Childish Things by Robin Jenkins

Author:Robin Jenkins [Jenkins, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 1841952281
Publisher: Canongate Books

13

Wearing a nightshirt down to my ankles and a nightcap with a tassel, I waited for my cue. In the mirror there was Casaubon, looking very uneasy. Under the nightshirt was Casaubon too, ominously inert.

The telephone rang. ‘You may come now, Mr Casaubon.’

It was the voice of a young girl, prim but resolute.

The room was lit by a single candle. There were shadows and dark places. Linda was in bed, wearing a white bonnet and a nightgown buttoned up to the chin. I couldn’t, of course, tell if she was wearing drawers.

I was so conscious of poor Casaubon’s predicament that it was my predicament too. Whose now was the inertness?

As I felt my way towards the bed, I stubbed my toes against the leg of a chair. I had to suffer in silence, though the pain was considerable.

What put it into my head to say as I approached the bed, ‘We must pray, my dear’? Was it to mock Casaubon or to be true to him? He would have said it out of piety but also to put off for a little longer the ordeal before him.

Dorothea would not have objected but Linda did. ‘Is it necessary?’

‘Yes, my dear, we must ask the Lord’s blessing.’

‘Must I get out of bed?’

‘To be efficacious, prayer must not be done lying in comfort. It must be done on one’s knees, as a token of humility.’

With a Linda-ish grunt, Dorothea got out of bed and knelt beside it. On the other side, I knelt too. We clasped our hands.

‘What do we pray for, Mr Casaubon?’ she muttered.

What indeed? Casaubon would hardly have thanked the Lord for what he dreaded to take, nor would he have pleaded for the Lord’s help, not wishing to involve that chastest of celibates. Other men might have asked to be blessed with children, but not Casaubon. I couldn’t see him as a father. To be fair, I couldn’t see Dorothea as a mother.

As for Dorothea’s thoughts, they were Linda’s business.

To be on the safe side, I made it silent prayer. I made it last five minutes. After all, Casaubon would have made it last twenty.

We both rose stiffly, she with murmurs of resentment: poor acting, I thought. Dorothea would never have uttered them.

When she was back in bed, I was about to follow her when she said, ‘Remember your medicine, Mr Casaubon. It is on the table beside the candle.’

It looked and, as I soon found out, smelled, as if it would have a horrible taste. Was this Linda’s idea of a joke or Dorothea’s wifely solicitude? In the book, Casaubon’s medicine was mentioned.

I took a sip, for art’s sake. It was nauseating.

‘You must take it all, Mr Casaubon. That’s what the doctor said.’

‘Yes, my dear.’ I was speaking with Casaubon’s voice, a self-pitying feeble whine. I drank it all. I felt like vomiting. My toes ached.

‘You may come to bed now, Mr Casaubon.’

My bones, acting their part well, creaked as I climbed into the bed. I lay well apart from her.

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