Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘My mother was Mexican, though she used to say she had some Blackfoot blood in her. She had more pride and dignity than anybody I ever knew, and I’ve met Presidents and their wives. There were times when she had to whore to feed me and my sister. There was no welfare in those days. People starved.

  ‘Are you shocked, Professor?’

  I was. ‘Do you really want to make these things public?’ I asked. ‘They are your business, no one else’s.’

  ‘I want everybody to know. They say that it’s the poor who help the poor. It was the case with us. Not many people can enjoy themselves so much with so little as Mexicans. In Mexico you can come at night to a town that seems deserted. You drive through streets with the houses dark and silent. You begin to think a plague must have struck the place and the people are all dead in their houses. Then suddenly you come to a big open space, the plaza mayor, the zocalo, and it’s lit up, the people are sitting at tables drinking beer or tequila, there’s music, and there’s not a gloomy face to be seen. You know that here are people who’ve learned that happiness is to be found in one another’s company and being poor can’t stop that.

  ‘There are Americans here in California, you’ll find lots of them at the Country Club, who despise Mexicans and think they’re dirty, dishonest, and stupid. They judge the country by towns like Tijuana and Mexicali. They’ve never seen Taxco and Guanajuato.’

  ‘I would like to visit those towns some day.’

  She smiled. ‘Maybe we’ll go together. I’ve said my mother was the most dignified woman I’ve ever known. In this house there are johns fit for a President or a King, works of art, decorated with painted flowers, smelling sweetly. You’ve seen them, you’ve used them. Did you look dignified? I guess not. But my mother did, on that stinking rusty can with weeds growing out of the ground at her feet. I hated to go. I put it off to the very last minute and then there was usually someone in. Yet there my mother would sit like a queen. She never complained. That was what gave her her dignity. She never complained. Have you noticed how people who complain, whether with good cause or not, can’t help sounding and looking selfish and mean? Me, I’m still dissatisfied, as you’ve noticed, and yet there’s nothing I can’t afford if I want it. My mother had nothing but me and my sister and yet you’d have thought she had everything. Sometimes I got mad at her, for I thought she should have been complaining like hell. Of course I was very young and didn’t realise how much she must have been suffering. I told you I like to sleep alone. Once, when I was about six, I woke up and found in the bed beside me a customer getting his dollar’s worth out of my mother. Would you like to see her?’

  She handed me a small photograph, worn at the edges with much handling.

  This small black-haired thin-faced woman could have been anyone’s mother 60 years ago, she looked so ordinary. She could have been my own. The dignity of self-sacrifice was certainly there. So too, inevitably, was a certain coarseness, for who that had worked long hours in fields, entertained whoremongers, and pissed into a rusty can, could look refined?

  ‘Here’s one of me and Margarita. I was eight then. She was ten. She died two years later.’

  Was that the shithouse in the background? They were holding hands. Linda, the smaller, was biting her lip to keep from laughing. Even then she looked indomitable. She had come a long way. Few journeys had been more remarkable.

  Her book could have greatness in it.

  ‘They say I was good-looking, but I was plain compared to her.’

  Yes, the older girl was beautiful, but too pale, too delicate, too obviously marked for early death.

  ‘There was work then, in the fields, hard work. It didn’t harm me but it killed her. I saw her cough up blood. I don’t know if doctors could have saved her but we couldn’t afford them. So she died. I watched it happen. I couldn’t believe it. I can hardly believe it even now. My mother broke her heart but her consolation was that it was God’s will and Margarita was now safe in heaven. That was no consolation to me. I blamed God. I lost my faith then and I’ve never got it back.’

  I glanced at the crucifix.

  ‘That’s to remind me of my mother, not of God.’

  She smiled. ‘Have you heard enough, Professor?’

  ‘No, no. Please go on.’

  ‘I remember the funeral as if it was yesterday. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want ever to enter a church again. It must have been a comic sight, that funeral.’

  ‘Comic? Why comic?’

  ‘There was no coffin. We couldn’t afford one. Just a sheet of cheap cloth. All those ragged half-starved mourners. The priest yawning and picking his nose.’

  She didn’t shed tears, just as she hadn’t shed them then. She was heroic.

  ‘When there were only two of us, there was no work. We often went hungry. We wore rags. Then my mother was lucky to get a job keeping house for an old guy who owned a general store. She had to sleep with him; that was part of the deal. The time came when he wanted me too in his bed. I was fifteen, well-shaped, and still a virgin. My mother said she’d cut my throat first. I said I’d cut his. One day I stole some of his money, about fifty dollars, and lit out for San Francisco without telling her. I meant to keep in touch but in those days I couldn’t read or write, so I’d to do it by phone. My calls got fewer and fewer. Then one day when I phoned, the old guy told me he had fired her and he didn’t know or care where she had gone. I didn’t go back to look for her. It wasn’t convenient. I was always going to, but it was never convenient. To be truthful, I was leading a kind of life she would have been ashamed of.

  I guess I must have figured that I stood a better chance of making it without her. She had too many scruples. Does that make you laugh? A woman like her having scruples! What she did she did for me and my sister. What I did, what I’ve always done, was for myself. Selfish as hell, that was me then and it’s still me now. Take warning, Professor. If I give a million dollars to help the poor I’m still being selfish. I’m hoping that my mother in heaven will forgive me, though I don’t believe in heaven.’

  But, having been brought up a Catholic, she must believe in hell; the priests would have made sure of that. She must think that its worst tortures were in store for her. Her mother’s intercessions would not save her.

  ‘Well, Professor, that’s enough for now. Do you still want to read what I’ve written?’

  ‘Very much so, Linda. You don’t seem to know what a marvellous triumph you have had.’

  ‘Triumph? What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at this house. Think of those paintings. You’re honoured by millions.’

  ‘I don’t feel triumphant.’

  But at dinner that night she was cheerful and, in bed afterwards, was understanding and sympathetic when, in my own private little hell, I failed to perform. She would have to send for Mr Casaubon, she said.

  17

  I was glad to take time off from editing Linda’s memoirs, a slow task because her handwriting wasn’t easy to decipher and also because much of the material was uncongenial to a closet Calvinist like me. I wanted to answer Helen Sneddon’s letter. To the others, including Jean, I would send Christmas cards. I would send one to Chrissie Carruthers, though I was sure she wouldn’t send me one.

  Dear Helen

  First let me say how sorry I was to hear about Henry. I used to tease him, but I was fond of him. I wish I had been there to help you endure his loss. But you have your family and your memories to sustain you.

  Probably it’s raining as you read this or snowing, and icy cold, with even the sparrows disconsolate and silent. Therefore, I hesitate to tell you that I’m writing on a sunlit terrace bright with flowers. Close enough to reach out and touch is a hummingbird sucking nectar from bird-of-paradise flowers. No, I am not in Madge’s garden. Hers is not quite so grand. I am a guest of Mrs Birkenberger, who, you will remember, as Linda Blossom, was one of the most famous film stars of our time. Like ourselves, she is now old but has resisted the ravages of time b
etter than most. No doubt her immense wealth has helped. I met her briefly during my last visit and we got on well. We’ve met again and she’s invited me to help prepare her memoirs for publication. (I shall say something later about those memoirs.) For that purpose I’m staying in her house about 15 miles out of San Diego. An Elysian place. She owns a number of valuable paintings, including one I particularly like, by Rembrandt, an ironical self-portrait in his old age. I like to go and exchange looks with him. Conceit and falseness drain out of me. Come to think of it, Helen, you have the same effect.

  I don’t know what to say about Millie. I wouldn’t be surprised if, when she comes out of her silence, she wants to go back to Tulloch. Her love for him, she will think, though soiled and broken, is still better than anything else in the world. But I doubt if he will want her back.

  So Hector Liddell’s dead. Did you know he was leaving his house to cats? His will probably have to be put down. He never liked me. You, and others who understood me, haven’t minded what you called my showing off, but he hated me for it. He blamed me for Dresden, Hiroshima, and the concentration camps. He told me once that he believed in spiritual force, like Christ, whereas I believed in physical force, like Attila the Hun. But what spiritual force had he, poor man? Even his cats wouldn’t listen to him.

  He was convinced the human race would destroy itself. The prospect didn’t displease him. I gather you have a similar fear. So do many others. Yet, if we do survive, I can imagine historians in 200 years being amazed at how trivial were the causes of dissension in the 20th century. That is to say, if humanity has grown up by then, which I doubt. It has always been my belief that, clever though we are, able to build cathedrals and invent atomic bombs, we are still, in our fundamental instincts, childish. Give a child of three a toy aeroplane and what does he do? He pretends that it’s dropping bombs.

  I hope I won’t offend you, Helen, if I maintain that human beings are never more childish than in matters of religion. They believe what they want to believe, as children do. They create the kind of God that suits them, as children do. They believe that, if they’re good, they get rewards but, if they’re naughty, they get punished. For centuries they’ve shrieked at one another like children in a playground, ‘Our God’s better than your God’, and they’ve killed millions to prove it. Take my daughter Madge and her husband Frank. Recently they gave themselves to Jesus, but they made sure it was a Jesus who hated Communists, distrusted blacks, and worshipped money.

  I’m sorry, Helen. I didn’t intend this letter to be so pessimistic. About two weeks ago, in the Public Library, I came upon an old man exuding the most horrible smell. God knows what caused it. Some dreadful disease, perhaps. He was ordered to leave. I didn’t open my mouth to speak up for him. Like the rest, I watched in shamed silence. Perhaps he’s dead now, for he looked as if he was dying, but, if to help him seemed impossible with him there in front of us, what hope have we of helping the millions we don’t see? We write out our cheques for Oxfam and feel we have done all we can.

  Just like me, Hector would have said, to whimper that I’m appalled by all the misery in the world and yet here I am living in the lap of luxury, like the only guest in a five-star hotel. The truth is, let me whisper it, I might be Linda’s sixth husband. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility.

  I mentioned earlier that I was helping her to edit her memoirs. Confessions would be a more accurate word. As her adviser, I have a problem. She is determined to tell the whole truth about herself, which means, alas, some shocking disclosures. She reveals, for instance, that her mother was a prostitute and that she herself when very young acted in pornographic movies. I have hinted several times that such things should be kept secret, but she just smiles and says she has to tell it all, to get rid of it, as it’s been poisoning her soul for many years. She was born a Catholic, remember. She says that most people hide the truth about themselves; that’s why the world is so dishonest.

  Usually she spends Christmas at her villa in Acapulco, but this year she’s spending it here so that she and I can work on her book. It’s going to be quite an occasion. It seems several people have invited themselves. From something she said, I got the impression that they were coming to beg money from her. You may have heard of some of them. I suppose you could call them famous. Josh Bolton, the author, who wrote the best-seller Blood on the Ground; he’s also famous for having so many wives. Raimondo Bliss, who starred in many movies with Linda; he was the great lover. Senator Hazelwood, who obstructs every move to improve the lot of the poor. Not long ago he was accused of being mixed up in some shady financial dealings. I think he’s heavily in debt and hopes Linda will help him out.

  It should be an interesting gathering, don’t you think? My daughter Madge, her husband Frank, and their two children Frank Junior and Midge have been invited for Christmas dinner. Madge doesn’t quite approve of my friendship with Mrs B. but the other three are enthusiastic. Frank hopes to get promotion at his bank through Mrs B. and Frank Junior and Midge are thrilled at the chance of meeting the famous Linda Blossom, whose films at the moment are enjoying a revival among the intelligentsia.

  Presents will be exchanged. What present could I give to a woman who has everything? Something of little monetary value but of great value in human terms. What, though? Then it occurred to me. Why not my Military Medal? I brought it here to show to my grandchildren but I haven’t done so yet because, as a consequence of the Vietnam War, they profess contempt for war and all its manifestations. Older Americans are the very opposite. They revere medals. So I thought, why not present Linda with mine. I shall hang it on the Christmas tree, with the other baubles.

  Please write again, Helen. I amaze myself with a hunger for news of home. I used to tease Kate because of the thoroughness with which she read the Lunderston Gazette, every advertisement and, if the school sports prizewinners were given, every name.

  It’s a great sadness to me that you, Henry, and I are never going to be able to celebrate another Hogmanay together. Would I were with you both to hear the bells of Lunderston peal out the old year and ring in the new, and share a cup of kindness. I used to say – you smiled tolerantly – that I didn’t care where I died or where I was buried but, at this great distance from home, in this alien sunshine, I find I like the idea of being laid to rest beside Kate in the cold glaur of St Cuthbert’s kirkyard, on a grey day, with clouds obscuring the Sleeping Warrior.

  I grieve with you, Helen. I hope that I am proved wrong and you and Henry meet again.

  With my very best wishes.

  I handed the letter to Morland to be posted.

  She glanced at the address. ‘Is this your home town, Mr McLeod?’

  ‘Yes. A beautiful little place on the Firth of Clyde, where everybody knows everybody and we all wish one another well.’

  An absurd exaggeration, of course, but that was how I felt then.

  ‘Would you not be happier there at Christmastime, among your friends?’

  Again that sibylline quality was in her voice and in her eyes.

  ‘I hope I have friends here,’ I said.

  ‘Among people you can trust,’ she added.

  I was taken aback . . . Who here did she think was not to be trusted? She could mean only Linda.

  She knew Linda better than anyone. She was in Linda’s confidence. What did she know that she could not tell me?

  ‘I’m looking forward to spending Christmas here,’ I said.

  ‘Good luck then,’ she said, with a smile of goodwill that somehow caused me more foreboding than her sinister smile a minute ago. Was she quite right in the head?

  A few days ago, unable to sleep, I had gone out about midnight for a stroll in the grounds in the moonlight. Hearing a splash, I had walked towards the swimming pool. In it was Morland. The moonlight had glittered on her breasts.

  From behind a bush I had watched. Up and down the pool she had swum slowly, now doing the breaststroke, now on her back. When at last she climbed out, I
saw that she was quite naked. She did not immediately dry herself or wrap herself in a towel. She stood looking up at the moon, stretching out her arms to it, like, I thought, a goddess of antiquity under a curse: such a one as Ulysses might have encountered during his journey home. Here she was begging to be relieved from it. I remembered that she had once killed a man.

  Perhaps she did have the gift of foresight. Perhaps I should heed her warnings. But it was too late now.

  PART THREE

  1

  To oblige Linda, I offered to go with Miguel in the Cadillac to fetch Bolton and his wife from the airport.

  Linda spoke affectionately about him.

  ‘Josh looks more like an all-in wrestler than a writer, with thick ears and a broken nose, but bear in mind, Professor, he didn’t have your advantages. He wasn’t born in a big house in its own grounds but in a walk-up apartment in the Bronx, with garbage in the streets and winos in the lobbies. His father wasn’t a lawyer but a Jewish tailor, who as often as not was out of work. Not all Jews are rich, you know. There was little money in the house. Josh’s mother was an invalid. He had to be tough to survive, so it isn’t any wonder that he hasn’t got your polite manners and classy looks. I’m telling you because I don’t want you making the mistake of looking down your nose at him. If you did, you might get a bloody lip. Just remember, Professor, you didn’t write one of the best books about the war. Josh did. I was surprised when you said you didn’t like it. It’s got lots of cuss words, I admit, but you were a soldier yourself, so you know soldiers fuck and cunt in every sentence. According to Josh, they did it in King Aldred’s day too. When King Alfred burnt the cakes he didn’t just say, ‘How careless of me’, he probably said, ‘For fuck’s sake!’ But maybe it was the sex in the book that put you off. You’re a bit of a Scotch prude, aren’t you? That gives you a peculiar attitude to sex. You think it should be done in a gentlemanly way. In Josh’s book it’s done with sweat and grunts and groans and curses. That’s more natural, isn’t it?’