The Dear Green Place

by Archie Hind

  ‘Naw. But I know he runs all the best printing presses. Forbye that, I’ll show you something else.’ Doug looked through the pages. ‘I’m just guessing that it’ll be there. No, they’ve missed it out this week. It was all about the birds and the bees, and buds on the trees and how the editor’s garden was doin’. Ah was aye awful interested.’ He went on turning the pages. ‘Ah, here’s something. Travel advertisements. Holiday travel. Trips to the Continent.’ Doug read on a bit. ‘W’d ye hark at it? Pffft! When they should be giving you instruction on how to leave the country without a passport. That’s not for the working classes.’

  ‘Naebody said it was. It’s for the middle classes. The intelligentsia. That’s who it’s for.’

  This made Doug angry. ‘Is that a fact! And we could not understand it? It’s way above our heads?’

  ‘I didnae say that.’

  ‘Naw. So the intellectuals wouldn’t read it if it wasn’t printed on nice paper wi’ bits about the editor’s garden and Holiday Travel?’

  ‘Ach,’ said Mat, ‘all work and no play.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right. Some folk all work. And some folk all play. Your intellectuals can all afford a month off from the struggle.’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’

  ‘Jealous! Of course I’m jealous. Why should I not be? It’s bad enough less fortunate folk feeling jealous without having it aggravated by a display of opulence from better off folk, especially if they’re supposed to be Socialists. Oh, I don’t begrudge the bloke his wee plot of ground. Guid luck to him if he would only suffer his good luck in silence.’

  ‘You’ve got to learn to move with the times.’

  ‘Whit you young yins had better learn is not to teach your faithers to suck eggs. Maybe things is changing. But the old things still hold. There’s still good and there’s still bad.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mat, ‘and there’s a time and place for everything.’

  ‘Is there? I don’t know. Plenty time? When some of us might never see our natural ends. Aside from that –’ Doug shrugged. ‘There’s plenty time when you’re young. You’ll see in another few years.’

  Mat knew what he meant. He could remember his father’s advice to him about marriage. Then he wondered about this Socialist society which his father had dreamed about all his life, which he must have even thought of at one time during the twenties as a material possibility. It had been the only aspiration he ever had which was outside the mere ruck of living. And now he guessed that he would never see it. Supposing it happened? Would these men and women of the future with all their perfection and liberation ever be wholly blithe knowing their history? Knowing of the long roll of martyrs or of the slaves and sweeps and seamstresses, the crucified, incarcerated and exiled of all lands and of all times. Mat had often been surprised at the terrific richness of aspiration of people he knew in comparison with what they had achieved or had the luck to gain. Inside the deaf old man or woman would lurk the seventeen-year-old boy or girl who wanted – nothing in particular, yet everything – scope, release, possibility, a chance. Knowing this, would these people of the future not have something in them of guilt, or sadness; a melancholic harking back to the suffering past which would point the value of everything they possessed; would they have a streak of tragic conservatism, a love for and a desire to conserve everything of value which men had built or had suffered for? There was already something of this in himself. Was it a contradiction in the radical nature – or its real beauty? Like the pessimism in art with all its reactive values? To yearn for what is lost and gone and irrecoverable. The regret for the irrecoverable past. Shakespeare’s great sonnet. Proust’s madeleine. His own infatuation with his memory.

  ‘Aye,’ said Doug. ‘You’ll ken in another few years.’

  ‘Listen to him,’ said Jake. ‘Old Elijah.’ He was shouting into the kitchenette. ‘Hey, Ma. D’ye hear him, Ma? Old Douglas is doin’ a bit of prophesying.’

  Jetta came out of the scullery holding her palm upwards. ‘Aye. And I’m prophesying that there’ll be nae tea for anybody that doesn’t remember what day this is.’

  ‘The greengages! I wouldn’t disappoint my wee mammy.’ Doug handed Jetta his wage packet.

  ‘And how about you?’ she asked Mat.

  ‘Sure, Ma,’ he said and followed her into the kitchenette. Nell had filled up some glasses with beer and Jake and Doug helped themselves. Doug drank the beer in small sips but Jake put his head back and drank the whole glass in one swallow. Doug watched him, fascinated. When he had finished Jake handed the glass to Doug with a casual sultanish air. They were standing before the fireplace and Doug had to carry the glass over to the sideboard to put it down. When he had returned the glass to the sideboard he turned, realising that Jake had caught him.

  ‘Am I your servant? Just whistle and I’ll dance.’

  Jake held his hand out and flapped it palm down. ‘The old reflexes, Pa. They’re slowing down.’

  Doug appealed to Helen for sympathy. ‘The number of times he’s tested my reflexes.’ Then he turned on Jake. ‘What the hell do you think I am? Pavlov’s dug?’

  Jake didn’t answer but instead he started to move his arm up and down as if ringing a bell.

  ‘Christ!’ said Doug. ‘I’m salivatin’.’ Jake and Helen were giggling at him. ‘I don’t know how you play these tricks on folk.’

  ‘It’s just the old –’ Jake flicked his sleeves up and chanted like a circus barker. ‘Watch the five fingers, they never leave the left hand.’

  Mat was watching from the door of the kitchenette. He came over and started to recite dramatically in front of Jake.

  ‘Beware, beware!

  His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

  Weave a circle round him thrice,

  And close your eyes with holy dread,

  For he on honey dew hath fed,

  And drunk the milk of Paradise.’

  Jake reacted to this by ruffling his hair up, crossing his eyes and grimacing with his bottom lip hanging loose.

  ‘Ach,’ said Doug. ‘You havenae got a’ your onions.’

  Mat lifted his glass of beer and drank it in three gulps, then offered Doug the empty glass. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Pa. It’s a couple of bright boys you’ve reared.’ Doug was looking at the glass in his hand and laughing ruefully.

  ‘Would you believe it? Once bitten twice shy. If you start ringing bells I’ll spit in your eye.’ Jake was making sarcastic gestures round Mat with his forefinger. Doug flapped his hand at them in disgust. ‘If you want a wee collie dug why do you not buy one wi’ four legs and better lookin’ than me? The trouble wi’ you young folk is that you’ve no respect for your elders. Remember the fifth Commandment if you don’t want the back of ma hand drawn o’er your lugs. The pair of ye.’

  Jake and Mat linked arms and were swaying back and forward singing mockingly, ‘We’re a couple of swells –’

  ‘It’s just a lot of kiddin’ and swankin!’ said Jake. ‘The old Friday spirit. Don’t get curly-hieded.’

  ‘Some o’ these days I’ll show you two something about kiddin’ and swankin’ ye didnae know. I think the two of ye has the evil eye.’

  Jetta poked her head through the kitchenette door, ‘I think the two of ye would be better occupied if you werenae takin’ a lend o’ your old faither. Anyway the tea’s ready if the lot of ye would sit down.’ Jetta carried out some plates to the table and Mat and Jake fetched chairs and put them round the table. They all sat down.

  ‘This is the time when somebody always knocks at the door.’ As Doug said this there came the sound of someone knocking at the front door.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ said Jetta. ‘What did ye not keep your big mouth shut for?

  ‘Ha!’ Doug made some circles round his own head. ‘You’re not the only magicians in the house.’

  ‘Whatever spirits you sum up’ll not be wanted. Jake, son. Seein’ you’re on your feet’ – Jake wasn’t on his feet, but he jumped up – ‘away
and answer the door.’

  ‘If it’s Fate don’t let him in. See’s o’er the pepper. I wonder who it can be?’

  ‘It’ll probably be somebody wantin’ the lend of the mangle,’ said Jetta. ‘Anything to prevent us getting our tea in peace.’

  ‘We can charge them for watching the animals eating.’

  Jake came back into the room. ‘It’s just one of your fellow penpushers to see you, Mat.’

  It was Bill from the office. He was embarrassed to see Mat hale and fit and he put his hand up to his spectacles and pulled them down over his nose and squinted and grinned. ‘Hello there,’ he said. ‘You’re looking well. Have ye been ill? Ha! Ha! I just dropped in to see how you were. Mr McDaid asked me, like. Seeing you hadn’t phoned or anything.’

  Jetta got excited. ‘What do ye mean he hasn’t phoned? Mat’s been at his work, haven’t you?’

  ‘Haud your wheesht, woman,’ said Doug. ‘Maybe Bill would like a cup of tea or something to eat.’

  ‘No thanks, Mr Craig. I’m on my way home. I just thought I’d come over and see how Mat was doing.’

  ‘Right, Bill,’ said Mat. ‘I’ll see you to the door if you’re in a hurry.’

  Bill was only too glad to go and Mat and Helen both saw him out into the lobby. Jetta watched them suspiciously as they went. ‘Whit was the gist o’ all that?’ she asked.

  ‘Now look, Jetta. Don’t you be interfering,’ said Doug.

  Jake spoke. ‘He hadn’t been to his work all week. Instead he’s been rampagin’ about the public library. He’s under the illusion that the novel’s mightier than the cash ledger.’

  ‘Whit are you being sae cutting about?’ asked Doug. ‘You’re aye perfect?’

  ‘I slaughter beef. Ye can eat it. Ye get money for daein’ it. Ye cannae eat stories. Ye get nae money for writin’ them.’

  Jetta was upset. ‘Ah just knew that something would happen. He would get those silly notions into his head. Supposin’ he loses his job?’

  ‘We’ll see. Don’t always be imagining the worst.’

  ‘He’s been off all week,’ said Jake, ‘which is why Bill came up to see him. He’s nae doctor’s line. Nae excuse. Whit’s he supposed to say? Ah was too busy on my magnum opus to come in? Huh! Ah can imagine auld McDaid!’ Jake mimicked a posh voice. ‘It’s all right, Matthew, don’t worry. I’ve always been a great lover of literature myself. Oh, and here’s your wages, Matthew, in case you’re needin’ them.’ Jake screwed up his nose. ‘Ah can imagine! Books! It’s his books he’ll be getting.’ He mimicked a posh voice again. ‘Just you run away down to the Labour Exchange and sign on. This is a works office – not the Young Writers Benevolent Society.’

  At this Mat came back into the room. He had found the job of explaining to Bill why he had been off all week very difficult. He felt under an obligation to him, that Bill was due an explanation on the grounds of their friendship. But he couldn’t say that he’d stayed off work because he had just wanted to write and that it had seemed a good idea at the time. So his explanation was inadequate, nothing more than that he was fed up, the office was beginning to get on his nerves, Mr McDaid’s fussiness was getting too much for him and he hadn’t been feeling too well lately. All of these reasons spoken in a hesitant, gauche, unconvincing manner. Bill had said, ‘Be seeing you,’ and Mat had said, ‘All right.’ But he also told him that he wasn’t coming back to the office. Strangely, he felt remorse at this. He thought of all the familiar things in the office, the big sloping desks, the old clock which ticked so sonorously, the calculating machines with which he would get so absorbed, Bill’s familiar presence every day. He felt a little pang about the whole thing.

  ‘You werena’ at your work, son?’

  Now another explanation was due. He thanked God for Helen. She wouldn’t have to ask him and he didn’t have to tell her anything. She just seemed to know. Mat shrugged his shoulders at his father’s question. ‘Naw.’ It wasn’t the short English ‘No’ which he used but the long drawling nasal Glasgow sound which could contain such a wealth of feeling. Disgust, dismissal, defiance.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘If you’re worried I’ll tell you. I told Bill that I wasn’t coming back to the office. For the boss to send me my books.’

  Jetta rose out of her chair. She was very angry. While she was speaking Helen stood at the door quite composed.

  ‘What! You silly lukkin’ . . .’

  ‘Stop it!’ Mat said. ‘Stop it! Now just listen. I’m not going back to work in the office. I’ve stayed off that often in the last month that they’re beginning to lose patience with me. They keep asking me, what’s wrong – and I keep telling them the truth – nothing. I just say – nothing. I’m not going to tell lies just to ease everybody’s conscience.’

  ‘Everybody’s conscience?’ asked Jake.

  ‘It’s what I said. Everybody’s conscience.’ For some reason Mat thought of that emendation which he had made in the front page of his manuscript last year. ‘Let Glasgow flourish.’ – ‘Lord, let Glasgow flourish by the preaching of the word.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the long and the short of it is this. They were beginning to look kind of queer at me. Not quite buttoned up. You know? The whole position was quite untenable for me. I can’t go back. They definitely think that I’m a case for the bammy kane.’

  ‘And they’re not far wrong. I’ve never heard of such a thing in all my born days!’ Jetta’s voice rose again in sarcastic protest. ‘What are you goin’ to dae noo? Live on your interest?’

  ‘I’ll get another job altogether. I never felt like a real body in an office anyway. I’ll get a job labouring.’

  ‘Labouring?’ Jetta was indignant. ‘Is that where a’ your classics get ye? Labouring?’

  Doug tried to placate her. ‘Now, Jetta. A lot of good men were labourers.’

  ‘A’ guid men,’ said Mat. ‘They were all labourers of one kind or another. But office work. It’s not labouring. It’s connivin’. Imagine an office full of clerks, a’ checking up on other offices full of other clerks, who are checking up on still another office full of still mair clerks – a’ this so that naebody gets diddled. Hundreds of suspicious wee bodies a’ takin’ tent o’ one another and imagining themselves big dealers when all they are dealing in is a heap of petty suspicion and lack of trust. It would give you the jaundice.’

  ‘It’s a guid respectable job with a collar and tie.’

  ‘Aye. It’s respectable. And I’m fed up to the teeth with respectability. As soon as anyone shows any sign of gumption you want him to become respectable. Put a collar and tie on him. It’s in case they’ll bite. They’re frightened they’ll bite. And so they will. The ones that don’t get collared.’ For a minute Mat was enticed with that, the idea that he should make a great demonstration of courage and go right now and sit on his arse in front of some paper with a pen in his hand and refuse to budge. If I wasn’t a writer, he thought, I would be capable of that kind of simplicity. He would always have to make concessions to others just because he loved them. It was exactly thus that conscience makes cowards of us all.

  ‘I don’t know what kind of nonsense you’re talking,’ said Jetta, ‘but I’m telling you this. You’d better put the hems on your ideas, m’lad. Or there’s nae telling where ye’ll end up.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ Jake bit the nail on his thumb and looked up at Mat. ‘We were talking about clear consciences. What a’ want to know is – can you eat it?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no.’ Mat spoke politely, then he leaned over with his hands on the table and bawled at them. ‘But I can aye show it around as a freak.’

  Jake jumped to his feet. ‘Now, Mat. Listen. I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘Naw.’ Mat used the long drawling Glasgow sound again.

  ‘Well, maybe. Look, we never fight in this family. If we say things it’s because we’re worried. C’mon.’ Jake came over to Mat and shook his arm. Mat was contrite and Jake went on
. ‘C’mon. Practical, eh? I could maybe get you a job in the slaughter-house. Speak to some of the lads. Eh? If you think you could stand it. The blood and everything.’

  The idea appealed to Mat, the idea of working with his hands and his body. As for everything else, ‘I suppose it’s just good clean shit.’

  Jake grinned. ‘Aye. Which you can wash off at the end of the day.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right enough.’ Mat smiled at Jake. ‘I’ve got to be practical I suppose.’

  Jake grinned back at him. ‘The old spondulicks – the corporate body – you do that. At least it’ll be honest work.’

  ‘Mat’s not feart of work, Jetta,’ Doug said. ‘He’s quite willing to go in with Jake. I wouldn’t have fancied office work myself. All cooped up . . .’

  Mat caught on to his father’s sympathy and now that he had quietened a bit felt he could explain himself. ‘It was beginning to drive me nuts, Pa. It’s not a clean job. It isnae even easy. You come out of the office at night feeling like a manky auld bit of blotting paper. Addin’ and subtracting. Counting the cost. I’m asking ye? And ye’d get some henpecked nyaff that couldn’t punch his way oot o’ a wet poke writing strong letters to clients. Further to our demand of the 17th inst., etcetera, and further action will be taken, etcetera. And whit is the strong action. Get the polis. If ye’d any respect for language or morals or decency ye’d write just plain – come up wi’ the dough or else. And if your client was bigger than you you’d end up wi’ a keeker and your self-respect. I mean that’s the whole thing about office work. It’s unreal. The whole thing would really sicken the chops off ye.’

  Mat knew that he really believed all this. But at the same time he knew that it was a built-up justification of his conduct. He couldn’t really explain to himself why he had stayed off his work and gone to the library. He had just wanted to write and it had seemed a good idea at the time. All the time he had been off work he had tried to evade thinking of the consequences of his irresponsibility.

  Doug was all for letting him off lightly. ‘Well, if you feel that strongly about it you’d be better at something else.’