Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘But, Linda, the book’s permeated by money. All those substantial fortunes. All those delightful estates. Sustained, of course, by servants little better than serfs.’

  ‘I guess so. The way they visited the poor, thinking themselves so superior, it’d make you puke. Yeah, I guess you’re right, Professor, Dorothea had her eye on Casaubon’s money without knowing it.’

  ‘Oh, I think she knew it all right.’

  ‘All those fine ladies and gentlemen, they were nothing but fucking parasites.’

  I was surprised by her vehemence.

  ‘Something else you said, Professor. About the marriage-bed being a place of joy and discovery. I don’t know about the joy but it sure can be a place of discovery.’

  I poured myself more wine.

  ‘Don’t drink too much, Professor. Scene two’s coming up.’

  ‘Set in the marriage-bed?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Your bed, Linda?’

  ‘Dorothea’s bed. It might have to be X-rated.’ She laughed. ‘Sarah’s looked out a nightshirt and a nightcap for you. I’ll be wearing drawers. Did you know that well-brought-up ladies went to bed wearing drawers?’

  13

  Wearing a nightshirt down to my ankles and a nightcap with a tassel, I waited for my cue. In the mirror there was Casaubon, looking very uneasy. Under the nightshirt was Casaubon too, ominously inert.

  The telephone rang. ‘You may come now, Mr Casaubon.’

  It was the voice of a young girl, prim but resolute.

  The room was lit by a single candle. There were shadows and dark places. Linda was in bed, wearing a white bonnet and a nightgown buttoned up to the chin. I couldn’t, of course, tell if she was wearing drawers.

  I was so conscious of poor Casaubon’s predicament that it was my predicament too. Whose now was the inertness?

  As I felt my way towards the bed, I stubbed my toes against the leg of a chair. I had to suffer in silence, though the pain was considerable.

  What put it into my head to say as I approached the bed, ‘We must pray, my dear’? Was it to mock Casaubon or to be true to him? He would have said it out of piety but also to put off for a little longer the ordeal before him.

  Dorothea would not have objected but Linda did. ‘Is it necessary?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, we must ask the Lord’s blessing.’

  ‘Must I get out of bed?’

  ‘To be efficacious, prayer must not be done lying in comfort. It must be done on one’s knees, as a token of humility.’

  With a Linda-ish grunt, Dorothea got out of bed and knelt beside it. On the other side, I knelt too. We clasped our hands.

  ‘What do we pray for, Mr Casaubon?’ she muttered.

  What indeed? Casaubon would hardly have thanked the Lord for what he dreaded to take, nor would he have pleaded for the Lord’s help, not wishing to involve that chastest of celibates. Other men might have asked to be blessed with children, but not Casaubon. I couldn’t see him as a father. To be fair, I couldn’t see Dorothea as a mother.

  As for Dorothea’s thoughts, they were Linda’s business.

  To be on the safe side, I made it silent prayer. I made it last five minutes. After all, Casaubon would have made it last twenty.

  We both rose stiffly, she with murmurs of resentment: poor acting, I thought. Dorothea would never have uttered them.

  When she was back in bed, I was about to follow her when she said, ‘Remember your medicine, Mr Casaubon. It is on the table beside the candle.’

  It looked and, as I soon found out, smelled, as if it would have a horrible taste. Was this Linda’s idea of a joke or Dorothea’s wifely solicitude? In the book, Casaubon’s medicine was mentioned.

  I took a sip, for art’s sake. It was nauseating.

  ‘You must take it all, Mr Casaubon. That’s what the doctor said.’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’ I was speaking with Casaubon’s voice, a self-pitying feeble whine. I drank it all. I felt like vomiting. My toes ached.

  ‘You may come to bed now, Mr Casaubon.’

  My bones, acting their part well, creaked as I climbed into the bed. I lay well apart from her. Casaubon, poor bugger, would have bartered his soul to be allowed to go chastely to sleep.

  ‘You have forgotten to extinguish the candle, Mr Casaubon.’

  Casaubon would have wanted to keep it lit. Seen, this woman now his wife, would be terrifying; unseen, even worse. Obediently I leant out and blew out the candle. It took me, as Casaubon, five asthmatic puffs.

  We lay in silence. There was a noise. It was Linda’s stomach rumbling. Gregor McLeod grinned at that, but Casaubon wouldn’t have. But then Dorothea’s stomach wouldn’t have rumbled.

  ‘Mr Casaubon?’ It was Dorothea speaking.

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘Is there not something we should do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To establish our union in the eyes of God, ought we not to be made one flesh? Is not that the purpose of marriage?’

  This was Linda the actress at her best.

  I did not let her down. ‘I believe so, my dear.’

  ‘It is not enough to hold hands?’

  ‘No, that is not enough.’

  ‘What then, Mr Casaubon?’

  ‘Could it not be deferred, my dear? We are both worn out with the day’s events.’

  ‘It cannot be deferred. This is our wedding-night. The sacrament must be completed now. I think that is the custom.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, that is the custom.’

  ‘What is it that has to be done?’

  ‘Has not your sister Celia, who is married, or Mrs Cadwallader, the rector’s wife, advised you, my dear?’

  ‘Ladies do not discuss such matters, Mr Casaubon.’

  ‘If your dear mother had not passed away—’

  ‘My mother was a lady, Mr Casaubon. She would not have discussed it either.’

  Casaubon would not have discussed it with God.

  ‘As a clergyman, Mr Casaubon, to whom people come for counsel, were you not, at College, equipped with such knowledge?’

  Casaubon was not so equipped and no one had ever had the temerity to consult him on such a subject.

  ‘But, Mr Casaubon, we are country people. We see the cock among his hens, the bull among his cows.’

  Linda, I thought, you’re stretching it.

  ‘So we have an idea of what is to be done?’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘Then let us proceed. It will be necessary for me to remove my drawers.’

  ‘I fear so, my dear.’

  Quickly they were removed and thrown out of the bed.

  Whether as Casaubon or Gregor McLeod, I was in need of stimulation. Casaubon would never have sought it from Dorothea and Gregor could not expect it from Linda.

  Whose hand then, Linda’s or Dorothea’s, that pulled up the nightshirt – whose nightshirt? – and took hold of – Casaubon was it? Or Gregor?

  Would virginal Dorothea have done this? Yes, if she thought it was customary.

  But would Casaubon have placed his hand, sanctioned by God, on the corresponding part of Dorothea?

  I expected her to shout, ‘Cut!’ and push me out of the bed. But no, she pulled me up on top of her and made what followed easy for me; well, not easy, but not impossibly difficult.

  I gave myself four out often for performance, nine out of ten for effort.

  She said nothing till it was over.

  ‘You have over-exerted yourself, Mr Casaubon. From now on, we must be abstinent.’

  ‘Dear Dorothea,’ I gasped, ‘does not improvement come with practice?’

  Her laughter then could never have been mistaken for Dorothea’s.

  14

  I stayed the night, but not in Linda’s bed. She preferred to sleep alone. I wasn’t to feel offended. She had never let any of her husbands spend a whole night in bed with her. She liked to be able to toss and turn and have nightmares, but she hinted that
there was another reason which she had told no one and wasn’t going to tell me either.

  For a while I lay awake smoking a cigar and assessing my progress. On the whole, it was satisfactory. I had done as well as Casaubon. Linda had praised my performance. I had made love to her. True, it was supposed to have been Casaubon making love to Dorothea, but the bodies had been mine and Linda’s. I hadn’t done all that well, managing a mere pass, but I had genuine excuses, that horrible medicine (the taste still lingered), my skinned toes (now covered with sticking plaster), and my having to be fair to Casaubon. The next time – surely that bawdy laughter had promised me a second attempt – I ought to do better. Perhaps there would be fondness between us then.

  I had qualms. She had not got her reputation for fierceness for nothing. I had already suffered a few mental lacerations. Her wealth gave her power and, of course, power corrupted. One word to the president of the bank and Frank was out of a job.

  Breakfast was served beside the pool. I had been there, alone, except for some butterflies, for nearly half an hour before my hostess appeared, wearing loose yellow slacks and a pink blouse. She had not yet applied make-up, as if she did not mind my seeing her wrinkles and blotches. We were, in that respect, like a married couple; and like a married couple too in another respect. Until I had gauged her mood, I had to be careful not to provoke her.

  ‘Good morning, Professor,’ she said, as she sat down.

  At least I was no longer Mr Casaubon.

  She poured herself coffee. She drank it black. She didn’t seem to want anything to eat.

  In a bush nearby a hummingbird was sucking nectar out of flowers. Its place in the universe was secure. If there was a God, He loved it.

  Linda was looking at me as I had been looking at the bird. Was she questioning my place, not in the universe, but in her life.

  ‘Tell me, Professor’ she said, ‘if you wrote your life story, would you tell the whole truth?’

  I was taken aback. Was she going to pry into my secrets?

  ‘No one would give tuppence for my life story,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been offered half a million dollars for mine.’

  Some professional hack would do it for her. It would be trivial and dull, but it would make more money than a dozen works of literature.

  ‘Well, Professor, would you?’

  ‘Isn’t it well-nigh impossible to tell the whole truth about oneself?’

  ‘Why is it impossible? You know what happened. So you tell it as it happened.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Not if you keep trying to hide things, or make them better than they were.’

  ‘Haven’t we all a right to keep our secrets?’

  With her elbow on the table, she rested her chin on her hand and stared at me. ‘You interest me, Professor,’ she said.

  I smiled. ‘Well, that’s flattering.’

  ‘Maybe not so flattering. Some weeks ago, I nearly got myself married to an English lord: Lord Buckford. He’s really an old bum who’s been hanging about Beverly Hills for years, sponging on everybody, but he’s a genuine lord, though his estates were sold long ago. No chin but loads of class. No brains either, but you just had to see him drinking someone else’s brandy to know that his class was the real McCoy. Now yours, Professor, is imitation; very good imitation, in some ways better than the real thing.’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Linda.’

  ‘I’m an expert on phonies, Professor. All my life I’ve been surrounded by them. A long time ago, when it was reported in a magazine that my father had taken a powder the day I was born and had never showed up since, do you know how many crawled out of the woodwork claiming to be him? Twenty-four.’

  ‘Perhaps one of them was genuine, Linda.’

  ‘Not a chance. The story wasn’t true anyway. My father ran off months before I was born. So I never knew him. Don’t feel hurt, Professor, if I place you among the phonies. You’re a sort I’ve never met before. The worst phony I’ve ever known was me. I had to be at the beginning and it became a habit. I used to think that, when I had enough money, I wouldn’t give a damn what anyone thought of me but, the more money I had, the phonier I became. I’d like to say this, though, that I’ve known when I was being a phony, not to mention a bitch and a shit; not all of me, but too much of me. I’ve tried to put it down on paper. I’d like you to look at it, Professor, and say what you think.’

  I could see dangers in such an undertaking, but opportunities too.

  ‘Aren’t there professional writers who specialise in such work?’ I said.

  ‘They turn out crap. I want my story to be like Middlemarch, serious and truthful.’

  I blinked at that comparison. Yet Linda had more character than any of the ladies in that masterpiece, and her life had been a great deal more varied.

  ‘I thought of asking Josh Bolton but he would have made it into his book and I want it to be mine. I think you and me understand each other, Professor.’

  ‘I’ll be delighted to help, Linda.’

  ‘You’ll not be doing it for nothing. Your fee would be ten thousand dollars now and ten thousand more when the book’s published. If it’s never published, for whatever reason, you’ll still get the second ten thousand, provided it’s me that gives up. You’ll stay here, so that we can work on it whenever I feel like it. What do you say? Do you want time to think about it?’

  ‘No need, Linda. I accept with pleasure.’

  I was about to say that I didn’t want any fee, the pleasure of her company would be payment enough, but I stopped myself in time. Anyone who didn’t want money was automatically a phony.

  ‘Good. I’ll let you know when we start. Sarah will make the arrangements for your stay here. Consider yourself a guest, with free run of the place.’

  ‘Thank you, Linda.’

  She got up then and left.

  I telephoned Madge.

  ‘You didn’t come home last night, Dad. I waited up for you. I was afraid you might have been in an accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madge.’

  ‘Did you stay with her?’

  ‘Well, in her house anyway. Don’t be offended, Madge, but I’m going to be here for a few days.’

  ‘With Mrs Birkenberger?’

  ‘Yes. She’s given me a job.’

  ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘She’s written her memoirs and wants me to edit them.’

  ‘Well, Dad, you’ve had plenty of experience correcting the work of dunces.’

  I let that pass. ‘I’ll be along this afternoon to pick up my things.’

  ‘Did you sleep with her, Dad?’

  ‘Isn’t that an improper question for a daughter to ask?’

  ‘It’s not me that wants to know. It’s Frank. He’s got it into his head that, if you were to ask about her account in bed, she’d be sure to let him have it. Very naive of him, wouldn’t you say? Aren’t people in bed at their most dishonest with each other? By the way, three letters have come for you. All from women. One’s from Jean, so we won’t count that. One’s from Mrs Cramond, she’s the widow you’re supposed to be going on a world cruise with. The third one’s from someone called Helen Sneddon. Who’s she?’

  ‘You met her at your mother’s funeral. She’s over 80 and married to Henry, who’s also over 80.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’m working this afternoon, Dad. But you’ve got your own key. Keep in touch, will you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ll find the letters on the dressing-table in your room.’

  As I put the telephone down, I felt an access of paternal sympathy. Poor Madge had a lot to put up with: a pot-smoking son who failed his examinations, a daughter who slept around, a husband who mixed up Mammon and Christ, and a 72-year-old father on the make.

  15

  On the dressing-table were not only the three airmail letters, there was also a small unframed colour photograph which probably h
ad been taken out of an album. It was some kind of appeal, but what was being asked of me?

  It was of the two girls when children, and Kate when she was about 35. As always, she looked beautiful and eager. In the background was a Highland loch: Loch Broom, in Wester Ross. I remembered that cottage where we had spent a holiday. The wild roses had smelled fragrant because of the honeysuckle growing amongst them, and dolphins had leapt out of the water and fallen back again with loud slapping sounds heard half a mile away. A neighbour’s son had sold us illicit salmon. There had been an apple tree in the stony garden. It had been a dry lavatory and I had had difficulty in burying the contents of the Elsanol can because it had been a rainless summer and the ground was hard as bone. The girls had covered their eyes as I had gone about with my spade looking for a soft spot. We had used bunches of meadowsweet as a deodorant.

  The three of them were smiling at the man with the camera, myself, as I remembered, in khaki shorts.

  I had been a good enough father, in that I had provided my family with a comfortable home and seen to it that they were fed and clothed as well as their neighbours. I had never been effusive in my display of fatherly affection, but then, what Scottish father ever was? And what Scottish daughters liked to be slobbered over?

  All the same I had let pass many opportunities to show my love. That everybody did in no way lessened the regret. I could still make it up to my daughters, but not to Kate.

  If challenged, I would have maintained, to Madge and Jean, and to their mother’s ghost, that part of my reason for wanting to continue and perhaps deepen my friendship with Linda was that it would help me not to forget Kate, for I could never do that, but to save me from remembering her too often and therefore missing her too much. That way lay despair. Kate would have understood.

  About halfway to Linda’s I stopped at a wayside bar, where two white horses galloped about in a paddock. Under palm trees I would drink a cold beer and read my letters.

  Jean’s first. ‘Madge tells us you’re already well in with Mrs Birkenberger, who used to be the film star Linda Blossom. We saw one of her films on TV the other night. She was much younger then, of course, but there was a picture of her as she now is in the Radio Times and, to be fair, she’s still a beautiful woman, though, of course, in the picture you couldn’t see her wrinkles.