Childish Things. Robin Jenkins

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      ‘I’m surprised Kate made you give such a promise, but she wouldn’t have if she’d known it was me you were going to marry. You see, when I visited her in hospital, just days before she died, we had a very private talk about you, Gregor. She said that she was worried about you. You pretended to be so sure of yourself, but you weren’t really.’

      Some of that was true, but what had it to do with Millie? Kate had liked her but hadn’t respected her much, thinking her too submissive!

      Thank heaven I would soon be safe in California.

      ‘I was thinking of going with you to California, Gregor, but I was afraid it would spoil my chances of getting a quick divorce. So, I’m sorry, Gregor, I can’t go with you.’

      ‘That’s all right, Millie. I understand.’

      ‘Will you write to me?’

      ‘Of course I will.’

      ‘Every day?’

      ‘I might not manage every day.’

      ‘Well, twice a week at least. I’ll write to you every day. I don’t think I’ve got Madge’s address.’

      She ran out of the kitchen and in a minute was back with a writing pad and a pen.

      I was tempted to write down a false address. A letter a day from Millie would rouse suspicions. Better if all those letters went astray.

      But I could not bring myself to do it. I felt, obscurely, that I ought to be on Millie’s side and not against her. So I wrote down the right address.

      ‘Thanks, Gregor.’ She flung her arms round my neck. Her lips kissed my ear. ‘If we went upstairs, who would know?’

      Who indeed? She didn’t even have a cat.

      The thought of doing away with her flitted into my mind. As she had said, who would know? Of course, it flitted out again just as fast.

      Suddenly she let go of me and again ran out of the kitchen, in such a hurry that I thought she had an urgent need to go to the lavatory, having drunk too much wine and having eaten too much goulash.

      She came louping in, as naked as an ocelot and as fierce-looking. I was reminded of a painting in the Glasgow Art Gallery, by a Dutch artist: the same doll-like face, small breasts, big stomach, sparse pubic hair, and knock-knees. One big difference, though, was that the woman in the painting looked wistful, whereas Millie looked rapacious.

      With a twirl she turned round, showing me her most attractive feature. Alas, I saw only a pallid steatopygosity.

      I felt pity, not desire. I realised that she was not right in her mind.

      Had she really loved Tulloch and wanted him back, in spite of his cruelties?

      ‘Take off your clothes, Gregor,’ she whispered.

      I had a memory, of childhood, myself aged five or so, and a girl – was her name Bessie Greenloaning? – also aged five, doing ‘dirty things’ in a coal cellar; that was, examining each other’s private parts. Here I was, at 72, threatened with a similar experience.

      ‘I want to see it, Gregor. Tulloch never let me see it. He made me hold it but he never let me see it.’

      All I could say or rather stammer was ‘I think you should go and put on your clothes, Millie.’

      This was a woman whom for years I had looked on with lust but also with goodwill and affection. I owed her something, but how could I repay it? I remembered how she had ecstatically praised Tulloch to people who had known how contemptuously he had treated her. Still loving him, she was in a pitiful plight, from which there was no escape.

      ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go upstairs with me, Gregor?’

      It was time for me to make my own escape. Excusing myself, I pushed past her and made for the hall. There I had some difficulty putting on my raincoat and hat, and getting my umbrella out of the stand. I was in a state of agitation.

      She had not followed me into the hall. I could not see her but I heard her, weeping and wailing.

      ‘Good night, Millie,’ I cried, as I opened the outside door. ‘Go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

      With that craven advice, I rushed out into the rain. I couldn’t put up my umbrella, my hands had forgotten how to do it. I hardly knew where I was. I kept thinking that, if Millie was found dead in the morning, I would be to blame.

      I thought of telephoning Morag McVey and asking her to go and see that Millie was all right but, if Millie wasn’t all right, if she’d done away with herself, I would have involved myself.

      The only person who could have helped Millie was a million miles away, in Mrs Cardross’s arms.

      Before I went to bed, I had decided to telephone Millie herself in the morning.

       9

      That Friday morning, I had promised myself to pay a visit to Kate’s grave.

      I kept hoping, and dreading, that Millie would telephone me but, by the time I was ready to go out, she hadn’t, so, with some foreboding, I dialled her number. There was no answer. I let it ring for half a minute, but still there was no answer. Perhaps she was asleep.

      I would try again when I came back from the kirkyard.

      It was a cold dry morning. I did not take my car. The walk would do me good.

      Grief should have had me stooped and shambling. My clothes should have shown signs of neglect, my shoes unpolished, the laces loose. Instead, I was as smartly turned out as ever. I walked briskly, with head held high. I lifted my hat, smiled, called cheerful greetings. It would be talked about in the tearooms.

      They did not know, no one did, that from the age of eight, when my father had died, I had fought myself into the habit of never showing how unhappy I felt, how uncertain, how close to despair. I had kept it up all my life. It had won me my medal. It had earned me the reputation of being uncaring. That was how Hector saw me, and Chrissie, and my daughters, and Susan Cramond, and even, sometimes, my beloved Kate. I had loved Kate dearly but I had kept secrets from her and lied to her to protect my pose. But, after all those years, was it still a pose? Had I become what I outwardly appeared?

      I was kenspeckle in the town, if not popular. Most people knew that the red Mercedes, with the black upholstery belonged to me. It could be left parked in various places, night and day, without being vandalised. I might not have been liked but I was respected. I was asked to sing at concerts in aid of local charities and at Burns suppers. No golfer groaned when he saw on the notice-board that he had been drawn as my partner in a competition.

      These were my reflections as I strode through the town and puffed up the brae to the kirkyard.

      Tomorrow a new chapter in my life, perhaps the last chapter, would begin. Tomorrow fresh woods and pastures new. In California should I be a humble grateful old man, sunbathing on the patio, encouraging my grandchildren in their studies, reading СКАЧАТЬ