He suddenly said to this brother, ‘Let’s stay out here for a while.’ They stood together at the fence gazing at the corn which swayed slightly in the breeze. His brother did not seem to know what to say and neither did he. They stood there in silence.
After a while John said, ‘Come on, Murdo, let’s look at the barn.’ They went into it together. John stood for a while inhaling the smell of hay mixed with the smell of manure. He picked up a book which had fallen to the floor and looked inside it. On the fly-leaf was written:
Prize for English
John Macleod
The book itself in an antique and slightly stained greenish cover was called Robin Hood and His Merry Men. His brother looked embarrassed and said, ‘Malcolm must have taken it off the shelf in the house and left it here.’ John didn’t say anything. He looked idly at the pictures. Some had been torn and many of the pages were brown with age. His eye was caught by a passage which read, ‘Honour is the greatest virtue of all. Without it a man is nothing.’ He let the book drop to the floor.
‘We used to fight in that hayloft,’ he said at last with a smile, ‘and I think you used to win,’ he added, punching his brother slightly in the chest. His brother smiled with pleasure. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ he answered.
‘How many cows have you got?’ said John looking out through the dusty window.
‘Only one, I’m afraid,’ said his brother. ‘Since James died . . . ’ Of course. James was his son and the husband of the woman he had met. She had looked placid and mild, the kind of wife who would have been suited to him. James had been killed in an accident on a ship: no one knew very much about it. Perhaps he had been drunk, perhaps not.
He was reluctant for some reason to leave the barn. It seemed to remind him of horses and bridles and bits, and in fact fragments of corroded leather still hung here and there on the walls. He had seen no horses anywhere: there would be no need for them now. Near the door he noticed a washing machine which looked quite new.
His brother said, ‘The dinner will be ready, if it’s your pleasure.’ John looked at him in surprise, the invitation sounded so feudal and respectful. His brother talked as if he were John’s servant.
‘Thank you.’ And again for a moment he heard his mother’s voice as she called them in to dinner when they were out playing.
They went into the house, the brother lagging a little behind. John felt uncomfortable as if he were being treated like royalty when he wanted everything to be simple and natural. He knew that they would have cooked the best food whether they could afford it or not. They wouldn’t, of course, have allowed him to stay at a hotel in the town during his stay. That would have been an insult. They went in. He found the house much cooler after the heat of the sun.
3
In the course of the meal which was a large one with lots of meat, cabbages and turnip and a pudding, Murdo suddenly said to his grandson:
‘And don’t you forget that Grandfather John was very good at English. He was the best in the school at English. I remember in those days we used to write on slates and Mr Gordon sent his composition round the classes. John is very clever or he wouldn’t have been an editor.’
John said to Malcolm, who seemed quietly unimpressed: ‘And what are you going to do yourself when you leave school?’
‘You see,’ said Murdo, ‘Grandfather John will teach you . . . ’
‘I want to be a pilot,’ said Malcolm, ‘or something in science, or technical. I’m quite good at science.’
‘We do projects most of the time,’ said his sister. ‘We’re doing a project on fishing.’
‘Projects!’ said her grandfather contemptuously. ‘When I was your age I was on a fishing boat.’
‘There you are,’ said his grandson triumphantly. ‘That’s what I tell Grandfather Murdo I should do, but I have to stay in school.’
‘It was different in our days,’ said his grandfather. ‘We had to work for our living. You can’t get a good job now without education. You have to have education.’
Straight in front of him on the wall, John could see a photograph of his brother dressed in army uniform. That was when he was a corporal in the Militia. He had also served in Egypt and in the First World War.
‘They don’t do anything these days,’ said Murdo. ‘Nothing. Every night it’s football or dancing. He watches the TV all the time.’
‘Did you ever see Elvis Presley?’ said the girl who was eating her food very rapidly, and looking at a large red watch on her wrist.
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t,’ said John. ‘I once saw Lyndon Johnson though.’
She turned back to her plate uninterested.
The children were not at all as he had expected them. He thought they would have been shyer, more rustic, less talkative. In fact they seemed somehow remote and slightly bored and this saddened him. It was as if he were already seeing miniature Americans in the making.
‘Take some more meat,’ said his brother, piling it on his plate without waiting for an answer.
‘All we get at English,’ said Malcolm, ‘is interpretations and literature. Mostly Shakespeare. I can’t do any of it. I find it boring.’
‘I see,’ said John.
‘He needs three Highers to get anywhere, don’t you, Malcolm,’ said his mother, ‘and he doesn’t do any work at night. He’s always repairing his motor bike or watching TV.’
‘When we got the TV first,’ said the girl giggling, ‘Grandfather Murdo thought . . . ’
‘Hist,’ said her mother fiercely, leaning across
