Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘Weren’t children given presents at Christmas?’ asked Amantha indignantly.

  I remembered a pair of boots, almost new, bought at a jumble sale.

  ‘Weren’t there parties for children?’ she asked.

  There were, one for pauper children. Each child given a paper bag with a penny in it, an orange, three sweets wrapped in coloured paper, and a small picture of the King and Queen.

  ‘The four years of the First World War coincided with my childhood,’ I said.

  ‘But it wasn’t at Christmas that your father, the lawyer, was killed?’ asked Linda.

  She had ordered that there should be no interruptions, so why was she interrupting me?

  ‘No, that was in September, when the rowans were red. September 1917.’

  ‘What are rowans?’ asked Amantha.

  ‘I remember skating one Christmas,’ I said. ‘It was the Christmas after my father’s death. On a small loch near my home.’

  ‘Near the big stone mansion?’ said Linda.

  ‘Not far off. My mother held my hand. She was an expert on skates. She was dressed in black but her cheeks were red. It was a cold dull day. Snow was expected.’

  There had been a young woman with red cheeks, skating, but she wasn’t my mother. My mother had been at her work in the nail factory.

  I wasn’t really lying. I was reconstructing the past as it should have been.

  ‘Where was your father killed?’ asked Bolton.

  ‘Mesopotamia. He was in the Argylls.’

  That last was the truth. I vaguely remembered a tall man in a dark kilt and a glengarry.

  Linda was giving me a smile that seemed to have affection in it, or was it pity? What was certain was that it had cruelty in it too.

  8

  I was in my room, still undressed, when Chung brought a note from Linda. In red ink she had scribbled ‘I’d like to see you.’ Sick at heart, because of the lies I had told, I would have liked to reply ‘Sorry, Linda. Not tonight.’ But in that kingdom I was slave, not emperor.

  I took out of the drawer the little box containing Bliss’s silly purple pills. Here was a crisis in my life. If I took any, it would mean that I was indeed a grubby old fortune-hunter, with no limits to my self-debasement. If I flushed them down the toilet, it wouldn’t mean much but I would have regained a little self- respect.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Yes, as Madge had bitterly said, I looked the part. But not the part of the man whom Kate Liddell had loved and married and who now mourned her.

  I went outside for a few minutes, to be calmed by the moonlight and the warm scented air, and also to challenge myself to go to Linda and tell her that I had told her cowardly lies. It was not, alas, a serious challenge. I did not have the courage to do it. But if I did not do it I could have no future with Linda.

  Suddenly, there was someone beside me. A new scent was in the air. I turned my head. It was Morland, more mysterious than ever. Did she really exist? Was I imagining her? I would have to touch her to prove that she was real. But Morland could not be touched.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not at all. It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?’

  Yes, it is.’

  ‘Don’t you go home for Christmas?’

  ‘This is my home.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Where do your parents live?’

  ‘My mother’s dead. My father remarried. He lives in Boston.’

  ‘Was that where you were born?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was also where she had killed a man and where she had spent seven years in prison.

  ‘It’s a lot colder there,’ I said.

  ‘There’s snow on the ground now.’

  ‘In Lunderston we don’t usually get snow till after the New Year.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘It’s not too late, Mr McLeod,’ she said.

  She was again warning me.

  ‘You could slip away without anyone knowing.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘To your daughter’s.’

  ‘Who would drive me?’

  ‘Yourself. The car could be recovered later.’

  Was she jealous, afraid that she would lose her place as Linda’s confidante?

  ‘If I choose to stay, what’s going to happen?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.’

  Had she promised Linda?

  ‘Has Mrs Birkenberger got a surprise for me?’ I asked.

  ‘You could call it that.’

  ‘But not a pleasant one?’

  She did not answer.

  Seconds later, she was gone.

  What could the unpleasant surprise be? I thought I could guess. After the Christmas meal I was to be kicked out. It would be done ruthlessly and publicly. I was to be shown up as a grubby old fortune-hunter. I was to be laughed at.

  I should have taken Morland’s advice.

  Instead, I made my way to Linda’s room.

  This time I knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she called.

  I went in. She was seated at the dressing-table, rubbing white cream over her face. She was like a Papuan head-hunter.

  ‘You took your time,’ she said, affably enough.

  ‘I went outside for a smoke.’

  I could not tell whether she was smiling or scowling.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said.

  I sat down.

  ‘How many minutes to Christmas?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘They’re just arriving at the stable.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The world’s about to get its Saviour.’

  ‘That’s the story.’

  ‘From now on, goodness and truth are going to prevail.’

  ‘That was the idea.’

  ‘Have you anything to tell me?’

  ‘Do you mean what I’ve decided about Josh and Raimundo?’

  ‘That too, but something else.’

  What was that something else?

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Linda.’

  ‘You should know. I think you do know.’

  I tried to make a joke of it. ‘In this room, I’m not sure whether I’m to be Casaubon or myself.’

  ‘Yourself? Now that’s an interesting subject. Who’s yourself?’

  I was aware of the absurd American obsession with identity. They were always trying to find out who they were.

  ‘Do you know your real self, Professor?’

  ‘I thought you’d given up calling me Professor.’

  ‘Sorry. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Gregor.’

  ‘Do you know your real self, Gregor? All my life I’ve been in search of mine.’

  ‘Did you never find it?’

  ‘It’s not a joke.’ She said it mildly.

  ‘No. But does it matter?’

  ‘It matters a lot. It’s very ignorant of you to say it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘If you found it, Linda, how would you know it was your real identity?’

  ‘My true identity is me as God sees me, with all the lies scraped off.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in God.’

  ‘I’ve never said that. When did I ever say I didn’t believe in God?’

  ‘If I want to know the truth about myself, Linda, I don’t need God to tell me. All I have to do is to go and stand in front of Rembrandt.’

  ‘You mean the painting?’

  ‘Yes, the self-portrait. In it, he has so honestly told the truth about himself that anyone looking at it feels obliged to tell the truth too.’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘The truth about yourself.’

  I had almost fallen into a trap. ‘I can’t do that, Linda. I can tell the truth about myself only to myself, not to anyone else. I’d need Rembrandt’s genius to do that. It’s not a matter of words. It’s got to do wi
th secret thoughts and feelings. Words are limited in what they can say.’

  ‘They can say plenty if you want them to say it.’

  ‘Take Mrs Hazelwood, for instance. There she was at dinner telling us about her father. We saw her, we heard her, but we were an infinite distance from knowing what was going on in her mind. There are things that are incommunicable, at any rate in our present state of mental development.’

  ‘You’re talking as if we were apes. This is a very convenient theory, if there are things you want to hide. Is it midnight yet?’

  ‘A minute past.’

  ‘So it’s Christmas Day?’

  ‘Yes. Merry Christmas, Linda.’

  ‘You can tell me now whether I’ve to give the money to Josh or Raimundo.’

  ‘This is a very invidious task you’ve given me.’

  ‘I’m not sure what “invidious” means, but I asked you to do it and you agreed to do it.’

  ‘I’d like to back out, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I do mind. You can’t back out.’

  ‘Give the money to them both then. You can easily afford it.’

  ‘You’re very generous with my money.’

  ‘Then give it to neither of them.’

  ‘Now you’re being mean. Which one? Josh or Raimundo? There’s nothing incommunicable about that.’

  ‘It’s unfair to both of them. I don’t really know them.’

  ‘They know about it. They’ve accepted it.’

  No doubt, it would please her if I were to nominate Bliss, but I just could not. Though he was a kinder person than I and more forgiving, I still saw him as a diseased old lecher, a debaucher of young girls. I wanted the loan sharks to get him.

  ‘Josh,’ I said.

  She didn’t hesitate for a second. ‘Josh it is, then. Let Annabel have her pearls. Let Raimundo be thrown to the sharks.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Linda.’

  ‘I’ll give Josh the good news myself. You’ll give Raimundo the bad news.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘In the gallery, tomorrow at ten, in front of Rembrandt. I’ll send word to him to meet you there. Good night.’

  I wished her good night and crept away.

  I crept, but all was not yet lost. I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting with Bliss but I wasn’t dreading it either. I was sure Rembrandt would have shared my opinion of the old roué. And would Linda have put me through that catechism if she didn’t have some regard for me, some respect, some liking even? As for Morland’s warning, why should I heed a woman not quite right in the head? I remembered her naked appeal to the moon.

  9

  At breakfast, there was an exchange of seasonable greetings, not all of them sincere.

  Josh Bolton was as jolly as Father Christmas. He even went out of his way to greet Senator Hazelwood with gleeful cordiality. He had been told by Linda that, thanks to me, he was to get his loan. That was one reason for his jolliness, the other was that he had learned from a telephone call to a friend in Washington just how desperate the Senator’s financial plight was.

  We talked on the terrace, beside the Christmas tree. Its baubles tinkled.

  ‘Do you know why he needs that money?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t it for investment in a company that he’s got an interest in?’

  ‘That’s just a blind. He needs at least two million to keep him out of prison. They’ve caught up with the bastard at last. He’s misappropriated money belonging to other people and he can’t make it good. He’s tried everywhere. Even the President’s turned his back on him.’

  ‘If he really is in danger of going to prison, won’t Linda take pity on him?’

  Hazelwood that morning had looked sickly but had tried to be polite and dignified. He had even shaken hands with Bliss.

  Mrs Hazelwood had kept to her room.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Bolton. ‘Look how he’s treated Bliss like shit. Mind you, that’s how Bliss should be treated, but not when Linda’s looking. Annabel and I think it was bloody gutsy of you to give the money to me.’

  ‘I didn’t give it to you, Josh. It wasn’t mine to give. Besides, isn’t it a loan, to be paid back eventually?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Bliss could never have paid it back. You can, though. All you have to do is write another best-seller like Blood on the Ground.’

  ‘Sure, that’s all. Nothing to it. I’ve already got it written in my head. Have you told the old cunt yet?’

  ‘No.’ I looked at my watch. ‘In ten minutes I’ve to meet him in the picture gallery.’

  ‘Was that Linda’s arrangement?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t she the sadistic old bitch. Look out, Gregor. She knows how Bliss covets those paintings.’

  ‘I’ve been told he admires them.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  Bliss was waiting for me in the gallery. Morland had let him in.

  He greeted me eagerly. His cheeks had been freshly rouged. He was wearing a cravat, the colour of blood. It looked as if his throat had been cut.

  Enthusiastically he pointed out felicities of colour and design. When he came to the Rembrandt self-portrait, he greeted it as an old friend.

  ‘Have you seen it before?’ I asked, jealously.

  ‘Heavens, yes, dozens of times. Old Van Djinn and I know each other well. Look, he’s winking at me.’

  He wasn’t, of course, but he did look sardonically amused.

  ‘His wife Saskia died when she was only twenty-nine. He loved her. He painted her many times. She was like my Amantha, only fatter. In those days, a woman had to be fat to be thought beautiful. He was often in financial difficulties, like me. They say no painter has ever depicted human beings with more sympathy, especially if they were old. If he had painted me, as I am now, he would have made me look like a dying old clown, which is what I am, but he wouldn’t have done it spitefully. People looking at it might not have respected me but they would have liked me, which is much better. Don’t you think so, Gregor?’

  I had to nod. I myself liked him but did not respect him.

  ‘It’s worth at least fifty million dollars, a thousand times more than he earned all his life. Look, he sees the joke.’

  ‘In your own lifetime, Raimundo, you must have earned a great deal.’

  He grinned like a small boy accused of a misdeed that he was rather proud of.

  ‘Millions?’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, millions.’

  ‘What happened to it? I believe you never married.’

  ‘True, but I had many sweethearts, frequently more than one at a time; an expensive hobby. It was my good fortune to be attractive to many women.’

  ‘Why did you never get married?’

  ‘And restrict myself to one? Being a good Catholic, I would have had to be faithful. Besides, I have always abhorred domesticity. I like children but I would have hated to be a father. Isn’t that silly?’

  I spoke sternly. ‘People seeing you with Amantha would take her to be your granddaughter.’

  ‘The older I get, the younger I need my women to be. Rembrandt understands, as you can see.’

  Gregor McLeod understood too but strongly disapproved. If there had to be lechery in old age, at least let it be decent. A girl of 19 in the skinny embrace of a man of 75 was an abomination. If it wasn’t mentioned in Leviticus, it ought to have been. That he was probably impotent somehow made it more abominable, not less. But was he impotent? Could this moribund and desiccated creature still manage it, with the help of his little purple pills? If he could, it would be good news for septuagenarians, but nonetheless loathsome to imagine.

  He turned from Rembrandt to me. ‘Well, Gregor, is this the moment of truth? Linda said you would tell me here what you had decided.’

  ‘First of all, Raimundo, I would like to say that I pleaded with Linda to relieve me of this responsibility. I told her I had no right to make the choice. It was none of my business.’

>   ‘But, surely, if you are to be her sixth, it is your business.’

  ‘Am I to be her sixth?’

  ‘It’s what she has been leading us all to believe.’

  Suddenly I felt joyful and triumphant, as in the carol.

  Boldly I faced him. ‘You can see the impossible position I was in, Raimundo. I did not know you or Josh. I had seen some of your films and read one or two of his books but I knew nothing of you both personally. So what I did was cut cards. This is for Raimundo I said and cut. It was the nine of diamonds. (Did I choose that card because in Scotland it is a symbol for treachery?) This is for Josh, I said, and cut. It was the jack of hearts. Blame chance, not me. I’m sorry, Raimundo.’

  He shut his eyes, turned pale, opened them again, smiled, and held out his hand. I had to take it. It felt like a dead man’s.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I’m happy for Josh.’

  ‘I suggested to her that both of you should be given the loans you needed. I pointed out she could easily afford it. I’m afraid she refused.’

  ‘She has always had a playful streak in her.’

  ‘Some would call it a sadistic streak.’

  Immediately, I regretted saying that. At the moment Bliss seemed to think he was in a film acting the part of a man courageous and forgiving in the face of unjust adversity, but in an hour or so, back in the real world, he might sneak off to Linda and tell her I had called her sadistic. It was what a piqued child would have done and that was what he was, for all his 75 years and his many lovers.

  10

  Christmas dinner was to be at three o’clock on the terrace, beside the tree. Dress was to be informal. Paper hats were to be worn. Guests would sit where they pleased. These were the orders issued by Linda and conveyed by her aide de camp Morland.

  In the morning I relaxed by the pool with the Boltons. They kept thanking me for choosing them and congratulating me for disappointing Bliss.

  The Hazelwoods were in their room, skulking according to Josh. He said we’d to keep listening for a shot. It would be the Senator following his father-in-law’s example.

  I said I hoped not, for Mrs Hazelwood’s sake. Surely she had had enough of spilt brains.

  Amantha was lying on a lilo in the pool. She had told us that Bliss was in his room writing letters. I thought he was more likely than the Senator to shoot himself. But he would aim at his heart. He wouldn’t trust any mortician to build up his face again.