The Changeling Read online

  THE

  CHANGELING

  ROBIN JENKINS

  With an afterword by

  ANDREW MARR

  THE CHANGELING

  Contents

  Title Page

  The Changeling

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Afterword

  The Cone Gatherers: A Preview

  About the Author

  Also By Robin Jenkins

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Though no one would belittle the benevolence of the Good Samaritan, in one respect he was lucky: he was alone with his conscience and his neighbour in trouble.

  There were, for instance, no business or professional colleagues to warn against the folly of interference; and no wife to cherish him for his altruism but also shrewdly to point out likely repercussions. Those voices Charles Forbes had to heed on the occasion when he, too, decided not to pass by on the other side.

  The decision was made on a dull June day, near the end of term, as he sat at his desk in his schoolroom in the east end of Glasgow. The pupils in front of him were supposed to be writing a composition on ‘The Sea’. Most of them were trifling. Outside in the street tramcars, lorries, motor-cars, rattled by. A pylon rose like a gigantic spider out of a garden of dandelions protected by barbed wire; and all around soared other fantastic growths, tall factory stacks, branchless, leafless, and blossomless.

  On Mr Forbes’s desk lay a grubby copy-book, and beside him stood its small thirteen-year-old owner, with his fingers intertwined behind his back.

  Although it was fat, Mr Forbes’s face was also long and bleak; even the little bags under his eyes were lugubrious. The result was that, despite his longing to be original in the display of compassion, all his grimaces were platitudes. His hand that rested on the blotted page was plump, soft, and pink, with black hairs and a ring; and his long look at the submissive blot-maker was so ambiguous that some of the other scholars, peeping up, thought he was about to explode into one of his homilies, so righteous and dull.

  At last he spoke, in his most pontifical tones.

  ‘Tell me, Curdie, have you ever seen the sea?’

  Some of the class laughed. This was IA, the Latin scholars, the élite of the first year. Their parents had honoured their sons’ brains by dressing them as well as limited means allowed. Most wore dark-blue crested blazers, clean shirts, flannel shorts, and the light-blue school tie. All were in contrast to this little scarecrow by the desk, in the ragged man’s jacket, the filthy long trousers, and the sandshoes with the canvas tops in tatters. When he replied quietly, with no shame or even diffidence, that he had never really seen the sea and therefore his composition was just made up, they sneered at him like so many little Columbuses, with the marvels and avarice of oceans in their eyes. They were far from knowing that he had given that answer, which was a lie, because he knew that they, and the teacher, were greedy for it.

  ‘I thought so, Tom,’ said Mr Forbes, with a heavy sigh. ‘But if you have not seen it, you have imagined it most beautifully.’

  With his leer of sympathy he contemplated this small, smiling, incommunicable, deprived morsel of humanity beside him. Curdie’s smile was notorious: other teachers called it sly and insolent; it was, they said, the smile of the certificated delinquent, of misanthropy in bud, of future criminality, of inevitable degradation. Forbes refused to accept it as such; to him it indicated that this slum child, born so intelligent, was not only acknowledging the contempt and ridicule which his dress and his whole economic situation must incur, but was also making his own assessment of those who contemned and ridiculed. The result was not a vicious snarl, but this haunting courageous smile. It was possible, it was likely, that the boy would ultimately become debased. Who would not, born and bred in Donaldson’s Court, one of the worst slums in one of the worst slum districts in Europe? There rats drank at kitchen sinks, drunkards jabbed at each other’s faces with broken bottles, prostitutes carried on their business on stairheads, and policemen dreaded to enter. Most children brought up there were either depraved or protected by impenetrable stupidity.

  Tom Curdie, on the contrary, had one of the best intelligences in the school. Properly fed, clothed, rested, and encouraged, he could go on to the University and have a brilliant career. As it was, malnourished, in rags, gnawed at daily by corrupting influences, discouraged everywhere, and perpetually tired through sleeping in a room with his brother and sister, where his mother and her horrible paramour also slept, he still could hold his own among the cleverest of his contemporaries, and could excel these in the strange beauty of his imagination.

  It was true he had taken part in the burglary of a shop. His accomplices had stolen cigarettes and sweets, he packets of butter: that, which had amused others, had convinced Forbes, himself so well creashed, that bodily craving more than vice had impelled the child. Nevertheless, he had been brought to court, found guilty, and put on a year’s probation. ‘You know what that means, Tom?’ Forbes had asked sternly. ‘Yes, sir. It means if I do anything wrong in the next year I’d better no’ be found out.’ Others would have interpreted that as impertinence, some would have punished him for it; but Forbes, accused so often of having no humour himself, saw the reply as a flash of sad but valiant irony. So much wrong had been done to this boy. By whom it had been done, Forbes could not quite say, except that he as a member of society must accept share of the blame. Hitherto he had seen no way by which to make amends. Now he saw a way.

  Every year he and his family—Mary, his wife, and Alistair and Gillian, his children—spent their summer holiday at Towellan, a little village on the Firth of Clyde, two or three miles from the popular resort Dunroth. Those who thought meanness or economy was the reason for returning there summer after summer were ludicrously wrong. Towellan was not just a place where a holiday was spent, it was where the Forbes family renewed itself, where their love for one another, their faith, trust, and hope, were strengthened. Every pebble on the shore in front of the cottage, every leaf in the wood behind, every sprig of heather on the farther hills, were hallowed and possessed of this vitalising power. There, in his mauve corduroy shorts, Forbes might be laughed at by passing tourists, Mary, his sweet-blooded wife, sucked by clegs, and the two children tormented by ennui on wet afternoons, but always by the end of the month all four returned home tanned, happy, and invigorated in spirit as well as body.

  So the idea came to Forbes. Why not take Tom Curdie with them this summer, not just to feed him and give him rest and fresh air, but especially to build up in him an immunity against the evil influences threatening him?

  ‘Thalassa,’ murmured Forbes, as he made his vow, for in his time he had been one of Xenophon’s men when they had caught sight of the sea after their long march, and now he would be with young Tom Curdie having his first experience of the beautiful Firth of Clyde.

  The boy stood with his hands still behind his back. These queer noises and grimaces which the fat teacher was making were typical and funny, but amusement, like suffering, must never be shown.

  The period bell rang. Hubbub of departure broke out.


  ‘All right, Tom,’ said Forbes, dismissing him.

  As the boy walked back to his place the dirt on his neck was more clearly seen; and were those red specks flea-marks? A voice whispered to Mr Forbes to cancel his vow. Where fleas were there might be lice; and if Mary detested clegs and midges, she loathed fleas and lice.

  ‘It would be cowardly,’ muttered Forbes, ‘to let lice defeat me.’

  There was, however, another obstacle: the headmaster’s approval might not be necessary, but to so loyal and punctilious a subordinate as Forbes it was desirable.

  With the copy-book in hand he went down to the head’s room. Knocking, and waiting to allow Mr Fisher time to assume the appearance at least of managerial industry, he entered.

  Mr Fisher, white-haired and affable, had been smoking a cigarette and dreaming of his forthcoming holiday on the Isle of Wight. When Forbes entered, however, he was crouched in his chair with his hands clasped, as if he was seeking by some kind of Yogi meditation to find a remedy for the shrinkage in children’s brains which headmasters all over the country were lamenting. When he saw who his caller was he found it hard to dissemble his dismay. Forbes usually came with the most exasperating and inconsiderate requests. No other teacher was so optimistic in discovering children who ought to be promoted; he had no respect for the sanctity of the time-table.

  Forbes made his customary little bow. Sometimes his chief thought it funny, sometimes pathetic, sometimes even dignified, but often insubordinate in the subtlest manner. Always it made him uncomfortable.

  ‘I beg your pardon for interrupting you, Mr Fisher,’ said Forbes.

  ‘Not a bit of it, Charlie. Sit down. What’s on your mind?’

  Forbes placed the copy-book on the desk in front of his chief. ‘Read that, Mr Fisher,’ he said.

  Mr Fisher, groaning within at this inconvenient zeal, in June too, with the session’s marks all tabulated, glanced over the composition. Himself in his day a teacher of mathematics, he had no feeling for style in literature. He wondered what he was expected to say. Was this some kind of trap?

  ‘A bit grubby, isn’t it?’ he murmured.

  ‘Let that pass. What of the matter?’

  ‘Not bad, not bad at all.’

  ‘Mr Fisher, would you believe me if I were to tell you that the boy who wrote that has never seen the sea?’

  The headmaster looked at the name on the outside. Immediately he bristled.

  ‘So it’s Curdie’s?’ he said. ‘What’s he been up to this time? Miss Strang had him down yesterday. She caught him grinning insolently at her.’

  Forbes, too, grew stiff. It was his belief that Miss Strang, who taught French, had a spite against the boy because of his rags.

  ‘I am not here to complain,’ he said.

  ‘Thank goodness for that. I don’t like strapping him. Pity’s what he should get, but who could risk giving it to him?’

  ‘I could, Mr Fisher. That boy lies under an Everest, a whole Himalayan range, of handicaps, disadvantages, and penalties. Yet he has never revealed, to me at any rate, one whimper of complaint, one yelp for revenge.’

  ‘He’s deep, Charlie, deep and sly.’

  ‘No, Mr Fisher. He is magnanimous.’

  ‘But, Charlie, he’s a convicted thief.’

  ‘Magnanimity, Mr Fisher.’

  ‘A thick skin, more likely.’

  ‘But magnanimity, especially a child’s, is exhaustible. When it is gone, ineradicable rancour must take its place.’

  Like an ingenuous pupil, the headmaster pretended bright interest. Inwardly he commiserated with himself on thus being bothered by this pompous bore who, it was said, had twice lost the chance of promotion because at both the interviews he had moralised thus to the councillors.

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion, Mr Fisher, that it isn’t enough to draw my salary, and at four o’clock each day turn my back and retreat to my suburban sanctuary.’

  ‘I’m sure none of us do that, Charlie.’

  ‘I have done so. I speak only for myself. Here, as I see it, is my chance to atone. Mr Fisher, I propose to take Tom Curdie with my family to Towellan this summer. It seems to me the experience might give the boy some support in the battle which he has constantly to wage against corruption. I am here to seek your advice.’

  Faced with that vast, sanctimonious, aggressive pout, the headmaster grew peeved. Originality of most kinds he distrusted, but original goodness most of all.

  ‘You want my honest opinion, Charlie?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Then I’m telling you, emphatically, you’d be doing a very foolish thing. You’d ruin your holiday. You’re mistaken about Curdie, you know. Bob Black of Oldlands Primary had him for seven years. He warned me particularly about him. And you know what Mr Todd thinks of him.’

  Todd, the deputy headmaster and principal maths teacher, thought Curdie was a practised liar and thief. He also thought all humanity was born wicked and had to be coerced into virtue.

  ‘He thinks wee Curdie’s the most dangerous boy in the school, Charlie, worse even than big Alboe.’

  Alboe was the school moron and bully. Periodically he had to be disarmed; now it would be a knife, now a razor blade on a stick, and now a lavatory chain with handle.

  ‘You can see Alboe coming,’ said Mr Fisher, ‘but Curdie’s sleekit and clever.’

  ‘Is it not possible his restraint may spring from courage?’

  ‘Oh, he’s no coward. I’ll grant you that, Charlie. Have you considered it’d mean getting entangled with his family? You know what a proper hell’s brew they’re said to be. Donaldson’s Court? If I’d a pet tiger I wouldn’t let it go in yonder. What does your wife say?’

  ‘I have not discussed it with her yet.’

  Mr Fisher laughed. ‘I see. It’s just a notion that’s floated into your head? She’ll see that it floats out again.’

  ‘My wife is a very generous woman.’

  ‘Charlie, all our wives are, bless them.’

  ‘No.’ The simple negative was not enough; it had to be followed by a firm shake of the head: thus only Mrs Forbes among wives was generous. ‘If I was asked for an example of the indomitability of the human spirit, out of our whole school, Mr Fisher, I should choose little Tom Curdie.’

  Mr Fisher was overwhelmed. ‘Now, Charlie,’ he muttered, ‘don’t lose sight of realities altogether. You’ll tell Mrs Forbes he’s been in the hands of the police?’

  ‘She knows that. I have spoken to her about this boy often.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we could do. His character’s against him, but maybe we could get him a fortnight at one of the Corporation’s holiday homes.’

  ‘Institutional treatment is not what’s wanted,’ said Forbes. ‘That would be a typical shirking of the problem. If there is to be salvation there must be sacrifice, and risk too, if you like. You raise no objection then?’

  ‘How could I, Charlie? It’s a private matter between you and Curdie’s people.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fisher. I should be obliged if this remained confidential.’

  The headmaster accompanied him to the door.

  ‘It’s a generous impulse, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I’ll say that for it. We all have them, you know. God, the number of unfortunate children I’ve wished to father in my time!’ Too late he saw the absurd ambiguity of that remark. Although he could not help giving it the homage of a grin himself, he almost loved Forbes for remaining so grave. Lack of humour could be endearing. ‘Yes, Charlie,’ he hurried on, ‘we all have them. Thanks to our good sensible wives mostly, they die in the bud.’

  ‘My wife respects my ideals, Mr Fisher.’

  Mr Fisher didn’t believe it. ‘You’re lucky, Charlie,’ he murmured.

  When he had seen his visitor off the headmaster tottered back to his desk. First he lit a cigarette and puffed at it with cancer-defying greed; then he snatched up the telephone and rang up his crony Bob Black, head of Oldlands Primary.

  ‘I
s that you, Bob?’ he said. ‘Jack Fisher here.’

  Black had a big, loud, cheerful voice.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ he cried. ‘How’s it going? Ticking off the days, eh?’

  ‘Bob, thank God you sound as coarse and selfish and brutal as usual.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Bob, laughing.

  ‘I’ve just had a session with Charlie Forbes.’

  ‘Good old Charlie. What’s biting him now? Last time he was objecting to your unchristian practice of allowing pupils to be strapped who’d forgotten their Bibles.’

  ‘You remember little Curdie? You sent him on to me a year ago.’

  ‘One of my brightest ever.’

  ‘Yes, but would you call him an example of magnanimity and indomitability?’

  ‘Jack, I wouldn’t even call myself that if I could get my tongue round them.’

  They laughed.

  ‘I don’t think I’d even call Charlie that,’ he added.

  They laughed again.

  ‘He’s a nice enough fellow,’ said Bob, ‘but an awful humbug.’

  ‘Curdie’s a sly wee rogue though, isn’t he?’

  ‘Isn’t he just? Have you met his mother?’

  ‘No. She’s not one of the ambitious mammas who pester me about their sons’ careers.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t be. But you’ve missed a treat, Jack. A genuine horror. Crafty as auld Nick’s wife. Fat, too, like Charlie himself. Stinks. Her husband ran away from her years ago; no wonder.’

  ‘But she’s got another, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’ The laughter went out of Bob’s voice. ‘I wouldn’t joke about him. He’s a cripple, from birth I should think. I saw him once on the street; you know, Jack, my own legs felt fankled afterwards. But it doesn’t stop him from getting drunk. A pair of beauties, I’m afraid. You can’t help feeling sorry for young Curdie. He’s got a younger brother here now, but he’s a different type altogether: always greeting and utterly brainless. But why the sudden interest in Curdie? What’s he done now?’