More scandalous gossip. George really was what Flora called him, an old sweetie-wife.
‘Why is that, George?’
‘She is pregnant.’
But wasn’t that supposed to draw a couple closer, not drive them apart?
‘She suspects him of associating with other women, particularly with Mrs Veitch of the Careers Office.’
McLeod knew Mrs Veitch and thought her very attractive, though too flamboyant in her dress. ‘Is there anything in it?’
‘Not in Mrs Veitch’s case. She has another admirer whom she considers herself engaged to: a man from Aberdeen, in the oil industry. In some other cases I would say Mrs Flockhart’s suspicions are justified.’
‘So he fancies himself as a ladies’ man?’
‘He is not fit to teach children. If I had my way he would be dismissed.’
But if George had his way thumb-screws would still be used.
Mrs Flockhart came to the door, a small dark-haired woman, greeting-faced and obviously pregnant. She was dressed for Sunday. Perhaps she wasn’t long back from church. She wasn’t pleased to see them.
McLeod introduced himself and Milne. He explained that they wished to talk to her husband. They were sorry to have to come on Sunday. It was rather urgent.
They could hear a child bawling within.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked, crossly. ‘He says he’s got a headache. Any excuse to get out of going to church.’
‘We’ll not keep him long.’
‘Has it to do with the school? You’ve no right to bother us at home. Those crummy pupils of his, he thinks he can help them but he can’t even help himself.’
Ungraciously she invited them in, no doubt because neighbours were watching.
She showed them into a room that was seldom used. The child was never allowed in here to drop jelly pieces on the white carpet or break the glass birds scattered about, as if in an aviary. McLeod liked the robins best.
‘Sit down,’ she said, wincing, for their trouser seats would sully the virgin moquette. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’
Milne sat upright in one of the armchairs, with his cap on his knees. McLeod carefully inspected the birds from close up. They had been made in Italy where, he had read, many thousands of migratory birds were slaughtered every year on their way south to Africa. He wondered who collected these, Flockhart or his wife. Perhaps they had done it together, in earlier happier days.
Flockhart came shuffling in. His carpet slippers had holes at the big toes. His green cardigan hung loosely on him. His eyes were bleary, his black beard had crumbs in it, his hair was lank and thin on top, his fingers were stained with nicotine. He looked more like a failed prophet than a successful lecher. He had the hang-dog air of a man finding that contrition was never enough: more and more was always demanded. It was a situation to be found in many households. Often it dragged on for years. Sometimes it erupted into marital murder, as in the case of the old man who had hammered his wife to death.
McLeod thanked God that Flora had never found pleasure in humiliating him. She had had as many opportunities as most women but had taken very few.
‘Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ asked Flockhart. He took out his cigarettes but put them away again. ‘No smoking in here,’ he said, with a grin that showed his bad teeth and humiliation.
‘We’re sorry to disturb you, Mr Flockhart,’ said McLeod, ‘especially on Sunday, but a serious situation has arisen and we hope you may be able to help us.’
The child screamed with rage. Its mother shouted. Flockhart closed his eyes and shuddered.
McLeod was glad his own three were grown-up. Perhaps George was feeling thankful that he had never had any.
‘I hope you’re not going to ask me to betray my pupils’ confidence,’ said Flockhart. ‘You wouldn’t ask a priest to tell you the secrets of the confessional, would you? Why shouldn’t a teacher be entitled to the same privilege?’ He sniggered, knowing that what he had just said was nonsense.
‘We are interested in a boy called Duffy. We understand you had him in one of your classes.’
‘Last year’s infamous 4X. Recently bereft of its most sinister alumnus. I refer to the late Johnny Crosbie. What is your interest in Duffy? I would have thought him the least likely boy in town to fall foul of the police.’
‘Why do you say that, Mr Flockhart?’
‘Because Duffy’s a profound moralist.’
‘You said he was in this infamous class. He could not have been very clever, surely.’
‘He didn’t do well in examinations, but that was part of his morality.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I used to tease him. I used to ask him when he was going to join the human race. By which I meant accept all its failings: you know, greed, envy, rivalry, belligerence, etc.’
‘You are making him out to be a kind of saint.’
‘He asked too many questions for a saint.’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘The kind only a philosopher could answer.’
‘Did he ever ask about declaration of war?’
‘Yes, he did. How do you know that? He wanted to know why a nation, after it had declared war on another nation, thereafter considered it had a legal right to kill and destroy. He wanted to know what was the basis of that legality. No other pupil, not even in the Sixth Form, has ever asked me such a question.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘What would you have told him?’
‘This is not a game, Mr Flockhart, it is a serious investigation.’
‘Then it must have to do with Crosbie’s death. I should think that’s the only serious investigation going in Lightburn at the moment. But what could Duffy have to do with that? He and Crosbie were worlds apart. Duffy’s a pacifist. He sees the problems of force too simply, as pacifists do; which is why I can’t be one myself.’
‘You think he’s simple-minded then?’
‘Lots of people think Jesus Christ was simple-minded. Turn the other cheek, do good to them that treat you badly. Duffy’s simple-minded in that kind of way. People can be honest, generous, truthful, peaceful, etc. So why aren’t they all the time? Why are they so often dishonest, mean, mendacious, belligerent? I used to advise him to restrict his expectations, like the rest of us. People have gone mad because they expected too much.’
‘Did you think Duffy might go mad?’
‘It crossed my mind sometimes. If you suffer too many disappointments it’s hard to stay sane, wouldn’t you think? What would be the ultimate disappointment, gentlemen? The outbreak of nuclear war. In those sad brown eyes I used to see Armageddon and the Holocaust.’ Flockhart chuckled. He was enjoying himself, showing off to these dumb, overpaid policemen.
‘Did you ever tell him about a famous writer who wrote that judges should have rolls of toilet paper in front of them when sentencing people?’
‘When sentencing them to death. Yes, I suppose I did. I often tell my classes that. It was Somerset Maugham. His own father was a judge. The idea was to make them remember the common humanity they shared with the wretches in the dock.’
‘Even if those wretches were murderers?’
‘Especially if they were murderers. Which of us isn’t capable of murder? When Maugham wrote it there was still capital punishment.’
Milne spoke for the first time. ‘It should never have been abolished.’
‘Nor flogging? Nor transportation for life? Nor the beating of madmen?’ Perhaps because of his headache and because he dared not smoke in that room Flockhart was beginning to get edgy.
‘Do you tell your classes that books tell lies?’ asked McLeod.
‘I tell them not to believe something just because it’s in print. Many books have told lies.’
‘Aren’t these unwise things to say to pupils not intelligent enough to judge for themselves?’
‘If you mean 4X they might not have been what you would call intelligent
in that they never passed examinations but they could judge for themselves. They were pretty shrewd at seeing through pretensions, though they did express themselves somewhat crudely. I’m beginning to see what you’re after. You think it might have been Duffy that painted the declaration of war on the town hall and tore the pages out of the library books.’
‘Who told you about the library books?’
‘Mary Purvis. She and I often discuss books. I thought at the time it could have been meant as a symbolical gesture. And then of course there was the excrement on the hymn-books. Who put you on to Duffy?’
‘We are not at liberty to tell you that.’
‘Do you suspect him of Crosbie’s death too? The kids at school have already got a song about that. They assume it was Helen Cooley that bumped him off. They make her out to be a heroine. But if it was murder it wasn’t her that did it.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘She has too much self-respect.’
‘Most people would say she had none at all.’
‘They would be wrong. Some of her standards are high. For one thing she would never be treacherous.’
They were interrupted then by Mrs Flockhart charging in with a howling three-year-old in her arms. Without a word she handed the infant to her husband and rushed out again. To his credit Flockhart did not vent his annoyance on the child, though it howled louder than ever and beat at his face with its tiny fists. His smile however was not serene.
As McLeod left the house he had a feeling that he had been given a glimpse of new or different ways of looking at human experience. He might never again be wholly content with the old way.
‘That man should be dismissed,’ said George.
George’s mind was resolutely closed. There were millions like him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Before leaving the house Duffy had written two letters, one to his mother and the other to Detective-Sergeant McLeod. The first he placed on the mantelpiece in the living-room, in a sealed envelope with his mother’s name on it; the second he took with him in his pocket, in a stamped addressed envelope, ready to be posted.
Both were very short.
‘Dear Mother,
I am very sorry if I have made you unhappy and ashamed. Things went wrong. Forgive me.
Duffy.’
‘Dear Mr McLeod,
Helen Cooley did not kill Johnny Crosbie. I did. I put the hair-grip in his hand.
Duffy.’
The brown paper parcel which Mrs Munro had looked and sniffed at suspiciously on the landing was not a cake but a plastic can of paraffin. He was going to set himself on fire. It would be his last appeal and his penance.
When he set out, dressed as if for church, he had still to decide where it was to take place. He carried a Bible to mislead Mrs Munro and anyone else who might see him, but it had some other purpose too. His mind was not as clear as he would have liked.
It was a dry cold morning, with little likelihood of rain.
People were queuing as usual on Sunday morning for their newspapers in which they would read with relish accounts of murders worse than his. One or two smiled at him as he passed. They would say afterwards that they had noticed nothing odd.
He stopped at the first post-box he came to, built into the wall. The enamel plate giving the times of collection was bruised with stones being thrown at it. Some people in the district refused to post their letters here, because vandals had been known to drop lighted matches in. This letter to McLeod must reach him, for Cooley’s sake. Duffy hesitated therefore wondering whether he should take it to the head post office in the main street. Indecision now might increase until he found himself not able to decide what was the right place or the right time or the right reasons for his self-execution. So he quickly slipped the letter into the box.
He had burnt his boats. There could be no turning back now. Like Cortes, that ‘heroic villain’ as Mr Flockhart had called him, he must go on, to endure suffering and make his discoveries.
He had considered several places that would be appropriate: the steps of St Stephen’s church; in front of the War Memorial; outside the town hall; the site of the building where he had killed Crosbie; in the courtyard of the police station; or at the coup. Surely it ought to be where people would see him. The steps of the church would be best.
In the distance he heard the bells. They fell silent when he came in sight of the church, just as the last stragglers were going in. He would have an hour or so to wait.
He walked among the graves and trees, with withered leaves clining to his shoes. A robin kept him company. He stood beside Mr Porteous’s grave. The tombstone was small and plain, with no urns or angels. The inscription, in black not gold letters, said simply: ‘Alexander McDonald Porteous, aged 37, beloved husband of Elizabeth and father of Margaret.’ Duffy had an impression of a quiet, modest, affectionate man. He had died nine years ago when Margaret was eight. Duffy imagined her at the graveside, mouth firm, eyes dry, suffering inwardly. Nothing or nobody could have comforted her. He imagined himself there too, a child of seven. He had not known then, and he did not know now, whether his own father was alive or dead.
After a while he went and chose his place on the steps, facing the door. He stood there with eyes closed. In the wood a bird or animal screamed.
He imagined the scene in Florence nearly five hundred years ago when Savonarola, who had wanted to make people better than they wanted to be, had been burnt at the stake, having first been strangled as an act of mercy. Duffy felt a tightness at his own throat, smelled smoke, and heard exultant cries. When he opened his eyes he was alone, except for the robin on the step above him. There were no sounds except for the wind in the trees and, inside the church, the singing of a psalm.
Somebody though was beside him, not in body but in spirit. It was Cooley, speaking truthfully as always.
‘It’s nothing but pride, Duffy. Talk about Porteous being arrogant! What you are thinking of doing would be far more arrogant than anything she has ever done. Who do you think you are, Duffy, if you believe that burning yourself to death would do anybody any good? Jesus Christ? They say He died to save the world, but who’s saved, for Christ’s sake? Nobody. Give it up, Duffy. It’s the worst of your ideas and the others were bad enough.’
‘What about Crosbie? What do I do about him?’
She was silent.
‘I must do something about him, Cooley.’
‘There’s nothing you can do. That’s your tough luck. Never mind. I’ll come and see you in the nut-house, every five years or so.’
She was right. He must not do it. It would be another wrong gesture.
So he went back among the graves to the furthermost corner of the kirkyard where, behind rhododendrons, himself watched by the robin, he watched the church skailing. Down the steps, past the spot where they would have seen him burning, they streamed. They seemed especially happy, as if the service that Sunday, after last Sunday’s fiasco, had been uplifting and comforting. Also the sun was coming out and birds were singing: spring would soon be here and winter’s wind and rain survived for another year. He saw the Telfer family laughing at some joke of Stephen’s. He saw Mrs Porteous, she in her fur coat, and Margaret in her blue one, arm-in-arm, as if they were reconciled again. Chief-Inspector Findlay, his wife, and his grown-up daughter helped Mrs Milne down the steps. Mr Milne must be on duty this morning. Mrs Flockhart was with some teachers from the school. Mr Flockhart must be at home watching their infant. He saw Mr McLachlan of Lightburn Motors who had been friendly towards him last week talking to a friend, about business it must have been, judging from their seriousness: religion was over for the week.
Perhaps their happiness in themselves and in one another was not justified. They had just made promises to God which they would not this week any more than last week try to keep. But justified or not their happiness was as natural and as beautiful to see as this robin now flitting away from him through the
trees.
He was shut out.
He would go to the coup and wait. If they came in time he would say nothing. For the rest of his life he would have nothing to say.
About the Author
JUST DUFFY
Robin Jenkins was born in Cambuslang in 1912 and spent his childhood in Lanarkshire. He was educated at Hamilton Academy and Glasgow University, graduating in 1935 with an Honours degree in English. He married in 1937 and worked as a school teacher in Glasgow and Dunoon for a number of years. He has three children. His first novel, So Gaily Sings the Lark was published in 1950 and twenty-three other books of fiction have followed, including a collection of short stories, A Far Cry from Bowmore (1973). The Cone- Gatherers (1955) received the Frederick Niven Award in 1956, and Guests of War (1956) and The Changeling (1958), were highly praised by many critics.
Robin Jenkins left Scotland for Afghanistan in 1957, teaching for three years in Kabul. From then until his retirement in 1968 he lived abroad, working for the British Institute in Barcelona and teaching in Sabah (North Borneo) in what was once part of colonial Malaysia. Afghanistan and then Malaysia became the settings for six further novels, most notably Dust on the Paw (1961), and The Holly Tree (1969). Robin Jenkins now lives in Dunoon and recent novels, such as the Arts Council Award-winning Fergus Lamont (1979) and the much praised Willie Hogg (1993), have returned to Scottish settings.
First published in 1988
by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
First published as a Canongate Classic in 1995
by Canongate Books Ltd
This digital edition first published in 2009
by Canongate Books Ltd
Copyright © Robin Jenkins, 1988
Introduction copyright © Margery Palmer McCulloch, 1995
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted
The publishers gratefully acknowledge general
subsidy from the Scottish Arts Council towards
Just Duffy Page 24
