A Field Full of Folk

by Iain Crichton Smith

  “It must have been very amusing,” said the minister.

  “Calum’s wife says the Jap is very polite. He eats everything that she gives him though she sometimes thinks that he doesn’t like it. His wife and child are just as polite and as tiny as he is. Their English, though, isn’t very good. He’s some sort of engineer, and his name is Nakamura. The wife and child are like dolls, Calum’s wife says.”

  “Maybe Annie should talk to him. She should ask him about the East. Do you know what she’s on about now? I met her and she immediately told me that she was reading an encyclopædia which she saw in the library and it says that there was a sect called the Jains who held that time was divided into immensely long eras and that in each era there were twenty-four perfect beings who appeared on earth. Did I think that these were connected with the twenty-four elders mentioned in Revelations? I nearly told her that it was more probably connected with the number of hours on a twenty-four hour clock. But I didn’t say anything. And she sniffed and went away. She thinks I’m a perfect ignoramus.”

  “Yes, she’s always in the library,” said Mary. “She spends a lot of her time reading.”

  While they were talking there was a ring at the doorbell and the minister said, “I wonder who that is at this time of the morning.”

  “I’ll go and see,” said his wife.

  In a short time she came back with Chrissie Murray. The minister immediately rose from his seat and said, “This is a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” said the girl. He noticed that she was wearing a longer skirt than usual and that she had got rid of her red boots. Her face was composed and pale. Her hair had been tied at the back into a bun, giving her an almost matronly appearance. His wife was making frantic signs at him behind the girl but he couldn’t understand what she was trying to communicate.

  “Is there something particular?” he said. “We’re so glad to see you again. How is John?”

  “John’s fine,” said the girl who was standing in an embarrassed manner as if there was something she wished to say but couldn’t bring herself to do so. His wife’s signals were becoming more and more frantic but he couldn’t make out what word she was trying to articulate.

  “Good, good,” said the minister. “Mary, why don’t we offer Mrs Murray a coffee?”

  “No, no, it’s too early,” said the girl. “I came because …”

  His wife’s contortions were now manic in their intensity as if she were some kind of idiot making gestures which were completely unintelligible to him. And then at last he remembered.

  “Oh, the …” He stopped himself in time. “Oh, yes, there was something, Mrs Murray. Some boys found a ring near the railway line. They brought it to me and it was thought at the time that it might be yours. You must have mislaid it. Mary once mislaid hers, didn’t you, Mary?”

  “Yes, I was working in soapy water and it slipped off my finger. It can happen quite easily. I’ll go and get it.”

  “Would you not like to sit down,” said the minister. How odd it was that the girl should come back, he had never thought that she would. In a strange way he wished that she hadn’t. And yet that was certainly not the Christian attitude to take. Even now, embarrassed and pale as she was, there emanated from her a strong sexual power which was quite unforced and almost primitive. Life would be difficult for her for a while, there was no question about that. But how had she been so stupid as not to foresee her own weakness and frailty? His wife came back with the ring which was in a little green box and which rested on cotton wool.

  “We kept it safe,” she said cheerfully. “It’s perfectly all right. It looks quite expensive too.”

  “Yes, it was,” said the girl taking the ring and slipping it on to her finger. “John paid a lot for it.”

  For a moment the minister saw in his wife’s eye a glint which could only be described as envy, for the girl’s ring was far more expensive than her own but it passed as quickly as it had come. The faithful suffer and the unfaithful profit, he thought.

  “Everything is all right now?” he said carefully.

  “Yes, everything is all right.” He had an instinctive feeling that the girl would start coming to church. He didn’t know how he knew this but he was quite convinced of it and the thought troubled him with great sadness.

  The girl hesitated as if not quite sure how to go about leaving the room. What was he expected to say to her?

  His wife suddenly remarked, “I’m going in your direction to visit Mrs Campbell. Can I give you a lift?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said the girl.

  “Come on then. I’ll get my coat,” said Mary, and the two of them went out together leaving the minister alone.

  He stood staring after them for a while, his mind turbulent and excited, and yet deflated. It was as if the weight of the village had settled on his shoulders again, as if he was overwhelmed by it. Why could she not have stayed where she was, have accepted what had happened to her, lived off the chances of the day? And then another voice said to him, “She left her children behind, not to mention her husband. You should be glad the repentant sinner has returned to the fold.”

  But he could not be glad, something in him felt melancholy and defeated: there was a smell of sickness and nausea in his mouth. When he heard the car he went to the bathroom and was sick. There was no end to the pain in the world, to the imperfection, to the ridiculousness, to the meaninglessness. How could he be a minister when he considered that the girl’s return was a defeat for the human spirit? How could he possibly think in that way when she was so clearly a sinner, one who by her own selfishness had brought this sorrow on herself? And yet that part of him which thought of the human spirit conquering mountain after mountain from the time that man had first moved, hunchbacked and heavy jawed, about the plains and woods of the mornings, was offended. He drank some water and wiped his face and mouth with a towel. He went down on his knees among the alternate white and black squares of the bathroom and prayed. Please help me, O Lord, please help me. I’ve tried to be Thy servant but I am confused. Give me a sign, O Lord. Speak to me out of this terrible silence. This sterility. While he was praying he remembered Hutton who had asked the undertaker for the ring to be removed from his wife’s finger. Had that been love or greed? How could one tell?

  O Lord, he went on, I do not understand the human heart. I wish to be Thy servant but I feel nothing.

  He rose from the floor, his knees aching and sore. All he could do was endure as those men had once endured the hailstones and the snow, plunging into the battle, knowing there was no final victory, till in the spring there came from the woods the pure clear lonely voice of the cuckoo, its double note.

  What was there about Hutton’s wife that he was forgetting? Had the finger been broken to get the ring off?

  25

  THE PLACE THEY had chosen for their picnic was a flat stretch of land near the water though not near enough to be dangerous to the children: and in the distance they could see the mountain ascending into a clear sky, for the weather remained miraculously clear and warm. The ground was dry enough for the adults to sit round the perimeter while the children ran their races. When the minister arrived (for his wife had been there before him) he looked at the scene in front of him. At one end of the field he could see Mary Macarthur beside Annie, while Murdo Macfarlane and David Collins were talking to each other. The Jap was there with his wife, child, and camera, while the German and his wife were sitting on the ground, the husband clad in shorts. Mrs Scott and her husband were standing at the table on which the sandwiches and lemonade were, as also were his own wife, Mrs Campbell, Patricia (Mrs Berry’s daughter) and Elizabeth. Christine Murray and her husband were kneeling on the ground hand in hand at a little distance from the others. It was two o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was white in the sky.

  From behind the table the minister spoke briefly.

  “I’m glad,” he said, “to see so many of you here. As
you know, this is a Sunday School picnic but we have extended it so that as many as possible of the villagers will have the opportunity to be present. I haven’t seen my wife for days now as she has been preparing sandwiches”—they laughed politely—”and I am glad to offer my thanks to all those who have prepared the food and drink. I think we can start now.”

  “What is he saying?” Mary Macarthur asked Annie.

  “He is saying that the races can start now,” said Annie. “He is praising his wife as usual. I see that Chrissie Murray is here. Do you notice her sitting over there beside her husband?” Annie had recently taken to wearing strings of brown beads, and bangles round her wrists, and was dressed in a brown frock.

  “Yes, I see her,” said Mary Macarthur, “maybe we should go and speak to her.”

  “Not just now,” said Annie, “I am not sure that I wish to speak to her at this moment. Later perhaps I shall speak to her.”

  She watched the children lining up for the first race while the janitor tried to keep them in a reasonably straight row. These were the youngest children and among them was Mrs Berry’s grandchild Peter, and Mrs Campbell’s son, Malcolm. The Jap had raised his camera and was focussing it on them, as they giggled among themselves and looked down at each other’s feet. Annie was sure that competition was not necessary in Eastern religions.

  The janitor said, “Ready, steady, go,” and they were all running in a disorderly manner towards the minister who was standing at the other end of the field, some with teeth gritted as if they were running in an important race such as they had seen on TV, and some with careless steps as if in a dream of their own. Two of them fell on the grass and rolled over and over shrieking with merriment, while the first to reach the finishing line was Peter.

  “How is it that Peter always wins the race? He did the same last year,” said Mrs Drummond to Mrs Berry.

  “His grandfather was the same,” said Mrs Berry abruptly. “He was good at running and throwing the caber. He was very strong.” The children had now disentangled themselves from the confused mass they had formed at the finishing line and the minister was announcing the winner. Mrs Berry felt in her bones the pride she had felt once in her husband’s running and feats of strength. Why, when his own brother had once challenged Angus to a fight the latter had beaten him with ease, though his brother, Iain, had been two stones heavier.

  “I don’t wish to see his wife gloating over you,” she had hissed at him. “I can’t stand her. She thinks the sun rises in her backside. Have you seen the new watch she’s wearing? She’s flashing it at me every time she can. You go in there and beat him.” And the two of them had wrestled in the garden, she remembered, with the flowers all in bloom around them. At first it had seemed that his brother would beat him but then she had seen Angus’s face reddening and the veins standing out on his forehead like thin ropes and he had made a tremendous heave and thrown his brother like a sack of potatoes across the lawn to land among the rhododendrons. She had turned and looked his wife straight in the eye and that had been the sweetest revenge of her life. And then there had been the other time when he had taken part in the races in Mull …

  Peter came running towards her, the ten pence piece clutched in his sweaty hand. “You’ve done well,” she said proudly. “You’ve kept up your grandfather’s reputation,” and he stood in front of her like a little sturdy boxer. Mrs Drummond and her husband had already left and were now standing beside Annie and Mary Macarthur. She knew perfectly well that the only reason that they had gone was because they were jealous of her grandson winning the race: they themselves were childless.

  As she stood there with her hand resting on Peter’s blond head she saw the Jap crossing the field towards her. He walked with short quick steps and his moon face beamed at her.

  “Please,” he said, pointing at the two of them and then at the camera. “Please.”

  She was reminded of the black man who had used to sell clothes out of a suitcase many years ago when she and Angus had been young. He had laid out on the floor socks, cardigans, handkerchiefs, pyjamas, nightgowns, and she had stared at them enviously and then said to Angus, “No, they’re no good,” though she had in fact liked them, but she couldn’t afford them. The Jap was smiling uncertainly at her as if he were one of those people who expected to be rebuked when he asked for a favour, but then of course this was not his country, and how would she feel if she was in Japan?

  She took Peter by the hand and she smiled at the Jap, at the same time telling Peter to stand still and look at the kind man who was taking his photograph. They said that those Japs were very clever and worked hard and copied our whisky and our tweed but after all it was a Sunday School picnic and God intended us to be kind to all his creatures even though some of them were yellow and some were black. She smiled, the camera clicked, the Jap bowed as if she were a queen, and then walked back with his quick steps to where his tiny wife was waiting with her unnaturally polite son.

  By this time the second race had been run and Helen had come in second last and Hugh, the butcher’s son, had won it and Alisdair was crying and stamping on the ground with his feet.

  “I won it,” he was shouting at the minister. “I won it.” His mother ran out and hauled him back among the crowd lining the field, her face red with embarrassment but Alisdair was still stamping the ground crying.

  “You bad boy,” she was saying while the people turned away. “You bad boy.”

  “I’m not, I’m not,” said Alisdair through his tears. “He’s always winning, getting …”

  And he couldn’t continue with whatever he was going to say, for at that moment Elizabeth ran up with a bag of sweets from which she gave him one. Meanwhile Kenny Foolish was running by himself in a corner of the field, throwing his hands in the air, in a grotesque imitation of someone running a race on TV.

  “He gets …” And Alisdair choked on the words while his mother slapped his bottom and made him cry louder. “When I get you home,” she was saying, while Elizabeth offered him a striped sweet thinking how Alisdair’s trousers had a patch on them and his mother had brought him up on her own after her husband had been struck by lightning while sitting on top of a telegraph pole, for he had been a Post Office engineer. But Alisdair was spitting the sweet out of his mouth and still shouting as if he was in some kind of fit. He danced on the ground with rage, his face swollen. “He’ll be all right,” said Mrs Mason to Elizabeth. “He’ll be all right … It’s just that …” And her voice trailed away. But the spectators had turned to the last of the three races in which the older children were taking part.

  “There’s another race to come,” said Elizabeth to Alisdair. “You can dress up and then we can see if you will win. See, you can get into the wheelbarrow and John Murray will wheel you along and we’ll see if you can win. Aren’t you looking forward to that?” Alisdair suddenly stopped crying and smiled at her and Mrs Mason was jealous of this girl who had so easily quietened her son. But she didn’t say anything as Elizabeth continued,

  “And you’ll get lemonade and a bun. You’ll like that.” And she walked across the grass to where the minister was standing at the table.

  “We used to have races in the Army,” said David Collins to Murdo. “One unit would be running against another unit. We called them units. That was in Aldershot.” Already he was growing tired of the races and thinking of other things.

  Murdo pretended not to hear him. He was tired of the Angel of Mons, the trenches, the guns, the Germans. He should never have come among these parents with their families, who was himself only a bachelor, and had never had a child in the cleansed and polished house in which he lived with his mother all those years.

  “In Aldershot, that was,” David Collins repeated, wiping the sweat from his face, “before we went off to France.”

  And it seemed to him that those days belonged to someone else, someone much younger than he was, someone totally different whose photograph, brown and blurred, he kept on the sideboar
d in his living room. Sometimes he would look at that photograph and think, “That’s not me at all. It is a boy whom I used to know.” He swiped angrily at a midge and thought, “The bloody Japs and Germans are everywhere. They are taking over the world.” The Jap’s camera had disturbed him. For a moment there when it had whirred it was as if he were hearing a hissing sound like a lit fuse running back to its source, the dangerous snake.

  “Hullo, Alisdair,” he said awkwardly. “Is it yourself? You should have won that race right enough.” He put his hand in his pocket and took out a hard white sweet. “You take that,” he said. “You eat that.” Alisdair wonderingly took the sweet and then ran away on little fat legs. In a short while Murdo saw the two of them—Hugh and Alisdair—talking animatedly to each other. Nothing lasted long at that age, sunshine was followed by storm, storm by sunshine.

  I’m not feeling too well, the minister thought, I should really sit down. I should be a different man for this job, I should be like the previous minister. No wonder the congregation preferred him to me. He was hail-fellow-well-met, a big red-faced man like a farmer who shouted at the congregation, “You are all rotten apples, you are bad potatoes.” And then he would stalk about the fields, commenting on the state of the fruit and the vegetables, and they loved him. I on the other hand was never a sportsman, I never won a race in my life. I never took part in the cricket games in my school, the PT man was a brutal fellow who had played rugby for a first class team and he used to tell the boys the best methods of bringing someone down. “Don’t be frightened,” he would shout at them, “or I’ll have your guts for garters.” All those bony knees, dirty stockings, tiled washrooms. No, to be a minister one must live in the world, there’s a way of talking that a congregation understands.