The Cone-Gatherers. Robin Jenkins

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СКАЧАТЬ face. For all its composure he suspected a sort of fanaticism lurking in it. God knew how many inhibitions, repressions, and complexes were twisting and coiling there, like the snakes of damnation. God ought to know, for the human mind and its vicissitudes were more His business than a country doctor’s. Physically Duror was as strong as a bear: a fastidious man too, not any whore would suffice. Well, there used in the palmy days before the war to be a fine selection of maids to choose from in the big house. There were few now: Mars had claimed his nymphs, and paid them well.

      ‘And Mrs Lochie?’

      ‘She never complains.’

      The doctor was surprised by a sudden pang of pity for his companion. In that conventional answer was concealed the kind of stoicism and irony that he admired. Mrs Lochie was Duror’s mother-in-law, who kept house for him and nursed his wife. Behind his back she slandered him to everybody, even, it was said, to passing pedlars. What she said to his face in private could be conjectured. Yes, thought the doctor, poor Duror for all his pretence of self-possession and invulnerability had been fighting his own war for years: there must be deep wounds, though they did not show; and there could not be victory.

      Unaccountably the doctor laughed: annoyed with himself, he had to lie.

      ‘Excuse me, Duror,’ he said. ‘Something old Maggie McHugh of Fernbrae said. I’ve just been having a look at old Rab’s leg; he broke it three weeks ago taking a kick at a thrawn cow. She’s a coarse old tinker, yon one, but refreshing. Anyway, I find her refreshing. What she was for doing to Hitler.’ He laughed again. ‘Well, here we are at the manorial gates.’

      He stopped the car, and Duror, picking up his gun, got out.

      ‘Thanks, doctor,’ he said, touching his cap.

      ‘Don’t mention it. This a Home Guard night?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well, if you should happen to shoot any deer, be sure to tell it I was asking for it.’

      ‘I’ll do that, doctor.’

      ‘And, Duror –’ The doctor, wishing out of compassion and duty to say something helpful and comforting, found there was nothing he could think of.

      Duror waited.

      ‘We’ve just got to make the best of things, Duror. I know that’s a bloody trite thing to say, and not much help. Good night.’

      ‘Good night, doctor,’ replied Duror, smiling, ‘and thanks again for the lift.’

      As he watched the car move away his smile faded: a profound bleakness took its place.

      ‘Greedy old pig,’ he murmured. ‘So it’s only venison you lack?’

      At his usual easy assured pace he walked through the gateway. Passing the gate-house, he remembered young John Farquarson whom he had once seen lying outside it in his pram, and who now was soldiering in Africa. The envy that he felt, corrosive and agonising, was again reduced outwardly to a faint smile. Thus for the past twenty years he had disciplined himself to hide suffering. By everyone, except Mrs Lochie, he was known as a man of restraint, reticence, and gravity; she alone had caught glimpses of him with the iron mask of determination off for a rest. This overwhelming aversion for the insignificant cone-gatherers had taken him unawares; with it had come the imbecile frenzy to drive them out of the wood, the even more imbecile hope that their expulsion would avert the crisis darkening in his mind, and consequently the feeling of dependence upon them. For a long time he had dreaded this loss of control, this pleasing of itself by his tormented mind; now it was happening.

      A large elm tree stood outside his house. Many times, just by staring at it, in winter even, his mind had been soothed, his faith in his ability to endure to the end sustained. Here was a work of nature, living in the way ordained, resisting the buffets of tempests and repairing with its own silent strength the damage suffered: at all times simple, adequate, preeminently in its proper place. It had become a habit with him, leaving the house in the morning, returning to it at night, to touch the tree: not to caress it, or press it, or let his hand linger; just lightly to touch it, with no word spoken and no thought formed. Now the bond was broken. He could not bear to look at the tall tree: he was betraying it; he no longer was willing to share with it the burden of endurance.

      Like a man to whom time was plentiful, and numerous resources still available, he set his gun neatly in the rack in the porch and hung his cap on its peg. It seemed to be that obvious and commonplace act, the hanging of the old tweed cap on brass peg in the oak panelling of the porch, that deranged his mind so that abruptly it became reluctant or even unable to accept that he was now at home, in his own house, amidst carpets, pictures, and furniture all familiar in themselves and in their tidiness. He saw all these, just as he heard the Scottish dance music from the living-room, and felt the warmth after the chilly evening; yet it was as if, after his long vigil under the cypress tree, he had at last entered the cone-gatherers’ hut. Hesitating there in the hallway, he felt himself breaking apart: doomed and resigned he was in the house; still yearning after hope, he was in that miserable hut.

      He allowed himself no such gestures as putting hand to brow or closing his eyes. Why should he no longer simulate pleasure at being home? What salvation was he seeking in this hut under the cypress?

      ‘Is that you, John?’ called his mother-in-law sharply from the living-room.

      ‘Aye, it’s me,’ he answered, and went in.

      She was seated knitting beside the wireless set. The door to Peggy’s bedroom was wide open to let her too listen to the cheerful music.

      Mrs Lochie was a stout white-haired woman, with an expression of dour resoluteness that she wore always, whether peeling potatoes or feeding hens or as at present knitting a white bedjacket. It was her intimation that never would she allow her daughter’s misfortune to conquer her, but that also never would she forgive whoever was responsible for that misfortune. Even in sleep her features did not relax, as if God too was a suspect, not to be trusted.

      ‘You’re late,’ she said, as she rose and put down her knitting. It was an accusation. ‘She’s been anxious about you. I’ll set out your tea.’

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, and stood still.

      ‘Aren’t you going in?’ she asked. ‘That’s her shouting for you.’ She came close to him and whispered. ‘Do you think I don’t ken what an effort it is for you?’

      There was no pity in her question, only condemnation; and his very glance towards the bedroom where his wife, with plaintive giggles, kept calling his name proved her right.

      ‘It’s a pity, isn’t it,’ whispered Mrs Lochie, with a smile, ‘she doesn’t die and leave you in peace?’

      He did not deny her insinuation, nor did he try to explain to her that love itself perhaps could become paralysed.

      ‘Take care, though,’ she muttered, as she went away, ‘you don’t let her see it.’

      With a shudder he walked over and stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

      Peggy was propped up on pillows, and was busy chewing. The sweetness of her youth still haunting amidst the great wobbling masses of pallid fat that composed her face added to her grotesqueness a pathos that often had visitors bursting into unexpected tears. She loved children but they were terrified by her; she would for hours dandle СКАЧАТЬ