Childish Things. Robin Jenkins

could have wept. The tears would have been of self-pity and self-derision. I had been meekly content to touch Mrs Cardross’s soft hand when paying for my wine and receiving my change, while Tulloch the bull had been mounting her at will.

      ‘Does Millie know?’ I asked, feebly.

      ‘Of course Patient Grizelda knows. If you ask me, it’s the best thing that could have happened to her. She should have left him long ago. So they’re out. Your tearoom pals, I suppose. I hope Henry doesn’t shit himself as he did last time.’

      ‘You should insist, Susan, that we all bring our potties.’

      She laughed. ‘Some of us can still make it to the lavatory. I’ve been wondering if you’d like me to invite your brother-in-law, Hector Liddell.’

      ‘If you did, Henry would be sure to shit himself. But why invite Hector?’

      ‘He was at the funeral. He looked very unhappy.’

      ‘He wouldn’t come.’

      ‘I suppose not. I felt sorry for him, that’s all. It won’t be the most thrilling of evenings, Gregor, but it’ll save you the trouble of going round and saying goodbye.’

       6

      Next morning I hurried down to the shops, for my Guardian, but also to find out if what Susan had said about Mrs Cardross was true. In the main street, Helen Sneddon, in her blue Mini, caught sight of me, stopped, and called.

      I went over. ‘Hello, Helen. How are you?’

      ‘To tell you the truth, Gregor, my rheumatism’s so bad this morning I can hardly hold the steering wheel.’

      Which would make her driving all the more erratic.

      She was blocking the way. Motorists behind her tooted their horns.

      ‘Have you heard about Millie?’ she asked.

      ‘Yes. Susan told me.’

      ‘The funny thing is on the telephone she sounded quite excited and not a bit unhappy.’

      ‘Surely she should be glad getting rid of a brute like Bill.’

      ‘Yes, but can she manage on her own? She’s not really grown up.’

      ‘Which of us is, Helen?’

      ‘That’s true. These people behind me, they’re like impatient children, aren’t they? Did Susan tell you who Bill has moved in with?’

      ‘Yes, she did.’ I remembered the vicious description: mercenary whore.

      ‘Mrs Cardross, who worked in Colquhoun’s. Apparently she’s had other men. It seems she’s got an eight-year-old daughter whom she’s more or less disowned. Her ex-husband has the child. What’s Lunderston coming to, Gregor?’

      A policeman was approaching.

      ‘Well, I’d better get out of the way. Be sure and give my regards to Madge and her family.’

      She drove off then, pretending she hadn’t seen the policeman.

      I walked slowly along the main street until I came to Colquhoun’s, but I didn’t go in. I stood with my back to it.

      Passers-by who knew me – who more kenspeckle than an ex-headmaster? – nodded, smiled, and looked curious. Why was I standing there looking so wandered? I must be, they would conclude, thinking about my dead wife. Poor old bugger, they would think, what good now are his snow-white locks, his Burberry raincoat, his Italian shoes, his golf handicap of six, and his posh car? They were right, of course, but they were not to know that I had lost something more precious than all of those. Mrs Cardross, with her resemblance to Kate when young, had lifted my heart, strengthened my faith in humanity, and brightened everybody’s future. Now she was revealed as mercenary, promiscuous, and heartless.

      I had tears in my eyes. If they were noticed, the snell wind blowing down the main street would be blamed.

      Where could I go to have faith restored? I had an idea. I would go to the school where I had been headmaster for nearly 20 years. It was interval time. I would watch the children in the playground.

      As I peched up School Brae, I heard the happy shrieks of little girls. Through iron bars more suitable for a jail I peered at them, listening for the name Lenore. That was the name of Mrs Borthwick’s daughter. What was Mrs Cardross’s daughter called? Alas, I didn’t know. I tried to look like a loving grandfather and not a potential molester, though I supposed there would be little difference as far as appearance went: in fact, the latter would probably look more benevolent. I did not hear Lenore called. Aileen, Alison, Deirdre, and even Philomel I heard but not Lenore. There was one with red cheeks and black hair, like Mrs Borthwick. Mrs Borthwick was a waitress in Murchison’s. I looked for one who resembled Mrs Cardross. There were several with fair hair.

      What was it the poet Gray had written?

      Regardless of their doom

      The little victims play.

      I felt I had to protect them all, but if I had rushed in, or rather, had clambered over the high railings, the police would have been sent for. The Sheriff would take into consideration my age, my former respectability, and my being distraught with grief. I would be given a caution, like a naughty child.

      I crept sadly away.

      In the afternoon I drove to the golf club to collect my clubs which were being cleaned and regripped. They were my knightly lances with which I had won tournaments. On the other hand, they were my toys, with which I played a game that, though exalted nowadays to almost a religion, was basically childish, hitting a small ball from one hole to another.

      The clubhouse flag was at half-mast, signifying the death of a member. It was hardly ever at the top of the mast these days, for many members were elderly and seldom a week went by without one of them, in golfing parlance, handing in his last score-card marked ‘No Return’. I couldn’t think who it was this time. One day, not so far off, it would be my turn. I felt despondent. These twinges in my chest, were they caused by indigestion or incipient heart disease? And these prickles in the prostate region, were they warnings of cancer?

      I sighed a lot as I drove home.

      Later that day I had a visit from a young woman on behalf of the travel agency from which I had bought my air ticket. It seemed my economy-class ticket had been changed to first-class. I protested that I had not asked for such a change, which would cost a great deal of money. I was told, with a smirk, that it had been arranged by Mrs Cramond.

      At first I felt insulted, or rather, told myself I ought to: how dare Susan try to buy me in this way? But, I had to ask, what possible use could she make of me once I had been bought?

      I telephoned her, to remonstrate, courteously, of course, but I found myself thanking her, somewhat fulsomely. ‘You deserve it, Gregor,’ she said and, though I wondered what she meant, I left it at that.

      To be honest, I liked very much the idea of travelling first class. Free champagne all the way. Special attention from the stewardesses. More room to stretch your legs. No queues for the toilet. A better class of passenger.

      Should I accept? I already had, the ticket was in my hand, but I needed someone’s assurance that I had done right.

      I consulted Kate. I would never have claimed that, even after nearly 50 years of marriage, I knew her completely. There had been those silences, that elusive irony. But I thought I knew her well enough to tell what her opinion would be regarding that generosity of Susan’s.

      ‘Should I accept, Kate?’

      ‘You already have, haven’t you?’

      ‘It’s not as if I asked for it. It came as a surprise.’

      ‘A pleasant one, though.’

      ‘Yes, I have to admit that.