Childish Things. Robin Jenkins

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       4

      Hector’s house was in darkness. Though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, he would be in bed. God knew what dreams he had. It had been his and Kate’s family home and had been left to them jointly. A large stone villa with an extensive garden, it was worth a great deal of money. Kate’s share would now be mine.

      Their father had been a popular philanthropic doctor, with most of his patients among the poor in the east end.

      I kept my finger on the bell-button, though I wouldn’t have been surprised to know that it didn’t work. The whole house was decrepit, the garden was a jungle for cats. Kate had refused to put pressure on her brother.

      A more brilliant scholar than ever I was, with a first-class degree in Classics, Hector after the war had, perversely, continued to work as a farm labourer until his strength ran out. He had then bought the bookshop. He had once cast up that the war had been good to me. Millions had been slaughtered so that I could win a medal and use it to rise in my profession, while he weeded turnips.

      At last noises were heard behind the door.

      ‘Who’s there?’ It was Hector’s sullen defeated voice.

      ‘It’s me, Gregor.’

      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘To talk to you, about Kate.’

      ‘I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.’

      I couldn’t resist being sarcastic. ‘I thought, Hector, your sympathies were with poor suffering humanity.’

      ‘When did you ever suffer?’

      ‘I’m suffering now. I loved Kate.’

      ‘You’ve never loved anyone but yourself.’

      This was a man I had tried to be friendly with, whose stand as a conscientious objector I had defended. But I kept my temper. A winner of the Military Medal ought not to let himself be provoked by a querulous failed peace-monger. Besides, at the graveside he had wept.

      ‘For Kate’s sake, Hector, open the door.’

      Under my breath I sang a snatch of Burns’s poignant song: ‘Oh open the door, some pity to show.’ I had sung it at Burns suppers. On the other side of the door was a man who had never been at a Burns supper in his life.

      His opening of the door was a lengthy business. Two keys had to be turned, a bolt withdrawn, and a chain removed. Hector, when revealed, was carrying an ebony baton.

      This was a man supposed to trust in the goodwill of neighbours and nations.

      Even as a boy, according to Kate, he had never taken part in children’s games. In the greatest game of the century he had refused to participate and so had missed the immeasurable joy of sharing a noble and dangerous cause with many comrades.

      The hall stank of cats’ piss. A big ginger Tom was on top of a small white female, clutching her with his claws. On his face was an expression of single-minded dedication that no human lover could ever have achieved.

      ‘What do you do with all the kittens?’ I asked.

      ‘I give them to children.’

      ‘What about those you can’t give away? Do you drown them?’

      He didn’t answer.

      The living-room was even smellier. Every chair was occupied by a cat. I threw one off and sat down. I held my hat on my lap. This was to keep cats off. Two were already nudging against my legs.

      Hector was wearing an old dirty dressing-gown over his pyjamas. He seemed reluctant to put down his cudgel. I kept on the alert. This stench might have a murderous effect, like a drug.

      ‘You knew Kate a lot longer than I did, Hector. You were both born in this house.’

      He had a face like a medieval martyr, with sunken cheeks, morbid eyes, and invisible thorns on his brow. He had taken it all, life and death, too seriously. He had never hurt a fly and yet he still agonised in his conscience more than men who had bombed cities. He was proof that no one could be at home in the 20th century who wasn’t prepared to kill his fellow men, let alone drown kittens.

      As far as I knew, he had never had a girl-friend. That was another game he had kept aloof from. It was a wonder he hadn’t had all his cats neutered.

      I was already regretting that I had come. The room was poorly lit. Was that a photograph on the sideboard? Yes, it was. She was smiling. Where are you, Kate, my love? My eyes were wet.

      ‘Madge said you might be going to live with her in California,’ he said, craftily.

      ‘They’ve СКАЧАТЬ