Tomato Cain and Other Stories

by Tomato Cain

  His eyes searched the banqueting, motionless party.

  “Where now —? Ah!”

  In the middle of the table three of the creatures were fixed in the attitude of a dance.

  The old man spoke to them. “Soon we’ll have a partner for the lady there. He’ll be the handsomest of the whole company, my dear, so don’t forget to smile at him and look your prettiest!”

  He hurried back to the fireplace and lifted the pan; poured off the steaming water into a bucket.

  “Fine, shapely brain-box you have.” He picked with his knife, cleaning the tiny skull. “Easy does it.” He put it down on the table admiringly; it was like a transparent flake of ivory. One by one he found the delicate bones in the pan, knowing each for what it was.

  “Now, little duke, we have all of them that we need,” he said at last. “We can make you into a picture indeed. The beau of the ball. And such an object of jealousy for the lovely ladies!”

  With wire and thread he fashioned a stiff little skeleton, binding in the bones to preserve the proportions. At the top went the skull.

  The frog’s skin had lost its earlier flaccidness. He threaded a needle, eyeing it close to the lamp. From the table drawer he now brought a loose wad of wool. Like a doctor reassuring his patient by describing his methods, he began to talk.

  “This wool is coarse, I know, little friend. A poor substitute to fill that skin of yours, you may

  say: wool from the hedges, snatched by the thorns from a sheep’s back.” He was pulling the wad into tufts of the size he required. “But you’ll find it gives you such a springiness that you’ll thank me for it. Now, carefully does it —”

  With perfect concentration he worked his needle through the skin, drawing it together round the wool with almost untraceable stitches.

  “A piece of lace in your left hand. or shall it be a quizzing-glass?” With tiny scissors he trimmed away a fragment of skin. “But - wait, it’s a dance and it is your right hand that we must see, guiding the lady.”

  He worked the skin precisely into place round the skull. He would attend to the empty eye-holes later.

  Suddenly he lowered his needle.

  He listened.

  Puzzled, he put down the half-stuffed skin and went to the door and opened it.

  It was dark now. He heard the sound more clearly. He knew it was coming from the pond. A far-off, harsh croaking, as of a great many frogs.

  He frowned.

  In the wall cupboard he found a lantern ready trimmed, and lit it with a flickering splinter. He put on an overcoat and hat, remembering his earlier chill. Lastly he took his net.

  He went very cautiously. His eyes saw nothing at first, after working so close to the lamp. Then, as the croaking came to him more clearly and he became accustomed to the darkness, he hurried.

  He climbed the stile as before, throwing the net ahead. This time, however, he had to search for it in the darkness, tantalised by the sounds from the pond. When it was in his hand again, he began to move stealthily.

  About twenty yards from the pool he stopped and listened.

  There was no wind and the noise astonished him. Hundreds of frogs must have travelled through the fields to this spot; from other water where danger had arisen, perhaps, or drought. He had heard of such instances.

  Almost on tiptoe he crept towards the pond. He could see nothing yet. There was no moon, and the thorn bushes hid the surface of the water.

  He was a few paces from the pond when, without warning, every sound ceased.

  He froze again. There was absolute silence. Not even a watery plop or splashing told that one frog out of all those hundreds had dived for shelter into the weed. It was strange.

  He stepped forward, and heard his boots brushing the grass.

  He brought the net up across his chest, ready to strike if he saw anything move. He came to the thorn bushes, and still heard no sound. Yet, to judge by the noise they had made, they should be hopping in dozens from beneath his feet.

  Peering, he made the throaty noise which had called the frog that afternoon. The hush continued.

  He looked down at where the water must be. The surface of the pond, shadowed by the bushes, was too dark to be seen. He shivered, and waited.

  Gradually, as he stood, he became aware of a smell.

  It was wholly unpleasant. Seemingly it came from the weed, yet mixed with the vegetable odour was one of another kind of decay. A soft, oozy bubbling accompanied it. Gases must be rising from the mud at the bottom. It would not do to stay in this place and risk his health.

  He stooped, still puzzled by the disappearance of the frogs, and stared once more at the dark surface. Pulling his net to a ready position, he tried the throaty call for the last time.

  Instantly he threw himself backwards with a cry.

  A vast, belching bubble of foul air shot from the pool. Another gushed up past his head; then another. Great patches of slimy weed were flung high among the thorn branches.

  The whole pond seemed to boil.

  He turned blindly to escape, and stepped into the thorns. He was in agony. A dreadful slobbering deafened his ears: the stench overcame his senses. He felt the net whipped from his hand. The icy weeds were wet on his face. Reeds lashed him.

  Then he was in the midst of an immense, pulsating softness that yielded and received and held him. He knew he was shrieking. He knew there was no one to hear him.

  An hour after the sun had risen, the rain slackened to a light drizzle.

  A policeman cycled slowly on the road that ran by the cottage, shaking out his cape with one hand, and half-expecting the old man to appear and call out a comment on the weather. Then he caught sight of the lamp, still burning feebly in the kitchen, and dismounted. He found the door ajar, and wondered if something was wrong.

  He called to the old man. He saw the uncommon handiwork lying on the table as if it had been suddenly dropped; and the unused bed.

  For half an hour the policeman searched in the neighbourhood of the cottage, calling out the old man’s name at intervals, before remembering the pond. He turned towards the stile.

  Climbing over it, he frowned and began to hurry. He was disturbed by what he saw.

  On the bank of the pond crouched a naked figure.

  The policeman went closer. He saw it was the old man, on his haunches; his arms were straight; the hands resting between his feet. He did not move as the policeman approached.

  “Hallo, there!” said the policeman. He ducked to avoid the thorn bushes catching his helmet. “This won’t do, you know. You can get into trouble —”

  He saw green slime in the old man’s beard, and the staring eyes. His spine chilled. With an unprofessional distaste, he quickly put out a hand and took the old man by the upper arm. It was cold. He shivered, and moved the arm gently.

  Then he groaned and ran from the pond.

  For the arm had come away at the shoulder: reeds and green water-plants and slime tumbled from the broken joint.

  As the old man fell backwards, tiny green stitches glistened across his belly.

  END

  Chapter 26

  They’re Scared, Mr Bradlaugh

  When she was dying, I said, “Auntie, you’re a fool.”

  I always talk straight. I wasn’ going to stop because she was like that.

  “Don’t, oh don’t,” she said in her little whispery voice. But I knew I had to be cruel to be kind.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and brushed away a few feathers that had come out of the eiderdown. I hate mess.

  “I didn’t think it of you, Auntie,” I said. “Not really.”

  And she just looked because she didn’t want to talk much.

  “Haven’t you got any pride, Auntie?” I said. “And don’t turn your head away, because you’ve got to listen.”

  I saw her lips go, “What, Ralph?” but they didn’t make much noise.

  “I heard you saying prayers in the night!” I said. The bed squeaked because I
was sharp.

  “Yes, Ralph” her lips went, and there was that dopey look in her eyes that I just couldn’t stand. Like a bloody cow.

  “Listen, Auntie,” I said, “there’s not many would have the guts to talk to you like this.”

  “Yes, Ralph?”

  “You’re dying and you know it,” I said, “And I want you to die proper - properly.” She looked stupid.

  “I’ve lived with you a long time,” I said, “ever since before Uncle died, and I’ve talked to you seriously so long as I’ve been able to reason.”

  And that’s true. Even when I was at school I used to read her the best bits out of the weekly Freethinker I bought, while she cooked the Sunday dinner. To show her how to reason too.

  People say they’re too old to learn. That's humbug, it makes me mad.

  “You never tried, Auntie,” I said. Like I was scolding her.

  She just blinked her watery eyes and her lips didn’t say anything.

  “You never even took to simple free thought like Mr Bradlaugh had, Auntie,” I said. I always call him “Mr” to show I respect his writings.

  “You’re a good boy, Ralph,” she whispered. For a second I felt a bit silly. Like she wanted to kiss me. She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Now look here,” I said, “I’ve read stories about tough men being soft about their dear old mothers, sentimental. Well I’ll tell you what I think about them; I think those stories are loathsome, nonsensical, daft trash.” I felt strongly. “And I’m not tough a bit. And I never had any mother to speak of, and you’re only my Auntie, see?”

  She whispered so I had to say “What?” and bend my head low to hear. “I remember … the day you got your first wages. You gave me every bit.” Water ran out of her eye.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ve always tried to pay my way. Sponging is economically unsound, elementary principal.

  I gave her a sip of water because her face was getting bluer.

  “Now listen, Auntie,” I said. “You’ve got to stop being a coward. That’s all it is, you know.”

  I leaned over a bit to look her in the eyes. “All this about angels and harps and goddalmighty with his fishmonger’s scales! Why, it’s so silly it makes me want to laugh!” And I laughed to show what I meant.

  “When you die, you just stop, that’s all. Pop goes the weasel. Nothing any more, see? Like a good sound sleep with no dreams. Anyone can see that, only dopey preachers. “Salvation, my brethren!”

  She was whispering again.

  “You’re not a very big man, Ralph. Not very strong. But I fed you the best I could, always.”

  “Aren’t you listening, Auntie?” I said. “Never mind that! You’ve got to listen!” Don’t you see how it is - dishonest, stupid, cowardly - whatever you like to call it?”

  “What, Ralph?”

  “You’re not going to die full of old nonsense, that’s what, Auntie!” I said. “Going to Heaven and all that mumbo. Like an old savage. It isn’t brave.

  “That’s it, not brave! Don’t you see how much finer it is to face up to just nothing? Than to die praying and grovelling to something that isn’t there anyway?” The bed was squeaking like anything.

  I could hear the breath coming in and out of her mouth. I thought she was thinking.

  She looked at me and I was sad inside. I held my mouth sideways to cover it up.

  Then she said, only about half of a whisper:

  “Ralph. Get married, Ralph. Some nice girl, nice girl. That'll look after you.” And she sort of moved her head, supposed to be a nod.

  I was mad. “Look here, Auntie,” I said, “you’re not listening. I don’t want to get married. I’ve got no time for girls and softness, you know that. I’m rational!”

  Her eyebrows and her upper lip were moving funny.

  “I’m not asking you to ‘believe.’ I don’t hold with any belief stuff,” I said. “I want you just to know and to die decent - decently. You don’t realise. You’ve got no self-respect.”

  Just for a minute I sort of wished it was me that was dying so that I could show her how. I honestly did.

  I was trying to think of something that would make her see when all of a sudden she moved.

  Sudden it was too.

  She sat right up in bed and put her arms round me tight. I never knew her so strong.

  “Rallie!” she shouted. Her voice was as big as when she used to shout across the street to Mrs Pettifer for the lend of half a loaf.

  “Oh, poor little Rallie!”

  That was what they called me when I was just about a baby. I didn’t like it.

  “Now, look here - ‘Ralph’ my name is,” I said. “Why, you must be getting better —”

  While I was talking, there was a sort of noise. Her hands slipped down. And all of a sudden she was heavy.

  My Auntie was dead.

  I was looking in her face. I’d never seen anyone die before. Only one or two that were dead already.

  I saw her eyes go out. Queer. Then she flopped back across the pillow.

  That was all.

  After a moment I shook her hand, but it felt so horrible that I stopped. “Auntie,” I said. “Auntie!” Which wasn’t reasonable, because I knew it was no good talking to her, and it made me angry with myself.

  A bit of dust settled on one of her eyes.

  She wouldn’t ever look with them again, and open her mouth to say something soppy and loving.

  But I must have sat there on the side of the bed a whole long time, feeling funny. Not even trying to reason it out. At last I found it had gone dark and I was feeling chilly. When I tried to move my Auntie’s hand then, it was like cold white china.

  Things were muddled after that. People came and fussed about, tidying up my Auntie. I didn’t bother much. Silly conventions!

  When I’d got her buried, it became difficult. I expect it was because there was nobody to reason with. You see, I’ve got to have something to work on, being an active person. Just cooking my own meals and sitting listening to the water gurgling in the pipes got me all grey inside.

  Places where my Auntie used to be, I found myself watching as if I might see her again; even though I knew perfectly well she was dead. Her old chair with the the seat squashed to fit her behind. And the worn-away kitchen knife she was fond of. One night I felt so miserable that I burnt - well, never mind. Besides, I bought a new copy anyway. Of Mr Bradlaugh.

  Then one day I thought how to do it. One day when I was reasoning with myself pretty efficiently.

  You see, this is the weakness about people like my Auntie: they’ve got one-track minds. Wouldn’t say a sensible, rational word right up to the last, now would she?

  But listen.

  I’m not like that. I’m broadminded. As I told myself, a man should be able to see other people’s points of view.

  I’m putting by money from my gardening job. And some day I’ll be drawing out every penny we had in the savings bank, her and me; and going down the road to the stone-mason’s.

  She’s going to have a sepulchre - if that’s how they spell it - made of pure white marble. The biggest I can get. With Bible words, and a stone angel on top. Holy, holy, holy. It’s only the cough I get bothered with that slows up the fund-collecting.

  I bet it’s just what she’d have wanted. Silly cow!

  END

  Chapter 27

  The Calculation of N’ Bambwe

  “That was most interesting,” said Mrs Berrilee. "Next week we shall read from the works of Mr W B Yeats.”

  “‘I will arise and go now —’” quoted Miss Tandy.

  “My dear!” they pleaded, “not yet! We have not even had tea. Please stay, do!”

  Miss Tandy explained, disgusted, and added “I should not wish to offend any one, but there is a large thumb-mark on page twenty-two of my Golden Treasury.” They looked at Mrs Churchman, who had been the only one to read a passage from so near the beginning. She blushed at the fire.

  “I wash my hand
s after every meal,” said Miss Tandy.

  Mrs Berrilee shattered the embarrassment. “I am the dirtiest creature God made,” she said cheerfully. “And now I shall brew the tea and cut the cake.” She rose and straightened her dress.

  Miss Morgan fingered the broach at her throat. “It really has been most enjoyable,” she said stiffly. “I do hope we shall be able to meet often - if Mrs Berrilee will suffer us. She is so very good.”

  “Very kind! Most generous! Poor Mrs Berrilee!” they cried. Their hostess beamed.

  “I should like us to have ‘The Hound of Heaven’ another time,” said Miss Tandy. “It is a poem,” she explained to Mrs Churchman.

  A cold draught blew into the room as Mrs Berrilee opened the door and went out.

  “It is rather an odd one,” said Miss Morgan, “and somewhat morbid as it were. But, as you say, Miss Tandy, it is of a superior kind and written by a great man: quite suitable for our attention.”

  “I do not like ugly things,” murmured Mrs. Churchman stubbornly.

  “This is not ugly at all,” said Miss Tandy.

  Miss Morgan’s lips were doubtful. “They say that even ugliness may have a kind of beauty.”

  “Mrs Churchman may not - appreciate that as well as you do, my dear,” said Miss Tandy gently.

  The resulting thoughtful silence continued until the lady of the house returned with the tea trolley.

  “Now you must stop your intellectual conversation!” Mrs Berrilee clattered cups into saucers. “I have made some tea: I always make it either too strong or too weak.”

  “That will be nice,” said Mrs Churchman sincerely. “Though we have no right to put you to such trouble.”

  “‘The cups that cheer, but not inebriate …’” quoted Miss Tandy.

  “So nice,” smiled Mrs Churchman, waiting for a cup.

  Miss Morgan adjusted her spectacles. “We had been talking, Mrs Berrilee, about unpleasant poetry.”

  The hostess handed out the thinly steaming cups.

  Miss Tandy spooned a fragment of stem from the surface of hers. “Do you believe that gloom is incompatible with beauty, Mrs Berrilee?”