He responded immediately, arriving at the office the following morning, dressed in a grey suit with velvet strips on the cuffs and around the pockets. Thomas was convinced that this had come from a theatrical outfitters as he was sure he had seen it in an Oscar Wilde play, but he had not expressed his doubts.
“Merlin,” he said, “I have something big for you. Really big.”
Merlin tried not to seem too keen. “I’ll take a look at it,” he said. And then, after a suitable pause, added, ‘Tell me more.”
Thomas explained about the Iron Jelloids campaign. He did not mention their stipulation that the man should be mousey; he referred, rather, to the male lead, a term suggestive of matinées and the idols who appeared in them. Merlin was not slow to appreciate the reference, and glowed with pleasure.
“I’ll look at the diary,” he said, once Thomas had finished.
Thomas suppressed a smile. “It’s really important,” he said. “I know how busy you are, but I would appreciate a quick response.”
Merlin was magnanimous. “All right,” he said. “I can always cancel something else. I’ll take the job.”
“That’s uncommonly good of you, Merlin,” said Thomas. “I’ll let them know that they can book the shoot.”
“Who will be the female lead?” asked Merlin.
Thomas consulted his papers. “A young woman called Estelle Harbord. She’s much in demand, but I think we can get her. She’s charming, and I’m sure you two will work well together.”
This was true. Estelle’s complexion was such that she was often asked to pose for soap advertisements. “Milky soft,” muttered one photographer. “The sort of face a cat would love to lick.”
Merlin went back to his lodgings. He occupied a room in the house of a police sergeant’s widow. The widow, Mrs Sullivan, was fond of Merlin, who had stayed in her house for over two years now. She had given him the room at the back, where it was quieter, and had gone to some lengths to make it as attractive and cheerful as possible. It had fresh red curtains and a chintz-covered armchair. On the wall there was an engraving of a rural scene – a shepherd with his two dogs – and an ornately framed picture of the Sacred Heart, as both Mrs Sullivan and Merlin were Catholics. “I’m not Irish, though,” Merlin occasionally said. “Don’t get me wrong on that.”
Mrs Sullivan had been most helpful to Merlin. When he had first taken the room, she had introduced him to a man who owned a betting shop. “I don’t really approve of gambling,” she said, “but Mr Todd runs a very orderly establishment and has given more than generously to the League of Mary. He tells me that he needs a part-time clerk and book-keeper and that he would be prepared to train you if you wanted the position.”
The job suited Merlin very well, as the hours were flexible and enabled him to continue with his modelling career. Most of the time there were no modelling contracts, and he was able to put in a good amount of time in the betting shop, where he was popular with Mr Todd’s secretary and the cleaner. They called him Ducky, which he interpreted as a term of affection; in reality, although they concealed this, it was a nickname based on the way he walked, which reminded them of a duck’s gait. “Heaven knows what they want him to model,” said the secretary. “Poor Ducky!”
“Likely as not he’s the before in one of those before and after advertisements,” said the cleaner. “I’ll look out for him in the magazines.”
Mrs Sullivan would have given short shrift to such comments, had she heard them. She was fiercely protective of Merlin. She had her hopes for him, and had said to more than one of her friends that if there was any justice in this world he would meet a pleasant and companionable woman and settle down to married life. “He would not be a troublesome husband,” she said. “He would be … how should one put it? He would be a good man to have in the background, so to speak.”
Her friends saw what she meant, but had their doubts. “The problem,” said one of them, “is that Merlin is too mild. Now, there’s nothing wrong with some mildness in a man, but most women want something with a bit more … a bit more …” She strained to find the right expression. Vigour? Iron, perhaps?
Mrs Sullivan did not think along those lines. She felt that it was only a matter of time before a suitable woman would come along and would see Merlin’s finer points: his readiness to listen, rather than to speak, for example, his way of drinking tea without slurping – a small but important point – and his general attentiveness. Merlin was always ready to do the washing up and was more than happy to go off on errands to the grocer if the weather was inclement and Mrs Sullivan felt inclined to stay in front of the fire.
She made several attempts at introductions, but none of these worked. On one occasion the woman reported back to her after Merlin had invited her tea at a Corner House. “Oh dear,” she said. “There were long silences. I tried my best, you know, but it was heavy going. I don’t like to be fussy, but I must say I would far prefer to meet a man with a bit of oomph in him. Sorry about that.”
Mrs Sullivan understood. “I can see what you mean,” she said. “I take the view, though, that there’s a really good nature there and that these things you’re looking for …”
“Strength, for one,” suggested her friend.
“All right, strength – that might come with time.”
“I doubt it,” said the friend.
Mrs Sullivan, of course, was pleased to hear about the planned photo-shoot for Iron Jelloids. She listened as Merlin told her of the instructions he had received from the agency. “They want to do photographs in which I am seen with a well-known actress called Estelle Harbord. You’ll probably have heard of her.”
“No,” said Mrs Sullivan. “Never. But that’s not to say she’s not well known.”
“She was in a Gilbert and Sullivan show once,” said Merlin. “The chorus. The Mikado.”
“I’d like to say I’m related to that Sullivan,” said Mrs Sullivan. ‘But I’m not, I’m afraid.”
“And I have no connection with the court of King Arthur,” said Merlin.
They both laughed. Then Mrs Sullivan asked, “Have you ever tried these Iron Jelloids?”
Merlin shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
Mrs Sullivan thought for a moment before continuing, “You should try them. I have some in the bathroom cabinet. Let me get them for you.”
Merlin read what was written on the packet. “It says they are a reliable tonic. It says that they give you more strength and energy.”
“They’re very effective in those departments,” said Mrs Sullivan. “If I ever feel a bit below par I take them for a few days and I feel much invigorated. They really work.”
Merlin fingered the packet. “I don’t know,” he began. “I’m not sure whether …”
“There’s no harm in trying them,” said Mrs Sullivan. “They don’t taste bad and they are very good at combating anaemia. You’re perfectly welcome to try them – I have more somewhere or other.”
Merlin took an Iron Jelloid out of the packet and popped it into his mouth. “I can taste the iron,” he said. “I really can.”
“There you are,” said Mrs Sullivan. “They do what they claim to do.”
By arrangement with the tram company, the Iron Jelloids photo-shoot took place during a quiet time at their depot on the edge of town. A retired tram driver had been recruited to move the tram to a position where the light would be just right, and he reminisced at length with the photographer about his early days on the trams. The shoot director, a young man in a coat with a fur trim on the collar, looked anxiously at his watch. It was a cold day and the weather forecast had warned of snow showers; they needed to begin.
While being dressed in a vacant tram office, Estelle had asked the wardrobe mistress whether she knew Merlin. “Who is he?” she asked. “They haven’t told me anything about him.”
The wardrobe mistress took a pin out of her mouth. “Nobody,” she said. “He’s nobody.”
Estelle smiled. “H
e must be somebody,” she said.
“He’s a funny wee fellow,” said the other woman. “He’s slightly cross-eyed. There’s not much to him. If the wind came up, it would probably blow him away.”
Estelle said nothing. She loved modelling and the theatre, but she did not like the sharpness of the tongues she encountered there. There was a lot of failure in that world, she thought, and it was their own failure that made people bitter.
“I look forward to meeting him,” she muttered, glancing at her reflection in a mirror held by the wardrobe mistress. “Do I look like a real conductress?”
“Perfect. And may I say something else, Estelle? Your skin is really beautiful. It really is. The last time I saw a complexion like yours it was on a duchess. No, I’m not making that up. I saw a duchess in the flesh – a very young one – and she had a complexion just like yours.” She paused. “Some people have all the luck, you know – even if they don’t deserve it.”
They went outside, where Merlin, already in his tram inspector’s costume, was waiting for Estelle. They were introduced by the shoot director, who, after making the introductions, said, “All right everybody – this is the story. Boy has met girl. Not much chance for him, I’m afraid, because he’s pretty weedy. But … and here’s the selling point, everybody, he’s been taking Iron Jelloids, and now, guess what, he has more confidence. He’s stronger. He doesn’t feel like a shorty any longer. He proposes to her, on the step of the tram. And underneath the photograph of this touching little encounter we’ll have the words: Now that I’m taking Iron Jelloids I feel I can at last propose!” He paused. “Got it?” he asked.
Estelle nodded. Merlin looked away. Then Estelle mounted the step of the tram, and that is when it happened.
It took place very quickly, as most accidents do. The driver of the tram had been in the cab, but stepped out because he believed a brake was on. It was not, and when he left the controls the tram, which was on a very slight slope, started to roll backwards. The photographer shouted out, and the driver was alerted. He started back to the cab, but tripped, and fell heavily on the ground. On the step of the tram, Estelle hung on to a railing, and uttered a shriek.
Without hesitation, Merlin sprang forward and put his shoulder to the side of the tram in an attempt to stop its motion. Of course, it was an impossible task, but for a second or two it seemed that he was impeding it. And during those seconds, the driver stumbled to his feet and climbed back into the cab to apply the brake.
“Oh, my goodness!” exclaimed the director. “Talk about an action shot!”
“Are you all right?” Estelle asked Merlin solicitously. “You were a real hero there.”
“Perfectly all right,” Merlin replied, dusting the side of his jacket. And then, with a shaft of wit, asked the director, “Was that in the contract?”
They all laughed.
“Back to work,” shouted the director, clapping his hands.
That evening, Mrs Sullivan listened as Merlin related the events of the day. She was particularly interested to hear about Estelle Harbord.
“We got on very well,” said Merlin. “We have a lot in common.”
Mrs Sullivan hardly dared ask the question. It was the most important question of all in her view. “Is she Catholic?” she asked.
Merlin smiled. “I don’t see what difference that makes.”
Mrs Sullivan looked away. “You know what I mean, Merlin. You know full well.”
He sighed. “You’re as bad as my mother, sometimes, Mrs Sullivan. But yes, the answer’s yes.”
“That’s nice.” She paused. “Will you be seeing her again, do you think?”
She knew what the answer would be. Estelle Harbord would be well above poor Merlin’s station. It was unfair – so unfair.
“As it happens,” he said, “we shall be going out together tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you asked her,” said Mrs Sullivan.
“She asked me,” said Merlin.
“My goodness.”
Merlin sat back in his chair. He felt so good. He felt confident. He felt strong. This was it – there was no doubt about it. He was good at reading people’s expressions, and he had read Estelle’s without difficulty. She had fallen for him – she definitely had.
And he was right. She had. They married six months later. At the wedding service, Mrs Sullivan felt a greater joy than she had ever experienced before, even at her own wedding. This, she thought, is an expression of the Holy Spirit, beyond any doubt – and Iron Jelloids too, she said to herself, guilty at the very thought.
Students
I AM VERY, VERY CROSS, AND I THINK MY DISCONTENT IS evident in this photograph. People always tell you to smile when you are having your photograph taken, but sometimes that is just too much to ask. This was such an occasion. I simply could not smile because a smile would have been completely wrong in the circumstances. I did not feel like smiling. Definitely not.
Let me tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Alfred George Morrison and I am forty-seven years old. People say that I look a bit older; that, I suppose, is because of all the responsibilities I have to shoulder, particularly when it comes to my wife’s relatives, some of whom, I am sorry to say, are downright feckless. I know that is an inflammatory thing to say, but I see no way round it. Either one says nothing, or one says something like that. Fecklessness cannot be buried under the carpet. Fecklessness will inevitably come out.
My wife, of course, is an exception. She is hard-working and utterly reliable. She is quite unlike her two sisters, their husbands, and their various offspring, particularly one Henry William Maxwell, a student – or so he claims. I have never seen him with a book, however, and I very much doubt whether he possesses one. I shall say more about this young man shortly.
My wife, Susan Patricia Morrison, née Maxwell, comes from Stranraer. I come from Dunfermline, and have lived most of my life in Fife. I see no reason to go anywhere else – certainly I wouldn’t care to go to Stranraer. That’s not that I have anything against my wife’s home town, other than her relatives, that is.
But I should start at the beginning, I suppose. My father was a butcher. He started with a small shop in Dunfermline, but after a while bought another one, and another one after that. He soon had shops in Perth, Dundee, and Aberdeen. There were smaller shops in places like Forfar and Montrose. He was one of the most successful butchers in Scotland and was even chosen as Scottish Businessman of the Year by the Dundee Courier. He was very proud of that, and the issue in which this award was announced was framed on the wall behind his desk. I now have that and keep it in a prominent position in our house, along with my father’s curling trophies, of which there are six. He said to me once, “If we were to have another ice age, Alfred, it would be a great thing for curling.” My father was very witty, and he often said things like that – observations that were thoroughly original and yet could bring a smile to the lips.
My father could have sent me off to an expensive school – to Dollar Academy, or somewhere like that – but he did not, and I am glad that he did not. I received the same schooling as everybody else and so nobody can point at me and say that I got where I am by virtue of a privileged start. “You’re learning exactly the same as everybody else, Alfred,” my father said. “Namely, almost nothing.”
He could have made life easy for me, but he realised that this would not give me the best start. Things that you have not achieved yourself are always less rewarding than the things you have earned through your own hard work. All I ever received from my father was a gift of four thousand pounds when I turned twenty-one – and a share in the shops, of course. But that came later, and by that time I had already built up my own business.
Four thousand pounds is a lot of money, and I went to see my father’s bank manager to discuss what to do with it.
“Gilts,” he said. “I always recommend gilts. Put the money there and it’s safe. It has the Government behind it.”
“B
ut what about capital growth?” I asked. I had read somewhere that with gilts you only got back the face value.
“They are perhaps not the best investment for capital growth,” the bank manager conceded. “But is that what you want?”
It was.
“In that case,” the manager said, “buy property. You can’t go wrong with property.” He paused. “Well you can, actually. I’ve known people who find their house is not worth as much as they think. You can pay too much for property, you see. And then you have to insure it and there are the rates and repairs and … well, property is not for everybody, I suppose. But I can still recommend it if you want security.”
Acting on this advice, I purchased a number of small houses in Perth, Dundee, and St Andrews. The houses in this photograph were my properties in St Andrews, in a small street on the edge of the town. They were in reasonable condition when I bought them, although the plumbing in all of them left something to be desired. I found a good plumber, though – a hard-working man who was an elder of the local church – and he made a fine job of the refurbishment I undertook. I also secured the services of a conscientious house-painter and a skilled joiner. With all these men working on them, the houses were soon in a suitable condition to be let to tenants.
Then I made my mistake. Instead of letting the houses on the open market, I foolishly listened to an approach from my wife’s younger sister, Ethel, whose son, Henry, was enrolling for a course at St Andrews University. I had met this young man on several occasions and although I did not like him very much, I had not heard that he was at all troublesome. In spite of my reservations, I agreed to let the house to him, to live in during the four years of his degree course. He then asked me if his friends could have the lease of the two houses next door. These friends, like him, were all beginning their studies at the university and needed to find somewhere to live.
“They’re sound chaps, Uncle,” Henry said. “There’s Eddie Wilson, who also comes from Stranraer, and Bob Anderson, from Glasgow. They’ll be sharing with a few friends, but all of them, I can assure you, will be reliable tenants.”
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