Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘She didn’t trust you either,’ he said.

  Well, did she? Completely? Did any human being ever trust another completely? Yes. I had trusted Kate completely.

  ‘Did she tell you that she was leaving her share of this house to me, not to you?’

  No, she hadn’t told me.

  ‘I intend to leave it to the SPC.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Society for the Protection of Cats. I have more respect for cats than for my own kind.’

  I felt like heaving a cat at him but instead I was witty. ‘They’ve certainly got more dignity.’

  Even when committing rape or incest, they looked dignified.

  ‘She never forgave you for all those women.’

  ‘All what women?’

  In 46 years of marriage I had been unfaithful to Kate only once: Chrissie Carruthers didn’t count. In Egypt, during the war, a thousand miles from home, and the girl, dark-skinned – what was her name? – had been made to understand from the beginning that she could never take Kate’s place.

  I had often thought of confessing to Kate, but shame had prevented me.

  I couldn’t deny that I was attractive to women. I knew what to say to them. They enjoyed my company. Kate had been amused but never jealous. She knew that I exalted her above them all.

  ‘You’re ill, Hector,’ I said. ‘You should see a doctor.’

  His illness – was it cancer too? – had brought out his strong resemblance to his sister.

  I stood up and put on my hat. Two cats impeded me. I felt like kicking them, to get revenge on their owner, but instead I bent down and stroked them.

  ‘Good night, Hector,’ I said, and left.

  5

  Some weeks later, a few days before I was to fly off to San Diego, Susan Cramond telephoned.

  ‘I’m thinking of giving a little farewell dinner party for you, Gregor.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Susan.’

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic’

  Well, what did I have to enthuse about? I was an old man who needed to piss oftener than was convenient or seemly. I had had my innings and, though I had performed with some style, I hadn’t scored all that highly, except perhaps for my Military Medal. My wife had died recently and I was finding out every day how much I had depended on her. I was afraid that my going to California might turn out to be a mistake. I kept thinking that I should have gone to India, to an ashram, where I could have mourned with honourable resignation and found forgiveness.

  It was myself I had to forgive.

  ‘Who would you like me to invite?’ asked Susan.

  Ignoring Hector’s opprobrious visage, I would have liked to nominate Mrs Cardross, manageress of Colquhoun’s licensed grocer’s in the mam street. Why? Because she reminded me of Kate when Kate had been young: tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed, smiling, gracious. But of course it was out of the question even to mention her name.

  ‘I suppose the usual bunch of boring old buggers,’ said Susan. ‘You can’t have the Tullochs, though. They’re scored off the list. He is anyway, and she wouldn’t come without him, the silly cow. To tell you the truth, it’s really her I can’t stand, flashing that arse of hers in every man’s face.’

  I was dismayed. Naively I had assumed that Millie’s incomparable posterior had been admired by me alone.

  ‘Why is Bill scored off your list, Susan?’ I asked.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? It’s the talk of the town. The big bull’s taken his pizzle to new pastures.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s left Millie and got himself a new paramour. You must have seen her. She works in Colquhoun’s, in the main street, a shop you’re never out of. Fair-haired conceited bitch. She’s separated from her husband. Tulloch’s having to pay highly to get her to open her legs. She’s driving about in a new Volvo.’

  I could hardly say it. ‘Do you mean Mrs Cardross?’

  ‘That’s the name. Mercenary whore.’

  I could have wept. The tears would have been of self-pity and self-derision. I had been meekly content to touch Mrs Cardross’s soft hand when paying for my wine and receiving my change, while Tulloch the bull had been mounting her at will.

  ‘Does Millie know?’ I asked, feebly.

  ‘Of course Patient Grizelda knows. If you ask me, it’s the best thing that could have happened to her. She should have left him long ago. So they’re out. Your tearoom pals, I suppose. I hope Henry doesn’t shit himself as he did last time.’

  ‘You should insist, Susan, that we all bring our potties.’

  She laughed. ‘Some of us can still make it to the lavatory. I’ve been wondering if you’d like me to invite your brother-in-law, Hector Liddell.’

  ‘If you did, Henry would be sure to shit himself. But why invite Hector?’

  ‘He was at the funeral. He looked very unhappy.’

  ‘He wouldn’t come.’

  ‘I suppose not. I felt sorry for him, that’s all. It won’t be the most thrilling of evenings, Gregor, but it’ll save you the trouble of going round and saying goodbye.’

  6

  Next morning I hurried down to the shops, for my Guardian, but also to find out if what Susan had said about Mrs Cardross was true. In the main street, Helen Sneddon, in her blue Mini, caught sight of me, stopped, and called.

  I went over. ‘Hello, Helen. How are you?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Gregor, my rheumatism’s so bad this morning I can hardly hold the steering wheel.’

  Which would make her driving all the more erratic.

  She was blocking the way. Motorists behind her tooted their horns.

  ‘Have you heard about Millie?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Susan told me.’

  ‘The funny thing is on the telephone she sounded quite excited and not a bit unhappy.’

  ‘Surely she should be glad getting rid of a brute like Bill.’

  ‘Yes, but can she manage on her own? She’s not really grown up.’

  ‘Which of us is, Helen?’

  ‘That’s true. These people behind me, they’re like impatient children, aren’t they? Did Susan tell you who Bill has moved in with?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’ I remembered the vicious description: mercenary whore.

  ‘Mrs Cardross, who worked in Colquhoun’s. Apparently she’s had other men. It seems she’s got an eight-year-old daughter whom she’s more or less disowned. Her ex-husband has the child. What’s Lunderston coming to, Gregor?’

  A policeman was approaching.

  ‘Well, I’d better get out of the way. Be sure and give my regards to Madge and her family.’

  She drove off then, pretending she hadn’t seen the policeman.

  I walked slowly along the main street until I came to Colquhoun’s, but I didn’t go in. I stood with my back to it.

  Passers-by who knew me – who more kenspeckle than an ex-headmaster? – nodded, smiled, and looked curious. Why was I standing there looking so wandered? I must be, they would conclude, thinking about my dead wife. Poor old bugger, they would think, what good now are his snow-white locks, his Burberry raincoat, his Italian shoes, his golf handicap of six, and his posh car? They were right, of course, but they were not to know that I had lost something more precious than all of those. Mrs Cardross, with her resemblance to Kate when young, had lifted my heart, strengthened my faith in humanity, and brightened everybody’s future. Now she was revealed as mercenary, promiscuous, and heartless.

  I had tears in my eyes. If they were noticed, the snell wind blowing down the main street would be blamed.

  Where could I go to have faith restored? I had an idea. I would go to the school where I had been headmaster for nearly 20 years. It was interval time. I would watch the children in the playground.

  As I peched up School Brae, I heard the happy shrieks of little girls. Through iron bars more suitable for a jail I peered at them, listening for the name Lenore. That was the name of Mrs Borthwick’s
daughter. What was Mrs Cardross’s daughter called? Alas, I didn’t know. I tried to look like a loving grandfather and not a potential molester, though I supposed there would be little difference as far as appearance went: in fact, the latter would probably look more benevolent. I did not hear Lenore called. Aileen, Alison, Deirdre, and even Philomel I heard but not Lenore. There was one with red cheeks and black hair, like Mrs Borthwick. Mrs Borthwick was a waitress in Murchison’s. I looked for one who resembled Mrs Cardross. There were several with fair hair.

  What was it the poet Gray had written?

  Regardless of their doom

  The little victims play.

  I felt I had to protect them all, but if I had rushed in, or rather, had clambered over the high railings, the police would have been sent for. The Sheriff would take into consideration my age, my former respectability, and my being distraught with grief. I would be given a caution, like a naughty child.

  I crept sadly away.

  In the afternoon I drove to the golf club to collect my clubs which were being cleaned and regripped. They were my knightly lances with which I had won tournaments. On the other hand, they were my toys, with which I played a game that, though exalted nowadays to almost a religion, was basically childish, hitting a small ball from one hole to another.

  The clubhouse flag was at half-mast, signifying the death of a member. It was hardly ever at the top of the mast these days, for many members were elderly and seldom a week went by without one of them, in golfing parlance, handing in his last score-card marked ‘No Return’. I couldn’t think who it was this time. One day, not so far off, it would be my turn. I felt despondent. These twinges in my chest, were they caused by indigestion or incipient heart disease? And these prickles in the prostate region, were they warnings of cancer?

  I sighed a lot as I drove home.

  Later that day I had a visit from a young woman on behalf of the travel agency from which I had bought my air ticket. It seemed my economy-class ticket had been changed to first-class. I protested that I had not asked for such a change, which would cost a great deal of money. I was told, with a smirk, that it had been arranged by Mrs Cramond.

  At first I felt insulted, or rather, told myself I ought to: how dare Susan try to buy me in this way? But, I had to ask, what possible use could she make of me once I had been bought?

  I telephoned her, to remonstrate, courteously, of course, but I found myself thanking her, somewhat fulsomely. ‘You deserve it, Gregor,’ she said and, though I wondered what she meant, I left it at that.

  To be honest, I liked very much the idea of travelling first class. Free champagne all the way. Special attention from the stewardesses. More room to stretch your legs. No queues for the toilet. A better class of passenger.

  Should I accept? I already had, the ticket was in my hand, but I needed someone’s assurance that I had done right.

  I consulted Kate. I would never have claimed that, even after nearly 50 years of marriage, I knew her completely. There had been those silences, that elusive irony. But I thought I knew her well enough to tell what her opinion would be regarding that generosity of Susan’s.

  ‘Should I accept, Kate?’

  ‘You already have, haven’t you?’

  ‘It’s not as if I asked for it. It came as a surprise.’

  ‘A pleasant one, though.’

  ‘Yes, I have to admit that. After all, Kate, I’m over 70. Travelling to San Diego’s very exhausting. We know that from experience. There’s more room and therefore more comfort in first class. One’s better able to relax. One’s less likely to suffer from claustrophobia.’

  I heard Kate laughing.

  ‘Why not, Gregor?’ she asked. ‘Susan can afford it.’

  ‘You’re not offended?’

  ‘Heavens, no, not a bit. Won’t I be with you, in spirit? So I’ll be more comfortable too.’

  My Kate, my lovely Kate, my sagacious Kate.

  That evening, while I was grilling chops for my tea, the telephone rang. I thought it might be Susan Cramond, but it was my daughter Jean. She had some last-minute advice for me.

  ‘I’m going to be frank, Dad. I hope you won’t mind. Robert and I are worried. You’re apt to say things that upset people. For instance, you say that the Americans are more of a danger to world peace than the Russians.’

  ‘I say it because I believe it.’

  ‘But you don’t have to say it. Especially in America. Frank may not be as smart as he thinks he is, but he’s very patriotic. Remember, too, Madge is now an American citizen, and her two children, your grandchildren, are born Americans. I know it’s a pose you got into years ago when you were a member of that stupid party the ILP and you’ve never outgrown it. You’ve been a bit of a hypocrite, Dad. You could never have become a headmaster if you’d stuck to your so-called socialist principles, for you must have had to do a lot of string-pulling, and toadying to councillors, and there’s that bungalow of yours worth eighty thousand, and your Mercedes car, and look at the clothes you wear, the best of everything, Pringle pullovers, Daks trousers, Burberry raincoat, and sixty-pound shoes. Good for you. We’d have been the first to complain if you’d worn shabby clothes and a cloth cap and lived in a council house. We’re really proud of you. But be discreet, Dad. Don’t embarrass Madge. She’ll have enough to contend with now that she and Frank have got religion. You won’t have Mum this time to keep you in order. And, for goodness’ sake, stay away from that horrible old woman Mrs Birkenberger. People like her have nothing in common with people like us.’

  Speak for yourself, Jean, I thought. I had quite a lot in common with Linda. She had laughed at my salacious witticisms.

  ‘Have you got everything ready, Dad? Passport. Traveller’s cheques. Air ticket.’

  I could not resist shocking her. ‘I’ll be well looked after, Jean. I’m travelling first class.’

  I heard her shrieking, ‘Good heavens, Robert, he’s travelling first class. But, Dad, first class is enormously expensive.’

  ‘Well worth it, though.’

  ‘How much did it cost?’

  ‘Money and fair words, as your grandmother Liddell used to say.’

  ‘Madge and Frank never travel first class on planes and he’s well up in his bank.’

  ‘Why should it bother you or her? You’re not paying for it.’

  ‘No, but we’ve got a right to save you from extravagance.’

  I heard Robert shouting. Perhaps the length and expense of the call was distressing him.

  ‘Robert says you could get your ticket changed back to economy and get a refund.’

  ‘Dinnae fash, Jean. I paid for an economy-class ticket. A friend generously had it changed to first-class.’

  ‘Some friend! Who is he? Was he at the funeral?’

  ‘She. Mrs Cramond.’

  ‘Is she the lady who lives in the big house at the end of your avenue? Was she at the funeral wearing that fabulous fur coat?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘Well, well. She must be rich.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I don’t want to be nosy, Dad, but is there something between you and this lady?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, she’s old and a widow, and you’re old and a widower. I’m sure Madge and I wouldn’t object, so long as you waited a while.’

  ‘But, Jean, old people cannot afford to wait, can they? Is that Robert having kittens at the cost of this conversation? Pity he doesn’t have a rich admirer to pay his telephone bills. Hasta la vista, as they say in the whorehouses of Tijuana.’

  I half-expected another call but evidently stingy Robert prevailed.

  7

  On the evening of my farewell dinner party I presented myself at the door of Susan’s mansion, early as requested, and wearing a lounge suit, also as requested. It was opened by Mrs Borthwick, waitress in Murchison’s tearoom. There was a smell of sherry off her breath. Her cheeks were rosier than ever. Her ample body exuded warmth a
nd hospitality. What did it matter that her favourite reading was Mills and Boon romances?’

  ‘So you’re off to California, Mr McLeod?’ she said, as she took my hat and raincoat. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Borthwick,’ I said.

  I had often thought of her as mistress material. She was a divorcee. Not very long ago I had given her money to buy a birthday present for her eight-year-old daughter Lenore. Kate hadn’t known.

  ‘And how is Lenore?’ I asked. ‘Getting on well at school, I hope.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr McLeod. Thank you for asking.’

  It should be remembered that I had two daughters of my own who once had been little children.

  ‘I’ll send her a postcard, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘She’d like that, Mr McLeod, especially if it’s one of Disneyland.’

  When I came back would it be worth-while setting up a liaison with this buxom young woman? But wait, hadn’t I heard that she had been seen at a dance in the Masonic Hall with a big burly bruiser called McCann? Careful, Gregor, I told myself, as I went confidently into Susan’s drawing-room.

  I was pouring myself a dram, malt, £30 a bottle, when my hostess came in.

  ‘Pour me one too, Gregor,’ she said.

  For a woman of 70, she looked remarkably attractive. Money and a lot of time had been expended. Usually, though, she didn’t give a damn how she looked. Had she made herself as womanly as possible for my sake?

  She was wearing a blue dress and sapphire earrings. Her hair was blue too and had recently been permed. Her wrinkles were buried under layers of powder that had a bluish tinge. She smelled of expensive perfume.

  ‘Remember, Gregor, after they’ve all gone I want you to stay behind. There’s something I want to say to you.’

  ‘By all means, Susan.’ But I felt alarmed. What the hell was she up to? What did she want in return for that ticket?

  The guests began to arrive. Henry Sneddon had to be cleeked from the car. There was dribble on his chin. ‘I see we’ve got Mrs Borthwick attending us, Gregor. Gregor fancies her, you know. He pats her bottom.’ Luckily, Henry’s croakings were never heeded.