Moggerhanger

by Alan Sillitoe

  “Gertrude!” I was shocked to my roots. “Stay where you are.” I pushed Mabel into the kitchen: “Make some of your coffee for our guest, the sort that tastes like weak Oxo.”

  Sister Gertrude, who had been the spiteful, bullying persecuting demonic girl of my nightmare childhood, the retired matron of a large hospital, now living off the memories of devoted and lovely young ladies from whom she had stood no nonsense, had indeed given them a good dressing down for her own sinister pleasure, or taken them to task at the slightest infringement of the rules, driving some to tears and the eternal disappointment at having failed in life, or to penury and unemployment and single motherhood, and even to suicide.

  When I harangued her about it some years ago she responded that at least the hospitals had been clean and well run in those days. “Or mine was, at any rate.” In spite of such jousting whenever we met I knew there to be a sensitive Blaskin soul buried like a barren acorn deep inside. She had always suffered from the dissatisfaction of assuming that her industry was undervalued, and that she should have dedicated herself to some other more appreciative occupation. Such as prison governor, I thought, or the headmistress of a tee-total non-smoking boarding house on a remote Scottish island. Yet she had come out of her way to see me and was, after all, my own flesh and blood, so it behoved me to be polite. “What the hell do you want here, you vicious old bag?”

  “Watch your tongue, Gilbert, and while I fully realise that might be a physical impossibility I can always produce a mirror for you to see what state it’s in, and I’m sure even you wouldn’t like it, you dissipated old devil.”

  Such a remark was not unexpected, but it riled me to see Mabel looking with admiration and approval from the kitchen door, for which stance I determined to make her pay later, with inflationary interest.

  “Get out of my flat, you secret gin imbiber, or I’ll have the police eject you as a squatter and march you off to jail.”

  “I have things to say to you,” she said calmly. “But ask me to sit down. I’m not as young as I was.”

  “That’s a blessing, but do take a seat, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I can’t think why you need to ask.” She settled herself on the sofa, so as to face the kitchen and make sure Mabel overheard. “Ever since becoming what you call a writer”—I recalled the same sneer from infancy, as a signal that an unjustified blow was on its way—“you’ve dragged the good name of Blaskin through the mud. Every so-called novel you write is a midden of obscenity and blasphemy. You extol crime, promote violence, and denigrate women. And men as well, though I don’t care so much about that. You describe the world’s ills with relish, and scoff at the idea of any solution. As for your publishers, they should be prosecuted and sent to jail, though it’s you who are the fount of the filth.”

  “You put things so beautifully,” I broke in. “Perhaps you should have been the writer.”

  “I did not come here to be insulted. Your books are full of dirt, all cabbage stumps and cigarette ends, cobwebs and vile rot, with enough swearing to bring out the indignation of any upright person. They’re utterly degrading, and no encouragement to the young, whom you think nothing of ruthlessly corrupting.”

  In one way I was proud of her courage, which no Blaskin lacked, in having the nerve to tackle me. “I know all that, but what exactly are you getting at?”

  Mabel put a pot of deliciously aromatic coffee before her, and a plate of the best H and P biscuits on a cloth doyly. “Your last book was downright criminal,” Gertrude said.

  “I take it you’re referring to The Capture of Precious Moments? I’m fond of that book. But don’t you think of my novels as the children you never had? Can’t you love them accordingly?”

  “Beast!” she said under her breath, but I caught the word.

  “Capture was only successful because the publisher notoriously stated on the flyleaf: ‘Don’t let your children lay hands on this book for fear they lay hands on themselves.’ In any case, Gertrude, no one forced you to open the first book you’ve read in your life. And you couldn’t have imagined that coming here would do you any good. You could have written a poison pen letter instead.”

  Drinking her coffee, which was hotter than her desiccated insides, she smiled at Mabel, who flushed with a happiness not shown since her crush on the headmistress at school. “Don’t you realise,” Gertrude said, “that every time you publish a novel people stop me on the street and ask if we’re related?”

  “I can’t think why else they would accost you. I’d run a mile at the sight of you.”

  She gave a little twist to her mouth. “They’re horrified when I tell them that we are. And so am I. I have to say we are because I can never tell an untruth. People were so appalled at your last novel that I was constrained to read it and find out why. It was a stream of unmitigated raw sewage. Apart from that, you can imagine—or perhaps you won’t—how the Reverend George Blaskin suffers. As his brother you should respect him. He goes through the torments of hell, having to live with the reputation of your terrible books. He’d aged twenty years since I last saw him. If you can’t stop writing in the way you do you must give up writing entirely.”

  Mabel was in such agreement at the way things were going that Gertrude turned to her: “You’re his special friend, at least for the moment, I should think, so can’t you persuade him to mend his ways?”

  “I do try, Miss Blaskin,” she simpered, “but it’s no use. He just rides roughshod over me.”

  Gertrude moved her head from side to side. “You shouldn’t let him bully you. Come and sit by me, my dear.”

  I put on the North Country comedy accent that Bill Straw once used for my amusement. “Stay where you are! I’ll have none o’ that in my ’ouse!”

  Mabel ignored me, and joined her on the sofa. “You must stop writing such trash,” Gertrude went on, and I thought she was about to take a prayerbook from her reticule for me to swear by. “You show no respect for God, the Queen, or anyone decent and loving. The rector said after church last Sunday that you should be horsewhipped for your disrespect to the Deity.”

  I put my cup down so firmly the handle broke. “Oh, did he? He wants to see me in sackcloth and ashrams, crawling on my belly up his worm-eaten church to recant? Well, you can tell your choir boy molesting rector to stop reading dirty books, or I’ll come up to his damp-rot place of worship, get him by the scruff of the neck, and hold his face in the christening water till he chokes on the microbes and goes to hell.” I was rather proud of that peroration. “Tell him that.”

  She shook in every finger. “God will never forgive you.”

  “I’d die if He did.”

  “I’m sure you only became a writer to get your revenge on me.”

  “That would be a perfectly valid reason, though I hope I don’t insult you further by saying you flatter yourself.”

  She wiped her long nose with a cambric handkerchief. “I know I treated you abominably as a child, Gilbert, and I’ve been sorry many a time since, but you’ve made our name a real cross to bear. I can’t think why life has treated the family so badly as to have someone in it who became a writer. We’ve always done our duty, and don’t deserve such a fate. And do take that silly revolver out of your hand.”

  I’d forgotten picking it up. Luckily it wasn’t loaded, though I put the safety catch on in case. “I think you had better leave now, dear sister, or the Reverend George will have to live with a murder in the family.”

  She took Mabel’s hand. “Come along, my dear. He’s irredeemable. I’ll allow you to show me to the street. But put your coat on, it’s somewhat chilly out.” She turned to me: “Do try to mend your ways, Gilbert, even if only for your sister, who loves you more than you deserve, or more than she can tell.”

  I finished her coffee, and sat with head-in-hands, as she had known I would. Behind her raddled facade was an intricate imagi
nation, and our bond was far stronger than mine with Mabel, because she was the sole female who had ever been in a position to knock me about. I was left either to consider giving up writing, or making her and my brother George the perverse characters of my next novel.

  The visit stimulated me sufficiently to work nonstop till Mabel came back at half past three. I stood in the living room, pen in hand. “Now you can make my lunch.” Her cheeks were red, such vibrant happiness annoying me no end. “Then tell me where you’ve been these last five hours.”

  “She really did take you to task, didn’t she? Gertrude’s a wonderful person. It’s been remiss of you not to have made me acquainted with her before. We got on so well, and understood each other perfectly. She told me about her thatched cottage at Upper Wallop, and said I must go there for a weekend, but I do wish she lived closer than Hampshire. We had coffee in Harvey Nicks, and she told me about her life as a matron during the War. She didn’t turn down the MBE, at any rate, though in spite of the differences between you it’s amazing how alike you are in many ways. She’s charming, though, and I’ve quite taken to her. It’s rather satisfying knowing someone who has the same opinions about you as myself. It was quite love at first sight, Gilbert, and I’m sure it was the same with her.”

  I let her go on only because I couldn’t decide on the moment to give her the bang she knew she was asking for, and it was too late by the time she slipped into the kitchen to make me a meal, something I could hardly stop her from doing. I poured a brandy, and followed: “You weren’t only with her, all these hours.”

  She took out a tin of potatoes, opened a packet of spinach, and laid a steak under the grill. “When I came back I met Kenilworth on his way to call for me. He stopped a taxi, and we had a delicious meal at an Italian restaurant in Soho. He’s rather a quiet and unassuming young man, yet told me all sorts of blood curdling stories, then said he had made them up only to amuse me. He’s chivalrous as well, because when he thought the waiter looked at me disrespectfully he got up and said something that made the poor man turn quite white. I felt cared for, Gilbert.”

  “Put the potatoes on,” I said, “or the water will burn. I asked you to take the tape recorder, and you didn’t, but I expect your memory will be enough.”

  “Well, I remember him saying that things weren’t going well with Lord Moggerhanger, because he has an adopted son call Malcolm, who everyone calls Parkhurst, after the prison. He’s always threatening to undermine his father’s business, and also to do him an injury. And then there’s something in the offing with a gang called the Green Toes. It sounds awfully exciting, a name like that. But I love Mr Dukes’ stories. They’re not really made up, I’m sure.”

  She dropped the potatoes from a height that send a speck of boiling water onto my wrist, but I didn’t flinch. “All right, so what else?”

  “He told me how much he loves his mother. What a charming close-knit family it must be. He wants to introduce me to her, saying we’d get on so well.”

  I leaned across, alerted by the smell. “The meat’s on fire. Turn the gas off. What did you have for lunch?”

  The sad meal she would set down for me inspired her to babble on: “Cannelloni, then a delicious escalope, everything so tender and just right. Kenilworth knew exactly what wine to ask for. I know I shouldn’t tell you this, Gilbert, but after several glasses of grappa he said that if ever he married it would be to someone like me. Wasn’t that sweet?”

  “As I see matters, it’s between you becoming a lesbian with my sister, or turning into a gangster’s moll. Either would amuse me as a way of you going to hell.”

  “I can’t say how serious he was, of course. I only imagine he was trying to appear a gentleman.”

  “You must introduce him to Gertrude, but if you do, I’ll lock you in your room for three days.”

  She put my school dinner on the table, and I was so hungry there was no option but to eat. “By the way, I’m meeting Ursula Major this evening at the Barbican, so maybe you’d care to put your ‘O’ Level in domestic science to further use by cleaning the flat while I’m away. Last time I went out with Ursula it was to hear Bleriot’s ‘The Trojans’, and before that it was Scribner’s ‘Sonata in F’. What it is tonight I won’t know till it’s finished. Mind you, the Barbican’s a concrete zigguratic nightmare, and I often get lost when I’m to meet somebody, so I’ll take a map and compass, although Ursula should be easy to find because her breasts stick out like a dead heat in a Zeppelin race. Apart from that I’ll no doubt spot the congregating Opera Goths with their large florid faces, wearing blazers and bow ties, and carrying their arrogance with a faint air of uncertainty. I’d rather go to Earwig Hall where the clientele is quieter, or to the Tate to throw eggs at the Bacon, but Ursula is very musical, therefore the Barbecue it will be. Pour yourself a glass of wine, my love, so that I can drink to you only.”

  She did. Life was improving, till she said tremulously: “You’re not going to sleep with her tonight though, are you?”

  I drew my head back to laugh. “No man has ever slept with Ursula, nor woman either, and I’m sure I shan’t be the first. But come along if you like. Don’t feel left out. You’ll be very gleesome in a threesome.”

  She finished the wine, and poured more, either to blot herself out, as the only way to go on living with me, or to get me so half cut I wouldn’t be able to crawl down the stairs to meet Ursula, which I’d no intention of doing anyway. “You’re quite the most disgusting man I know,” she said. “How can you think I’d agree to anything so perverse?”

  I’d got her on the raw, and knew that in her secret mind she was fired by the mechanism of a threesome. “But please don’t go to bed with Ursula,” she said. “After such an interesting day I’m feeling jealous.”

  “Which remark tells me that sex is coming back into our relationship. I’ll only not make sport with Ursula if you continue what you were about to do before my ghastly sister rang the bell.”

  She slid another glass of wine into her lovely throat, and looked at me with a very arch smile. “What was that?”

  “Blaze satin stepping stones of your boarding school underthings to the bedroom, which I will endeavour to follow. Mind you, darling, the trail will go in zig-zags if you keep on keeping on at the wine like that. But when we get to bed, however you feel, you can get on top of me for a treat and pump like some demented and lascivious barmaid getting a last pint up from the cellar on a Saturday night after a football bus has drained the pub dry.”

  This was too much for her to resist. She fell into my arms with the delicacy of warm enfolding plasticine, and by the time she reached the bedroom she was indeed showing the most divine nakedness. She flaunted her gorgeous figure, no inhibitions left, smiled when she turned to see if I was ready. It no longer mattered that she pretended to dislike me. A day that starts badly invariably ends well.

  Chapter Twenty-One.

  What to do, that was the life and death question. Sun sharpened through the sharded windows and half blinded me. “Fucking Moggerhanger,” Parkhurst was saying. “Fancy getting sent to boarding school with a name like that. The other kids made my life a torment. They called me Moggers, Moggy, Muggers and Buggers, then Tomcat, till one day at home I came across some cartons of hashish cigarettes, and took a couple back to school. The lads stopped giving me a hard time when I handed around four hundred fags.”

  At the zenith of his power over me Parkhurst had turned as garrulous as his father, and because I was still alive I had to listen. He held the gun so steady that Jericho Jim saw no need to brandish his.

  “But they liked me at school then, didn’t they? It was good old Moggers, shit-hot Moggers, Moggers the Great.” I thought he was going to cry, though no such luck. It might have made things worse. “I hated every single fuckface, but I had to survive. The corridors didn’t stink of shit and carbolic anymore. They smelled all nice and vegetarian, and I don’t e
xaggerate when I say we walked on air. Funnily enough, though, whenever a teacher asked a question a lot more of us knew the answer. We sharpened up no end. Even the teachers begged a few ciggies when they twigged from the pong what was going on. It was the sixties, so they weren’t going to shop me, were they? As long as I left a pack on the head’s desk now and again we were all right anyway. All I had to do was make sure I got some more when I went home, and there was plenty lying around. When I told the old man that I wanted to come home more often he thought it was because I’d suddenly started to love my parents. I sucked up to the bastard, didn’t I? I even straightened my tie when he told me to, and stopped wearing my hat backwards.”

  “Later, when he bribed the headmaster into letting me stay on in the sixth form at St. Ogg’s I took some cocaine after one exeat.” He laughed, which wasn’t promising for my safety. “I nearly had the whole school flat on its back. Got chucked out, didn’t I? He played hell with me, because he’d thrown away a few grand.”

  “And you didn’t appreciate his generosity?” I said.

  He waved the gun at my nose. “Fuck you, Cullen. I’m only telling you all this because you’re his favourite. He thinks you’re the tops. You’re a man after his own heart. He’s told me that for years. What a pity it is I’m not like you, he says. But you’re too much like him, which is why he likes you, you bum-crawling bastard. I hate your guts.”

  I wasn’t about to argue, though I wanted to strangle the pathetic worm because I’d heard too many people telling me I resembled someone I either despised or found contemptible.

  I just let him talk. “He always disliked me. For three months after fetching me from the orphanage a social worker came to check how I was getting on. Moggerhanger just fawned over her. She was new in her job, and ended up saying how lucky I was to have such a perfect haven. Perfect haven! Like hell it was. More like perfect hell, as it turned out. But they were her words, and I suppose it looked like it. Whenever Moggerhanger started laying toys around me on the living room floor, and having me waited on hand and foot, I knew she was on her way for a visit.