A Field Full of Folk (11 page)

“I think,” he said in the same calm voice, “that we could find stuff for the sale if we looked carefully enough, and that we should try to adapt more. We should listen more and talk less.”

“Why should I?” said his wife aggressively. “After all if we were living in Surrey people would pay attention to me. Why should it be any different here? The points I made were fair. I only said that it might rain on the day and that the project would be expensive, providing lemonade not only for the Sunday School children but for adults as well. Quite apart from the food.”

It was true of course that such a step into the blue might have come not simply from courage but from a lack of imagination. The consequences might not have been foreseen. Had he foreseen them himself when he had made his leap northward? What had he been looking for? Was it for a change of scenery or for a challenge in his old age? Was it out of a romantic surmise that what appeared simple was best? For in fact this life was far from simple. That was the mistake made, that the life of the country was simpler than that of the town. On the contrary it was much more complicated, as relations within the family were more intricate than with outsiders. Had he foreseen all the consequences himself, as for instance that his wife might not like the life? Had he himself shown stupidity, not made sufficiently precise calculations so that the rocket that had sprung so quickly from the ground had inched, O so minutely, from its proper trajectory to land at last in a direction not plotted?

“I still think,” he repeated, “that it is we who must change.”

And what was that girl doing now? He had met her once purely by chance as he was coming home by train and she had sat with him in the same carriage. She was wearing green slacks and a green jacket. All the way she had been reading a woman's magazine, pausing only to light cigarette after cigarette. Once their eyes had happened to meet and at that moment he had been questioned not by a mind but by a body totally aware of its own power, intensely and shamelessly inhabited. Their gazes had dropped away from each other and she had gone back to the magazine while he himself had read his
Guardian
and the carriage became the neutral cage in which the two of them momentarily existed.

“Why don't we invite them here some night?” he said.

“Invite who here?”

“The minister and his wife. They might easily come. And why shouldn't they? After all I am an elder in the church.”

“Of course they'll come,” said his wife.

“Well then, we will have to give them something to eat, won't we?”

“Naturally,” said Martha.

“In that case we'll do that.”

Adapt, adapt, or go under. That was the demand that the world made on one continually.

“That's settled then. See how easy it is.” And he smiled at her.

If one examined the options then one would come to a decision and that was all that was required of one, and the picture of the girl taking the train so headlong into the city faded like smoke from his mind.

He took out his diary. “What night shall we say then?”

17

E
DDIE'S PLACE WAS
as untidy and crowded as ever. They were all standing about in a large unfurnished room, the stuff from which had been cleared into the lobby, with the boxes of books, the bin full of rubbish, and clothes, even, flung on the floor. A record player was blaring and there were bottles on the table which was the only piece of furniture in the room apart from a greenish sagging armchair. Terry was talking to a girl who was wearing a long kaftan dress, and holding a bottle of whisky. When he saw her he waved the bottle above his head like a boxer.

“Enjoying yourself?” said Eddie.

She shook her head as if to clear it.

“Yes,” she said wanly.

“Fine, fine, that's just fine.” She thought that he spoke with a false American accent.

“Have some more. What are you drinking?”

“Gin,” she said bravely.

She glanced at her watch. It was one in the morning. She drank rapidly from the glass that he put in her hand.

The record player was switched off and Eddie went to the centre of the room.

“Lorna will now play for us.” There was a clapping of hands and the girl with the guitar took up her position in the silence that descended afterwards. She was wearing a lace shawl and a long green dress. She played
Country Roads
. “Mountain mama,” she sang in her fake nasal American voice. Chrissie felt sick. She stumbled out into the corridor over the bodies of people who were sitting on the bare wooden floor. She turned right, staggering a little. She pushed open the door of the bathroom and locked it behind her. She leaned over the basin and tried to be sick. Green bile threaded the water like shredded grass. She tried to drag the sickness from her stomach but it wouldn't come. She knelt on the floor in front of the toilet bowl, clasping it with both hands.

She stood and stared at her white face in the mirror. It seemed to her that her head was like a skull. She went back to the toilet bowl again, but couldn't be sick. She thought she was going to die and she was frightened. She drank some water and then staggered back to the room where the girl was still singing.

“West Virginia,” she sang, her eyes closed, her voice wavering between her native Glasgow accent and the American one she had heard on television and on records.

Chrissie stood at the door watching. Hump-backed Eddie was leaning against the wall, his head swaying to the music. Terry had his arm around the girl in the kaftan dress. Now and again he would take another swig from the bottle of whisky. Chrissie felt sick again. If she wasn't sick she would die. She turned away from the room and went blindly into the corridor. All around her was a becalmed wreckage of detritus, which however swayed as she swayed. A chair stood in front of her slightly askew and she stared at it owlishly. If she could only sit on it, but she couldn't, for it was among such a lot of boxes and dusty carpets. She opened the main door of the flat and went outside, pulling it behind her. She stood on the landing and leaned on the bannister. She looked down into the spiralling vacancy below her and imagined herself falling and falling, spinning over and over like a doll. Very carefully she made her way down the stair clutching the bannister. It seemed that she had walked for hours when she finally reached the bottom. She walked out of the close and saw along the streets the black bags full of rubbish which the wind was shifting. She walked towards the main street and turned left. She waited. If only a taxi would come. She looked up into the dizzying sky and saw the room where the party was taking place. Shadows moved against the light. She began to gulp fresh air into her lungs. If necessary she would walk. The street itself was deserted but when she raised her head to the sky she could see the moon, a half boat tilted in the sky and below and to the right of it Venus which was burning brightly. She walked on steadily and heard the hollow echo of her heels on the road. But there was no one to be seen, only the street lamps were burning with their sickening yellow light. In the eerie light she could see the tenements rising like vast black cliffs from the road towards the sky.

What was she doing there at one in the morning?

At that moment she felt the sickness rising in her and she bent over and the stuff poured out all over the pavement. She glanced at it dully. It was mixed with fragments of food. She took out a handkerchief and wiped her mouth. Then she stood up slowly, grasping the railings beside her. She staggered on. It seemed to her that the street was rising up against her, that she was sailing into a choppy sea. She thought again that she was going to die. If only there was a place where she could sit down. She walked on and came to a bench. She leaned her head against the cold wood which had drops of dew on it. She closed her eyes and felt she could go to sleep. But then with an effort she opened them and said to herself, No, I can't do that. Where was Terry? He had stayed away from her all night and when she had protested he had said.

“What the bloody hell is the point of going to a party unless you meet new people?”

That bitter angry rage had suddenly filled him again and she had been frightened. How little she had really known him! The yellow lights troubled her: it was as if they belonged to an alien country which she hated.

A black cat ran along silently in front of her. A sign of good luck, she thought. If only I could sleep. The black cat turned and she saw its green wedge-shaped eyes. On the other side of the street she saw a drunk staggering along, shouting and swearing to himself.

“There's nae team like the Glasgow Rangers,” he was shouting, “no, not one, no, not one.” His voice was off key and now and again he would turn and shake his fist at the whole yellow deserted city. His long scarf trailed to the ground.

“No not one, no not one,” she heard, and then the words faded into the distance.

There were trees on the other side of the road and a park beyond. She thought that perhaps she would go into the park and sleep but a voice warned her, “You'd better not. You never know who's there.” She got up from the bench and came to a bus stop against which she leaned, and then was sick again. She squeezed sickness like toothpaste from the tube of her body. And then as if it were an act of God she saw a taxi approaching. Let its yellow light be on, she prayed, let it be on. Its yellow light was on and she waved it down. She opened the door and slumped into the back seat.

“Bank Street,” she said. “Number 19.”

Voices gibbered monotonously at the driver and she thought that they were talking to her. She rocked back and forward on the leather seat like a doll. She leaned back and closed her eyes. And all the time the driver stared ahead of him and didn't speak. He didn't even whistle or hum. And all the time the voices gibbered. Now and again amidst the incessant stream of words she would hear an address being given, and then she would slump into the back of the seat again.

Finally the taxi drew to a stop and the taxi driver told her, “A pound and ten pence.” She fumbled in her handbag and found the money. He drew away from the kerb and she turned towards her flat. She entered the close and set her feet upward for the climb. Very slowly she made her way up the steps. When she reached the top she took the key out of her bag and fitted it shakily into the lock. Then she dashed into the room and lay spinning on the bed. It seemed to her that she did not recognise the room. She clung to the bed with outspread hands as if she were crucified.

18

“Y
OU SHOULDN
'
T WORRY
about your son,” said Annie to Morag Bheag as the two of them stood together in the village shop. “You should turn your eyes to the East. I'll have some yoghourt, please, Sandy.

“You see,” she went on, “the Buddha sat under a tree and revelations came to him. We must be freed from desire for earthly goods, not like Sheena Macnab. I hear she's just bought a new bedroom suite from Littlewoods.”

“I don't know,” said Morag Bheag from the point of whose nose a drop of water was hanging. “You do worry, whether you like it or not.”

“That's right,” said Sandy. “Anyone who has a son in Ireland is bound to worry.”

He leaned over the counter, waiting for Annie's next order. Of course she was an old woman but there was a streak of brilliance there.

“I will tell you,” said Annie. “What you should strive for is the condition of Nirvana. That is, you dissolve into nothingness. You do not care any longer for possessions. Before that of course there are cycles of rebirth. I myself think that in a previous existence I was a professor in Egypt. If you study such subjects you will find that substances have been found that modern science cannot analyse. There were people here from another planet, here, years and years ago. And what about the Bermuda Triangle? All these pilots disappearing. I'll have a plain loaf, I think, Sandy. So my advice to you is not to worry but to try to attain the condition of Nirvana.”

Morag Bheag thought miserably, “That's all right for you. You don't have any children.”

Sandy brought the loaf over and laid it in front of Annie on the counter. He hoped that the supermarket wouldn't come in the near future, not till he had retired from the business which his father had left him. He could quite see why Morag Bheag should be worried, any sane person would be.

“How long is he going to be in Ireland for?” he asked.

“I think it is six months,” said Morag. “I think that is what they do.”

“Protestants and Catholics,” said Annie with determination. “That is what you get if you believe in Christianity. There is nothing but guns and fighting. It happened before in the Thirty Years' War and there was Joan of Arc whom they burned to death. Confucius wanted everyone to be a gentleman but I don't think that is enough. Was Hitler a gentleman? What you want to be is indifferent to the concerns of life. That is what the Buddha teaches. Of course there are people who said that you should go about naked and eat little food but I don't think that was right. If you study the Pyramids you will find that the king's servants were killed as well as the king: that was to help him in a future life. But in my opinion that was going too far. Royalty was only interested in possessions. Of course they had chariots and they believed in cats. By the way I hear that David Collins' cat was run over yesterday and the driver didn't stop. They shouldn't keep cats here. There is far too much traffic.”

“That's right,” said Sandy. “Still, I would have thought that it would have known the rules of the road by now. That cat was fourteen years old.”

“You do not know the day or the hour,” said Annie pointing to the cartons of cottage cream. “I'll have one of those. If we knew the day and the hour and what was going to happen that would be predestination and that wouldn't be good. If you study the great religions you will find that people sat under a tree and thought, and forgot about themselves. That is what we should all do. If a man is sitting under a tree thinking he is not harming his neighbour. I don't think anything will happen to your son, Morag. He is a soldier in this life but perhaps in another life he will be a peacemaker.”