The Search (14 page)

Twenty-One

A
T THAT MOMENT
an old green truck drew up outside the house and Trevor went to the window. He watched the door of the truck opening, and then he saw a naked hairy leg, and then another one. For a moment his brother was standing facing the window at which Trevor was standing before he turned and shut the door of the truck behind him. He was dressed in a pair of white shorts and a blue shirt and he was totally bald. Then he was walking towards the house and Trevor could see his face. He didn't look at all as he did in the photograph taken when he was a soldier in the Argylls. The brow was lined, the face coarse and slightly unshaven: the blue eyes had lost their laughter. The nose looked red as if still registering the days of his drunkenness.

“Are you there, Jean?” he heard his brother say, and then Norman was in the room. For a moment he stared at Trevor without recognizing him, wondering who this stranger was who was in the same room as his wife. Trevor was to remember that blind yet slightly angry gaze for a long time, and then as if a film had been speeded up Norman said,

“Trevor,” and then he had rushed forward and embraced his brother. They swayed in each other's arms, while Norman said over and over, “I don't believe it. Trevor.” Then he pushed him away and said, “Why, you're bald as a coot. Didn't I tell you, Jean, that our family always became bald. What are you doing out here?”

Trevor told him and he looked proud and possessive.

“Didn't I tell you, Jean, that he was smart? Well, woman, haven't you any food for us? I'm working as a groundsman, did Jean tell you? It's a good job, nothing to it. When I saw it advertised in the paper I put in for it and they gave it to me. No worries. They all know Norm is a good worker. Isn't that right, Jean?”

“Yes,” said his wife non-committally, glancing at Trevor as if wondering how he was taking her husband's chatter. Husband, thought Trevor, this is her husband, and the word didn't sound right for Norman.

“I'm telling you I bowled them over at the interview. Told them I'd been a handyman all over Australia. But I really like working among growing things, there's nothing like it.”

Trevor expected him to say something about the day he himself had deliberately lost him in the wood but he didn't mention it as if he had completely forgotten all about it.

“The ground's a bit parched at the moment but I manage to get enough water. Fellow from the hospital stopped me the other day, big surgeon he is, I was telling Jean, and he said to me, ‘Haven't seen the grounds kept so well for years. How do you do it? So I explained to him what I did and that I had learned it all back in Bonny Scotland. ‘You Scotch?' he said. ‘That's right,' I said, ‘Scottish and proud of it.' ‘I've been to Scotland myself,' he said. ‘Which part?' I said. ‘Edinburgh,' he said. And so we got talking and he told me that he didn't know there was so much work connected with the job. ‘We Scots,' I told him, ‘we were taught to work hard.' And then he said, ‘Thought I'd seen you before.' And I told him, ‘Must have been in the wards then. I used to be a patient here.' And then he gave me one look and said ‘Which ward?' So I told him I'd been an alcoholic, but I was cured now. ‘Well,' he said, ‘you Scotch are all the same.' It was Dr Falconer,” he said turning to his wife. “That's who it was.”

He stopped suddenly and then said in a different tone, “I suppose the old people are dead now. I should have written but I never managed it. Many's the time I took the old pen in hand but I never got round to putting anything on paper. The wanderer, that's me,” he said proudly. “Did you ever hear of a fellow called Lawson. He could tell you about that.”

For a moment Trevor felt disoriented to hear his brother talking about the poet and story teller. It was exactly the same feeling he had had with Douglas.

“Yes,” he said, “they're both dead now. They both died about ten years ago.”

“Is that right? And I never sent a Christmas card. Do you remember the day I left? I told Jean that there was a piper playing me on board. His name was Morrison and he worked in the factory. And there I was standing on the deck keeping a stiff upper lip and you and my mother standing on the quay. By gosh, it was the greatest day of my life. Do you know what I did when I landed? I bought a pony and then I rode all over this great country. One day I came to a farmhouse and this fellow said to me, ‘I'd like to go on holiday but I can't get away. Can you do any milking?' ‘Milking,' I said, ‘of course I can do milking,' though I never could. And do you know he went away with his wife and left me in charge of the farm for a week. And I milked the cows and did all the chores. I used to think about you a lot in those days. You were the one who read all the books. I've never read a book except some stuff by Lawson and Banjo Paterson. Have you heard of Banjo Paterson? He wrote some good stuff. But I told you about the pony, didn't I?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, “you wrote home in the early days.”

“And then I fell into bad company,” he said. Turning towards Jean he called “Is the food ready?”

“You can have it now,” said Jean quietly and they all went into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

“Now remember,” said Norman, “eat plenty. We have salads here mostly. But today we are having meat.” And he piled meat on to his brother's plate. “Jean's got to go at eight.”

“I'll go over and see Mary,” said Jean. “You two will have plenty to talk about.”

“What do you want to see Mary about?”

“She was wondering whether we could baby-sit for her this weekend. Saturday night.”

“Right, then,” said Norman, and his expression clouded a little.

“You'll stay the night anyway?” said Jean to Trevor.

“If you don't mind: but I'd better be going in the morning. I have to leave Australia in a few days' time. I have packing to do.”

He caught the two of them looking at each other significantly and then Norman said briskly, “Eat up, eat up. We can't send you back starved. Eat up. Of course,” he said to his wife, “Trevor never used to eat much. He was always buried in his books even at meal times. I remember the nights when he used to read under the bedclothes. And do you remember the time you passed your station in the train because you had been reading? Trevor was always better than me at school, Jean, and one day I had to fight a boy who had been shouting names after him. Isn't that right, Trevor?”

“I remember,” said Trevor. Jean looked at him briefly and then turned away.

“We were peasants in those days,” said Norman largely. “That's what we were. One day the headmaster took me up to his study and he said to me, ‘You were fighting, weren't you?' I was fighting with two other boys who were in a higher class than me and they were cleverer. So he didn't want to belt them. He said to me, ‘Hold out your hand, ‘and I said, ‘I'll take two and no more.' ‘We'll see about that,' he said. He gave me two and he told me to hold out the other hand. ‘No way,' I said, ‘there's a question of fairness here.' ‘Fairness?' he said. ‘That's right,' I said, ‘fairness. What about the two other boys? They're not being punished. Why are they not being punished?' ‘It was you who started it,' he said. ‘It wasn't me who started it,' I said. ‘You're always the troublemaker,' he said. ‘No, I'm not,' I said, ‘and I'm not taking any more.' And I looked him straight in the face and then he said, ‘You get out of here and don't let me see you again.' A few years afterwards I saw him and he was retired and he said to me, ‘I remember you. You're Grierson.' But he didn't say any more. I wasn't going to be pushed around by him.” He chewed some meat, washing it down with milk, and said, “Same thing happened to me on a site I was working at. This Australian bugger said to me, ‘We're paying off some men.' ‘Oh?' I said to him just like that (I remember I had a spade in my hand at the time). ‘And it looks as if you'll have to go,' he said. Big fat fellow he was. I can still see him. ‘What about Macdonald?' I said, ‘He came at the same time as me.' This gaffer didn't think I would complain, you see, and he didn't know what to say. ‘But just because I'm Scottish,' I said, ‘and he's Australian, you're paying me off and not him. That's unfair. There's a question of unfairness here.' And do you know, he didn't say another word. He just walked away. You've got to stand up for yourself in this world or people will trample all over you. Well by gosh I'm glad to see you,” he said, leaning over and patting Trevor on the back. “God knows,” he said to his wife, “why my mother called him Trevor. It's not a Scottish name. She saw it in a book, I think. Now Norman is a good Scottish name. Plenty of Normans in Scotland. Did I tell you that I learned Maori when I was in New Zealand? Most people don't speak Maori but this night I was playing pool, myself and two other blokes, and a Maori came in and I said to the two blokes, ‘I bet you I can speak to this Maori in his own language.' And I did too. They respected me then, you see.”

There was a silence, Trevor unwilling to say something which might explode some hidden mine or other. But Norman was quite prepared to go on.

“There's nothing I hate more than unfairness. I'm not going to have it. There's a doctor in the hospital and he said to me one day, ‘One or two people have been complaining about the state of the grounds here.' ‘Who are they?' I said. ‘Never you mind who they are,' he said to me. ‘But I do mind who they are,' I said. And then I said to him, ‘Are you complaining?' ‘Well,' he said. ‘Tell me then,' I said, ‘the grounds are in front of you there. You tell me if you're complaining.' ‘No,' he said, ‘in fairness I can't say that I can complain.' This is good meat, Jean. Where did you get it?”

“In Strachan's.”

“Strachan's. Well, tell him from me next time he's got good meat. If it wasn't for Jean, Trevor, I don't know where I'd be. Used to drink wine all the time. One night I got the DTs. and I saw things crawling about the walls. It took five men to hold me down in the hospital. Then they gave me a jag and I went out like a light. I met Jean and we got married. Don't know what I'd do without her. Do you remember that fellow, what was his name, you know the one who used to go out and attack Catholics, the one who lived beside us? Used to dress very neatly.”

“Boyd,” said Trevor. “Was it Boyd?”

“That's right, the very fellow, Boyd. He was a Protestant. He used to go out every night and beat up Catholics. And then he used to get beaten up himself. We lived in a council house, Jean, and the Irish would tear up your plants if you tried to have a garden. They were a lot of ruffians. One old lady made a hole in the walls of her room so she could speak to another old lady. Do you remember that, Trevor?” And he burst out laughing. “A big hole in the wall. Well, that was a good meal, Jean.” And he pulled his chair back from the table and began to roll a cigarette.

“Smoke, Trevor?”

“No thanks. Not just now.”

“Trevor never used to smoke or drink either,” Norman said to his wife. “The first time Trevor had a drink, Jean, he was sick all over the lobby, and my mother was mad. I can remember these things so clearly. Now I could take a bottle of whisky a day at one time. But it's a mug's game. Whisky didn't do anyone any good, isn't that right, Jean?” he said watching her clear the things from the table. “Don't stay long at Mary's now. You've got to be at your work at eight.
Mary and her husband are Scots, you know,” he told Trevor. “He used to be a policeman somewhere. Where was it, Jean?”

“Before he came out here?”

“No, after.”

“I think it was Perth.”

“That's right and then they moved here. They have Scottish records and they play them for us sometimes. Andy Stewart, people like that. They're our best friends here. He's a watchman now. He got a job as a watchman.”

When it was six o'clock Jean went to see Mary and the two brothers were left alone. Immediately she had gone Trevor said,

“Did you ever meet anyone called Douglas on your travels? A fellow called Malcolm Douglas?”

“Douglas? Douglas? No, I …”

“It was him who phoned me up and told me about you. He said he used to be a psychiatric nurse.”

“I did meet a fellow called Douglas now that you mention it, back in the early 'seventies. At least I think that was his name. A darkish fellow, is that right?”

“Yes, he's dark-haired.”

“He was lodging with me for a while. That was about the time I broke away from the life I was leading. I told him that. I told him I was going to leave and he didn't like it. He was a bit of an oddball. I told him I was going into hospital and he came to see me once or twice. I remember now. He comes from Scotland, or his people do. He heard I was getting married. So he would know about me. And he phoned you up?”

“Yes.”

“He was a clever chap that. Always reading books. I had a fight with him once over a drink or something. He had picked up my glass from the counter and he told me that it was his own. I knew that it wasn't. We had a fight and I beat him up. But after that we were friends again. He was a funny fellow, always playing tricks on people. I couldn't make him out at all. One night he accused a pal of mine of being a child murderer: he showed him a photograph from the paper and he looked like him right enough. He used to have blackouts and headaches if it is the same Douglas.”

“That's him all right,” said Trevor.

All the time his brother was speaking he was thinking, How ordinary he is. He doesn't at all look as I remember him. He used to be handsome, boyish, and adventurous: now he is a bald groundsman.

“And how is Sheila?” said Norman lightly.

“Oh she's fine.”