Just Duffy

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that, Duffy,’ Mr Flockhart had said. ‘You’re forgetting national pride. Given the choice between better houses and bigger bombs most people would choose the bombs, even those living in slums, if they were told often enough that their enemy is just waiting to attack them, and of course they’re told that almost every day. As individuals we seem able to get on well enough without a deadly enemy, but not as nations. With us it was France for hundreds of years, then it was Germany, now it’s Russia, and afterwards, if there is an afterwards, it could be America. No, Duffy, it’s not so simple.’

  But it was simple. All that was necessary was for the good in people to be encouraged instead of the bad, here in Lightburn and all over the world.

  The people of Lightburn were proud of their main street, one of the widest in the country. Plane trees grew out of the pavements and in summer baskets of geraniums were hung from lamp-posts. The town hall was an old building of grey stone, with a square turret and four clocks. Next to it were the ruins of a fourteenth-century abbey, and an ancient kirkyard, enclosed behind a high stone wall, with a small iron gate kept locked to keep out drunks who would have used it as a lavatory. There was frequent agitation to have these relics of the past replaced by shops which would have paid high rates for so advantageous a site, but so far those proud of the town’s history had prevailed. One of them was Mrs Porteous. Another was Mr Flockhart.

  The history teacher had once brought 4X here and told them that the abbey had been founded in Robert the Bruce’s time. He had shown them the corner where six Covenanters had been buried. Fleeing from the rout at Bothwell Brig they had been caught up by Claverhouse’s dragoons and slaughtered.

  Johnny Crosbie had enacted the episode, comically, pretending that his head had been slashed off by a sword. Mick Dykes had rebuked him, muttering that it wasn’t lucky to mock the dead.

  Crosbie had no conscience. He would have made fun of Jews going into the gas chambers. For some twisted reason of his own he admired Duffy and wanted to be friends with him.

  Tonight the main street was rainswept and desolate. No cars passed, no dogs foraged in garbage bins outside shops, no policemen tried the doors of banks.

  There was an arcade in front of the town hall door. In the past it had given shelter to dignitaries and their wives as they had walked from their carriages. Among them once had been a member of royalty. In those days it must have been splendid, with its ironwork painted gold and red and its glass roof sparkling. Now it was dingy and decrepit.

  Taking his time, for it had to be neatly done and correctly spelled, Duffy sprayed his challenge on a part of the wall kept dry by the arcade:

  WAR IS DECLARED

  ON DEFILERS OF TRUTH

  AND ABUSERS OF AUTHORITY.

  He had just finished when he heard people approaching. They were a man and a woman. She tottered on high heels.

  Duffy stood back in the shadows.

  They stopped under the arcade. They reeked of alcohol. The man had no raincoat, the woman no umbrella. Duffy recognised her. She was Mrs Moncrieff whose husband had decamped years ago, leaving her with four young children. Her companion looked at least twenty years older than she. He had a weak sad face and grey hair, as Duffy saw when he took off his cap and beat it against one of the iron pillars.

  They must have been at a party and stayed longer than they had intended. She was worried about her children. The oldest was only nine.

  ‘I hope to Christ they haven’t turned on the gas,’ she whimpered. ‘That’s what I’m feart of, Jimmy. Wee Archie’s always turning it on.’

  ‘They’ll all be sound asleep, Chrissie.’

  ‘I promised to be back by eleven. What time is it now?’

  ‘It’s not one o’clock yet.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jimmy, stop a taxi, will you?’

  ‘There are no taxis at this time, hen.’

  ‘The cruelty men will come for me. Neighbours have complained. It was your fault, Jimmy. If I begged you once to come away I begged you a dozen times.’

  ‘We were enjoying ourselves, Chrissie. We’ve got a right to enjoy ourselves. I love you, hen.’

  ‘You’ve got no weans to worry about.’

  ‘Bella and me never had any.’

  ‘I know that, Jimmy. I’m ashamed of myself for casting it up. No, Jimmy, cut that out. Not here, for God’s sake. To tell you the truth I’m bursting for a pee. Wait till we get home, lover. I’ll make you happy then. Say, can you smell paint?’

  ‘Paint?’ Jimmy sniffed.

  She turned her head and saw Duffy. She let out a scream and fled. Jimmy ran after her, asking tenderly what was the matter. He hadn’t seen Duffy.

  They were the kind of people Duffy’s mother and no doubt Mrs Porteous despised. They wasted on drink what little money they had. They neglected their children. They depended on others to keep them. They took the dignity out of love-making.

  Duffy pitied them. They were victims. They were like that dog howling in the distance. There were millions of them.

  When he was safely home he took off his wet clothes and had a bath. He did not hurry though he was very tired. He stood by Cooley’s bedside, looking down at her for almost half an hour. Once or twice she mumbled but he could not make out what it was. He was tempted to lie beside her, for company. It might save him from dreaming. He had never been able to understand why he who loved cleanliness and hated violence should have so many dreams of filth, sex, and blood.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Next morning he was up long before Cooley, ironing her clothes and preparing breakfast. He had not slept well. He had had one of his most disquieting dreams.

  Naked, he had run through a landscape of endless desolation, screaming that it was too late. In a place like the dump, on a mattress soiled with blood and excrement, he had made love to Mrs Ralston; she had been naked too. When, weeping, he had told her it was too late, she had smiled and turned into his mother. Afterwards he had come upon other couples having sex: Mick Dykes and Mrs Porteous; Mrs Munro and Sergeant Milne; Crosbie and Cooley; and Mrs Veitch and Mr Flockhart. They had all paused to listen to him telling them that it was too late.

  For a minute or two that morning, after he was awake, the feeling of being too late was still overwhelming and terrifying; but he could not think what it was he had not done and now never would be able to do in time.

  Cooley was in an edgy mood. All she wanted for breakfast was a cigarette and a cup of coffee.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Duffy. Those things you were saying last night. They’re mad. Forget them. Here’s a sensible idea. Come to London with me. Nobody knows us there. We could get jobs. We could help each other. But we’d need money to give us a start. I saw your mother’s bank book in a drawer. I looked in it. Do you know how much she’s got in the bank? Over £300. She won’t need all that, when she marries this guy she’s gone to Spain with. There’s a slip all ready signed. You could draw out as much as you liked. When you make your fortune you could pay her back. Didn’t you say that after we’d declared war nothing we did would be a crime? Right, we’ve declared war. So what’s stopping us? They know you at the bank, don’t they? It would be dead easy. Think about it, Duffy. There’s no future for you here. Your mother would be glad to get you out of her way. If you stay here, do you know what will happen? Big Molly will get you.’

  He was disappointed but not angry. ‘I don’t think you understood what I said last night, Cooley.’

  ‘Maybe I understood better than you did yourself. The first rule is: look after yourself. Christ, Duffy, even dogs and cats know that.’

  ‘You’re asking me to steal from my mother.’

  ‘I’m asking you to borrow from her. I’m asking you to oblige her. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Duffy, but she’d think it cheap at the price to get rid of you. Fifty pounds wouldn’t be too greedy, and it would still leave her plenty, if this guy from Bearsden doesn’t marry her. Think about it, Du
ffy.’

  He felt sad. Last night he had offered her an opportunity to take part in an idealistic mission and this was her reply, urging him to become a liar, cheat, and thief.

  Later, after his housework was done, he said he had to go out to keep an appointment with Mrs Veitch, the Careers Officer.

  Cooley sneered. ‘Do you still think she’ll find you a job? How many interviews has she sent you for?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘If it had been forty it would still have been the same: no job for somebody that’s got no certificates. Christ, you need a certificate to get a job as shelfboy in the supermarket. In London it’d be different. If you see Mick Dykes will you ask him to come and see me?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘If you don’t mind. His uncle’s a lorry driver. He knows other lorry drivers. Maybe he could get me a lift to London. I’d have to give him something. Five quid, say. All I’ve got is 80p. So I’m counting on you, Duffy. You’ll find Mick in Dirty Chuck’s or the amusement centre or just mooching around. Just Mick himself, mind. Not Crosbie. I can’t stand him. He gives me the grue. I want to tear out those queer eyes of his. Oh, and bring me some decent fags. These stink. Will it be all right if I play records?’

  ‘Yes, but not too loudly. Mr Ralston upstairs is dying.’

  ‘Of cancer. So you’ve told me, at least three times. He’ll be doped and hear nothing. Give Veitch my regards. I don’t know why I left her out of my list of arrogant bastards last night. I forgot, though. She’s another one you’ve got your eye on. Are you sure when you go out on your midnight strolls you don’t pay her a visit? That love-bite on her neck, was it you who did it?’ She laughed at his puritanic frown. ‘It’s too easy to kid you, Duffy. You’re simple, all right. If you don’t watch out big Molly will get you.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He had let Cooley into his secret and found he could not trust her. If he did not give her money she might betray him. She would look after herself, even at his expense, though she claimed to be his friend. She had sneered at Molly McGowan, but Molly, he felt sure, would never let him down, at any rate not wittingly. She had the fidelity of a dog: even if abused she would still be faithful. He ought to make some effort to rescue her from Dykes and Crosbie. Unfortunately like a dog shown kindness she would attach herself to him and neither harsh words nor even stones would drive her away.

  After the rain and dull skies of the past few days the sunshine and pleasant air that morning caused the people in the main street to be cheerful and friendly. He received his share of neighbourly smiles. All the same, as he smiled back, he reflected that if nuclear war broke out and millions were killed it would not be governments and generals who were most to blame but ordinary, good-hearted, well-disposed people like these, who had let themselves be deceived by official lies and instinctive fears. It was as if deep down they did not really believe that the human race deserved to survive. Otherwise why did they look on with approval and complacency when scientists on their behalf made weapons more and more destructive and governments by their dishonesty and arrogance made the use of such weapons more and more likely? And why did they condemn as misguided fools or even traitors those who did protest?

  A small group was staring at his declaration of war on the town hall wall.

  ‘It must have been one of them religious sects, Bessie,’ said an old woman.

  ‘Like Jehovah’s Witnesses, do you mean?’

  ‘Aye. It’s a bit out of the Bible, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so, but they shouldn’t have made a mess of the wall. Think what it’ll cost to rub it off.’

  ‘I hope it’s not the Irish coming here with their bombs,’ said another woman.

  Two old men were indignant. ‘What were the police doing when this was done?’ asked one. ‘They’re always getting big rises in pay and yet they’re never where they should be.’

  ‘It’s not fair to blame the police, Willie,’ said his companion.

  ‘Their hands are tied. The rope and the birch should be brought back.’

  Mr Flockhart had once pointed out to 4X that one of society’s most difficult problems in a few years’ time would be the care of the old, especially those physically or mentally incapable of looking after themselves. There would be so many that looking after them would be an impossible burden. Crosbie had promptly offered a solution: gas chambers. Most of 4X had agreed.

  Duffy had asked the teacher if he really believed that wholesale extermination of the old and disabled would have to be resorted to in the future. ‘I don’t see how it can be avoided, Duffy. It would be a matter of self-preservation. The necessary callousness would be found.’

  That last remark had remained echoing in Duffy’s mind.

  Mrs Veitch was having her morning coffee in a mug made by Lightburn Ceramics. There was a picture of the town hall on it.

  ‘Good morning, Duffy,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Take a seat. I think I’ve got some good news for you for a change.’

  He sat down, smiling. He liked and trusted her, though her desk was always a muddle of papers and she smoked incessantly so that she reeked of tobacco and her fingers were stained. She was about thirty-five and divorced. She dressed gaudily, this morning in a polo neck purple jumper and a long red skirt. She wore long earrings and four rings.

  What Cooley had called a love-bite on her neck was really a scar. According to Duffy’s mother she had once appeared in the lounge bar of the Caledonian Hotel with Mr Flockhart who had spent most of the time whining about how his wife was making his life a misery. Mrs Veitch had not listened very attentively.

  ‘You’ve heard of Mrs Porteous,’ she said. ‘She owns Lightburn Ceramics that made this mug. She’s one of the biggest employers of labour in the town.’

  He nodded. Everybody in Lightburn knew of Mrs Porteous. Her name was in the local newspaper every week, in some connection or other. She was a district councillor as well as chairman of the Children’s Panel. She was a widow. Her husband had been a lawyer.

  ‘Well, I got a telephone call from her yesterday, asking if I could nominate some deserving young person who would like to make a career in pottery, someone diligent and artistic. I was surprised because I’d been told there were no vacancies and in fact people were being laid off, but one doesn’t contradict Lady Bountiful, so I said yes I could nominate such a person, who was very well-spoken, had beautiful manners, was always neat and clean in appearance, had the face and hands of an artist, and was most conscientious. She replied that he sounded the very person she had in mind. Would I please send him to see her as soon as possible?’

  Mrs Veitch laughed at Duffy’s puzzled expression. ‘Didn’t you recognise yourself in my description? It was all true. You would notice I left out any mention of your scholastic record. She made it appear that it was artistic temperament she was looking for, not academic ability. It could depend on the impression you make at the interview. By the way, do you go to church? She particularly wanted to know. I said I thought you did.’

  He nodded. He went at night, when the churches were empty. He had been in St Stephen’s twice.

  ‘Good. Shall I give her a ring and find out when she would like to see you?’ She picked up the telephone and dialled. Then she waited, with her fingers crossed.

  Here was a blow of good luck that he had never expected and therefore was not on guard against. His resolution to wage war faltered. Capitulation might after all be more advantageous.

  There was another Duffy besides the idealist and revolutionary. This Duffy did not want much but what he did want had to be the best. His mother had first become aware of it when he was five and she was buying clothes for him to go to school. ‘He’s forgetting,’ she had said to the shop assistant, ‘that his mother’s a poor widow.’ She had been rather proud of his good taste, inherited, she thought, from her, but as he had grown older she had not been so indulgent. Did he think she owned a factory like Mrs Porteous? He would have to learn to make do with a great
deal less than the best, until he was able to support himself, and God knew when that would be. He was going to find it very hard, having expensive tastes without the means to satisfy them, but if it was anybody’s fault it was his own: he should have done better at school so that one day he could get a well-paid job. Only by taking great care of his clothes had he managed to appear as well-dressed as boys whose fathers were comfortably off.

  He had always been fascinated by Margaret Porteous, from the first day he had seen her, at the High School, where she had been in the highest classes and he in the lowest. He had never spoken to her nor she to him but he had often gone out of his way just to look at her, even from a distance. He had watched her playing hockey and had attended school debates to hear her speaking. He had discovered, with delight and surprise, that her views on many things were like his own. She expressed them in an angry, scornful way that puzzled him. He of course never expressed them at all. She understood politics better than he did and once, at a mock election, she had stood as the Communist candidate because no one else would. Teachers had been scandalised, her mother had been appealed to, and the headmaster had had a friendly chat with her. Forced to withdraw, she had afterwards attended the meetings of all the other candidates and heckled them from the Communist point of view.

  One of the favourite topics of 4X had been the fuckworthiness of girls. Margaret Porteous had been low on the list because she was always haughty and unapproachable. At the top had been Molly McGowan. Almost every boy in the class had had the use of her body, whereas none had got as much as a glance from Margaret Porteous.

  One summer evening Duffy had sneaked up the drive of ‘The Poplars’, Mrs Porteous’s villa. Hidden behind rose bushes, far enough from the house not to be smelled by the fawn-coloured Labrador, he had watched Margaret and her friends playing badminton on the lawn. He had envied them. Their fathers were doctors, lawyers, accountants, and shopkeepers. They were all doing well at school and would go on to University. They drove cars. They took part in escapades like the painting of Burns’s statue. From what he had overheard of their conversation it was not all that intellectual. Given the chance, he could easily have taken his place among them.