The Man Who Wanted to Smell Books

by Elspeth Davie

  The man in front stopped suddenly, glanced back for a moment and went on again. The beach had begun to curve round and cut off sight of the town. The main shopping street had long since disappeared, and then the big, south-facing hotels. One by one the spaced-out villas went and finally the furthest caravan. In front was a long stretch of black stones and a great gash in the nearest cliff where they had been torn out. Once or twice Watson found his foot jammed between rocks and once he stopped to put on a shoe which had been ripped off. It took longer than he’d bargained for. He had to balance himself at a slant while he tipped out the sand and knotted up the wet laces. When he set off again he had to stop himself breaking into a run on the smoother stretches. This would have looked like pursuit. He was not a pursuer but a follower. Carruthers stopped again, shouted something unintelligible and went on. Watson was used to words being swamped. For all he knew it might have been ‘Come on!’ or ‘Get moving!’ He hurried on.

  They had now come a long way and again the character of the shore had changed. Instead of black rocks there was now an open stretch of sand in front, covered with grey pebbles. Driftwood was piled under the cliff, stripped trees and bleached green ropes, baskets, and fish boxes with Scandinavian names. And bones. White birdbones, white skulls and the bones of sheep. Everything was blanched here. Momentarily Watson felt himself stripped and bloodless, walking like a ghost amongst cast-offs. He forgot the chunks of red flesh where he worked, the meaty bones and lumps of opaque fat – these were far behind him. He was entering a dimension made transparent by endless wind and sea. He could also see with peculiar clarity what was in front. A long strip of low cloud was lifting and he saw familiar green meadows against black sky – a glassy green today, like the green of thick sea-bottles through which an illusion of great distance can be seen. Watson wasn’t looking at the ground now. But the man in front had slowed down and every now and then he stopped to shift something with his foot. Sometimes he picked up a stone or a piece of wood. Watson was close enough now to hear his breathing. Suddenly Carruthers stopped dead and turned round. ‘GO … AWAY!’ he shouted, putting slow and blistering emphasis onto both words. Watson stopped, looked wildly round for guidance, and came on. Again the man in front swerved, again he shouted while still moving on and making pushing gestures back with his arms as he walked. Watson saw the fields more transparent than ever through a shimmer of water. He hesitated for an instant, staring at his feet, then plodded on. Carruthers lengthened his stride until there was again a fair distance between them, but after some time he slowed down, finally came to a halt. Grimly, but on a more resigned note, he called back: ‘What do you want?’ Slowly Watson made up on him. He didn’t, however, come right up but approached to within some yards and stopped.

  ‘What do you want?’ Carruthers said again. He looked, close-up, unexpectedly tall.

  ‘I have questions,’ said Watson. The voice was deferential.

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ said Carruthers. Watson turned to repudiate this, for the tide was still a good way out. The water was making no more than a gentle splashing on the stones.

  ‘And I don’t want to hear,’ said Carruthers, watching the direction of his eyes. ‘If it’s the walk you want I can’t stop you, can I? But if it’s company – I’m not your man. You’d better go back.’

  ‘Dozens of questions,’ said Watson, his voice still soft but at the same time stubborn.

  Carruthers gave a great shrug of his shoulders and turned. Not far in front was a hollowed out part of the cliff – hardly a cave but deep enough with its overhanging bluff to give shelter. Carruthers made for this. It was obviously known to him. Already he had wedged himself and his stuff into a ledge of rock and was sitting easing off one of his boots when Watson came up and stood discreetly at the opening.

  ‘So this is your place!’ he said at last, looking about him with suspicious reverence. Carruthers had taken off his jacket and was rummaging in his bag. ‘What do you mean – my place? I’m not a cave-dweller. It’s some sort of shelter from the wind when I want to eat.’

  ‘When you want to think,’ Watson corrected him. Carruthers sighed. He unwrapped a packet which contained three rolls, a few rings of raw onion, a lump of cheese, tomatoes, and some slices of boiled egg which he put on one side. ‘You’d better help yourself,’ he said, pointing to the rolls.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ said Watson. ‘I didn’t come for food.’

  ‘Is that so? Then you can watch me eat.’ Carruthers brought back the egg slices and started to fill a roll.

  ‘I can go off if you like,’ said Watson. ‘I can come back when you’re finished.’

  Carruthers blew sand from the roll’s crust. ‘Oh, sit down! You worry me standing out there. You’ll only shuffle up more sand. Do you think I’m a member of some tribe who’s forbidden to eat in public? As a matter of fact I’m perfectly used to eating with dozens, maybe hundreds, staring at me.’ He took a bite of the roll and after some time added thoughtfully: ‘Under a spotlight too.’

  ‘Spotlight,’ Watson repeated. He thought of a sunshaft. Perhaps even moonlight.

  ‘I’m talking, of course, about eating on stage. And the food was real food. Don’t have any misconceptions about that. I could have made a meal of it if I’d wanted to.’ Carruthers was reluctantly resigning himself to the young man, but he spoke and ate as though solely for himself. Occasionally he stopped chewing and his eyes warmed as some memory struck him. Watson was staring blankly ahead and Carruthers turned his head for a moment and looked at him. ‘You work in that big butcher’s shop in town, don’t you? I caught sight of you the other day throwing double links of sausages from the end of a knife.’ He opened up another roll, packed it with cheese and pressed it down.

  ‘Are you going to say I shouldn’t work with meat?’ said Watson.

  ‘God – what now! Why should I do that? I was about to congratulate you on a remarkable act.’

  ‘All right. I thought maybe you were a vegetarian, along with everything else.’

  ‘Along with everything else! Look, eat up, for God’s sake, and stop staring.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Watson. ‘I told you what I’d come for.’

  ‘Oh, yes – questions, of course. What questions? If it’s questions about me …’

  ‘No – more than that …!’

  ‘If it’s about me,’ Carruthers went on, ignoring this, ‘that’s easy. There’s only one thing to tell. I’ve already mentioned it. I’m a theatre man, first and always – and very proud of it too,’ he added as he watched Watson’s face. ‘That is, of course whenever the job’s there. When the job’s not there, when the curtain’s down too long, that is, in the spare time – amongst other things – I’m a preacher. For the fun of it.’

  ‘Fun!’ Watson turned at last a bleak and harrowed face.

  ‘Or for the hell of it, if you’d rather.’ Carruthers watched the movement of Watson’s mouth and eyebrows with professional interest. ‘I’d hesitate,’ he said, ‘to call myself an actor pure and simple. And I have my pantomime parts of course – not unlike that sausage act of yours. You’ve got the basis there, I may say, for one or two passable turns.’

  Now the silence between them lasted a long time – so long that in the interval the sea had come a few yards further up the beach. It had taken back the heaped-up seaweed and was advancing upon the lowest line of driftwood before Carruthers spoke again. He’d taken some cake from an outside pocket of his bag and was settling down to eat it, his legs stretched out comfortably, his eyes on the horizon. ‘Think of it,’ he said, waving one hand at the water, ‘all those layers upon layers of creatures out there, munching for their lives – nibbling, sucking, sieving through the water for sustenance. Eating and being eaten. And not a speck wasted!’

  ‘I know all that,’ said Watson in a stifled voice, ‘and I don’t want to hear. Your job …’

  ‘Right. What is my job, in your opinion?’

  ‘Your job’s to say
what’s in it all for us! Who cares what’s in the sea? It’s what goes on above …’ Watson signalled to the sky. Carruthers slapped his hand down on a rock. ‘Will you listen to him!’ he exclaimed softly to the invisible shoals.

  ‘I’m the listening one! You saw me. Every free minute, I was down. Every day for the last fortnight …’

  ‘I didn’t ask you. You came of your own accord, and you’re as free to go.’

  Carruthers had produced a can of beer and through the hiss and bubble of its opening he remarked with satisfaction: ‘There’s only one of these. You’ll have to watch this time. You see, I wasn’t prepared for a picnic.’ Watson watched him drink. He drank extravagantly, the knob in his throat frisking. ‘You may well ask “what goes on above?”’ he said at last setting the can down. ‘Unbelievable things go on. Fantastic blow-outs, spinnings and explosions – wholesale drop-outs, stars, groups of galaxies, groups of groups … you want me to go on? We’re still as ignorant of it all as cheese mites about chess, but look – we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we? You might say, and without stretching a point, the curiosity is whetted!’ Carruthers glanced at Watson. ‘Or again you might not.’ He fell silent, but after a time he took the ring off his finger and held it up. ‘I’ve another like this,’ he said watching Watson out of the corner of his eye. ‘Both of them gifts. I’ve also a gold watch – another gift – which I don’t always care to wear. This cheap one does well enough on trips. Time, on seaside shows, counts for nothing. In the theatre, on the other hand, it’s everything.’ He took another drink and leaned back with the bag propping his shoulders. A strange sound came from Watson’s throat as he watched.

  ‘Who was I listening to – up there?’ he cried suddenly in an anguished voice.

  ‘Who? Up there on the prom? Why me, of course. Charles Quentin Carruthers.’

  ‘Player or preacher?’

  ‘Both, both! What’s the matter with the mixture?’ Carruthers sat forward and studied himself. ‘I can turn my hand to most things,’ he said. ‘In the early days I’ve even taken on conjuring, sandwiched between the usual roles – detective, maniac, grandee, and the like. I’ve actually stood in for a singer, and no one was any the wiser in that town. Go on. Look hard. Look as long as you like! You may have met, for once in your life, the genuine all-round, all-purpose man.’ Watson needed no telling. He had his head turned over his shoulder, grimacing as though his neck hurt him. ‘But are you a believer?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I’m a believer all right. Don’t worry. I’ll believe in anything you care to name – as long as it works. Do you want a list of beliefs?’

  ‘Are you a believer?’ Watson said again, without turning his head. Even so his neck seemed to pain him, for his face grew pale. For a long time there was no sound in the cave. Then Carruthers got slowly to his feet, turned in towards the cliff face and stretched up so that his fingertips just touched the bulge of rock above him. He seemed to enjoy the sensation so much so that it was prolonged and the stretch became an effort to put the palms of both hands on the rock. Now he straddled his legs and swung forward, easing his back down and down until his knuckles scraped the stones between his feet. Watson darted a look behind and saw through Carruthers’ shirt the knobbed line of his spine and the fringe of grey hair flopping behind his hands.

  ‘I believe,’ Carruthers was muttering to himself as he came up, ‘in a bit of exercise – the smallest thing is better than nothing at all. How else could I have mastered all the movements I’ve had to make on stage – including falling, fainting, dying?’ Watson glanced behind him once again and shuddered. Carruthers had flopped to the ground and was rolling in a boneless bundle on the sharp stones, knees drawn up, hands clasping head. ‘Unhurt!’ he said, looking up with a grin. Watson turned away quickly as he got to his feet. Carruthers began to stuff his things back into his bag, picking up the odd scraps and wrapping them in newspaper. He went after the beercan which had rolled to the opening. ‘I believe in keeping the place decent,’ he remarked as he went past Watson, ‘whether it’s a house or a cave – every last scrap. You’ll not find a trace of me wherever I’ve been. And clothes. Yes, I know how to keep my clothes looking good, and what’s more, how to wear them. I’ve never been a one to be part of the props or the background. Never.’

  Watson was breathing fast and sitting tight as ever. ‘Have you finished then?’ he asked, ‘– All the things you can do?’ Leaning against the rock-face Carruthers studied Watson – from his decent lacing shoes to the hard knot of the throttling tie at his throat. There was a squeamish mixture of modesty and pride about the man. ‘I like a bit of glitter in my own get-up, I must say,’ said Carruthers, ‘even if it’s only the odd button. People like a show and I believe in showing off. There’s no place for modesty or hanging back in my trade.’ He waited for a reply and getting none went on: ‘People like a fright now and then. I believe in giving it to them. Sometimes when they’re properly scared they’ll cheer and clap. Make it easy and you’ll get chased. I believe in keeping on the move. Never the same place twice if you can help it. Never the same crowd.’

  Watson was beginning to recover himself. There was something lighter and smoother about him now, as though to allow as much of Carruthers’ talk to slide off him as possible. He had slicked down his hair and buttoned his jacket to the neck. He sat with his legs drawn up under him, his hands tucked in his sleeves. ‘You have a box,’ he said. ‘A collecting box.’

  ‘Which I’m not ashamed of,’ said Carruthers quickly. ‘I believe in making the odd pound or two any way I can – talking or standing on my head if need be. But for all that I believe in what I’m saying. I’m not a hoaxer or a swindler.’ He was preparing to leave. He rolled down his sleeves, adjusting the cuffs carefully, put on his jacket and pulled a red and black spotted scarf from the pocket. Lastly he picked up the straw hat and put it on. ‘I believe in myself,’ he said. He went past the small figure at the cave’s opening and out onto the beach.

  Carruthers began striding back purposefully in the direction he had come. He didn’t look round, for Watson was behind, limping a bit now in his thin shoes and going cautiously. But when Carruthers stopped he stopped, when Carruthers moved on he moved on. The distance he kept between them was always the same, exact enough to be measured with a rule. They’d gone a hundred yards or so when Watson climbed on a rock and shouted: ‘I’ve found your weakness!’

  Carruthers stopped and turned. He walked back a little way. ‘Don’t follow me,’ he called out. ‘Walk in front or beside if you must. I won’t be followed.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Watson called back. ‘I’m coming after you, whatever you are.’ Again Carruthers strode ahead, quickening the pace, and Watson quickened his steps and kept his distance.

  ‘I’ve found your weakness!’ he shouted again after a few minutes. Carruthers turned and waited for him to come up. ‘And I’m not the only one,’ said Watson when he was within a yard or two. He was breathing quickly as though he’d been running along behind. ‘Others have noticed. Weakness is the wrong word!’ Carruthers shrugged his shoulders and walked on, but behind Watson was shouting: ‘It’s a trick, isn’t it? You’ve been on it for weeks, maybe months. Have you been playing it for years?’ Again Carruthers waited for him to come within speaking distance. ‘Right – you tell me,’ he said, ‘tell me about this trick, this weakness you’ve discovered.’ Watson was still breathing fast. There was a twist to the upper part of his body, as though he could as easily run back as come on. ‘You’ve worked out your tide-times cleverly,’ he said, ‘for I’ve come at all ungodly hours to hear you – morning, afternoon and evening. Oh, yes, you put the questions all right, but there’s never an answer. You make sure of that. Do you ever reach the end of that sermon of yours? No, because long before you’ve reached the point the waves come up.’

  ‘What point?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘You know what point.’

  ‘I’m asking you. What point?’ said Carruthers.
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  ‘The God bit.’

  ‘Is that all?’ The smile accompanying these words goaded Watson to a frenzy. There was good nature in it, plus a hint of scorn.

  ‘All! We don’t get God. We don’t get heaven, never mind hell. You leave a gap. You leave a blank. You’re off, of course, before the trouble starts. Where are your pamphlets, by the way? There’s not one placard in the town. Why not? Well I can tell you why not. Question marks are all you could chalk up. And you can laugh!’

  With one hand Carruthers slowly wiped the smile from his face and flipped it behind him. ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want to prove something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To test something?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Try it then.’

  ‘Give your talk tomorrow.’

  ‘I mean to. With no encouragement from you, thanks all the same.’

  ‘Give it when the tide’s out! Give it when it’s so far out you can neither see nor hear it from the prom.’

  Carruthers’ face didn’t change. ‘So you’re to give me my cues? Dictating times and places.’

  ‘Will you or won’t you?’

  ‘Will I what?’

  ‘Preach on the beach when the tide’s out?’

  For a split second Carruthers hesitated. ‘If that’s what you want, it’s all the same to me. I can do it anywhere and at anytime. You can have me hanging from the edge of the cliff, if you like it that way.’

  ‘Low tide tomorrow!’ shouted Watson.

  ‘Low tide. 6.48 p.m. I’ll be there.’ Carruthers’ eyes narrowed and fixed Watson against his background of slippery stones. ‘But seeing we’re bargaining – you dare to follow after me just one more step on this beach, and I’ll make it bad for you, Watson. Stay by your rock. Don’t lift that foot! One move from you before I’m off this beach …!’ Carruthers made off, his head sideways towards the cliff so that without turning round he could still note Watson’s smallest move.