Ah well, said Helen, ah well. For she never quarrelled, never even wanted to start a quarrel. She loved her children and was content to be with them. In fact she didn’t really like to leave the house much: she would have liked to spend Tom’s money on a summerhouse where she could sit all day. Or perhaps even on a swimming pool where she could laze and drowse, face upward, on the hot days of July and August, staring up at the sun, golden and fierce in the sky, in the hard empty blue sky.
‘Well thank God we brought the bottle,’ said Tom. ‘At least they can’t say we were drinking all their drink.’
‘No,’ said Helen. Tom drove very competently, as he did practically everything except those things that depended on the imagination. For instance he couldn’t tell the children bedtime stories, but she could and did. She had invented a country called Daffodil Land. In this country everything was yellow, the grass, the buses, the roads. Even the flag, the newspapers, the books, were all yellow. The children loved the story and its endless possibilities for disguise and mystery.
‘Tell us another story about Daffodil Land,’ they would shout at night while Tom would stand about foolishly. At moments like these she thought that he looked very vulnerable, not to say foolish, and sometimes she had great difficulty in keeping herself from laughing at him. But there was no question that he was a good provider. He drank sparingly and smoked not at all, though she did both. However he was always hinting that she should smoke less so that they could save more money for that phantom paradise of their old age when they would live on the fat of the land. She couldn’t imagine herself as old, nor could she imagine Tom as old. Why was that, she wondered, as she watched the cars passing them, and to her right the cows grazing in a field, a calf nuzzling its mother furiously. Tom’s gaze was directed straight ahead of him.
She wondered vaguely whether she loved him and could not understand what the word meant. Then she had her attention distracted by a black-faced lamb that seemed to be staring straight at her. How beautiful and innocent lambs were. Like children who didn’t cry too much.
She didn’t really want to visit Tom’s brother but both of them felt it a duty especially when they were periodically invited as now. Tom slightly despised his brother who didn’t make as much money as he himself made. If Helen had her way she wouldn’t leave her house. After all what was there to attract one in the outside world? Tom’s head, neat and polished, stared straight ahead. His cheeks were healthily red, his hair cut short.
‘Was it whisky you got or vodka?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Whisky,’ she said.
‘That’s all right then. Teddy’s on the whisky. He was on the vodka for a while but he’s on the whisky now.
‘I saw Gibbon today,’ he added. ‘He bought quite a lot of sherry.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘perhaps he’s having a party.’
‘He was looking a bit sloshed,’ said Tom. He drove very carefully, keeping a steady forty and never going over it. ‘Not like him to buy sherry.’
‘True,’ said Helen. Sherry, she thought. What can one possibly say about it.
‘I can’t understand it,’ she said aloud.
‘Neither can I,’ said Tom. ‘It’s all very odd. If it had been anyone else but Gibbon. But he bought four bottles.’
‘Four bottles,’ Helen echoed.
There was a wasp buzzing about her ear and she wished to kill it, it was making so much noise.
‘Would you mind if I opened the window and let this wasp out?’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ said Tom, swerving to avoid a huge lorry that bore down on them.
‘Bugger you,’ she said to the wasp under her breath.
In spite of the open window the wasp didn’t fly out. Stupid bloody thing, she said under her breath but not aloud.
If we don’t speak too much, she often thought, we will be safe.
They drove past the church with its towering becalmed weathercock and headed up the brae. On both sides of them were little neat houses very like each other, with little gardens, and prettily painted gates. She thought that she wouldn’t like to live in any of these. To have to emerge from the door every morning and talk to the women on both sides of her, why that would be awful. It would be like living in one of those clocks with the small Dutch figures – such aproned housewives, such upright bearded men – which came out promptly and tidily when the clock struck.
Teddy’s house was in front of them. It was a long wooden Swedish-type house which looked almost black, and in front of it there was unworked black soil which had not been turned into a garden. Teddy was not interested in gardening, he was more interested in talking. In fact he would have quite liked to live in a flat though his wife Ruth wouldn’t have allowed him.
The car drew up and there, suddenly in front of them, were Teddy’s two children running breathlessly. Oh my God, thought Helen, not again. But she bent down and kissed them just the same. William, small and sturdy like a midget bricklayer or boxer, stood gazing up at her almost hostilely, a red wooden train under his arm. Then he rushed away from her without speaking. Miriam smiled winningly and took her hand and making little premeditated steps guided her into the house. Behind her Tom carefully locked the car doors. She felt him behind her as a slow steady presence bearing the bottle wrapped in brown paper which she had forgotten about.
Teddy was waiting at the door, Ruth behind him. They all kissed each other and then Teddy said, ‘Come away in.’ They went into the large living-room with its red suite, the clock white and gilt on the mantelpiece, the children’s stuff lying on the floor in front of the fire.
‘How are you?’ said Teddy as they sat down. ‘You look well, Tom. Still gathering in the shekels, eh? Good old Tom.’
Tom smiled and crossed his legs, first pulling up his trousers carefully. Helen sat in the chair nearest the fireplace.
‘Outside,’ said Ruth to her daughter. ‘Go out and play.’ Without saying a word, though looking disappointed, Miriam left.
She has such control, said Helen to herself. They always do what she tells them to do . . . It’s odd. There are people like that. And yet she never raises her voice.
‘I see you’ve got your priorities right,’ said Teddy accepting the bottle and removing the brown paper wrappings. ‘How’s business?’
‘Fine,’ said Tom.
‘Good, good, that’s good. And there’s Helen looking as cool as ever. Well now, what will you have? Whiskies all round or would you like something different?’
‘Vodka for me if you have it,’ said Helen.
‘And for me for a change,’ said Ruth.
‘Oh?’ said Teddy inquiringly, adding, ‘Whisky for Tom and for me a very large one. Do you know folks I have a terrible desire to get drunk. Mackinnon’s been acting up again. This time he’s wanting more interviews. And there’s no one to interview. How would you like to be interviewed, Tom? Have you anything to tell the masses?’
Helen noticed that in a small cupboard beside her there was as usual a pile of Time magazines. It seemed to suggest that Teddy kept up with the latest sharp-eyed insightful journalism.
‘Ah,’ said Teddy, leaning back in his chair. ‘Now we’re all settled.’
He doesn’t really think about us at all, Helen thought. He is interviewing us. His attitude is that of a reporter to his newsfind.
‘I think,’ said Teddy, ‘that we should go to a party later. What are your reactions to that? I know of a place we can go to. Do you want to go?’
‘Not us,’ said Tom. ‘We have to get back in one piece.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that. Wait till you’ve drunk enough and you’ll want to go. Won’t they, Ruth?’ Ruth smiled her usual impassive smile and said nothing.
‘As I was saying then, Mackinnon’s latest gimmick is to interview people. He called me into his office on Monday. “Maxwell,” he said, from the quarterdeck, “we need more interviews. The biographical angle. That’s what we really need.” And the fact is that there’s no
one I can interview. Who are these imaginary people, I ask myself. Give me one name. Can you give me one name, Helen?’
‘Stewart,’ said Helen. ‘Why not Stewart?’
‘Stewart, that pompous jumped-up ass. His photograph’s in the paper every week anyway. You must be joking. What about you, Tom?’
‘I can’t think of anyone at the moment,’ said Tom, sipping his whisky. Teddy had already finished his.
‘Come on, guests,’ he said, ‘hurry up. Ruth’s got a cold buffet for us later, haven’t you, darling?’
‘Yes, darling.’
It seemed to Helen for a moment that a spark flared between the two of them and then vanished into the air.
‘Come on then, I’ll refill your glasses. The fact is I feel as if I want to get drunk. Come on, Tom, Helen. No, you’ll just have to take it. In these days of inflation grab what you can. Uncle Teddy’s feeling in a generous mood.’
He poured more drink into their glasses and continued:
‘I mean, what can you say about Mackinnon. If he didn’t exist someone would have to invent him. He’ll be wearing a green eye-shade next, if it wasn’t that he is Protestant. He actually thinks that journalism consists of “quipped Harold”, and “expectorated Ted”.’
‘He keeps saying that he’ll leave but he never does,’ said Ruth as if she were talking to Helen alone.
‘If I was making as much money as Tom here I’d leave,’ said her husband. ‘No question of that. Come on, Tom, tell us. Do you make eight thousand a year?’
‘Eight thousand. You must be joking,’ said Tom, speaking out for the first time. ‘Eight thousand?’
‘Well, you’ve got these chalets. You must be making a packet. Have you noticed, Helen, that nobody talks about anything but money nowadays. It’s like a disease. And quite right too. Except Tom, of course. He never talks about money. That’s because he has it. Do you know that in the old days, when the plague was on, people who were infected used to try and give it to those who weren’t. I wish they would do that with money. Anyway, I . . . ’ And he stopped.
‘Oh, but you must be making a reasonable salary,’ said Helen quietly.
‘Reasonable salary? But how do I make it? There’s Tom and he doesn’t have a master. He can wander round his estate, and I have Mackinnon breathing all over my shoulder day and night, asking for things to be changed, checking the phone bills, sniffing around the toilet paper. My God, to think that I have sold my soul for this. A mess of pottage right enough, whatever the hell that was. A mess, anyway.’ He leaned back in his chair triumphant after his speech.
‘Don’t believe him. He really likes his job,’ Ruth repeated, thin-lipped.
‘Like my job? How could I like my job? True, I’m out in the real world, I know what’s going on in the district, I get a gobbet of news now and then, but, my God, like it? How could I like it? As long as you have a master you can’t like your job. There’s Tom now. He can stop work any time he likes. Tell me, Tom, what is the difference between us, is it brain power, or a different kind of brain, or low cunning on your side? The fact is,’ he said, turning to the others, ‘I was the clever one at school. I always got the prizes. I was the one they expected a lot from. And this bugger here didn’t do a stroke, never got a pass in a composition, and look at him now. I don’t understand it. I just do not understand it. Come on, folks, some more drink. Refills coming up. Helen, are you all right? Of course, you’re all right. But I mean it, I really mean it, how did my brother do so well. There he is with a hotel and chalets and there I am with a rotten bugger for a boss. There is no justice in the world.’
He slumped back into his chair and then jumped up again. ‘And there’s another thing. Any money I get the income tax take off me. And Tom here’s got an accountant, haven’t you, Tom? I bet you claim for the phone bills, the fire, everything. You hardly pay any tax, isn’t that right? How do you do it?’
‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘I’ll tell you something, if we had a Tory Government we’d be better off.’
‘Tory Government be buggered if the ladies will excuse me. If we had a Tory Government people like me would be down the drain, and that’s a fact. Did you think of that? No, of course you didn’t.’
‘Well,’ said Tom, smiling expansively, ‘we’d have some law and order. Look at all the delinquents you get nowadays going about.’
‘Delinquents, my arse. They aren’t the delinquents, Tom. They’re just small fry. The real delinquents are in the Tory Party. The delinquents are people like you evading your tax. That’s who the delinquents are.’
‘Yes,’ said Helen, ‘you’re right. I’m not for the Tory Party.’ Her head felt tight and hot. She had heard all this talk hundreds of times before, all this artificial drama, this storm in a teacup. It was how people lived.
‘Didn’t you know,’ she said to Teddy, ‘that we’re all saving up for our old age. That’s Tom’s theory anyway.’
Ruth looked at her as if she was surprised by her statement. Ruth of course never spoke, never gave any hostages to fortune. When she came to think of it she didn’t really know anything about Ruth. She seemed to have no weaknesses precisely because she never spoke.
‘For your old age?’ said Teddy incredulously. ‘My God, I can’t even save up for now. And there’s the two of you gathering your money in. How lucky can you get? I should have . . . ’
I should have married someone like Helen, Helen thought. That’s what he was about to say. Just because my family had some money. In those days Tom had a motor bike and looked young and adventurous but he had turned out to be like everybody else, like her father, like her mother, concerned about money. How sickening it all was. If it weren’t for the children I couldn’t stand living. If it weren’t for their unpredictability.
‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘it’s true about law and order. The crime figures have gone up since they abolished hanging. What would you do about it, then?’
Ignoring all the previous conversation Tom had steadily held to his own obsession with the same kind of resolution and tenacity as he brought to the making of money.
‘Tom, I don’t care about that,’ said Teddy. ‘They can hang as many of them as you like. All I’m saying is that for poor people like me the Labour Government is the best we have. They’ve handled the unions, haven’t they? They’ve kept them in line. And I’ll tell you something, that’s one thing the Tory Government can’t do. Mackinnon’s a Tory and, my God, look at him. He’s a bloated capitalist, if ever there was one. No one more bloated than him. He thinks the world belongs to him, that he can walk on the water with his shooting stick. He thinks of me as a black, I can tell you that.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Helen, ‘keep at him.’
‘To think,’ Teddy mused sadly, ‘that my little brother would turn out to be a Tory. Why I can remember the days when we couldn’t rub two pennies together. Oh come on Tom, you can’t really believe what you’re saying.’
‘Oh, but he does,’ said Helen. ‘Of course he does. He’s saving up for his, our, old age.’ Her voice slightly trembled. She felt she had been drinking too much.
And here was Teddy again with the bottle.
‘Oh come on Helen, your capitalist friend here can drive you home and see what happens when the police stop him under a Labour Government. He’ll get his law and order then all right.’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll sort them out. Don’t you worry about that.’
‘With bribes, eh?’
‘I don’t know about that but I’ll sort them out.’
‘You know, Helen,’ said Teddy, ‘there were days when Tom and I used to go fishing because we didn’t have enough food in the house. And we had this old rod and bent hooks. And we’d sit there by the river and fish. It’s like that bit from Burns, what was it again?
We twa hae paiddlt in the burn
frae early sun till dine
and seas atween us braid hae roared
sin’ auld lang sy
ne.
Or words to that effect. And see him there now in his classy suit. Just look at him.’
‘Oh shut up Teddy,’ said his wife. ‘Why don’t you just shut up? You’re always taking the mickey.’
‘Not at all. I’m just reminiscing. Seas atween us twa hae roared sin’ auld lang syne. Old Burns had the words for it right enough. Even journalists are allowed to reminisce, you know. You should hear old Mackinnon at it. Public school, rugby, bean feasts, the lot. But it’s true. All the talk now is about money. In the past people used to talk about religion. Now they talk about money.’
There was a silence and then Ruth said to Helen,
‘And how are the children?’
‘Fine. And yours.’
‘Fine. And how are you keeping yourself?’
‘I’m fine too.’
Teddy looked at his wife quickly as if he thought that she had been tactless and then turned again to Tom.
‘What’s your latest idea, Tom? After the chalets, I mean.’
‘Are you speaking as a reporter or as a brother?’
‘Oh, as your brother of course.’
‘Well, then I can tell you that I have no ideas,’ and Tom giggled slightly as if for the first time he had said something witty.
‘I’ll believe that when I see the removal men taking your stuff away.’
Removal men? What was that about removal men? Helen thought about men in black coats and black gloves taking everything away and then there would be nothing left for their old age. My God, I’m going to be sick, she thought in a panic. But she stayed where she was and smiled. Tom wouldn’t want her to make a fool of herself. Not in his brother’s house anyway. It would be so much better to be back with the children. My head, my head so tight, I need air.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Teddy, ‘as I told you earlier on we’re thinking of going on to a party. Later, of course, after the buffet. Have you got the food then, Ruth. The loaves and the fishes?’
‘Of course. Do you want it now?’
The Black Halo Page 27