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Authors: Iain Crichton Smith
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them wearing expensive grey blouses and necklaces, and when the two had finished their meal and were leaving Mrs Tennant came over to him and said, clasping his hands in hers,
âDonât worry, donât worry, weâre working on it.â He was astounded that out of a city of three million inhabitants she was the one who was sitting at the table next to him, and his feeling of being in a web intensified. He began to think of Douglas again. Was he in fact playing some deep game of his own, unstable and mocking as he had appeared? Was it even possible that he and Morton knew each other? But he couldnât think why Douglas should be deliberately deceiving him. Hadnât he after all taken the trouble to phone him? Shouldnât he feel more grateful to him than he actually did? But he felt resentful that Douglas should have thrust the fate of his brother so abruptly on him.
On the other hand it might just be that the man had an unfortunate personality, one of the ones who had suffered like Morton, who had sat with his blue pointed nose studying him so intently. Perhaps Morton was inventing the story about his brother. But he couldnât afford to assume that, he must investigate.
When he had eaten his food he walked in the direction Morton had told him. The condition of the houses deteriorated as he made his way along: it seemed to him that he was in an area which looked as derelict and abandoned as parts of Glasgow, before the rebuilding had started. He met a shoeless woman staggering along the street muttering to herself and later passed a spastic in a wheelchair who was holding out his hands for donations, a living advertisement for the cause which he in his helplessness represented. While he held the tin out his head and hands trembled uncontrollably. Trevor put a dollar in the tin and couldnât make out whether the movement of the head was a nervous tic or a nod of thanks. On the other side of the pavement he saw a pair of boys running past in ragged clothes. But these would only be isolated examples of deprivation, he thought, to be expected in a city of this size.
At last he found the house whose address Morton had given him, and this with much difficulty, for its number didnât appear in the regular order of street numbers but was in a small lane round a corner. The evening was very sultry and he felt that there was lightning and thunder imminent as on the night when he had travelled through Canberra in a taxi and had seen flashes of ghostly light on the horizon. He mopped his brow two or three times with his handkerchief and then rang the doorbell which was sunk in the stone at the side of an unpainted and scarred door. No one appeared and as he stood there in the silence looking around him it seemed to him suddenly that he was very vulnerable and open to attack. After a while when there was still no answer he went round to a window and could see through it a bare room in which there was only an old television set and a sink full of unwashed dishes. He went back to the door and rang the bell again and again there was no answer. Trembling, he pushed the door and it opened creakingly.
âNorman,â he whispered from the dark hall, but there was no answer, and the house seemed both deserted and threatening. He entered a bedroom whose bare floorboards squeaked. A clock ticked on a wall above him, but of human presence there was no sign. There were no carpets on any of the floors, no pictures on the walls. On the kitchen table he found a blue ashtray crammed with cigarette ends. He felt a frightened intruder as he stood uncertainly in what appeared to be the living room, though it too was bare. From the dark tiny bathroom next door he heard the insistent monotonous dripping of water from a tap. Morton had clearly deceived him: either that or the owner had not returned, if he was indeed working. There was no sign of his brotherâs presence in the house at all.
Feeling more and more
âDonât worry, donât worry, weâre working on it.â He was astounded that out of a city of three million inhabitants she was the one who was sitting at the table next to him, and his feeling of being in a web intensified. He began to think of Douglas again. Was he in fact playing some deep game of his own, unstable and mocking as he had appeared? Was it even possible that he and Morton knew each other? But he couldnât think why Douglas should be deliberately deceiving him. Hadnât he after all taken the trouble to phone him? Shouldnât he feel more grateful to him than he actually did? But he felt resentful that Douglas should have thrust the fate of his brother so abruptly on him.
On the other hand it might just be that the man had an unfortunate personality, one of the ones who had suffered like Morton, who had sat with his blue pointed nose studying him so intently. Perhaps Morton was inventing the story about his brother. But he couldnât afford to assume that, he must investigate.
When he had eaten his food he walked in the direction Morton had told him. The condition of the houses deteriorated as he made his way along: it seemed to him that he was in an area which looked as derelict and abandoned as parts of Glasgow, before the rebuilding had started. He met a shoeless woman staggering along the street muttering to herself and later passed a spastic in a wheelchair who was holding out his hands for donations, a living advertisement for the cause which he in his helplessness represented. While he held the tin out his head and hands trembled uncontrollably. Trevor put a dollar in the tin and couldnât make out whether the movement of the head was a nervous tic or a nod of thanks. On the other side of the pavement he saw a pair of boys running past in ragged clothes. But these would only be isolated examples of deprivation, he thought, to be expected in a city of this size.
At last he found the house whose address Morton had given him, and this with much difficulty, for its number didnât appear in the regular order of street numbers but was in a small lane round a corner. The evening was very sultry and he felt that there was lightning and thunder imminent as on the night when he had travelled through Canberra in a taxi and had seen flashes of ghostly light on the horizon. He mopped his brow two or three times with his handkerchief and then rang the doorbell which was sunk in the stone at the side of an unpainted and scarred door. No one appeared and as he stood there in the silence looking around him it seemed to him suddenly that he was very vulnerable and open to attack. After a while when there was still no answer he went round to a window and could see through it a bare room in which there was only an old television set and a sink full of unwashed dishes. He went back to the door and rang the bell again and again there was no answer. Trembling, he pushed the door and it opened creakingly.
âNorman,â he whispered from the dark hall, but there was no answer, and the house seemed both deserted and threatening. He entered a bedroom whose bare floorboards squeaked. A clock ticked on a wall above him, but of human presence there was no sign. There were no carpets on any of the floors, no pictures on the walls. On the kitchen table he found a blue ashtray crammed with cigarette ends. He felt a frightened intruder as he stood uncertainly in what appeared to be the living room, though it too was bare. From the dark tiny bathroom next door he heard the insistent monotonous dripping of water from a tap. Morton had clearly deceived him: either that or the owner had not returned, if he was indeed working. There was no sign of his brotherâs presence in the house at all.
Feeling more and more
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