Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘By the way, Gregor,’ said Annabel, ‘Linda told us she was off to Acapulco next week. She didn’t say she was going alone but that was the impression we got. Wasn’t it, darling?’

  ‘Sure was. The lady’s not short of virile companions down there.’

  ‘What will you do, Gregor?’ asked Annabel. ‘Will you go back home to Scotland?’

  She smiled sweetly but her eyes were sour with spite. Gratitude could show itself in strange ways.

  I saw myself through her eyes, through the eyes of the Governor’s daughter. She saw me as a lackey, a sponger, a pathetic hanger-on.

  She was right. That was what I was in this place.

  I shut my eyes and had a memory of home.

  A day or two before Christmas. A winter game of golf. A day dry, but cold. Dusk falling quick and chilly. The Cumbrae lighthouse flashing out on the dark Firth. A drink afterwards in the clubhouse. One only, for I was eager to get home to Kate. The lamplit streets and avenues of Lunderston. Putting the car in the garage, a neat manoeuvre, for the garage was small and the car large. Going into the house by the back door. Kate in the bright warm kitchen preparing the tea. Homely smell of cooking. Kate herself lovely and warm in lambswool, with an apron on which were depicted in colour scenes of Scotland: Loch Lomond, Ben Nevis, Inveraray Castle. Kissing her, casually it seemed, but letting her know she meant more to me than anyone else on earth. Taking a shower. Changing. In the living-room, pouring out a sherry for her, a malt for me. Going into the kitchen with them. Chatting. About anything at all. Feeling wonderfully happy and safe.

  I opened my eyes and wondered where I was. There was a woman bending down and speaking to me. Her accent was alien. She wasn’t Kate. Kate was dead.

  It was Mrs Hazelwood. She was asking if she could have a word in private.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, still bemused. I stood up.

  The Boltons were looking on in astonishment.

  Amantha was giving me a wave.

  ‘Shall we go to the library?’ I said.

  Among the books we sat down. Her hands were shaky. She tried to smile pleasantly.

  I had guessed what it was she wanted to talk about. She was under the delusion that I had influence with Linda. Perhaps too she had seen on my face pity mixed with horror when she had been talking about her father shooting himself. She thought I was compassionate. But, as I had shown in another library, my compassion was a feeble thing.

  ‘Leonard and I heard just this morning, Mr McLeod, that you lost your wife recently. The housekeeper Morland told us. We were both very sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No doubt you have been told why Leonard and I have come here.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been told.’

  ‘But perhaps not accurately or sympathetically.’

  I thought of the clinic in Baton Rouge.

  ‘My husband is a good man. You will have been told lies about him. He has many enemies. They wish to see him disgraced.’

  As a foreigner I felt I had no right to comment.

  ‘Mrs Birkenberger was once married to a very good friend of my husband’s. She herself became our friend, or so we thought. That is why we have come here to ask her for help. The sum of money involved is quite a large one, but she could easily afford it. Leonard would be able to pay it back in less than a year, with interest. If he does not get it he may go to prison. She has refused.’

  Her voice had become hoarse, her eyes were bloodshot. She desperately needed a drink.

  ‘We have reason to believe you have influence with her, Mr McLeod.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘She did herself. She gave us to believe that you and she might be getting married.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I muttered.

  ‘You’re our last hope, Mr McLeod.’

  But, lady, I wanted to say, this for me is dreamland. This house, its mistress, the sums of money mentioned, millions of dollars, they don’t really exist. Reality for me is a small kitchen in a small house far away, with my wife Kate.

  But Kate was dead.

  ‘Will you at least speak to her, Mr McLeod?’

  I remembered the lynched Negro, the man with his brains blown out on the carpetless floor, and the disowned grandchildren. I should have spurned her but I heard myself saying, ‘All right, I’ll speak to her, but I don’t think it will do any good.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr McLeod.’

  She went off then, trying not to hurry, but desperate for a drink.

  I went straight to Linda’s private quarters. If I had hesitated, I wouldn’t have gone.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, impatiently I thought, when I knocked.

  ‘It’s me, Gregor.’

  ‘Oh. Come in.’ She didn’t sound very welcoming.

  I went in.

  She had her spectacles on and was studying documents spread out on a table. I had always suspected she was a capable business woman.

  She pushed the spectacles up onto her forehead. ‘Well, what is it?’

  She was wearing a white blouse and red pants.

  ‘Sorry if I’m intruding,’ I mumbled.

  ‘You are intruding. Have you something to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, I have. After Christmas dinner I shall be returning to my daughter and her family.’

  I hadn’t known myself seconds ago that I was going to say that.

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve done all I can for your memoirs. Perhaps you should get an expert to look at them.’

  ‘That’s already been arranged. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Hazelwood has just been speaking to me.’

  ‘Was she sober enough to make sense?’

  ‘She told me that her husband would probably be disgraced and imprisoned if he couldn’t raise a certain sum of money.’

  ‘Did she say how much that certain sum of money was?’

  ‘I believe two million.’

  ‘You believe right. Have you got two million?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then it’s none of your business.’

  ‘I told her so.’

  ‘Why, then, have you come here, bothering me? You had no right.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘If you did have two million, would you give it to him?’

  ‘If I had twenty million, I might. For the sake of his daughter.’

  ‘You don’t know his daughter.’

  ‘I just think she might not want her father to go to prison.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d mind.’

  ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘Yes, I have. She despises him.’

  And you, Linda, despise me. ‘Sorry for bothering you,’ I muttered and left.

  In my abjectness, I felt that I ought to have waited for permission to leave.

  I wanted to go straight to my room but Mrs Hazelwood waylaid me. She had a glass in her hand. She had given in. Her hope had not been strong enough.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘She wasn’t interested.’

  11

  What I should have done was telephone Madge, tell her Christmas dinner at Linda’s was cancelled, and that I would be home directly.

  I didn’t, because I couldn’t bring myself to quit dreamland and return to reality. That, though, wasn’t the reason I gave myself. It would be a pity, I told myself, to disappoint Frank Junior and Midge and also there was still a chance that Frank could get the account. It was the sort of contemptuous gesture that would appeal to Linda. I had just seen how she liked demonstrating the power over people that her wealth gave her.

  I stayed in my room till two o’clock, which was the time Madge and her family were due to arrive.

  The Boltons were on the terrace, with gleeful news. The Hazelwoods had gone. Miguel had taken them to the airport. Linda hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. It just needed Bliss to drop down dead for the Christmas dinner to be a really joyful occasion.

&nb
sp; To my alarm, when Frank’s car appeared, so did Linda, coming out of the house to greet them. She was dressed simply in a long loose yellow dress, with a minimum of jewellery. I was afraid she might insult them in some way, but no, good actress that she was, she put on a display of hospitality that, I noticed, disconcerted Madge. My proud daughter had come prepared to make it clear she had come out of courtesy and was not going to enjoy herself, but she couldn’t help being won over by Linda’s friendliness, especially towards Frank Junior and Midge. They were enchanted by the famous, beautiful, and charming Linda Blossom, and impressed by the magnificence of her house and grounds.

  Linda was nice to me too. She called me Gregor and complimented me on having such mannerly and handsome grandchildren.

  Frank Junior, introduced to Bolton, was dutifully overwhelmed. He showed an acquaintance with Bolton’s books that greatly pleased the author.

  Midge asked me, in a whisper, where Raimundo Bliss was; she was eager to meet that legendary lover. He was, I supposed, having his warpaint put on by his attendant squaw, but I didn’t say it. I said that he would appear shortly. He wasn’t very well and needed rest.

  My son-in-law, wearing a blue bow tie, expressed disappointment that he was not going to meet Senator Hazelwood. ‘It’s not every day one gets a chance to meet one of the great men of our country.’ Linda laughed and said not everyone had that opinion of the Senator.

  Very soon Frank Junior and Midge, who had brought their swimming costumes, were in the big pool. As they swam about, they gave me waves. I had gone up in their estimation.

  Madge remembered she had brought Linda a present. ‘Will you go and get it, Frank?’

  Frank ran down the steps to the car and came back with a thin packet wrapped in brown paper.

  It turned out to be a calender with scenes of Scotland in colour. One was of Prince Charlie’s Bay on the small Hebridean island of Eriskay. ‘Do you remember it, Dad?’ asked Madge.

  Did she really think I might have forgotten? We had spent a holiday there, 40 or so years ago. Kate had been in her 30s then, sunburnt, with her hair yellower than ever with the sun. How happy she had been, playing with her two girls on the sand. The islanders, every one of them Catholic, had invited her to attend their church service. She had gone, with five-year-old Jean. Madge and I, stubborn Presbyterians, had preferred to climb a hill.

  ‘Yes, Kate,’ I said, ‘I remember it well.’

  If anyone noticed it, no one corrected my mistake, if it was a mistake.

  Just then Bliss and Amantha appeared, hand in hand.

  They were wearing Christmas hats, his pink in the shape of a crown, hers a red coronet. Not able to show on his ravaged face the jolliness of Christmas, he had thought the silly hat would do it. He looked ghastly. I was sure he was in pain.

  Amantha knew that he was ill, she must have seen him taking painkillers and she must have heard his gasps, but she was only 19, it was Christmas, and she had a right to enjoy herself, so she rushed off to join Frank Junior and Midge in the pool.

  ‘I believe the Senator and his wife have gone,’ said Bliss. ‘What a pity!’

  He really meant it.

  ‘How are you feeling, Raimundo?’ asked Linda anxiously.

  ‘Fine. I’m feeling fine. I did take a nasty little turn half an hour ago, but I’ve quite recovered, thank you.’

  The next nasty little turn, which might happen at any moment, would probably do for him.

  Being introduced to Madge and Frank, he said how pleased he was to meet Gregor’s relatives. He meant that too.

  Madge had frowned when she had seen how young and guileless Amantha was, and she still greatly disapproved, but she couldn’t help responding to his childlike eagerness to be excused and liked.

  If he drops dead, I thought, with his last breath he’ll ask that the festivities be not disturbed.

  Once, so discreetly that only I, his executioner, noticed, he crossed himself, perhaps remembering Christmas in El Paso many years ago.

  But the happiest person there was my son-in-law, the banker. He was having Christmas dinner with a millionairess, in her $3,000,000 lair. This was heaven on earth.

  The meal was a buffet. Long tables were laden with a variety of food and drink. Chung and the two little maids were there to help. So was Morland, but she was also a guest, entitled to wear a silly hat. With our heaped plates and filled glasses, we sat at one or other of the small tables. Amantha sat with Frank Junior but alas, he was more interested in the turkey’s breast than in hers. He liked food and here was a feast. He also liked wine and there was an abundance, of a quality he would never be able to afford. When his mother shook her head reprovingly after his third glass, he grinned and raised it, toasting her. She had to smile. He was her son, he was enjoying himself, and it was Christmas. I thought that, as a student of philosophy, Frank Junior might not score high marks in written examinations but, in practice, he had an attitude that Socrates would have approved: know yourself, and then look after yourself.

  I wished I had given Frank Junior my medal. But there it was on the tree, with Linda’s name on the tag. I wondered if I could, when no one was looking, snatch it down and stick it in my pocket. Giving it to Linda was an act of gross sycophancy. I deserved to be laughed at. I remembered Helen Sneddon accusing me of showing off.

  Midge was asking Bliss lots of questions about his career as a film star. She was wearing the scant costume she had swum in.

  Madge and Frank sat with the Boltons. I sat with Morland.

  Wearing a long white dress, she was the only one there whom the paper hat did not make look ridiculous. But nothing could ever have done that. I couldn’t resist asking her if it was true that Linda was going to Acapulco shortly. She smiled and nodded. I did resist asking if I would be invited.

  Everybody heard Amantha tell Frank Junior that Mrs Birkenberger always gave valuable presents to her guests at Christmas. Raimundo had told her.

  Except for Morland, none of us, not even Madge, was absolutely sober when Linda stood up in our midst and announced that it was time for the giving of presents.

  Only Amantha clapped, which meant that only Amantha was honest. The rest of us tried to look as if a present from a millionairess did not interest us. We were being well bred.

  I found myself, bloody fool that I was, on my feet. I have a present for you, Linda,’ I said.

  I went to the tree and took down the small box. I brought it back and handed it to Linda. ‘With my best wishes,’ I said stupidly.

  Madge was looking suspicious and cross. Probably she thought that in the small box was a piece of jewellery that had belonged to her mother.

  Linda removed the gift paper, opened the box, and took out the medal with its ribbon attached. ‘What the hell’s this?’ she cried, holding it up by the ribbon like a dead fish.

  ‘It’s your Military Medal, Dad,’ cried Madge.

  ‘For kissing the colonel’s ass,’ cried Bolton.

  ‘It says,’ said Linda, ‘for gallantry.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a hero, Grandad,’ cried Midge, laughing.

  ‘It should be Frank Junior’s,’ said Madge.

  ‘So it should,’ said Linda and, going over to him, handed him the medal.

  I couldn’t have felt more ashamed if I had been caught cheating at golf.

  ‘Midge,’ said Linda, ‘there’s a red envelope on the tree with your name and your brother’s on it.’

  Midge was at the tree almost before Linda had finished speaking. Her sharp acquisitive eyes quickly spotted the envelope. She snatched it down and ran over to Frank Junior with it. She ripped it open, with Amantha stretching forward to look. It was she who, in awe, shouted out the amount written on the cheques. ‘A thousand dollars!’

  Frank Junior, with my medal pinned on his chest, had a big happy grin.

  Midge rushed over to Linda and gave her a hug.

  Their mother wasn’t pleased. In Lunderston too-expensive presents were deprecated as
bad taste.

  I looked at Linda and she looked at me. ‘You are trying to buy our souls,’ my look said, and hers replied, ‘Yes, and am I not succeeding?’

  Amantha was next. Her present was a book. She couldn’t hide her disgust. Did Mrs Birkenberger not know she never read books? What could you do with a book? I was sure it was Middlemarch and was really a message for me. But what message?

  Bliss tried to console his sweetie-pie. ‘There are two kinds of riches,’ he croaked, bravely. ‘The material and the spiritual. The latter are infinitely superior. You have been paid a great compliment, my pet.’

  But Amantha had discovered what you did with a book. You held it upside down and shook it. Out fluttered a cheque. She seized it, looked at it, and gave a squeal of joy. Then she rushed over to Linda and kissed her on the cheek. If ever there was a soul ready to be bought, it was Amantha’s.

  ‘Raimundo, you’re next,’ said Linda.

  Because he was too weak and ill, and also too tipsy, she went to the tree on his behalf and brought back a small envelope. She opened it for him and took out, not a cheque, but a small sheet of paper with something typed on it.

  He took it in his palsied hands, thanked her, and read it. Ghastly before, his face turned whiter still, and more corpselike. His voice, when he managed to speak, was hoarse. ‘Really, Linda, I cannot accept.’

  ‘Yes, you can and you will. I was going to give them all to the Museum anyway. Why shouldn’t you have one?’

  She then rather truculently satisfied our curiosity. ‘Raimundo is to have his pick of my paintings, except the Rembrandt.’

  Bolton expressed all our astonishment. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he cried.

  He and I had discussed the paintings. Not one was worth less than a million dollars. Not only would Bliss be able to appease the loan sharks, he would also be able to afford another Amantha or two, if he lived that long.

  He wasn’t altogether overjoyed. ‘This is the most munificent present, Linda, but what am I to do with it?’

  ‘Anything you like.’