The Changeling

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘Alistair said he did.’

  ‘No, Mummy, he didn’t.’

  Her father spoke, humbly. ‘Did you ask him if he stole things from shops?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘Wasn’t that an odd question to ask somebody you’ve just met for the first time?’

  Gillian did not reply. She gazed out of the window where Alistair was trying to putt with his left hand. Tom wasn’t to be seen.

  ‘Wasn’t it, Gillian?’ asked her father again.

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘This idea of stealing’s in your head, Gillian. What put it there?’ He took hold of her gently by the shoulders. ‘Gillian, did you see Tom stealing in Woolworth’s last Tuesday? I want the truth.’

  She would not look towards her mother for help or sympathy.

  ‘Did you, Gillian?’

  ‘Yes,’ she cried, ‘yes, I saw him. But I don’t know what he did it for.’

  ‘I don’t think that matters, to us. The important thing as far as I’m concerned, Gillian, is that I’ve found out that you love me more than truth. I’m not going to find fault with you for that, whoever else may.’ He kissed her on the brow.

  ‘I hate him,’ she whispered, ‘I hate him.’

  ‘I don’t think you should. Hate what he does, when it’s wrong, like stealing, or lying, but try not to hate him.’

  ‘I do hate him.’

  Her mother put her arm round her. ‘Never mind, Gillian. It’s over now. We’ll send him away and forget him. He’s not worth hating. It looks as though he’s had it all arranged, to bring his pals down with him. You go and tell the others dinner’s ready. Your grandma said she was going for a stroll on the beach, but you’ll likely find her on her way up. As you know, she smells when the food’s ready.’ She smiled at that family joke.

  Gillian did not smile.

  ‘By Jove, she’ll have no trouble smelling the potatoes,’ cried her father, rushing into the kitchen. ‘They’re burnt to cinders,’ he sang out.

  Mary sniffed as the lid came off. ‘They certainly are. Now off you go, Gillian.’

  ‘Are we still going to Rothesay?’ asked Gillian.

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, we’ll go.’

  ‘Will he go with us?’

  ‘Do you mean Tom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know, Gillian. I’ll have to see your father about it.’

  ‘I want him to go.’ Then Gillian went quickly away.

  Her mother, shaking her head in perplexity, hurried into the kitchen. It was full of steam, the stench of burnt potatoes, and Charlie’s laughter.

  She could not help laughing herself. ‘What are they like?’

  He waved the pot under her nose. ‘Just the way your mother likes them.’

  The tears in her eyes were not altogether caused by the steam. ‘Oh, Charlie!’ she cried.

  With the pot in one hand he embraced her with the other. ‘No use crying over burnt potatoes, my dear; or a failed experiment.’

  ‘We’ll get rid of him tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to see him on the steamer to make sure he doesn’t sneak off to stay with these pals of his.’

  ‘I’ll take him the whole way home.’

  ‘Maybe it would be as well, Charlie. When are you going to tell him? And what are you going to tell him? You could say we’ve got somebody coming unexpectedly and the hut’s needed.’

  ‘He’ll be told, Mary.’

  ‘When he’s gone we’ll maybe all be able to understand one another again.’

  ‘And your mother won’t feel she’s living in a Chinese house.’

  They both laughed, but they knew in their hearts, she in her way and he in his, that love had failed amongst them, and for the rest of their lives they, and their children, must live in the shadow of that failure.

  Then Mrs Storrocks came in, lamenting the burnt potatoes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mary’s gaiety that afternoon affected her family, so that Tom’s isolation among them became more marked. She did not intend that effect, but noticed it without much compunction; indeed, it was a faint but stubborn sense of guilt towards him, as well as towards Charlie, that caused her to express her happiness and relief with such ostentation.

  It was a brilliant, warm afternoon when they got off the bus at Towellan Pier. The steamer which was to take them to Rothesay was already in sight.

  ‘Well, we’re in good time,’ she said, ‘thanks to you, Charlie.’

  He knew also her gaiety was partly false: it could not be otherwise, so soon after that revelation; perhaps, indeed, her happiness, like his own, never had been quite genuine, and never could be. Nevertheless, in loyalty and affection, and as a sharer of the burden, he laughed, too, and jested, glancing down to see if he still wore his apron.

  They were approaching the gate on to the pier when Alistair seized his mother’s arm. ‘See,’ he hissed, ‘that’s him, over there, Tom’s friend, Peerie.’

  Peeping round the corner of a boatshed was a boy peculiar in more than his dress. Gillian had said he wasn’t very intelligent; to Mary he seemed a half-wit. Though he obviously did not want to be seen by them he just as obviously couldn’t keep out of sight. His antics and his coloured cap reminded her of a chimpanzee she had once seen at the zoo; it had hopped about in some kind of subhuman excitement just like this. Then she realised he must be trying to attract Tom’s attention, while at the same time avoiding theirs.

  She walked over to Tom. ‘Is that a friend of yours?’ she asked pleasantly.

  He had already seen Peerie. ‘No, Mrs Forbes.’

  ‘Are you sure? Alistair told me you’ve met him today already. He certainly seems to think he knows you.’

  ‘I used to know him.’

  It was a strange answer, strangely spoken. Boys, she supposed, fell out as girls did; she wondered what had caused it.

  ‘He thinks he still knows you.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Mrs Storrocks.

  ‘Nothing, Mother. Tom’s just seen a boy who’s a neighbour of his in Glasgow.’

  ‘Good gracious! Where is he?’

  As if to oblige her Peerie, in his full freakishness, had come out from behind the shed. He still gesticulated, but without confidence.

  ‘His trousers are wet,’ said Alistair, laughing. ‘He fell in this morning, up to here.’

  ‘What a creature!’ said his grandmother. ‘I hope, Tom, you keep him at a distance.’

  ‘I don’t think you need worry about that, Mother,’ said Mary.

  Charlie had been chatting to Bob Moodie at the gate. ‘Come on, you people,’ he called. ‘Do you want to miss the steamer? All paid for here.’

  They filed past Bob with his satchel.

  ‘A grand day,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ agreed Mary cheerfully.

  ‘No day’s grand enough for daylight robbery,’ snorted Mrs Storrocks.

  ‘What a surprise you’re going to get, Mrs Storrocks,’ said her son-in-law, ‘when you arrive at the gates of heaven and find there’s a toll to pay.’

  ‘So you’ve got me dead, Charles? You forget that that toll is being paid here and now, daily.’

  ‘I don’t forget that,’ he murmured.

  Mary was laughing at this exchange between her mother and husband when Alistair caught her by the cardigan.

  ‘He’s coming, Mummy. He’s on the pier.’

  They all looked back to see Peerie safely past Bob Moodie.

  ‘Who in heaven’s name is he?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘That’s him,’ Mary whispered, ‘Tom’s friend. He seems to be interested in us.’

  Charlie could not share her amusement. He scowled and muttered what sounded to her like ‘scum of the earth’. It was a judgment that might have been her mother’s. She could not help laughing.

  ‘What if he follows us to Rothesay?’ asked Alistair, thrilled.

  ‘He won’t,�
� said his father grimly.

  ‘But how could you stop him, Dad?’

  ‘I shall see to it that he pesters none of us.’ He included Tom in his protective glower.

  ‘If the creature’s got its fare,’ said Mrs Storrocks, ‘then it’s entitled to go to Rothesay, like anybody else.’

  ‘He’s not entitled to make himself a nuisance by following people about,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I wouldn’t heed him,’ whispered Mary. ‘I don’t think he’s all there.’

  ‘It won’t be very pleasant having an imbecile following us around, especially dressed like that.’

  ‘No, Charlie,’ she said, and did not laugh.

  Then the steamer came in, the gangway was hoisted, and the little group of Towellan people went on board. Peerie darted on last, just as the men were untying the ropes from the gangway.

  ‘He’s coming,’ said Alistair, in glee. ‘I bet he’s going to try and skip it.’ He was by no means shocked; he seemed to think that to be able to travel without paying showed resource, wisdom, economy, and daring.

  Charlie and Mary exchanged glances, hers proud and content, his sombre; but each glance admitted the same thing, that their own son, if he had been taken from them at birth and brought up in Donaldson’s Court, would have turned out to be no more honest than Tom and Peerie.

  Then Mary had to go with her mother to find seats in the sun and out of the wind. Charlie went below with Alistair to look at the engines.

  Gillian remained on deck. Not far from her Tom, at the rail, gazed so earnestly shorewards she thought he was like an emigrant going to some country like New Zealand, thousands of miles away, from which he might never return. Rothesay, of course, was only half an hour’s sailing away.

  Now that the two women and the man were gone, Peerie crept out of hiding. On his way to Tom he passed Gillian without noticing her. When she said ‘Hello’ he gave a whimper of fright, and then a grin of apology and entreaty mixed.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to Tom,’ he explained.

  ‘You’re very persistent,’ she said.

  He wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘It’s important,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well, there he is, at the rail.’

  ‘I can see him. Will he talk to me noo?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But you can try.’

  ‘But whit will he no’ talk to me for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She really did not know; it seemed to her that the obvious explanations, shame and fear, were inadequate. ‘You’ll just have to try. Is it about Chick?’

  He could not keep an expression of horror from contorting his face.

  ‘What has he done?’ she asked. ‘It must have been something terrible.’

  He nodded. ‘I cannae tell you. I can just tell Tom.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t listen to you? You’ve got to tell somebody, haven’t you? You can tell me if you like; that’s to say, if Tom’ll not listen.’

  Shaking his head doubtfully, Peerie slunk off to try. He couldn’t help liking her freckled cheerfulness, even though when she was in the boat that morning she had made a fool of him.

  He couldn’t get into the rail close to Tom. There was a man at one side and a stout woman at the other; both looked as if they would object if he tried to squeeze in. He had to poke Tom in the back. Tom turned, saw him, but pretended not to: it was as if the poke had been done by a stranger accidentally. Peerie was so disconcerted by that stare that for a moment or two he wondered if this boy in the clean jerkin and khaki shorts really was Tom Curdie, who lived beside him in Donaldson’s Court in Glasgow, and who for years had been kind to him.

  What was in his mind was red-hot. He grabbed Tom’s jerkin and tugged. ‘I’ve got to talk to you, Tom,’ he whispered. ‘It’s aboot Chick.’

  The woman turned and made a red, go-away face.

  Tom still looked towards the shore; but he was not seeing the trees and hills, or even the white lighthouse; he was remembering the house in Donaldson’s Court, and comparing his mother there with Mrs Forbes.

  ‘Oh, go away,’ said the woman, again. ‘You’re a nuisance.’

  That was what Peerie wanted, to go away with Tom to a corner below, beside the engines, where it was darker and the noise would make the telling of his awful news about Chick less dangerous.

  ‘Come on, Tom,’ he urged.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ asked the woman. ‘You’re a nuisance.’

  He had to stand back, thwarted. When he turned he saw the girl waving at him; there was nothing he could do but wave back sadly.

  Then he tried again and this time dislodged the stout woman. Really the position was now too breezy for her.

  ‘I can see I’ll get no peace here,’ she said.

  She had a camera round her neck and a bag on her arm. As he looked after her Peerie felt like shouting she was lucky she hadn’t spoken to Chick like that, for he’d have stolen her camera or said rude things about her fat bum.

  He burrowed in close to Tom.

  ‘Do you know what he’s done this time, Tom?’ he whispered. ‘This is the worst ever.’

  Tom seemed more interested in a gull flying steadfastly above their heads. Peerie didn’t like its yellow sinister eye. Before he could go on and tell Tom about Chick, the ship’s band, a fiddle and an accordion, arrived to play behind them. People sang to the cheerful music. A young couple danced two or three light-hearted steps. Peerie was annoyed, until he realised that the music would be as good as the noise of the engines to protect his secret.

  Tom wondered what it was Chick had done. Had he stolen something valuable, or had he attacked a girl in some lonely place?

  ‘You’re no’ listening, Tom,’ whined Peerie. ‘I cannae tell you if you don’t listen. It isnae fair. I wouldnae hae come if it hadnae been for you. I’ll tell my grannie.’

  ‘Go hame,’ said Tom, and walked quickly away.

  With tears in his eyes Peerie gaped after him. ‘Hame?’ he repeated stupidly, not knowing whether the word meant the tent or the cottage Tom was living in or Donaldson’s Court.

  The man with the little red bag jingled by for pennies for the band. Peerie put in a penny; it was really to pay for the company of all these other people who put pennies in too. But when the bag was past he felt more lonely than ever.

  Some of those other people were smiling in sympathy at the faces of grief he was making, but he could not smile back. Then the band went away and a woman, scented, with her ringed hand holding a biscuit, came forward. He thought it was for him, and in spite of his terrible anxiety was going to accept it, for he felt hungry; but she stepped past and held it out to the gulls. One flew near but somehow pretended to be looking ahead, not at the biscuit at all, so that when it made its snatch, everybody, including Peerie, was startled. People laughed. Looking after the gull, which now flew close to the water, Peerie felt a kinship with it, for in a way it had eaten his biscuit. But it had plenty of other gulls to speak to.

  Even when the steamer entered Rothesay Bay, where six submarines lay alongside their depot ship, he was not comforted. Other boys rushed to the rails, among them the Forbes boy Alistair. What Peerie noticed most of all was the sailors’ washing on the depôt ship; it reminded him of the backcourts of home. He decided bitterly that when he grew up, and his grannie was dead, he would join the Navy and sail to some far-off place and never come back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  While they were standing outside Rothesay Pier to confer as to how they should spend the afternoon, Alistair caught sight of Peerie skulking behind a weighing-machine; he was still spying on them.

  Charlie was furious. Resolute to protect the flawed happiness of his family, he could not see the humour of that absurd pursuit.

  ‘What does he want?’ he kept asking.

  ‘He’s lonely,’ said Gillian unexpectedly.

  ‘Lonely?’ Her father gazed round at the numerous holidaymakers.

  ‘And he’s got something he wants to tell Tom.’r />
  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He said so this morning, and he told me again on the steamer.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me you spoke to that idiotic riff-raff on the steamer?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’

  ‘In heaven’s name, why?’

  ‘I felt sorry for him.’

  ‘Sorry? Your pity does you credit, Gillian, but I assure you it’s wasted on the likes of that. You keep back from him. God knows what filthy thoughts will swarm and spawn beneath that cap.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Mrs Storrocks, ‘we came to Rothesay for an afternoon’s enjoyment.’

  ‘So we did,’ said Mary. ‘Well, Charlie, it’s decided then. My mother and I will go for a look round the shops; you take the children up Canada Hill.’

  ‘That was my intention, Mary,’ he said, scowling towards Peerie, ‘but I don’t relish being made a public laughing-stock. If he was a dog,’ he added, in a passion of frustration, ‘we could throw stones to discourage him.’

  His mother-in-law rebuked him. ‘The boy’s a fool, Charles, but he’s doing no harm.’

  ‘If Tom went over and spoke to him,’ suggested Gillian, ‘he might go away.’

  ‘No,’ said her mother. ‘I told Tom to keep back from him.’

  But Charlie was considering the idea. ‘If that’s all he wants, just to tell Tom something, maybe it would be as well to let him do it.’

  Mary smiled and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I got the impression Tom didn’t want to speak to him. But it’s all the same to me.’

  They all looked at Tom. He shook his head.

  ‘What does that mean?’ demanded Charlie.

  ‘It’s plain enough to me,’ said Mrs Storrocks. ‘He doesn’t want to have anything to do with him; and in my opinion he’s quite right. Encourage that sort and they’ll be pitching their tent on the lawn.’

  Mary couldn’t help laughing at that grotesque possibility.

  ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ said Charlie. ‘There are such people as police. Well, Tom, are you going over to tell your friend to go away and leave us in peace?’

  ‘I’d rather not, sir.’

  ‘Good heavens, what are you afraid of? He won’t attack you. We’ll see to that.’