“Of course I knew he couldn’t. The boy relied on me to get him ready for the night, and I wouldn’t fail him. So after an hour or so, when I knew Zadok had gone, I went in to settle Frankie down, and I did, but I thought he looked a little queer, and he was heavy to lift. In the morning he was dead.
“Do you know what it was? Drownded! I had to get the old Aunt, and she sent for Dr. J.A., and after he looked at Frankie he said that was what it was. Drownded! You see, that poor boy wasn’t like other people. There was some gland right in the top of his head that wasn’t right, and when he went on that water toot with Zadok he must have drunk about—I don’t know—gallons maybe, and it was more than he could stand. The doctor said some of it must have got into his blood, and then into his lungs, and he drownded. The doctor called it pulmonary oedema. I’ve remembered it, because—well, you wouldn’t expect me to forget it, would you? So there had to be another funeral at night, though there was no priest this time, and now there really is a Frankie under that stone that was a fake for so long.
“No, they didn’t tell your parents. In fact, your mother never knew what was up there in the attic all those years. But your grandfather knew, of course, and he and Dr. J.A.—well, it’d be hard to say exactly what happened. They were both relieved, but it wouldn’t have done to let that show. I knew some money changed hands, to make sure Zadok kept his mouth shut. And in an awful way I suppose it was gratitude.
“The money was the end of him. Drank worse and worse, and his work at Devinney’s suffered; he did some jobs that scared the bereaved when they looked into the coffins—all swollen around the face, and a kind of boiled colour. So Devinney had to get rid of him. And the upshot of that was that he fell down drunk one winter night in the lane behind Devinney’s—because he had a sort of unnatural pull toward the place—and nearly froze, and they had to take both his legs off, and even at that they don’t seem to have been able to stop the gangrene. He’s up in the hospital now. It would be kind of you to go and see him. Yes, I go, once a week, and take a few tarts and things. That hospital food is worse than Anna Lemenchick’s.
“After poor Frankie was buried for the second time I didn’t last a week at St. Kilda. One morning the old Aunt and I went right to the mat, there in the kitchen, and she told me to go. Go, I said! It’s you that’ll go if I leave this kitchen! You and the Missus cramming yourselves at every meal worse than Zadok and his beer! Don’t think you’re firing me! I’m the one that’s doing the firing! Just see how you get along without me! You pair of old stuff-puddings! That was common of me, Francis, but I was worked up. Not even your grandfather could persuade me to stay after that. How could I stay in a place where I’d showed myself common?”
Francis knew that something had to be said, and though it is not easy for young people to say such things, he said it.
“Victoria, I don’t suppose anybody will ever know what you did for that fellow—Francis the First, I call him—but you were wonderful, and I thank you for him, and for everybody. You were an angel.”
“Well, I don’t see any need to get soft about it, Francis. I did what had to be done. As for thanks, your grandfather was very generous when the parting came. Your grandfather sees farther than most people. Who do you suppose is paying for Zadok in the hospital? And the money that allowed me to set up this place was a gift from him.”
“I’m glad. And you can play the tough Presbyterian all you please, Victoria, but I’ll go right on thinking of you as an angel.” And Francis kissed her soundly.
“Frank—for Heaven’s sake! Not in the shop! Suppose somebody saw!”
“They’d think there were more tarts in here than the ones in the showcase,” said Francis, and dodged through the door as the outraged Victoria called after him.
“That’s quite enough of that sort of talk. You’re worse than Zadok.”
WAS IT POSSIBLE to be worse than Zadok? When Francis visited him in the hospital later that day it seemed that Zadok’s decline could not be equalled. The ward was hot and stuffy; there were no patients in the other two beds, so Francis could talk freely to the wasted trunk that lay in the bed nearest the window, with a kind of cage under the sheet to lift it from where the legs had once been. The stench of disinfectant was oppressive, and from Zadok’s bed there came, from time to time, a whiff of something disgusting, a scent of evil omen.
“It’s this gang-green, they call it, Frankie. I can feel it all through me. B’God I can taste it. Can’t seem to stop it, though they’ve taken my legs. It’s an eating sore, y’know. Dr. J.A. says he’s never seen it so bad, though he’s seen some bad cases in the lumber camps. Says he doesn’t know why I’m not dead, because I’m a mass of corruption. He can talk like that to me because I’m an old soldier, me dear, and I can bear the worst. He’s not unkind; it’s just that he sees the world as a huge disease, and we’re all part of it.”
“It’s very, very bad luck, Zadok.”
“I’ve known very bad luck in my time, me dear. I’ve looked it right in its ugly mug, and it’s a terror. Yes, it’s a rum start what can happen to a man. I’ve never told you about South Africa, have I?”
“I knew you’d fought there.”
“I fought well there. I did some good work. I was up for promotion and a decoration. Then it all fell to pieces because of love. You wouldn’t think of that, would you? But love it was, and I’m not ashamed of it now.
“I was in a regiment raised in Cornwall, you see, and I went under the lead of a young man who was the son of the great family in my part. His father was an Earl, so he was a Lord. The Captain, he was. God, he was a handsome man, Frankie! We’d grown up together, almost, because I’d followed him all my life, hunting, fishing, roving, everything boys do. So of course I joined the regiment under him, and I was his batman—his personal servant, like. Before I joined I’d been two or three years in his father’s house as an under-servant, a footman that was, so it seemed a very natural thing that I should go on looking after his clothes, and even trimming his hair, like. We were friends, great friends, the way a master and a servant can be. And I swear to God he never laid a finger on me nor I on him in a way that would bring shame on either of us. It wasn’t like that; I’ve seen some o’ that, in the Army and out of it, and I swear it wasn’t like that. But I loved the Captain, the way you’d love a hero. And he was a hero. A very brave, fine man.
“Like many a hero, he was killed. Stopped a Boer sniper’s bullet. So we buried him, and I did my best for him right to the end. Dressed him, and saw his hair was washed, and he looked very fine in the cheap coffin that was all there was, of course. ‘Yes, let me like a soldier fall.’ Remember that song?
“I thought I’d die, too. At night I used to sneak out after Lights Out, and sit by his grave. One night a picket noticed me, lying on the grave and crying my heart out, and he reported me, and there was an awful fuss. I was charged, and the Colonel had a lot to say about how such behaviour was unworthy of a soldier and could be harmful to morale, and how such immoral relationships must be sharply discouraged, and I was discharged without honour and sent back home, and bang went my medal, and a big part of my life. The Colonel wasn’t one of our lot. Not a Cornishman, and he didn’t understand me. I wonder if he ever loved anything or anybody in his life. So that was very bad luck.”
“Terrible bad luck, Zadok. But I understand. It was like the love that held the Grail knights together, and the people who served them in innocent love.”
“Ah, well, I don’t know anything about that. But of course you’re part Cornish, aren’t you, Frankie? Not that I’d say they were a very loving lot, on the whole. But they’re a loyal lot.”
“What did you do in England?”
“Whatever I could. Servant, mostly, and some jobs for undertakers. But there was one thing that seemed almost as if it was meant to make up for the other, and it was love too, in a funny way.
“It was like a dream, really. That’s the way it seems to me now.
“The
re was one regimental sergeant-major—good bloke—that I’d known, and he was kind to me now and then. He had a funny sideline. Used to supply men—soldiers mostly—to places that wanted servants for big dos, just to dress the place up, you know; not really do much except wear the livery and look tall and trustworthy. Well, I’d been a footman, hadn’t I? Get a few bob for an easy night’s work.
“One night was a big night in one of the big hotels, and I was on the job, all gussied up in breeches and a velvet claw-hammer and white wig. No moustache then, of course. A servant must shave clean. We’d done our job and I was just about to take off the fancy clobber when some fellow—one of the upper waiters—rushed up to me and said, ‘Here, we’re short-handed; just take this up to number two-four-two will you, and give it in before you leave.’ And he handed me a tray with a bottle of champagne and some glasses on it, and dashed away. So up I went, knocked on the door, very soft as I’d been taught in the castle, and went in.
“Girl in there. Alone, so far as I could see. Beautiful girl, I remember, though I couldn’t say now what her face was like, because she was so beautifully dressed, and a servant isn’t supposed to stare, or even look anybody in the eye, unless asked. ‘Open it, please,’ she said. Soft voice; might have been French, I thought. So I opened and poured, and said, ‘Will that be all, madam?’ Because orders were that any lady had to be ‘madam’, not ‘miss’. ‘Wait a minute,’ said she. ‘I want to have a good look at you.’ And I still didn’t raise my eyes, you see, Frankie. I don’t know how long she looked. Might have been a minute. Might have been two. Then she says, very soft, ‘Do you ever go to the theatre?’ ‘Not much in my line, madam,’ said I. ‘Oh, you should,’ says she. ‘I’ve been and it’s perfectly wonderful. You haven’t seen Monsieur Beaucaire?’ ‘Don’t know the gentleman, madam,’ I said. ‘Of course you don’t,’ she said; ‘he’s imaginary. He’s in a play. He’s a valet who’s really a prince. And the actor who plays Monsieur Beaucaire is the most beautiful man in the world. His name is Mr. Lewis Waller,’ she said.
“Well, then I knew a little more. I’d heard of Lewis Waller. Matinee idol, they used to call him. A real swell. Then what she said really surprised me, and I had to look in her face.
“ ‘You’re the very image of him in Monsieur Beaucaire,’ she said. ‘The costume, the white wig. It’s astonishing! You must have a glass of champagne.’
“ ‘Strictly against orders, miss,’ I said, forgetting myself when I called her that.
“ ‘But strictly according to my orders,’ said she, very much the little princess. ‘I’m lonely, and I don’t like to drink alone. So you must have a glass with me.’
“I knew that was just swank. She wasn’t used to drinking much any time, not to speak of alone. But I did what she said. And I made my glass last, but she had three. We talked. She did, that’s to say. I kept mum.
“There was something amiss with her. Don’t know what it was. All excited, and yet not happy, as if she’d lost a shilling and found a sixpence, if you follow me.
“Well, I soon saw what it was. I had seen something of life, and I’d seen a good deal of women, of all kinds. She wanted it. You know what I mean? Not like some old woman who’s crazy with vanity and foolishness and fear of her own age. She wanted it, and I swear, Frankie, I didn’t take advantage of her. I just lived in the present, so to speak, and after some more talk I did what she wanted—not that she asked bolt outright or even seemed to know much about how it was managed. And I swear to you I was perfectly respectful, because she was a sweet kiddie and I wouldn’t have harmed her for the world. It was lovely. Lovely! And when it was over she wasn’t crying or anything, but looked as if she was ready for bed, so I carried her into the bedroom and laid her down, and gave her one good kiss, and left.
“Frank, it was the sweetest thing that ever happened in my whole life! A dream! It’d be hard to tell it to most people. They’d grin and know best, and think badly of her, and that would be dead wrong, for it wasn’t that way at all.
“When I was out in the corridor I passed a big mirror, and saw myself, in the livery and the white wig. I looked hard. Maybe I was Monsieur Beaucaire, whoever he was. Anyhow, it did something wonderful for me. I was able to put the Army disgrace and the dishonourable discharge behind me, and try to get on in the world.
“Not that I did, not in any big way But after a while I decided to try my luck in Canada, and fetched up here. And now I’ve ended like this.
“No, I never saw her again. Never knew her name. A rum start, me dear. That’s all you can say about it. A rum start.”
Zadok was weary, and Francis rose to go. “Is there anything I can do for you, Zadok?”
“Nobody can do anything for me, me dear. Nothing at all.”
“That’s not like you. You’ll get well. You’ll see.”
“Kindly meant, Frankie, but I know better. Suppose I did get well? No legs—what’d that add up to? Old soldier with no legs, playing the mouth-organ in the street? Not me! Not for Joe! So it’s good-bye, me dear.”
Zadok smiled a gap-toothed, red-nosed smile, but his moustache, once proudly dyed and now a yellowish grey, had still a dandified twist.
Francis, moved by an impulse he had no time to consider, leaned over the bed and kissed the ruined man on the cheek. Then he hurried from the room, for fear Zadok should see that he was weeping.
The little hospital was at some distance from the town. As Francis emerged, one of Blairlogie’s two taxis had just set down a passenger and was about to drive away. But the driver pulled up suddenly, and shouted: “Hey, Chicken! D’yuh want a taxi?” It was Alexander Dagg.
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
“Where yuh been?”
“I haven’t lived here for a good many years.”
“I know that. I ast yuh where yuh been.”
Francis did not answer.
“Visiting somebody in the hospital? That old bum Hoyle, I’ll bet. He’s dying, isn’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe about it. Say—d’yuh know what I’m going to tell yuh? Nobody was surprised what happened. My Maw says what happened to him is a warning to all boozers.”
During his time at Colborne College and Spook, Francis had learned a few things in the gymnasium he had not known when he was at Carlyle Rural. He was now more than six feet tall, and strong. He walked to the taxi, reached through the window by the driver’s seat, seized Alexander Dagg by the front of his shirt, and yanked him sharply toward the door.
“Hey! Go easy, Chicken. That hurts!”
“It’ll hurt worse if you don’t shut your big, loud mouth, Dagg. Now you listen to me: I don’t give a good god-damn what you think or what your evil-minded old bitch of a Maw thinks. Now you be on your way, or I’ll beat the shit out of you!” Francis thrust Alexander very hard against the steering-wheel, then wiped his hands on his handkerchief.
“Oh, so that’s how it is! Oh, I’m very sorry, Mr. Cornish, very sorry indeed, your royal highness. Say—d’yuh know what I’m going to tell yuh? My Maw says the McRorys are all a bunch of bloodsuckers, just using this town for whatever they can get out of it. Bloodsuckers, the lot of yez!”
This was hurled bitterly from the window as Alexander Dagg drove away, his head dangerously twisted so that he could not see where he was going; he narrowly missed hitting a tree. Francis should have kept his dignity and his undoubted victory, but he was not quite old enough for that. He picked up a stone and hurled it at the flying car, and had the satisfaction of hearing it strike with a force that undoubtedly damaged the taxi’s paint.
“OH DEAR, I had promised a duck for your last dinner, Francis, but this doesn’t seem to be a duck, does it? So what I said must have been un canard.”
“Certainly un canard, and this is un malard imaginaire, Mary-Ben. Look at this! The blood follows the knife as you cut it.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, J.A. Don’t eat it, Francis. You don’t have to be polite here.”
“Yes, but not to the point of eating raw—what do you suppose it is, J.A.?”
“At a rough guess I should say that whatever is on our plates approached the oven believing itself to be a capon,” said the Doctor. “Mary-Ben, you can’t go on like this; Anna Lemenchick can’t cook and that’s all there is to it.”
“But J.A., she believes herself to be the cook.”
“Then you must shatter her illusion, before she kills you and Marie-Louise. I insist, on behalf of my patients. Ah, it was a sorry day when you let Victoria Cameron leave this house.”
“J.A., there was no help for it. She had become a tyrant—an utter tyrant. Kicked right over the traces if I made the slightest criticism—”
“Mary-Ben, learn to know yourself before it’s too late to learn anything! You nagged her without mercy because she was a Black Protestant, and you hadn’t the bigness of spirit to see that her quality as an artist raised her above mere matters of sect—”
“Joe, you are unkind! As if I could nag.”
“You’re a sweet nagger, Mary-Ben—the very worst kind. But we mustn’t wrangle on Francis’s last evening here. Now, what’s to follow this horrible duck or whatever it is? A pie, is it? God send the pastry isn’t raw.”
But the pastry was raw. Anna Lemenchick, stolid and indifferent to the amount of uneaten food she removed on the plates, now brought in a tray on which was a bowl of hot bread-and-milk for the patient upstairs. Aunt excused herself, and hurried off with the tray to feed Marie-Louise, who liked company with her meals of slops. Dr. J.A. rose and fetched a bottle of the Senator’s port from the sideboard, and sat down with Francis.
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