Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  The custom was to have players with the lowest handicaps playing together. My partner, therefore, was Vic, aged 76, an ex-actor, who wore red-and-white bloomers. His handicap of 12 was, I suspected, false: it should have been nearer 20. As they grow older and stiffer, golfers hate their handicaps to rise, for it amounts to an admission to the whole world that their prowess, not only as a golfer, has declined and will go on declining. Consequently, they do everything they can, short of downright cheating, to avoid having their handicaps raised. This, of course, lessens their chances of winning, but assuages their pride. Vic was an example. Thus, my likeliest rival had eliminated himself from the outset.

  The course was easy for me, in that it had hardly any rough, only grass a little longer than that on the fairway, whereas at Lunderston I was used to heather, blaeberry, bracken, ferns, wild flowers, and whins. Also, for this competition the course had been shortened. Above all I had the incentive that Linda was to present the Cup to the winner.

  There are few satisfactions in life sweeter than that of a golfer who has just hit a good shot. He feels, as the ball soars high and far in the right direction or stops on the green a frog’s leap from the hole, that living is worth-while, people are decent, the poor and the sick will win through, and Armageddon will be a long time coming. If his playing partner should shout, ‘Great shot!’, or some chance spectator sees and applauds, it adds a little to his joy but it is not necessary. It is essentially a private experience, like communion with God.

  During that round, I felt that mystical joy many times. I would have hesitated to say that those four hours were the happiest of my life, for there had been my wooing of Kate, my service in the war, the births of my children, my year as captain of Lunderston Golf Club, when a prince had been entertained, and the five occasions when I had won the club championship; but all those previous triumphs had had in them some small element of detraction, whereas that round of golf, that sunny Sunday morning, was pure bliss.

  My score was 71. With my handicap deducted, I had a net return of 63. Since the next net score was 76, I had won by 13 strokes. It was unprecedented.

  Nevertheless, the chief subject of conversation in the clubhouse that afternoon was not my outstanding victory but Linda’s appearance. When word had spread that she was going to present the prizes this year, there had been grumbles and misgivings. It was a ceremony for a lady. The dignity of the Club would suffer. But from the minute she stepped out of the Cadillac, she comported herself so well that even those who resented her most were at a loss to find fault. They were reduced to jeering that it wasn’t natural, it was all put on: an absurd objection, for civilised behaviour on anyone’s part demands conscious effort.

  She was dressed appropriately for the occasion. Instead of her usual gaudy dress or blouse low at the neck and high at the thigh, she wore a white linen suit of chaste length, pink blouse, pink shoes with heels of reasonable height, pink stockings, and earrings that, though consisting of rubies, were not too ostentatious. Her hair, black as ever, was arranged in a style suited to her mature age. Her perfume was delicious and discreet.

  Evidently, she had been advised by Morland.

  So far so good, they thought; but just wait till she opens her mouth. To the amazement and incredulity of those doubters and ill-wishers, when she spoke, it was quietly and articulately, in imitation, some thought, of the ‘Queen of England’, but really as I alone knew, of Dorothea Brooke, heroine of Middlemarch. No one but me noticed her swift wink as she handed me the Cup. ‘I take great pleasure, Mr Casaubon’ – here the Club captain had to correct her – ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I take great pleasure, Mr McLeod, in presenting you with this trophy, which everybody tells me is very well deserved, for you played brilliantly.’ She bent forward to let me kiss her cheek. ‘See you tonight, champion,’ she whispered, as they all clapped. There was to be champagne for everybody, at her expense.

  When she was gone, for, wisely, she did not linger, the talk was all about her transformation. My victory was forgotten. Had she decided after all to marry the English lord with whose name hers had been linked for some time, and had this afternoon’s performance been a kind of rehearsal? Was she hoping to be presented to the ‘Queen of England’ when the latter visited California next spring? Was it some kind of religious conversion? If it was true that she had been born a Catholic, she must believe in hell whether she wanted to or not and, at her age, she hadn’t much time to mend her ways to prevent her going there.

  My own explanation would have been very different. It would never have been believed, so I kept it to myself. Linda had behaved like a lady in my honour. Her calling me Casaubon had been no slip. It had been a signal that only I could decode. She had been reminding me that she and I shared a secret. We might well share others. What had I to look forward to that night?

  11

  Frank clasped the Cup in his arms as if it was the Holy Grail. The smell of champagne off it did not repel him. Such a solid mass of silver must be worth thousands of dollars.

  ‘I don’t get it to keep, Frank,’ I said. ‘Just for a month. Then it goes back into the showcase, with my name inscribed on it.’

  ‘Aren’t you proud of your Dad, honey?’

  ‘Did she really present it herself?’ asked Madge.

  ‘She did, with great charm.’

  ‘We ought to have been there,’ said Frank.

  ‘ “With great charm”?’ said Madge. ‘Do you expect us to believe that?’

  ‘Yes, because it’s the truth. Ask anyone who was there. By the way, I’m invited to dinner tonight.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘Yes. A prerogative of the winner.’

  Frank did not mean to titter. Nervousness caused it. Although no one at the Club told him scurrilous stones, for he was known not to be that kind of man, he must have overheard some, for he was also that kind of man and, therefore, he knew what was said about Linda and the winner of the Cup.

  ‘Well, you can’t go,’ said Madge.

  ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘Because you promised to come to church with us. We’ve told Pastor Snodgrass you were coming.’

  Perhaps I had given such a promise when feeling sorry for them, but it would have to be some other Sunday.

  ‘Didn’t he promise, Frank?’ cried Madge.

  In church I could do nothing about the account except pray, which Frank himself could do much better. In Linda’s bed, I might do much. Thus Frank cogitated.

  ‘To be fair, honey, I don’t think Dad meant any particular Sunday.’

  ‘Yes, he did. He meant tonight. He puts that outrageous woman before us.’

  ‘Don’t look at it like that, honey.’

  ‘I know why you’re taking his part, Frank. You’re obsessed by money.’

  ‘Not obsessed, honey. I just have a proper respect for it. Remember what Pastor Snodgrass said? Money well spent is faith in action. It builds churches. It feeds the poor. It brings sinners to Christ.’

  ‘One of these days, Frank, do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to tell Pastor Snodgrass to kiss my arse.’

  With that, she ran out of the room.

  Like a bad actress in a bad play, I thought.

  ‘She doesn’t mean it, Dad,’ said Frank.

  ‘I hope not, Frank. Literally, anyway.’

  I didn’t approve of my daughter using such a vulgar expression but, on the other hand, I felt rather pleased that she was showing signs of the free-thinking independence that I had tried to instil into her and her sister when they were young. Also she had used the stalwart honest word ‘arse’ and not the feeble substitute ‘ass’.

  An hour or so later Frank came to say that they were leaving for church. As elders, they had to be there early.

  ‘Madge wants to know if you’re coming.’

  ‘Sorry, not this time.’

  ‘Please give Mrs B. our regards.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Frank.’

  ‘If you judge her to be
in a sympathetic mood—’

  ‘When the time’s ripe, I’ll mention it.’

  ‘Thank you, Dad, and good luck.’

  But what would constitute good luck in my dealings with Linda that night? Going to bed with her? Yes, but suppose I failed to perform to her satisfaction, suppose, in golfing terms, I duffed my drives and missed my putts? Linda would take no limp excuses or give second chances.

  12

  I got out of the car and went up the terrace steps nimbly, pretending that my legs weren’t weary and aching from the golf that morning. Unfortunately, Linda wasn’t there to see and be impressed. Ms Morland was there in her place, but she looked concerned, as if she saw me as a decrepit old man, ready to collapse. Yet I was smartly dressed, in the Lunderston Golf Club blazer, red cravat, tan slacks, and Italian shoes.

  It was really the first time I had seen her as a person in her own right, and not as Linda’s housekeeper. I had never given a thought, either, to what her opinion of me might be.

  She came up to me. ‘May I speak to you for a moment, Mr McLeod?’ she asked.

  I hadn’t realised how tall she was, and how handsome. There, among the flowers on the lamplit terrace, she looked strange and beautiful.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘Do you intend to spend Christmas in San Diego?’

  I was taken aback. Was she carrying out some order of Linda’s? Had she been given the job of dismissing me?

  ‘Yes, that’s my intention,’ I said. ‘I hope to spend Christmas with my daughter and her family.’

  ‘In San Diego? Many people go away for Christmas.’

  ‘I think they’ll be spending it at home, in San Diego. Ms Morland, is there any special purpose in these questions? Are you asking them on behalf of Mrs Birkenberger?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t know. I would be grateful if you did not tell her.’

  ‘Are you trying to give me some kind of warning?’ I asked, but not angrily. Whatever she was, she was no jealous mischief-maker.

  ‘Yes, Mr McLeod, I am.’

  I felt a shudder of apprehension. She must have seen what had happened to other elderly wooers or fortune-hunters. In what category did she put me?

  I saw myself as Ulysses on his travels, being warned by this part woman, part goddess, about the ogress into whose clutches he was about to fall. But had he not been wily as well as daring?

  ‘Thank you, Ms Morland,’ I said, ‘but I think I can look after myself.’

  Suddenly she changed her smile and tone of voice. From looking and sounding anxious, she looked and sounded amused.

  ‘Mrs Birkenberger has arranged an entertainment for you, Mr McLeod. She hopes you will agree to take part.’

  ‘What kind of entertainment? Will it be safe for me to take part?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It has to do with the novel Middlemarch. Please come with me.’

  She led me to a bedroom. On the bed, clothes were spread out. Looking closer, I saw that it was male evening dress of a past era, striped black trousers, black jacket, red silk waistcoat, and stiff white shirt with stiff collar.

  ‘Have I to wear these?’ I asked, not really objecting. I thought I would look well in them, even if they gave off a strong smell of mothballs.

  ‘Is it some kind of play?’ I asked.

  She handed me a sheet of paper. On it was handwritten:

  Scene 1. Dining-room of Lady Madeleine, widowed society lady and great-aunt of Miss Dorothea Brooke. Lady Madeleine is entertaining Sir Jasper, a nobleman. They have met to discuss the forthcoming marriage of Miss Brooke to the Rev. Edward Casaubon.

  Scene 2. The wedding-night of Miss Brooke and Mr Casaubon.

  Good for Linda, I thought. What an original and enterprising approach to literary criticism.

  ‘Is this Mrs Birkenberger’s own idea?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. If you need help with the clothes, please ring for Chung.’

  ‘Thank you. I think I can manage.’

  ‘When you are dressed, please go to the dining-room. Mrs Birkenberger will join you there.’

  I felt peckish. ‘Will we eat there?’

  ‘Yes. Good luck.’

  She smiled and then left.

  As I put on the clothes, a strange thing happened. The more I looked like Sir Jasper, the more I felt like him. It was a haughty 19th-century aristocrat who gazed back at me in the mirror.

  On my way to the dining-room, I took a carnation from a vase and put it in my buttonhole.

  As I made my entrance, I imagined that there was an audience watching, so I advanced with histrionic elegance. Nonchalantly, I went to the sideboard and poured myself a dram. Glass in hand, I strolled around, looking at the paintings on the walls, by Matisse and Monet and others, anachronisms, of course, for they hadn’t been painted at the time of the events related in Middlemarch.

  The door opened and in came not Mrs Birkenberger, but Lady Madeleine. She moved with grace, though her red velvet dress trailed on the carpet. Much of her bosom was exposed, but fashion, not sexual flaunting, was the cause. To achieve the small waist of the period, a strong corset was evidently in use. She glittered with jewellery.

  How would she choose to speak?

  ‘My apologies, Sir Jasper, for keeping you waiting.’

  Her imitation of an upper-class English accent was very good. It wouldn’t be me who would win the Oscar.

  ‘May I offer you a preprandial refreshment, my dear?’ I asked.

  ‘How very kind of you, Sir Jasper.’

  Linda would have wanted a large scotch. Madeleine got a small sherry.

  ‘You received my message, Jasper?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. So your nice Dorothea Brooke is to marry Casaubon?’

  ‘I am quite disappointed. In my opinion, he is not suitable.’

  ‘In what respect? I understand he has a handsome fortune.’

  ‘She is only nineteen. He is fifty, at least. Besides, he is a clergyman.’

  ‘Do not clergymen make respectable if dull husbands? Dorothea herself, I believe, is inclined to gravity.’

  ‘He does not enjoy good health. He is engaged upon a work of useless and tedious scholarship. Dorothea is too dutiful. She wishes to sacrifice her life to nursing him and assisting him in his dreary labours.’

  ‘But is she not fond of him?’

  ‘Who could be fond of such a desiccated creature?’

  ‘What, then, is her purpose in marrying him?’

  ‘No one knows. It is a mystery. All her friends are appalled, particularly Sir James Chettam, to whom her sister Celia is married.’

  ‘To my knowledge, Sir James is a gentleman of good sense and judgment. If he does not approve, then the situation is in truth alarming.’

  ‘He certainly does not approve.’

  ‘If your niece had been an empty-headed impulsive girl, I might have understood, but I have always heard her spoken of as deliberate and clever.’

  Sir Jasper then took Lady Madeleine’s hand and whispered into her sparkling ear, ‘Can it be that she has some hidden motive for consenting to this marriage? Can it be that she is hopeful that the stresses of married life will hasten his departure to partake of the rewards promised the godly? And, alas, leave her here on earth to enjoy his fortune?’

  While Linda, or Lady Madeleine, was looking astonished at that imputation, which wasn’t as it were, in the script, the door opened and in came servants carrying dishes. They were careful not to giggle. They must have been warned that they mustn’t.

  Lady Madeleine and Sir Jasper took their places at the table. He was pleased to see that the wine was good and plentiful, as also was the food.

  ‘You have disturbed me, Sir Jasper. Dorothea is a girl of honour. She would not sell herself for money.’

  ‘Let us be honest, Madeleine. Do not all girls of our class sell themselves for money? Mama makes it clear that the comforts and privileges they enjoy as ladies must be paid for. Papa can no longer afford to, so husband must. Dorothea has neithe
r Mama to advise her nor Papa to support her, so, like the astute resolute girl she is, she has decided on Casaubon; and there is something else which she has taken into consideration.’

  ‘And what is that, pray?’

  ‘From what I have heard of your niece, she is more cerebral than romantic by nature. She has perceived that, as a husband, Casaubon will make few demands upon her. I refer to the physical obligations of marriage. Probably he will make none at all. Robuster girls might pine, but Dorothea will, no doubt, rejoice.’

  Lady Madeleine’s face had been getting redder by the minute and she’d begun to gasp.

  ‘The marriage-bed should be a place of joy and discovery,’ said Sir Jasper. ‘Theirs, I fear, will be bleak and barren.’

  ‘For God’s sake, cut,’ yelled Linda, very much in her own voice. ‘I’ll have to get out of this fucking straitjacket before I faint.’

  She rushed, panting, out of the room.

  I helped myself to more wine. I felt confident. The Oscar, after all, was mine.

  When she returned, she was noticeably fatter. ‘Thank God for that,’ she cried. ‘Now I can enjoy my dinner. God knows how those dames put up with it.’

  ‘For the sake of appearance, Linda, women throughout the ages have been prepared to suffer a great deal of discomfort.’

  ‘The game’s over, Professor, for now. You were good. You’d have done well in movies. That’s not all compliment. You’ve to have a lot of the phony in you to do well in movies.’

  Again, that insinuation of falseness. I let it pass.

  ‘You were very good yourself, Linda.’

  ‘I was an actress, remember, and I did some rehearsing. Sarah supplied me with some lines. Tell me, were you serious about Dorothea having married Casaubon for his money? I don’t remember that being mentioned in the book.’