To Be Continued

by James Robertson

  ‘It would be odd if we kept any other kind.’ The toad then said something that to Douglas, dredging up the Latin he had studied for a year or two at school, sounded remarkably like ‘Suum cuique’. He must have misheard.

  ‘To each his own,’ he said, just to check.

  ‘Precisely,’ the toad said.

  ‘Well, I must say, you have an impressive command of English,’ Douglas said. ‘And not just English.’

  ‘You have a very good command of Toad,’ the toad said.

  ‘I’m not speaking Toad.’

  ‘Yes you are. Never mind. Where were we? Your father. Not a well man, by the sound of things. All these ailments – did they arrive simultaneously?’

  ‘They crept up on him over a period of time, like saboteurs, setting off little explosions, disrupting lines of communication and generally causing fear and alarm.’

  ‘How dramatic.’

  ‘It isn’t really. It’s horribly tedious.’

  ‘Curable?’

  ‘Taken as a whole, no.’

  ‘But if he’s so ill, why isn’t he here and why are you not looking after him?’

  There was a hard, cool edge to the cast-iron table. Douglas gripped it.

  ‘I can’t. I tried, believe me, but it became impossible. He’s better off where he is. He’s safer, apart from anything else. He became a danger to himself while he was here – and to others. Me, in particular. He set things on fire – mostly by accident. He fell over and couldn’t get up. He went out leaving the doors and windows wide open and was lost for hours at a time. I couldn’t go out without taking him with me, and that usually ended in disaster.’

  ‘Disaster? You exaggerate, surely. How many times can an excursion end in disaster if those involved are not seriously injured or killed? Has anybody been seriously injured or killed?’

  ‘No, but it’s been close.’

  ‘Had you sliced off my cousin’s leg or decapitated her, that would have been a disaster, for her at least. Has your father lost a limb, or his head? I can see you haven’t.’

  ‘Near-disaster, then. And it wasn’t just when we were out. Even here, in the house or garden, I couldn’t turn my back for five minutes without something going wrong.’

  ‘So now he is in a home, and you’re at home? Is that why you’re here drinking wine by yourself?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, in a way. Don’t look so critical.’

  ‘I already said, I don’t judge. You people do what you do, we do what we do. If a toad is ill, he stays at home until he gets better or dies. It’s logical.’

  ‘It used to be like that for us, but not any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because life is more complicated. And people are living longer.’

  ‘Toads aren’t. We live long enough already.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Good for us, yes. When you said, earlier, that you came and went, where did you go?’

  ‘I was in a relationship. I still am, I suppose, but it’s been a little rocky lately, so maybe I’m not. Anyway, I went to Sonya’s. That’s the name of the woman I was in a relationship with.’

  ‘Sonyas?’

  ‘No, Sonya. My partner. Erstwhile. Ex. I lived with her and her two children. They’re grown up now.’

  ‘I don’t recall ever seeing these people of whom you speak.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have. They didn’t live here. I lived there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘With them. In their home.’

  ‘Another home?’

  ‘Yes, Sonya’s. In another part of the city. As I said, life is complicated.’

  ‘Complicated, but interesting,’ the toad remarked. ‘Incidentally, the security light went out some time ago. That, too, I find interesting. Don’t make a sudden move.’

  Douglas made a gentle, slow move and refilled his glass. ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I find interesting,’ the toad said.

  The nodules of its skin seemed somehow to catch the starlight, or the street-lamp light, and thus to glitter. When it turned its gaze on Douglas the eyes were revealed as amber discs slashed horizontally by black pupils. There was something beautiful and intelligent about the toad. Despite its curt manner, Douglas felt that here was somebody he could confide in, a fellow creature he could really talk to.

  ‘And another reason for taking a drink tonight,’ he said, ‘is to celebrate. Today is my birthday.’

  ‘I take it you mean an anniversary of your birth. Which one?’ the toad asked.

  ‘The fiftieth.’

  ‘In years? Hmm. Not much to celebrate, that. Not much of a celebration either.’

  ‘Good enough for me. Do toads celebrate their birthdays?’

  ‘We don’t even notice them. Age is approximate with us. Years don’t matter, only seasons.’

  ‘That’s a healthy attitude. Humans could learn from it.’

  ‘It’s not an attitude, it’s reality. It wouldn’t work for humans.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Different reality. How, if you were going to, would you really celebrate, as you put it, your birthday?’

  ‘Well, I could ask some friends to join me, and have a party.’

  ‘Do you have some friends?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘And if you did, what would happen at this party?’

  ‘Well, there might be a cake, with candles on it representing the number of years. Sometimes people give you presents. Or they send you cards with messages in them.’

  ‘Messages?’

  ‘ “Happy birthday”, “Many happy returns”, “Eat, drink and be merry”, that sort of thing. But presents and cards don’t matter to me. They’re more for children, really.’

  ‘Did you receive any presents? Or cards?’

  ‘I was bought some drinks. And I had one card. From Sonya.’

  ‘What was her message?’

  ‘She wished me a happy birthday. Well, no, she didn’t, because that was already printed on the card. She just signed her name. No other message. I suppose that was her message.’

  ‘And that was everything?’

  ‘That was it. Oh, I did get a birthday communication from the National Health Service, inviting me to take part in the Bowel Screening Programme.’

  ‘What is that, a film festival?’

  ‘Not exactly. The idea is to check for signs of bowel cancer every couple of years from the age of fifty until you’re seventy-four. The earlier it’s detected, the sooner it can be treated, and this increases your chance of survival.’

  ‘Why not start the checks when you’re a child, then?’

  ‘Because older people are much more at risk.’

  ‘But the checks stop when you’re seventy-four?’

  ‘I know it sounds illogical. They must reckon you’re as likely to die of something else by then.’

  ‘And what happens in this programme?’

  ‘You do three tests to see if you’ve any symptoms.’

  ‘Tests?’

  ‘You provide three samples. I haven’t read all the instructions yet. I think it’s going to be difficult.’

  ‘Oh, the tests are difficult?’

  ‘Not in that way. I mean, awkward. There’s a kit due to arrive any day now. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’m not worried. Well, let me add to the messages you’ve had from Sonya and the National Health Service. Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d offer you some wine, but I don’t suppose you do.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Drink wine.’

  ‘I don’t drink at all,’ the toad said. ‘However, I am not averse to alcohol. I can’t take too much, but then who can? Splash a bit on the table there.’

  The deed was done. The toad crawled across and poised his rump over the pool.

  ‘Many happy returns,’ the toad said, and settled into the wine.

  ‘Thank you,’ Douglas said. ‘To your liking?’
>
  ‘Very absorbing,’ said the toad.

  ‘And now,’ Douglas said, ‘I have some questions for you.’

  The toad inclined its head.

  ‘First of all, and don’t take offence, am I right in believing that you are a Mister Toad?’

  ‘As opposed to what? A Doctor Toad? A Rear-Admiral Toad? MacToad of that Ilk?’

  ‘Are you a male toad?’

  The toad clapped a hand on top of its head and drew the fingers down over its nose. ‘For heaven’s sake. Do I look like a female toad?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘No, I do not look like a female toad. Female toads are bigger and fatter than males, and there are other anatomical differences, beyond the obvious ones, with which I will not tax the limited capacity of your brain. Your next question?’

  ‘If, as you say, toads live long enough, how long is that? I read somewhere that a common toad can live as long as forty years. You yourself, judging by your observations of my family, appear to have been around some considerable time.’

  ‘A remarkable thing about humans,’ the toad said, ‘is their arrogance. If you knew anything at all, you would call us uncommon toads. That is the remarkable thing about us. We are all uncommon. Each of us is an individual. That’s why we lead solitary lives, except in the spring. Ah, the spring!’ There was a pause, during which he (for so he must now be designated) appeared to inspect his hands and feet and possibly to count his fingers and toes. ‘Forty!’ he said at last. ‘I would be a very uncommon toad if that was the best I could hope for.’

  ‘Then our estimates are inaccurate?’

  ‘Wildly so! Look at the pace we go at, compared with you. Barring accidents or foul play, sir, there is little doubt that I shall outlive you.’

  Douglas was tempted to dispute this assertion, but he had a third question for his amphibian acquaintance. ‘If we are going to continue this relationship,’ he said, ‘– which I should very much like to do – it would be easier if I could address you by name. Do you have such a thing as a name?’

  The toad didn’t exactly stamp one of his feet, but he shifted his weight with irritation. Douglas noticed that the pool of wine had diminished considerably.

  ‘Do you ever stop being patronising? How would we function as a community – even a community of solitaries – if we didn’t have names?’

  ‘And yours is?’

  ‘You couldn’t pronounce it. Not a chance, even with your proficiency in Toad. Call me … let me see … call me Mungo.’

  ‘Did you just pluck that out of the air?’

  ‘I did. Like a gnat. It has a ring to it. Mung-oh. Mungo. Call me that.’

  ‘Very well. My name, which appears on my birth certificate, is Douglas Elder.’

  ‘Dugliselda?’

  ‘No, Douglas Elder. It’s two names.’

  ‘Douglas Fir would make more sense.’

  ‘You’re not the first to have cracked that joke.’

  ‘What joke?’

  ‘You should call me Douglas.’

  ‘Douglas. But you have two names. If you have two names, I’d better have two as well.’

  ‘So what will your second name be? Mungo what?’

  ‘No, I don’t like it. Mungo Mungo.’

  ‘You can’t just use the same name twice.’

  ‘Why not? Mungo is my first choice. I like it very much. I cannot imagine any name to match it, except another Mungo. Ergo, Mungo Mungo.’

  ‘Actually I have three names. Douglas Findhorn Elder.’

  ‘Three? I could go on adding Mungos, but Mungo Mungo Mungo is excessive. Even I can see that. What is the significance of your middle one?’

  ‘It’s the name of a river. It’s a tradition in the Elder family to have Scottish rivers in our names. My father is Thomas Ythan Elder. His father was Donald Garry Elder. And so on.’

  ‘Rivers are good, although sometimes perilous. I shall be – appropriating your family tradition – Mungo Forth Mungo. A local touch.’

  ‘That’s very good. You could go far with a name like that.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it’s October. I usually settle down for a long sleep about now. Mind you, I have always wanted to travel. Like my namesake, Mungo Park, although I wouldn’t wish to go as far as he did.’

  Douglas was again surprised by the toad’s erudition. ‘How do you know about Mungo Park?’

  ‘In the same way that I know about David Douglas, after whom I believe the aforementioned fir is named.’

  ‘But what way is that?’

  ‘You forget what I said before, about our longevity. Knowledge acquisition and transference go on all the time. How else does one learn to survive?’

  ‘You didn’t seem to know much about birthdays.’

  ‘Not so important, nor so interesting.’

  ‘Aye, but – with respect – what possible use to you, a toad, or to your survival, is knowledge of long-dead Scottish explorers?’

  ‘ “With respect”,’ said Mungo, ‘is a phrase generally employed to preface remarks of a disrespectful nature. Your question is no exception to this rule. I might just as well demand of you whether your supposed knowledge of the so-called “common toad” is relevant to you or to your survival.’

  ‘Well –’ Douglas began, but Mungo interrupted.

  ‘Do you or do you not subscribe to the view that all knowledge is potentially valuable, and that its value, potential or realised, cannot be determined by the superficial assessment of its perceived utility at any given moment?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about that,’ Douglas said. It seemed too grand and complex a proposition to be unscrambled so late in the garden of October darkness, especially after the best part of a bottle of red wine.

  ‘Do so,’ Mungo said. ‘I already have.’ And in one untoad-like leap he left the table and landed somewhere in the night. Douglas could not have sworn to it, but he was fairly sure he heard a groan following the faint impact of Mungo’s touchdown.

  Douglas shivered: the air was a little chillier now. His glass was empty. So was the bottle, almost. He picked up both, and stood unsteadily. If a man cannot stand unsteadily at the end of his fiftieth birthday, he thought, when can he? The security light came on. He was on the bright stage again. Of Mungo there was no sign.

  It was possible, Douglas thought, that his senses had completely failed him and that he had imagined the entire evening. It was possible that every word of their conversation had taken place inside his own head.

  It was possible. But he did not think it likely.

  [To be continued]

  HEFT

  ‘Come in. Sit down. You want a drink? Tea? Coffee?’ John Liffield asks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  We are in his room in the Spear’s latest building. Like my father, the newspaper changed residence recently, a move brought on by reduced circumstances and new maladies similar to his – depression, loss of circulation, diminution of certain faculties and functions leading to confusion, inarticulacy, lack of balance, et cetera. The grand old edifice in the heart of Edinburgh that once housed the Spear is now a hotel, and the paper’s editorial and commercial departments operate out of a bland 1970s block in a western suburb. Former editors enjoyed fabulous views of the city centre, and gravitas and purposefulness oozed from the oak-panelled walls of their offices. The vista from Liffield’s room is of parking spaces, three large bins on wheels for recyclable waste, and a scrubby patch of grass bordered by a hedge full of unrecycled waste – chocolate-bar wrappers and drinks cartons, mainly. Inspiring, it is not. I worked in this building for a year. I am glad, on balance, that I no longer do.

  Liffield’s desk is big and very tidy: lots of clear space interspersed with piles of papers that look as if they have been methodically sorted and processed. Sonya would appreciate it. A mug decorated with the words I’M THE BOSS sits within Liffield’s reach. He reaches for it, takes a gulp. ‘Yuck. Cold,’ he says. ‘You’re probably off the coffee now, are you?
Easier to cut down when you’re not in this environment.’

  ‘No, I still drink coffee.’

  ‘Me too. I used to be able to drink it all day, all evening, gallons of it, and still fall asleep as soon as my head hit the proverbial. Not any more. Now, if I drink coffee after about three in the afternoon, I’m awake all night. My legs are jumping like fish in the rain. Do you get that?’

  ‘No, I don’t get that.’

  ‘Lucky you. Maybe it’s just a phase. Water?’ He walks over to the cooler that stands in one corner – his own personal cooler.

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’

  He fills a plastic cup, brings it back to the desk. ‘It was good to see you on Tuesday. Not good circumstances, obviously, but there you go.’

  There Ronald Grigson went, actually. I don’t say this. Instead, I ask if the meeting was successful.

  ‘Meeting?’

  ‘You had to leave right after the funeral for a management meeting. Bigwigs up from London.’

  ‘Oh, that. It was fine.’ I find it interesting that we all say this, all the time. I’m fine, we’re fine, it’s fine. It seldom is. It’s usually cloudy. Sometimes the rain is coming down in torrents. But saying it’s fine is code for: whatever it’s doing, let’s pretend it isn’t. Like Ollie’s money carry-on. Or one of his brolly-bearing wee characters coming out of the weatherhouse saying, ‘I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s fine.’

  ‘So the Spear survives to be chucked another day?’

  ‘Things aren’t that desperate yet, Douglas.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ He says this quite sharply. ‘Anyway, I said to come in for a chat, and here you are. No sooner out the door than you want back in, eh?’

  ‘No I don’t.’ I say this quite sharply.

  ‘But you want to write something for us?’

  ‘That’s what we discussed.’ I can see that, from his perspective, I must be coming across somewhat negatively. I shift up a gear. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Well, as it happens, I have an Idea.’ Elbows on desk, he brings his fingertips together, to form an airy hand-cage in which the Idea is exhibited. I can’t spot it, but Liffield is peering intently at something in there.

  ‘Context,’ he says. ‘This year. This historic year for the nation. Our nation. Decision time. Destiny. We have a responsibility, I think. Agreed?’