Just Duffy

by Robin Jenkins

  As Sergeant Milne took Mrs Porteous’s hymn-book he gave Duffy a frown of recognition and surprise.

  ‘I want it returned, sergeant,’ said Mrs Porteous.

  ‘They’ll all be returned, Mrs Porteous, after C.I.D. has examined them.’

  ‘Who could have done such a disgusting thing? What could have been their purpose, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘For such people filth itself is a purpose.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll be caught?’

  ‘You can be sure we’ll do our best.’

  Duffy had noticed Margaret making a sign to Stephen Telfer who had made one back. She was asking him if he knew anything about this and he was telling her he didn’t.

  His father looked glum and dismayed. Unlike Councillor Grant he did not consider himself honoured.

  Duffy heard many murmurs of outrage. There was no evidence anywhere of anyone being moved to pity and understanding.

  All the while the organist played uplifting music.

  At last the congregation settled down. Old Mr Cargill appeared and hirpled up into the pulpit. Medals glittered on his chest. He tried to look undaunted. He spent a minute or two in silent prayer.

  When he began to speak he could not keep a girn out of his voice. ‘For those who may not yet be aware of what has happened let me briefly explain. During the night some person or persons have broken into the church and seen fit to defile a number of hymn-books and my Bible. These have been handed over to the police for examination. As Christian men and women it behoves us to pray for and forgive those who trespass against us, but as law-abiding citizens it is also our duty to do everything in our power to assist in apprehending and bringing to justice the perpetrators of this despicable and meaningless act.’

  He then called on the congregation to join him in prayer.

  That was the time, thought Duffy, in the great silence, for the most intelligent among them to realise that humility and not a desire for revenge should be the truly Christian response.

  The service then began with an aggressive singing of the psalm ‘The Lord’s My Shepherd’.

  The sermon was on the subject: ‘Gratitude for the good things of the earth.’ The old man’s heart was not in it. Several times he stumbled into incoherence, and he ended abruptly.

  During the coughing, sighing, and shuffling that followed Margaret turned to Duffy: ‘I believe your mother’s on holiday in Spain?’

  He nodded. He wondered who had told her.

  ‘So you’re on your own?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Would you like to have lunch with us?’

  He hid his joy. Was she just being kind to the poor simpleton left to look after himself? Or did she really like him? Or was she using him to attack her mother?

  ‘If your mother doesn’t mind,’ he murmured.

  She didn’t say that her mother wouldn’t mind.

  A few minutes later she mentioned it to her mother.

  Mrs Porteous looked as if she was seeking some way to cancel the invitation without appearing unChristian. She could find none. ‘If he wishes,’ she said, curtly.

  He should have politely rejected so grudged an invitation, and he was afraid that Margaret might despise him for not doing so; but the joy of being with her longer, in the car on the way to the house and then in the house itself, was worth the humiliation.

  If he could have her friendship he would give up his war.

  The service was cut short because the minister felt unwell. Afterwards the congregation in the sunshine and among the graves eagerly discussed the outrage.

  Councillor Grant gave another little political speech.

  The Martins, aware by this time that some kind of distinction had been conferred on them, were happy to receive the congratulatory sympathy of friends.

  Miss McKenzie and Mr McGregor the headmaster conferred with other teachers, including Mr Flockhart and Miss Bremner. No doubt they were discussing which of their pupils, present or past, were most likely to have committed such a horrible and yet such a peculiar crime.

  Mrs Porteous and Margaret were addressed by an old gentleman with a red face and white moustache, and his wife whose hair was dyed purple and whose fur coat was motheaten. They were Major and Mrs Haliburton. They did not speak with Scottish accents. Duffy had seen them in the supermarket, at the wine shelves.

  ‘They wouldn’t have dared to do a thing like that in John Knox’s day, Margaret,’ he said, jovially.

  ‘In John Knox’s day, Major, they smashed statues and holy ornaments. John Knox urged them on.’

  ‘Ah, but that was to get rid of idolatry.’

  ‘Maybe this was to get rid of hypocrisy.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret,’ said her mother. ‘Not to say offensive.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it hypocritical to say you forgive and at the same time be determined to punish?’

  ‘I don’t think that is hypocritical at all,’ she said. ‘Do you, Major?’

  ‘Let’s have a theological debate about the nature of forgiveness, among the gravestones. Shall we?’

  ‘No, we shan’t, said his wife. ‘Let’s go, Charles. I’ve got a chicken cooking in the oven.’

  ‘My namesake, Charles I, forgave his enemies before they had his head chopped off; He nothing common did or mean/Upon that memorable scene/But laid his comely head/Down as upon a bed. Lovelace.’

  ‘Marvell,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Was it? Anyway, magnificent stuff. Well, must march if I’m not to eat charred chicken. See you soon.’

  ‘I hope his car starts,’ said Margaret. ‘It often won’t.’

  It must have started for it shortly came rattling out of the car park. It was an old blue Mini.

  The Porteouses were then joined by the Telfers. Mrs Telfer was indignant. Someone had asked her if the business in the church wasn’t one of her son’s dubious jokes. She had pointed out that her husband’s hymn-book had been one of those polluted. ‘Yours too, I told her, Elizabeth. Do you know what she said then? That it could have been to put everybody off the scent!’

  ‘Appropriate phrase,’ said Stephen. ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Did anyone notice,’ he asked, ‘that only the front rows were involved? Who sits there? The Lightburn Establishment.’

  ‘Are you suggesting it was some kind of political act?’ asked his mother. ‘Like sending letter-bombs?’

  ‘With moral undertones.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Religious undertones too,’ said Margaret. ‘Whoever did it could have been letting us know that though we’re members of St Stephen’s and wear fur coats we’re not any more special than anyone else.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Stephen, winking at Duffy.

  Duffy was amazed. They were joking and yet how close to the truth they were.

  Mrs Telfer was wearing a fur coat. ‘You two are too clever for your own good,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they, Elizabeth?’

  ‘They certainly are.’

  ‘Suppose you’re right, Stephen,’ said his father, earnestly, ‘though like your mother I’m sceptical, who in Lightburn would think of conveying such a message in such a fashion?’

  ‘No idea, Dad. Perhaps we have a Savonarola in our midst.’

  ‘A what?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Savonarola. A religious reformer in Italy in the 15th century. He went too far and was burned at the stake.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Mrs Telfer. ‘Haven’t you noticed, Elizabeth, how intellectuals hate simple explanations?’

  ‘And what, mother,’ asked Stephen, ‘is the simple explanation in this case?’

  ‘Some filthy creatures decided to give a demonstration of their filthiness.’

  Meanwhile the two Telfer girls had been making eyes at Duffy. Having to smile back prevented him from listening to the conversation as avidly as he would have liked. He would have to look up
Savonarola in his encyclopaedia.

  The two families went together to the car park. Stephen chatted to Duffy.

  ‘I believe you know the girl called Helen Cooley.’

  Duffy wondered how he knew that. ‘She’s gone to London,’ he said, cautiously.

  ‘Has she now? Yes, it’s the kind of thing she would do. They say she gave David Martin a dose of the clap.’

  ‘She said he gave it to her.’

  Telfer was amused. ‘Probably he did. I once saw her do something I would never have had the nerve to do myself. Years ago. In the public park. A big Alsatian was running loose. Frothing at the mouth. It seized in its teeth a ball some little girls were playing with. Everybody kept well clear, me included, but she grabbed the brute by the scruff of the neck and tore the ball out of its mouth. Then she cleaned the ball on its back. She had a fag in her mouth.’

  ‘Cooley’s afraid of nothing.’ Except affection. He remembered her seated disconsolately at the back of the bus.

  ‘Well, I hope she makes it in London. Do you play badminton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you’d like to try we’re at the church hall every Tuesday from seven to nine. If you haven’t got a racket we’ll lend you one. Be seeing you.’

  In the car park the two families went to their respective cars.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ said Margaret, getting into the driver’s seat.

  Her mother sat beside her. Duffy got into the back.

  They drove along Ballochmyle Drive.

  ‘What were you and Stephen talking about?’ asked Margaret.

  He hesitated. He did not want Mrs Porteous to know he was Cooley’s friend.

  ‘If it’s such a secret I don’t want to know.’

  ‘You’re too inquisitive, Margaret,’ said her mother.

  ‘He was asking me if I played badminton,’ said Duffy.

  Suddenly Margaret braked hard. ‘Did you see that?’ she cried.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Margaret, be more careful. See what?’

  ‘That awful boy John Crosbie. Wearing an Australian type of hat.’

  ‘He may be awful and his hat may be out of place but that’s no reason for giving us the fright of our lives.’

  ‘He was wiping his bottom. I mean, pretending to do it.’ She increased speed.

  ‘This is a 30 m.p.h. zone, Margaret. His making obscene gestures is no excuse for you breaking the law.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? He must have been one of those who broke into the church. He was going back to gloat. That’s the kind of creature he is. I’m in a hurry to get home to telephone the police. If they come quickly they’ll catch him.’

  Mrs Porteous looked back but saw no one. Crosbie had dodged into the wood.

  Duffy had seen him. Cooley was going to be proved right. Crosbie would destroy him.

  ‘Did you see him?’ asked Margaret, turning to look at Duffy.

  ‘I didn’t see anybody.’

  ‘You must have seen him. He was on the pavement in full view.’

  ‘I didn’t see him, Margaret,’ said her mother.

  ‘You’ve got other things on your mind.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent.’

  They turned off the public road up the avenue that led to The Poplars.

  Duffy’s mouth was dry with fear. Nothing could save him. The police would pick up Mick Dykes too. One or other of them would be sure to give him away, in Mick’s case because all the questioning would confuse him, in Crosbie’s for God knew what reason.

  His one hope was to find Crosbie before the police did and warn him to keep his mouth shut, or he would kill him. He would be able to say it as if he meant it, for he would mean it.

  Outside the big stone house was a car, a dark green Daimler, with, Duffy noticed, a registration number that wasn’t local.

  His companions’ reactions to its appearance were startling.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ shouted Margaret.

  Mrs Porteous’s cry was anguished but also joyful.

  Duffy was forgotten. So was Crosbie.

  ‘You said it was finished,’ said Margaret, accusingly.

  ‘So I did. So it was.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t see him. Drive away somewhere. I’ll go and tell him you don’t want to see him.’

  ‘But I do want to see him.’ Mrs Porteous got out of the car. She was weeping.

  A tall grey-haired man in a blue blazer came running out of the house. A golden Labrador ran after him, barking happily. Evidently it knew him well. He was not a stranger.

  He and Mrs Porteous kissed. Then hand-in-hand they went into the house. The dog wasn’t sure whether to go with them or stay out with Margaret. It decided inside was warmer.

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Margaret. ‘Lunch is off. Another time maybe.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ He got out quickly. If he hurried he might catch up with Crosbie.

  ‘If you like I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘I like walking. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  A robin accompanied him down the avenue, flitting from one poplar to another. He envied it. It had a right to be here. It had no other purpose in life except to enjoy being alive.

  He had discovered Mrs Porteous’s secret. She was in love with the grey-haired man. There was some obstruction. Perhaps he was already married.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  He was walking quickly along Ballochmyle Avenue towards the church, his Bible in his hand, when he heard the tooting of a car behind him. It came alongside and kept pace with him. It was a police car. His heart racing, he looked to see if Crosbie was in it, on his way to the station; but no, its only occupants were two young policemen.

  It stopped. One of them called: ‘You there.’

  He walked over, making sure his Bible was seen. Perhaps it would keep them at bay.

  They weren’t yet hostile. He was too well-dressed and he might come from one of the villas, with well-off parents.

  Both of them studied him. He smiled, as if he had no reason to be afraid of them.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Duffy.’

  ‘Just Duffy?’

  ‘Thomas Duffy.’

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Kenilworth Court.’

  Their attitude changed. Their voices became sharper, their eyes colder.

  ‘You’re far from home, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not very far.’

  ‘What are you doing in this part of the town?’

  ‘I was at church.’

  ‘What church?’

  ‘St Stephen’s. It’s just along the road.’

  ‘We know where it is. Were you at church all by yourself?’

  ‘No. I was with Mrs Porteous and her daughter Margaret.’

  That stumped them. It was hardly likely to be a lie, and Mrs Porteous was a lady with much influence.

  He could read their minds. They were only about six years older than himself. They were still learning how to use their authority. They were curious as to his connection with Mrs Porteous but had to be careful not to frighten him. He might complain to her.

  ‘If you were at St Stephen’s this morning you’ll know what happened there?’

  ‘Do you mean, about the hymn-books?’

  They grinned. They were sure now they were dealing with a simpleton.

  ‘We mean about some hymn-books being plastered with shit.’

  Officially they would call it a sordid crime. In private they would make ribald jokes about it.

  ‘You don’t happen to have any ideas who might have done it, Duffy?’

  He looked shocked.

  ‘Well, coming from Kenilworth Court you might know a number of villains.’

  ‘Such as Johnny Crosbie.’

  ‘Johnny Crosbie doesn’t live in Kenilworth Court.’

&nb
sp; ‘We know where he lives. Do you know Crosbie?’

  ‘I knew him at school.’

  ‘What does your father do, Duffy?’

  ‘He’s dead. My mother works in the Caledonian Hotel.’

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘Is her name Bell?’

  ‘It’s Isabel.’

  ‘Bell’s her business name. We know the lady.’

  ‘She’s a voluptuous blonde.’

  He pretended not to know what the word meant.

  They drove away, still laughing, convinced they had been talking to a half-wit.

  Somebody else must have telephoned them about Crosbie. If they did not pick him up here on the road they would go to his home.

  Duffy must find him first.

  He set off for Dirty Chuck’s. If Crosbie wasn’t there Mick Dykes might be. Together Duffy and Mick should be able to see to it that Crosbie told the police nothing.

  Dirty Chuck’s was in a tenement that had been condemned, in the oldest part of the town. It was the only place where the youth of the district could forgather. Efforts were being made to close it down, for it was suspected by the authorities that illegal activities went on in it, such as pot-smoking, glue-sniffing, and the planning of burglaries. How it had got its nickname was not known. The present proprietor’s name was not Charles and neither he nor his premises were particularly dirty. Its registered name, painted above the door, was The Skylark Café. The tables and chairs were of metal but the clattering they made, and every other noise, were hardly heard above the din from the juke-box, which on that Sabbath morning was bellowing a pop song on the subject of love. The customers, all teenagers, seemed to find no difficulty in carrying on private conversations.

  When Duffy entered, with his Bible hidden in his pocket, he was greeted with a scream of rapture from Molly McGowan, who was seated at a table with Cathie Barr and another girl whom he recognised as Sally Cooper.

  Neither Crosbie nor Mick Dykes was present.

  Molly came over. ‘Looking for me, honey?’ she asked, with a coy simper that did not suit her big coarse freckled face. ‘You’re looking great.’ She waited, anxiously, for him to return the compliment. He didn’t but she was not discouraged. She pressed close to him so that he could smell her rank body odour. ‘Tonight, at seven,’ she whispered. ‘I can hardly wait.’