The Complete Short Stories Part 31

'Very good scholars.h.i.+ps,' 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 scholars.h.i.+ps, 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 embarra.s.sing 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 trespa.s.s 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 gla.s.s.

'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 gla.s.ses. '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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l 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, cus.h.i.+ons, 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.

So many friends had invited her to spend Christmas Day with them that she couldn't remember how many. Kind faces, smiling, 'You'll be lonely without Moira ... What are your plans for Christmas?' Georgie (her so-called boyfriend): 'Look, you must come to us. We'd love you to come to us for Christmas. My kid brother and sister...'

Cynthia felt terribly empty, 'Actually, I'm going back to England.'

'So soon? Before Christmas?'

She packed her things, gave away all the stuff she didn't want. She had a one-way air ticket, Sydney-London, precisely on Christmas Day. She would spend Christmas Day on the plane. She thought all the time of all the beauty and blossoming lifestyle she was leaving behind her, the sea, the beaches, the shops, the mountains, but now it was like leaning over an old wall, dreaming. England was her destination, and really her destiny. She had never had a full adult life in England. Georgie saw her off on the plane. He was going for a new life, too, to the blue hills and wonderful colours of Brisbane, where his only uncle needed him on his Queensland sheep farm. For someone else, Cynthia thought, he won't be empty. Far from it. But he is empty for me.

She would not be alone in England. Her parents, divorced, were in their early fifties. Her brother, still unmarried, was a City accountant. An aunt had died recently; Cynthia was the executor of her will. She would not be alone in England, or in any way wondering what to do.