by Neil M. Gunn
Then suddenly, as if translated noiselessly from the kitchen, the father was there in the doorway, and by the very look in his face they knew that he had overheard something. He did not speak. He just looked at them, coldly, objectively.
The mother gave a small cry and said, ‘You should have waited for me, you should have waited.’
‘So you conspire against me, my wife and my son?’ His eyes had a hard glitter.
‘We’re not conspiring,’ answered Tom thickly, his flesh all in a moment jumpy and uncertain.
‘You should have waited until I helped you,’ said the woman again hastily. ‘You should have waited.’
‘I can manage without your help, woman,’ answered the man, ‘and without yours,’ and he eyed his son.
‘Don’t speak like that,’ cried the woman, ‘oh, don’t speak too soon!’
‘Be silent!’
Tom’s anger leapt up in him. ‘All right, if you want me to go, I’ll go.’
‘Don’t you dare answer me back like that!’
The power in his father entered Tom and scattered his wits so that he picked up a board and slammed it down again and turned his face away to the little window. He was quivering all over.
‘Oh don’t say anything more. Don’t say it,’ cried the woman, gripping her hands. ‘Wait. We were just speaking about the shop. It was only what I was telling you.’
While she went on talking like this, the man paid no attention to her but kept on staring at his son’s back. Then his eyes dropped upon her. ‘Be quiet!’ he said as to an unseemly and treacherous animal, and walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
What had possessed his father throughout that last year of his life? Before his illness, he had been a normal decent man, a bit quiet perhaps, and stern sometimes, but never really vindictive.
Though for that matter, what had possessed himself so that he had reacted to his father as he had done?
Why had he not gone to his father and explained the whole business and asked for his advice?
There was something more in it than the Father and Son relationship. More than the Idol of the Tribe conception. For the father there was defeat in it somewhere that affected the very strands of his being. So much he could see. The father was defeated before he should have been defeated, and his place in life was taken by the mother and son in conspiracy, and for company he had grey relentless death.
But that did not explain anything really. It left him without understanding, and when one day he made up his mind to start building, he would have been dour and stubborn with the excitement of antagonism had he not Janet behind him. The taking of Janet into his confidence had turned an evening in the hollow into a memory that could never be forgotten, not in this life nor any other. It was not what happened at the time. It was the power of the memory afterwards.
He had been reluctant to mention the matter to Janet, possibly because he had not wished anything to interfere with that free relationship that was between them. And he certainly would not have hinted at his difficulty were it not that he had made up his mind to use the building as a test between his father and himself. He would start building. If his father stopped him – which he had a right to do, for it was his property – then he would tell his father that he was going to clear out. And he would clear out. He was to be allowed to put up his shop or he would clear out. The test was to be final.
There was something dour in himself that held him to this fatally. It got to the point beyond argument. He could not help himself.
So he said to Janet, when the first excitement of their meeting was over and their minds came out to talk, ‘I may be going back to Glasgow. Will you miss me?’
She turned her head quickly, for though his voice was light she detected a real note.
‘You’re not!’
‘I don’t know. I may be.’
‘You’re not! You’re just teasing me.’
‘Would you miss me?’
‘What makes you say that? You’re not going?’
‘I may be. Listen, Janet. I didn’t want to tell you. I hate dragging in any family affair. But this has been worrying me.’ He now felt extremely reluctant to go on.
‘Surely you’re not afraid to tell me?’
But not until he had gone well into his story, haltingly, smiling now and then, did the sweet assurance of companionship begin to flow within him. Never before in all his life had he eased his mind to anyone; not to Dougal nor any of the boys in Glasgow had he ever personally committed himself. He had committed himself to ideas, to freethinking, to socialism. He had been one of the workers and arguers. But only that.
Not even now, of course, did he let himself completely go with ‘I’ and ‘me’, but there was suddenly a freedom in talk, with Janet there, her skirts draping her knees, her arms round them, listening and looking at the dark bushes. Quietly, within the talk, they were together, and stress fell away, and a rare comprehension of the moment, of some ultimate companionship, turned the cold night air to an elixir that separated their bodies in friendliness and communion.
When he had finished, she did not speak, and quietly he asked her, ‘What do you think?’
‘Your father is ill,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know.’ Even if she was going to go against him, he would listen to her.
‘I don’t know if you should have more patience or not,’ she said all at once in a queer choking voice.
‘Janet! What’s wrong?’
Her head had fallen forward to her knees, then turned away. She was crying.
‘Janet! Janet!’ He took hold of her and she crept against him.
As she pushed herself away and began wiping her eyes in confusion, she said, ‘It’s Mother. I – I have my own troubles with her. I want to go away – to be a nurse – but I can’t go. I daren’t leave her. She is all right for a spell and then – she has a terrible outbreak. She gets violent.’
‘You can tell me everything, Janet.’
‘It was after Father’s death. I think before then it started. I think he used to give her drink to make her sleep. Then when she began to know he was going under, her nerves went wrong. Then – then he died. Oh I can’t tell you!’
She began plucking at the ground, her head averted. Her forehead went down, her arms circled her knees, and he heard the choking of her breath and the swallowing in her throat.
The unexpectedness of her confession brought the night-world to a standstill. He had the sensation of its opening before him, as it might open in an earthquake to reveal an interior of which he could never have dreamed. He was appalled and silenced and gathered coolly and strangely into himself. He did not speak to her, staring past to the dark hillside. Then his eyes, with a feeling of extreme clarity, turned upon her and saw the curved dark body, the droop of the head beyond the smooth downsweep of the neck, and – this was Janet.
‘Janet!’ he whispered. But he did not touch her. The silence came about them again. When she grew quiet in a long moment he put his arm about her shoulders, sat close beside her, drew her slowly and firmly against him. ‘Janet!’ He put both arms about her, firmly but gently, and whispered her name into her hair. ‘It’s all right, Janet. I’m glad you told me.’
After a little time, she lifted her head and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, staring before her. Giving her time, he did not force sympathy or understanding upon her. But he was there, and she felt him there, and suddenly turned to him and gripped him, crying, ‘Oh, Tom!’
He soothed her then in small caresses that healed her broken spirit and in a little while she was herself, sitting beside him, talking at first uncertainly, but soon drawing pictures of what sometimes happened at home.
He listened, moved to the core, yet with an odd feeling of detachment in the chill night air. Her voice ravished him, and what she had endured she had endured and his heart bled for her, but this was Janet, this was Janet at last on the cold hillside beside him.
It was late that night
before she returned home, and her teeth were chittering with the cold. Before they parted he held her strongly against him, as strongly as he could in order to drive the trembling out of her. And she exclaimed softly as if he had crushed her bones, and smiled to him, for now she was healed.
Back along the hillside he went with the vision of her as the immortal companion born in him finally that night.
Surely caution was needed now and all the cunning of the ‘watcher’, which he believed so truly made up his character. Surely this was the time to think of Janet and of what might happen to her if he took a wrong step.
But no; on the following day he suddenly decided to start building, let come what might. He was full of force and assurance as never before. Let his father try to stop him!
He had his plan all ready and in the afternoon he started marking off the ground, hammering pegs into the spots where he was to sink his main beams. Then he passed the kitchen window with the pickaxe over his shoulder. He knew the critical moment would come with the thudding blows. If the sound of them were ignored, he had triumphed. But well he knew they wouldn’t, and when presently he saw the grey-beared grey face staring up at him along the wall of the house, he realised the moment had arrived.
The face began to advance. Behind it, the mother stood twisting her hands in her apron, then tentatively she, too, advanced.
With all his might he swung the pickaxe into the ground, levered it backward and jerked up the soil. An insane energy flowed into him. From a stone sparks flew and a smell of brimstone assailed his nostrils.
‘What’s this you’re doing?’
The pickaxe swung. The earth sounded. Out jerked the soil.
‘What’s this you’re doing?’
Tom looked at his father. ‘I’m making a hole for a beam,’ he answered in an indifferent way.
‘What for?’ His father’s calm was deadly.
‘I was going to build a shed,’ said Tom. ‘The barn is not very suitable for my work.’ He looked his father in the eyes, his face pale and drawn, then dropped his look to the loosened soil and gripped the pick.
‘Who gave you the permission?’
‘No-one,’ said Tom, glancing about the pegged ground like one interrupted in his business.
There was an intense silence, then he glanced again at his father. The old man’s features had so extreme a pallor of concentration that they seemed to emit a deathly light. The eyes were glinting like green glass. The mouth opened and the lower lip showed dry as oatmeal above the beard. There was a sheer malevolence in the face that yet was caught back into patriarchal power. Tom’s wits began to scatter. The evil anger behind his brow went down into his fists and tightened them on the smooth ash handle till the knuckles whitened.
‘There’s Sandy Maclean,’ said the woman drawing nigh.
Tom looked up towards the road. Sandy, with a wave, cried, ‘Glad to see you about, Adam!’ As he came down, he rubbed his brown whiskers in a characteristic gesture and his eyes were bright and merry. ‘The wife and myself were talking about you no later than this morning and I said I would look in, for it’s not often I’m down now. And how are you, man?’
As Adam turned to him, his expression lost its intensity in a bleakness. ‘Oh just that same way,’ he answered.
Sandy’s merry eyes glanced at him sharply. ‘Man, you’re not looking too bad. There’s a lot of life in you yet, if you ask me!’
But as Adam shook hands, his bleak expression started distantly over Sandy’s shoulder.
‘How are you all yourselves?’ asked Maria coming forward with a warm eagerness.
‘Oh fine, fine,’ replied Sandy. ‘We have a lot to be thankful for and we aye have our bit of meat. So what more do we want?’
‘As long as you have the health,’ said Maria, ‘that’s the main thing.’
‘True for you, mistress.’
‘You’ll come away down and have a cup of tea. It’s not often we see you. Come away,’ invited Maria.
But Sandy hesitated now. ‘Thank you indeed, mistress, but I have a few things to do. So you’ll just have to excuse me today. Some other time. And what’s the great work that’s going on here? Eh?’ And he turned to Tom, smiling awkwardly and shifting his stance.
‘You’ll at least come and have a glass of something,’ said Maria. ‘I won’t have it said that you passed our door.’
‘Well, now, that’s kind of you, mistress. What do you say, Adam? Do you think it would be safe?’
‘Come down,’ said Adam calmly.
‘So you’re extending your business premises,’ cried Sandy to Tom. ‘Well, there was much need of you in the place. I’ll say that.’
But Adam had now turned towards the house, and as he took the first step away he gave a slight stagger. Sandy’s eyebrows gathered sharply over his eyes and he caught Adam up. Maria went before them, waddling hurriedly.
Tom felt sick. He gripped the shaft, but his muscles were weak and trembling. A deep disgust assailed him, a loathing for the very ground about him. His hands slid on the smooth ash. He spat into a palm, gripped, swung the pickaxe, and its iron point thudded into the ground. The noise rose up around him and went down into the house. After he had swung the pick once more, he laid it aside, lifted the shovel, and began heaping the loosened earth to one side. Soon the ground was hard under the shovel and nothing more could be scooped up. He caught the ash handle and swung, once – twice – thrice, loosening the soil. And again, once – twice – thrice, more strongly. But the sounds dizzied and tortured him. He heard them going into the kitchen. If Sandy returned he could not speak to him. He might be coming any minute. Dropping the pick, Tom turned down to the barn, walking without haste, uprightly, past the kitchen window.
But in the barn he leaned against the bench and experienced weakness as of a long hunger. His palm found his forehead damp and cold. Damnation! cried anger in him, but weakly, in futility. He was giving in. He wanted to give in. He wanted to clear out, to clear out for good, away, never to come back.
His father’s opposition was insensate, maddening. There was no point in it. It was just sheer spite. He was jealous of him getting on, of achieving something beyond the croft. Could anything be more small-minded, more contemptible? And to think that he had come back to help his father, had thrown up his job, his whole prospects in life, the job he liked, the free life in Glasgow. It was maddening. Really it was. By God, it was. It was too much. Too much altogether.
But behind this verbal rebellion was his father’s face. And it was stronger than rebellion, stronger than argument. It stood still, portentous and meaningful out of immense time, and he broke against it, like something flung against a wall.
And even if he succeeded in defeating his father, breaking him down, what would follow from the victory but spite, a spite that would dog him and drain the essence of pleasure for ever?
He felt beaten and a dry bitterness invaded his mouth. Thought would no more concentrate and, wandering, found Janet. But he could not speak to her in his mind for the moment. He let her drift away.
Presently all he could do was hearken for sounds. What about lifting some of these battens and walking up with them to the pegged ground? Why give in? Why not, without any further thought, automatically, just carry on? The thing had to come to a head. It could not be left as it was.
Janet had her own trouble.
If he could not make a stand, what damned use was he?
At last there were noises. Sandy was going. Tom picked up a plane, made one sweep, and listened. Sandy’s voice was loud but not too hearty. No sound of his father’s voice; only his mother’s. There was Sandy off. Silence now. He began working steadily, pulling the shaving away when it stuck, hissing through his teeth. After all, he had to have planks and battens ready. There was still a whole lot of work to do in that respect. And measurements. Though he could not get the exact measurements, of course, until he had sunk his main gable beams.
No-one came near him. In a little wh
ile, he heard his mother’s footsteps. She passed the door, shook her head for silence, and indicated that he was to remain where he was. There was an anxiety in her face which she tried to infuse with some confidence, but her effort at pantomime was pathetic and when she had gone, a small bitter smile came to him.
He worked on in a dull timeless way.
His mother came out and hit the side of a tin basin with a spoon. Hens cackled and ran and fluttered. ‘You needn’t be going away,’ she called aloud to him. ‘Supper will soon be ready.’ Then she came to the barn door and said in a low voice: ‘He had a bit of a turn but he’s feeling better, you’ll come in to your supper and say nothing.’
‘I don’t think I will,’ he replied, indifferently.
‘You will,’ she said. ‘Don’t do any more digging just now. Just wait.’ Her voice was harsh with concentration. She was plainly deeply disturbed. But there was something cunning, too, in her eye, and resourceful. ‘Don’t you desert me,’ she added suddenly on a breath of distress. Then she listened – and withdrew.
He worked on automatically. There could be no satisfaction any longer in what he did. He wanted to drop things from his hands, push them away, and walk off. The mountains drew him, drew him powerfully. To go in and eat his supper was beyond his strength, beyond the power of his stomach to take the food. The vision was revolting. But up in the hollows, on the lonely sweep of the moor, he could wander, and lie down and be hidden, and gather that strength which could take him anywhere.
Presently he went to the door and looked out. The barn was small and stood by itself, opposite the byre but a little lower down. The house and byre had the one long roof and sloped gently downward from the main road. Just beyond the barn the ground flattened and then began slightly to slope upward for the length of the cultivated fields. Beyond the fields the green braes rose steeply.
