Tomato Cain and Other Stories

by Tomato Cain

  The old man’s face came up from his head and fixed him. “Do ye not believe what I been tellin’, then?” He sounded incredulous.

  They nodded, and shifted feet for emphasis.

  “Yes, yes!”

  “Ah, surely, Mr Crebbin!”

  “What else, indeed?”

  The old man considered them, watching each face.

  “Well then - look at this.”

  He made his way between the tables to where a huge leather backed Bible lay. He grasped it by the fat spine and tilted it, picked up something from underneath.

  The palm he held out to the watching men quivered, from the stiffening of his body.

  “He give ye them two flowers?” said Quirk.

  The things were quite flat. Questioning with his eyes, Gorry took one. It felt as dry, perhaps, as autumn grass. But the colours were there. None of them could remember such a flower; big, with strangely brilliant, spotted tints. Delicate blues, a red that was dark and dazzling together.

  Zachary Crebbin said nothing. His eyes were tightly shut in the direction of the flower he held. His lips moved wordlessly, like a baby’s. His breath sharpened.

  And then several of them became believers. For an unexplainable moment, they felt it distinctively.

  The man seemed young.

  And as it ended, he took the other flower from Gorry, and dropped them both down into the fire. There was a flare of flame. Then it was a very old man who stood swaying before the fireplace.

  They were just in time to put down their cups and catch him.

  Three days later Zachary Crebbin died. It was expected. There were people in his house to the end, listening for further words, but he added nothing.

  After the funeral, which many attended, if you include those who watched over hedges, and at which the minister disappointingly ignored the whole story, little Quirk visited the cottage “to shut everythin’ up safe.” He took away a number of articles by a roundabout route. They included the half-finished bird-cage, which he later completed and put round a linnet, and the great Bible; a family book with the birth dates of old Crebbin and his family on the printed space inside the cover. Five children, all dead.

  It was in this Bible that Quirk’s wife made certain discoveries. She showed him.

  Flattened, half stuck to the pages with a halo of long dried juice, they were; scented sweetleaf; dog-roses; foxgloves; honeysuckle; and occasionally, strange among the murky engravings and dark chronicles, large bright flowers they did not recognise. Quirk frowned, and presently he was sure that none were quite like the two the old man had shown. So they said nothing. It would have been embarrassing to do anything else.

  The cottage fell into the hands of lawyers, who pretended to search for relatives. People carried away a table now and then as they needed one. Collapse set in. Zachary Crebbin’s home became four low bare walls round a patch of nettles and long-legged ground-spiders; like so many others on the island.

  It is so to-day. Half-remembering, the villagers call it the Wizard’s House, and children run past it with round, side-glancing eyes.

  END

  Chapter 22

  Bini and Bettine

  They were in the same seaside pavilion show as me; that’s how I met them.

  Bini was a midget, two feet ten inches high. At least they claimed that; he always seemed bigger to me. He was an ugly little creature at first sight.

  His partner, though, was something to look at. Bettine. She was at her best in those days, drowsy-eyed and very beautiful in that heavy, sexy way that doesn’t last. She had a superb figure, taller than average - which made a useful dramatic contrast with Bini.

  They did a mother-and-child juggling act; and that was a surprise. With her looks, you’d have expected her to lay on the glamour with some kind of solo. But she seemed quite content. She knew she had a first-rate partner, however small.

  I remember their turn started with her wheeling Bini on stage in a pram; he was dressed as a baby, in frills and blue ribbons, and looked remarkably like the real thing. When they got about half-way across, talking comic dialogue, he would throw a big celluloid rattle out on to the stage. She would toss it back. And then, in a moment it seemed, the air would be filled with those celluloid rattles. She would take him out of the pram and seat him on her shoulder, and between them they would keep what looked like hundreds of rattles, rubber feeding-bottles, teething rings and wooly balls flying all round them. Then came the neatest part.

  Bini would begin to make all this stuff disappear - he was an expert at sleight-of-hand - bit by bit, into those frilly petticoats and bibs of his. Bettine played up to this, registering every kind of comic emotion, and when the last object had gone, she would shake him upside down over the pram till the whole lot came pouring out of his clothes.

  They did acrobatics too, and a short dance routine. Clever, but not important. It was the way Bini vanished the juggling gear into that little outline of his that always got the audience; I was the next turn on and I heard the applause.

  I used to see quite a lot of Bini and Bettine off stage too.

  Bini never talked much, even about himself; I wish I could say as much for some other midgets I've met since. He was about twenty-five years old at that time, intelligent, reserved instead of vain, and with a streak of natural pathos in that creased little face. He never bitched other acts in conversation, which is rare anywhere in show business. I’ve sometimes wished since that he had opened his mouth more; he must have had things in that small round head that would have been illuminating.

  But it wasn’t him I was interested in, back-stage.

  Bettine and I were married twelve days after the show opened, and we lived together until the end of the season.

  The first week it was wonderful.

  The second, it was pretty good.

  After that we found we didn’t get along so well.

  There was a combination of reasons, with faults on both sides. We really knew nothing about each other, and it was a crazy idea - at least, getting married was.

  I've never been able to understand why we did it. Full church wedding with trimmings, and the whole company in attendance. The management were enthusiastic, of course, with a greedy eye on the publicity. “Whirlwind Romance in New Pier Revue.” “Stage Mother Becomes Bride.” The locals are supposed to love that sort of thing.

  We became used to being pointed out on the beach as the happy couple. And all the time we knew things were cracking up.

  There was a lot more to Bettine than the audience ever saw. For one thing, she had a cruel streak. She could locate a person’s sensitive spot in a second, and she would probe gently. I know; I’ve seen her do it to other people too. Men found it interesting, at first.

  My own weak point was my act - a straight song-and-patter. I know now it was bad, and I was beginning to realise it then. It was not until later that I found a more original line, and got somewhere.

  She always chose her time. A night when I couldn’t sleep, I’d hear her voice beside me in the dark. “I shouldn’t worry over that act; I’ve seen plenty worse. You take yourself too seriously, Sammy.” Pause. “Did you notice how Bini held the laughs to-night? That midge is good!” Or perhaps on a rainy Sunday she would turn on a long-distance look and say, “Sammy. You try too hard. You know about people who try hard? Oh, forget it!” Once I suggested she should come into my act with me - it seemed natural enough - and she laughed softly and kindly. I nearly struck her.

  Perhaps these little items shouldn’t have meant so much, but it was a non-stop drip. And there were other things; I’m not perfect. We had a flare-up and we were both glad when it came. For a long time things between us had been like a boil that won’t burst.

  At the end of it she looked at me with an expression I’d not seen on her face before. It was openly and contemptuously vicious.

  “All right,” she said. “Just as you say; we’ll separate. No, I want nothing - I’ll be all right! I’ve stil
l got the midge, haven’t I? And a good act. A good act!”

  I got along without her.

  I believe she had done something for me, though. Or perhaps it was disappointment that set me working harder on the rebound. I began to improve my act, and got better results. Better-class bookings came along; the big circuits.

  In the first months after we separated, I heard an occasional mention of Bini and Bettine, but soon lost all touch even with their names. I met other women, of course, but never actually needed a divorce, so I forgot about Bettine.

  It was years later when I ran into her again.

  During the war; I was touring with an ENSA show, visiting army camps. One day I happened to be buying a few things in a nearby market town.

  It was about the middle of the morning, when the place was at its busiest. I was just leaving a stationer’s in the main street - I’d been buying a fountain pen, I remember - when I heard voices raised in argument, and there I saw a huddle of shoppers, mostly women; a small aimless crowd that was dissolving as fast as it formed, as if there were nothing much to bother about.

  I stepped across for a look. Two women were at the middle of it, each with a pram.

  One of them was Bettine!

  I just stood at the edge of the crowd, peering, trying to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, and not wanting her to see me. Her face had changed. It was lumpy and folded now, and she needed a lot more paint. All the beauty of the pier pavilion days had gone.

  She seemed to be involved in a dramatic argument with the second woman. They were both tense and angry. The other woman was evidently conscious of having the upper hand, and playing to the bystanders; she was complaining loudly; something about keeping children under control.

  “I know mine wouldn’t touch a thing belonging to another child!” she was saying. “That’s one thing I really have taught her —”

  Then Bettine caught my eye. I cursed the crowd for opening just as she turned back to her pram.

  Without the smallest hesitation she said coolly, “Here’s my husband.”

  She was still looking at me, but I didn’t take it in for a moment. She meant me. As if I’d left her only five minutes before, not five years.

  I pushed slowly towards her. There was nothing else to do.

  “Hallo, Bettine,” I said.

  I saw now she was shabby too.

  “Sam - this lady is apparently under the impression that baby stole her little girl’s silk pram-cover, while both she and I were away shopping. I expect he wanted to look at it - you know what tiny children are!” She had taken my arm tightly in hers. Now she let her face crinkle miserably and a tear ran down her face. She must have known in a second that she had the sympathy of the onlookers. The other woman realised it too.

  I tried to glance into Bettine’s perambulator, but it had an enormous fringed hood, and all I could see inside was a huddle of blanket.

  I felt a wave of understanding. Like a cartoon character with an exclamation mark drawn above his head. The weather was warm; and there was so much more blanket than there have been.

  “You got it back?” I said to the other woman.

  She nodded, still heated, but submitting; I must have looked a sufficiently solid citizen to end the argument. She wheeled her child away, scolding it instead, and grumbling to herself. The crowd melted.

  “Let's move out of here!” Bettine said. She turned the pram in the opposite direction to the woman. I could see it was heavy by the way it handled.

  l waited until we were in a quiet road.

  “Well,” I said, “d’you make much out of this - little racket?” I could see she didn’t, so I tried not to sound harsh.

  “You knew?” she said. Her eyes were all over my face ; they were harder eyes than I had known.

  I tapped my fingers on the worn grey skin of the hood.

  “Bini always had a lot of talent with his hands. How do you do it? Run the pram against another when the mother’s away, and leave him to grab whatever he can?” I imagined him inside, reddening. Bini had always been a simple soul.

  “Yes,” she said. “We move from town to town, and that’s what we do.” Her voice was very soft and she was smiling as if she were proud.

  I felt almost guilty for a second. “If you’d only let me know —“

  “I didn’t want you,” she said almost casually. Her voice grew hard again. “It isn’t only prams; they would scarcely pay. He gets handbags now and then; and in hotels there are other things. When we use the pram he has the stuff hidden in an instant; there’s a false bottom, of course. He’s very quick.”

  “What do you call the act these days?” I said. I laughed. I put my hand on the pram-rail and stopped it. “Poor old Bini, time you had a breath of fresh air,” I said. I tipped the hood over towards the foot of the pram.

  A small face looked up.

  It wasn’t Bini. It wasn’t any midget, but a normal child of four or five, far too old to be strapped in there among the pillows and fluffy clothes. He cringed for a moment; then he was staring me out, like a little cornered animal.

  “Whose is he?” I said. But I knew.

  And she still wore that smile.

  END

  Chapter 23

  The Stocking

  On the day before Christmas the sun came through the window so low that it lit the highest broken patch on the wall.

  It was very cold when Ma came home. and she put an extra cover on his cot; the cover from their bed with the paper stuffing. A comer of paper stuck out with a picture of a lady on it.

  She gave him a piece of bread and fat while she made the tea.

  “Ma,” he said.

  Ma looked hard and said, “Yes?”

  “Will you hang up a stocking for me tonight?”

  Ma laughed and said, “All right.”

  “l got a big bag of sweets in it last year,” he said. “Daddy Christmas is kind, isn't he, Ma?”

  Ma laughed again and afterwards he heard her counting the money in her purse.

  “Maybe Daddy Christmas'll come and maybe he won’t," she said, “but Pa’ll hang a stocking up for you.”

  When Pa had finished his soup in the evening, he brought a chair and fastened an old one of Ma's long stockings to the wooden beam that ran across the room above the cot, a little below the ceiling.

  Pa leaned on the cot as he stepped down, and it creaked and swayed. “That’ll never do,” said Pa, and he knocked four nails into the cot to hold it more firmly to the wall; it had no legs.

  Plaster crumbled into his eyes as Pa hammered, and Pa leaned into the cot and rubbed away some of the grit with his sleeve. Ma said, “Tum over, silly creature.”

  He pulled himself on to his face until the hammering was over. “That‘ll keep it fast,” said Pa, and his mouth twitched at Ma as he jerked his head at the places where the Minkeys lived.

  Ma nodded and she said in the little voice he was not meant to hear, “He doesn’t mind the rats.”

  Loudly, she said, “You don't mind the Mickey Mouses, love. You’re too big to be afraid of them.”

  He smiled at Ma, though the plaster was still hurting his eyes. She meant the Minkeys.

  They lived high up and they had fur on their bodies and long tails. And when the dark came and Ma and Pa went to bed, the Minkeys ran about inside the ceiling; sometimes they scratched on the floor below the cot. But when it was light they never came.

  “There's plenty of room in that stocking,” said Pa and he laughed.

  Ma laughed too, and then she said to Pa, “Coming now?” and Pa said, “Yes. the usual?”

  Ma counted her money again and smiled. “We can celebrate tonight.”

  “He’ll have the house to himself,” said Pa.

  “Why aren't there any other people now?” he asked from the cot.

  Pa laughed. “They thought there were too many Mickey Mouses.”

  “Oh, it'll be closing time before you come!” Ma shouted.

  When they had g
one, everything was still, only the candle flickering softly.

  He looked up at the stocking, hanging straight from the beam; it might have a bulge in it by morning.

  He sang to himself in the cot, faintly. a little song that turned out to be about the Minkeys; their strange ways. their quietness and their scuttling walk.

  He listened to the noise of ships on the distant river, and wondered why his legs would not move. although he was five.

  He wondered about Christmas, and why it was not in the summer.

  He wondered about many things, and shivered and tried to screw himself up.

  There was a tiny sound in the ceiling; a faint scraping noise as if somebody very small was shifting their feet. That would be a Minkey.

  There came another little sound, and another, and presently a soft slither as if something had jumped on to the beam above. The Minkeys were coming out.

  He looked up towards the dark ceiling, and saw the green glimmer of two tiny eyes, and then two more and then others.

  The ceiling was full of a rustling and scuttling, as it always was when the house became still.

  Minkeys didn't like you to see them.

  A loose nail tumbled from above and clattered on the floor.

  He saw that the whole wide beam was bulging on each side, and that the bulges were moving and changing; often a long tail twitched and curled.

  Everywhere was a scratching and the little squeaky sound of Minkeys’ talk, like the talk of the yellow bird that died, only quicker and sharper.

  Suddenly it stopped.

  He looked upwards again, and the flickering eyes peeped down from the beam. He saw that the long Daddy Christmas stocking was moving, swaying from side to side, and jerking. It seemed to have thickened at the place Pa had tied it to the beam; then it had thickened lower down, and lower.

  And there was a Minkey, clinging to the stocking, and slowly dropping. Its eyes twinkled as it swung and its head shot this way and that.

  He could smell the dark smell of the Minkey very close.