The Complete Short Stories (46 page)

Mollie followed him with
the lemon jug.

‘Very good scholarships,’
Jennie was saying to an elderly man. ‘Jeff came fourth among the boys, and
Marjie took eleventh place in the girls. There were only fourteen scholarships,
so she was lucky. If it hadn’t been for the geography she’d have been near the
top. Her English teacher told me.

‘Really!’ said the man.

‘Yes,’ said Jennie. ‘Mollie
Thomas; you know Mollie Thomas. That’s Marjie’s English mistress. She’s here
tonight. Where’s Mollie?’ said Jennie, looking round.

‘She’s in the kitchen,’
I said.

‘Making Loopamp, I
expect,’ said Jennie. ‘What a name, Loopamp!’

Simon and Jennie looked
rather jaded the next morning. I put it down to the Loopamp. They had very
little to say, and when Simon had left for London, I asked Jennie how she was
feeling.

‘Not too good,’ she
said. ‘Not too good. I am really sorry, my dear, about the petrol. I wish you
had asked me for the money. Now, here it is, and don’t say another word. Simon’s
so touchy.’

‘Touchy?’

‘Well,’ said Jennie; ‘you
know what men are like. I wish you had come to me about it. You know how
scrupulous I am about debts. And so is Simon. He just didn’t know you had got
the petrol, and, of course, he couldn’t understand why you felt hurt.’

I sent myself a wire
that morning, summoning myself back to London. There wasn’t a train before the
6.30, but I caught this. Simon arrived home as I was getting into the taxi, and
he joined Jennie and the children on the doorstep to wave goodbye.

‘Mind you come again
soon,’ said Jennie.

As I waved back, I
noticed that the twins, who were waving to me, were not looking at me, but at
their parents. There was an expression on their faces which I have only seen
once before. That was at the Royal Academy, when I saw a famous portrait
painter standing bemused, giving a remarkable and long look at the work of his
own hands. So, with wonder, pride and bewilderment, did the twins gaze upon
Jennie and Simon.

I wrote and thanked
them, avoiding any reference to future meetings. By return I had a letter from
Simon. ‘I am sorry,’ he wrote, ‘that you got the impression that Mollie and I
were behaving improperly in the kitchen on the night of our party. Jennie was
very upset. She does not, of course, doubt my fidelity, but she is distressed
that you could suggest such a thing. It was very embarrassing for Jennie to
hear it in front of all her friends, and I hope, for Jennie’s sake, you will
not mention to her that I have written you about it. Jennie would rather die
than hurt your feelings. Yours ever, Simon Reeves.’

‘A Sad Tale’s Best
for Winter’

There was a man lived by a graveyard. His
name was Selwyn Macgregor, the nicest boy who ever committed the sin of whisky.

‘Selwyn, what a place to
live.’

‘Have a tot for the road,
dear.’

‘Oh, Selwyn!’

‘I get my letter
tomorrow. Tomorrow I get the letter. ‘Now, Selwyn Macgregor!’

‘It always arrives the
first of the month. The first it always comes.

‘Macgregor, you’re a
case. Make it a small one.’

‘For the road, mind.’

‘Mac, I’m on my way.
What a place to live, what a graveyard and the mucky old church with the barbed
wire round it, who’d ever want to trespass within yon?’

‘Cheerio, cheers!’

‘Here’s to you, Mr
Macgregor. I would have to be a sore old tramp to shelter in yon for the night.
The barbed wire I cannot understand, I can not.’

‘The money comes on the
first.’

‘I’m away, Selwyn, the
night’s begun to rise.’

So it continued for
thirteen years, with Selwyn increasing in age from twenty-five to thirty-eight.
At twenty-five he was invalided out of the army, at thirty-eight was still
living in the shack in the garden of the fallen manse. There by the graveyard
he was still getting his letter from Edinburgh every month on the 1st, when he
would cash the cheque.

‘Good evening, Mr Macgregor.

‘Just a tot, the both of
you, come on now.

‘Mr Macgregor, we beg to
inquire, will you play the piano at the concert?’

‘Aw, but that’s to be
the middle of the month.’

‘Mac, you will play us a
piece.

‘Mid-month I’ll be in
contemplation.

‘No more for me — well,
a small … that’s enough, Mr M.’

‘Cheerio!’

‘We’ll put you down for
a tune then, Selwyn.’

‘Aw no, I said.’

‘Mr Selwyn, you’ll go
melancholy mad. What a place to dwell by!’

‘Here’s luck t’you both.’

Always, about the middle
of the month, Selwyn’s money ran dry. Then he would go thirsty; he wouldn’t
open the door to anyone even if they had a plate of dinner in their hands. He
lived on what he could get, turnips and sometimes the loaves and dinners which
they left on the doorstep. The 25th of the month he opened his doors again,
borrowed a bit till the 1st, received visitors, brought out the bottle.

But in those ten silent
days between the middle of the month and the 25th Selwyn Macgregor would sit by
his window and contemplate the graves of the dead.

Selwyn’s aunt lived in a tenement flat in
the Warrender district of Edinburgh. Those flats were once occupied by people
of good substance and still here and there contain a whole lot of wealth behind
the lack of show.

‘The district’s going
down,’ Selwyn’s aunt was saying for twenty years. But let anyone come and tell
her, ‘This quarter’s going down’:

‘Not in my
consideration, it isn’t,’ she would say.

It was Selwyn’s Aunt
Macgregor who, in view of the fact that his mother had been Welsh, sent him his
monthly cheque, for it wasn’t Selwyn’s fault that his mother had been Welsh and
mad or at least bone lazy. What’s bred in the bone comes out.

There wouldn’t be much
point in going into many details about Aunt Macgregor, what she looked like in
her navy blue and how her eyes, nose and mouth were disposed among the broken
veins of her fine severe old face, because her features went, as Selwyn said,
under the earth where corruption is, and her navy blue went to the nurse.

Well, she died. Some
months before, you must know, she visited Selwyn up there in that shack by the
graveyard. She wore her brown, for she was careful with the navy. So up she
went on the excursion to Selwyn Macgregor. He wasn’t contemplating just then,
so the doors were open.

‘Auntie Macgregor! A
little drop, Auntie, oh come on, a bit of a drop. That’s the girl.’

‘Selwyn,’ she said, ‘you’re
the worse.

‘Worse than what?’
Although Selwyn knew she meant for the drink.

‘Worse than what? Worse
than who? Than who-oo-ooo?’ Selwyn kept on chanting, and she started to laugh.
She had a soft spot really for Selwyn.

Well, she died and left
him a packet. Selwyn travelled to the funeral, a bitter cold day. Bitter cold,
and naturally he had his flask in his pocket. For you must know Selwyn
entertained a lively faith in the Resurrection; work it out, there was no
dishonour meant to Aunt Macgregor by Selwyn’s taking precautions against the
cold at the graveside though he tottered and there was talk.

‘Dust to dust…’

‘That’s never Miss
Macgregor’s nephew! Surely yon’s never!’

‘That’s the chief
mourner, her brother’s boy. What’s he up to for the Lord’s sake?’

Selwyn lifted a handful
of earth. But then, then, he stood looking at it with his smile. There was the
coffin waiting and all the people waiting. So when the minister nodded as if to
say, ‘All right, toss it on the coffin,’ Selwyn flung the earth over his left
shoulder out of force of habit, as he did at home with the salt. After that he
beamed round at the mourners as much as to say, ‘Here’s health!’ or ‘Cheerio!’
or some similar saying.

‘Poor Miss Macgregor.
The only relative, poor soul.’

Shortly afterwards Selwyn received a letter
about his aunt’s will from one of the trustees. It was rather complicated, and
so Selwyn wrote, ‘Come and see me after the 25th. And he busied himself with
contemplation until that date. On the 26th the trustee arrived at Selwyn’s
door with his healthy face and dark overcoat. Selwyn thought, what a nice wee
trustee, here’s hoping he’s brought some ready.

‘Make yourself at home,’
said Selwyn, getting out another glass.

‘Ta,’ said the man.

‘Here’s hoping,’ Selwyn
said.

And eventually this
trustee said to Selwyn, ‘You know the provision in Miss Macgregor’s will?’

‘I did notice something,’
Selwyn declared, ‘in that letter you sent me but I was busy at the time.’

So the man read out the
will, and when he came to the bit ‘… to my nephew Selwyn Macgregor…’ he
stopped and looked at Selwyn, … providing,’ he continued, ‘he looks after his
health.’

‘My auntie all over,’
Selwyn said and filled up the glasses. ‘A very fine woman, Mr —?’

‘Brown,’ said the man. ‘My
partner Mr Harper is the other trustee. You’ll get on fine with him. When will
you be moving from here?’

‘Aw when I’m dead,’ said
Selwyn.

‘Now, Mr Macgregor, this
is not a healthy spot. The will says —’

‘To hell with the will,’
said Selwyn, and patted Mr Brown on the shoulder, so that Mr Brown couldn’t
help warming to him, what with the whisky-tingle inside him, and the pleasant
Welsh lilt of the ‘l’s’ when Selwyn had said, ‘To hell with the will.’

‘My work keeps me here,’
Selwyn added.

‘What is your work, Mr
Macgregor?’

‘The contemplation of
corruption.’

‘Now, Mr Macgregor, that
is not a healthy occupation. I don’t wish to be difficult but my partner Mr
Harper takes his duty as a trustee very much to heart. Miss Macgregor was an
old client of ours and she always worried about your health.’

‘Bung ho, press on!’
said Selwyn.

‘Same to you, Mr Mac.
Here’s to you, sir.’

‘You can tell Harper,’
Selwyn pointed out, ‘that you found me in good health and busy working.’

‘You look a bit thin, Mr
Macgregor. This doesn’t look a healthy spot to me.

Selwyn played him a tune
and sang him a song. ‘O mother, mother,’ he sang, ‘make my bed. O make it soft
and narrow …’

‘Very nice,’ said the
trustee when he’d finished. ‘That was rare. ‘I’m a musician,’ said Selwyn. ‘You
needn’t mention my other work to Harper.’

‘Here, you’re trying to
corrupt me, that’ll never do. Didn’t you say corruption was your line?’

‘No, no. I do
contemplation of corruption,’ Selwyn explained. ‘A very different thing, very
high. Drink up.’

‘Here’s wishing you all
you wish yourself;’ said Mr Brown. ‘You don’t corrupt me, mind!’

‘It’s either I corrupt
you or you corrupt me,’ Selwyn stated, and he went on to explain himself; and
they argued the point while the time became timeless and they got muddled over
the word corrupt, calling it cupped.

‘Who’s cupping who?’
said Mr Brown. ‘Who’s cups?’

Eventually Selwyn couldn’t
laugh for coughing, and again, he couldn’t cough for laughing. When he recovered
he passed the bottle and went deep into the question of cups being a corrupt
form of corrupt.

He sang
out, ‘Ha, ha, ha.
Hee, hee, hee. I’ll cup you or you’ll cup me.

‘Here’s a short life and
a merry one!’ said Mr Brown.

Well, it was Selwyn corrupted the trustee.
His monthly cheque, bigger than before, continued to come in. All through the
winter he carried on his routine, doors open for company on the 25th, and on
the 15th doors shut, and Selwyn at his window contemplating the dead graves.

He died the following
spring. There had been an X-ray two years back, when Selwyn had said, ‘Aw to
hell with my chest, I’ve work to do. Here’s a health!’

Mr Brown said to his
partner, ‘He never told me of his chest. If I’d known of it I would have seen
him into a warm house and a new suit. I would have seen him with a housekeeper
and I would have seen him into medical hands.’

‘These musicians,’ said
Mr Harper. ‘Too dedicated. One must admire them, though.’

‘Oh, must one? Oh, must
one?’ said Mr Brown irritably, for he couldn’t himself think highly of Selwyn
who had been so shabby as to actually die when he had more or less agreed only
to contemplate.

‘A sad tale,’ said Mr
Harper dreamily. ‘Macgregor was a hero in his way.

‘Oh, was he? Oh, was he?’
At that moment Mr Brown despised his stupid partner almost more than he
resented the dead man. Though lately, chancing to be in those parts where
Selwyn had lived, even Mr Brown couldn’t help the thought, ‘Oh, Selwyn
Macgregor, what a manner you had!’ And when he saw that they had levelled out
the old graveyard to make a playground for the children, he contemplated Selwyn’s
corruption for a long time.

Christmas Fugue

As a growing schoolgirl Cynthia had been a
nature-lover; in those days she had thought of herself in those terms. She
would love to go for solitary walks beside a river, feel the rain on her face,
lean over old walls, gazing into dark pools. She was dreamy, wrote
nature-poetry. It was part of a Home Counties culture of the 1970s, and she had
left all but the memories behind her when she left England to join her cousin
Moira, a girl slightly older than herself, in Sydney, where Moira ran a random
boutique of youthful clothes, handbags, hand-made slippers, ceramics, cushions,
decorated writing paper, and many other art-like objects. Moira married a
successful lawyer and moved to Adelaide. Beautiful Sydney suddenly became empty
for Cynthia. She had a boyfriend. He, too, suddenly became empty. At
twenty-four she wanted a new life. She had never really known the old life.