The Changeling Read online

  Mary glanced from her daughter to Tom; he seemed upset by having his surprise spoiled.

  ‘Well, that’s Tom’s business,’ she said, ‘and mine.’

  ‘From what I saw, Gillian,’ said Charlie, ‘you seemed to spend your time wandering around, buying nothing for anybody.’ As he said it he knew it was unfair: no child could be more generous than Gillian in the buying of presents for friends.

  ‘Look what I bought,’ cried Alistair, holding up a plastic aeroplane. ‘Gillian’s got sense,’ said Mrs Storrocks. ‘She knows the holiday’s young yet.’

  ‘Let’s go for tea,’ said Mary.

  ~

  The presentation of the brooch was made while they were waiting for their fish and chips to be brought. Their table was by the window, out of which they had a fine view of the Firth. White-sailed yachts raced past. A large tanker steamed placidly towards the ocean. Little rowing-boats, abrupt as water-spiders, played near the beach, on which many people were sunning themselves.

  What Gillian had wished, and spied for, had happened; but instead of rejoicing she was dismayed. This secret in her mind must be told and must do Tom great harm, but it did not make her clear of him, rather did it bind her to him in a way she couldn’t understand or avoid; and when it was told, and he was in trouble as a consequence, even then she would not be free of him, but involved still more closely.

  It had to be told. She considered telling there in the restaurant while everybody was relaxed and her parents were amiably agreeing about the fine weather; but it seemed too cold-blooded, especially as she knew he had already in his hand the box containing the brooch for her mother.

  When so modestly he held out the box she felt a stab of doubt as to whether he had stolen at all; perhaps it was her spite which had made her imagine it. Thieves surely always slunk, scowled, whined, and were nasty. She began to realise that this armour, of calmness and patience, forged somehow in the dreadful slum where he had been born, must be heavy and painful to wear.

  ‘This is for you, Mrs Forbes,’ he said, placing the box on the table in front of her.

  His hand shook so slightly only an observer as intimate as Gillian would have noticed.

  Mrs Forbes looked at it and then at him. ‘For me, Tom? That’s very nice of you.’ She picked it up and opened it.

  Charlie beamed.

  Mary held the brooch in her hand. She was surprised by its quality; she had expected one costing a couple of shillings.

  ‘It’s lovely, Tom. It must have cost far too much, but it’s really lovely. Thank you. Look at it, Mother.’

  Mrs Storrocks took it and admired it. She gave Tom a grim nod of approval.

  ‘I’ll treasure it always,’ said Mary.

  Charlie asked to see it; his inspection was reverent.

  ‘You’ve got good taste, Tom,’ he said. ‘Did Gillian help you to choose it? Was that what you two were conferring about?’

  ‘No,’ said Gillian, with a coldness she had not meant.

  Her father was saddened by that coldness. Here was the poor, despised lad from the slum buying his wife a lovely brooch, and his own daughter refused to give him a glimmer of credit.

  ‘I hope you’re remembering, Tom,’ said Mary, ‘that you’ll have to take back a nice present for your own mother.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  There was a quality in his saying, or moaning almost, of that single word which caused even Alistair to stop flying his aeroplane over the tablecloth and look up. As for the adults, they glanced at one another; even Mrs Storrocks was silenced.

  Gillian frowned.

  Chapter Twelve

  All that evening her mother’s new brooch did not glint so brightly in the sunshine as Gillian’s secret in her mind. When Alistair picked up, on the beach, a large shell, and in spite of his grannie’s warning against infection held it to his ear, she had a sensation of holding something far more dangerous to hers and hearing sounds darker, more mysterious, and more baleful than any sea’s. Though it sharpened her terror the presence of her victim became necessary, so that she followed him about, and sat beside him in the bus going home to Towellan.

  Her persistence in keeping him company was noticed. Her father even complimented her on it; he took it to be her way of atoning for her unfriendliness and jealousy. Her mother, too, was satisfied with that easy explanation; but later, when she was washing Gillian’s hair in the bathroom, she teased her about it.

  ‘What made you and Tom become so pally all of a sudden?’ she asked. ‘Was it because of the brooch?’

  Head bent over the wash-hand basin, eyes closed, and face hidden, Gillian knew that this must be the time to tell; if she lied or evaded now, she might not be believed afterwards. Her father could be heard out on the lawn with Alistair and Tom, having a last noisy game of putting.

  ‘I saw Tom stealing today,’ she said.

  Her mother’s hands stopped in her hair.

  ‘In Woolworth’s,’ she added.

  Her mother slowly resumed massaging. Her voice seemed to come from a distance.

  ‘I hope you realise what you’re saying, Gillian?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  Mrs Forbes was silent. They could hear Charlie bellowing congratulations to Alistair who had done a hole in one. They could picture Alistair’s glee and pride; and they could picture Tom Curdie standing by, smiling.

  ‘This is a very serious accusation, Gillian. It’s not a joke.’

  ‘I know, Mummy.’

  ‘He didn’t steal the brooch, did he?’

  ‘No, he bought that. But he stole the other things.’

  ‘What other things?’

  ‘A tin-opener, I think, and a tin of ointment.’

  ‘A tin-opener and a tin of ointment!’

  ‘Yes. It sounds silly, doesn’t it? He could easily have bought them, if he wanted them; but what does he want them for? Yesterday some ants bit him, but ant bites don’t last.’

  The warm water was now streaming through Gillian’s hair; and through her mind, even more deliciously, flowed forgiveness.

  ‘I wish he hadn’t done it,’ she said.

  Her tone made her mother suspicious. ‘So do I, Gillian. Were you the only one who saw him? You must have been, otherwise he’d have been caught.’

  ‘I was spying.’

  ‘I thought I told you not to.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t. I’ll never do it again, never.’

  ‘Now that it’s served its purpose?’

  ‘You don’t think I’m just making this up, do you, Mummy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to think that, Gillian. But why haven’t you spoken about it before this?’

  ‘You don’t believe me!’ wailed Gillian. ‘You think I’m trying to get him into trouble.’ She began to sob.

  ‘I asked you why you’ve kept quiet until now.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t want to tell, but I had to.’

  ‘Why had you?’

  Gillian looked at her mother in astonishment.

  ‘But stealing’s awful, Mummy!’

  ‘Some people might say so is spying. Have you said anything to Tom?’

  Gillian spoke now through sobs. ‘Yes, just outside Woolworth’s.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said no, but I could see he was frightened. I felt sorry for him. That was why I didn’t want to tell you or Daddy.’

  ‘Gillian, look at me. I’ve got to be sure, very, very sure. Now is this the truth? Did you see him stealing?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  ‘Your father thinks you’ve got a spite against the boy, and are jealous of him.’

  ‘But, Mummy, he wouldn’t think I was making this up just to get Tom into trouble!’

  ‘I hope he wouldn’t, Gillian.’

  ‘But Daddy knows I tell the truth.’

  ‘He should, for you always have. But it seems to be different now; this boy has bewitched us all.’

  ‘Maybe he couldn�
�t help it, Mummy. Some people are like that, aren’t they?’

  ‘So they say. But if Tom stole he could help it all right.’

  ‘You said if. You don’t really believe me, Mummy.’

  ‘Yes, I do. You see, he is a thief.’ Mary realised she ought not to have said that, but it was too late now. ‘He’s on probation for stealing,’ she added irritably. ‘That’s partly why your father brought him here. He thought there was good in him, as I suppose there is. But bringing him here certainly hasn’t brought it out. He’s caused nothing but trouble since he came. And we’re just three days here. It seems like a month.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t tell Daddy.’

  Mary was again suspicious. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’ll upset him.’

  ‘It’ll certainly do that.’

  ‘Then why should we? I wanted to help Daddy, not upset him.’

  ‘If Tom’s a thief, that’s not your fault. No, he’ll have to be told, and I’m afraid Tom will have to be sent home.’

  ‘But, Mummy, wouldn’t it be better to let him stay and try to teach him that stealing’s wrong?’

  Was that, Mary wondered, Sunday-school righteousness, or mawkish deceit?

  ‘I think Tom knows very well stealing’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Whatever he is, he’s no fool. But I’ll have to talk it over with your father. In the meantime say nothing to your grandmother.’

  ~

  Supper for Charlie was a jolly meal that evening. While putting he, Alistair, and Tom had established a comradeship; now at the table he made sure it continued. Gillian, who wore a towel like a turban round her head, was the subject of some of his witticisms, at which his own daughter was by far the heartiest. He named her the Queen of Sheba, and kept referring to her by it. He did not notice Mary’s frown of warning, but he did notice that she wasn’t wearing her new brooch. When he asked her why she said quietly she’d to take it off while washing Gillian’s hair lest it should scratch her face. He accepted the excuse but insisted that it now be pinned on again. Indeed, he himself rose to go and fetch it; whereupon, more harshly than she meant, Mary told him to sit where he was: when she wanted to wear the brooch, she would wear it. He was deflated, and his winks at the two boys, and at Gillian, too, could not blow up his merriment again.

  ~

  When the children were in bed Mary proposed that they should go for a short stroll along the shore. Charlie was pleased but demurred for her sake: he thought that walking about Dunroth that day must have tired her out. So it had, she replied, leaving him still pleased but also puzzled and a little apprehensive.

  ‘I see,’ he murmured shyly, as they walked down the path, ‘you’re still not wearing your brooch.’

  ‘You’ll be expecting me to sleep with it on.’

  ‘Mary, you must forgive me if I seem to be making a great deal of it. You see, really, I regard it as the first victory, in the battle of Tom Curdie, I mean.’

  ‘You exaggerate everything, Charlie.’

  ‘Not this, Mary, not this.’

  It was a fine still night. A late motor-boat, full of singing holiday-makers, headed for Rothesay; its ripples in the smooth water had in them all the colours of the sky, pink, gold, blue, white, and green.

  There were also midges. Mary already was waving her handkerchief and scratching. Charlie, whom they always seemed to find sourer, was not molested so much. He plucked a frond of bracken and fanned around her head with it.

  She told him not to be a damned fool. He dropped the bracken.

  ‘Perhaps we should go back?’ he suggested.

  ‘I knew there would be midges when I asked you to come out. I thought you’d have guessed there was something I’ve got to tell you. I’ve considered it and considered it until my head’s dizzy. So I’m passing it on to you, Charlie. It’s really your concern, or your battle as you’ve just called it.’

  He waited, with little nervous snorts.

  ‘And for God’s sake, Charlie, let’s talk about it sensibly.’

  Still he waited, snorting.

  ‘It’s about Tom. Gillian saw him shop-lifting in Woolworth’s today. So there’s been no victory, Charlie. He’s still a thief, and considering that he’s our guest a particularly shameless one, too.’

  ‘Gillian saw him?’

  ‘Yes. I know what you’re going to say—’

  ‘Please let me say it, Mary. Let me express my own thoughts. I’m quite capable of doing so. I think that what you really meant to say was “Gillian says she saw Tom stealing”. There’s a difference.’

  ‘I’m going to believe my own child.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Mary. You said we were to discuss this sensibly; that means surely without passion or bias. Now then. You and I and Alistair and your mother were in Woolworth’s today. There were besides dozens of other people; not to mention those whose duty it is to watch out for thieving. Not one of all these saw him steal. Only Gillian. It is a curious coincidence that she too was the only one, among those two or three hundred in the Castle Gardens, who would not clap when he sang.’

  Mary made an effort to say nothing about his pomposity and conceit, though these had infuriated her. ‘It comes down to this, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Either our daughter’s a nasty spiteful liar, or Tom Curdie’s a thief. I think it should be taken into account that he’s already been convicted of stealing.’

  ‘But that’s not fair, Mary,’ he bleated.

  ‘It’s fair to Gillian.’

  ‘And that’s all that matters?’

  ‘To me? Yes.’

  ‘But couldn’t it be, Mary, she’s not aware of the seriousness of such an accusation?’

  ‘She’s not a fool. She knows very well how serious it is. She was crying when she told me.’

  ‘You see! Where affection’s concerned children can be unscrupulous; they need it, as a bird needs air, or a fish needs water, and so they’ll do anything for it; yes, they’ll even lie, though in the circumstances I wouldn’t call it lying.’

  ‘Curdie seems able to do without it well enough. Did you hear him when I told him to remember to take a present home to his mother? Affection? He doesn’t need it, he doesn’t want it, and he’s not got it to give; in fact, he’s more likely to take it away.’

  ‘You’re making him out to be a veritable little monster, Mary; worse even than my changeling.’

  ‘He’s what he is, Charlie; he’s not what you think him to be.’

  ‘Evidently, though, he’s what you think him to be.’

  ‘He’ll have to be sent home.’

  ‘Back to the environment which has made such a monster out of him?’

  ‘He’d have to go back in any case. You weren’t proposing to adopt him for good?’

  ‘Yes, Mary, he’d have to go back; but not under these circumstances, branded and damned.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re thinking of him, Charlie? Isn’t it really yourself you’re worried about? Are you afraid they’ll laugh at you at school when they hear you’d to send him back so soon for stealing?’

  ‘Do you think I care for their miserable laughter? And who would be so kind as to inform them?’

  ‘He’s capable of it himself.’

  ‘Mary, if he goes, I go, too.’

  She gasped, and then laughed. ‘I hope you know what you’re saying, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s no laughing matter, Mary.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Am I not supposed to laugh when you threaten to leave me, and the children, for the sake of your pet delinquent from the slums?’

  ‘My pet delinquent!’ he wailed. ‘Have mercy, Mary. If I can’t have it from you, from whom am I to have it?’

  ‘Charlie, there’s no need for this desperation. You trusted him; he’s let you down. It’s a pity. But it’s nothing to be desperate about. It’s happened hundreds of times before, and it’ll happen hundreds of times again. Surely you’ve lived long enough to know that trust isn’t unbreakable.’

  ‘What was it she said h
e stole?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘I want to know, Mary. I’ve got a right to know.’

  ‘A tin-opener and a tin of ointment.’

  ‘But what in Christ’s name would he want those for?’ he wailed.

  ‘Don’t use that language to me, Charlie.’

  ‘You called me a damned fool, Mary.’

  ‘I don’t know what he wanted them for,’ she cried. ‘I don’t know what goes on in his mind, and neither do you. I wish I had never set eyes on him. I’m going back to the house, Charlie. It’s getting chilly.’

  She turned and walked back. ‘Are you coming?’ she called.

  ‘No, not yet. I want to think about this.’

  ‘All right. Don’t stay out too long.’

  He stood listening, groaning, and hoping, pathetically, that she would come running back, to assure him it had all been a mistake, Tom had not stolen, Gillian had not lied, everybody was friendly, and the holiday from now on was going to be as happy and fruitful as he had dreamed. But she did not come back. He heard her walk up the gravel path to the house; he saw the door open and shut again. She was gone.

  Standing in the road, he pressed his hands against his head tightly, and in that attitude, like some kind of prisoner of war, he stumbled down onto the beach where, crouching among the boulders, he began to moan and sigh.

  The sea itself made many noises, tranquil and threatening no one; yet it seemed to him they were merely repeating, many times, with subtle insistent variations Todd’s word: ‘Humbug’.

  Then, as he listened, those noises of the sea were no longer tranquil and neutral: they combined into a hostile indictment of him: as a man, as a husband, as a father, as a teacher, they roared, he had failed. Nor would they allow him any of his old resources or subterfuges. They reminded him that the war which had restored so many manhoods had not restored his. They brought up a picture of him sitting in the staffroom listening to the younger men talk of their war exploits, in Burma, or Africa or Europe or even in some English pub uproarious with khaki’d beer-drinkers. He, reserved through age, had spent a few months on evacuation duty in a Perthshire village, and then two or three foolish years in the Home Guard. His contemporaries, like Todd, were protected by their promotion from any feeling of inferiority at having been left out of the colossal mêlée. He had no such protection; especially to his own small son in search of heroism. He was defenceless.