The Cone-Gatherers. Robin Jenkins

Africa. The envy that he felt, corrosive and agonising, was again reduced outwardly to a faint smile. Thus for the past twenty years he had disciplined himself to hide suffering. By everyone, except Mrs Lochie, he was known as a man of restraint, reticence, and gravity; she alone had caught glimpses of him with the iron mask of determination off for a rest. This overwhelming aversion for the insignificant cone-gatherers had taken him unawares; with it had come the imbecile frenzy to drive them out of the wood, the even more imbecile hope that their expulsion would avert the crisis darkening in his mind, and consequently the feeling of dependence upon them. For a long time he had dreaded this loss of control, this pleasing of itself by his tormented mind; now it was happening.

      A large elm tree stood outside his house. Many times, just by staring at it, in winter even, his mind had been soothed, his faith in his ability to endure to the end sustained. Here was a work of nature, living in the way ordained, resisting the buffets of tempests and repairing with its own silent strength the damage suffered: at all times simple, adequate, preeminently in its proper place. It had become a habit with him, leaving the house in the morning, returning to it at night, to touch the tree: not to caress it, or press it, or let his hand linger; just lightly to touch it, with no word spoken and no thought formed. Now the bond was broken. He could not bear to look at the tall tree: he was betraying it; he no longer was willing to share with it the burden of endurance.

      Like a man to whom time was plentiful, and numerous resources still available, he set his gun neatly in the rack in the porch and hung his cap on its peg. It seemed to be that obvious and commonplace act, the hanging of the old tweed cap on brass peg in the oak panelling of the porch, that deranged his mind so that abruptly it became reluctant or even unable to accept that he was now at home, in his own house, amidst carpets, pictures, and furniture all familiar in themselves and in their tidiness. He saw all these, just as he heard the Scottish dance music from the living-room, and felt the warmth after the chilly evening; yet it was as if, after his long vigil under the cypress tree, he had at last entered the cone-gatherers’ hut. Hesitating there in the hallway, he felt himself breaking apart: doomed and resigned he was in the house; still yearning after hope, he was in that miserable hut.

      He allowed himself no such gestures as putting hand to brow or closing his eyes. Why should he no longer simulate pleasure at being home? What salvation was he seeking in this hut under the cypress?

      ‘Is that you, John?’ called his mother-in-law sharply from the living-room.

      ‘Aye, it’s me,’ he answered, and went in.

      She was seated knitting beside the wireless set. The door to Peggy’s bedroom was wide open to let her too listen to the cheerful music.

      Mrs Lochie was a stout white-haired woman, with an expression of dour resoluteness that she wore always, whether peeling potatoes or feeding hens or as at present knitting a white bedjacket. It was her intimation that never would she allow her daughter’s misfortune to conquer her, but that also never would she forgive whoever was responsible for that misfortune. Even in sleep her features did not relax, as if God too was a suspect, not to be trusted.

      ‘You’re late,’ she said, as she rose and put down her knitting. It was an accusation. ‘She’s been anxious about you. I’ll set out your tea.’

      ‘Thanks,’ he said, and stood still.

      ‘Aren’t you going in?’ she asked. ‘That’s her shouting for you.’ She came close to him and whispered. ‘Do you think I don’t ken what an effort it is for you?’

      There was no pity in her question, only condemnation; and his very glance towards the bedroom where his wife, with plaintive giggles, kept calling his name proved her right.

      ‘It’s a pity, isn’t it,’ whispered Mrs Lochie, with a smile, ‘she doesn’t die and leave you in peace?’

      He did not deny her insinuation, nor did he try to explain to her that love itself perhaps could become paralysed.

      ‘Take care, though,’ she muttered, as she went away, ‘you don’t let her see it.’

      With a shudder he walked over and stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

      Peggy was propped up on pillows, and was busy chewing. The sweetness of her youth still haunting amidst the great wobbling masses of pallid fat that composed her face added to her grotesqueness a pathos that often had visitors bursting into unexpected tears. She loved children but they were terrified by her; she would for hours dandle a pillow as if it was a baby. Her hair was still wonderfully black and glossy, so that she insisted on wearing it down about her shoulders, bound with red ribbons. White though was her favourite colour. Her nightdresses, with lace at neck and sleeves, were always white and fresh and carefully ironed. When she had been well, in the first two years of their marriage, she had loved to race with him hand-in-hand over moor and field, through whins and briers, up knolls and hills to the clouds: any old skirt and jumper had done then.

      Though not capable of conveying it well, either by word or expression, she was pleased and relieved to see him home. Her voice was squeaky with an inveterate petulance, although sometimes, disconcerting everybody who heard it, her old gay laughter could suddenly burst forth, followed by tears of wonder and regret.

      He stood by the door.

      ‘Am I to get a kiss?’ she asked.

      ‘I’ve still to wash, Peggy. I’ve been in the wood, handling rabbits.’

      ‘I don’t care. Amn’t I a gamekeeper’s wife? I used to like the smell of rabbits. I want a kiss.’

      Her wheedling voice reminded him of the hunchback’s. There wouldn’t, he thought, be room in the hut for so large a bed. Here too everything was white and immaculate, whereas yonder everything was dull, soiled, and scummy. Yet he could see, almost as plainly as he saw his wife in heart-rending coquettish silly tears, the hunchback carving happily at his wooden squirrel.

      ‘It was another fine afternoon,’ he said.

      ‘Fine for some folk,’ she whimpered.

      ‘Didn’t you manage to get out into the garden?’

      ‘You know it’s too much for my mother to manage by herself. I just had to lie here and watch the tops of the trees.’ Then her voice brightened. ‘Do you know what I was thinking about, John?’

      ‘No, Peggy.’

      ‘I was thinking of a day at Fyneside long ago. It was autumn then too. I think autumn’s the bonniest season. You put rowan berries in my hair.’

      ‘The rowans are just about past,’ he said.

      ‘For me they’re past forever,’ she cried. ‘I used to love the time when the berries were ripe and red.’

      He saw the appeal in her streaming eyes, but he could not respond to it; once it had sent him away with his own eyes wet.

      ‘Red as blood,’ she sobbed.

      Her mother called from the kitchen: ‘Will I put out your tea, John?’

      ‘In a minute, Mrs Lochie,’ he shouted back. ‘I’d like to wash first. I’ll have to go, Peggy. I’ll come in later, after I’ve had my tea.’

      Upstairs in the bathroom he was again haunted by that feeling of being in the cone-gatherers’ hut. Such amenities as toilet soap, a clean towel, and hot water, recalled the bareness and primitiveness there. The flushing of the cistern sent him crouching in the darkness of the cypress. When he stared into the mirror and saw his own face, he was for an instant confused, disappointed, and afraid. He could not say what he had expected or hoped to see.

      The table was set for him in the little kitchen. The morning newspaper, which usually arrived in the late afternoon, lay beside his heaped plate of eggs, bacon, and beans. Mrs Lochie was glancing over the table to see that nothing was missing. He never grumbled if anything was, but she always took it as a trick lost.

      He thanked her and sat down. He said no grace.

      ‘Any news at