Dad’s dismal home life may be why I postponed marriage till six weeks ago. Before that I was a serial monogamist with partners who tired of me after a year or two. When we started living together they soon complained that I no longer bought them meals in expensive restaurants, though all were wage-earners who never offered to buy such a meal for me. They were surprisingly proprietorial, making me buy new clothes because they said the ones I wore were unfashionable, but really (I think) because my older clothes reminded them of earlier partners. I submitted to this, but found it annoying because men do not need to be fashionable. They often became silent and dour because I had said or done something that I could not apologise for because I did not know what it was. If I begged to be told, they usually replied “There’s no point in talking to you,” and shrugged their shoulders, like Mum had done. Freud says all men are attracted by women like their mothers. My partners seemed nothing like my mum before they started living with me. They mostly left because they wanted children, for which I have no time. Their departure was generally welcome because they had turned into nags. I resolved never to marry until sure of better company, and meanwhile found satisfaction in a hobby that made me careful with my earnings, though the women called it meanness.
My work in local government brought me a sufficient wage, though I enjoyed it less than Dad enjoyed his. My department gave permission to demolish old properties and build new ones, delaying the process until applicants found discreet ways of bribing us. I intended to be honest at first, like the coal miner who the Labour Party made Lord Mayor of Manchester. He refused to take bribes and died in a common council house. In the 21st century local governments have legalized bribery by frankly saying that only those who pay extra money to the administration will have their business handled swiftly and efficiently. In my time civil servants were just starting to become property owners. Had I refused brown envelopes of banknotes I would have become an unpopular lad who thought himself superior to his colleagues, so would never have been promoted. I helped some poorer folk who could not bribe me, but my hobby needed the extra money. I was saving and searching for my ideal retirement home, a peaceful place in the country. A conversation had given this common British ambition an unusual twist.
A man seeking permission to make structural changes to his house invited me to discuss the matter over a meal in a posh restaurant, which suggested he had something to hide. The house had been the branch office of a bank, still had safety vaults in the basement, and he wanted planning permission to let a foreign firm convert these into deep-freezers – Swedish, Danish or American, I forget which. He wanted this done secretly because (he said) the cost of food is increasing faster than ordinary wages, so by laying in stocks of it now you will always save money in future. Yes, but why the secrecy? This came out as we relaxed with malt whiskies after an excellent dinner. A business acquaintance had recently flown him by private helicopter to a weekend in a remote country house. The house was protected by lethal security devices and a staff of well-paid servants with military training. The larders were stocked with enough frozen food to feed his host, guests and staff for a lifetime. My man said, “I’m not a millionaire but I want some of that security.”
He told me that the world is heading for disaster, and powerful folk will do nothing to stop that, because it would make them poorer. They know that money will slowly or suddenly lose value as rising oceans flood the land and more disasters reduce food supplies, so when famine hits the cities, mobs of looters will take over. Millionaires are preparing for this. I said, “It won’t happen in our lifetime!” He said, “Perhaps, but it will come sooner or later.”
I am no connoisseur of disaster movies but nodded and hid a smug little smile. I helped the man to get the refrigeration he wanted quietly installed, but knew that if starvation became general, nobody in a town could keep a steady, private food supply a secret from the neighbours.
I was sure civilization would not collapse before I did, but liked the idea of being self-sufficient as prices increased. I looked for a derelict building in an unfashionable district, large enough to be made comfortable but not conspicuous and at least a quarter-mile away from any other home, unless it was a farmhouse. It should have its own discreet source of energy in case electrical supply companies failed. Wind vanes are conspicuous, so water was the answer. At the start of the 20th century every community, large or small, had a mill to grind grain for flour. Robert Louis Stevenson (a great walker) said that leaving Scotland for England was leaving a land of mills powered by rushing streams for one of windmills clacking on hilltops. Imported grain put an end to all those mills, leaving Milton (from mill town) a frequent place name. I spent unhurried years searching for and listing old mill houses before discovering the right one in a wooded glen. A swift burn flowed past from a moor above, and (amazingly) a narrow steep country road ascended to it from the outskirts of the city where I lived and worked! In less than ten minutes a downhill bike ride could have brought me to a suburban shopping centre. Returning that way would have been nearly an hour-long slog, but by car only five minutes. This little road joined a motorway along which, on sunny weekends, thousands from the city drove miles to visit famous beauty spots, never guessing the quiet beauty so close to them. This was the place for me.
Gradually I had it re-roofed, made waterproof and rot-proof, had the inner walls plastered and painted. After linking it to the national grid I installed an undershot millwheel that, when connected to an electric turbine, could give all the light and central heating I might one day want. I brought my partners to see the place as I improved it, saying this would be my retirement home – an independent kingdom like those I had planned from the contents of the Button Box. They thought this an eccentric hobby, said they could never imagine living there, so I was womanless for two or three years before retirement. In that time I had the living rooms and bedrooms furnished with old-fashioned carpets and wallpapers, installed a modern kitchen and lavatory, filled big cupboards in the cellars with enough light bulbs, toiletries, shoes and other supplies to last if I lived to be a hundred. These stocks meant I would no longer be bothered by expenses or shortages, except in the matter of food. I did not start stocking my large deep-freezers with food because I was seeking a new, more agreeable woman partner than any I had hitherto known, and thought that (whoever she was) she might want a say in our choice of diet. I was sure that such a partner would not be hard to find if I gave the problem as much attention as the preparation of my final home.
Half a year before retirement, I saw that my secretary appeared to be holding back tears. This was surprising. Like earlier secretaries she had been so quietly efficient that I had seldom noticed her. As in most offices, females in mine were generally younger than the men, but for me work and sexual adventure were not connected – my female partners had all been met in pubs when I was slightly drunk. My reaction to my secretary’s grief was unusual. I said gently, “Man trouble, Miss Harper?”
She murmured, “Something like that.”
As easily as if I had drunk a couple of malts I said, “Come for a meal with me tonight. I’ll try to cheer you up without asking questions about your private life, or telling you about mine, which hardly exists. We can talk about films or music or books or childhood memories, but silence won’t embarrass me. What do you say?”
For a long moment she stared at me, obviously surprised, then nodded and said yes.
After agreeing on a restaurant and time to meet we completed our office work and separated as usual, but I was hopefully excited. Finding a woman I might marry in the office was like finding the house I had wanted so near the city where I lived. My partnerships with earlier women had started soon after we first bedded each other, as is frequent nowadays. I sensed that this love affair (if it became one) must advance more cautiously. At our meal that evening she left the talking to me, seeming quietly amused by what I said while maintaining a reserve I respected. As I paid the bill she thanked me in a short, sincere
-sounding phrase. I said, “Shall we dine out again next week?”
She replied, “Why not?”
We parted on a handshake, which is how we separated after more dinner dates until one night I asked about her man trouble. She said briskly, “No trouble at all.”
“Has he come to heel?”
“He doesn’t exist,” she said, smiling.
I said, “You’re better without him – I’m sure he never deserved you.”
To change the subject I described at length the finding of my ideal home and the furnishing of it. She cried out, “I see! I see!” and giggled. I asked what amused her. She said, “I knew you must have some sort of private life, but this is the first time you’ve mentioned it.”
She asked me more questions until I said, “The topic interests you so I’d better drive you there to see it some weekend.”
Which I did, after going there earlier to prepare the place.
The day was bright and windy after a long spell of rain, so the burn was in spate, its gurgles mingling with the thrashing tree branches. The house surprised her. “But won’t it be awfully damp?” she asked. I took her inside where the central heating had made the air pleasantly warm with no hint of dampness. I showed her all over, from the upstairs bedrooms to the store cupboards and emergency generator in the cellars, though it was not yet linked to my water wheel. This most aroused her wonder and amusement.
She said, “You seem to have thought of everything, how funny!”
The table in the kitchen above was set for two people, with glasses and a good bottle of wine. I removed a cold, cooked chicken and salad from the fridge saying, “I try to think of everything.”
Being the driver I drank only one glass, which was all she wanted. As we sipped coffees afterward in the living room I said, “Would you like to live here?”
She stared at me. I added, “As a married woman. This is a proposal of marriage.”
After a pause she said, “I wouldn’t like travelling so far to work in the morning.”
I said, “You wouldn’t need to work. I am an old-fashioned sort who will thoroughly support the woman I marry.”
“Give me time to think about that. You’d better take me home now,” she said, and I did.
Would I have escaped what followed if I had tried to kiss her then? Perhaps, but her reserve made such an attempt seem wrong. I drove her to the house she shared with a younger married sister. This was on Saturday. On Monday in the office she agreed to marry me. I will not describe our preparations and the registry office wedding. Neither of us wanted a public ceremony, despite the Victorian quality of our engagement. She never said there must be no sexual intercourse before the honeymoon, but that is what I assumed, and was charmed by such unfashionable modesty. It was passed on a luxury liner cruising the Mediterranean, the first foreign holiday of my life. She had been on trips with friends to Paris, Rome and Barcelona, so I was surprised and slightly hurt that she stayed on board when I went ashore to see Venice, Athens, Istanbul and Cairo, also when she said hardly a word to most of the other passengers. Her social confidence in the office had not prepared me for her lack of it with our dining companions aboard ship. Most were English, and richer than us, and perhaps she felt they would despise her Scottish accent. Yet they obviously found mine entertaining – one of them called it “charming”. She made one friend, a younger, shyer girl travelling with a wealthy invalid granny. The granny spent most of the voyage commuting between her cabin and a deckchair. Our cabin had an ample double bed, but as a honeymoon the cruise left a lot to be desired. I hoped this was due to travel sickness, though her chilly remoteness was the only sign of it. But many couples have found their honeymoons less than ecstatic. I thought things might improve when we finally got home. “To travel hopefully is better than to arrive,” says R.L.S.
Early one morning the ship berthed in Liverpool and I drove us back to the house where we had never lived before. We arrived in the evening of a pleasant summer day with the sun still bright in the sky. Leaving the car at the front door we entered and I was pleased to find thermostats and a time-switch had kept the air at skin temperature. She sat down in the living room and, sounding tired, asked for a gin and tonic. I served her, took the car round and down to the basement garage, unloaded our luggage and unpacked it. Back in the living room I suggested we go to our lounge on the top floor. She said, “Leave me alone for a bit,” so I carried my own gin and tonic upstairs. The house is among trees, but their tops before the upper windows are pruned to allow a view of perhaps the widest valley in Scotland. I enjoyed it, sipping my drink until I thought she might have recovered a little from her tiredness. I found her sitting downstairs exactly as I had left her. I said softly, “There’s going to be a lovely sunset sky. Come upstairs and see it.”
She said, “I can’t hear you.”
I said the same thing more loudly. She said, “I still can’t hear you when you mumble like that.”
I said the same thing again loudly, so that she was bound to hear. She turned to me a face as rigid and pale as marble, and in a distinct, monotonous voice said, “As soon as you’ve got me trapped in this horrible lonely place of yours, you start yelling at me!”
Then she wept passionately, wretchedly, interminably, and I knew her antagonism was powered by a will as unyielding as my own, and perhaps stronger.
GOODBYE JIMMY
IN WHAT IS BOTH A STUDY AND LABORATORY our Headmaster is contemplating an array of crystalline forms when one of his deputies arrives from a distant province. This visit has been long expected, yet the Head nearly groans before turning enough to give the visitor a mildly welcoming smile and say, “Hullo Jimmy. What brings you here?”
He has the mandarin voice of a lowland Scot unlocalized working class, though not Englished by a university education. His employee answers in a slightly plebeian Dublin accent, “You know well why I’m here. You’ve stopped answering me emails.”
The Head says gently, “I know what they say.”
“What use is that if you’ve no advice to give?”
The Head sighs with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“Is that meant to be some kind of answer?” demands Jimmy. “Are you giving my wee place up as a bad job?”
The Head contemplates his crystalline models again but cannot shut his ears to the cry, “Then I’m giving it up too! Abandoning that nest of graceless ignorant self-destructive creatures! Leaving it! Done with it!”
The outcry becomes wild sobs which slowly quieten and end.
After a pause the Head murmurs, “You can’t leave that job. You’ve nothing else to do.”
Then he suddenly adds loudly, “Unlike me!”, grinning so impishly for a moment that the younger, careworn man seems faced by a mischievous child. A moment later the Head’s old serene look returns, and to change the subject he says in a comradely way, “I have my own worries, you see.”
“Life on other planets?” asks the visitor dryly.
“Yep!”
“Any luck with it?”
“Nope. I’ve produced a lot of the usual microbes in submarine volcanic vents, but changes in the chemical environment keep wiping them out before they can even evolve into annelid worms. A planet supporting much life needs a lot of water and some chemical stability. You can’t get that without a near neighbour as big as Jupiter to hoover up the huge meteors, a satellite like your moon to grab most of the others. In this universe the chance of getting a planet like that are over a zillion squared to one against.”
“But you got one!” says the visitor intensely. “Why turn your back on it – the only world rich with all kinds of life? Some with the brain to grasp your intention and I am not taking about whales!”
“Calm down Jimmy,” says the Head kindly.
“I am perfectly calm and stop calling me Jimmy!”
“Do you prefer your earlier titles O’Lucifer? Son of the Morning? Prometheus, bringer of fire?”
The Head is joking. Jimmy says wi
stfully, “King of the Jews. Prince of Peace.”
The Head wags a forefinger, says, “Prince of Darkness! Loki! Kali! Mephistopheles!” – his Scots accent broadens for a moment – “Auld Nick! Well, in my time I’ve been called a lot of funny names too.”
“So why call me Jimmy?”
“It suits my accent.”
“Why sound like a Scot?”
The Head sighs, looks gloomy, at last says, “I still get messages from that world of yours, messages from desperate people who want help. They demand help! These impossible demands …”
He hesitates.
“They’re called prayers,” Jimmy tells him.
“You should stop them reaching me! These impossible demands … are mostly from mothers.”
“Mothers worry you,” says Jimmy accusingly. The Head strongly counter-attacks.
“I cannot break physical laws that keep this universe running! I cannot stop fire or fiery chemicals hurting babies and wee kids because their skin is burned off by homicidal idiots obeying orders! When I answer …” (he hesitates) “… prayers in a Scots accent they know I am not a loving father who will work miracles. They know they havnae a hope in hell.”
“Then why not sound American? Like Dubya?”
There is a globe of the world within reach. The Head touches a northern continent upon it, saying sadly, “Don’t depress me. I once had hopes of America.”
“Why not sound,” asks Jimmy brightly, “like a former Scottish Prime Minister? The war criminal who goes around claiming to be one of your greatest fans.”
The Head covers his face with his hands, muttering, “Please don’t sicken me. We supernaturals are only heard when we use other folk’s voices. You sound Irish because you like to be liked and (IRA apart) the southern Irish voice usually does sound friendly to people outside Ireland. But God the Father must sook up to naebody! Naebody!”
Every Short Story by Alasdair Gray 1951-2012 Page 71