I, Alan Macaulay, have returned from the dead to plead my innocence. You may say why intrude into the world of the living? I have returned simply to tell my story, so that it will be known in its reality—its turning points and revelations, its ultimate conclusions. For the sake of truth and justice.
Part I: From Whence I Have Come and What I Have Seen
I begin with the dog on the beach in my home village of Cramond in Scotland. I begin at the age of twenty-four, a short time before I left for Canada. I do not begin with childhood. That era is closed to me who am now, on this beach, a man in my prime. I begin here on the wet shingle, under a heavy grey sky, as I gazed across the Firth of Forth to Fife, in the year 1903, on a wet and windy day in early summer that changed my life—although the dog was not mentioned by my mother in the letter in which she begged the prime minister for my life—because the dog and my feelings for it, the state of mind I was in, was identical to that of the moment in which I was said to have formed the intention to kill.
The River Almond, the mouth of which was within my sight, once crowded with transport vessels bringing coal and lime and bar-iron and taking out iron and steel from the ironworks, was an empty sweep of water. The only traffic upon it was the regular crossing of the ferry boat. Within six hours I would ask Andy Mathews to row me across to the west bank, and from there I would walk to Hunter’s Crag.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning. The women were watching the tide, some with their skirts kilted up. They carried sacks in which to put the cockles, mussels and limpets with which they fed their families. If I had gone home, I would have found my mother and grandfather in the cottage, she at work with the weaving, and he all too ready with tales of work in the nailery and the sawmill at Dowie’s Mill. Since I had left school, I’d worked for John Weller making furniture.
Six months ago I’d been squaring a corner of a cabinet door when my chisel slipped and cut deeply between my thumb and forefinger. The hand and arm had become much swollen and I’d had to stop work for a considerable time, my mother’s remedies notwithstanding. I’d returned to work but found my hand and arm unsteady and I made mistakes and was let go.
Every morning I collected kelp from the mounds that washed ashore. This was women’s work, but there is no shame in work of any kind that is driven by necessity. When I could find them, I gathered oysters, although the beds had been largely overfished and destroyed. I gave the money to my mother for my keep. I drank little. I did not carouse.
The dog, Dandy, a terrier, ran ahead of me and darted, suddenly, away from the shore and into the brush surrounding the ruins of Cramond Tower. I heard it barking, and thinking that it had cornered a rat or ferret, followed cautiously. I struck aside the ivy that had got such a hold of the stones, and when I rounded the corner, where the stairtower stood exposed, I found there a young woman, about my own age, sitting with a sketchbook on her lap.
“Away, Dandy,” I said to the mutt, and to her—“I’m sorry about the dog.”
She smiled. “I wasn’t afraid.” What did she look like? She wore a long brown cloth walking skirt over boots. Her jacket was buttoned over a shirtwaist. She’d taken off her hat and her hair had loosened from its knot.
“Can I be of any assistance?” I said.
“I’ve just finished,” she said, and gathered up her things.
“May I?” I held my hand out for the open sketchbook and, with a blush, she complied.
From where she sat she had a keyhole view of the strand. She’d shaded cliffs of sky and sea, and a miniature man with his dog, the man with his arms lifted like a bird, as if about to fly, utterly joyous. I made no comment, although it was obvious the man was me. I returned the sketchbook to her. Just then a voice cried, “Barbara!” and a man appeared. The woman rose. I said goodbye and returned with Dandy to the beach.
Wide open sand and mud flats as the tide retreated. No reason to be anywhere with the kelp already delivered to the buyer, the oysters to the fishwife who would sell them in Edinburgh. I took the raised walkway across the sands to Cramond Island. Deserted today. Although on Sundays it was always busy with picnickers from the town. The dog ran away into the trees. I climbed over the rocks to a cleft I knew where I could lie down out of the wind. Noon. The sky broke open its fruit and the pit of the sun shone fiercely. I took off my shirt and my trousers.
I was a young, healthy man. My shoulders and arms were muscled from my trade, my thighs strong from long walks. I had the blue eyes of the men in my family, my hair was dark and streaked light in strips by salt. I’d taken several of the village girls to the kirkyard where we’d lain down among the tombstones. I’d taken one on the long walk to Queensferry and back through the woods of Dalmeny. In my mind, against my closed eyelids, I saw the woman from the tower. My hands unbuttoned her jacket, my fingers felt the sting of her nipples.
I opened my eyes at the sound of a splash and sat up. A seal swivelled its cannonball head, a smooth turn on the waters. I got to my feet for a better look.
“Oh!” I heard from behind me. I turned around. The woman was on the rocks above me. Just cresting the height behind her was her companion. My hand went protectively to my erection.
“Filth!” the man shouted. “Disgusting!” The woman did not move. He reached her and pulled her away but not before I heard her say, “Oh, dear God, your poor arm.” I could not help myself; I came.
It is said that God made us in his own image, and that he made us male and female for a purpose. I had done no wrong, and I did not believe the woman took any offence. Why should she? It was she who startled me and I was where I belonged. Whereas she and the man with her would be met by a horse and cart and would return to Edinburgh. She’d live in the New Town, in a house with high ceilings and where the fire surround had been made by men like me in furniture shops like John Weller’s and would cost a fortune—far more than I could make in three months. I knew my place. It was fine.
But what she saw when she looked at me was not a man, but an object of sympathy. I examined my arm and hand: They flopped uselessly, swollen, red, misshapen, of no more use to me than a seal’s flipper. The future was an open book and my role in it was pitiable.
I returned home with the dog. I took the laudanum from my mother’s cupboard. I did not speak to her or my grandfather, but I shut the dog in my bedroom. I walked into the village and from the apothecary purchased more laudanum. When I met my friend, George Falconer, I told him what I was going to do. He said, “Come now, Alan. What you need is a good dinner, come back with me to my house.” I refused and paid Andy Mathews to row me across the river. I took one last look behind me at the children on the sand. They ran in bare feet, the girls wore hats with streaming ribbons. The mothers and fathers held the hands of the little ones. They were each, in the sight of God and man, perfect.
You will know, of course, that I was rescued. How else would I find myself about to be hanged? I insist I have done no wrong, except to myself, and perhaps, through worry, to my family. I wish I had died that day at Hunter’s Crag. If I’d been left alone I would have. It was the right time, the right place, the right reason. George Falconer went to the police and they found me and brought me to the doctor. He pumped out my stomach and took me home. George and my mother kept me awake all night, forcing me to walk back and forth through the rooms of the cottage until it was felt I was safe.
I was not safe. I had made a decision from which none could dissuade me. But what I need to say, so that the whole will be clear to your judgment, was that if I’d had a gun I would have turned it on myself and made an end to it that way. Do you see?
EIGHT
July 1, Dominion Day, and following, 1941
It is not usual for Dr. Frank to work holidays, so I’m surprised when I’m taken from my chores in the rabbitry to see him. Miss Cochrane, Dr. Frank’s assistant with the Orientals, comes with me. Many of the regular staff are absent—off for a day of picnics with their families, I suppose. We meet in his office: It’s
the first time I’ve been there since the day I arrived and I experience a flare of hope that I’m about to be released. These things do happen. Anything is possible. I sit in a chair in front of the desk, beads of sweat skating down my forehead. Miss Cochrane takes a chair near the window slightly behind Dr. Frank, and flips to a clean page in her secretarial pad.
How precious the view of the garden from that office window, and the glimpse of the fountain stocked with Kosho’s fish: Myriad rainbows star from the spray, and the long open drive winds between trees to the outside world. When I’m allowed to walk in the garden accompanied by Ron Signet, it’s different: The steps, the front door, the swinging gait of those who breeze in and out belong to a different universe from the one I inhabit, and I know it. The same sun, the same stars, but la condition humaine is incomparable.
I’m on the cusp of emotion while I wait for him to speak, my desire to leave as hard and bright as a blaze of light from a star thought long dead. He gives me a nod and a glance over the top of his spectacles, then returns to his reading. My pages. My story of Alan Macaulay.
What I notice while I attend: He’s lost weight; the shoulders of his navy suit jacket look like epaulettes. Dr. Frank’s hand does not snake out to the bowl of humbugs. There’s dust on the bookshelf where certain tomes have been removed. Which ones? Jung, I believe. Vanished trophies, too. What’s left? Medical books. Dead flowers in a vase.
He puts down the papers, loosens his collar and starts right in.
“I see you’ve been working hard at your writing, Sandy, and Ron Signet tells me you’re a paragon of efficiency in the rabbitry. You’re making progress.”
Did I say a flare of hope? More like a conflagration. I swab sweat from my eyes. One of the papers on the desk could be a pardon.
“I should also mention how useful is your friendship with Mrs. Jones-Murray. Her father, Mr. Dunblane Sr., has made a generous donation; next thing you know, we’ll be building a swimming pool and tennis courts for the inmates! Ha ha!” Yellow rings pouch beneath his eyes and his fingers are ink-stained. Why is he working so hard?
“I had some difficulty, I must tell you, in getting Mr. Dunblane to drop certain conditions relevant to you, inserted in the agreement, doubtless, because of your woman friend’s soft heart; but we can’t have the welfare of our patients in the hands of civilians and sentimentalists, can we?”
Hope dies. My hands tremble. I clench my fists to still them.
“I said, can we, Sandy?” he says. The eyes in the dirty sunken sockets are neither hard nor friendly. They engage mine briefly and pass on. He has other, more important, matters on his mind than me. He skims the room abstractedly, counting up what’s left?
“Are we at war, then, sir?”
“Pardon me? What kind of a question is that?” Life stirs within the stained waistcoat, the dull eyes revive. “Of course we’re at war, you know perfectly well…”
“Not that, sir. You mentioned ‘civilians.’ I just wondered what you meant. Is this a military institution now? Are you no longer in command?” I’ve gone too far. He doesn’t like sarcasm and I’ve struck close to the bone. (This could swing for me or against me.)
He draws a slow breath through flared nostrils. “Which brings me to why I asked you here today.”
“Yes, sir, I was wondering about that. I’ve been nervous. You’ll have to excuse me if I thought, at first—now I understand that I was wrong—that you’d asked me here to impart good tidings. Your office is where I entered the institution: I’d assumed that those about to leave were summoned here as well. I’ve thought about nothing else since Miss Cochrane came for me.”
He digests this. “Not a very realistic hope, Sandy, was it? There’d have to be a court pardon first.” He’s not unkind by nature. He understands. “I should have allowed for that. I owe you an apology.”
He pulls himself to his feet. He’s added braces to hold up his trousers. He takes my story pages in his hand, walks round the desk to where I sit and places them gently on the desk in front of me. “What’s this about, Sandy? Why aren’t you writing about yourself, as I asked you to? I don’t understand its relevance. We’re here to work for the truth, Sandy, not to entertain ourselves. Why, if we want entertainment, we play golf, or see a film, or go dancing. Am I not right?”
What can I say to this that would be truthful? “I enjoy movie night, sir.”
“Then, you do see this can’t continue.” He’s back in his chair, nodding pleasantly. I’m a good boy again if I hear and obey. The clock inside him that divides his day into periods of importance has sped up. I’ve maybe a minute to make my case before he’s on to something else.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Frank, but could I please explain?” He temples his fingers below his chin to hide impatience.
“You explained to me that knowing where I am is important. You encouraged me to look into the history of this great building—a not inconsiderable architectural landmark—and I have enjoyed the research. While doing so I came across the account of Alan Macaulay’s hanging.”
“Yes, I know. A sad event, to be sure, but the only one of its kind.” Fingertips prick the folds of his jowls. Eyes around the room, looking—for what?
“Yes, sir, but one that must withstand the searchlight of truth if it is not to be wasted.”
“Meaning?”
“Either Macaulay was guilty, as charged, or he was innocent, in which case a grave injustice has been done.”
“You’re too clever a boy to be unaware, Sandy, that this is a thinly disguised means of talking about yourself! I’ve asked you to be direct, yet you insist on fiction!”
“If I may say so, I am doing what you ask to the best of my ability; perhaps my abilities will change and develop, but in the meantime this research may help to right a terrible wrong, and bring peace to a shamed family.”
“Fiction, Sandy, it’s a piece of fiction.”
“Based on fact.”
I notice as he lays upon me his most heavy, speculative gaze how feminine are his eyelashes: they are thick, black, feathered. Georgina once gave me a butterfly kiss from her eyelashes on the palm of my hand. I told her I didn’t like it, but I did. That touch sent prickles through me. “It was long ago, Sandy. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
“You won’t help me further, sir? I’m to return the files? Give up?”
A belch rumbles through him. He lifts a handkerchief to his mouth. Several more suppressed burps. “I didn’t say that, Sandy.” His fingers rustle through folders and he pulls out more paper. These are scraps blotted with ink and food stains. Torn-off corners and long strips. Nothing so grand as my efforts with Alan Macaulay.
“These other pieces you’ve given me”—he waves a fistful of my dreams and memories—“these are more what I want, but we’re still not there, are we?”
“Sir?”
“Do you remember the poem about the blind men of Hindustan who argued among themselves over what an elephant was like? Each felt a different part of the animal and was convinced that the small area he explored must be the shape of the whole beast. Most of us make as great an error as those blind men in our interpretation of others. These oddments you’ve given me, Sandy, are my evidence of what you wish to suppress, but what lies between them? Where is the elephant? You understand—Miss Cochrane will back me up here”—he acknowledges her racing pencil just behind him—“that we may find one facet of a personality and try to judge the whole from that and if we do so we may then make a grave error—one that can’t be repaired.”
The scratching of Miss Cochrane’s pencil on the steno pad ceases. The two of us wait for more words from on high, but Dr. Frank has shrunk into silence. His eyes close, the loose skin of his face drops, his shoulders sag. I remember the suicide of the soldier, the son of an important man. A grave error indeed.
“But that’s it, sir,” I say. “One must see the amazing uniqueness of each individual. Even twins may appear alike, but they differ in their experiences and i
deas. We can’t make assumptions other than to believe in the fundamental honesty of others. Alan Macaulay insisted he was innocent, his mother and various townspeople testified as to his character. We know that a man was killed, but have we seen into the heart of the man accused of his murder? Do we comprehend his intent, have we considered accident?”
“Into the heart, you say? You want to go there?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“You believe you can uncover his secrets?”
“Allowing him to talk, even as a character, gives him the opportunity to express his ideas, and for us to revamp ours.”
“And relieves your emotions, doesn’t it, Sandy?”
An image of the young woman Alan Macaulay meets when he’s sunbathing naked appears to me, as clearly as if it had been painted on the window glass behind Miss Cochrane. I blink and she fades but not before I’ve grown hard.
“I won’t deny it, sir,” I say. “But is an emotional safety valve harmful, given the circumstances?”
“Circumstances?” A gaze like a stone shot from a sling.
“I’m not free to do what I want, sir. Not even what I need.”
We hold each other’s eyes. His have the glitter of coals on their way to becoming diamonds: heat and pressure over eons. Mine are, as they say, the windows to my soul.
“There’s value in relating a story, it gives some sequence to events, clarifies the problem. Wouldn’t you say so, sir?”
He drops his gaze and moves on to words. My own words, written down. Repeated by Dr. Frank. He tells me that even today words retain much of their magical power. By words one of us can give to another the greatest happiness or bring about utter despair. By words the teacher imparts his knowledge to the student. Words call forth emotions and are universally the means by which we influence our fellow creatures.
I do not say what I know, that words are not the basis of my problem.
“We’ll take one or two of these words of yours, Sandy, shall we?” he says. “Let’s see what we can find.
What It Takes to Be Human Page 8