Childish Things. Robin JenkinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
never tell her, that what I really wanted was to be in a position one day to exorcise memories of childhood, when I had been so often, so bitterly, degraded by poverty.
Not even Kate had known about that.
I said, ‘My daughter Madge and her husband want me to go and live with them in San Diego.’
‘Why don’t you? Best climate in the world, they say.’
‘And sunshine is kind to old bones.’
‘Lots of rich old widows.’
‘Why not? Look what money can buy.’
‘Swanky cars. Swish blazers.’
‘And books. And theatre tickets. And travel to exotic places. And immunity from the insolence of inferior men.’
She laughed. ‘Who ever dared to be insolent to you, Gregor.’
‘There was a time, Chrissie.’
‘You’re not going to tell me about it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, would you like us to read something suitable? Adonais? Urn Burial? Ecclesiastes?’
‘You’ve got those essays to correct.’
‘I’ll finish them later. It’s a waste of time anyway. They pay absolutely no heed to my corrections and suggestions.’
As a teacher, I had had similar doubts about the value of homework but, as a headmaster, I had had to insist that every class got plenty of it.
There was no sign of the portrait of Rosa Luxemburg, the German pacifist and socialist, murdered by evil men. Chrissie’s ambition had been to write a book about her.
What had happened? I did not ask. If her dreams of a juster world had faded, it was not for me to crow.
‘Are you going to pay Hector a visit while you’re here?’ she asked. ‘He’s not well.’
‘He looked very ill at the funeral.’
‘He was fond of his sister.’
‘He didn’t visit her very often. I suppose that was because of me. Yet I never did him any harm.’
‘He thought you weren’t fair to your wife.’
An opinion, it seemed, shared by many. If they were right, it was too late to make amends. I felt desolate.
‘Were you unfair to her, Gregor?’
‘You’d have given me six-and-a-half out of ten, Chrissie.’
‘What would she have given you?’
I heard Kate’s voice. It’s no business of hers, Gregor. Tell her ten.
It was the kind of question typical of Chrissie. Even at 60 or so, she still put truth, as she saw it, before compassion.
‘What are we heathens to do, Chrissie, if we feel we deserve divine punishment but there’s no God to inflict it?’
‘If I was God, I’d punish no one.’
‘Not even the exploiters of the poor? The supporters of the Bomb?’
‘You should go to California, Gregor. You’d be in your element there.’
‘Because I’m a determined individualist?’
‘Because you’re a fraud. But then, we all are, aren’t we? You do it with more style than the rest of us.’
‘I loved Kate.’
‘I’m sure you did, Gregor, in your own way. But who am I to talk? I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Chrissie.’
‘Is it?’
‘You’ve spent your life loving the poor.’
‘Being sorry for them. I can’t claim to have loved them.’
‘Have you given up politics then?’
‘I don’t go to meetings, if that’s what you mean.’
I stood up. I picked my hat off the floor. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
‘No. I’ll see you out. It might be the last time.’
In the hall, she gripped my arm. ‘I’m sorry, Gregor, if I’ve hurt your feelings again.’
I patted her hand. ‘I think I came to have my feelings hurt. Good for me, Chrissie.’
At the door she said, ‘Good luck,’ and added, ‘with the rich old widows.’
‘Good luck to you, Chrissie.’ Perhaps, before she died, she would find someone to love.
I wanted to be at my most dignified as I went out but I missed a step and stumbled.
‘What do you wash your steps with, Chrissie?’ I asked.
‘I can’t remember when I last washed them.’
‘They should be washed regularly. Wet moss can be slippery.’
Like human relationships, I almost added.
4
Hector’s house was in darkness. Though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, he would be in bed. God knew what dreams he had. It had been his and Kate’s family home and had been left to them jointly. A large stone villa with an extensive garden, it was worth a great deal of money. Kate’s share would now be mine.
Their father had been a popular philanthropic doctor, with most of his patients among the poor in the east end.
I kept my finger on the bell-button, though I wouldn’t have been surprised to know that it didn’t work. The whole house was decrepit, the garden was a jungle for cats. Kate had refused to put pressure on her brother.
A more brilliant scholar than ever I was, with a first-class degree in Classics, Hector after the war had, perversely, continued to work as a farm labourer until his strength ran out. He had then bought the bookshop. He had once cast up that the war had been good to me. Millions had been slaughtered so that I could win a medal and use it to rise in my profession, while he weeded turnips.
At last noises were heard behind the door.
‘Who’s there?’ It was Hector’s sullen defeated voice.
‘It’s me, Gregor.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you, about Kate.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.’
I couldn’t resist being sarcastic. ‘I thought, Hector, your sympathies were with poor suffering humanity.’
‘When did you ever suffer?’
‘I’m suffering now. I loved Kate.’
‘You’ve never loved anyone but yourself.’
This was a man I had tried to be friendly with, whose stand as a conscientious objector I had defended. But I kept my temper. A winner of the Military Medal ought not to let himself be provoked by a querulous failed peace-monger. Besides, at the graveside he had wept.
‘For Kate’s sake, Hector, open the door.’
Under my breath I sang a snatch of Burns’s poignant song: ‘Oh open the door, some pity to show.’ I had sung it at Burns suppers. On the other side of the door was a man who had never been at a Burns supper in his life.
His opening of the door was a lengthy business. Two keys had to be turned, a bolt withdrawn, and a chain removed. Hector, when revealed, was carrying an ebony baton.