Childish Things

by Robin Jenkins

  ‘I bet she is. Tell me, Grandad, what, in your opinion, is the purpose of life?’

  Man is nevermore thoughtful than upon the stool, Dean Swift had said but, on that low hard pouffe, I was in no humour to enter into a philosophical debate with my half-naked granddaughter who was making her mother’s life a misery.

  ‘We’ve all got one thing in common,’ she said, ‘whether we’re white or black or yellow or green or rich or poor or fat or thin or straight or queer.’

  ‘And what is that?’ I asked.

  ‘None of us asked to be born.’

  So what?, as she would have said herself.

  ‘So we should show consideration for one another. Right?’

  What bloody cheek, I thought.

  ‘Who is it that shows the most consideration?’

  Not teenage daughters, I felt like saying.

  ‘I’ll tell you. A mother looking after her baby. All that crap about the Madonna and Child, in all those famous paintings. Crap but true. It’s the central symbol of our civilisation.’

  Was this her way of telling me that, though she wasn’t pregnant at present, she might well be so soon?

  ‘A mother’s obligation ends only with death. Right?’

  I almost said, a father’s too, but fathers were not so biologically obliged.

  ‘So I ought to have a baby. Right?’

  ‘Not in the near future, I hope.’

  ‘Who the father is doesn’t matter.’

  Was this an apology for promiscuity?

  ‘Maybe, in my case, it would be better if he was black. I would have to show it a lot more consideration than if it was white. I mean, with all the prejudice that’s about.’

  ‘Right.’

  She grinned, opened her eyes, and changed the subject.

  ‘Tell me about Linda Blossom,’ she said. ‘Do you sleep with her?’

  ‘That’s not a proper question for a girl to ask her grandfather.’

  ‘I read in a magazine that she likes to sleep alone. But she’s had dozens of lovers. Does a bell ring when it’s time for them to get out of bed? Ha, ha. I’m looking forward to meeting old Raimundo Bliss. Do you think he’ll make a pass at me? They say he likes them young.’

  I hadn’t mentioned Amantha.

  ‘Frank Junior wants to meet Josh Bolton, the famous author. Dad wants to meet that unspeakable creep, Senator Hazelwood.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was time to go. I stood up, with difficulty. ‘Well, you’ll meet them all tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it. Mom says she’s not going. But she’ll go. She wants to see if Mrs Hazelwood is as terrible as they say. Is she?’

  Yes, in the real sense of exciting terror. I shuddered. If Mrs Hazelwood was to go mad, let it not be tomorrow.

  ‘If you’re going, Grandad, would you please turn up the sound?’

  ‘Don’t you know listening to loud music causes deafness?’

  ‘So what?’

  I turned it up a little and left.

  My legs were shaky. What if they went altogether? It had happened to men I knew. No more houghmagandy. Ha, ha, as Midge would say. No more golf.

  Madge was back in the living-room. ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘What’s my daughter been saying to you?’

  ‘We’ve been having a philosophical discussion.’

  ‘Don’t joke about it, Dad. Is she pregnant?’

  ‘Not a bit, and has no intention of becoming so. I would say she sees pregnancy as a philosophical position, not a matter of morning sickness and much physical inconvenience.’

  I couldn’t resist glancing at my watch.

  ‘You can’t wait, can you, Dad, to get back to your rich friends. Because you look the part, you’re keen to play the part.’

  ‘And plays it very well,’ said fatuous Frank.

  ‘We’re not taking her anything,’ said Madge. ‘It would be stupid. What could we give her? She’s got everything.’

  ‘Something perhaps of no great monetary value,’ said Frank, ‘but rich in human meaning.’

  ‘There’s no such thing.’

  Ah, but there was. My medal.

  ‘Are you giving her anything, Dad?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘I hope it isn’t anything that belonged to Mom.’

  ‘It isn’t.’ Though Kate had been proud of my medal.

  ‘Before you go, those Christmas cards on the sideboard came for you.’

  There were three. One was from Jean, another from Susan, and the third from Helen Sneddon. Under the seasonable greeting in Helen’s was scribbled ‘Millie’s dead’. That was all, no explanation.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Madge.

  ‘Nothing. It’s all right.’

  But, as I went out of the house and got into my car, it was not all right. Had Millie done herself in? If I had stayed at home, could I have saved her? Probably. So, in a way, I was responsible.

  7

  There was a full muster in the mess for dinner. The Commanding Officer had sent round an order that no one dared disregard, not even the allergic Senator. We all came, dressed for the occasion. The Senator and I wore black dinner jackets, Bolton his blue one with the glittering lapels, and Bliss was in red with gold buttons. As for the ladies, Linda herself was splendidly vulgar in red-and-white velvet, with two strings of pearls round her neck. Her hands sparkled with rings, her ears with earrings, and her hair with a diamond-studded comb. Mrs Bolton wore her plain black dress; her only adornment was her wedding ring. She looked rather more lady-like than her hostess but then, Linda wasn’t to be judged by conventional standards. Mrs Hazelwood probably couldn’t have told the colour of her dress for, after a day’s drinking, she had lapsed into a melancholy stupor. Amantha wore a loose pink skirt down to her ankles and a white blouse, with a big child’s bow at the neck. Unfortunately the blouse was see-through and she was wearing no bra. Linda gave her a long grim stare but let her pass.

  We were all on our best behaviour, determined not to displease our hostess. No one demurred when we were given our places, though Bliss was placed between the Hazelwoods. On the other side of the table Amantha sat between the Boltons. Linda was at the head of the table, I at the foot; it was if she was hostess and I was host. Bolton winked at me and stuck up his thumb. Bliss gave me a ghastly congratulatory grin. Mrs Bolton smiled approvingly. Mrs Hazelwood looked as if she didn’t even know I was there. She had withdrawn into her mind, among God knew what horrifying memories. Her husband kept giving her anxious glances.

  I was sorry that Morland was not present. I knew she often ate with Linda, but never when there were guests. That was her own rule, not Linda’s. But, thanks to Morland, no doubt, the food was excellent, the wines vintage, and the service faultless.

  Linda was as affable as any colonel, but only as long as no one contradicted her.

  She saw me smiling. ‘What do you find so amusing, Mr Casaubon?’ she asked in her Dorothea voice.

  They looked puzzled. She explained. ‘It’s a game the professor and I play. Mr Casaubon is a character in a book.’

  ‘Middlemarch by George Eliot,’ said Bolton. ‘A ponderous work of genius.’

  ‘Go to the top of the class, Josh,’ said Linda.

  ‘I read a book once,’ said Amantha. ‘I forget what it was about.’

  ‘For those of you who do not know the book,’ said Linda, ‘Casaubon is a clergyman who married a girl half his age. The professor and I were agreed that the marriage was never consummated, Casaubon not having what it takes. So we carried out an experiment to see if we were right.’

  ‘What kind of experiment?’ asked Bolton.

  ‘The professor played Casaubon. I played Dorothea. We enacted their wedding-night.’

  ‘Sounds interesting. How did it work out?’

  ‘Tell him, Professor. How did it work out?’

  ‘Very successfully.’

  ‘Speak for y
ourself. I promised you all a surprise.’

  We waited while she took a sip of wine.

  ‘I want you all to tell a story about a Christmas when you were kids.’

  ‘Good,’ cried Amantha. ‘I like stories.’

  ‘Any objections?’ asked Linda.

  She looked at each of us in turn. I got the hardest look of all.

  ‘Childhood was a long time ago,’ said Bolton. ‘I’m glad to have forgotten it.’

  ‘You’ll think of something, Josh. Aren’t you a famous author? I’ll go first.’

  I felt alarmed. Which of her many unsuitable stories would she choose?

  ‘Christmas Eve,’ she said. ‘Like tonight. We were Catholics and dirt-poor.’

  ‘I read in a movie magazine you weren’t a Catholic any longer,’ said Amantha. ‘It said you didn’t believe in anything.’

  ‘No interruptions, please. My mother was very devout. Though she couldn’t afford it, she gave me and my sister Margarita two cents to go to the church and light candles.’

  ‘Pardon the interruption, Linda,’ said Bliss, ‘but I never knew you had a sister.’

  ‘No one knew. She died when she was ten, sixty years ago.’

  ‘How sad for you.’

  I knew the story she was going to tell. It was in her memoirs. It was one of the parts I had advised her to leave out.

  ‘It was rammg,’ she said. ‘In northern California it often rains in winter. It was chilly too. We were early. The church was empty. It would be packed later for the Christmas Mass. We crept in, knelt at the altar, put in our cents, and lit a candle each. I couldn’t help thinking that Jesus on the Cross needed to pee, from the way his knees were pressed together. I was sorry for him. Remember, I was just six. Margarita was on her knees praying. She was very religious. I thought praying was stupid. I thought it was useless. My mother often prayed and nothing good ever happened.

  ‘I heard noises coming from a dark corner. There were lots of dark corners in the church. But I wasn’t afraid. I went over to see what the noises were. It was a stone floor and my sandals didn’t make any noise. So I was there looking down at them before they knew I was there. I knew what they were doing for I had seen my mother doing it with men. When he knew I was there the man was going to stop but the woman told him to go on, it was all right, she knew my mother. I went back to Margarita, who was still praying. I didn’t tell her what I had seen. When I looked over, they were seated as if they had come to worship. They had their hands clasped. The woman was praying. Maybe she was asking Jesus on the Cross to forgive her. When we were leaving the church, the man signed to me to come over. Margarita whispered that we mustn’t talk to strangers, not even in church, but I went over and he gave me a whole dollar. He didn’t ask me not to tell anyone, he just smiled. I liked him. When I showed the dollar to Margarita she asked why he had given it to me and I said because it was Christmas.’

  She took another sip of wine. If it had been blood they couldn’t have watched with more horror. They, not I. I watched with admiration and, for the first time, affection.

  None of them laughed, but then no one ever laughs at $20,000,000. Linda’s money made her inviolable. She could afford to tell the truth.

  I was not so fortunate.

  Amantha, the simple soul, could say what the others could not. ‘Was your mother a prostitute, Mrs Birkenberger?’

  ‘She was also a good Christian.’

  Amantha gave that a moment’s reflection and then nodded. She had no difficulty in accepting what cleverer people would find impossible.

  ‘Well, that’s my Christmas story,’ said Linda. ‘What’s yours, Raimundo?’

  ‘What happened to your sister?’ he asked sadly.

  ‘Tuberculosis.’

  ‘Her praying didn’t do her any good then, did it?’ asked Amantha.

  ‘It did not,’ said Linda, grimly meek. ‘Well, Raimundo?’

  ‘All my Chnstmases as a child were happy.’

  ‘Tell us about one of them.’

  ‘I was born and brought up in E1 Paso, in Texas. So, you see, I am an American.’

  ‘But Bliss isn’t your real name, is it?’ asked Mrs Bolton.

  ‘I said no interruptions,’ said Linda, ‘and no questions.’

  ‘My father was a doctor. He began practice in Mexico City but, when he married my mother, who was an American, he came north and worked among the chicanos of El Paso. I had three brothers and five sisters. I was the youngest. We were very happy, though we were never well-off. Most of my father’s patients were poor. At Christmas we didn’t hang up stockings. We put our shoes outside the door, as Spanish kids do. Once I found a dead mouse in mine.’

  ‘What a horrible present!’ cried Amantha.

  ‘It had a white ribbon round its neck, but its head was bloody where the trap had hit it. My brother Eduardo was responsible. He was fond of practical jokes. He’s dead now. They all are.’

  Linda broke her own rule and interrupted. ‘But you’ve got dozens of nieces and nephews. You’re not alone in the world. Like me.’

  ‘What did you do with it, the mouse I mean?’ asked Amantha.

  ‘I put it in a white box and buried it.’

  ‘Did you say a prayer?’

  ‘Yes, I said a prayer.’

  ‘Your turn, Josh,’ said Linda.

  Bolton smiled. ‘My family was Jewish, so Christmas didn’t mean much to me. My father was a freethinker. When he got drunk and felt unhappy, he would go and wail at a brewery wall, pretending he was in Jerusalem. I used to creep after him and watch. My mother, though, was very devout. One Chnstmas, I upset her by going round with a bunch of kids and singing carols. Before my voice broke, I wasn’t a bad singer. Some men invited me into a bar and stood me up on the counter and asked me to sing. I sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing”. I got two dollars and a glass of beer. I had to drink some. I’ve never liked the taste of beer since.’

  ‘How old were you?’ asked Amantha.

  ‘Nine or ten, I guess.’

  ‘No wonder you didn’t like the beer.’

  ‘What about you, Senator?’ asked Linda. ‘You must have had some wonderful Christmases. I mean, your people were rich.’

  Hazelwood spoke with a curious diffidence. ‘Yes, my father was wealthy. He owned factories that made clothes. Every Christmas he drove round a poor district with presents for children. They took the form of articles of clothing. Once I accompanied him. I would carry a parcel to a door, ring the bell, and run away. If anyone came to the door, I would shout “Merry Christmas!” and sometimes they shouted it back. But once a fellow came to the door, picked up the parcel and ran after me with it. He reached into the car and struck my father across the face. Luckily the parcel contained gloves. At the same time this fellow, he was a black, yelled obscene abuse. Then he began kicking the car and weeping. I shall always remember that black face convulsed with insane hatred. I had bad dreams about it. I think I could say the experience had a permanent effect on me.’

  All of us, except Amantha, realised that he had attempted an explanation and an appeal.

  ‘What happened to the gloves?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Left on the ground, I suppose. In the snow. Yes, there was snow on the ground.’

  ‘Why was he so angry?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe one of his kids had just died.’

  ‘Maybe. I remember it as hate, but it could have been grief.’

  ‘You next, Annabel,’ said Linda.

  Mrs Bolton was eager enough, at first. ‘Many of my childhood Christmases were spent in the Governor’s mansion. Father Christmas arrived at the door on a sleigh if there was snow, or in a horse carriage if there wasn’t. We had a Christmas tree bigger than that one out there. Once, among the children invited was a French princess. We sang a carol in French in her honour. Do you know, when she grew up she married one of the richest men in France, and today is mistress of a magnificent château?’

/>   At that point Mrs Bolton gave up. It was too much for her, the contrast between what she had been then, the Governor’s pampered daughter entertaining a princess, and what she was now, the wife of a notorious author, and a mere guest in the house of a fat loud-mouthed domineering nch old Mexican ex-actress, whose mother had been a whore.

  ‘Is it me next?’ cried Amantha, who had little patience with middle-aged histrionics.

  She spoke with the voice of a pert five-year-old. ‘When I was five I was the fairy of the Christmas tree. I don’t mean I was up among the branches. I just danced round it. This was on the stage in our city hall. I was picked out of fifty-three. I was dressed all in white and had a shining star on my forehead. I had a wand that I was supposed to do magic with. I would dance about and then I would point my wand to where there was nothing. Then the lights would go out and there would be music. When the lights went on again there, where I had pointed my wand would be a toy, like a doll for a girl or a machine-gun for a boy. Everybody clapped. They said I was better than Shirley Temple at the same age.’

  ‘Well done, sweetie-pie,’ cried Bliss.

  She simpered and waved her hand, as if it held a wand again.

  As if by magic Mrs Hazelwood woke out of her stupor. But perhaps she had been listening all the time.

  ‘Three days before Christmas my father shot himself,’ she said.

  Leaning across Bliss, her husband entreated her to say no more. She paid him no heed.

  ‘I heard the shot. It came from the library. We still called it that, though the books had all been sold. Everything worth selling had been sold. The house itself was up for sale. My father was lying on the floor. There were no carpets. His head was bloody. I sat down beside him. I got blood on my dress. My father was a nice person. He was the nicest person I’ve ever known. He was buried on Christmas Day. My mother didn’t come to the funeral. I was eight,’ she added.

  None of us, not even Amantha, asked why her father had done it or why her mother had not gone to the funeral.

  Linda broke the silence. She spoke quietly. ‘So, Professor, we come to you. As they say, last but not least.’

  What a sensation there would have been if I had told the truth.

  ‘In Scotland in those days,’ I said, ‘Christmas wasn’t much celebrated. New Year, or Ne’erday as we called it, was for us the important time.’