much as I make for each performance.’

  ‘I didn’t think.’ All the time he stared at her, with a sadness, and because she found his stare unnerving she turned away. But she was courteous, and she was kind. She was even tender.

  ‘Let me help you with your coat. You’ll just catch a cold when you get out again. Did you close the shutters?’

  ‘A-huh.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’

  She took the coat from him and she hung it on one of the pegs which was already laden with clothes and hangers.

  ‘Untidy as ever,’ Jock said and he attempted a smile.

  ‘In this room it’s not worth being anything else; well, is it?’ She
went on; ‘Now why did you tip Mac like that? You’re a terrible man.’

  ‘I thought maybe Charlie was here before me. I thought then that Mac would need some persuading.’

  ‘Charlie’s in Edinburgh.’

  ‘I know. I sent him. He was sore about that.’

  ‘You’re right there.’

  ‘Did he have a date with you? I told him if he had, I’d get someone else. It was a joke. It was a joke that went wrong.’

  ‘It’ll do him no harm,’ she said, ‘no harm at all. Charlie’s a cool one.’ She brought her lips tightly together when she had said that. Then she looked at him again. She looked hard at his face, and about his eyes. She said with a sudden surge of pity:

  ‘I’m glad you came, Jock. I’m glad. Laddie, you’re worn out. I can see it in your face.’

  ‘I’ve got reason to be.’

  The kettle was beginning to boil and she knelt down to attend to it. She was reaching for the teapot, not looking at Jock at all when she said, ‘I know you have. I know fine, Jock. Charlie was here.’

  ‘Ach, well.’

  ‘But he wasn’t here long after he’d told me, Jock,’ she said suddenly, looking up at him. ‘I got it all out of him, and I’m glad you sent him off. You were right to. When he told me it all, I sent him away myself, and if you’d not come here I was going to try and find you. It’s a shame, Jock.’

  ‘It’s just a fact.’ His palms turned outwards. ‘That’s all it is. It must have been written down somewhere. I never thought at all. I might have been one of your actors. I just played out the lines, and I struck the laddie and ever since then, Mary, I’ve been following my own footsteps. They lead me hither and thither.’

  ‘Is it real serious?’

  He touched the dust on the narrow mantelpiece. ‘Sometimes I tell myself it isn’t. There’s lots of ifs and buts to it. But just as I see the way out, just as I see the light and I see the chance, I know fine at the same time just how bloody serious it is. Maybe the same devils as saved me before have turned the thing against me now.’

  ‘Och, away you go. The devil takes care of his ain.’

  ‘Oh, dearie me,’ he said suddenly and with a sigh he sat down on the little chair again so she was by his feet where she sat. She had found cups and she poured out the tea. Then she said:

  ‘I told Charlie I’d never see him again.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard. He’d no right to do that.’

  ‘It’s none of Charlie’s fault.’

  ‘Barrow would have never dared to move without him.’

  ‘But Barrow has moved. I’ve just seen him. He came to say he’s sorry.’ He laughed. ‘That was comic.’

  Then he waved his hand in the air wiping out all they had said.

  ‘Och, Charlie didn’t come into it lassie.’

  She handed him up the cup. ‘Did they not tell you, then? Did you not hear what happened?’

  Jock looked at her suspiciously. He felt a little frightened of what she was about to say. She must have had a right row with Charlie. But he had not come to discuss all this. He had come to see her and to forget it. She looked at him cautiously as he replied very slowly:

  ‘I know fine what happened. Barrow’s just told me. It was the doctor who gave the show away, then Mr McLean had to see him too. It had nothing to do with Charlie.’

  She shook her head. ‘Are you blind, Jock? I saw it coming last night; for heaven’s sake. He didn’t like it when you called. Did you not see that?’

  Jock blinked. He had long been trained in the school which teaches that women are the trouble-makers, and it was not the first time that he and Charlie had had the same girl. But it had never destroyed their friendship, and it never would.

  ‘You’re away off net.’

  ‘That I’m not. D’you fancy I’d just say a thing like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Charlie told me, Jock. He told me himself. Barrow had him in. He asked him what he thought. He asked him if he ought to chase the rumour up.’

  Jock sat very stiffly, with his knees together, and he looked down at her, awkwardly, with his chin in his collar.

  ‘You’ve had words with Charlie.’

  ‘When he said that I had words with him, I …’

  ‘Before that you’d had a tussle with him.’

  ‘No.’

  He looked at her solemnly. ‘You’re no in love with him any more?’

  ‘With Charlie?’ She shook her head and gave a weak little laugh. ‘Of course I’m not in love with him. For heaven’s sake, I never have been.’

  ‘You were carrying on with him,’ he said hotly, and she put a hand on his knee.

  ‘Och, Jock Sinclair. You’re a child. You’re a child.’

  He looked angry now; hurt that she should make a fool of him. He moved a little in his chair and he looked away from her as he said:

  ‘Did Charlie say he’d seen Barrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He never told me.’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t going to.’

  He flared up at that. He rose to his feet and his cup rattled in the saucer.

  ‘That’s an awful thing to say. Charlie’d tell me. Charlie’s no a sneak. It’s just that he hasn’t had time. Did he tell you what he said to Barrow? Did he?’

  She shrugged. ‘The enquiry’s gone forward, hasn’t it?’

  Jock looked back at her, over his shoulder.

  ‘Charlie’d never have done that out of spite, if he did it at all.’ He seemed to be angry with her, not anybody else. When he started his voice was low, but it grew louder all the time. ‘Women like you don’t understand. You see us when we’re drunk and playing the fool. You never know the real men. You don’t see the other side. Aye, maybe Charlie was called in.’ He walked as far as the wall at the other side of the room and he pushed his fist against it, softly, once or twice. She sat very still, with her cup in her lap. Everything looked bare and yellow in that light.

  ‘Aye, and maybe when he was told the facts he saw his duty. He’s a good officer, Charlie. When it comes to it he knows what’s right and what’s wrong. If you sent him away with a flea in his ear, you did wrong. If he had to do that to me, then he had to do that to me, and maybe he was right to. But he’d never want to. Not Charlie.’

  She watched him solemnly, and his eyes were brimming and burning with a sort of hot pride. Then she looked down at her cup, and she moved it to her side.

  ‘You know I’ve never tried to make trouble.’

  ‘I know nothing about you. Nothing at all.’

  She was hurt, and he saw that he had hurt her. His own face screwed up with the same pain that he had inflicted. She had turned her face to the wall.

  ‘Mary, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry I said it. Really I am.’

  She still kept her head turned away, and he moved forward clumsily. He did not know what to do so he bent down, and with the flat of his palm he stroked the top of her hair, stiffly but softly, as he would stroke the head of a dog.

  ‘It’s no business of mine,’ she said at last, her voice a pitch higher, but she was not crying.

  ‘Aye, it is. I came along to you. I’m sorry, Mary, I’m clack-handed. I didn’t mean to be angry with you. I know you did me fine, and I’m glad of that. But you’re wrong about Charlie. He wouldn’t do what you think he’s done. Och, lassie, in a battalion, it’s difficult you see: whoever it is, whatever the circumstances – Christ, you can’t have officers bashing corporals. That’s just the way of it. I know that fine. I’d have said the same thing myself. I’d have done the same.’

  She looked up at him and she just said, ‘Never in a hundred years, Jock.’ He opened his eyes wide: he hesitated, and he nearly lost his way. Then he turned round, and the fist banged back into the palm of the hand again and again. She went on talking in a low voice, but with such conviction.

  ‘Never in a hundred years. And you know that, fine, don’t you? Oh, Jock, you�
��re always talking about your soldiers, and your Battalion, but it’s you that doesn’t see the half of your men. And for all your mucking and binding, and all your nonsense, laddie, you’re … you’re a child, Jock.’

  ‘Och, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. She had often said this to him and it always irritated him.

  ‘You expect too much of them. You expect them all to be the same as yourself, and you’re twice the man of any of them. I mean that. You’re too good for them. I’ve never said it before because your head would grow too big. But it’s true. It’s true.’

  He said sadly, ‘No, lassie. It was true. It was true. But it isn’t true any more.’

  ‘Well, tell me a better man, eh? Is Macmillan better? Who are all the others? What about Barrow?’

  He shook his head and he dropped his weight on to the chair again.

  ‘Och, to hell with all that,’ he said. ‘I’m about awa’ with it now. I don’t know which’ll bust first, my head or my heart. So to hell with all that. C’mon out with me.’

  She looked up at the round clock face above the door. ‘Laddie, I can’t. I’ve another show in half an hour.’

  ‘What is it tonight?’

  ‘Jeanie Deans.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said and slowly he smiled. ‘I saw the bill. That’s what it is. And Mary Titterington in the big letters.’

  ‘Don’t bully me. Don’t bully me now.’

  ‘No.’ He put his head on one side. ‘But it must give you a wee thrill. Just a wee one.’

  She closed her eyes for a second.

  ‘Let’s not have all this again, Jock.’

  ‘But I’m not mocking.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Look I’ll tell you. You see that wall. Twelve years ago, Jock, twelve years ago, before you ever had your war I was here, in this dressing-room. I was playing Effie Deans then, and I was good, though I say it myself. And I wrote my name up there with the rest of them. Oh, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Did you? Maybe I saw you then. Where’s your name? Where is it?’

  She turned away. ‘When I came back I rubbed it out.’ ‘Och.’ He looked genuinely sad. He gave a kind smile.