Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘What exactly is your connection with her, Dad? Robert and I think Madge has no right to try to live your life for you. You’ve always known what you were doing, haven’t you? Robert and I have often commented on it. You’ve called yourself a socialist but you’ve never associated with that kind of riff-raff, it’s always been with the people who matter. Just the same, Dad, take care that your acquaintance with Mrs Birkenberger doesn’t interfere with your friendship with Mrs Cramond. Robert’s done a wee bit of speiring, and Mrs Cramond is really well-off. Of course she’s not nearly as rich as Mrs Birkenberger, but isn’t hers fool’s gold?

  ‘Ian and Robin are doing well at school and send their love. We got the impression from Madge that her two aren’t doing as well as she would like but you know Madge, hers have got to be better than everybody else’s. She was always a bit like that, but she’s got worse from living in California.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Dad. We all send our love. Write soon.’

  The horses in the paddock were rubbing their heads together fondly.

  Who, Jean, I asked aloud, are the people who matter?

  I pictured her face if one day I turned up on the doorstep of her semi-detached villa in Morningside with Linda by my side and our Rolls at the gate.

  I read Susan’s next. Her handwriting was as firm as her voice. ‘I have a feeling that, in spite of your promise, you’ll not write to me, so here I am writing to you. I want to say that what happened between us after the party at my house committed you to nothing, though the offer still stands. I was in earnest but I felt you weren’t. In any case, whatever happens, I want to tell you that the sight of you striding down Goatfell Avenue in rain or sunshine with your head in the air, swishing your stick and not giving a bugger for anyone, has often lifted my heart. Not only mine. I expect you knew you had all us widows at our windows when you came in sight. Dear Kate. I’m sure she knew she was sharing you with half a dozen of us at least but she was too generous to mind. God forgive me, I keep forgetting you lost her so recently. You must be missing her unbearably at times.

  ‘As you know, I’ve got little small talk. I’ll leave that to Helen. She’ll give you all the gossip. She’s the salt of the earth, I know, but I can’t stand her. By the way, Henry was found dead the other day, where else but in the lavatory? Look after yourself.’

  I noticed she had said nothing about Millie Tulloch. Was poor Millie’s fate, whatever it was, to be included among the gossip?

  I wasn’t deceived by the apparently callous ‘by the way’ when she had mentioned Henry’s death. It hadn’t been Henry she was trying to dismiss as incidental, it was death itself. I remembered her terror – not too strong a word – at Kate’s grave. But, Susan, there’s nothing to be terrified about. For that’s just what it is, nothing. You go to sleep and never waken. What’s so terrifying about that?

  If that cruise ever takes place, we’ll have a good time, you and I and Kate, for she’ll be with us in our minds.

  I was aware I had left someone out: Albert Cramond, Susan’s husband, who had left her the money and the mansion. But she never spoke about him. He was, therefore, truly and conclusively dead.

  Helen’s letter was much the longest.

  ‘To begin with, the weather’s been vile – rain, sleet, and snow blowing in sheets off the Firth. We haven’t seen the Arran hills for days. Everybody, including the dogs and cats, is full of aches and pains. Lucky you, basking in the warm sunshine.

  ‘Sad news, Gregor. Henry’s gone, dead and buried. Suddenly, though I’d been expecting it for years. He wanted a piper to play at his funeral. I asked Mr McFadyen of the Lunderston Pipe Band and he said he’d be pleased to play. So he did, in spite of the rain. It was very moving. There was quite a crowd in the kirkyard and outside it too. He also wanted his coffin to be wrapped in a Union Jack. Mr Gibb, the undertaker, wasn’t very pleased. He seemed to think it was illegal. My consolation is that I won’t be long after him.

  ‘I noticed that Kate’s headstone is at last in place. David Robertson took his time about it. But, to be fair, he’s made a good job of it. There’s room for your name, Gregor, though you’ve always said you’d be cremated. Where was it you told me you wanted your ashes to be scattered? On the thirteenth green, where you had a hole in one. But you were joking, weren’t you?

  ‘You’ll want to know about Millie. Well, she’s still in Laudermuir. I was going to visit her but, when I telephoned, they advised against it. She still refuses to speak to anyone. Would you believe it, Mrs Cardross is back in Colquhoun’s, quite unashamed. Tulloch himself is back in his house, as if nothing had happened. What a mess folk make of their lives.

  ‘More sad news, Gregor. I had a phone call from a friend who lives in Gantock, not far from your brother-in-law Mr Liddell. I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s dead. The police had to break the door down to get in. He was found dead among his cats. I didn’t really know him but I thought at Kate’s funeral that I had never seen a more woebegone man. We all know that the human race will blow itself up one day but none of us thinks it will be our fault, so we don’t worry about it. He worried too much.

  ‘Mrs Borthwick, the big red-cheeked woman who worked in Murchison’s, has got married, to someone called McCann. She helped at Susan’s party, if you remember.

  ‘I met Susan in the main street the other day. It was pouring, so we went into the Caledonian for a coffee. She looked quite unhappy. I really believe, Gregor, that she’s missing you though, when I mentioned you, she changed the subject.

  ‘No more news in the meantime.

  ‘Take my advice, Gregor, and stay in the warmth as long as you can. But, when you come back, we’ll all be glad to see you, those of us who are left. Maybe you weren’t as fair to Kate as you might have been, and you’ve always been a wee bit of a show-off but, speaking for myself, I’ve always been fond of you and, when I remember you singing “Maiden of Morven”, I’m afraid of nothing. So there’s a confession from a daft old woman.

  ‘Take care, as the Americans say. Tak tent, as the Scots used to say.’

  As Helen’s voice died away in my mind, I watched, through tears, the horses nuzzle each other. So Hector was dead. His body had not been dragged round the walls of grieving Troy by exultant Achilles but had been discreetly driven through the indifferent streets of his native town to the cemetery, among the trees, with no mourners, except perhaps for Chrissie Carruthers: an appropriate end for a man who did not want to be beholden.

  Poor Millie. Silence could be noble and fruitful. Had I not hankered after an ashram, where no one need speak? But not Millie’s kind of silence. That did not come from an enriched soul but from one stunned by despair. Perhaps, if I wrote to her, it might help.

  If I had been at home, I wouldn’t have bought my wine in Colquhoun’s, and I wouldn’t have played golf with Bill Tulloch.

  Mrs Borthwick, good luck. I hope McCann is a good father to Lenore.

  Susan, I have a premonition about you. When I come back, you will not be among those left.

  As for you, Helen, I’m glad you gave Henry his wishes, the piper and the Union Jack. I might even have worn my medals at the graveside, in his honour. I don’t think I would have been showing off.

  16

  When I got back to Linda’s, I found that, thanks to Morland, very comfortable quarters had been got ready for me, a big upstairs bedroom with bathroom attached, and with a magnificent view of the hills and the distant Pacific. At my window, bougainvillea grew, attracting bees, birds, and butterflies. The air inside and out was fragrant. Once I was settled in, there were the grounds to explore. I said good evening to Apollo, clutching his lyre. Being of bronze, he did not answer. I exchanged a few words with one of the guards. They had a hut of their own among the trees. Before dinner, I sat on the terrace drinking chilled white wine. Now and then Morland appeared, smiled, and asked if there was anything I wanted.

  There was something I wanted very much: the company of my hostess. I hadn�
�t seen Linda since breakfast. As a guest, I could hardly ask the servants questions about their mistress. I wanted to tell Linda about poor Millie, Henry and his piper, and Hector dead among his cats.

  At last, after a solitary though excellent dinner, during which I had drunk a bottle of wine, I spoke to Morland on the terrace, where I was drinking brandy.

  ‘Is Mrs Birkenberger at home?’ I asked.

  It had occurred to me she might have gone visiting. Now and then, I thought I had heard cars coming and going.

  ‘Yes, she is at home,’ replied Morland.

  ‘She’s not ill, is she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was supposed to be helping her with her memoirs.’

  ‘Yes, she told me.’

  ‘Has she changed her mind? Does she now want me to leave?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you still think I should?’

  She hesitated. ‘Perhaps it would be better.’

  ‘Right. I’ll leave in the morning. I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.’

  Morland went off, saying she would let Miguel know he was to drive me to my daughter’s in the morning.

  I kept on drinking and the more I drank, the sorrier I was for myself, and more resentful. It was callous and arrogant of Linda to invite me to stay and then ignore me. I was a Scotsman, member of a proud nation. I wasn’t going to let myself be treated contemptuously.

  The upshot was I got up and staggered off in search of Linda, to demand an explanation and an apology.

  I didn’t knock on her door, because, as I told myself, I wasn’t a stranger who needed to knock. I was a guest who had been to bed with my hostess. That I had been Casaubon at the time and she Dorothea was immaterial.

  The door wasn’t locked, for everybody in the house, including me, knew that no one was allowed to disturb her.

  The room was lit by a wall lamp with a pink bulb. In the big bed some activity was going on. The first thing I made out was not Linda’s face but her bottom, rising up and down, pinkly, in what, if she had been alone, would have been strenuous exercise. The next thing I saw was a pair of feet, placed well apart, with the toes upwards, so they couldn’t be hers. Besides, they were big and strong, evidently belonging to a man much younger than me.

  So the dirty rumour was true, about Linda hiring young studs.

  Despite my befuddlement, I felt, to begin with, not horror or jealousy or disgust, but pity. I wanted to go over and tell her that, if she sought oblivion, she had every right to choose any way she wished, in her own house, though I would have had to point out that this particular way would only be effective for the short time it lasted.

  I felt affection as well as pity. I remembered the man in the library. He was very poor, and an outcast. Linda was very rich but she was an outcast too.

  Though she did not see me, she realised there was an intruder in the room. She screamed obscenities in Spanish.

  Back in my own room I locked the door and sat down, shaking all over. I was doomed. I had disturbed the monster in her lair.

  But that was nonsense. Linda wasn’t a monster. She was just an old woman who liked and needed sex. If she had been an old man hiring starlets, she might have been sniggered at but no one would have called her a monster. Most people, certainly most men, would say that it was her business, good luck to her, provided it was done in private.

  I had invaded her privacy. If she had been a Chinese empress, she would have had my tongue cut out. Being a rich old lady with influence at the Country Club, she might get my temporary membership withdrawn.

  Before going to bed, I packed my suitcases in readiness for a quick getaway in the morning.

  I had meant to get up very early but I had had a very troubled sleep, so that it was nearly nine when I awoke. Quickly I showered, shaved, and dressed.

  I was about to leave the room when there was a knock on the door.

  It was Morland.

  ‘Mrs Birkenberger is having breakfast and invites you to join her.’

  I could only gape.

  ‘Shall I tell her you’ll be with her shortly?’

  I nodded.

  Had last night really happened, or had I dreamt it? Certainly my headache was evidence that I had drunk far too much.

  My legs were still shaky when I made for the terrace.

  In a white morning coat Linda was like any other elderly rich woman whose only worry was the putting on of weight.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ she asked with a smile.

  She was referring to my Lunderston Golf Club blazer.

  ‘I was thinking of visiting my daughter,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Sit down and have some breakfast.’

  I sat down. I didn’t have much of an appetite.

  ‘Did you drink too much last night?’ she asked sympathetically.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Bravely I helped myself to toast and marmalade.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a few rather personal questions, Professor?’

  I cursed my headache. If the questions were too personal, I would need a clear head to parry them.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Ask away.’

  If I had to lie to her, I would without compunction. She had no right to pry.

  ‘You told me your wife’s father was a doctor, but you didn’t say what your own was.’

  My lies were ready. They always were.

  ‘He was a solicitor. What Americans call a lawyer.’

  ‘He can’t be still alive.’

  ‘No. He was killed in the war.’

  ‘That would be the First World War?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He must have been quite young.’

  ‘He was twenty-nine.’

  ‘What age were you then?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Were you an only child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mother would have been an educated woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she have to work after your father’s death?’

  Mixing truth with falsehoods wasn’t easy, especially with a severe headache and also, to be fair to myself, with a cancerous conscience.

  ‘Yes. As a schoolteacher.’

  ‘So you grew up and went to college and became a schoolteacher yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to be a lawyer but we couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘You’d have made a good one. You’ve got a smooth tongue.’

  What did she mean by that?

  ‘Were you in the war?’

  I could safely tell the truth here. ‘Yes. North Africa. Four years. Royal Corps of Signals. Sergeant.’

  ‘Just a sergeant? Not an officer?’

  ‘Just a sergeant. I was very young.’

  ‘Did you win any medals?’

  She was being ironic. I answered plainly. ‘Yes, I did. The Military Medal.’

  ‘Was that the kind everybody in uniform got?’

  ‘No. It was more special than that.’

  ‘Was it given for bravery?’

  ‘That’s what they said.’

  ‘So you were a hero?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘There’s more than one kind of bravery, isn’t there?’

  What was she getting at?

  ‘When did your mother die?’

  ‘When I was in North Africa.’

  ‘Did you get to her funeral?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But they told you where she was buried?’

  ‘Yes. I often visit her grave.’

  That was my worst lie yet. I hadn’t visited that cemetery in the past 30 years. I wouldn’t know how to find the grave. There was no headstone.

  ‘I don’t know where my mother is buried,’ said Linda.

  I took out of my pocket-book the snapshot of Susan Cramond’s mansion in Goatfell Avenue. I handed it to Linda.

  ‘Where I was born,’ I murmured.

  ‘Very big, very impressive, Pro
fessor. Do you still live there?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It had to be sold.’

  ‘Where do you live now?’

  ‘In what we call a bungalow; much humbler.’

  Her smile was friendly, but there was something else in it. Was it scepticism?

  ‘If you would like to meet me in what I call my study at eleven o’clock, it’ll be my turn to tell the truth. Can you put off your visit to your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  In Linda’s study, or private sitting-room, what struck me most was a crucifix on the wall, made of wood and crudely executed. It seemed out of place among all those artistic expensive ornaments.

  ‘It was my mother’s,’ said Linda.

  She was wearing a demure black dress. Adding to the nunlike effect was the absence of make-up and jewellery. Her hair had been arranged without artifice.

  On a table was a pile of notebooks with black covers.

  ‘Your manuscript?’ I asked.

  ‘Handwritten. If you have trouble making it out, just ask. But first I’d like to talk. It’s easy to tell lies if you’re writing them down in private. It’s not so easy when you’re speaking face to face. Don’t you agree, Professor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to say things that I’ve never said before, to anyone.’

  ‘I’m honoured, Linda.’

  ‘As far as I know, I was born seventy years ago. There’s no certificate to prove it. Where I lived, we didn’t bother with things like birth certificates. It was a one-room shack made mostly of tarry paper, among other shacks like it. This was on the outskirts of a small town north of San Francisco. Today all the shacks have been cleared away. Expensive flats and nice gardens have taken their place. We were mostly Mexicans: field workers; dirt-poor. Some of the old people remembered that the whole of California had once belonged to us and, when they had drunk too much tequila, they sang songs about it. I remember those songs.

  ‘I never knew my father. He took off months before I was born and never came back. My mother hardly ever spoke of him, not because she was bitter about him deserting her but because she was ashamed. She thought that, if she had been a better wife, he wouldn’t have left. If she had been a better-off wife, he wouldn’t have. I guess he just got sick and tired of being poor and went off to make his fortune. We never heard of him again. Likely he drank himself to death in some crummy lodging-house. He was half-Irish and half-Mexican. He said his name was O’Brien. I was christened Carmelita O’Brien.