Tomato Cain and Other Stories

by Tomato Cain

  I wondered if I might talk in my sleep. I began to avoid people, and to walk alone. I started counting five before I spoke, in case I - I should say too much of the wrong thing. I had nightmares and beat my head on my wooden pillow when I couldn’t sleep. I slopped wine on the holy garments.

  And the Good God saw that there was something wrong with me.

  He would watch me out of the side of his eye when I handed him his food and wine after tasting it. He took me unawares with sharp remarks. Once he came up behind me among the red pillars, and whispered, “What’s the secret?” and I shook like a reed because I hadn’t heard him coming. I must have looked guilty blushing and stammering there. But he went away.

  So afterwards I wondered if I could drop a hint to him; perhaps do something that wouldn't break my oath, and yet let him know the s-secret. Then he would trust me again.

  Excuse me belching. That’s one of the first signs, I think.

  But just now - just now in the breakfast-room, the Good God was speaking to the vizier; called him in suddenly, in fact. And they both began to whisper together. Then they looked at me, Iranamet!

  And the Good God nodded to the vizier. C-coldly, with his lips pressed tight. I knew what that meant! I’ve seen it happen before. I could almost feel the foot-twister working on me. Oh, I couldn’t stand torture, Iranamet! I - I’m not strong really, and I’d break after a time, and tell.

  And then, when it was all over, the Eater of the Dead would take me, and - and —

  I thought of running away. But they always find you. And besides, there was something I wanted to do, in the palace. I wanted to let the Good God know the secret. That’s right, isn’t it? He should know everything.

  The vizier went out; I could guess where he was going. And I was desperate.

  Suddenly I knew exactly what to do. I brought out the old wine-cup with the gold lion-heads on it. You’ll know the one.

  I won’t tell you anything more than just what happened then, and that won’t be breaking my oath, will it? When I’d filled the cup to the brim with wine, I set it down, and carefully twisted and pressed the right eye of the right hand lion in a certain way. A little pale stream of something flowed into the wine, down inside the cup. Only for an instant, then it dissolved. But I knew what the meant, because I’d been told about it.

  That isn’t saying to much, eh?

  I stepped up in front of - of the Good God, and raised the cup to my lips. Of course nobody took any special notice, because it was the natural thing for the taster to do.

  But I didn’t just taste this time. I drank, and drank, and felt like stone inside as I did so.

  Because I knew I was going to die.

  Remember the personage I told you about; the high personage who fell downstairs? That isn’t revealing anything either.

  When I’d drunk rather less than half the cup, I lowered it, because that was enough. It hadn’t been easy to make myself drink even that much.

  I meant to tell the Good God - just what I’ve told you. And in proof of it, he’d see me - see me die. If he was suspicious about anything, about a certain person falling down steps, I mean, he might have some instruction by it. And for me, it was the best way; I would dodge the torture.

  Then my heart seemed to heave within me; I suppose I was afraid. Little thoughts of the silliest things kept running through my head, and I seemed to forget where I was.

  And through them, my eyes noted that Phar - the Good God was holding out his hand for the cup.

  And Iranamet - I gave it to him!

  I swear I didn’t know what I was doing; I swear it! I would never have done that. It must have been force of habit.

  When I came to myself, I saw him drinking - draining the cup. And I just stood there like a jug, not saying a word. I must have been stupid with different kinds of fear. Then I - it’s no use trying to drop hints to a God who’ll soon be dead himself, is it?

  I’ve poisoned him. I’ve done a terrible thing, haven’t I?

  So I just - I just came out of the room, just wandered along here, and I met you. I had to tell somebody about it.

  I’ve got so much to answer for on the other side. Quite apart from the oath. How can I stand in the Hall of the Two Truths and make the declaration of righteousness to the God of Death, and says I am pure?

  When I’ve poisoned Pharaoh.

  So please - make sure my Book of the Dead is right, at least. Sorry, I can’t hold myself steady. I’m beginning to feel I don’t belong to myself, just gradually.

  What? Can you hear him? Groaning. Shouting. I suppose it’s taking him first because he had more than I did. Or perhaps he isn’t as strong as me. As if I were!

  That people running? Yes, I can hear; sounds like a river. All running and howling and crying. River. Remember about - embalming.

  Your face dim, ‘Ranamet. Now - here it comes! Sudden! Sudden, isn’ it? Feel I’m slipping and I want to roar an’ shout!

  But - before I can’t help myself - promise about - Book of Dead - because I done - terrible thing -

  Now! Hold me, ‘Ranamet!

  END

  Chapter 18

  Quiet Mr Evans

  He found that a double quantity of raw chips sent into the fryer, hissing and crackling, would drown the whispers at the back of the shop for a time. He had peace then. Every so often during the evening he had caught phrases as clearly as if they were meant for him to hear.

  “Poor old Evans! Failing.”

  Think he’s human, that he can’t see what’s going on?”

  “Maybe too faint-hearted to do anything about it.”

  “Ach, practisin’ to run one of those houses in Cardiff, he is!” That had brought a snigger.

  He had been alone at the counter for some time, serving a crowded shop single-handed, when Mrs Powell’s turn came and she handed her blue flowered basin across. His face was burning and he knew it.

  “The usual, if you please, Mr Evans. Fish and eight. And no little dreg ones from the corners, look you!”

  He stirred the fat. Chips swam quickly to the surface in their first pale skins. There were still whispers behind him, but now the gossip had become too deep and secret for him to catch any of it.

  Mrs Powell leaned across the counter and flicked the greasy black hair from her eyes. “Busy to-night, Mr Evans?”

  He did not turn from the fryer. “Busy enough.”

  Mrs Powell’s big eyes and gold tooth twinkled, missing nothing and full of malice. “Back room full again, I see. Curtains drawn and everything. Very particular customers, too, the way Mrs Evans is not to be seen for ten minutes at a time!”

  A faint hiss of indrawn breath ran through the customers and broke the quietness. Two dishes clacked together. A child complained, “Mam, when’ll they be done?”

  Mrs. Powell sensed the drama she had made and enjoyed it. “Same last night, wasn’t it? And before that too? Just one very particular customer?”

  He stood with his back to her, looking down at the sizzling fat.

  “Oh, be quiet, Mrs Powell,” said a woman.

  “I don’t like people whispering,” snapped Mrs Powell. “P’raps I’m a very peculiar person, but I happen to believe in straight talking! And everybody in here knows about the disgraceful business anyway, except the very one who ought to, seemingly. It’s a nice thing in a village like this, I must —“

  He turned suddenly, startling Mrs Powell’s bony elbows from the counter; one of them knocked the salt canister to the floor.

  He stood facing them.

  “All right! I know about all the whispering!” The pale gaslight made glistening face haggard.

  “Now you can all get out of my shop!” His voice crackled. “Go on! Take your nasty busy little minds home to feed you, instead of my chips!”

  “Don’t forget your old dish!” He pushed the chipped china across the counter to Mrs Powell.

  He stood and watched while they made their way to the door and out into the dar
kness, mumbling and shocked. As the door closed he heard one or two laughing in an embarrassed way outside. He felt surprised that they had all taken him at his word They might almost have known what it was in his mind to do.

  He stayed behind the counter until their voices died away and there was only the sound of the simmering fat and a distant murmur from the back dining-room.

  He was trembling now. His hands started doing things while his brain seemed to go to sleep. They scooped all the cooked chips from the fire and covered them; damped the fire; led him to the door, limping on his crooked leg, to shut it softly; wiped the sweat from his face with his grease-spotted apron, which they they threw under the counter; then knotted themselves until the veins stood out.

  He went to the passage that led to the back room. Odd how quickly his brain had cleared now this cold resignation was on him.

  “Megan!” he called. “Megan!”

  The murmur in the back room stopped, and after a moment there were slow footsteps in the passage. The gaslight shone on his young wife’s face and showed its high colour. You couldn’t call Megan a beauty, but she was pretty enough.

  “I was just coming, Owen,” she said. “Oh - closing time already, is it?” I was just saying to John Phillips how quiet it had gone - Why Owen, what’s the matter?”

  He swallowed and said nothing.

  “So strange you look! Oh - and I left you single-handed again! That what’s upset you?”

  His mouth opened and he spoke huskily. “Megan, I want you to go upstairs now. And stay there till I come.”

  She took a step to the stairway door, then turned and caught his arm. “You’re so different! Owen, if you start trouble in there because you’ve misunderstood something, I - I’ll not forgive you.”

  He smiled. “Old Evans fight? Battling for the honour of the chip-shop lady, eh? Sir Owen Evans, the stainless nickel-plated knight?”

  She gave a little sigh. “That’s your old self again. You be up soon?”

  “Soon. I’ll just see if John Phillips wants any more to eat - and then I'll come.”

  She went through the doorway. When he heard her reach the landing above, he closed the door and locked it quietly.

  He went back to the fryer and took out the big wire basket, heavy with chips. Enough for a dozen hungry people there were, at a long sitting.

  The tread of his crooked leg echoed in the stone passage. He hesitated a moment in the darkness, then pushed aside the heavy curtain, its wooden rings clicking together. He stood blinking in the brightness of the small inner room, holding the sieve before his body. A thin stream of oily fat dripped from it.

  The only occupant was a young man, good-looking in a brilliantined, self-conscious way. He was jerking his overcoat on with a great show of making ready to leave, grunting and sighing. It struck Evans that he had waited for him to appear.

  “Oh - hallo, Mr Evans. Didn’t realise it was so late.” The worried look on the young man’s face changed to a smile. A gap showed between his front upper teeth. “Hope I haven’t kept you.”

  “No,” said Evans.

  Phillips breathed a laugh. “Your chips are dripping a bit there. Didn't realise it was so late till I heard you and Mrs Evans talking down the passage and I looked at my watch. You haven’t brought those for me, have you?”

  At the door there was silence.

  “Oh - I think I’ve had a feast to-night already. Be getting fat, I will! So I hope you didn’t bring them for me - did you?” He was puzzled. He stood under the flowery lamp, hands in his coat pockets. Only a boy he was, and poorly built.

  “My wife has gone to bed,” Evans said. “I’ve locked up shop. P’raps you'll have a little bite with me now?”

  Phillips swallowed. “Well, I don’t - I— ”

  “Yes, of course you will, good man!” Evans closed the door with the out-of-date dance advertisement on it. He put down the basket of chips on the glass-topped table. His face relaxed as he looked at the other man; a little smile came on it.

  “Extra good chips I got to-night. And nobody to eat them. Pity, isn’t it? Let’s have your plate now. Can’t be full you are, young fellow like you!”

  Phillips sat down doubtfully. He watched the big man pickup a fork and fill the plate from the basket. It was a huge helping. Higher and higher the plate was heaped, until chips scattered over the edge and fell on to the table and floor. He was uneasy.

  “Steady on!” he said. He had an idea. “Look, I’m short of money to-night. Honest, I just can’t afford them.”

  “On the house, man!” Evans growled.

  No - I really think I should be getting on my way, Mr Evans.”

  “But I want you to stay,Mr Phillips.” The bleak feeling seemed to sharpen and brighten in him. He sat on the table.

  Phillips twisted in his chair. His voice was hoarse suddenly. “You aren't trying to threaten me, are you? I only come quite peaceful as a customer, and now I’m going!”

  A fat hand settled heavily on his shoulder. “You like lots of hospitality, don’t you, John Phillips? And I like to see customers. And I like to see them enjoy their food. Eat these while they’re hot now, that’s a good man.” Phillips wriggled. The hand was on the back of his neck.

  “Let me go! Let me go, then, or how can I eat any —?”

  “Come along!”

  Phillips suddenly giggled as if he had realised it was all a joke, and took two chips on his fork. He had given in.

  “That’s it now! Don’t let go to waste.” The hand pressed more heavily. All kinds of vitamins in chips, particularly in the fat.”

  “Why - why don’t you eat some yourself?”

  Evans leaned across to the basket and picked one out. “Those on the plate are all yours.”

  The younger man twisted. “Let go my neck! You’re hurting me!” The hand moved back to his shoulder. Evans swallowed his mouthful.

  “You know, it’s a distraction to have an eye for letters in this business,” Evans said. “Always a terrible one for reading, I am. And a heap of cut-up newspaper is temptation indeed — Put some salt on it, man, or you lose half the flavour!

  I was standing there at the fryer to-night, and my eye was for ever wandering to a bit of a Sunday scandal sheet. Fine for wrapping, those Sunday papers; so many pages they have.”

  Phillips protested. “I’m full up! It’s time I - oh!”

  “Listen; now. My eye was on a sad case. A man with a young wife, it appeared - don’t waste time looking at me, Mr Phillips; they’re getting cold - and she let another man come after her. Silly thing to do, but she was flattered by it all, even though she didn’t take him serious.

  And do you know, Mr Phillips, for a long time the husband didn’t do a thing. Thought it didn’t really matter. Kept blinkers on his eyes so he didn’t see the other man’s carrying-on, and refused to listen to a word of the whispers that were going round. But he had too much trust in his wife, d’you see? He left it too late and he lost her. That’s what makes it a different case —“

  “Different?” Phillips pulled sideways. “Let go my collar! What are you playing at? Lemme go!” He knocked the half empty plate to the floor and grabbed at Evans to twist himself free.

  “Now! That was - stupid!” Evans moved with the speed and strength of a wrestler. The young man suddenly found both his wrists locked in a huge hand; he was forced backwards over the chair. “Smashed a good plate!”

  “If you try to - keep me here - I’ll get the police!”

  “I was telling you a little story while you were eating, man. You need feeding up - look how helpless you are. If you won’t eat, I shall have to assist you - like this!”

  A long golden chip was dangled before Phillips’ eyes. Then it was being squashed into his mouth, through the gap in his teeth, even though his lips tried to refuse it. His feet scraped on the floor. Evans seemed to be everywhere.

  “Chew quickly now, Mr Phillips! Quicker than that! Don’t try to shout or you’ll choke yourself, in
deed you will!”

  Phillips kicked. The table skidded a yard away but did not fall. Chip fragments tumbled down the front of his jacket. He turned his eyes up and saw a round, tense face with lips stretched apart.

  “More, Mr Phillips, more! You like them so much you come here every night!” A handful of greasy potato spread itself over the neat moustache. “And now you suddenly lost your appetite!”

  Phillips’ breath began to whoop painfully. A fragment of chip had stuck. Tears and trickles of grease ran together down his cheeks. He stopped struggling,

  Evans gave a hiss and snatched up the wire basket. He spun it over. Warm, sticky slices scattered over Phillips’ hair; tumbled down inside the collar of his jacket; wedged under his spotted tie.

  “Salt and vinegar, Mr Phillips?”

  A white shower dusted like hoar-frost over the greasy face. A brown stream of vinegar stung his eyes and trickled coldly inside his clothes. Salt grains sprang up his nose and drew the last breath out of him in an agonising sneeze.

  “Ou - aatch!”

  Evans relaxed his grip. He stood watching for a moment, then seized the loose overcoat and jerked the gasping body to its feet. The flowery lampshade swung past Phillips in a sea of watery vinegar. His feet dragged as he was almost carried along the stone passage, hiccupping, and across the floor of the shop.

  Evans supported him while he unlocked the door with his free hand. Phillips still groaned and wheezed. Then a cold gust swept round him and he was shot forward into the darkness.

  He tottered a few steps. Tripped and fell blindly in the road.

  Evans slammed the door. His chest heaved.

  After a moment something picked itself up slowly outside, feet scraping. It coughed and sobbed.

  It was moving away.

  Along the street a voice exclaimed. There was a laugh. Then other voices. In a little while they were silent again.

  Owen Evans gave a long sigh. He ran a handkerchief slowly over his face and neck, and rolled down his shirt-sleeves. Opening the stairway door, he stood and listened, trying to breathe more quietly.