Читать книгу The Cone-Gatherers - Robin Jenkins - Страница 7
ОглавлениеDuror had walked about a quarter of a mile along the road when a motor car, with masked headlights, overtook and passed him, hooting peevishly. It drew up a short way in front, with two apologetic and welcoming toots of its horn. When he came nearer he recognised it as Dr Matheson’s car, and wished he had waited in the wood a half-hour longer.
The old man grinned at him.
‘Thought I recognised your stalwart figure, Duror,’ he chuckled. ‘You’re not frightened, though, strolling along like that in the dark. Country folk these days ought to be supplied with luminous behinds. Been out on the prowl for poachers?’
‘Yes, doctor.’
The doctor smacked his lips. ‘Damned if I blame them,’ he said, ‘with meat as scarce as it is. You know I’m partial to a tender haunch of venison myself. Get in. I’ll take you as far as the gate.’
Duror hesitated: he was in no mood to suffer the doctor’s inquisitive inanities.
‘Put your gun at the back. Hope it’s not loaded. I hate the things. If you’d your dogs with you, damned if I would have stopped. Can’t abide the brutes in a car. My wife used to have one, a brown spaniel; it would keep licking the back of my neck. She said it was only showing its affection. Queer affection, eh, to tickle me into the front of a bus. Get in, man. What are you waiting for?’
Duror climbed in, placing his gun beside the doctor’s bag on the back seat.
Soon they were moving on again.
‘Is Black still at Laggan?’ asked the doctor.
‘Aye.’
Black was the estate forester. He had been loaned by his mistress to the Timber Control Authorities, who were felling a wood at Laggan. He had had to accept the transfer as a national service. In the spring he would return to superintend the cutting down of his own wood.
The doctor was smiling slyly.
‘So you’re the monarch of the woods?’ he asked.
Duror said nothing.
‘A nice fellow, Tom Black,’ said the doctor, ‘but a shade too severe and upright for comfortable Christian intercourse. I understand he believes that every leaf that falls belongs to his master.’
‘So it does.’
‘In theory, certainly. But you and I know, as men of the world, that a wide breathing-space must be allowed between theory and practice; otherwise ordinary mortals like us would be suffocated.’
Duror made no comment.
‘Shoot any deer these days?’
‘Now and again.’
The doctor, sniffing hard, was not only in fancy relishing venison; he was also indicating that, in Black’s absence, deer might safely be killed and shared with a friend.
‘Wolf it all up at the big house, I suppose?’
‘Most of it goes to hospitals.’
The doctor was surprised; he was even shocked; he whistled. ‘Is that so? Take care of the sick, and let the healthy pine.’ Uneasiness entered his laughter as Duror glanced at him. ‘A joke, Duror,’ he added, ‘clean against all professional ethics. But all the same it is damned scun-nersome, spam, spam, spam, at every meal. One of the pleasures I thought I could look forward to in my old age was that of the palate. They tell me even as a baby in my pram I chose the choicest cherry. Why not? Fine eating’s a civilised pastime, and fine drinking too, of course. God, how scarce good whisky’s become. It’s not to be had for love nor money.’
‘I’d have thought a man in your position, doctor, would have a better chance than most any folk.’
‘Meaning what?’ The doctor was involuntarily peevish: the quest for whisky and palatable food was real, bitter, and ceaseless.
‘Well, you carry life and death in your bag.’
‘Ho,’ grunted the old man.
‘And you attend butchers and grocers and farmers and publicans.’
‘Are you insinuating I use my professional position to extort favours from my patients?’
Duror smiled at that haughty senile indignation.
The doctor saw that indignation was a foolish tactic. He began to cackle.
‘Damn your impudence, Duror,’ he said. ‘You’re a sleekit one all right. You don’t say much, but you think plenty. Well, however I fare in other directions, and I’m admitting nothing, I never see any venison. I’ve seen it on the hoof all right racing across the hillsides, but it’s a hell of a long time since I smelled it on my plate. How’s Peggy keeping these days?’
It was an astute question. Peggy was Duror’s wife: for the past twenty years she had lain in bed and grown monstrously obese; her legs were paralysed.
Duror’s voice was as stripped of emotion as a winter tree.
‘As well as can be expected,’ he said.
‘Like myself, still eating more than’s good for her, I suppose? Well, God help us, we’ve to take our pleasures where we can; and skimpy pleasures they are today. Your Peggy’s had a raw deal from life, Duror.’
‘Aye.’
The doctor, with professional interest, glanced aside at the lean, smooth, handsome, tight-lipped 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 a pillow as if it was a baby. Her hair was still wonderfully black and glossy, so that she insisted on wearing it down about her shoulders, bound with red ribbons. White though was her favourite colour. Her nightdresses, with lace at neck and sleeves, were always white and fresh and carefully ironed. When she had been well, in the first two years of their marriage, she had loved to race with him hand-in-hand over moor and field, through whins and briers, up knolls and hills to the clouds: any old skirt and jumper had done then.
Though not capable of conveying it well, either by word or expression, she was pleased and relieved to see him home. Her voice was squeaky with an inveterate petulance, although sometimes, disconcerting everybody who heard it, her old gay laughter could suddenly burst forth, followed by tears of wonder and regret.
He stood by the door.
‘Am I to get a kiss?’ she asked.
‘I’ve still to wash, Peggy. I’ve been in the wood, handling rabbits.’
‘I don’t care. Amn’t I a gamekeeper’s wife? I used to like the smell of rabbits. I want a kiss.’
Her wheedling voice reminded him of the hunchback’s. There wouldn’t, he thought, be room in the hut for so large a bed. Here too everything was white and immaculate, whereas yonder everything was dull, soiled, and scummy. Yet he could see, almost as plainly as he saw his wife in heart-rending coquettish silly tears, the hunchback carving happily at his wooden squirrel.
‘It was another fine afternoon,’ he said.
‘Fine for some folk,’ she whimpered.
‘Didn’t you manage to get out into the garden?’
‘You know it’s too much for my mother to manage by herself. I just had to lie here and watch the tops of the trees.’ Then her voice brightened. ‘Do you know what I was thinking about, John?’
‘No, Peggy.’
‘I was thinking of a day at Fyneside long ago. It was autumn then too. I think autumn’s the bonniest season. You put rowan berries in my hair.’
‘The rowans are just about past,’ he said.
‘For me they’re past forever,’ she cried. ‘I used to love the time when the berries were ripe and red.’
He saw the appeal in her streaming eyes, but he could not respond to it; once it had sent him away with his own eyes wet.
‘Red as blood,’ she sobbed.
Her mother called from the kitchen: ‘Will I put out your tea, John?’
‘In a minute, Mrs Lochie,’ he shouted back. ‘I’d like to wash first. I’ll have to go, Peggy. I’ll come in later, after I’ve had my tea.’
Upstairs in the bathroom he was again haunted by that feeling of being in the cone-gatherers’ hut. Such amenities as toilet soap, a clean towel, and hot water, recalled the bareness and primitiveness there. The flushing of the cistern sent him crouching in the darkness of the cypress. When he stared into the mirror and saw his own face, he was for an instant confused, disappointed, and afraid. He could not say what he had expected or hoped to see.
The table was set for him in the little kitchen. The morning newspaper, which usually arrived in the late afternoon, lay beside his heaped plate of eggs, bacon, and beans. Mrs Lochie was glancing over the table to see that nothing was missing. He never grumbled if anything was, but she always took it as a trick lost.
He thanked her and sat down. He said no grace.
‘Any news at six?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the wireless set.
They listened for a few moments to the sadness of ‘The Rowan Tree’ played in waltz time. He remembered, with a strange jarring of his mind, his wife’s talk of rowans. For an instant he seemed to see a way clear: the tree within was illuminated to its darkest depths. Next moment darkness returned, deeper than ever.
‘It was about Stalingrad,’ she said.
‘Has it fallen yet?’
‘No. It’s in the paper.’
He glanced at the headlines. ‘Aye, so it is.’
Lately she had taken thus to lingering in the kitchen while he ate. Neither of them enjoyed it.
‘Peggy’s getting difficult,’ she said.
It was spoken as if she’d been saving it up for months; yet she’d already said it that morning.
She laid her hand on her heart. ‘I’m finding it beyond my strength to lift and lay her when you’re not in.’
‘There’s Mrs Hendry,’ he murmured.
Mrs Hendry was the wife of the gardener; she lived next door.
‘She’s not a young woman any longer, and she’s never been strong. I don’t like to ask her.’
‘There’s Mrs Black.’
She was the wife of the forester, as devout as he.
‘She’s strong enough,’ he said.
‘But is she willing?’
‘I would say so.’ He thought she was jealous of Mrs Black, who was very patient, kind, and capable; besides, Peggy liked her.
‘Every time she’s asked,’ blurted out Mrs Lochie, ‘she comes running, but there’s always a sermon to listen to. My lassie was never wicked. You should ken that, John Duror.’
He nodded.
She sniffled grimly. ‘Peggy was not just happy herself,’ she said. ‘She made other folk happy too.’
He had been one of the other folk.
‘What pleasure is it for me then,’ she asked fiercely, ‘to listen to Mary Black making out that what happened to Peggy was a punishment.’
‘You’ve misunderstood her.’
‘I ken it’s your opinion, John, that I’m just a stupid stubborn old woman; but I’m still able to understand what the likes of Mary Black has to say to me. A punishment inflicted by God, she says. And when I ask her to explain what she means, what does she say then? She just shakes her head and smiles and says it’s not for her, or for me, or for anybody, to question God or find fault with what He thinks fit to do. But I told her I’d question God to His very face; I’d ask Him what right had even He to punish the innocent.’
He had kept on eating. Not even this impiety was original. God had been defied, threatened, denounced, reviled, so many times before.
‘Why argue with her?’ he asked. ‘You only vex yourself. Forby, she means well enough.’
She pretended to be astonished.
‘How can she mean well enough,’ she demanded, ‘when she suggests your wife deserved a punishment worse than any given to bloodstained murderers.’
‘Does she not also say there’s to be a reward?’
‘If the punishment is suffered gratefully?’
‘Aye.’
‘After death?’
He nodded.
‘Do you believe that, John?’
‘No.’
She glanced away from him. ‘Even if I did,’ she muttered, ‘even if I had a guarantee in my hand this very minute, saying that Peggy in heaven would have it all made up to her, I still wouldn’t be satisfied. It seems to me a shameful thing, to torment the living unjustly and think to remedy it by pampering the dead.’
‘This pampering is supposed to last forever.’
She spat out disgust. ‘I have my own religion,’ she said proudly. ‘I don’t think the Lord’s a wean, to be cruel one minute and all sugary kindness the next.’
He wanted the conversation to end, but he could not resist asking, not for the first time: ‘Is there an explanation, in your religion?’
Once she had retorted by saying that not Peggy’s sins were being punished, but his. It had seemed to him a subtle and convincing theology, but she had immediately retracted it: she would not insult God by crediting Him with less decency and intelligence than the creatures He had made.
‘You ken,’ she answered, still proudly, ‘I have never found that explanation.’
Then they heard Peggy shouting. Instead of the dance music a man’s solemn voice issued from the radio: he was talking about the war. Peggy wanted something more cheerful. Would her mother come and switch to another programme?
His mother-in-law hurried away. He went on with his meal, but suddenly he realised that he was envying the tranquillity and peace of mind in the cone-gatherers’ hut. He paused with his fork at his mouth: that he should envy so misbegotten and godforsaken an imbecile as the hunchback was surely the ultimate horror, madness itself? To hate the hunchback, and therefore to wish to cleanse the wood of his defiling presence, was reasonable; but to wish to change places with him, to covet his hump, his deformed body, his idiot’s mind, and his face with its hellish beauty, was, in fact, already to have begun the exchange. Was this why the hut fascinated him so much?
A comedian was now joking on the wireless. The studio audience howled with laughter. He heard Peggy joining in.
Mrs Lochie returned to the kitchen.
‘Did you remember to feed the dogs?’ he asked.
‘I remembered.’
‘Thanks. I’m sorry I was late.’
‘Are you really sorry, John? You’re late nearly every night now. This is the third time this week.’
He thought, afterwards, he would go up the garden to the dogs’ house. Silence and peace of mind were there too; he wished he could share them. The handsome wise-eyed animals would be eager to welcome him in, but he would not be able to enter. All he would succeed in doing would be to destroy their contentment: they would whine and lick his hands and sorrow because they could not help him.
‘You think the world of those dogs,’ she said accusingly.
‘I need them for my work.’
‘You talk to them oftener than you talk to your wife.’
It was true: the bond between him and the dogs still held.
‘You sit up in that shed for hours with them,’ she said. ‘Fine I ken why. It’s so that you don’t have to sit with your wife.’
‘I told Peggy I’d be in later.’
‘For five minutes.’
He did not speak.
‘It’s what will happen to her when I’m gone that worries me,’ she said. ‘Who will toil after her as I have done? Nobody in this wide empty world.’
He let her enjoy her sobs.
‘I can only hope she’s taken before I am,’ she went on, ‘though she is thirty years younger. If I went it would be an institution for incurables for her. I’m not blind. I see the way things are shaping.’
Do you really, he thought, see this tree growing and spreading in my mind? And is its fruit madness?
‘Was there any message for me from the big house?’ he asked.
‘Aye. It seems the mistress’s brother has arrived for a day or two’s leave before he goes overseas. She sounded excited. He’s younger than she is. Anyway, she wants a deer hunt arranged for him tomorrow.’
‘But I’ve got no men for a deer drive.’
‘That’s none of my business. You’d better explain it to her when you see her. She wants you to be early: half-past nine. Are you finished here? Have you had enough?’
‘Aye, plenty, thanks.’ He rose up.
She began to gather the plates and cutlery. Out of the window he caught sight of stars glittering above the dark tops of trees.
‘You’ll be going in to talk to Peggy?’
The comedian was still cracking jokes, and the laughter of his audience surged like waves. Peggy would tell him about the jokes he had missed.
‘Later,’ he said. ‘I want to have a look at Prince’s paw. He got a thorn in it yesterday.’
‘I ken a heart with thorns in it.’
For a moment he almost gave way and shouted, with fists outstretched towards those stars, that in his heart and brain were thorns bitterer than those that bled the brow of Christ. Instead, he merely nodded.
‘I’ll not be long,’ he murmured. ‘I’m frightened the paw might fester.’
Quick though he had been in his restraint, she had caught another glimpse of his torment. It shocked her and yet it satisfied her too: she saw it, clear as the sun in the sky, as divine retribution.
‘A heart can fester too, John,’ she said, as he opened the door and went out.
Going up the path to visit the dogs, he loitered and tried to light his pipe. It was such a night as ought to have enticed his head and shoulders amongst the stars. But he could not even enjoy his pipe. When he had it at last lit, after striking eight matches, he found that as usual he had been expecting too much from it; it seemed merely a device to exercise his agitation rather than to allay it.
The air was keen with frost. Tomorrow would be another warm sunny day, ideal for a deer drive. An idea suddenly occurred to him, simple, obvious, likely to be approved by his mistress, yet to him a conscious surrender to evil. It would be easy for him to persuade Lady Runcie-Campbell to telephone Mr Tulloch to ask for the services of his men as beaters for the drive. The forester would not dare refuse. The cone-gatherers would have to obey; and surely the dwarf, who slobbered over a rabbit’s broken legs, must be driven by the sight of butchered deer into a drivelling obscenity. Lady Runcie-Campbell, in spite of her pity, would be disgusted. She would readily give him permission to dismiss them from the wood. That dismissal might be his own liberation.
All the time that he was ministering to his three golden Labrador dogs, he was perfecting his scheme to ensnare the cone-gatherers: preparing what he would say to Lady Runcie-Campbell to overcome her scruples; planning the positions he would give them during the deer drive; and considering what would be the best setting in which to give them the order to go for ever from the wood.
The dogs were uneasy. Although he spoke to them with more than customary friendliness, and handled them with unwonted gentleness, they still mistrusted him. They nuzzled into his hands, they thrust themselves against his legs, they gazed up at him with affection; but there was always a detectable droop of appeasement, as if they sensed what was in his mind and were afraid that it might at any moment goad him into maltreating them. He was more and more aware of their apprehension, and saw himself, in furious revenge, rising and snatching a switch from the wall and thrashing them till their noses and eyes dripped faithful blood: they would suffer his maddest cruelty without retaliation. But as he saw himself thus berserk he sat on the box and continued to pat the cringing dogs and speak consolingly to them.
Several times his mother-in-law shouted to him from the back door that Peggy was asking where he was and when he was coming to see her. He did not answer, and left the shed only when his wife’s light had gone out.
He was going into his own bedroom when Mrs Lochie opened the door of hers. She was in her nightgown.
‘So you’ve come in at last,’ she whispered.
He closed his eyes.
‘I thought you’d like to ken your wife sobbed herself to sleep. I thought if you knew that it might help to soothe you over yourself. I ken you find sleep hard to come by.’
He smiled, with his eyes still closed. Several times, desperate in his sleeplessness, he had left the house and wandered in the wood long after midnight.
‘I think,’ she whispered, ‘you’ll never sleep again this side of the grave.’
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
‘And on the other side?’ he asked, in a voice so mild it disconcerted her.
‘If you have deserved mercy, John, you’ll get it,’ she answered.
Then she closed her door, but not before he had heard her sobbing.
‘It’s too late,’ he muttered, as he went into his room and stood with his hand on the bed-rail. ‘It’s too late.’ He did not clearly know what it meant, but he recognised the sense of loss that began to possess him, until he felt as terrified and desolate as an infant separated from his mother in a great crowd.
