A Song of Sixpence (31 page)

It was a boarding-house, of a noticeably modest class, a fact which I deduced from the smell of boiled cabbage in the bare little hall and the cracked linoleum on the stairs leading to Pin's lodging, a bed-sitting-room on the second floor back. He was there, reading at the window, but obviously expecting me, and he received me without reproach. Over his shoulder I saw immediately that he had provided for me, obviously from his own purse. A bottle of lemonade and a plate of sweet biscuits had been set out on the round table by the window.

‘Laurence,' he began, when he had seated me. ‘I had a thought the other day which might or might not be a happy one. Since then I have made it my business to pursue it.'

‘Yes, sir,' I said dutifully.

‘First of all, let me offer you some refreshment.'

He poured the lemonade and pushed the biscuits hospitably towards me.

‘Won't you have some yourself, sir?'

He smiled and shook his head, then after watching me for a few minutes, he said, with a certain impressiveness:

‘Laurence, I want to talk to you about the Ellison.'

‘The Ellison,' I repeated blankly.

He nodded, and pressing his fingertips together, so that his hands formed an inverted V, he leaned towards me.

‘As you probably know, there are all sorts of foundations, trusts, scholarships and the like endowed to the University. Some of them are unusual, and while perfectly acceptable to the Senate you might even call them peculiar—in as much as they reflect the character of the donor.' He paused, holding me so tightly with his eye that I forgot to finish the biscuits. ‘Now John Ellison was an odd sort of man, Laurence—a Forfar grain miller in a modest way of business, not particularly literate, but a perfervid Scots nationalist with a passion for Scottish history. I'm led to believe that he went every year to Bannock-burn on the anniversary of the battle. At any rate, when he died, at the age of eighty-three, he left all his estate to found a scholarship, thirty pounds a year for five years, open to students bent on entering the University, for the best commemorative essay on a Scottish historical character, the subject to be set unseen by the Professor of-Divinity, the essay to be written in the space of two hours in the University Hall on the last day of the first week of August. That's just about three months from now.' Again he paused, then said mildly, but with a certain impressiveness: ‘Laurence, how would you like to spend those three months cramming Scots history, and sit the Ellison at the end of it?'

I gazed at him stupidly. My reaction, beyond the initial surprise, was mainly one of instinctive rejection. The idea was so utterly unexpected, the basis of the scholarship so preposterous, verging even on the absurd, and my competence for the undertaking so manifestly questionable, I shrank away from it, like a rabbit bolting for its hole. I knew that I could not do it, that it was all quite beyond me, and I immediately set about arranging my refusal, logically, and in terms least likely to hurt Pin.

‘It's kind of you to bother about me, sir. But when you speak of time you forget I have a job already, that keeps me occupied most of the day.'

‘I was speaking of your spare time, Laurence. In the evenings and possibly the nights at your disposal you could, with my help, steep yourself in history.'

‘But where would I get the books?'

‘With my present facilities at the University Library I could borrow all the books you need, and more. Rare books, splendid, interesting books.' He added pointedly: ‘And you know how you used to love to read.'

That stung me—it was months since I had nourished my faculties on anything more substantial than Mrs Tobin's weekly copy of
Tit-bits.

‘In any case,' I said, ‘you have no guarantee that I could do the essay, beyond those early compositions, which were only childish efforts. And you've already informed me that I'm only half educated.'

‘Nevertheless, you're clever, Laurence,' he countered dryly. ‘Besides, I doubt if literary ability is the main criterion in question. The judges will be looking for national spirit.'

‘National spirit!' I protested. ‘ I'm half Irish!'

‘That gives you the imagination to transpose yourself and become more Scottish than the Scots.'

This gentle yet insidious pressure was getting me down.

‘No, I really don't feel up to it sir. I'm too young to go to the University. I'd rather wait till my mother comes back. Her course finishes in September. When she gets her appointment in Winton she means to take rooms, or a small flat. Then I may be able to go to school again.'

‘You're not too young for the University. You'd be past sixteen if you entered in the autumn. And that's too old to think of school, at least the kind available to you.' He went on accusingly: ‘As for your mother, wouldn't it be a great thing if you were able to tell her that you'd tried the Ellison, perhaps even,' he paused, ‘that you had won it? In that event, what a joy, what a relief for her. You starting at the University with more than enough to keep you there. Thirty pounds a year guaranteed for five solid years. Think of that, Laurence. And don't forget I'd help you.'

Whether deliberately or not he was pulling out all the sentimental stops, evoking tenderness for my mother and contempt for myself, playing so unfairly on my emotions that an angry flush came into my cheeks and I could find nothing to say.

He glanced away, tugging, at his beard, appearing not to notice my humiliation, but not before, in a subdued tone, he sounded the last outrageous, unpardonable chord.

‘I suppose you can imagine what it would mean to a useless old man like me if I coached you through to win the Ellison.'

Was he play-acting, descending to these base ends to win me over? Pin was a scholar, a classicist and a man of culture, yet in his veins there flowed a strong infusion of kailyard sentiment. I believe now that he meant and felt every word he said. Then, it was enough for me to know that I was defeated. And he knew it too. Rising spryly, he hopped—being at ease in his slippers and divested of the stump—towards a cupboard in the wall.

‘You can't drink that now, it's gone flat. I thought you'd manage another bottle. I have it in the press.' He produced fresh lemonade and decanted it into a clean tumbler. ‘There's more biscuits too if you want them.'

I wanted neither biscuits nor lemonade, feeling that, having elevated me to manhood, he was now treating me as a child. But I accepted them to gain time to collect myself, and disposed of them in downcast silence. No one could have been less elated at the prospect of our enterprise than I. He must have sensed this, for he addressed me in a different, authoritative manner.

‘Now pay attention. You will come here to this room at seven o'clock three nights a week, when we will spend at least two hours together. I have drawn up a schedule of your reading. Here are your first two books, the first Hume Brown's
General History of Scotland
, the second Duncan's
The Border Wars.
' He handed over one of the volumes and turned the pages of the other at random. ‘You don't realize what a splendid time you are going to have … the amazing people you are going to meet. And to think that I had to drag you to it. Take this Earl of Angus for instance, named Archibald Bell-the-Cat, he was a character, I can tell you. Draw your chair nearer and we'll go over him together.'

We began to investigate the heroic eccentricities of Angus, head of the Red Douglases, how he hanged the King's musicians and earned the nickname of Bell-the-Cat. In spite of myself, I became interested. Whatever Pin might have been in the pulpit he was always a sympathetic and engaging teacher. I was sorry when at nine o'clock he ended the session.

‘That's enough for a start. Now apart from the reading I've set you, I'll expect a short written account, say five hundred words, on what we've just been over. Bring it when you come on Friday.'

I stood up, trying to find a proper expression of willingness. How could I have been so obstinate, so timidly averse? But he checked me.

‘I know you, Laurence. No raptures, please. Hard work.'

With the books under my arm I took my usual sprint through the Park and then, so eager was I to resume my acquaintance with the Border Reivers, I continued my run all the way to Templar's Hall, choosing the back way by the river, speeding along deserted side streets and ill-lit alleys, hearing my footfalls echo behind me between the dark sheds of the docks, until at last I was in my own room, propped up in bed, with the candle lit and the book open on my knees.

Sunday, so eagerly anticipated, came at last. Although I was up and about by seven, I went out as usual to the ten o'clock Mass at St Malachi's with Mrs Tobin. St Malachi's was our neighbourhood church, serving the poorest district in the city, and remains associated in my mind with rows of women in shawls and the perpetual sound of coughing. But Mrs Tobin liked it, she had friends in the congregation, and I always went with her. Actually on this exceptional morning I had thought of going to the nine o'clock, so that I might arrive at Park Crescent about ten, but reflecting on Nora's hint that I should not come
too
early, I decided that I ought to get there around eleven o'clock. Although this perhaps, on second thought, seemed rather late.

The University clock was, in fact, booming out eleven strokes as I pressed the bell of No. 9, spruced up in the best I had, and nervous of course, but alive with anticipation. My dedication to the Ellison was now a settled thing, but it was still a long way off, and nothing would have made me miss the chance of a day with my adorable cousin.

Perhaps the bell had not rung. I pressed it again and waited. There was no response. Once more I had my finger on the button when sounds reached me from within, then the door was opened, partially, but enough to reveal Nora in her nightdress and dressing-gown. She blinked at me, with a vague expression, only half awake. At last, not particularly pleased, something seemed to strike her.

‘It's you, Laurence,' she said. ‘You'd better come in.'

Tightening the cord of her gown and scuffing along in her feathery mules, she led me into the kitchen, sat down on the edge of a chair, and with difficulty suppressed a yawn.

‘Oh, Nora,' I exclaimed grievously, yet fascinated by the picture she made, ‘I'm afraid I've disturbed you.'

She looked at me, meditatively rubbing her shoulder under her nightdress, then suddenly began to laugh.

‘Don't worry, man. I was a bit late last night, out with the gang. Seeing Miss Donohue off. She's away to Perth with Terry and Martin. But if you'll put on the kettle and make me a cup of tea, I'll be ready in two shakes of a lamb's tail.'

When she had shown me the pantry cupboard and retreated to her bedroom, I decided to make her a proper breakfast. Life with Mother had made fairly expert at improvising a meal. By the time she came back the tea was infused and I had made a rack of toast and plenty of scrambled eggs.

‘Well I never.' She viewed nay preparations set out on a chequered table-cloth. ‘This is luxury. Beats the Criterion. You'll have to share it with me.'

‘I've had my breakfast, Nora.'

‘What did you have?'

‘Oh, mostly the usual stirabout. That's a kind of porridge, Nora.'

‘Then you can stand another. That Leo should be shot. Dead.'

She brought out another cup and poured the tea. We started on the toast and scrambled eggs. I had never imagined that breakfast with anyone could be so agreeable. My cousin, now fresh as a daisy, was prettier than ever. Although still barelegged and in mules, she was wearing a soft white blouse and a short tartan skirt that had a lot of yellow in it.

‘It's the Kerry tartan,' she explained, smoothing it over her knees. ‘If you're Irish you've got to be proud of it. Now tell me straight, Laurence, what you'd like to do with me today.'

It was her colouring, I decided, the dark hair and eyes against the creamy skin, that made her so enchanting. I loved to watch her wide soft mouth sipping the tea, and as she crunched the toast, her small even teeth were as white as my father's had been—the good Carroll teeth.

I took a big breath.

‘I'd like best … that's to say if you'd like it … if we could go somewhere into the country.'

‘Ah, you're not a city boy.'

She glanced out of the window. The sun was shining on the white wall of the courtyard.

‘Still, not a bad idea. Winton's ghastly on Sunday. Suppose we take a run down to the houseboat.'

‘The houseboat?'

She was enjoying my surprise. That, I thought suddenly, was Nora's special charm—her capacity for enjoyment.

‘Lots of people have houseboats on Loch Lomond. Martin … and Miss Donohue …' she added, ‘have one, not far from Luss. For holidays and so on. It's fun. We'll take the bikes, you can have Miss D.'s, and we'll be there by one o'clock.'

This prospect, after months in the purlieus of Argyle Street, was a real excitement. I could hardly wait to be off. I jumped up.

‘Let's start soon, Nora. I'll hurry up and wash the dishes and make some sandwiches, if you like.'

‘No sandwiches, man. They're deadly. And never mind the dishes. If you want to go now, we'll go, but first let me get my stockings on. Hand me them. Over there.'

A pair of lisle stockings had been washed and now hung, dry, two slender filaments, on a rail by the kitchen range. As I brought them to her they were light as gossamer.

Sitting there, she began to draw them on, watching me out of the corner of one eye with sheer mischief and something else, a sort of beguiling inquiry that came from beneath her lashes, meanwhile, as I stared fascinated, affording me fleeting yet generous glimpses of white beneath the Kerry tartan.

‘There!' she declared casually, rising and shaking herself down. ‘Once I get my shoes on we'll be off.'