Poor Angus

by Robin Jenkins

  POOR ANGUS

  The author of The Cone-Gatherers (1955) and Fergus Lamont (1979), both classics of twentieth-century Scottish literature, continues to delight his reading public with excellent new fiction. Robin Jenkins was born in Cambuslang in 1912. His first novel was published in 1951 and more than twenty-five works of fiction have followed, many of which have been graced with literary awards and have remained in print for decades.

  By the Same Author

  So Gaily Sings the Lark (Glasgow, Maclellan, 1951)

  Happy for the Child (London, Lehmann, 1953)

  The Thistle and the Grail (London, Macdonald, 1954; Polygon 1994)

  The Cone-Gatherers

  (London, Macdonald, 1955; New York, Taplinger, 1981)

  Guests of War (London, Macdonald, 1956)

  The Missionaries (London, Macdonald, 1957)

  The Changeling

  (London, Macdonald, 1958; Edinburgh, Canongate Classic, 1989)

  Love is a Fervent Fire (London, Macdonald, 1959)

  Some Kind of Grace (London, Macdonald, 1960)

  Dust on the Paw

  (London, Macdonald, and New York, Putnam, 1961)

  The Tiger of Gold (London, Macdonald, 1962)

  A Love of Innocence (London, Cape, 1963)

  The Sardana Dancers (London, Cape, 1964)

  A Very Scotch Affair (London, Gollancz, 1968)

  The Holy Tree (London, Gollancz, 1969)

  The Expatriates (London, Gollancz, 1971)

  A Toast to the Lord (London, Gollancz, 1972)

  A Far Cry from Bowmore and Other Stories (London, Gollancz, 1973)

  A Figure of Fun (London, Gollancz, 1974)

  A Would-Be Saint

  (London, Gollancz, 1978; New York, Taplinger, 1980)

  Fergus Lamont

  (Edinburgh, Canongate, and New York,

  Taplinger, 1979; Canongate Classsic, 1990)

  The Awakening of George Darroch (Edinburgh, Harris, 1985)

  Just Duffy (Edinburgh, Canongate, 1988; Canongate Classic, 1995)

  Poverty Castle (Nairn, Balnain, 1991)

  Willie Hogg (Edinburgh, Polygon, 1993)

  Leila (Edinburgh, Polygon, 1995)

  Lunderston Tales (Edinburgh, Polygon, 1996)

  Matthew and Sheila (Edinburgh, Polygon, 1998)

  Childish Things (Canongate, 2000)

  First published in Great Britain in 2000

  by Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 ITE.

  This digital edition first published by Canongate in 2011

  Copyright © Robin Jenkins 2000

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

  ISBN 1 84195 124 2

  eISBN 978 0 85786 367 6

  www.canongate.tv

  In memory of Colin

  ‘In my own country where I most desire’

  Milton

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  PART TWO

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  PART ONE

  1

  The island was a painter’s paradise, except for one thing: the absence of amenable women.

  The light had such freshness and clarity that he could not help having sympathy with those, well represented among the islanders, who believed in the Biblical account of creation. There were dawns when, at the door of his house, on the sea-loch’s edge, he cried out in wonder and joy. It seemed as if the blue inlets, the pale pink sands, the green rocky hills, and in the distance the mauve mountains of neighbouring islands, all ideas forming in the Great Painter’s mind for millennia, had during the past five minutes been executed, and here they were now complete and perfect to the tiniest shell and minuscule flower, with the celestial paint not yet dry. He had once gone bounding bare as Adam along the sands, trying to express his gratitude and delight. Luckily it was a remote shore, with none of those rather less successful creatures, people, to observe and misinterpret his corybantic gallop.

  There were other mornings, to be truthful rather more numerous, when sheets of rain obscured everything, but he knew that next day, or the next, or the one after that, for closeness to the Atlantic provided procession upon procession of heavy clouds, all would be revealed again, fresher than ever.

  He had painted scenes more exotic than these, in a far-off part of the world, but here the bright green grass and the rocks made smooth by tide and wind, were kin to his own flesh and bones, for he too had been created on this island, 43 years ago. Whenever he painted it, whether the myriads of flowers on the machair or the puffins on the sea cliffs or the Celtic crosses in the abandoned graveyards, he was trying to convey his love and loyalty, as well as the the longings of his soul. It was a pity, therefore, though hardly a surprise, that his fellow islanders dismissed his work as gaudy smudges and him as an eccentric fraud.

  He had been born in Kildonan, the island’s capital and only town. After his mother’s death, when he was ten, he had been taken to Glasgow by his father, a post-office official. In time he had graduated from the Glasgow School of Art, and at the age of 24 had obtained a post as Lecturer in Art at a Teachers’ Training College in Basah, then a British colony between the South China Sea and the Sea of Sulu. There he had taught, travelled, painted, and made love for 17 years until, with the advent of Merdeka, or Independence, certain changes, such as the substitution of Malay for English as the language of instruction and the promotion over him of his Malay assistant, had caused him to accept a substantial sum in return for the cancelling of his contract. This, added to money he had saved, had enabled him two years ago to retire to Flodday and plan master-pieces, as he had long dreamed of doing. On one of his leaves he had bought a disused school with house attached at Ardnave Point, the remotest promontory. Its water supply was a spring that dried up in a prolonged drought and it had no telephone or electricity, but the isolation and beauty of its position more than compensated.

  On the strength of three paintings on display in a Glasgow gallery, he had already established the beginnings of a reputation. He had been mentioned in a Herald review as an interesting new painter. The boldness of his colours, ‘the influence of the tropics’ particularly in his portraits of women, had been noticed,

  He liked painting female nudes and had done so often in Basah, using Chinese, Malay, Filipina, and Australian women as models, but he had found Flodday women too prudish, owing to the influence of the Free Kirk, and the few he had approached had rebuffed him. One indeed had reported him to the police. On the other hand, an importunate holiday-maker from Edinburgh had had to be repulsed, not because she was uncomely, for that did not matter to a painter seeking truth, but because she had made it too obvious that it was not only his brush she was eager to oblige. He had painted with enthusiasm women whose adiposity would have scunnered ordinary men, but he had slept only with those he thought beautiful. He had high standards too, having made love
with the most delectable of women, Fidelia Gomez, descended from Portuguese explorers and Filipino headhunters. Dark-skinned and voluptuous, she was in his bedroom at Ardnave, in one of his most triumphant paintings.

  Just when he was having to admit that the loneliness wasn’t as fruitful as he had hoped, he met Janet.

  He came into the lounge bar of the Kildonan Hotel about five o’clock one sunny Saturday in June, and there she was behind the bar. She probably noticed him first, for with his greying beard, white hat, green corduroy suit, and open-toed sandals, he was conspicuous. Also he had a way of entering such places with snorts and with his head held high, like a lion visiting a wateringhole that inferior creatures also frequented. If his worth as a painter had been recognised, as it ought, he would have been humble. Until then he needed some self-protective arrogance.

  He was the only customer. He stood at the bar and ordered a whisky and lemonade, a mixture considered a desecration by local men, many of whom worked in distilleries that produced famous malts.

  It was only then that he really noticed the new barmaid. If ever he wanted to paint Deirdre of the Sorrows, this tall, pale, ravenhaired young woman would make the perfect model. High cheekbones gave her blue eyes a tragic keenness, as if she had been the cause of bloody jealousies among the caterans. She was wearing black slacks and a sleeveless red blouse that gave a glimpse of a small but assertive bosom. No rings adorned her fingers but she wore jade earrings of Celtic design, and on her blouse, at the cleft between her breasts, was a brooch in the shape of an eagle with outspread wings.

  Under her right eye was a bluish mark. It could have been the remains of a bruise, or veins showing through her delicate skin.

  She was staring at him with what in another woman would have been flattering interest. In her it looked more like impudence.

  ‘You’ll be the painter then,’ she said.

  There were several painters on the island. Some of their work hung on the walls, for sale at immodest prices: straightforward, anaemic representations of island scenes. But yes, he was the painter. So he nodded.

  She did not seem to be competent or conscientious at her job. Perhaps, being a Celtic princess, she considered serving menials beneath her dignity. He smiled at his own little joke. But if he did not want his drink flung in his face he had better not be seen laughing at her. There was menace in the jingle of her earrings.

  ‘You’re new here,’ he said.

  ‘Started on Wednesday.’

  ‘From an island, further north?’

  ‘Skye originally. Glasgow, recently.’

  Skye, where the mountains were high and fierce. Glasgow, where the women were frank and not easily abashed.

  ‘I hear you live at the back of beyond,’ she said.

  A strange remark from a native of Skye where there were many backs of beyond.

  He wondered why, so newly arrived, she had been finding out about him.

  ‘You’re just back from the Far East,’ she said.

  ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘Whereabouts were you?’

  ‘Basah.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘About a thousand miles east of Singapore.’

  ‘Is that in the tropics?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘Seventeen years.’

  ‘You must have liked it if you stayed all that time.’

  ‘I liked it very much.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I lectured on Art in a Teachers’ Training College.’

  Suddenly memories of Fidelia flooded his mind; of her walking so elegantly, in sarong and kebaya, in the grounds of the College; of her pleading on behalf of some unfortunate student whom other members of the staff, himself included, wished to expel. Everyone had liked and admired her. Many had tolerated him for her sake. They had thought that he must have qualities they themselves could not see in him, otherwise so intelligent, so beautiful, and so honest a woman as Fidelia Gomez would never have loved him.

  ‘I was going to ask if you had a woman there,’ said the barmaid, ‘but I don’t have to. You see, I have second sight.’ She closed her eyes. ‘She’s still in your mind, isn’t she? Tall. Dark. Thick lips. Jet-black hair. Tight skirt down to her ankles.’

  It would have described a thousand women in Basah.

  ‘Why didn’t you bring her back with you?’

  If he had said, ‘She wouldn’t come’, it would have been true and yet it would have been a lie. He had not wanted her to come.

  At the airport, holding her hand, he had told her, with tears in his eyes, that if ever she needed a refuge she was to come to him, but both of them had known they would never see each other again. She had written three letters. He had not answered them. There had seemed no point in their torturing themselves with protestations of love when they were 10,000 miles apart. Besides there was Gomez, her husband, threatening to reclaim her at any time; and there was little Letty.

  ‘That’s an unusual shirt,’ said the barmaid. ‘What’s it made of?’

  ‘Pineapple fibre. From the Philippines.’

  Where Fidelia had come from too, and where Gomez still lived. He was a Manila racketeer.

  ‘I’m told your cottage is full of Satanic objects.’

  Locals came and peeped in the windows. Once they had nailed a sheep’s skull to the door. It was still there. It wasn’t often that vandals made improvements.

  ‘I’d like to see them.’

  He had never trusted women who invited themselves.

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘When they’re all in church.’

  Before he could tell her ‘Nothing doing’, the bar was besieged by a horde of local young men and women. He had to take his drink and his hat over to a corner.

  He was soon joined by three long-haired youths, named respectively, as he soon learned, Donald, Dugald, and Torry, abbreviated no doubt from Torquil. They had pint glasses of lager in their hands and at first paid him no heed, being too fascinated by the new barmaid. Their admiration of her, though lustful enough, was restrained. Something about her intimidated them. Perhaps at 30 or so she was too old for them, or they recognised in her some sinister quality, like second sight.

  Eventually they turned to, or rather on, Angus. Their sort had baited him before. They were under the delusion that he lacked virility. Nell Ballantyne would have put them right, with Australian forthrightness and profanity. He hoped Nell was reconciled with her big, beer-bellied, philandering, golf maniac. Angus had assured her, too, that if she was ever in trouble she should come to him: he would look after her. Since she would be in Sydney and he in Scotland, he had felt safe in giving that promise.

  ‘Is it true that you were born on Flodday?’ asked Donald.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You don’t look like a Flodday man.’

  ‘What does a Flodday man look like?’

  That stumped them. Like men everywhere, Flodday men were various.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Donald.

  ‘I was born here in Kildonan. In Shore Street, in a house called Cruachan, where the roses always smelled of seaweed.’

  So his mother had complained.

  ‘It’s still called that,’ said Dugald. ‘The McFarquars live there now.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘For somebody that’s seen a lot of the world,’ said Donald, ‘you must find Flodday gey dull.’

  ‘I find it beautiful. Beauty is never dull.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Torry, uneasily ogling the barmaid.

  ‘Is that a good painting?’ asked Donald, pointing to one on the wall above them. ‘It’s the bridge at Clachaig. Anybody could recognise it. So it must be good, mustn’t it? Though I wouldn’t give fifty quid for it.’

  Beside the bridge was a wee white house, a few spindly trees, and some foxgloves, all daintily done. Angus had met the artist, a stout mannish lady of about 60,
with short white hair.

  ‘It’s a pretty decoration,’ he said, charitably.

  ‘If you painted that bridge, it wouldn’t look like it, would it?’

  ‘You touch on matters profounder than you know.’

  ‘We saw two of your pictures in the exhibition last summer.’

  He had been asked and as a neighbourly gesture had agreed. It had been a mistake.

  ‘One was called Sea Cliffs,’ said Donald, ‘but nobody thought it looked anything like sea cliffs.’

  He paused then in his art criticism to join his friends in gazing at the barmaid’s bottom, well displayed as she bent over a table to wipe off beer rings. Their lust was still subdued.

  ‘I was good at drawing at school,’ said Donald. ‘I won a prize. When I drew something I tried to make it look like it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘You must have funny eyesight.’

  ‘If you painted a bridge,’ said Dugald, ‘it would be your idea of a bridge. Is that it?’

  ‘It might also be my way of remembering my mother.’

  They scowled, in sympathy.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ muttered Dugald.

  ‘Yes, she’s dead, and buried in Kilnaughton graveyard.’

  ‘My granny says she remembers your mother,’ said Dugald. ‘She was very cheery, she says.’

  ‘So she was.’

  Seeing that there was no one at the bar, Angus excused himself and went over to have his glass replenished.

  ‘I didn’t get your name,’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t ask. It’s Janet.’

  ‘Janet what?’

  ‘Janet Maxwell. Mrs. At present separated from Mr Douglas Maxwell.’

  ‘Oh. My name’s Angus McAllister.’

  ‘I knew another Angus McAllister once. He was a wee fat man who kept a grocer’s shop in Portree.’

  Was this another demonstration of her second sight, maliciously intended? Had she divined that his name bothered him, by not having the ring of immortality?

  ‘I’m told it’s a fine big house you have at Ardnave?’

  ‘It’s a fair size.’

  ‘I live here in the hotel. It’s my cousin David’s, or rather his wife’s. You should see the room they’ve put me in. It’s no bigger than a brush cupboard. It’s far too stuffy. I can only sleep in a cool atmosphere.’