Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘We won’t bother with anyone, when we get married.’

  I was pouring wine when she said that. So great was the shock that I missed my aim and spilled it on the table-cloth. This was plastic, in green-and-white squares. I could never have married a woman that put a plastic cloth on her table.

  But I had to be serious and very careful. In the war, I had had experience of mines. Here was one seated across from me.

  ‘I’m not saying I’ll make you as good a wife as Kate, but I’ll do my best.’ She dropped her voice and smiled lewdly. ‘After we’ve eaten, we’ll go upstairs. I want you to prove to me that making love should be done tenderly. Tulloch stabbed at me with that awful thing of his as if he wanted to hurt me. He did hurt me too. You won’t, will you, Gregor?’

  She had to be stopped, she had to be told that what she was saying was hysterical nonsense, but how to do it without hurting her feelings or causing her to scream, like a wounded ocelot?

  ‘But, Millie,’ I said, desperately and mendaciously, ‘I promised Kate I would never marry again.’

  ‘I’m surprised Kate made you give such a promise, but she wouldn’t have if she’d known it was me you were going to marry. You see, when I visited her in hospital, just days before she died, we had a very private talk about you, Gregor. She said that she was worried about you. You pretended to be so sure of yourself, but you weren’t really.’

  Some of that was true, but what had it to do with Millie? Kate had liked her but hadn’t respected her much, thinking her too submissive!

  Thank heaven I would soon be safe in California.

  ‘I was thinking of going with you to California, Gregor, but I was afraid it would spoil my chances of getting a quick divorce. So, I’m sorry, Gregor, I can’t go with you.’

  ‘That’s all right, Millie. I understand.’

  ‘Will you write to me?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘I might not manage every day.’

  ‘Well, twice a week at least. I’ll write to you every day. I don’t think I’ve got Madge’s address.’

  She ran out of the kitchen and in a minute was back with a writing pad and a pen.

  I was tempted to write down a false address. A letter a day from Millie would rouse suspicions. Better if all those letters went astray.

  But I could not bring myself to do it. I felt, obscurely, that I ought to be on Millie’s side and not against her. So I wrote down the right address.

  ‘Thanks, Gregor.’ She flung her arms round my neck. Her lips kissed my ear. ‘If we went upstairs, who would know?’

  Who indeed? She didn’t even have a cat.

  The thought of doing away with her flitted into my mind. As she had said, who would know? Of course, it flitted out again just as fast.

  Suddenly she let go of me and again ran out of the kitchen, in such a hurry that I thought she had an urgent need to go to the lavatory, having drunk too much wine and having eaten too much goulash.

  She came louping in, as naked as an ocelot and as fierce-looking. I was reminded of a painting in the Glasgow Art Gallery, by a Dutch artist: the same doll-like face, small breasts, big stomach, sparse pubic hair, and knock-knees. One big difference, though, was that the woman in the painting looked wistful, whereas Millie looked rapacious.

  With a twirl she turned round, showing me her most attractive feature. Alas, I saw only a pallid steatopygosity.

  I felt pity, not desire. I realised that she was not right in her mind.

  Had she really loved Tulloch and wanted him back, in spite of his cruelties?

  ‘Take off your clothes, Gregor,’ she whispered.

  I had a memory, of childhood, myself aged five or so, and a girl – was her name Bessie Greenloaning? – also aged five, doing ‘dirty things’ in a coal cellar; that was, examining each other’s private parts. Here I was, at 72, threatened with a similar experience.

  ‘I want to see it, Gregor. Tulloch never let me see it. He made me hold it but he never let me see it.’

  All I could say or rather stammer was ‘I think you should go and put on your clothes, Millie.’

  This was a woman whom for years I had looked on with lust but also with goodwill and affection. I owed her something, but how could I repay it? I remembered how she had ecstatically praised Tulloch to people who had known how contemptuously he had treated her. Still loving him, she was in a pitiful plight, from which there was no escape.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go upstairs with me, Gregor?’

  It was time for me to make my own escape. Excusing myself, I pushed past her and made for the hall. There I had some difficulty putting on my raincoat and hat, and getting my umbrella out of the stand. I was in a state of agitation.

  She had not followed me into the hall. I could not see her but I heard her, weeping and wailing.

  ‘Good night, Millie,’ I cried, as I opened the outside door. ‘Go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

  With that craven advice, I rushed out into the rain. I couldn’t put up my umbrella, my hands had forgotten how to do it. I hardly knew where I was. I kept thinking that, if Millie was found dead in the morning, I would be to blame.

  I thought of telephoning Morag McVey and asking her to go and see that Millie was all right but, if Millie wasn’t all right, if she’d done away with herself, I would have involved myself.

  The only person who could have helped Millie was a million miles away, in Mrs Cardross’s arms.

  Before I went to bed, I had decided to telephone Millie herself in the morning.

  9

  That Friday morning, I had promised myself to pay a visit to Kate’s grave.

  I kept hoping, and dreading, that Millie would telephone me but, by the time I was ready to go out, she hadn’t, so, with some foreboding, I dialled her number. There was no answer. I let it ring for half a minute, but still there was no answer. Perhaps she was asleep.

  I would try again when I came back from the kirkyard.

  It was a cold dry morning. I did not take my car. The walk would do me good.

  Grief should have had me stooped and shambling. My clothes should have shown signs of neglect, my shoes unpolished, the laces loose. Instead, I was as smartly turned out as ever. I walked briskly, with head held high. I lifted my hat, smiled, called cheerful greetings. It would be talked about in the tearooms.

  They did not know, no one did, that from the age of eight, when my father had died, I had fought myself into the habit of never showing how unhappy I felt, how uncertain, how close to despair. I had kept it up all my life. It had won me my medal. It had earned me the reputation of being uncaring. That was how Hector saw me, and Chrissie, and my daughters, and Susan Cramond, and even, sometimes, my beloved Kate. I had loved Kate dearly but I had kept secrets from her and lied to her to protect my pose. But, after all those years, was it still a pose? Had I become what I outwardly appeared?

  I was kenspeckle in the town, if not popular. Most people knew that the red Mercedes, with the black upholstery belonged to me. It could be left parked in various places, night and day, without being vandalised. I might not have been liked but I was respected. I was asked to sing at concerts in aid of local charities and at Burns suppers. No golfer groaned when he saw on the notice-board that he had been drawn as my partner in a competition.

  These were my reflections as I strode through the town and puffed up the brae to the kirkyard.

  Tomorrow a new chapter in my life, perhaps the last chapter, would begin. Tomorrow fresh woods and pastures new. In California should I be a humble grateful old man, sunbathing on the patio, encouraging my grandchildren in their studies, reading worthy books, taking care not to upset my daughter and her husband, on Sundays accompanying them to their church, and, God forgive me, joining in their rollicking hymns?

  Hat in hand, I stood by Kate’s grave. Funeral wreaths, dusty and withered, still lay on it. There was as yet no headstone.

 
Or should I boldly enjoy myself? At the Country Club I had been a success on my last visit four years ago. Those good-hearted septuagenarians, every one a duffer at the game, had not been jealous of my prowess as a golfer. On the contrary, they had been proud of it. As for the ladies, especially the blue-haired elderly widows, they had been charmed by my manners and appearance. Kate had been amused, but she had been pleased too. I had flirted, but they had all seen that Kate was the one I loved. They had liked and admired her. ‘Your good wife,’ Mrs Birkenberger had said, for once not being sarcastic.

  A robin came and perched on an adjacent headstone. It eyed me and then it defecated, daintily.

  I heard Kate laughing. ‘That’s what it thinks of you, Gregor.’

  I heard her weeping too. I was in tears myself.

  I had already made not one but several Orphean journeys. I had not yet accepted her loss. I must, if I was not to go mad.

  Would it be humbug for me to say that I ought to enjoy myself in California, not just for my own sake but for Kate’s too, and for all those buried in the graves about me? Surely the dead must want the living to enjoy themselves, even those who had been curmudgeons when alive.

  The robin flew off, with a chirp of goodwill.

  I hadn’t been home half an hour when the telephone rang. It was Helen Sneddon.

  Her voice was sad. ‘Were you out, Gregor? I phoned you half an hour ago.’

  ‘Yes, I was out. I was paying a visit to Kate’s grave.’

  ‘Were you, Gregor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You won’t have heard about Millie?’

  My heart sank. ‘No. What’s happened?’

  ‘She’s been taken to Laudermuir.’

  That was where deranged Lunderstonians were taken.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think she must have tried to harm herself.’

  ‘Good God! Poor Millie.’ Had she in her trauma mentioned me?

  ‘According to Morag, the trouble is that she still wants Tulloch back.’

  ‘Will she be all right? Eventually?’

  ‘It seems she refuses to speak to anyone.’

  ‘But they’ve got drugs that could help, haven’t they?’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘You’ll let me know how she gets on?’

  ‘Yes, Gregor, I’ll give you all the Lunderston news.’

  ‘Thanks, Helen. Take care of yourself, and of Henry.’

  ‘I doubt if he’ll be here when you come back – if you come back. Goodbye, Gregor.’ She put the telephone down.

  It had, of course, occurred to me that I might never come back. I could die of a stroke in California. I could be killed in a car crash. I could be murdered. I could marry a rich old widow and end my days in a villa in La Jolla. Besides, what was there in parochial Lunderston to come back to? Kate’s grave was there, but Kate as a memory would be with me wherever I was.

  PART TWO

  1

  Wearing dark glasses, for San Diego’s boast that it has the sunniest climate in the world is well justified, I came down the steps from the 747 smartly, as if after a flight of only an hour or so. Thanks to Susan Cramond in the first place and then to myself for having the poise and confidence to make full use of the first-class amenities, I had had a restful enjoyable journey and so had arrived fresh and bouncy. The stewardess who had looked after me, impressed by my patrician appearance and gracious manners, had taken me to be someone of importance, like an ambassador. So I was, but I was representing myself, Gregor McLeod. At the door of the plane she damned near curtsied. It was an auspicious beginning. In the game of brag that I was about to take part in, the players whom I would be trying to outwit and outface, one of whom I hoped would be Mrs Birkenberger, would have a lot more money than I but, to offset that, I had wit, style, a well-bred Edinburgh accent, and, above all, the ability to play golf well. With all that in my favour, I ought to do well.

  Madge was waiting for me in the reception hall, looking so like her mother, tall and fair-haired, that I felt misgivings. If I was to win success here, I might have to do things that Kate would not have approved of.

  Perhaps I had already done one.

  Two elderly ladies had been about to engage a black porter and his luggage trolley when I had stepped in, looking and sounding as if my tip would be bigger than theirs. Naturally he had chosen me. The ladies had been disappointed, but not peevishly so. They had, after all, only one small suitcase between them, whereas I had two large ones and a bag of golf clubs.

  We had parted amicably; indeed, they had wished me a nice day. Susan Cramond would have been proud of me, but would Kate?

  ‘I see you’ve still got the knack,’ said Madge, as we walked to the car followed by the porter. ‘Frank never seems able to find a porter.’

  I could have told her why. Frank’s calculating eyes, behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, provoked other people into calculating too. Porters, adept at that kind of mental arithmetic, would see in a flash that his tip, adequate in his view, would be niggardly in theirs.

  It was a small sign of my readiness for the campaign ahead of me that I had come with a supply of American money in units suitable for judicious tipping. I gave the man three dollars, which was too much but not ostentatiously so. I also thanked him in that sincere democratic way that Scots have but Americans do not.

  I hadn’t seen the car before: big, obese, black, and shiny, with many gadgets.

  ‘It’s Frank’s,’ said Madge. ‘Mine is being repaired.’

  ‘So he has got his vice-presidency at last?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t. He’s hoping you can help him.’

  ‘I?’

  ‘Of course, it’s ridiculous and you mustn’t humour him.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘You remember Mrs Birkenberger?’

  ‘I remember her very well.’

  ‘She’s got a large account at Frank’s bank. The man who’s handling it at present is retiring soon. If Frank gets it he’s sure to be made a vice-president. Millions of dollars are involved.’

  We drove out of the car park.

  ‘How does he think I can help?’

  ‘She put in an appearance at the Country Club last week. Frank, against my wish I can assure you, went up to her and told her, as if she was the least bit interested, that you were coming for another visit.’

  A shy man usually, Frank on the scent of money was as venturesome as a hyena.

  ‘Was she interested?’

  ‘She seemed to be. Anyway, she said you’d to be sure to give her a call. If it had been anyone else I’d have thought she was just being polite, but she’s never that. He also told her that Mom had died.’

  ‘Linda and I got on very well.’

  ‘I didn’t know you and she were on first-name terms.’

  ‘Isn’t everybody instantly on first name terms with everybody in America?’

  ‘Did she actually call you Gregor?’

  ‘She called me Professor.’

  ‘But you were never a professor. Was she being sarcastic?’

  ‘She expressed an interest in literature.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dad. She’s uneducated.’

  ‘Not everybody has an honours degree in Economics, Madge. It didn’t stop her from becoming a millionaire.’

  ‘Her films were all rubbish.’

  ‘Fascinating rubbish.’

  ‘They made a lot of money, but I’ve heard you say that today people with paltry talents make fortunes.’

  ‘True, but her talents were not paltry. Also, she was beautiful.’

  ‘Her films have become a cult here. They still make money.’

  ‘Good for Linda.’

  Madge gave me a grim look. ‘I don’t know if you’re really different now, Dad, or if, now that Mom’s gone, I’m seeing you differently, but you strike me as being more, well, more above yourself, if you see what I mean. They thought you had class when you were he
re last time, they’ll think it more now.

  Looking at you, no one would guess you’ve just come ten thousand miles on a crowded plane.’

  ‘Not so crowded in first class.’

  ‘You didn’t travel first class?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Good heavens!’

  We were then driving along a ten-lane freeway. On either side the landscape was bright and arid. I remembered the misty greenness of home. But it was much too soon to be feeling nostalgic.

  ‘California isn’t the only place with munificent widows,’ I said. ‘Susan Cramond, whom you may remember at your mother’s funeral, made up the difference between economy class and first class.’

  ‘Was she the dour-faced old woman in the mink coat?’

  ‘That was Susan.’

  ‘I didn’t know you and she were as friendly as that.’

  ‘Susan has proposed that, when I return, she and I should go off together on a world cruise.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Her voice became stern. ‘Were you and she carrying on while Mom was alive?’

  ‘While your mother was alive, Madge, I wanted no one else.’

  ‘This Mrs Cramond, is she well-off?’

  ‘You saw her house. Her husband’s family owned a steel- works.’

  ‘You said she was a widow.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘Three. All married. Eight grandchildren. One great-grand- child.’

  ‘Would they like it if she married again?’

  ‘She wouldn’t give a damn whether they liked it or not. But who said anything about marriage? She’s a formidable old lady and formidable old ladies make formidable wives.’

  Madge gave a sob. ‘It’s not fair to Mom’s memory, you being flippant like that.’

  ‘I’m trying to be cheerful. Your mother would have wanted me to be cheerful, don’t you think?’

  She was silent. When she spoke again, she had changed the subject.

  ‘I ought to warn you, Dad, Frank and I take our religion seriously.’

  I could easily believe it in Frank’s case, but not in hers. She had used to come home from Sunday school doubtful about what she had been taught. She was my daughter, after all.