Childish Things. Robin JenkinsЧитать онлайн книгу.

       9

      That Friday morning, I had promised myself to pay a visit to Kate’s grave.

      I kept hoping, and dreading, that Millie would telephone me but, by the time I was ready to go out, she hadn’t, so, with some foreboding, I dialled her number. There was no answer. I let it ring for half a minute, but still there was no answer. Perhaps she was asleep.

      I would try again when I came back from the kirkyard.

      It was a cold dry morning. I did not take my car. The walk would do me good.

      Grief should have had me stooped and shambling. My clothes should have shown signs of neglect, my shoes unpolished, the laces loose. Instead, I was as smartly turned out as ever. I walked briskly, with head held high. I lifted my hat, smiled, called cheerful greetings. It would be talked about in the tearooms.

      They did not know, no one did, that from the age of eight, when my father had died, I had fought myself into the habit of never showing how unhappy I felt, how uncertain, how close to despair. I had kept it up all my life. It had won me my medal. It had earned me the reputation of being uncaring. That was how Hector saw me, and Chrissie, and my daughters, and Susan Cramond, and even, sometimes, my beloved Kate. I had loved Kate dearly but I had kept secrets from her and lied to her to protect my pose. But, after all those years, was it still a pose? Had I become what I outwardly appeared?

      I was kenspeckle in the town, if not popular. Most people knew that the red Mercedes, with the black upholstery belonged to me. It could be left parked in various places, night and day, without being vandalised. I might not have been liked but I was respected. I was asked to sing at concerts in aid of local charities and at Burns suppers. No golfer groaned when he saw on the notice-board that he had been drawn as my partner in a competition.

      These were my reflections as I strode through the town and puffed up the brae to the kirkyard.

      Tomorrow a new chapter in my life, perhaps the last chapter, would begin. Tomorrow fresh woods and pastures new. In California should I be a humble grateful old man, sunbathing on the patio, encouraging my grandchildren in their studies, reading worthy books, taking care not to upset my daughter and her husband, on Sundays accompanying them to their church, and, God forgive me, joining in their rollicking hymns?

      Hat in hand, I stood by Kate’s grave. Funeral wreaths, dusty and withered, still lay on it. There was as yet no headstone.

      Or should I boldly enjoy myself? At the Country Club I had been a success on my last visit four years ago. Those good-hearted septuagenarians, every one a duffer at the game, had not been jealous of my prowess as a golfer. On the contrary, they had been proud of it. As for the ladies, especially the blue-haired elderly widows, they had been charmed by my manners and appearance. Kate had been amused, but she had been pleased too. I had flirted, but they had all seen that Kate was the one I loved. They had liked and admired her. ‘Your good wife,’ Mrs Birkenberger had said, for once not being sarcastic.

      A robin came and perched on an adjacent headstone. It eyed me and then it defecated, daintily.

      I heard Kate laughing. ‘That’s what it thinks of you, Gregor.’

      I heard her weeping too. I was in tears myself.

      I had already made not one but several Orphean journeys. I had not yet accepted her loss. I must, if I was not to go mad.

      Would it be humbug for me to say that I ought to enjoy myself in California, not just for my own sake but for Kate’s too, and for all those buried in the graves about me? Surely the dead must want the living to enjoy themselves, even those who had been curmudgeons when alive.

      The robin flew off, with a chirp of goodwill.

      I hadn’t been home half an hour when the telephone rang. It was Helen Sneddon.

      Her voice was sad. ‘Were you out, Gregor? I phoned you half an hour ago.’

      ‘Yes, I was out. I was paying a visit to Kate’s grave.’

      ‘Were you, Gregor?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You won’t have heard about Millie?’

      My heart sank. ‘No. What’s happened?’