Patricia and Malise (2 page)

Christian began, in a limited fashion, to enjoy the company of his step-mother. He liked to help her make a shopping list that included coloured spills to help with lighting the fire – not that they lit it other than on Saturday evenings. On weekdays and on Sundays it was a four-barred electric heater that kept the sitting room warm. He helped Alyson to wash up dishes and to polish pieces of crested silver.

‘Remember Christian' she often said as she wore a happy smile, ‘Remember if things don't always seem to be bright, remember who you are. I, of course, wasn't born a Mc Hip but when I married your daddy I was honoured to become one. It might help to recall that you have roots in the aristocracy.'

‘What are woots?' he asked, puzzled, as they walked the dog. Alyson began on a tedious explanation of his connections with a ducal family before he lost interest.

He often had problems in understanding what she said. She tended to sigh and complain about ‘them.'

‘What they say' – ‘What they think' – ‘What they want.' Christian tried hard to work out who ‘they' might be – knowing few people as he did.

He preferred to walk alone through vast farm buildings where swallows swirled above him in summer months. He also much enjoyed watching a sty full of pigs as they stank and gobbled at vegetable stalks – and remembered, wistfully, how Malise had repeatedly told him, ‘It's ridiculous how people talk of pigs as being dirty animals. The truth is quite the reverse. They are the very opposite.'

Christian had never understood those words – pigs looked filthy to him – but he knew his brother always to tell the truth.

There were two major treats each week. On Saturdays, at tea time in the sitting room, no wireless in the nursery, he listened with Alyson and his father to a weekly installment of Just William. It was terrifically exciting as the male announcer stopped before uttering the last word whereupon a female voice took over and called, desperately and highly pitched, the name ‘William.' Her cry was long, drawn-out and added a kick to the programme. At such times, Christian was pleased that Malise was away – for his brother despised ‘such dwivel.'

The other highlight was also a wireless programme called Monday Night at Eight O'clock. He listened to that alone with Alyson who told him each time. ‘Daddy has gone off to the nursery with what they call his maps and with Malise's last letter.'

Being on a Monday, they didn't light the fire but, in winter, allowed themselves the use of the four-barred electric heater.

It was on the Home Service and, although the wireless crackled, the interviews, the musical break, the short detective play and the quizzes were entirely absorbing.

Christian believed himself to be part of the show and acted in rhythm to the tuneful start. He sang loud and well.

‘It's Monday night at eight o'clock

Oh! Can't you hear the chimes?

Telling you to take an easy chair

Settle by the fireside, take out your
Radio Times

For Monday Night at Eight is on the air.'

Alyson never tried to hush him but murmured ‘they say it's educational.'

Thus the school terms went on. Christian joined Alyson on her shopping days at the local Co-operative store. There was a plaque there that read

All my neighbours, all my friends

Enjoy their Coop dividends

But I have been a foolish shopper

And haven't saved a single copper.'

‘So Christian' his step mother assured him as she tucked her shopping into a vast leather bag, ‘We are not foolish shoppers, as they say.'

Many weeks and months were struggled through, but Christian's heart missed several beats as a certain summer holiday drew near. He cancelled all choir practices and camps. Eight weeks or thereabouts with Malise to hand. Their romps had, of course, come to an end but the hero worship endured.

He was destined to join him at boarding school when these particular holidays were over.

Christian, Alyson and the dog (a black Labrador called Digger) met Malise at the station all of eight miles away. Malise had spent one night with a cousin of Alyson's in Hampstead on his way back from school. He was tall even though his growth spurt hadn't completed. His father and Alyson had planned that he visit a London branch of an Edinburgh tailor in order to be fitted for a kilt. By Christmas it was likely that he would be invited to more than one local ‘hop.'

Now sixteen, Malise surveyed the farm house as the car turned into the drive. Wysteria dripped over the porch. At foot level by the front door, stood a wrought-iron shoe-scraper and a giant cannonball. He awoke to the fact that it was not altogether an undesirable place. Farm buildings, cottages, antiquity. His father had already been old when he was born. It was certain, one day, to belong to him. He'd see to it that Christian and Alyson were both suitably housed in farm cottages. Standing to full height, he planned to pull his weight and to behave with correctitude. He was delighted by his looks and the prospect of a professionally put-together kilt (with sporran and socks) to be sent to the farm in good time for the Christmas holidays to start. Christian followed him around and occasionally, when he dared, asked what was likely to become of him when he joined his brother at boarding school the following term.

‘Don't fwet Chwissy.' Malise smiled. ‘We have to fend for ourselves in the big world. No more sitting around listening to Just William.'

Most days Malise wandered in the garden and took stock of its charm – noting that it was extremely well tended. It was filled with a mixture of flowers, vegetables, (mostly looked after by Christian), bamboos, grasses and fruit trees. He had learnt that it was almost entirely cared for by one toothless old man. Not extravagant, he noted. Alyson did her bit and even the ageing father pruned roses in summer months. The trees were fluffed out with blossom and the smell of lilies was stupefying. Against one wall stood a creaking greenhouse, bulging with ripening grapes. Altogether a reasonable inheritance. Nothing tremendous, of course, but some of his school mates lived in town terraces.

One afternoon he heard Alyson say, as she led a visiting neighbour, a Mrs Ruggles who came to take cuttings, round the paths ‘We own, they say, two hundred acres.'

The Ruggles family owned two thousand acres and lived in a truly impressive house. Mrs Ruggles had smiled in discreet pride as Alyson told her about their modest plot and Malise squirmed with shame on behalf of his father and his illustrious ancestors.

Malise's mother's teaching had not taken root and, only last term, he had responded to a tract, smuggled in by Mr Scarlatti, on positive atheism by Bertrand Russell. This tract told him that his mother had barked up the wrong tree. Christian would do well to change his name. His own was less telling to the world at large.

Christian, clutching his Teddy bear, was terrified. He started his first term at boarding school while Malise made it clear that they were to see little of each other. ‘Learn to stand on your own two feet', he advised as the train stopped at the school station before they shuffled off it with their trunks.

Mr Scarlatti, frustrated to a point of near madness by the emotional remoteness of his protégé, (although rewarded to have interested him in the works of Bertrand Russell and to have, therefore, something with him to discuss – in however a stately way) was dreadfully disappointed by the appearance of his brother. He was not entirely sure what he had expected. What he saw was a boy, low-browed, ruddy-cheeked, and lacking in coordination. Shy, awkward and unhappy. A poor replica of the Adonis he had come to worship.

Nothing much developed for any of them during that term. Mr Scarlatti's disappointment, Malise's interest in atheism and Christian's lonely misery were the features that distinguished it from other terms.

At home, Alyson made suggestions as her husband listened obediently.

‘Don't you think, dear, it's time that Malise mixed with some of the young round here? He will, by the time the Christmas holidays come round, have that lovely kilt and I am willing, as you know, to drive him to any local hops.'

She had actually already heard about a ‘hop' to take place during Christmas week. It was to be thrown by Mrs Ruggles (the one who Alyson had boasted to about her two hundred acres) and it was known that Mrs Ruggles was frantic to gather in some boys to partner her daughter and two of her nieces. Some suitable ‘lads'.

The term moved slowly for both boys. For Christian because he was homesick. For Malise due to impatience after hearing from Alyson that he had been invited to no fewer than two ‘hops' in the holidays, by which time his kilt would have arrived.

‘They say' Alyson had written ‘That the Ruggleses live in some style and it will be a good introduction for you in this part of the world.'

The evening of the ‘hop' came round. As luck went, it was on a Monday evening and Alyson, having driven Malise to the Ruggles's house, was able to get back in time to listen, with Christian, to their favourite programme after making him a mug of Ovaltine.

Earlier, Alyson had learnt that reels were going to be danced and had passed the news on to her stepson by postcard. Malise had, with the help of Mr Scarlatti – who strained every muscle in his body in order to please – discovered a Scottish reel expert to teach steps in secret towards the end of the term. He learnt how to dance some of the more popular ones and became particularly expert at reversing.

With Alyson at the wheel, they followed a drive, flanked by iron railings, to a sweep in front of a house that had once been a small manor – added to before the first war to produce several handsome panelled rooms and some columns at the front.

Once inside, Malise was much taken by a large hall from which a staircase wound up. A great fire roared. There were several heads of game on the walls, bunches of holly hanging from them. A tall tree stood in the well of the stairs, an angel on the top. He was greeted by Mrs Ruggles – all curls and teeth – as Alyson slipped away.

The hostess, as were others, were astounded by Malise's appearance. More handsome than any had, or had ever expected, to see. He was contented in his kilt. All guests were offered fruit cup and vol-au-vents. ‘To warm you up' Mrs Ruggles said although both the cup and the vol-au-vents were cold. Mr Ruggles was nowhere to be seen.

After the introductions (there were more girls than boys and one or two of the girls wore white frocks and coloured sashes – ready for reels) they were all summoned into a large room in which the carpet had been rolled back. There was a huge radiogram in there and by its side stood a lad, the gardener's son who manned it, dropping in eight records at one go.

The music began and Mrs Ruggles touched Malise's arm. ‘The one with the blue sash. You can partner her for the Gay Gordons.' She was already a bit rattled and picked out the first girl who looked animated.

His kilt rippled as he kept impeccable time, paying particular attention to his reversing skills. The girl with the blue sash did well too and, when the reels were over, they sat together and sipped fruit cup and ate more of the vol-au-vents – ignoring all others.

The girl, not more than fifteen years old, wriggled and squirmed as they talked of local spots. Her lips parted and her bosom heaved as she lost her being in the aura of the handsomest boy she had ever seen – even in advertisements.

Reels were over and the gardener's son, much enjoying himself, plopped dance tunes, a Viennese Waltz or two included, into the machine. Shy and agonised teenagers moved again towards the patch of floor from which the carpet had been rolled up. Several girls were left without partners (the hostess's daughter and one of the visiting nieces among them) and talked frenziedly to each other as they stuffed more and more vol-au-vents between their discreetly painted lips.

Malise signalled to the girl by his side. ‘Shall we tread a gay measure?'

He decided that he was not the sort of partner who cared to talk while dancing but wished to fit himself to a correct style with a flourish at the turns. They danced and Malise held the girl, whose name was Dawn, around her waist. She began to writhe, to heave and to quiver all over. Steamed and all but exploded as Malise realized that he was having trouble beneath his kilt. Noticing no others, the pair sweated and became ecstatic. They danced and danced – Dawn in a state of bewildered blindness;|Malise not bewildered exactly – but blind to surroundings. This went on until Mrs Ruggles announced ‘Now. Dancing over.'

She had spotted the writhing but showed no outward sign of anguish other than to send a message via one of her daughters to Mr Ruggles who hid in his study. His presence was needed immediately.

A sheepish and diminutive Mr Ruggles, at the side of his wife, spoke hesitantly. ‘Dancing over and now a bit more to eat before your parents join us all for a nightcap and then take you all home.'

Malise gave Dawn a vague look – as to bestow a promise. He forced his eyes to water as they gazed into hers.

‘Here come the parent-birds' Mrs Ruggles shouted as the front door opened and middle aged couples – Alyson among them – arrived, bringing with them an icy draught.

Alyson had no idea why Mrs Ruggles was less friendly than before but did not query Malise's social skills.

After fruit salad and meringues, the fathers were offered a glass of whisky each by the unwilling and desiccated Mr Ruggles.

Alyson, her double chin wobbling, wanted to hear more about the evening as they sat beside each other in the car but Malise was still uncomfortable in his kilt and offered little in the way of answer.

‘Did you join in the reels dear?'

‘Yes. Yes. I did.'

‘One or two of the girls were pretty weren't they?'

‘Yes. Yes. They were.'

‘I expect you enjoyed the music and getting to know some neighbours.'

‘Yes. Yes. I did.'

Small reward for all the ferrying she had done.

After he had folded his clothes in the bathroom, Malise placed the sporran beside the kilt and noticed a scrap of paper peeping from it. It gave the name ‘Dawn Willis' as well as an address. She did, he realised, live not unreasonably far away.

When he had cleaned his teeth he called out to Alyson who was in the passage wearing a pink bath cap, ‘Did you say there was to be another ‘hop' before Christmas?'

‘Yes dear. I'm pleased you enjoyed it. The next one won't be quite as splendid as the Ruggleses but it will do you good to mingle with the young again. It's a lovely neighbourhood.'

Christian pretended to be asleep when Malise switched on the overhead light. Although Alyson had always done her best to mother the boys she had never got round to helping them out with bedside lamps. Malise had removed his copy of the Bible – once hopefully placed beside his bed by his mother. It had been replaced by Bertrand Russell's
Why I Am Not
A
Christian.

Christian's much studied holy book still sat on his spindly table. As did his Teddy bear.