Poor Angus

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘This is more important. Will you come with me, David? Don’t look so scared. He won’t be carrying a gun.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Nell.

  ‘I’ll do all the talking.’

  ‘You sure will, even if there’s nobody listening. Well, if you do go, God help you, the best of luck. Put a curse on him. Turn him into a rabbit.’

  Laughing but shaking her head at the same time Nell picked up her shorts and went towards the house. At the door glancing back she saw that David was trying to keep his eyes off her big fat bulging bum. The monks hadn’t been so modest.

  Janet was already in the car, in the driving seat. She was not dressed for visiting a hotel that cost £200 per day. Her red dress was becoming but skimpy. Her arms and legs were bare. She wore flip-flop sandals. Her hair was tousled.

  They saw Fidelia and the three girls among the ruins. Jean and Agnes were staring at the car, astonished.

  Janet stopped the car. ‘Tell them we won’t be long.’

  David put out his head and shouted. ‘We’ll be back soon. Will you be all right?’

  Jean was holding Letty by the hand, determinedly. Letty might not be sure that she wanted this instant and unreserved affection but she was going to get it anyway.

  Mrs Gomez looked sad and anxious. Her prayers by the ancient Cross had not lifted her spirits, David thought, but they had made her beautiful, physically and spiritually. It was hardly possible to believe what Janet had told him, that she had head-hunters among her ancestors. No woman could have looked more gentle.

  11

  Asgog Castle had once been the stately home of Lord Cullipool, whose family had owned a large part of the island. He had sold it and gone to live in Barbados. Now that it was a hotel, it was still as private, sightseers and casual visitors being strictly forbidden. It recruited its guests through an exclusive agency in London, and advertisements in American magazines read by the rich. Minor royalty, British and foreign, patronised it. Its gardens, ablaze with rhododendrons and azaleas in spring and roses in summer, were never open to the public, not even to natives of Flodday. Its tall gates, known locally as the Golden Gates because of their colour, were guarded by a lodge-keeper and two Alsatian dogs. All this secretiveness had given rise to resentful rumours among the locals to the effect that there must be some queer goings-on that they didn’t want ordinary folk to know about. No wonder the walls were blushing, this being a reference to the Virginia creeper with which they were covered. It was certainly the case that rich elderly ladies sometimes arrived at the airport escorted by men too young, vigorous, and cocky to be their husbands, and also rich elderly gentlemen with women in tow too amorous-looking to be their wives and too brazen-looking to be their daughters.

  David did not think they would be allowed past the gates. They would be taken for nosy holiday-makers. Notices abounded warning off such nuisances.

  Beside him Janet’s mouth was tight and her eyes fey. God knew what she intended to say to Gomez if she saw him. Luckily, that wasn’t likely.

  He kept expecting the hotel limousine to pass them, going the other way. In the back would be two dark-faced men.

  Janet drove boldly up to the gates and tooted her horn.

  The two big dogs came bounding and barking, soon to be followed by the lodge-keeper, a small bald dignified man in a black uniform. He was putting on a black cap with the hotel’s name on it.

  Janet got out and went up to speak to him.

  ‘What d’you want?’ he asked. ‘Can’t you read?’

  He knew she wasn’t a guest. For one thing, people didn’t just take a whim to stay at Ascog Castle: they had to be vetted first, in that office in London. Being rich wasn’t enough. Football pools winners, for instance, stood no chance of being accepted. For another thing, nobody arriving in a car like that could afford the prices.

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr Gomez,’ she said. ‘He’s a guest here. He arrived this morning.’

  ‘Did he now?’ But her information was correct. Mr Gomez had arrived that morning, with his lawyer. The story was that he had come to buy an estate on the island. He had smelled sweeter than any man should but his tip had been manly enough. He had said little, leaving the talking to the lawyer. Rich people were usually like that, they hadn’t much to say. Perhaps it was because they were too busy counting their money in their heads. Jock Scobie could toady as adeptly as any flunkey in Buckingham Palace but inwardly he sang a different tune, having been born in Glasgow.

  Guests, especially Mafia types like Gomez, brought their trollops with them. Was this his just arriving? She looked fierce, like a tinker wife. He’d have to be careful she didn’t lib him with her teeth, as shepherds did lambs. The furtive fellow in the car must be her pimp. Well, there were all sorts of ways of making a living.

  ‘I’ll have to check that,’ he said. ‘People come to the gate and tell a pack of lies. They just want to see round the place. But that’s not permitted. Guests here pay salt for their privacy. What name will I say?’

  ‘Tell him I’m from Mr McAllister. It’s about Fidelia.’

  ‘Fidelia?’ There was disbelief in his voice. Yet he kept calling his dogs Hector and Achilles.

  ‘He’ll know who I mean.’

  He went off to telephone.

  Janet talked to the dogs. They growled back.

  The lodge-keeper returned and opened the gates. ‘Ask at the desk,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The quarter-mile drive to the hotel was through parkland. This was the most sheltered part of the island. Trees of all kinds grew here, including palms. Near the hotel were masses of roses. The air was fragrant with them.

  The chips of gravel were white as snowberries: it was said they had been brought from Italy. On either side of the door was a large statue, also of marble, one of a naked woman with a finger coyly at her chin, and the other of a naked man with no fig leaf.

  A butterfly fluttering past was bigger, more dainty, and more pleased with itself than the butterflies in the streets of Kildonan.

  Coming out of the front door was a woman of at least 60, dressed in pink, on the arm of a tall black-haired young man wearing a striped blazer and tight white trousers. His smile was not that of a son, nor was hers that of a mother.

  ‘So it’s true,’ said Janet.

  ‘He could be her nurse.’

  ‘He could be King Kong.’

  Janet was wishing that Douglas was with her. No one was more firmly established in the real world than he. Because he lacked imagination, he was never ill at ease whatever the place or company. He would not have been intimidated by Gomez’s wealth and reputation. On the contrary, he would have felt superior because he was white, with all of Western civilisation behind him: an impudence considering his opinion of artists and his taste in books, which was restricted to thrillers and golf magazines.

  ‘Have you changed your mind?’ asked David, as she hesitated.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  She got out of the car and went boldly into the hotel.

  The hall was vast. In it were suits of armour and sombre paintings. The reception desk was attended by a pasty-faced clerk in a dinner jacket. One glance told him she wasn’t a guest; all his subsequent glances were lewd and sly.

  ‘Mr Gomez is expecting me,’ she said.

  ‘Señor Gomez?’

  He would never have leered at Douglas like that. He might have sniggered behind Douglas’s back, but to his face he would have been respectful.

  ‘If you would be so good as to wait in the lounge.’ Then he added, in a whisper: ‘I’m off duty in an hour, duckie. What about it?’

  Evidently he was accustomed to getting for free what the guests paid large sums for.

  She let Nell answer for her: ‘Go to hell.’

  On her way to the lounge she passed a white-haired man taking the arm of a girl who could have been his granddaughter, but wasn’t.

  There was only one person in the huge lounge: a
n old man snoozing noisily. At £200 a day those were expensive snores.

  She sat in a corner by a window that looked out on to rosebeds. The size and splendour of the room would have impressed Douglas but he would not have been awed. He would instead have looked for the bell to summon a waiter. Only when he had given his order and so asserted his right to be there would he have admired, briskly, the high corniced painted ceiling, the enormous black fireplace, the silver rose-bowls, the thick carpet, and the frames of the pictures. But it would have been his holding his own with anyone else there, even if they were millionaires, that would have been his main concern.

  She thought of Gomez’s two million-dollar house in Manila, in the residential area with the Scottish name, Forbes Park. There would be a room in it as magnificent as this, and ornaments as beautiful and valuable. Would there be indications that he was a Catholic, a friend of bishops, according to Angus? Holy pictures? Gold crucifixes?

  She remembered Fidelia’s little shrine.

  She looked round. A man had come into the room, dark-faced, but he wasn’t Gomez. The lawyer, no doubt. He came over to her, smiling courteously. He should have been leering evilly.

  She stood up, again wishing that Douglas was with her. She felt like a character in a fairy tale whose magical powers had suddenly left her. Turn him into a rabbit, Nell had said. She could not prevent this grey-haired man from looking like a kindly grandfather.

  ‘I don’t think you gave your name,’ he said. He had an American accent.

  ‘Janet Maxwell.’

  ‘Please sit down, Miss Maxwell. I understand that you have come from Mr McAllister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How very convenient. We were about to despatch a messenger to Mr McAllister. It seems he is not available by telephone. You can convey the message, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘I came to see Mr Gomez.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is not possible. I am Señor Garcia, Señor Gomez’s lawyer. He has asked me to speak to you on his behalf. Here is the message. Would you please inform Mr McAllister and the lady who is with him that Señor Gomez and I will have the pleasure and honour of calling on them tomorrow at eleven o’clock.’

  ‘What do you intend to do? Why have you come to Flodday?’

  ‘It will be explained tomorrow. Good afternoon, Miss Maxwell. Thank you for calling.’

  He gave a little bow, looked as if he might have kissed her hand, and then made for the door. Passing the old man asleep in the armchair he walked ever so quietly. Such consideration, she thought bitterly.

  She was not so sure now that she would have the resolution to oppose Gomez. The demons were on his side.

  She did not know whether to be comforted or exasperated by David’s face, familiar, concerned, and sympathetic, but destitute of any magical power. Never before had she felt so held back by human limitations, her own as well as his. He had moved into the driving seat. How could he help her to challenge and overcome a Manila racketeer when he was scared of fast driving?

  ‘You weren’t long,’ he said. ‘How did you get on. What’s he like?’

  ‘I didn’t see him. He sent his lawyer. They’re calling on Angus and Fidelia tomorrow at eleven.’

  ‘We’ll all be in church then.’

  She felt like screaming. Yet how could he have said, in a land of Christians, anything more relevant?

  ‘Do you know anyone with a boat big enough to take us to the mainland?’ she asked.

  They stopped at the gates. The lodge-keeper came out and opened them. He waved them through. Hector and Achilles barked farewell.

  ‘Dugald McAskill sometimes takes parties to the mainland,’ said David.

  ‘Good. Where does he live?’

  ‘In Ballaigmore. But he was taking the shinty team to Pabbay this afternoon.’ Pabbay was an adjacent island. ‘They won’t be home till late.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how late. Even if it was after midnight. It’s never really dark at this time of year. We’ve got to get Fidelia and Letty away before tomorrow morning.’

  ‘They’ll not be sober, either. The shinty team, I mean. Dugald won’t do it, Janet.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning then.’

  ‘It’s the Sabbath. He’ll not take his boat out on the Sabbath.’

  ‘Is there anyone who will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we’ll have have to hide them.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere. A cave would do.’

  ‘You’re being silly.’

  To their left then, in the distance, was the golf course. They could see red flags. They saw golfers too but could not tell if Douglas and Mr Ballantyne were among them.

  ‘I can’t help feeling sorry for Mr McAllister,’ said David. ‘Just a few days ago he had no worries except how to improve his painting.’

  ‘Well, all this should make him a better painter or make him give it up altogether.’

  They stopped outside the hotel. David got out. Janet moved over.

  ‘I’ll bring Jean and Agnes back about seven.’

  ‘Have I to tell Douglas that you’ll be having dinner with him?’

  ‘Yes. You can warn him.’

  ‘Will you be staying the night here?’

  ‘I don’t know that yet. See you later.’

  12

  The measure of how much Douglas had come to like and respect his opponent could be judged by his raising only the mildest of objections when, on the seventeenth tee, with the game even, Ballantyne looked at his wrist-watch and cried, ‘My God, it’s twenty past six. I’d better get back to the hotel.’ As he hurried away towards the hired car, with Douglas pursuing him, he said that they might be able to play the last hole tomorrow, and another round as well, if the ladies were agreeable.

  He was forgetting that golf was not allowed on Flodday on Sundays.

  It would be the second arrangement to which the ladies were to be asked to agree. Douglas had offered to conduct Ballantyne on a tour of some famous Scottish courses. He was due a few days off work. They could leave Flodday by the plane on Monday and from Glasgow Airport take a taxi to Douglas’s house in Clarkston, where they could pick up the Rover and be on their way to Troon by two. They could then play the Old Course. Thereafter they could either spend the night on the Ayrshire coast and play Turnberry next day or they could return to Clarkston and proceed from there to St Andrews. Then they could head for Gleneagles. It would be hectic and expensive but well worth it. If the ladies wanted to come along for the ride, they would be welcome; if not they could entertain themselves in Glasgow.

  Enthusiastic as a golfer, Ballantyne had been cautious as a husband. It would depend on Nell. This had struck Douglas as odd because, after all, Mrs Ballantyne, like Janet, was the guilty party, having run away, and, unlike Janet, was at present living with a former lover, a lecherous creep of an artist. By all the rules of the game, her permission ought not to have been necessary.

  On the way back to the hotel Douglas reviewed his own attitude to Janet. Perhaps it would be too harsh, not to say imprudent, if he was to demand an apology and an undertaking never to leave him in the lurch again. A few signs of repentance on her part might be enough.

  He decided to wear his kilt that evening. It would be in honour of Bruce and Mrs Ballantyne but it would also be a signal to Janet that, as far as he was concerned, hostilities were over. She was proud of him in a kilt. Few men in Scotland wore it better.

  Luckily, David was doing a stint behind the bar, so that they could learn from him whether or not their wives were coming to dinner and at the same time order refreshing pints. Yes, they were coming, he said. Ballantyne gladly left it at that but Douglas wanted to know more about the McAuslans, Janet’s hosts. He would like to meet them and thank them for being hospitable to his wife.

  In his softest voice David assured him that that the McAuslans seldom came into Kildonan, except, of course, to go to church. Who were they? Well, Mr McAuslan had been a civil servant in
Glasgow. He had retired to Flodday to study birds. Mrs McAuslan did a little painting. That one on the wall, of Clachaig Bridge, was by her. On his way over to Ballantyne, Douglas paused, a glass of beer in each hand, to admire Mrs McAuslan’s work. He thought it was very good. The price, though, was steep. For .£50 you could buy four dozen Dunlop 65s.

  Before he had drunk a quarter of his pint, Ballantyne had finished his and was off upstairs to prepare for his wife’s coming. He was as eager, Douglas jested to David, as a youth in love for the first time. Yet hadn’t Mary said that Mrs Ballantyne was fat? It went to show that even the toughest of men, the fastest beer drinkers, and the most filthy-tongued, could be mushy where women were concerned.

  13

  When Janet got back to Ardnave, her nieces were having a great time in Letty’s room trying on her dresses and taking turns of nursing her doll. Nell, having bathed, was lying on her bed with her eyes closed, hoping, she said, when Janet looked in, that when she opened them she would see in the mirror opposite a slim, elegant, desirable, beautiful lady. Did Janet have a really seductive scent? No, she didn’t think Janet would have. Fidelia might, though. Only then did she remember to ask how Janet had got on. She wasn’t surprised nor much interested when Janet told her that Gomez and his lawyer were coming to Angus’s on Sunday morning. She said she hoped Bruce had ordered a room with a double bed. No, she hadn’t mentioned to Angus or Fidelia that Gomez had arrived on the island. She had left that to Janet.

  Downstairs Janet found that Angus had at last crept out of his studio. He was having a conversation in the living-room with Fidelia, or rather, he was listening, remote as Buddha, while Fidelia quietly and passionately pleaded with him.

  When Janet came in, he made to get up, but she asked him to stay. She had something to say to Fidelia which affected him too. She sat on the green divan. Angus was occupying the red, Fidelia the yellow.

  They could hear the children’s screams of happiness overhead.