Ending Up

by Kingsley Amis

  ‘I’ve been thinking about little else ever since the Brownjohn declaration. Is there any gin in the house?’

  ‘There is, externally cobwebbed, true, but doubtless unimpaired.’

  ‘I’d like some with about the—’

  ‘About the same amount of water and nothing else. I remember.’

  While Shorty was out of the room, Adela said, ‘So you found the place all right,’ and, as soon as she realized what she had said, braced herself for the ‘It would indeed appear so’ or alternatively the ‘No, I spent the day walking the streets in a fruitless search’ that would have been Bernard’s normal response. But he said only,

  ‘Yes, went straight to it without any trouble at all.’

  She smiled. ‘You’re a different man already, Bernard.’

  ‘Yes, I think perhaps I am.’

  ‘You must have been worrying a lot.’

  ‘I suppose I was.’

  ‘We all understand. Tell me,’ – and she asked some questions about his day which he answered.

  Shorty came back with Bernard’s drink in his hand and a similar amount inside him. ‘One London Dry Gin and water, Sir!’

  ‘Thank you, my man. Well … here’s to me.’ He sipped, then frowned. ‘What brand is this?’

  Shorty told him.

  ‘They’ve done something to it: it doesn’t taste as it used to.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten it, Bernard,’ said Shorty; ‘your mouth’s out of practice.’

  ‘Perhaps it is.’

  ‘You keep on with it and you’ll be all right.’

  Nineteen

  Christmas approached. Bernard and Shorty on one occasion, and Marigold on another, were ferried to Newmarket to buy their presents. George bought his by proxy: Adela’s through Shorty, everyone else’s through Adela.

  It was a busy time for Marigold. Her having done her Christmas shopping at the little local stores was in the interests of economy of both cash and physical effort: she had very little of the one, and what she knew to be not an inexhaustible fund of the other. She did make two trips to London, to visit old and largely or wholly immobile connections of hers; but most of her days were passed in dispatching Christmas cards – more accurately, Christmas letters, because every card bore a personal message, often of some length. An eighty-six-year-old lady in Clapham, who had once taught Marigold history, was puzzled to receive two almost identical communications of this sort on successive days; her mental condition, however, saw to it that her puzzlement was neither deep nor lasting. Over this period, Marigold told Adela several things two or three times over, but on each occasion Adela managed not to tell her she had done so.

  George was busy too, though not on any Yuletide matters. Through Adela, again, he exchanged typewriters, and on his new machine slowly but effectively typed his Mihailovic´ letter, which was not acknowledged. He also, as planned, wrote to several periodicals in search of work as a reviewer. Some answered that there was nothing for him just then; others intimated that no man could tell how far in the future lay the moment when there might be something for him. He was put out, but not put off. There was surely room for a popular history of central Europe between the beginnings of the Munich crisis and, say, the Prague coup of 1948. Among his files or in his memory, he had a good deal of unpublished material which would have been out of place in a work of scholarship, but would lend colour and immediacy to the kind of book he was contemplating. Not that he merely contemplated it for long: he was soon engaged on a synopsis and the drafting of a specimen chapter. To his deep gratitude, Shorty acted as his librarian, taking lists of books to the box-room and quite often coming back with the right ones.

  On his own account, Shorty was not especially busy during this period, dividing his day as usual between housework, gardening and getting drunk.

  Bernard, who on his shopping expedition had bought several items not selected as Christmas presents, turned quite busy thereafter.

  The approach of the festive season meant that Adela was busier than ever.

  Twenty

  ‘Such a pity it hasn’t lasted,’ said Marigold one afternoon about the middle of December. ‘After we all thought he’d got so much better.’

  Adela looked at her in sudden fear. ‘What’s happened? He told us he was all right. That man in London—’

  ‘I don’t mean physically, angel. I’d have thought it was obvious I didn’t mean physically. I mean the way he goes on, the way he treats everyone, including you. He’s just as offensive and intolerable as he ever was. It lasted precisely ten days, the improvement, when he behaved like a human being for a change. Then, absolutely overnight, he—’

  ‘I think it was the drink, dear. That is, he was so looking forward to a glass of gin or wine or something, just an occasional one, and then he found he didn’t enjoy it and it made him feel dizzy and everything. So I suppose he … feels he’s back where he was before he saw the man.’

  The two women’s discussion of Bernard was taking place in the woods near the cottage. As they walked, the sun, unusually strong for the time of year, lit up the bare branches and stalks, and, whenever they came to a spot sheltered from the faint breeze, communicated slight but perceptible heat.

  ‘I think it was George that did it,’ said Marigold abruptly. ‘And that dog of his. He was bearable before they turned up.’

  ‘But poor George can’t help—’

  ‘You cast your mindle-pindle back and think about it and you’ll see I’m right. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I doubt if I can stand it much longer. All this hostility and peevishness and … I think I’ll have to find somewhere else to go. Make other arrangements.’

  In fact, Marigold did not especially object to the restoration (real enough) of Bernard’s habitual behaviour, and had been continuing to enjoy in a small way her opportunities of getting back at him and getting at Shorty. Her gathering resolve to quit the household matched the progress of her amnesia, fits of which now came upon her at least daily. To hide her condition from the others, especially Bernard, as best she might, and as long as she could, she kept to her room more than formerly. Dr Mainwaring’s prescription had not cured her aversion from the prospect of becoming hopelessly senile in the company of people who knew her, nor had it weakened her conviction that senility was her fate. The pills had done no more than allow her to remain calm when she noted her lapses of memory and when she considered what to do.

  Blinking rapidly, Adela said, ‘But you can’t do that, Marigold. Where would you go?’

  ‘I’ve one or two ideas.’ The previous year, Marigold had visited a friend in a sort of old people’s home in North London. For what it was, it was not too bad a place, and the friend would be no embarrassment, having shortly afterwards had to leave for a hospital where those who could do nothing for themselves were taken care of. As for money, the sale of almost everything she possessed would start her off, and she could rely on Trevor and Keith to follow up, rather than have to look after her themselves.

  ‘But … breaking everything up just because Bernard’s sarcastic sometimes …’ Adela felt not only despair, but some incredulity; she did not see the import of her brother’s behaviour as clearly as Marigold did. ‘Oh, I don’t mean he isn’t sarcastic, but you mustn’t take it so seriously. I’ll talk to Bernard – he’s not completely unreasonable – he’ll see …’

  Marigold, having remembered just in time what reason she had given for her desire to leave, said, ‘Oh, it’s not only Bernard. That disgusting little squirt Shortell …’

  ‘Who makes your bleeding bed and dusts your bleeding furniture and cooks half your bleeding meals and washes up your bleeding dishes,’ said Shorty under his breath. He had not intended to eavesdrop, but his approach, over thickly-strewn dead leaves, had been silent, and he had found himself in hearing and out of sight at the same time.

  ‘Oh, I know he’s uncouth and d
runken and all that …’

  (‘Ta muchly, I’m sure.’)

  ‘… but I couldn’t run the house without him.’ Adela went into some detail here, ending with a promise to talk to Shorty also. Marigold gave no sign of having listened to any of this. It came to Adela quite clearly that there was nothing more she could say in order to persuade the other not to do as she had threatened. Most women, most people in this situation, would have said, or at least considered saying, ‘Won’t you stay for my sake?’ But it did not occur to her. All she did say was, hesitantly,

  ‘It’s definite, then, is it, dear?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t decided yet.’ If she became no worse, or only a little worse, and as long as Bernard remained ignorant of what had happened to her, Marigold would not go. With all its shortcomings, Tuppenny-hapenny Cottage was more comfortable and, it could even be said, more cheerful than the North London place. She had raised the question that afternoon so that, in case things went the other way, her pretended motive for departure might seem more convincing. No one must know her real one.

  ‘I see,’ said Adela. How many times since she had known her must Marigold have said she had not decided yet? – whether or not she would come to tea, come for a bathe, come to the theatre, come to live here in the first place, come for a walk. Some people by nature found it harder than others to decide things.

  ‘That’s right, keep her hanging,’ said Shorty, when the two had started to move slowly back towards the house. ‘Eh’m afraid Eh haven’t desayded yet and yooh can sweat it out in the meantame. Up your arsle-parcel. You wait. It’ll be fun. Goldie.’

  Twenty-One

  ‘So could you possibly try? It’s not a lot to ask, after all, just not snubbing her so much. You needn’t put yourself out. It’s not as if you’re still worrying about your health. You’ve no real excuse.’

  Adela honestly believed that these points, put as she had put them, were best calculated to win Bernard over, and that she had spoken in the gentle, conciliatory tone which something in her, perhaps her very speech-organs, forbade her from ever attaining. It was in direct response to the slightly domineering effect she actually produced that, years ago, Bernard had begun to form his own ironical style. But he said now,

  ‘True. I know I’m a brute sometimes. It’s like a habit one falls into, so I suppose one can get out of it too. I promise you I will try.’

  He spoke with sincerity. He had several reasons for wanting Marigold to remain in the house, even though concern for his sister’s welfare was not one of them. For all that, the genuineness of his feeling somehow communicated itself to her. She smiled and said as animatedly as she could,

  ‘Thank you, dear. I’m so sorry your drinks don’t agree with you.’

  ‘So am I. But the way to look at it is that at least that means I don’t have more than about one a day, which would please the valuable Brownjohn.’

  ‘It’s marvellous of you to take it like that. Well, I must be going. I’ve got to collect the pensions. There are such queues in the post office these days. Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier every year. As regards people posting their parcels and cards and buying stamps, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

  Adela went. Bernard collected the radio from the sitting-room and took it up to his bedroom, in accordance with a recently-established routine: he had explained a couple of times that resting his leg on his bed for an extra hour or so seemed to help it a bit, and it was known that he often listened to the radio in the mornings, or kept it turned on. He turned it on now and found some music or other, but made no move to rest his leg. Far from that, he took up a position by the door that gave him a narrow view of the landing, and waited, farting occasionally in an incisive, military way.

  Some minutes passed. Then a door shut downstairs and steps crossed the hall. Hurriedly, Bernard turned up the volume on the transistor, returned to his post, and soon saw Marigold’s figure cross his field of vision. Another, nearer, door shut. He made a note of the time in his diary, finding that it lay within a few minutes of the same occasion on previous mornings. Marigold’s bowels evidently followed a pretty strict routine, which was more than could be said for some others’. Good.

  When, some more minutes later, a period he again noted, she had returned downstairs, he let the radio continue to produce its noises and went along to George’s room. He knocked and entered rather abruptly, with the hoped-for result that Mr Pastry raised his faltering growl.

  ‘Oh dear oh dear,’ said Bernard in a resonant mutter; then, changing rather than raising his voice, went on, ‘Morning, George: how’s things?’

  ‘Things are all right.’ Clumsily, George pulled his typewriter off his lap.

  ‘I’m not interrupting your work, I hope?’

  ‘No no, rather not, I’ve got all the time in the world. No deadlines these days, thank God.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it must be a relief. But I think it’s splendid you’ve been able to take up writing again like this, under these conditions.’

  ‘Oh, conditions could be far worse than these, I assure you. Shorty fetches me anything I need to read, and this thing here is very manageable apart from putting in new pieces, and of course much easier for me than using the old way. Most of the writing stuff used to go over my hands or what I was wearing or the things on the bed rather than on what I was supposed to be doing.’

  Bernard had worked his way round to the further side of the bed, followed by Mr Pastry, on whose feet he made several attempts to step, this in the hope of provoking further growls or other untoward behaviour: no success. With his face turned towards the window, he said,

  ‘I’m afraid your old hound isn’t what you might call at the peak of his popularity these days.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s he been up to?’

  ‘Well, he always seems to want to be let in the moment he’s let out and the other way round. And then he gives that cat of Marigold’s a hell of a time, not that that matters much to me, quite frankly. But recently it looks as if he’s taken to crapping inside the house, which is rather a pest. I cleared up a pile of turds yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Are you sure they weren’t Pusscat’s?’

  ‘No, but I don’t think so. I’d prefer not to go into details.’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry. What a bore for you.’

  ‘He’s getting on, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, he’s fifteen.’

  ‘Seven fifteens are a hundred and five. That’s older than most of us get.’

  ‘That’s just a saying, one dog year’s equal to seven man years.’

  Bernard did not answer at once. He looked, or appeared to look, more directly out of the window. Then he said in his dragging voice,

  ‘According to Marigold, he ought to be put down.’

  ‘You know Marigold. She exaggerates and speaks without thinking all the time.’

  ‘I’m only telling you what she told me. Mind you, George, I doubt if Shorty’s exactly mad about him. He does give him a certain amount of extra work, after all.’

  The left half of George’s mouth grew tense. ‘How do you feel yourself?’

  ‘Oh … I don’t really … I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘Why did you?’

  ‘I suppose I wanted to give you the chance of preparing a defence, so to speak,’ said Bernard, scolding himself for not having thought of this obvious point in advance. ‘In case the animal loses esteem any further.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  When Bernard had gone, George beat the flat of his left hand on the bed, and Mr Pastry, after an initial delay and at the second attempt, responded by jumping up to lie beside his master. In George’s affections, dogs, animals of any sort, occupied an immovably lower place than any human being he was attached to; nevertheless, they had that place. Mr Pastry was not the most agreeable dog h
e had owned, but he was agreeable, and, with the intermittent exception of Shorty, there were no human beings at hand to feel affection towards: George had tried and failed to feel anything warmer than gratitude and esteem for Adela. With his widowhood, a large part of his life had been cut out and thrown away somewhere beyond all knowledge. The departure of Mr Pastry would not be remotely a comparable loss, but, again, he was irreplaceable – doubly so, for a virtually bedridden man could never cope with a puppy, nor expect others to cope on his behalf, and a grown dog would not be his dog.

  Who could be trusted to fight for Mr Pastry’s retention? Adela and, in his sober fits, Shorty. Not enough, perhaps, to stand up against Marigold and Bernard. Time and chance would tell; nothing else.

  Twenty-Two

  In the coal-house of the cottage there were, besides a small, unchanging pile of coal and various bits of debris, a water-tap, a ladder and a bucket, items used by Shorty when he cleaned the outsides of the windows. Bernard drew water into the bucket, glanced round carefully to make sure he was unobserved, and carried it to the clearing in the woods, where he set it down. Then, his hand moving fast and cleanly for a man of his age, he drew from inside his jacket an object resembling a pistol and aimed it at a nearby clump of laurel. After a short pause, he returned it to a shoulder-holster. This consisted chiefly of a leather-like plastic material, though, having been designed for a juvenile shoulder, it had had to have its strap effectively lengthened with a piece of string. Bernard repeated his quick-drawing exercise some dozens of times before going on to practice no. 2.

  He filled the pistol with water from the bucket (for it was a water-pistol) and discharged it at the tree-stump from fifteen paces. At the start he overshot – the thing had a flatter trajectory than he had expected – but corrected his aim well before the jet was spent. After half an hour of further attempts at varying distances, he considered he had a fair mastery of the weapon. In his Service days he had been an excellent revolver-shot, had indeed saved his own life in 1917 thereby, and was not put off by the slight breeze that sometimes took him wide of his mark: direction was not important – he knew he could handle that, even with a moving target. What counted was elevation, and here he was greatly helped by the fact that, as when firing tracer from a machine-gun, misses could be rectified in mid-burst. It was consoling to find that hand and eye were still relatively unimpaired, even if the enterprise for which they were now needed might strike some as odd or trivial.