Fergus Lamont
Page 39
In my face he read Dorcas’s rejection of me.
‘I can see, Fergus, that you’re still the same sanguine simpleton as ever. How you used to infuriate Mary, if you remember. Still, it has had its advantages. You could never have written such good poetry if you had been able to think things out to their nihilistic conclusion. Then you would have had to remain silent. Like me.’
I could have retorted that if ever there had been sanguine simpletons they were himself and Mary, who had believed that poverty and war could be abolished by books and speeches. But I refused to be provoked.
I tried to introduce a less contentious subject.
‘I hope you’re not depleting your stores of coal and whisky for my sake,’ I said.
‘My cellars are full, Fergus.’
‘I understood coal was rationed and whisky in very short supply.’
‘Not if you have plenty of money. You did not imagine, did you, in your simplicity, that the rich, those that have not yet fled to the fleshpots of America, restrict themselves to one egg a week, one bag of coal, and one dram?’
‘I suppose not. But I would not call anyone patriotic that used money to get more than his fair share.’
‘But, Fergus, in the end, is not every man his own country? Therefore who is most selfish is most patriotic’
He had always been able to beat me in debate, even when, as now, he had been defending outrageous propositions. I had used to think that the reason was his better education. Now I saw that what made him unbeatable in argument was that he had long ago given up and let go, thus giving himself leisure to develop his pessimism; whereas those of us who still clung by our finger-nails to the debris of hope had neither breath nor thought for anything but holding on.
I tried another subject.
‘Do you see Mary often?’ I asked.
‘Not since she went over to the enemy.’
I was confused. For a few moments I wondered if he meant the Germans. People with principles, I knew, were expert at vaulting from one extreme position to its opposite.
‘Didn’t you know she’s now a member of the Government? Minister of State at the Scottish Office. One of Churchill’s crew. She was speaking in the town hall here two or three weeks ago, exhorting us all to pull our weight in defeating the wicked Nazis.’
‘They are wicked, John.’
All the same, I could not help recalling Sir Jock Dunsyre’s remark that he had never known a socialist whom high office and fraternising with the upper-class had not corrupted.
My host rose. ‘If you don’t mind, Fergus, we’ll eat in the kitchen. It’s warmer there than in the dining-room, and it saves the trouble of carrying dishes.’
We had as high a tea as I had ever seen: real eggs, bacon, liver, sausages (so good they must have been Drummond’s) onions, and mushrooms; bread with plenty of butter; two kinds of jam, strawberry and blackcurrant; pancakes and potato scones; and apple tarts. My host ate, I thought, with more relish and greed than a cynic should. I felt obliged to eat frugally myself, in some kind of rebuke; but to my chagrin he did not seem to notice.
He asked questions about East Gerinish. Expecting, if not praise, at any rate respect for our efforts to be as independent as possible of the world which he despised so much I was hurt when he dismissed our endeavours as stupid and misguided. He had often thought of writing a book, he said, on how sheer lack of intelligence stultified most human activities. My experiences in East Gerinish would provide a very relevant chapter.
This, from a man who’d never had a blister on his hand, was hard to tolerate.
‘What I mean is,’ he went on, pleased with himself, ‘why break your backs struggling with the wilderness when there were fertile acres not far away, those from which your ancestors were driven, and to which therefore you had a right?’
At that point the air-raid sirens went. It was a sound I had not heard before, and it startled me. Calderwood said not to worry, it was no doubt another false alarm. There had been several lately. The authorities were nervous.
He thought I was afraid for myself. It amused him that he, the pacifist, remained cool and cheerful while I, the hero, was fidgety and apprehensive.
We heard whistles being blown on the street.
‘Zealous fellows, our air-raid wardens,’ remarked Calderwood.
Then we heard, unmistakably, the noise of approaching aeroplanes.
‘Heading for Glasgow,’ said Calderwood.
Suddenly guns began to fire. Our window rattled. Then came explosions. They sounded near. The window rattled more frenziedly, like an animal in danger. Gun-fire and explosions mingled in a terrifying racket that took me back for a few seconds to the trenches, where, according to Betty, I had been happier than in her bed.
Something metallic crashed on the roof.
‘Shrapnel,’ I said.
‘They’ve got a battery up in McSherry’s Wood,’ said Calderwood.
He stood up. ‘We’ll be more comfortable in the lounge. In any case, that’s where the whisky is.’
‘But the town’s being bombed.’
‘It sounds like it.’ He tried to hide his glee, by speaking softly.
‘Can’t we do anything to help?’
‘We can keep out of the way.’
‘Excuse me.’ I hurried through the dimly lit house to the back door. I opened it, cautiously. The sky was red with fire over the town. More bombs exploded.
‘The bastards,’ I cried.
‘Explain,’ murmured Calderwood at my back, ‘why our airmen are heroes that drop bombs on German towns, and yet German airmen that drop bombs on our town are bastards. And of course vice-versa.’
Again I might have had some little sympathy if he had spoken with his heart breaking.
‘Would you say, Fergus, judging from the fact that the fires seem to be in the East End, that they are trying for the shipyards, legitimate targets? In that case ought you not, as a patriotic citizen desiring victory, hope and pray that they miss, even if it means that they hit instead tenements crowded with women and children, some of them known to you?’
I did not want to listen to him. He was not mad; he was too sane, which at such a time was far worse. Nor did I want to stay in his house, though I had none of my own to go to. He was right, though: I could be of help to no one.
We could smell the burning now as well as see it.
Though more shrapnel was falling, into trees this time, I rushed out into the garden, where I stood shaking my fist. I did not know at whom or what. I felt no hatred of the young German airmen doing their loathsome duty, and for the people of Gantock, at that moment suffering terror and pain and death, I felt only pity and love.
FOOTNOTE
My father, Fergus Lamont, died on 10 October 1963, twenty-two years after the events described in the last pages of his book, and within hours of his writing the word love. He was cremated two days later. Mr Hector McSpeug, undertaker, took charge of the arrangements. Using funds left by my father for the purpose, he chose eight old men from the public library clientele and carried them to the crematorium in his two newest Rolls-Royces. They were the only mourners. Afterwards they were taken to a public house in the vicinity, given some beer and whisky to drink, and then delivered to their respective homes.
My father’s suitcase, full of manuscripts, came to me through Samuel Lamont. They included that of the present book which would be best described as a self-portrait.
The only liberty I have taken has been to remove from the text the many poems scattered throughout, some in their entirety. Their most effective place is elsewhere.
In that first air-raid on Gantock over one hundred people were killed, and many more injured. Two streets that suffered heavily were Lomond Street and Kirn Street. Among those killed were Mr and Mrs Thomas Pringle. Among those severely injured was Mrs Margaret McHaffie.
T. C-L.
About the Author
FERGUS LAMONT
Robin Jenkins was born in Cambuslang
in 1912 and spent his childhood in Lanarkshire. He was educated at Hamilton Academy and Glasgow University, graduating in 1935 with an honours degree in English. He married in 1937 and worked as a school teacher in Glasgow and Dunoon for a number of years. He has three children. His first novel, So Gaily Sings the Lark, was published in 1950 and more than twenty other books of fiction have followed, including a collection of short stories, A Far Cry from Bowmore (1973). The Cone Gatherers (1955) received the Frederick Niven Award in 1956, and Guests of War (1956), and The Changeling (1958), were highly praised by many critics.
Robin Jenkins left Scotland for Afghanistan in 1957, teaching for three years in Kabul. From then until his retirement in 1968 he lived abroad, working for the British Institute in Barcelona and teaching in Sabah (North Borneo), in what was once part of colonial Malaysia. Afghanistan and then Malaysia became the settings for six further novels, most notably Dust on the Paw (1961), and The Holy Tree (1969). Robin Jenkins now lives in Argyll and recent novels, such as the Arts Council Award-winning Fergus Lamont (1979), have returned to Scottish settings.
Copyright
First published in 1979 by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
This edition first published in 1990, reprinted in 1997,
by Canongate Books
Copyright © Robin Jenkins, 1979
Introduction copyright © Bob Tait, 1990
The publishers gratefully acknowledge general subsidy from the Scottish Arts Council towards the Canongate Classics series and a specific grant towards the publication of this title
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84767 590 3
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