Just Duffy

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘Well, thanks, Duffy.’ Inwardly she quaked. Was he going to tell her about his sexual hang-ups? Like others she had often wondered what Duffy thought or did about sex. There was an opinion, openly expressed in Dirty Chuck’s, the café that the youth of the east end frequented, that Duffy had been born either without balls or with tiny ones. Though he was over sixteen his cheeks and chin were still smooth. He had never been known to make a pass at any girl, though quite a few, including Cooley herself, had encouraged him to do so. He walked away when dirty jokes were being told. At school in the gymnasium or swimming baths he had always turned his back when undressing, so as not to let anyone see his dick, though all round him others, like Mick Dykes, had swaggered about swinging theirs proudly. Maybe, being from outer space, Duffy had some other arrangement.

  One girl never joined in this fun at Duffy’s expense. She was big Molly McGowan. She said that Duffy was just shy, like her. She had once confided to Cooley that even when she was a wee girl in primary school she had fancied Duffy, who had been in the same class. Cathie Barr had warned her that when she grew up she mustn’t marry someone as dumb as herself, otherwise her kids would be born idiots. Brains weren’t everything though, were they? She and Duffy could have beautiful kids who might not be all that stupid either, for her sister Morag was very bright, all her teachers praised her, and Duffy’s mother was a smart woman, wasn’t she?

  Was Duffy in his turn about to confess that all his life he had loved big Molly but was too shy to tell her so?

  They would make a comic pair all right, he so shut-in, she so wide-open.

  ‘Two kinds of people deserve to be shown up,’ he said.

  A hell of a lot more than two, she thought, before bewilderment hit her. What the hell was he on about now? He was a dunce trying to talk like a university professor. He got ideas and big words out of his encyclopaedia, but he didn’t understand them any more than she did. That was the sad thing about him, he wanted to be clever but hadn’t the brains for it. There was that mysterious tract which had come through his letter-box about a year ago. He had looked out of the window and seen that it had been delivered by an old man with a beard and a bowler hat. He had spoken as if he thought the old bugger had been sent by God or was God Himself.

  She humoured him. ‘What two kinds?’

  ‘Defilers of truth and abusers of authority.’

  As she’d feared, straight out of the tract. He had shown her his book of horrors once. She had noticed that the worst ones had been committed by religious maniacs.

  ‘Who are they, when they’re at home?’ she asked.

  ‘Defilers of truth are those who tell lies for their own advantage.’

  The world was full of them. She was one herself.

  ‘If everybody respected the truth the world would be a better place.’

  He must have heard that on television on ‘Late Call’ or perhaps it was in the tract. She doubted if it was true. She herself lied not just to gain an advantage but also to avoid trouble. Prime Ministers did it to keep out of wars.

  ‘There are defilers of truth in Lightburn.’

  Liars were everywhere. Come to think of it, perhaps it was by lying or at any rate by not telling the truth about one another, that people were able to live in peace together.

  ‘And abusers of authority.’

  Yes, and she knew better than he did who they were. Sergeant Milne, who had called her a disgrace to her sex. Porteous who had got her sent to a reform school. Purvis who had ordered her out of the public library. Teachers who had been sarcastic to her. Others she could have named given time.

  She would have blown that lot up, never mind shown them up.

  If this was his idea of a game she might as well play it. ‘What are you going to do about them? How are you going to show them up?’

  ‘I intend to declare war on them.’

  Trust Duffy to put it like that. He fancied himself as an expert on wars, from those of ancient Greece to those of today. He studied his History of War as often as he did his encyclopaedia. It was full of pictures of battlefields, bombed cities, and successful generals.

  Come to think of it, she herself was already at war with abusers like Milne and Porteous. The trouble was they had all the weapons.

  Duffy on the other hand had never so much as thumbed his nose at a policeman. Purvis welcomed him into her library.

  ‘How are you going to do that?’ she asked.

  ‘You see, if I declare war on them they can’t call what I do afterwards a crime. That is their own rule.’

  Was he joking? It was hard to tell, for it would have been the first time, and there wasn’t the glimmer of a smile on his face.

  At the same time she could see what he was getting at. In war killing wasn’t called murder, nor was destroying a whole city called vandalism. But only countries could declare war on one another. She didn’t know much but she knew that. Countries had armies, navies and air forces. Duffy didn’t even have a knuckleduster.

  She couldn’t resist teasing him. ‘What are you going to do? Burn down the police station?’

  ‘You know I don’t believe in violence.’

  ‘How can you have a war without violence?’

  ‘Instead of weapons I would use symbols.’

  At first she thought foolishly he meant the things the Salvation Army banged together. She pictured Porteous’s well-cared-for snobbish face between them getting well and truly banged.

  ‘What are they?’ she asked, feebly.

  ‘Signs. For example, I intend to break into the public library.’

  Some violence would be needed, if only the breaking of a snib. But the very idea was ridiculous. What would breaking into the library be a sign of?

  She had to hold on to her own commonsense. ‘What’s there to steal in the library?’

  ‘I would be a soldier, not a thief.’

  ‘I thought soldiers lifted everything they could lay their hands on. It’s called loot.’

  ‘All I will do is tear a page out of as many books as I can in two hours.’

  He must mean it as a kind of game, but a very silly one, in her opinion. It would infuriate Purvis who thought the library was her own personal property, but there were better and easier ways of doing that. ‘Why not just burn the whole fucking place down? Sorry.’ The apology was for the swear-word, not for the suggestion of arson. She had once or twice thought of burning the library down herself, not to mention the police station and the school and Porteous’s Ceramics Factory.

  ‘You see, Cooley, the greatest favour you can do people is to force them to face the truth about themselves.’

  That was baloney. It was the last thing people she knew wanted to do.

  Suddenly she saw what was the matter with him. Being simple himself, in his own peculiar way, he couldn’t help seeing everybody else as similarly simple. Show Porteous and Milne that they were arrogant bastards and off they would go and become meek and fair-minded. Prove to liars that they were liars and in shame they would vow to tell only the truth in future. What a hope! Of course they could all stop being arrogant bastards and liars, if they wanted to, for they already knew what they were, but they didn’t want to, they enjoyed being arrogant bastards and liars.

  ‘You see, Cooley, there would be no hope for human beings if there wasn’t more good than bad in most of them.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ She had to think about that. In fact she would need a whole lifetime to think about it. To begin with, how did you measure goodness and badness? And what one person would call good another person might call bad. It was a lot more complicated than Duffy seemed to realise or was willing to admit.

  ‘Books give people false ideas about themselves,’ he said.

  That was the strange thing: he spoke more intelligently than she ever could, and yet she understood the ways of the world so much better. He lacked a necessary cunning. Even a clown like Mick Dykes had it.

  She seldom read books herself but they had alwa
ys seemed to her harmless. Come to think of it though, the people that looked down on her most were the kind that read books: like the white-haired ladies who had approved when Purvis had ordered her out of the library. Still, what good would tearing out pages do?

  ‘It would be a gesture, a symbolic act.’

  Jesus, she thought, we’re back at symbolic again. She wondered if she should ask for that vodka and lemonade now.

  ‘Who are the abusers of authority in Lightburn?’ he asked suddenly, like a teacher to a pupil not paying sufficient attention.

  She yawned. It was a genuine yawn but it was also a hint that she had had enough of this nonsense.

  He waited for an answer.

  ‘The cops, I suppose.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Sure, all of them. Some worse than others. Big Milne the worst.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Tight-pussy.’

  He frowned.

  ‘That’s what I call Porteous. She hates sex. You should have heard her asking me how I got the clap.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Blue-nose.’ That was Miss Purvis. Everybody said it was because of her secret tippling, but it was probably indigestion.

  ‘All these people have something in common, Cooley.’

  ‘They’re all arrogant bastards.’

  ‘They’re all members of St Stephen’s church.’

  It was in the west end among the leafy avenues and villas. It was the biggest in the town, with the highest spire. Everybody that thought himself or herself important was a member.

  ‘A famous writer once said that every judge should have a toilet roll in front of him.’

  ‘Who told you that? Flockhart?’ Another nutcase.

  ‘To make him remember that he was human like the person he was about to sentence.’

  She grinned. ‘Are you going to put a roll on top of the minister’s big Bible?’ It would be a good laugh. Wee white-haired Cargill, with the medals on his chest, like a good Christian would want to flog whoever had done it.

  ‘What I am going to do is put a spot of excrement on their hymn-books.’

  It was the daftest thing she had ever heard.

  ‘Excrement?’ She knew what it meant, but maybe he didn’t. ‘You mean shit?’

  He frowned: the word was too vulgar for him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Human?’

  ‘There would be no point if it wasn’t human.’

  She began to lose patience. ‘It would be a lot less smelly if it was horses’.’ She pictured him putting a dab on all the hymn-books, like a minister giving communion. She did not smile, though. If he was caught he wouldn’t be sent to a reform school but to a hospital for lunatics. She had to try and make him see sense. ‘It’s a good joke, Duffy, as long as you just think it and don’t try to do it.’

  ‘Was it just a good joke when God turned all the rivers of Egypt into blood?’

  She blinked. She knew about the plagues of Egypt but could see no connection. Nobody right in the head could.

  ‘It was to achieve a good purpose. It was to make the Egyptians let the Children of Israel go.’

  A religious nutcase: the worst kind. ‘So that’s what the Children of Israel got out of it. What would you get out of it?’

  So far as she knew all those arrogant bastards in St Stephen’s had done Duffy no harm and disgusting them with shit on their hymn-books would do him no good.

  ‘If a country’s at war, Duffy, it’s out for something, isn’t it? Maybe it’s some other country’s land, maybe it’s to be top dog. What are you out for? Is it just a game, like killing cats is a game for Johnny Crosbie?’

  ‘If you could make people more truthful and less arrogant, if you had that power, Cooley, would you use it?’

  ‘Nobody’s got that power, Duffy. No, I wouldn’t use it. Why the hell should I help them if they refuse to help themselves? That’s what they say to me. Look, Duffy, I can hardly keep my eyes open. I’ll have to go to bed.’

  ‘In a minute. I’ve told you all this, Cooley, because I would like you to join me.’

  She was horrified. ‘To tear out pages and mess up hymn-books?’

  ‘To fight falsehood and hypocrisy.’

  ‘Count me out, Duffy. I’m going to London.’ Where there were any number of weirdos, but none like Duffy.

  ‘Before you go.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’ An imp of mischief caused her to add: ‘If you want recruits what about Mick Dykes and Johnny Crosbie?’

  She was astonished to see him nodding.

  ‘It would be symbolical,’ he said, ‘using evil to bring about good.’

  She had had enough. A night spent at the dump wasn’t the best preparation for wrestling with Duffy’s loony ideas. She stood up. ‘Can I go to bed now?’

  ‘You can use my mother’s room.’ He led the way.

  She was entranced by the plush pink wall-to-wall carpet, the big bed with the crimson quilt, the array of cosmetics on the dressing-table, and inside a wardrobe the selection of nightdresses.

  ‘Take any one you want,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks, Duffy.’

  It was mean of her to think it but his hospitality was another sign of his lack of everyday gumption. Certainly his mother would have thought so.

  ‘If you need anything just ask,’ he said.

  She was about to propose that they should sleep together in the bed just for company’s sake like the Babes in the Wood but decided against it, not because he might have been offended but because he might have accepted. She didn’t want to hear any more about tearing out pages or anointing hymn-books.

  When he was gone she stripped and walked naked about the room, loving the feel of the silky carpet on her feet. She dabbed perfume under her oxters and behind her ears. She chose a white nightgown trimmed with pink. It was too wide and long but it delighted her. Looking in the mirror she found the sight of herself almost bearable.

  She could not resist opening drawers. She did not want to steal or even to covet but simply to enjoy seeing and touching so many knickers, slips, bras, and tights. She had few clothes herself and what she wore was usually grubby but she loved finery.

  In one drawer she came upon a bank-book. At first she let it lie. She was a guest in the house, being treated with kindness. Duffy was a nut but that didn’t mean his trust should be betrayed. She shut that drawer therefore and went on opening others, but soon found herself returning to it. This time she picked up the bank-book. It was Duffy’s mother’s. To her surprise there was £385 in it. In it too was a slip for withdrawing money, already signed Isabel Duffy, though the amount to be withdrawn had been left blank.

  It would be easy to write in £50 and add the date. The bank clerk would be familiar with Mrs Duffy’s signature. Unfortunately he or she would be suspicious if Cooley herself came in with the slip. It would have to be done by Duffy whom they probably knew.

  With £50 she would be off to a great start in London.

  It shouldn’t be difficult to talk a gomeril like Duffy into cashing this slip. She could say it was to provide funds for his war. In spite of the big words and weird ideas he was just a dunce who had never passed an examination in his life.

  She stared at herself in the mirror. To defilers of truth and abusers of authority should be added betrayers of trust.

  She could volunteer to take part in his war. Soldiers after all had to be paid for taking risks.

  A few minutes later she was snuggled under the bedclothes, reeking of scent and pretending she was a high-class whore in London. Was her next customer to be Prince Andrew or Mick Jagger? Tut, she had forgotten.

  Reassured by her own daftness, which she much preferred to Duffy’s, she soon fell asleep, but not before thinking again of that bank-book.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was a picture in The History of War of the British ambassador arriving at the Chancellery in Berlin to deliver the declaration of war in 1939. He was wearing a cocked hat
and gold-striped trousers. Duffy too dressed for the occasion, in his Sunday suit and raincoat. He would have to be careful not to get white paint on them from the aerosol can with which he was going to spray his declaration on the wall of the town hall. There was no town council now and the building was used mainly for dances and Bingo but it had once been the administrative centre of the town and so corresponded to the German Chancellery.

  At half-past twelve he set out, leaving Cooley fast asleep. He met no one on the stairs. The streets too were empty because of the lateness of the hour and the heaviness of the rain. There would be little danger of his being spotted by police, who, as Cooley had said, sought cosy corners on cold wet nights, like cats.

  Rain poured down loudly from broken rhones and rushed along gutters, glittering in the lamplight. He was reminded of rivers turned to blood.

  In most of the houses the windows were dark. He was surrounded by hundreds of people and yet felt utterly alone. This was how it would be after an attack by neutron bombs that killed living creatures but did not destroy property. The people would have died in bed or watching television or making tea. They would be like those in the fairy tale who had all fallen asleep wherever they happened to be or whatever they happened to be doing, because at that very moment the princess had fallen under a spell, owing to the wickedness of a witch: except that in the real world no prince would come and break the spell.

  If there was someone like Duffy in every town in every country determined to show up the defilers of truth and the abusers of authority the great catastrophe might be prevented.

  In the distance a dog howled. It was hungry and homeless but it was alive. Tears came into his eyes.

  His route took him through an old part of the town where people still lived in crumbling tenements with outside lavatories. He knew an old woman who lived here, in a single-end, one room in which she lived, cooked, and slept. She suffered badly from arthritis. Every Tuesday he went errands for her.

  Politicians said there was no money to clear away slums like these and build good houses, yet thousands of millions of pounds were spent every year on armaments.