The Changeling

by Robin Jenkins

  As he gazed over the sea he saw that the moon at last was glittering upon it, most beautifully; but the effect upon him was to drive him from his last refuge. He could no longer deny that his finding consolation in the loveliness of nature, and in his championing of the meek and oppressed against such as Todd, had been insincere. The sight of the Sleeping Warrior in the sunset sky had certainly never compensated for his lack of professional success; and his Samaritan succouring of Tom Curdie had been motivated by an intricacy of selfish hopes.

  And seeing himself clearly, unobscured by self-pity, he also saw what Mary must have seen for years. It was no wonder her tolerance had given way tonight. She, who had been forced to adjust herself to the harsh ways of the world, had had to suffer his pretences to be superior to those ways, when the truth was, seen daily by her, that he was incapable even of intelligent compromise.

  For over an hour he sat among the rocks. During that time a young couple passed on the road, linked together. They stopped to kiss. He felt a great unrevengeful pity for them, so that he wanted to cry out a warning, but he did not know what it was he should warn them against.

  The light was still on in the living-room as he trudged up the path. So Mary had not gone to bed; she had waited up to see if he had come to a sensible decision; well, if to agree to send Tom home tomorrow was sensible, he had. There would be no investigation, no prolonging of the crisis. Silence and acquiescence must be his part now, until he felt sure enough of his new self to begin to have trust in it; in the meantime he would depend on Mary’s advice and judgment.

  As a result he was appalled by the look she cast at him as he slunk discreetly in; resentment and hatred were surely in it, turning her face almost unrecognisable. He expected her to scream at him, so that the actual quietness of her voice was all the more terrifying.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’ve won.’

  ‘Won, Mary? I never felt less like a victor in my life.’

  ‘You’ve won.’

  He sat down by the fire beside her, shivering. A fragment of seaweed clung to the bottom of his trousers. He was too stiff and dispirited to pick it off.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mary. I’m sorry for what I said, above all, for saying I was going to leave you. God knows where I could go to.’

  ‘While you were out,’ she said, speaking in short gasps, as if the words were burning her mouth, ‘Gillian came down here, out of her bed.’

  He shook his head. ‘Poor Gillian!’

  ‘If you dare to pity her, Charlie, as sure as God I’ll strike you.’

  He was astounded and utterly lost.

  ‘She came down here to take back what she’d said about Curdie.’

  He was so dazed with astonishment and terror at her attitude that he couldn’t understand.

  ‘She admitted she had made it up, out of spite. You were right. You judged her character perfectly. She’s a nasty spiteful little liar. And Curdie’s innocent, this time. So you’ll be satisfied.’

  ‘Satisfied?’ He almost wept the word.

  ‘Yes, satisfied. You don’t have to feel sorry for yourself any more. This is another victory, Charlie. You were right.’

  He wanted to cry out that he was sorry for her and Gillian, but he did not dare.

  ‘Do you think she did it for my sake?’ he asked humbly.

  ‘Still thinking of yourself, Charlie?’

  ‘No.’ He couldn’t repress a long sore sigh, which was not free of self-pity. ‘I’m thinking of Gillian. She’s a warm-hearted honest child.’

  ‘Don’t start praising her now.’

  ‘I just meant she might be trying to save me from disappointment.’

  It was evident that Mary suspected this new tone of his, this meekness, was some kind of new strategy; self-pity, she knew, was versatile.

  ‘That occurred to me,’ she said.

  ‘Did you put it to her?’

  ‘She’d still be a liar.’

  ‘Don’t be embittered, Mary. We’ll send him home tomorrow, and then we’ll be able to forget the whole unhappy business.’

  ‘Why should we send him home?’

  So even his unconditional surrender was to be spurned. ‘I thought that was what you wanted, Mary.’

  ‘I don’t like having him here, you know that; but I wouldn’t send him home without a good reason. If Gillian lies about him out of spite and jealousy, is that a good reason?’

  ‘It’s obvious his presence here isn’t doing her any good; or any of us, for that matter.’

  ‘I won’t deny that, Charlie; but if you send him home because of this, it’s your responsibility, not mine.’

  ‘I respect your judgment, Mary. If you don’t think I should, then of course I won’t.’

  ‘There’s another thing, Charlie: leave Gillian alone.’

  ‘I would never dream of punishing her.’

  ‘And I would never dream of letting you. She’s been punished enough. I meant don’t start pestering her to get at what you would call the truth. You’re not as clever as you think, Charlie; you’d just make things a hundred times worse. She’s upstairs at this minute breaking her heart—in our bed, Charlie. I told her to go there. You can sleep with Alistair. Good-night.’

  She was gone before he could ask if this sleeping apart was for this night only, or for the rest of the holiday. Was this the punishment she had decided on for him?

  After shivering by the low fire in the silent house for another hour, suffering over again the revelations at the seashore, and becoming more and more doubtful as to what he should do, he began to give way to the feeling that he was in the grip of inimical non-human forces, whose instrument was indeed Tom Curdie.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tom had stolen the tin-opener and the ointment to convince himself he was Chick and Peerie’s friend, and Alec’s brother, and that his home was in Donaldson’s Court, to which he must return. It was to destroy the delusion growing in his mind that Mr and Mrs Forbes were his parents, Alistair his brother and Gillian his sister, and that his home was their house in the avenue of gardens. Necessary to that delusion was another, that there was no such place as Donaldson’s Court, and no such persons as Alec, Molly, his mother, Shoogle, Chick and Peerie. Everywhere in Towellan, in the garden among the rose-bushes, in the hut at night listening to the owl, on the lawn putting, even in the ruined castle with the sick rabbit, he was becoming convinced that this was the way of life he had always known and always would know; that at the end of the holiday he would return with the rest of the family, and would for the rest of his life be involved in their affairs as he was now; and that he would always have a bed to himself with clean sheets, and plenty of good food served on a table with a white cloth.

  Then on the platform while he was waiting to sing those delusions had been ended. Mr Forbes and Alistair had waved at him; he had not waved back, but the man presenting the show had said: ‘There’s your father and brother wishing you luck, but your sister doesn’t look too pleased. Just you show her what you can do.’

  So when in Woolworth’s he had picked up the tin-opener and the ointment, it had been as an acceptance of reality. The buying of the brooch for Mrs Forbes had been for the same purpose.

  Gillian’s seeing of him had at first dismayed him until he realised that if he went on staying with them as before the delusion would grow again. So all that evening he was resigned to her telling her parents and to their challenging him. He would at once confess but give no reason, and they would send him away. He would arrive back in the Court in time to prevent the others from coming. What the effect on him of this short stay here would be, he would find out afterwards.

  But the evening passed, and though at supper-time Mrs Forbes did not wear the brooch and was angry with her husband for teasing her about it, Tom couldn’t be sure that Gillian had told them. Gillian herself, wearing the turban, two or three times looked at him not only with the usual dislike but also with sadness. He had gone to bed, not knowin
g what had happened.

  Next morning, deeper in his shell than ever, he thought that Gillian for some reason had told her father but not her mother. Mrs Forbes wore the brooch and was pleasant to him, though she was sharp-tempered with everybody else, even with Alistair. Mr Forbes, on the other hand, avoided him and went off rowing all morning with Alistair. Mrs Storrocks couldn’t have been told either, because as she sat in her deck-chair on the lawn she called him from his putting to go and fetch her handbag, which she had left lying on the sofa in the sitting-room. When he went for it he thought it wiser to ask Mrs Forbes’s permission to go into the sitting-room. ‘Why not?’ she asked, with a smile, as if there could be no question in her mind as to whether or not he was to be trusted.

  Gillian, like her father, avoided him; soon after breakfast she went off by herself to climb the hill behind the house.

  And thus it continued till Friday, the day when he was to go into Dunroth to sing in the Final of the ‘Go-as-you-please’ competition, and Alec, Chick, and Peerie were to arrive by steamer.

  The change took place at the dinner-table.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Storrocks, ‘though there’s been less talk about it than I’d have thought, that we’re all going into Dunroth this afternoon to hear Tom sing in the Final.’

  ‘Good!’ cried Alistair. ‘This time we’ll go out in a “drive-yourself” motor-boat.’

  ‘I don’t see why not, Mother,’ said Mrs Forbes. ‘It’s a lovely afternoon.’

  ‘Can I stay at home?’ asked Gillian.

  Her father spoke in a quiet, sad voice. ‘We are all going to stay at home, Tom included.’

  Tom knew it was to make sure he didn’t steal again.

  ‘What’s this?’ cried Mrs Storrocks. ‘He’s not to be allowed?’

  ‘I would rather not discuss it, Mrs Storrocks,’ said Mr Forbes, in that same voice. He looked at his wife as if for support, but she did not seem willing to give it.

  ‘If you think, Charles,’ cried Mrs Storrocks, ‘you can adopt such a high-handed and mysterious manner with me, you’re far mistaken. Can you tell me what this is about, Mary?’

  Mrs Forbes smiled, but it seemed to Tom she was near to weeping. ‘Don’t bring me into it, Mother. I don’t want to go. I had enough of it on Tuesday.’

  ‘I understood, Mary, you thoroughly enjoyed yourself on Tuesday. So it’s only me and the two laddies who want to go? Very well, we’ll go, and the rest of you can stay at home.’

  ‘Mrs Storrocks,’ said Mr Forbes, ‘you evidently do not understand. You may of course go to Dunroth, or any place you wish.’

  ‘There’s one place in particular you’re thinking of, Charles,’ she cried.

  Tom knew the place she meant. No one smiled.

  Mr Forbes shook his head. ‘No, no. I just want to make it clear that Tom and Alistair are not to be allowed to go into Dunroth today.’

  ‘But what for, Pop?’ cried Alistair. ‘I’ll pay my own fare.’

  ‘Fares have nothing to do with it, son.’

  ‘What has to do with it?’ asked Mrs Storrocks. ‘You’ve been acting rather oddly this last day or two, Charles, like a man that’s waiting to be hanged.’ She smiled and got Alistair to join her; no one else would.

  ‘I don’t think we should discuss this any more in front of the children,’ said Mrs Forbes.

  ‘It concerns the children, Mary,’ said her mother, who then addressed Tom: ‘Do you want to go?’

  He nodded: not only was he going, but he was not coming back.

  ‘Yes, I should say so,’ said Mrs Storrocks. ‘Your attitude, Charles, quite absolutely baffles me. On Tuesday you were as proud as a dog with two heads. If he’d been one of your own you couldn’t have been prouder. Look at the fuss you made because Gillian wouldn’t clap. And, now, if you please, he’s not to be allowed to go!’

  Suddenly he crashed his fist down on the table, making dishes and cutlery rattle.

  ‘I’m trying to do what’s for the best,’ he cried, like a child that was trying not to weep.

  Mrs Storrocks rose. ‘Do you think I’m going to stay here and be threatened by fists?’ she said. ‘There’s been many a hint I’ve not heeded, but I think it’s clear enough now that I’m not welcome.’

  Mrs Forbes shut her eyes. ‘Sit down, Mother,’ she sighed. ‘Of course you’re welcome.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to you, Mary. I can’t be dictated to as to where I’ll go or not go.’

  ‘I didn’t dictate to you, Mrs Storrocks,’ said Mr Forbes wearily. ‘If I gave that impression I beg your pardon. I’m just trying to keep things going as smoothly as possible.’

  She laughed. ‘You’ve chosen a funny way of doing it, Charles.’ And she walked out.

  He made to rise and try to persuade her not to go, but his wife told him sharply to sit down. When he did so he covered his face with his hands.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ demanded Alistair. ‘Have I to go to Dunroth with Grannie?’

  ‘You hold your tongue,’ cried his mother. ‘Tom, this concerns you most. If you want to go to Dunroth this afternoon, you may.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘I told you to hold your tongue.’

  Mr Forbes took his hands away from his face; he looked desperate, as if he didn’t know what to say or even to think. ‘But, Mary,’ he wailed, ‘surely you understand—’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she yelled.

  His face was swept by anger. ‘I’ve stood as much as I can. All week I’ve been humiliated.’

  ‘Who’s been humiliating you? Nobody that I’ve seen.’

  ‘Every pebble on the beach, every blade of grass on the hill,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve abased myself. I’ve crawled on my knees. And what’s been my reward? Humiliation.’

  ‘Gillian, Alistair, Tom,’ said Mrs Forbes, ‘leave the room.’

  ‘But I’ve not finished my milk,’ grumbled Alistair.

  ‘Then leave the bloody thing,’ roared his father. ‘Go on, get out. Not you, Gillian. I want you to stay. And you, too, Tom.’

  Alistair went out crying.

  Mrs Forbes was on her feet. She had a knife in her hand as if, thought Tom, she was minded to throw it at her husband. Her face was so full of hate she seemed to him vividly like Gillian.

  ‘You gave me your promise, Charlie,’ she said.

  ‘Mary, can’t you see, this thing’s round my neck, choking me? Your mother was right, I have been going about like a man about to be hanged. There’s a fog of doubt and suspicion and distrust in this house. It must be dispelled, once and for all.’ He turned towards Gillian, with what he tried to make a conciliatory smile. ‘Gillian my dear, please listen to me.’

  She began to scream: ‘No, no, no. I’m not going to say anything. Mummy, please!’ And she ran to her mother, who embraced her.

  ‘Gillian, Gillian,’ wailed her father, ‘don’t think I don’t love you.’

  In her mother’s arms she sobbed bitterly.

  Mr and Mrs Forbes looked at each other like strangers. It seemed to Tom that he knew them better then than they knew themselves.

  Suddenly Gillian struggled out of her mother’s embrace and rushed from the room.

  Mr Forbes turned to Tom. ‘So you want to go and sing?’ he asked harshly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you so keen on winning the money?’

  ‘I’d like to try, sir.’

  Forbes sneered and quoted: ‘“Thy home is the angry wave, Mine but the lonely grave”. You may go and sing. My rudder is broken.’

  Tom looked at Mrs Forbes. He was astonished by the loathing in her eyes; but she nodded, and he immediately left the room.

  As he went through the hall to the front door he caught sight of Forbes’s old raincoat hanging on a peg. It was soiled, with green paint on its seat. He had a longing to touch it, but that shy gesture could not satisfy the sudden surge of love in him, so that he crushed his face into the coat, smelling not only paint but the s
ea.

  As he stood thus he heard a noise and thought it might be Gillian again spying on him; but when he looked round there was no one. It must have been the grandfather clock. Mr Forbes often said ‘Pardon’ on its behalf: it was one of the family’s jokes. Tom was reminded of Shoogle, who also said ‘Pardon’; but this massive mahogany clock, inlaid with brass, was taller and in every way handsomer and more durable than the small, belching, drunken cripple.

  Then Tom found himself not hurrying through the garden to the hut, but knocking at the dining-room door. He would confess not only to the thefts in Woolworth’s but also to the others at school; and he would tell them he was going away that afternoon for good.

  Mr Forbes opened the door, just enough to show his face; tear-stained, bewildered, and woebegone, it might have struck a stranger as comical. Inside the room was the sound of Mrs Forbes weeping.

  ‘What is it?’ muttered Mr Forbes. ‘What d’you want?’

  What Tom had come to say, he found he could not; that weeping within the room demoralised him; or rather it drove him back to his old resources.

  ‘I was wondering, sir,’ he said politely, ‘if I could have a loan of the bike to go to Dunroth.’

  ‘The bike?’ repeated Forbes.

  ‘Yes, sir. It would save the bus fare.’

  There was a rush inside the room. Forbes was pushed aside and his wife’s face was seen, tearful, enraged, ugly.

  ‘No, you can’t have the bicycle,’ she screamed. ‘You knew Gillian was going to use it; that’s why you want it.’

  Not only had he not known that, but he thought Mrs Forbes hadn’t known it either.

  ‘I didn’t know, Mrs Forbes,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, you did. You can’t have it. Do you hear, you can’t have it!’

  Then she rushed back into the room.

  Forbes was left glaring miserably out at him.