The Changeling

by Robin Jenkins

  Her words proved she did not understand. Charlie winked at Tom, in whose mind that blowing of the trumpet had opened the first small window.

  ‘Well, it’s done one thing anyway,’ said Mary. ‘It’s brought Willie.’

  The old man came hurrying, or at least trying to hurry. His legs were so thin and shaky that the gaiters he wore as a kind of livery to go with the top-hat looked like supports. He was so stooped that at every step he seemed about to scrape from his boots the dried cow dung on them.

  ‘Drunk,’ muttered Mrs Storrocks, but not even she believed it.

  Charlie was horrified. In his recollection this old man had been immortal; the lighthouse itself might have been expected to totter sooner than Willie. Yet now those very whiskers, once so brawny with beer, wilted.

  His wits and friendliness were soon shown to be as lively as ever. He had a joke for each one, even for Mrs Storrocks; for Tom Curdie, the stranger, he had a special handshake.

  ‘You’ll be a cousin of Alistair’s?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ snapped Mrs Storrocks. ‘He’s no relation. He’s a scholar of Mr Forbes’s; just that.’

  Willie winked at Tom. ‘Just that, eh? Weel, I’m sure that’s a grand thing to be.’

  ‘Thanks, Willie,’ said Charlie.

  With a wave of his hand to the little boy in the kilt Willie set the ponies going.

  ‘Sorry I had to keep you waiting, Mr Forbes,’ he said.

  ‘Charlie’s the name, Willie.’

  ‘Where I was your name was mentioned. Maybe you’ll no’ mind of wee Eddie Tulloch, wha used to be roadman years back?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I do.’

  ‘A wee man, but no cantankerous wi it. Ye’ll hae noticed how wee men are often a shade cantankerous. Never wee Eddie. An awfu’ sweet nature for a man. Not braw, though. He would say himself his shovel was a better-looking shovel than he was a man. But his he’rt was bonny.’

  ‘You say he mentioned me?’

  ‘Aye, that he did. It seems, years ago, when he was working round by Loch Striven, he met you once. You were on a picnic and asked him to take a drop of tea wi you.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ cried Charlie. ‘A tiny man with a sharp face?’

  ‘It’s sharper noo. Something happened this winter past that was like a whetstane to his face. Jean his wife dee’d.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Charlie, and he was sorry not only for the little roadman’s sake. Though he had blown the trumpet in Towellan, death and grief and decay were here.

  ‘He’ll no be long ahint her,’ said Willie.

  ‘And he remembered our picnic?’ asked Charlie, in wonder. ‘It must have been at least eight years ago.’

  ‘The tea was still sweet in his mooth.’

  Never had the Firth looked so beautiful. The roadsides were gardens of honeysuckle and wild white roses. So simple those wild roses, so spare, so austere, with their five petals, their untamed bushes, and their thorns as sharp as a wild cat’s claws, they symbolised for Charlie his country’s sad harsh history, enacted against a background of magnificent loveliness. Their petals were as soft as silk. Many times must little Eddie Tulloch the roadman have sat down to drink his tea and eat his bread and cheese beside them. Yes, a wild white rose was the badge for Tom Curdie to wear in Towellan.

  They passed the Lion-rock, and there, with its lawn in front as big as a field, shone the cottage, white-washed walls and blue- painted woodwork. Behind rose the wood with its green glades of grass and lichened rock and ferns, where last year rabbits had played. Beyond the drystone dyke soared the hills. It was all familiar and beloved, and yet it was strange, too, full of hints of thresholds leading into another world where the beauty of the wild rose did sustain like food.

  The chimney was smoking, and Mrs McDonald, her hair as white as the house, was standing outside to welcome them. She lived along the road and every summer received them thus, with friendship the only payment. She would have a meal ready, better than any to be had in the dearest hotel in Dunroth; there would be her own baking, with a special jelly made from rowanberries and Towellan apples.

  While she was shaking hands with them all she seemed to Charlie to represent some goddess chosen to preside at this consummation, after all the other tutelary spirits, such as the engine-driver, the steamer captain, and Willie the coachman had done their parts and gone. They were all present again in her.

  During the bustle Charlie slipped out to the garden at the back of the house. He stood amidst rhododendrons, so that he would not be seen. There he gazed at the wood in which the ‘cushie-doos’ were moaning. In some way he had to express his homage and thankfulness. Once, while at the University, he had seen three Moslem students, in a public street, salaam towards Mecca, thousands of miles away; but for his purpose salaaming would be grotesque. Saluting would be too military; blowing kisses too effeminate; stretching out of hands, like a lover, too ostentatious. The only way seemed to be by just standing still, as if he was another bush or tree, so that even the sparrows marauding among the gooseberries, were not disturbed. When he breathed ‘Thank God’, he was sure so were all the other presences he could see, trees and bushes and flowers and birds, breathing a similar thankfulness.

  Then Gillian shouted from an upstairs window. ‘Daddy, you’ve to come at once. Dinner’s being served.’

  He turned to wave at her, and suddenly caught sight of Tom Curdie’s pale face lurking amid the ramblers that covered the trellis-work at the side of the house.

  ‘Well, Tom,’ he cried, ‘what do you think of it?’

  ‘I like it, sir.’

  The words were commonplace, but they were uttered with such a quiet earnestness that surely they meant commitment. Charlie realised it was the first time he had heard the boy commit himself to anything.

  ‘Very much,’ added Tom.

  ‘You couldn’t help liking it, Tom,’ cried Charlie, in glee. ‘I knew it.’

  Again Gillian shouted. ‘Last call, Daddy.’

  ‘We’d better do as we’re told, Tom,’ said Charlie, laughing. ‘Let’s go in.’

  With his arm round the boy’s neck they went in, looking so much like father and son that as Mary saw them she couldn’t help feeling jealous on behalf of her own son Alistair. It seemed to her that this mysterious boy Curdie would have to be watched carefully, otherwise he would without compunction steal what belonged to Alistair and Gillian. If ever there was a man able to be duped by a show of affection and gratitude it was Charlie, especially here in Towellan where he would buy white heather off a tinker-wife, although he himself knew at least three places on the hills around where it grew.

  But she said nothing, and made Tom especially welcome at the table. His portions were larger than Alistair’s, for after all he was older and had more need of food.

  Chapter Nine

  Like a squire carrying his knight’s shield, was Charlie’s verdict; like a dog with the sense to lick the hand that fed it, was Mrs Storrocks’s. Both were describing Tom Curdie that first day at Towellan.

  Eager to supply the family with their first sea-fresh cod or whiting, Charlie in the secrecy of early morning, before breakfast, set off on the old bicycle with the buckled wheels to the sandy nook a mile or so away, where spoutfish abounded for those with the knowledge and skill to catch them. He had calculated that the tide would just be right.

  He carried a pail over his shoulder and a spade across his handlebars. Dressed in mauve corduroy shorts, leather moccasins, and white open-necked shirt that revealed the hairiness of his broad chest, he sang as he zig-zagged in the sunshine along the lonely road by the sea. Not a car, not a human being, not a sheep, not a rabbit did he meet; only a frog which he wished good-morning.

  Arrived at the bay, he pulled off his moccasins, rolled up his shorts, and waded into the glittering water, searching for the tell-tale holes in the sand. Within a couple of minutes he had caught a spoutfish, a beauty, with its shell almost a foot lon
g: it was bait to boast about, whatever fish it caught. Held in his hand it became a wand: the whole scene became one of enchantment; himself alone save for some oyster-catchers, a ship far out on the Firth, and the hills on every horizon save the sea’s receding into a blue legendary remoteness.

  He could not keep his imagination from playing: now, knee- deep in the water, with his dripping pail in one hand and the spade in the other, he was Crusoe, castaway for twenty years, gazing out over the companionless ocean; now, crouched, so that the sea’s ripples kissed his bottom, he was an ancient Caledonian, watching the coracle from Ireland with the men of God; and now, upright, with the spade levelled like a sword, he prepared to resist the landing of Redcoats from an English man-o’-war, whose sails were represented by a white cloud. In the intervals between these rôles he delved in the sand for spoutfish, finding them with a luckiness that more than the sunshine and the silence and the beauty of the scene gave him in his own self as Charlie Forbes a continuing sense of enchantment. There had been mornings when he had returned with not one spoutfish; this morning he would go back with a pailful. Surely it meant that the Towellan benison, in which he believed and at which such as Todd scoffed, was this summer at work in its full potency.

  Trivial accidents were to be smiled at. His feet grew cold and numb. Stepping clumsily over a rock, he slipped on seaweed, clutched at sunlight, reeled, and sat down with a splash in about a foot of water. Even on dry land his corpulent rising from a sitting to a standing position was never instantaneous; here, in the sea, with a pailful of spoutfish in one hand and a spade in the other, and with his fundament chilled, ascension was much slower, and far less graceful than Aphrodite’s. But up he got at last, laughing, and walked dripping to the shore. His white city legs were now almost blue, as if stained with woad, and his shorts had undergone a sea-change to imperial purple; his shirt too was splashed, and his face was sprinkled with silver drops.

  He was ankle-deep when he noticed that he was not alone after all. Near the boulder on which the moccasins lay sat Tom Curdie; but he did not look quite human, he was almost the changeling again. Otherwise, why no laughter, no smile even, no grimace of amusement, only this intense antagonistic contemplativeness, suitable for confronting the accumulated injustices of mankind, hardly for witnessing a fat teacher’s frolics in the sunlit sea.

  Gingerly on the pebbles, Charlie approached him.

  ‘Hello, how long have you been here?’

  ‘About half an hour, sir.’

  So he had seen Crusoe, the ancient Caledonian, and the intrepid Jacobite, as well as the splashing clown?

  ‘I slipped,’ said Charlie, laughing and slapping his soaked bottom.

  ‘Yes, sir. Did you hurt yourself?’

  ‘No, no. Why in heaven’s name didn’t you laugh? The seagulls did. Why didn’t you? I hope it wasn’t because you didn’t want me to know you were here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You should have let me know. It’s not quite mannerly to sit and watch someone in silence. But you must learn to laugh. I don’t think, Tom, I’ve ever heard you laugh. Now if it’d been you who had tumbled into the sea and got your behind wet, I’d have laughed. Such laughter isn’t malicious, you know; it’s all part of the fun. Now what do you think of my spoutfish?’ He took one out and, proud as Neptune, held it up.

  Tom had never seen one before. He gazed at it in such a way as to delight its catcher.

  Charlie pretended to shave his cheek with it.

  ‘Also known as razor-fish,’ he cried; but his hand was now shaking so much that if it had been a real razor he would have slashed himself. So were his teeth chattering.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to dash back and get changed,’ he said.

  He hurried into his moccasins. When he was about to mount the bicycle he turned to the boy, who still watched him with keen enigmatic attention.

  ‘What about you?’ asked Charlie. ‘I’m afraid I can’t risk you on the bar. This bike’s liable to fall to pieces.’

  ‘It’s all right, sir. I’ll walk.’

  ‘You won’t have had your breakfast yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I always get up early, sir. When I saw you leaving the house I thought it would be all right if I followed you. I knew you were going for bait.’

  Charlie was delighted by that long answer. ‘You should have given me a shout,’ he said. ‘Did you sleep all right in the hut?’

  It was in the garden at the back, comfortable enough and weatherproof; but it had meant segregation and Charlie hadn’t been pleased. Mary had convinced him it was the only sensible arrangement.

  ‘Oh yes, sir, I slept fine.’

  ‘The owls didn’t frighten you?’

  ‘No.’ He said it as though on the contrary he’d lain and listened to them in wonder. ‘If you like, sir, I’ll carry your spade.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll manage. Don’t be long. Breakfast will be waiting for you.’

  When Charlie, at a bend in the road, turned his head he saw that Tom had already begun to run, not in any fright or sulk at being left alone, but with a quiet, almost happy determination.

  ‘Good,’ said Charlie, ‘very good. But all the same, if you’re going to follow me about like a squire his knight in armour, well, it might make things a bit awkward. I’ll have to make sure you play with Alistair and Gillian. That’s what you’re here for, after all, to find your childhood.’

  ~

  That first long halcyon morning was spent in taking the spoutfish out of their shells, swimming, investigating sea-pools, playing cricket on the lawn, and erecting the swing on the oak tree behind the house. Tom took part in everything, in such a fair-minded, helpful way as to show up the quarrelsome and selfish attitude of Alistair who claimed the most spoutfish, the first innings, and the first swing, and of Gillian who combated those claims. Mrs Storrocks defended her grandchildren: it was the nature of healthy normal children to squabble at their games. Charlie was indignant at such partiality; several times he reproved his own children by pointing to the example of Tom, until Mary quietly told him to stop it, otherwise he’d turn them against Tom.

  After lunch Charlie proposed a visit to the ruined castle about a mile from the house. The path to it was grassy and not too steep. Once Mrs Storrocks had reached it, and in spite of clegs and Charlie’s raptures, she had approved of the view. This time she declined: she would sit in the garden and read. Mary too decided it would be too energetic for her so early in the holiday, on such a warm day; she would sit with her mother.

  Before the expedition set forth, laden with lemonade, biscuits and sweets, Mary took Charlie aside and reminded him that Alistair was only ten, and must not be led into exploits too arduous for him; he must also not be made to feel that because of his comparative lack of strength he was a nuisance to the others. He was, she said, very sensitive about being outdone; and though tempted, she said no more, although Charlie’s boisterous assurances showed her he hadn’t taken her hints. She managed before they left to speak to Gillian, whom she found much sharper.

  ‘He’s sucking in with Daddy all the time,’ said Gillian, with scorn. ‘It’s “Yes, sir; yes, sir; yes, sir”, all the time.’

  ‘That’s enough, Gillian. Remember the boy must feel a bit lonely and strange. After all, your father’s the only one among us he knows.’

  ‘I don’t think he feels lonely, Mummy. I still think he’s laughing at us, all the time; not just at Daddy, but at you too, Mummy, and Grannie, and Alistair. Even at me,’ she added grimly.

  ‘I don’t want you to say such things, Gillian.’ But Mary found it hard to make her sternness convincing; she too still had that same suspicion.

  ‘I’m jolly well going to keep an eye on him,’ said Gillian. ‘He’s not going to get making a fool of Daddy if I can help it.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to spy on him? That would be horrible.’

  As spying was her intention,
and as she considered it in the circumstances both permissible and necessary, Gillian would not deny it.

  ‘You know how easy it is to take Daddy in,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to protect him.’

  Her mother couldn’t help laughing. ‘In Towellan, Gillian, your father thinks the very crabs on the shore protect him.’

  ‘Just sometimes, Mummy. This boy Curdie will spoil everything, if he isn’t stopped; and I’m going to stop him.’

  Her mother didn’t know what to say.

  ‘What about Alistair?’ she asked, at last.

  ‘Oh, he never notices anything. He’s just a child. I mean, he’s all right when it comes to crabs and things like that, but he never notices people.’

  ‘All right,’ said her mother, capitulating. ‘You keep a lookout. But don’t do anything unkind or unfair.’

  A spy, Gillian knew, thus restricted would find out nothing; therefore she gave no promises.

  ~

  With the rucksack on his back containing the expedition’s rations, Charlie led the way. His shorts and moccasins not being dry, he wore flannels and sandals. At first Alistair, counselled by his mother, kept close to his father, even taking his hand at times, but soon he strayed to flick bees off flowers with his forefinger, seek out grasshoppers, and pluck wild rasps. Gillian marched beside her father, while Tom Curdie walked close behind with a steadfastness that irritated Gillian, although she really couldn’t have said why. Perhaps it was because his face so exasperatingly told her nothing, no matter how many unexpected glances she shot at him. Once when she put out her tongue at him he paid her no more heed than if she had been a sheep. She was angry with herself for having revealed her antagonism: spies were most successful when friendly.

  The path up to the ruin twisted through tall bracken, past golden whins, over red bell-heather, and through a small pinewood that smelled of pears.

  Charlie rested in the wood.