The Changeling

by Robin Jenkins

  When he was sure they were too far in front to hear him he came out from the pines. For a minute or two he stood beside the rabbit, pitying it not for its terror or pain or nearness to death, but for having so recently been the victim of the hunchback’s drivelling sorrow. Anyone seeing him there, so silent and intent, might have thought he was praying, or at any rate making some kind of preparation in his mind for the taking of life. When he did kneel, on one knee, to break the rabbit’s neck with one blow, it was like an act of sacrifice, so swift, so efficient, and somehow so purposeful. When he arose his fist was clenched, and in the darkness he opened it and held it open, empty, for a few seconds.

  He went along the ride, climbed the fence, and followed the path that led by the side of a stream to the hut. Weeping ashes there gleamed paler than the rushing water. Beside the great cedar of Lebanon, the vastest tree in the wood, he paused for a minute or two, listening to what ought to have been the silence of the night accentuated rather than blemished by such noises as water’s gurgle, trees’ rustle, and a far-off seagull’s screaming. But at that high point on the path, beside this gigantic tree whose branches reached as high as the stars, and beyond into the darker haunted night of the Bible remembered from childhood, the light from the cone-gatherers’ hut could be seen. Therefore what Duror heard was a roaring within him, as if that tree of hatred and revulsion was being tossed by a gale. He was shaken physically by that onslaught and had to rest against the cedar, with his gaze upon that small gleam in the clearing below on the other side of the burn. He knew it would be more sensible and more worthy of himself to turn and go home: here there could be only further degradation and shame, with possible disaster; but in him was a force more powerful than common sense or pride. He could not name it, but it dragged him irresistibly down towards that hut.

  Amidst the bottommost branches of a cypress, curving out like hard green tusks, he stood and once again abandoned himself to that meaningless vigil.

  The hut was lit by oil-lamp. He smelled paraffin as well as woodsmoke. He knew they picked up old cones to kindle the fire, and on Sunday they had worked for hours sawing up blown timber for firewood: they had been given permission to do so. The only window was not in the wall facing him, so that he could not see inside; but he had been in their hut so often, they were in his imagination so vividly, and he was so close every sound they made could be interpreted; therefore it was easy for him to picture them as they went about making their meal. They peeled their potatoes the night before, and left them in a pot of cold water. They did not wash before they started to cook or eat. They did not change their clothes. They had no table; an upturned box did instead, with a newspaper for a cloth; and each sat on his own bed. They seldom spoke. All evening they would be dumb, the taller brooding over a days-old paper, the dwarf carving some animal out of wood: at present he was making a squirrel. Seeing it half finished that afternoon, holding it shudderingly in his hands, Duror had against his will, against indeed the whole frenzied thrust of his being, sensed the kinship between the carver and the creature whose likeness he was carving. When complete, the squirrel would be not only recognisable, it would be almost alive. To Duror it had been the final defeat that such ability should be in a half-man, a freak, an imbecile. He had read that the Germans were putting idiots and cripples to death in gas chambers. Outwardly, as everybody expected, he condemned such barbarity; inwardly, thinking of idiocy and crippledness not as abstractions but as embodied in the crouchbacked cone-gatherer, he had profoundly approved.

  At last he roused himself and moved away. Yet, though he was going home, he felt was leaving behind him in that hut something unresolved, which would never cease to torment him. It was almost as if there were not two brothers, but three; he himself was the third. Once he halted and looked back. His fists tightened on his gun. He saw himself returning, kicking open the door, shouting at them his disgust, and then blasting them both to everlasting perdition. He felt an icy hand on his brow as he imagined that hideous but liberating fratricide. Surely they would lie there unheeded under the cypresses. Surely they were of no more consequence than the frogs which in mating time, with the smaller male on his mate’s back, crossed the public road and were crushed in their thousands under the wheels of the army trucks. Surely their deaths like the frogs’ could not be called murder.

  As he went on his way again to reach the road, he thought how incomprehensible and unjust it was that in Europe, in Africa, and in China, many tall, strong, healthy, brave, intelligent men were killing one another, while in that dirty little hut those two sub-humans lived in peace, as if under God’s protection. He could not understand that, and he was sure nobody could.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Duror had walked about a quarter of a mile along the road when a motor car, with masked headlights, overtook and passed him, hooting peevishly. It drew up a short way in front, with two apologetic and welcoming toots of its horn. When he came nearer he recognised it as Dr Matheson’s car, and wished he had waited in the wood a half-hour longer.

  The old man grinned at him.

  ‘Thought I recognised your stalwart figure, Duror,’ he chuckled. ‘You’re not frightened, though, strolling along like that in the dark. Country folk these days ought to be supplied with luminous behinds. Been out on the prowl for poachers?’

  ‘Yes, doctor.’

  The doctor smacked his lips. ‘Damned if I blame them,’ he said, ‘with meat as scarce as it is. You know I’m partial to a tender haunch of venison myself. Get in. I’ll take you as far as the gate.’

  Duror hesitated: he was in no mood to suffer the doctor’s inquisitive inanities.

  ‘Put your gun at the back. Hope it’s not loaded. I hate the things. If you’d your dogs with you, damned if I would have stopped. Can’t abide the brutes in a car. My wife used to have one, a brown spaniel; it would keep licking the back of my neck. She said it was only showing its affection. Queer affection, eh, to tickle me into the front of a bus. Get in, man. What are you waiting for?’

  Duror climbed in, placing his gun beside the doctor’s bag on the back seat.

  Soon they were moving on again.

  ‘Is Black still at Laggan?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Aye.’

  Black was the estate forester. He had been loaned by his mistress to the Timber Control Authorities, who were felling a wood at Laggan. He had had to accept the transfer as a national service. In the spring he would return to superintend the cutting down of his own wood.

  The doctor was smiling slyly.

  ‘So you’re the monarch of the woods?’ he asked.

  Duror said nothing.

  ‘A nice fellow, Tom Black,’ said the doctor, ‘but a shade too severe and upright for comfortable Christian intercourse. I understand he believes that every leaf that falls belongs to his master.’

  ‘So it does.’

  ‘In theory, certainly. But you and I know, as men of the world, that a wide breathing-space must be allowed between theory and practice; otherwise ordinary mortals like us would be suffocated.’

  Duror made no comment.

  ‘Shoot any deer these days?’

  ‘Now and again.’

  The doctor, sniffing hard, was not only in fancy relishing venison; he was also indicating that, in Black’s absence, deer might safely be killed and shared with a friend.

  ‘Wolf it all up at the big house, I suppose?’

  ‘Most of it goes to hospitals.’

  The doctor was surprised; he was even shocked; he whistled. ‘Is that so? Take care of the sick, and let the healthy pine.’ Uneasiness entered his laughter as Duror glanced at him. ‘A joke, Duror,’ he added, ‘clean against all professional ethics. But all the same it is damned scun-nersome, spam, spam, spam, at every meal. One of the pleasures I thought I could look forward to in my old age was that of the palate. They tell me even as a baby in my pram I chose the choicest cherry. Why not? Fine eating’s a civilised pastime, and fine drinking too, of course. God, how sca
rce good whisky’s become. It’s not to be had for love nor money.’

  ‘I’d have thought a man in your position, doctor, would have a better chance than most any folk.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ The doctor was involuntarily peevish: the quest for whisky and palatable food was real, bitter, and ceaseless.

  ‘Well, you carry life and death in your bag.’

  ‘Ho,’ grunted the old man.

  ‘And you attend butchers and grocers and farmers and publicans.’

  ‘Are you insinuating I use my professional position to extort favours from my patients?’

  Duror smiled at that haughty senile indignation.

  The doctor saw that indignation was a foolish tactic. He began to cackle.

  ‘Damn your impudence, Duror,’ he said. ‘You’re a sleekit one all right. You don’t say much, but you think plenty. Well, however I fare in other directions, and I’m admitting nothing, I never see any venison. I’ve seen it on the hoof all right racing across the hillsides, but it’s a hell of a long time since I smelled it on my plate. How’s Peggy keeping these days?’

  It was an astute question. Peggy was Duror’s wife: for the past twenty years she had lain in bed and grown monstrously obese; her legs were paralysed.

  Duror’s voice was as stripped of emotion as a winter tree.

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ he said.

  ‘Like myself, still eating more than’s good for her, I suppose? Well, God help us, we’ve to take our pleasures where we can; and skimpy pleasures they are today. Your Peggy’s had a raw deal from life, Duror.’

  ‘Aye.’

  The doctor, with professional interest, glanced aside at the lean, smooth, handsome, tight-lipped face. For all its composure he suspected a sort of fanaticism lurking in it. God knew how many inhibitions, repressions, and complexes were twisting and coiling there, like the snakes of damnation. God ought to know, for the human mind and its vicissitudes were more His business than a country doctor’s. Physically Duror was as strong as a bear: a fastidious man too, not any whore would suffice. Well, there used in the palmy days before the war to be a fine selection of maids to choose from in the big house. There were few now: Mars had claimed his nymphs, and paid them well.

  ‘And Mrs Lochie?’

  ‘She never complains.’

  The doctor was surprised by a sudden pang of pity for his companion. In that conventional answer was concealed the kind of stoicism and irony that he admired. Mrs Lochie was Duror’s mother-in-law, who kept house for him and nursed his wife. Behind his back she slandered him to everybody, even, it was said, to passing pedlars. What she said to his face in private could be conjectured. Yes, thought the doctor, poor Duror for all his pretence of self-possession and invulnerability had been fighting his own war for years: there must be deep wounds, though they did not show; and there could not be victory.

  Unaccountably the doctor laughed: annoyed with himself, he had to lie.

  ‘Excuse me, Duror,’ he said. ‘Something old Maggie McHugh of Fernbrae said. I’ve just been having a look at old Rab’s leg; he broke it three weeks ago taking a kick at a thrawn cow. She’s a coarse old tinker, yon one, but refreshing. Anyway, I find her refreshing. What she was for doing to Hitler.’ He laughed again. ‘Well, here we are at the manorial gates.’

  He stopped the car, and Duror, picking up his gun, got out.

  ‘Thanks, doctor,’ he said, touching his cap.

  ‘Don’t mention it. This a Home Guard night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, if you should happen to shoot any deer, be sure to tell it I was asking for it.’

  ‘I’ll do that, doctor.’

  ‘And, Duror –’ The doctor, wishing out of compassion and duty to say something helpful and comforting, found there was nothing he could think of.

  Duror waited.

  ‘We’ve just got to make the best of things, Duror. I know that’s a bloody trite thing to say, and not much help. Good night.’

  ‘Good night, doctor,’ replied Duror, smiling, ‘and thanks again for the lift.’

  As he watched the car move away his smile faded: a profound bleakness took its place.

  ‘Greedy old pig,’ he murmured. ‘So it’s only venison you lack?’

  At his usual easy assured pace he walked through the gateway. Passing the gate-house, he remembered young John Farquarson whom he had once seen lying outside it in his pram, and who now was soldiering in Africa. The envy that he felt, corrosive and agonising, was again reduced outwardly to a faint smile. Thus for the past twenty years he had disciplined himself to hide suffering. By everyone, except Mrs Lochie, he was known as a man of restraint, reticence, and gravity; she alone had caught glimpses of him with the iron mask of determination off for a rest. This overwhelming aversion for the insignificant cone-gatherers had taken him unawares; with it had come the imbecile frenzy to drive them out of the wood, the even more imbecile hope that their expulsion would avert the crisis darkening in his mind, and consequently the feeling of dependence upon them. For a long time he had dreaded this loss of control, this pleasing of itself by his tormented mind; now it was happening.

  A large elm tree stood outside his house. Many times, just by staring at it, in winter even, his mind had been soothed, his faith in his ability to endure to the end sustained. Here was a work of nature, living in the way ordained, resisting the buffets of tempests and repairing with its own silent strength the damage suffered: at all times simple, adequate, preeminently in its proper place. It had become a habit with him, leaving the house in the morning, returning to it at night, to touch the tree: not to caress it, or press it, or let his hand linger; just lightly to touch it, with no word spoken and no thought formed. Now the bond was broken. He could not bear to look at the tall tree: he was betraying it; he no longer was willing to share with it the burden of endurance.

  Like a man to whom time was plentiful, and numerous resources still available, he set his gun neatly in the rack in the porch and hung his cap on its peg. It seemed to be that obvious and commonplace act, the hanging of the old tweed cap on brass peg in the oak panelling of the porch, that deranged his mind so that abruptly it became reluctant or even unable to accept that he was now at home, in his own house, amidst carpets, pictures, and furniture all familiar in themselves and in their tidiness. He saw all these, just as he heard the Scottish dance music from the living-room, and felt the warmth after the chilly evening; yet it was as if, after his long vigil under the cypress tree, he had at last entered the cone-gatherers’ hut. Hesitating there in the hallway, he felt himself breaking apart: doomed and resigned he was in the house; still yearning after hope, he was in that miserable hut.

  He allowed himself no such gestures as putting hand to brow or closing his eyes. Why should he no longer simulate pleasure at being home? What salvation was he seeking in this hut under the cypress?

  ‘Is that you, John?’ called his mother-in-law sharply from the living-room.

  ‘Aye, it’s me,’ he answered, and went in.

  She was seated knitting beside the wireless set. The door to Peggy’s bedroom was wide open to let her too listen to the cheerful music.

  Mrs Lochie was a stout white-haired woman, with an expression of dour resoluteness that she wore always, whether peeling potatoes or feeding hens or as at present knitting a white bedjacket. It was her intimation that never would she allow her daughter’s misfortune to conquer her, but that also never would she forgive whoever was responsible for that misfortune. Even in sleep her features did not relax, as if God too was a suspect, not to be trusted.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said, as she rose and put down her knitting. It was an accusation. ‘She’s been anxious about you. I’ll set out your tea.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and stood still.

  ‘Aren’t you going in?’ she asked. ‘That’s her shouting for you.’ She came close to him and whispered. ‘Do you think I don’t ken what an effort it is for you?’

  There
was no pity in her question, only condemnation; and his very glance towards the bedroom where his wife, with plaintive giggles, kept calling his name proved her right.

  ‘It’s a pity, isn’t it,’ whispered Mrs Lochie, with a smile, ‘she doesn’t die and leave you in peace?’

  He did not deny her insinuation, nor did he try to explain to her that love itself perhaps could become paralysed.

  ‘Take care, though,’ she muttered, as she went away, ‘you don’t let her see it.’

  With a shudder he walked over and stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

  Peggy was propped up on pillows, and was busy chewing. The sweetness of her youth still haunting amidst the great wobbling masses of pallid fat that composed her face added to her grotesqueness a pathos that often had visitors bursting into unexpected tears. She loved children but they were terrified by her; she would for hours dandle a pillow as if it was a baby. Her hair was still wonderfully black and glossy, so that she insisted on wearing it down about her shoulders, bound with red ribbons. White though was her favourite colour. Her nightdresses, with lace at neck and sleeves, were always white and fresh and carefully ironed. When she had been well, in the first two years of their marriage, she had loved to race with him hand-in-hand over moor and field, through whins and briers, up knolls and hills to the clouds: any old skirt and jumper had done then.

  Though not capable of conveying it well, either by word or expression, she was pleased and relieved to see him home. Her voice was squeaky with an inveterate petulance, although sometimes, disconcerting everybody who heard it, her old gay laughter could suddenly burst forth, followed by tears of wonder and regret.

  He stood by the door.

  ‘Am I to get a kiss?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve still to wash, Peggy. I’ve been in the wood, handling rabbits.’

  ‘I don’t care. Amn’t I a gamekeeper’s wife? I used to like the smell of rabbits. I want a kiss.’