Listen to the Voice

by Iain Crichton Smith

  After a while he offered a cigarette to the driver who took it. ‘Fine day, Sir,’ he said and then, ‘Are you home on holiday?’

  ‘Yes. From America.’

  ‘Lots of tourists here just now. I was in America myself once. I was in the Merchant Navy. Saw a baseball team last night on tv.’

  The bus was passing along the sparkling sea and the cemetery which stood on one side of the road behind a grey wall. The marble of the gravestones glittered in the sun. Now and again he could see caravans parked just off the road and on the beach men and children in striped clothing playing with large coloured balls or throwing sticks for dogs to retrieve. Once they passed a large block of what appeared to be council houses, all yellow.

  ‘You’ll see many changes,’ said the driver. ‘Hey, bring us some of that orangeade,’ he shouted to the conductress.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  But there didn’t seem all that many in the wide glittering day. The sea, of course, hadn’t changed, the cemetery looked brighter in the sun perhaps, and there were more houses. But people waved at them from the fields, shielding their eyes with their hands. The road certainly was better.

  At one point the tourist asked to be allowed out with his camera so that he could take a photograph of a cow which was staring vaguely over a fence.

  If the weather was always like this, he thought, there wouldn’t be any problem … but of course the weather did change … The familiar feeling of excitement and apprehension flooded him again.

  After a while they stopped at the road end and he got off with his two cases. The driver wished him good luck. He stood staring at the bus as it diminished into the distance and then taking his cases began to walk along the road. He came to the ruins of a thatched house, stopped and went inside. As he did so he disturbed a swarm of birds which flew out of the space all round him and fluttered out towards the sky which he could see quite clearly as there was no roof. The ruined house was full of stones and bits of wood and in the middle of it an old-fashioned iron range which he stroked absently, making his fingers black and dusty. For a moment the picture returned to him of his mother in a white apron cooking at such a stove, in a smell of flour. He turned away and saw carved in the wooden door the words MARY LOVES NORMAN. The hinges creaked in the quiet day.

  He walked along till he came to a large white house at which he stopped. He opened the gate and there, waiting about ten yards in front of him, were his brother, his brother’s daughter-in-law, and her two children, one a boy of about seventeen and the other a girl of about fifteen. They all seemed to be dressed in their best clothes and stood there as if in a picture. His brother somehow seemed dimmer than he remembered, as if he were being seen in a bad light. An observer would have noticed that though the two brothers looked alike the visitor seemed a more vivid version of the other. The family waited for him as if he were a photographer and he moved forward. As he did so his brother walked quickly towards him, holding out his hand.

  ‘John,’ he said. They looked at each other as they shook hands. His niece came forward and introduced herself and the children. They all appeared well dressed and prosperous.

  The boy took his cases and they walked towards the house. It was of course a new house, not the thatched one he had left. It had a porch and a small garden and large windows which looked out towards the road.

  He suddenly said to this brother, ‘Let’s stay out here for a while.’ They stood together at the fence gazing at the corn which swayed slightly in the breeze. His brother did not seem to know what to say and neither did he. They stood there in silence.

  After a while John said, ‘Come on, Murdo, let’s look at the barn.’ They went into it together. John stood for a while inhaling the smell of hay mixed with the smell of manure. He picked up a book which had fallen to the floor and looked inside it. On the fly-leaf was written:

  Prize for English

  John Macleod

  The book itself in an antique and slightly stained greenish cover was called Robin Hood and His Merry Men. His brother looked embarrassed and said, ‘Malcolm must have taken it off the shelf in the house and left it here.’ John didn’t say anything. He looked idly at the pictures. Some had been torn and many of the pages were brown with age. His eye was caught by a passage which read, ‘Honour is the greatest virtue of all. Without it a man is nothing.’ He let the book drop to the floor.

  ‘We used to fight in that hayloft,’ he said at last with a smile, ‘and I think you used to win,’ he added, punching his brother slightly in the chest. His brother smiled with pleasure. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ he answered.

  ‘How many cows have you got?’ said John looking out through the dusty window.

  ‘Only one, I’m afraid,’ said his brother. ‘Since James died …’ Of course. James was his son and the husband of the woman he had met. She had looked placid and mild, the kind of wife who would have been suited to him. James had been killed in an accident on a ship: no-one knew very much about it. Perhaps he had been drunk, perhaps not.

  He was reluctant for some reason to leave the barn. It seemed to remind him of horses and bridles and bits, and in fact fragments of corroded leather still hung here and there on the walls. He had seen no horses anywhere: there would be no need for them now. Near the door he noticed a washing machine which looked quite new.

  His brother said, ‘The dinner will be ready, if it’s your pleasure.’ John looked at him in surprise, the invitation sounded so feudal and respectful. His brother talked as if he were John’s servant.

  ‘Thank you.’ And again for a moment he heard his mother’s voice as she called them in to dinner when they were out playing.

  They went into the house, the brother lagging a little behind. John felt uncomfortable as if he were being treated like royalty when he wanted everything to be simple and natural. He knew that they would have cooked the best food whether they could afford it or not. They wouldn’t, of course, have allowed him to stay at a hotel in the town during his stay. That would have been an insult. They went in. He found the house much cooler after the heat of the sun.

  THREE

  In the course of the meal which was a large one with lots of meat, cabbages and turnip and a pudding, Murdo suddenly said to his grandson:

  ‘And don’t you forget that Grandfather John was very good at English. He was the best in the school at English. I remember in those days we used to write on slates and Mr Gordon sent his composition round the classes. John is very clever or he wouldn’t have been an editor.’

  John said to Malcolm, who seemed quietly unimpressed: ‘And what are you going to do yourself when you leave school?’

  ‘You see,’ said Murdo, ‘Grandfather John will teach you …’

  ‘I want to be a pilot,’ said Malcolm, ‘or something in science, or technical. I’m quite good at science.’

  ‘We do projects most of the time,’ said his sister. ‘We’re doing a project on fishing.’

  ‘Projects!’ said her grandfather contemptuously. ‘When I was your age I was on a fishing boat.’

  ‘There you are,’ said his grandson triumphantly. ‘That’s what I tell Grandfather Murdo I should do, but I have to stay in school.’

  ‘It was different in our days,’ said his grandfather. ‘We had to work for our living. You can’t get a good job now without education. You have to have education.’

  Straight in front of him on the wall, John could see a photograph of his brother dressed in army uniform. That was when he was a corporal in the Militia. He had also served in Egypt and in the First World War.

  ‘They don’t do anything these days,’ said Murdo. ‘Nothing. Every night it’s football or dancing. He watches the TV all the time.’

  ‘Did you ever see Elvis Presley?’ said the girl who was eating her food very rapidly, and looking at a large red watch on her wrist.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t,’ said John. ‘I once saw Lyndon Johnson though.’

  She turned back to h
er plate uninterested.

  The children were not at all as he had expected them. He thought they would have been shyer, more rustic, less talkative. In fact they seemed somehow remote and slightly bored and this saddened him. It was as if he were already seeing miniature Americans in the making.

  ‘Take some more meat,’ said his brother, piling it on his plate without waiting for an answer.

  ‘All we get at English,’ said Malcolm, ‘is interpretations and literature. Mostly Shakespeare. I can’t do any of it. I find it boring.’

  ‘I see,’ said John.

  ‘He needs three Highers to get anywhere, don’t you, Malcolm,’ said his mother, ‘and he doesn’t do any work at night. He’s always repairing his motor bike or watching tv.’

  ‘When we got the tv first,’ said the girl giggling, ‘Grandfather Murdo thought …’

  ‘Hist,’ said her mother fiercely, leaning across the table, ‘eat your food.’

  Suddenly the girl looked at the clock and said, ‘Can I go now, Mother? I’ve got to catch the bus.’

  ‘What’s this?’ said her grandfather and at that moment as he raised his head, slightly bristling, John was reminded of their father.

  ‘She wants to go to a dance,’ said her mother.

  ‘All the other girls are going,’ said the girl in a pleading, slightly hysterical voice.

  ‘Eat your food,’ said her grandfather, ‘and we’ll see.’ She ate the remainder of her food rapidly and then said, ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘All right,’ said her mother, ‘but mind you’re back early or you’ll find the door shut.’

  The girl hurriedly rose from the table and went into the living room. She came back after a while with a handbag slung over her shoulder and carrying a transistor.

  ‘Goodbye, Grandfather John,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She went out and they could hear her brisk steps crackling on the gravel outside.

  When they had finished eating Malcolm stood up and said, ‘I promised Hugh I would help him repair his bike.’

  ‘Back here early then,’ said his mother again. He stood hesitating at the door for a moment and then went out, without saying anything.

  ‘That’s manners for you,’ said Murdo. ‘Mind you, he’s very good with his hands. He repaired the tractor once.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said John.

  They ate in silence. When they were finished he and his brother went to sit in the living room which had the sun on it. They sat opposite each other in easy chairs. Murdo took out a pipe and began to light it. John suddenly felt that the room and the house were both very empty. He could hear quite clearly the ticking of the clock which stood on the mantelpiece between two cheap ornaments which looked as if they had been won at a fair.

  Above the mantelpiece was a picture of his father, sitting very upright in a tall narrow chair, his long beard trailing in front of him. For some reason he remembered the night his brother, home from the war on leave, had come in late at night, drunk. His father had waited up for him and there had been a quarrel during which his brother had thrown the Bible at his father calling him a German bastard.

  The clock ticked on. His brother during a pause in the conversation took up a Farmers’ Weekly and put on a pair of glasses. In a short while he had fallen asleep behind the paper, his mouth opening like that of a stranded fish. Presumably that was all he read. His weekly letters were short and repetitive and apologetic.

  John sat in the chair listening to the ticking of the clock which seemed to grow louder and louder. He felt strange again as if he were in the wrong house. The room itself was so clean and modern with the electric fire and the TV set in the corner. There was no air of history or antiquity about it. In a corner of the room he noticed a guitar which presumably belonged to the grandson. He remembered the nights he and his companions would dance to the music of the melodeon at the end of the road. He also remembered the playing of the bagpipes by his brother.

  Nothing seemed right. He felt as if at an angle to the world he had once known. He wondered why he had come back after all those years. Was he after all like those people who believed in the innocence and unchangeability of the heart and vibrated to the music of nostalgia? Did he expect a Garden of Eden where the apple had not been eaten? Should he stay or go back? But then there was little where he had come from. Mary was dead. He was retired from his editorship of the newspaper. What did it all mean? He remembered the night he had left home many years before. What had he been expecting then? What cargo was he bearing with him? And what did his return signify? He didn’t know. But he would have to find out. It was necessary to find out. For some reason just before he closed his eyes he saw in the front of him again the cloud of midges he had seen not an hour before, rising and falling above the fence, moving on their unpredictable ways. Then he fell asleep.

  FOUR

  The following day which was again fine he left the house and went down to a headland which overlooked the sea. He sat there for a long time on the grass, feeling calm and relaxed. The waves came in and went out, and he was reminded of the Gaelic song The Eternal Sound of the Sea which he used to sing when he was young. The water seemed to stretch westward into eternity and he could see nothing on it except the light of the sun. Clamped against the rocks below were the miniature helmets of the mussels and the whelks. He remembered how he used to boil the whelks in a pot and fish the meat out of them with a pin. He realised as he sat there that one of the things he had been missing for years was the sound of the sea. It was part of his consciousness. He should always live near the sea.

  On the way back he saw the skull of a sheep, and he looked at it for a long time before he began his visits. Whenever anyone came home he had to visit every house, or people would be offended. And he would have to remember everybody, though many people in those houses were now dead.

  He walked slowly along the street, feeling as if he were being watched from behind curtained windows. He saw a woman standing at a gate. She was a stout large woman and she was looking at him curiously. She said, ‘It’s a fine day.’ He said, ‘Yes.’

  She came towards him and he saw her red beefy face. ‘Aren’t you John Macleod?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you remember me?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he replied. ‘You’re Sarah.’

  She shouted jovially as if into a high wind, ‘You’ll have to speak more loudly. I’m a little deaf.’ He shouted back, ‘Yes, I’m John Macleod,’ and it seemed to him as if at that moment he were trying to prove his identity. He shouted louder still, ‘And you’re Sarah.’ His face broke into a large smile.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ she shouted. ‘Come in and have a cup of milk.’

  He followed her into the house and they entered the living room after passing through the scullery which had rows of cups and saucers and plates on top of a huge dresser. In a corner of the room sat a man who was probably her son trapped like a fly inside a net which he was repairing with a bone needle. He was wearing a fisherman’s jersey and his hands worked with great speed.

  ‘This is George,’ she shouted. ‘My son. This is John Macleod,’ she said to George. George looked up briefly from his work but said nothing. He was quite old, perhaps fifty or so, and there was an unmarried look about him.

  ‘He’s always fishing,’ she said, ‘always fishing. That’s all he does. And he’s very quiet. Just like his father. We’re going to give John a cup of milk,’ she said to her son. She went into the scullery for the milk and though he was alone with George the latter didn’t speak. He simply went on repairing his net. This room too was cool and there was no fire. The chairs looked old and cracked and there was an old brown radio in a corner. After a while she came back and gave him the milk. ‘Drink it up,’ she instructed him as if she were talking to a boy. It was very cold. He couldn’t remember when he had last drunk such fine milk.

  ‘You were twenty-four when you went away,’ she said, ‘and I had just married. Jock is dead. George is very like him.’ She shouted a
ll this at the top of her voice and he himself didn’t reply as he didn’t want to shout.

  ‘And how’s that brother of yours?’ she shouted remorselessly. ‘He’s a cheat, that one. Two years ago I sold him a cow. He said that there was something wrong with her and he got her cheap. But there was nothing wrong with her. He’s a devil,’ she said approvingly. ‘But he was the same when he was young. After the penny. Always asking if he could run messages. You weren’t like that. You were more like a scholar. You’d be reading books sitting on the peat banks. I remember you very well. You had fair hair, very fair hair. Your father said that you looked like an angel. But your brother was the cunning one. He knew a thing or two. And how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he shouted back.

  ‘I hope you’ve come to stay,’ she shouted again. He didn’t answer.

  ‘You would be sorry to hear about your mother,’ she shouted again. ‘We were all fond of her. She was a good woman.’ By ‘good’ she meant that she attended church regularly. ‘That brother of yours is a devil. I wonder if your mother liked him.’ George looked at her quickly and then away again.

  He himself shouted, ‘Why do you ask that?’ She pretended not to hear him and he had to shout the words again.

  ‘It was nothing,’ she said. ‘I suppose you have a big job in America.’

  He was wondering what she had meant and felt uneasy, but he knew that he wouldn’t get anything more out of her.

  ‘They’ve all changed here,’ she shouted. ‘Everything’s changed. The girls go about showing their bottoms, not like in my day. The boys are off to the dances every night. George here should get married but I wouldn’t let him marry one of these trollops. And you can’t visit your neighbours any more. You have to wait for an invitation. Imagine that. In the old days the door would be always open. But not any more. Drink up your milk.’