3
Brodie looked out of the train window. It was raining and the Borders landscape was drab, drenched and barren-looking as the line crossed a stretch of treeless khaki moorland. Beyond, unhedged, unwalled, sheepless hillsides climbed to meet the enfolding grey-flannel sky. Scotland at its most uncompromising. He felt weak, unmanned somehow, as if a more craven, helpless Brodie Moncur had parasitically occupied his body and spirit. It doesn’t matter, Brodie told himself, they’re only your family, that’s all—people you can leave and forget if you’ve a mind to.
“How much further?” Lika asked. She was eating a sugar bun, the last of three she’d purchased at Waverley station.
“Half an hour, maybe less. But then we have to get to the village.”
She popped the last of the bun in her mouth and licked her fingers free of stickiness. They had been living in Edinburgh for five months now and Brodie could see the physical changes wrought in her—she had put on pounds. The tall rangy girl was growing plump. He didn’t mind—she still looked beautiful; in some ways even more voluptuous and alluring in this larger, fleshier incarnation. And he knew why she was eating so much—fear, worry, uncertainty.
“Are you happy, my darling?” he asked suddenly, reaching forward to take her hands, now she’d stopped eating.
“Of course I’m happy. I’m with you.”
“You don’t mind that I brought you with me, on this trip?”
“I wanted to come. I want to meet your family—your father, your sisters and brothers.”
“We’ll only stay one night—maximum two.”
“Stay as long as you like, my love. These are your people and you haven’t seen them for years.”
Yes, he thought, and there the problem lay. “These people” explained who he was, explained his life. He looked back out of the window at the waterlogged heathland, a few stunted elders bent sideways from the prevailing wind the only variation in a landscape that was almost entirely beige and grey. What was that expression? Yes, the “pathetic fallacy.” This grim, bleak view summed up his mood perfectly.
They had left Biarritz for Edinburgh in September. Brodie handed in his notice to Madame Grosjean, apologizing for his abruptness and inventing some story about his wife’s inheritance and how they were going back to Russia. Madame Grosjean’s absolute conviction that the world was an unfair and unjust place increased an iota or two. Lika told Princess Stolypina she was returning to Russia also, hoping the word would spread. Brodie experienced retrospective relief that they had adopted the Balfour pseudonym. All this subterfuge was to throw Malachi Kilbarron off the scent should he or his agents ever come to Biarritz and start making enquiries.
They took the train to Le Havre and caught a ferry to Harwich. From there it was another train journey to Edinburgh. They spent two nights at the North British Hotel at the end of Princes Street before Brodie found some acceptable furnished rooms in the basement of a house in the Dean Village district of town. They registered themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Moncur, dropping Balfour for the return home. Brodie knew too many people in Edinburgh—a nom de plume would only draw attention. It was strange being back in Edinburgh, however. To Brodie it seemed a defeat, somehow—this unwanted return a symbol of how things could so easily go wrong in life; of careless fate, an unknown destiny buffeting you, heedlessly, mocking your own petty plans and fond dreams of a life that you might lead. He tried not to let Lika see what he was feeling as she herself experienced something of a nervous decline. But as the weeks went by, and the new rhythms of their new life established themselves—and the fear of Malachi’s pursuit receded—their days became more equable. A kind of cautious happiness returned.
In Dean Village their basement apartment consisted of a large sitting room with a fireplace, a small kitchen and WC (no bath) and a damp bedroom that gave onto a dark, sunless yard. Small ferns grew in the cracks of the paving stones. They had the services of a housemaid three days a week, a lumpy girl with bad skin but a nice nature called Joyce McGillivray. In the yard there was a coal shed and a privy. César was let out there to “faire pipi” when required but, for some reason, he didn’t like being in the yard, growling, bristling, no tail-wag, always scratching at the back door, wanting to return inside. Perhaps a previous lodger’s dog had been there before, Brodie wondered, and left his noisome spoor impregnated in the bricks and mortar.
Thus settled anonymously—Brodie made no contact with his family or any old friends or acquaintances—they resumed a reduced Scottish version of their Biarritz life, minus the casino. Brodie sought part-time work piano tuning, piano repairing and even piano teaching. He found a job one day a week at a small preparatory school in Corstorphine.
Lika joined a choral society—mainly to improve her English—as there seemed little or no demand for French or Russian lessons in Edinburgh. She sang the role of Hélène in an amateur production of Offenbach’s La Belle Hélène and received a good notice in the Scotsman: “Mrs. Lydia Moncur was outstanding as Hélène, demonstrating a lyric gift rare in our native productions of contemporary opera.” Brodie was busy enough—he could always earn a living—but Lika, he noticed, was often alone at home with César, bored. For all her efforts she found learning English difficult. When he suggested they talk English at home they managed a stuttering five minutes before they relapsed into French again. She began to cook large meals for them in the evening—stews and pies, compotes and puddings—and she started baking, also—tarts, cakes, biscuits. It seemed to Brodie that, as he crossed the threshold at the end of the working day, the first thing he was required to do was eat.
“Are you happy, darling?” he asked her every now and then.
“Stop asking me if I’m happy!” she would remonstrate. “I feel safe. I like it here in Edinburgh. I like being Mrs. Moncur.”
“Why won’t you marry me, then?”
“Why do we need to be married when everyone assumes I’m already married to you?”
“It would…It would cement our union. I love you. I want you to be my wife, my legal wife.”
“Our union doesn’t need cement, Brodie. I don’t need a marriage certificate. This little brass ring I wear is perfect.”
He gave up raising the matter—they would marry in due course, he assumed, once they were finally decided on where to live and felt safe—and they settled in for an Edinburgh winter. In the New Year Brodie wrote to Callum.
15, Danube Street
Stockbridge
Edinburgh
15 January 1901
Dear Callum Moncur,
Do you have a brother called Brodie? If so, he would like to inform you that he is now residing in Edinburgh at the above address with his lady wife. He suggests a visit to the family home at some stage in the near future to introduce said wife to his siblings and his horrible father, Malky. Do please communicate if you think this is a good idea—or not.
Sincerely yours,
Yr affect. bro.,
Mr. Moncur (Brodie)
At Peebles station Brodie was astonished to see an automobile parked close to the diligences and dog carts that usually acted as local cabs. There was a sign leaning on its rear wheel. “Ten times faster—same price.” Brodie and Lika stepped aboard—to boos and catcalls from the other cabbies—and asked to be driven to Liethen Manor. Brodie asked the name of the vehicle and was informed that it was a De Dion-Bouton “Motorette.” Brodie sat beside the driver and Lika sat facing them on a small padded bench opposite. The thing was steered by a kind of central column with a brass handle. The driver of the motor was a young man with a strong Glaswegian accent. He wore a reversed tweed cap and goggles and his name was Jamesie, he said. He started the motor by cranking a handle at the rear and jumped aboard. The noise wasn’t insufferable and he put the motor in gear and they chugged out of the station yard, picking up speed at they made their way down the high street. They were out of the town within a minute, living up to the brag of his advertisement.
“I’ll gie you my visiting card,” he shouted. “Have you a telephone in your house?”
“I don’t think so,” Brodie said.
“If you can avail yourself of a telephone, sir, just make a call to the station. The stationmaster knows me. I can be at your house in an hour or less.”
“What language is he speaking?” Lika asked in French, leaning forward.
“Are youse foreigners?” Jamesie asked.
“Yes,” Brodie said. “We are.”
He thought his mood couldn’t descend any lower but it could, and did, as they were driven into Liethen Manor. He saw that the Howden Inn was closed, its windows boarded up. An old woman in a dirty pinafore shouted and shook her fist at the De Dion as it puttered past. Apart from her the village seemed deserted.
Lika was looking around her, fascinated.
“It reminds me of Russia, this place,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. I feel I could be travelling through a Russian village, so isolated, you know? The mood, the landscape. These small, low houses. The poverty. It’s different, of course, but somehow it makes me feel back home.”
Brodie left it at that, not picking up what she was responding to—or maybe his own familiarity with Liethen Manor made him unaware of its particular, unique nature that was at once apparent to others. Home is somewhere you never really know, Brodie thought gloomily, as the De Dion pulled into the driveway of the manse. Brodie felt that he was returning to some abandoned dwelling, an untenanted arena of some other life that someone else had lived.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” Lika asked. “Remind me.”
“I’ve six sisters and two brothers.”
“You see, it’s very Russian.”
“It’s very Scottish.”
They stepped out of the motor, paid Jamesie and bade him farewell. Brodie looked around, it had been years since he had last stood here and the place looked the same—only the season and the weather were different. The same couldn’t be said for him, he realized, thinking about all that had occurred in his life since his last poisonous exchange with Malky, here on this driveway. Perhaps the garden was more unkempt: the lawn was tufty and weedy under the conifers and the monkey-puzzle trees. Yet, now he was here, memories crowded in—it seemed as if he’d been here last week, not over six years ago. You may leave home, but home never leaves you, he thought darkly.
The front door opened and Doreen stood there, smartly dressed, her hair quite grey. She kissed Brodie and then Lika and they went inside to meet the rest of the family.
Brodie could tell that Lika was very nervous. Who wouldn’t be, he thought? They had gathered in the drawing room before dinner and Brodie knew his almost desperate need for a calming cigarette would be shared by Lika. They were all waiting for Malky. Doreen, Ernestine, Aileen, Edith, Alfie, Isabella and Electra. Only Callum and his wife and child were absent. Brodie was very struck by Electra, now almost twenty, pretty, with a round alert face, tall and darker than the others, like him. If she didn’t leave the manse soon she’d be lost, Brodie thought, like the three “Eens,” old before their time, old maids betrothed to Malky Moncur, domestic potentate. He looked around—there was no sherry or Madeira on offer either, and the butler’s pantry was locked.
“Could I offer anyone a cigarette?” Brodie asked, casually. “I’ve just picked up a new supply of Margarita—you know, my blend.”
Brodie’s entire family was pleased to accept the offer as he passed round his cigarette case, lighting their cigarettes one by one. Lika gave him a heartfelt look of thanks.
“We’re at home,” Doreen said, fetching and dispersing ashtrays. “We set the proprieties,” she added as if responding to some unspoken rebuke.
“What’s wrong with smoking?” Electra said.
“Nothing. As long as you don’t do it in public.”
“Or they’ll think you’re a hure,” Alfie said. “This is an excellent smoke, Brodie.”
“Alfie!” Ernestine snapped, reprovingly.
“Not every loun smokes,” Electra said. “And not every woman who smokes in the street is a loun.”
“Can we change the subject, please?” Doreen said. “What must Lika be thinking of our conversation?”
“I’m not understanding this word,” Lika said, in her heavily accented English. Her voice sounded unbelievably exotic in this room, Brodie thought, admiringly, like a refreshing breeze on a hot day.
“Just as well,” Aileen said. “We can always count on Alfie to lower the tone.”
“Oh, yes, we’ve a letter for you, Brodie,” Ernestine said. “It came some weeks ago.” And she darted out of the room, returning moments later with a small envelope. Brodie tucked it in a pocket.
“Why isn’t Callum here?” Brodie asked. He and Callum had met briefly for a drink in a pub in Edinburgh two weeks previously to discuss this visit. Callum seemed unwell and said he’d been suffering from influenza. He drank three glasses of hot rum. They agreed he would be present if only to dilute the Malky effect.
“There’s a message. You’re invited to dine with him tomorrow night.”
“He’s become very grand since he married,” Electra said. “We’re a bit infra dig here at the manse, for Mrs. Moncur.” Nobody contradicted her, Brodie noticed.
The tobacco had relaxed them all. Edith and Ernestine started talking to Lika. Alfie wandered over and asked him what Paris was like. Electra joined them.
“But why did you leave St. Petersburg?” Electra asked. “I’d kill someone to go and live in St. Petersburg.”
Brodie swallowed. Coughed.
“Professional reasons,” he said.
“Callum tells us all your news,” Alfie said. “When we see him, that is. We follow you around Europe.”
“Take me with you, Brodie,” Electra said quietly. “I beg you.”
There was a thumping on the ceiling.
“That’ll be Papa,” Doreen said. “I’ll go and get him. He’s ready to come down.”
Brodie was pleased to see that everyone continued smoking. Brodie crossed the room to stand by Lika. He took her hand behind their backs.
The door swung open and the Reverend Malcolm Moncur entered the room.
Brodie was shocked. His father was gaunt, half his usual size, walking with two sticks, dewlaps of flesh hanging on either side of his ragged moustache, now mouse-grey. His wasted body made his head seem larger, more gargoyle-like. He looked at his family, gathered in a semicircle facing him, blinking as if surprised, then his watery eyes settled on Brodie.
“Have you come back home after all these years, you black bastard?”
“Very good to see you, Father. May I introduce my wife, Lydia.”
Malky shuffled over towards them both.
“You’re still as black as the earl of hell’s waistcoat.” He turned to Lika. “He’s no son of mine, madam.”
“Everyone calls her Lika.”
“Why did you marry this octaroon, my good lady? Was there nobody else in Russia but this swarthy dog?”
“That’s quite enough, Father,” Brodie said, stepping in front of Lika.
“Yes,” said Doreen, taking Malky’s arm. “You come away into dinner, now.” She led him into the dining room.
“Welcome to our happy family, Lika,” Electra said.
They all filed into the dining room, following Malky and Doreen.
“Sorry,” Brodie whispered to Lika. “At least I warned you.”
“I feel I’m back home,” she said. “In a funny way I’m very glad to be here.” She smiled at him. “And I feel I know you better now.”
Doreen had placed Brodie and Lika at the far end of the table, away from Malky. Malky was able to feed himself but Doreen cut up the slices of mutton on his plate and poured the gravy. He muttered to himself as he chewed laboriously and sent Ernestine out for some brandy and water to ease his food down.
“What happened to him?” he asked Electra, who was on his left.
“About two years ago he had a bad fall and he knocked himself out. We found him on the landing upstairs, unconscious.” She told the rest of the story, quickly. Malky was carried to bed, a doctor called, but before the doctor arrived he came round. “He said he had tripped and fallen. But we think he had some sort of infarction. He’s never been the same since.”
“No more sermons.”
“No.” She lowered her voice. “And I think we’re in financial difficulties. But Doreen won’t tell us.”
“But he made a fortune from those sermons.”
“You’ll have to ask Doreen. She controls what money there is.” She leaned closer to him. “Take me away with you, Brodie. I like Lika—she’s very beautiful. I could be your housekeeper, your secretary—all I need is board and lodging.”
“I would, like a shot,” he said. “But I’ve my own difficulties—financial and professional. I don’t even have a job, everything I do is part-time.”
“What are you two darkies whispering about down there?” Malky bellowed furiously. “I’ll have no whispering in my house!”
Everybody went silent.
“We’re talking about…” Brodie hesitated, then improvised. “Our dead mother. Your late wife.”
He knew that would silence him and Malky returned to his mutton, forking a portion into his mouth, eyes focussed on the salt cellar in front of him. Everyone seemed stunned by Brodie’s audacity—and its effectiveness. He suddenly felt—and it was not a comfortable feeling—as if the others were beginning to look at him as head of the family, the baton passed on, now Malky’s infirmity was so evident. Brodie drank some water, composing himself. Then he asked Ernestine for some brandy and she silently fetched the decanter. Malky watched him make a drink of brandy and water but said nothing. Some small victory had been won here. The conversation levels rose. The brandy decanter was passed around. After pudding—an apple pie—Doreen led Malky away to his bedroom. He did not say goodnight.
Later, lying in bed with Lika, in his old bedroom—a gentle rain falling steadily outside—Brodie thought about the dinner and registered it as one of the strangest and most significant experiences in his life.
“You don’t know what it was like growing up in this house with that man,” he explained. “And for me to be here, now, married, with you, lying in this room, in this bed with you. And he can say nothing. It’s wonderful for me.”
“Remember we’re not actually married, Brodie.”
“All right, not officially—but in all but name. Even better, in that case.”
“He’s a very frightened man, your father. I can see it in him, the fear. That’s why he attacks you all.”
“It’s not as simple as that. He needs us but he resents us. So he tries to dominate us, shape our lives, to prove he has power over us.”
“But not you.”
“No. Not me—and that’s why I think he hates me because I never did what he wanted. And now he’s just a sick angry old man. He’s going to die soon and he knows it. And he knows nobody’s frightened of him any more.”
When Brodie was dressing the next morning he remembered the letter he’d slipped into his pocket the previous night. He found it and tore it open. It was from Ainsley Channon. He would have sent it to Liethen Manor, knowing the connection with Lady Dalcastle, Brodie realized.
Channon & Co.
48, George Street
Edinburgh
5 January 1901
My dear Brodie,
Notice has reached me from the piano-tuning world that you are back in Edinburgh. I’m offended that you haven’t found the time to drop into the shop and see me. However, all will be forgiven if your good self arrives in the shop in George Street as soon as is feasible for you. We have something important to discuss.
Cordially yours,
Ainsley Channon
This made Brodie somewhat apprehensive: “something important to discuss”…They had parted in Paris on rueful but unhappy terms—but now the mood was jaunty and unconcerned. Had he really no idea of how wounded Brodie had felt at his unjust dismissal? Or had he simply forgotten?
Brodie, still pondering how best to respond to this invitation, went down to breakfast with Lika. Only Alfie was present and then Isabella arrived. There was a kedgeree served in a chafing dish on the sideboard and, after they’d eaten—there was also tea and rolls, butter and jam—Brodie went through to see Mrs. Daw in the kitchen. She kissed his cheek, tears in her eyes.
“I never thought to see you again, Brodie. Never, ever,” she said. “And here you’ve gone and married a Russian woman, they tell me.”
“She’s very lovely. Come and meet her.”
“Oh, no, that’s not my place. No, no, I wish you all the best, however.”
“I told you I’d be back.”
“Aye, but for how long? You’re not one for staying put, Brodie.”
Brodie assured her he was back in Edinburgh for a good long while and would be a regular visitor to the manse, and went to rejoin Lika. They put on their hats and coats for the short walk to Dalcastle Hall. Brodie had sent a note on ahead when they’d arrived. Lady Dalcastle was expecting them.
“Why don’t you go yourself?” Lika suggested. “I don’t mind staying here.”
“No. I want the two of you to meet. It’s important to me.”
As they walked past the lodge through the gates and entered the shadowed drive down through the beech avenue, now bare-branched, that led towards the house the roadway seemed more eroded, puddled and potholed and, as the house itself came into view, Brodie saw more windows were boarded up in the keep. It almost had a derelict air. Some untethered sheep were munching grass on the front lawn.
At their knock the door was opened by a surly young lad in a green apron who seemed unable to close his mouth. He led them upstairs to the small sitting room and left them to find Lady Dalcastle. Brodie saw the tremulous flame-fidget of a neglected fire and pokered it into more vigorous life and they both sat there in silence, waiting for Lady Dalcastle.
“Doesn’t this seem like Russia to you?” Lika asked again. “This old house falling down, this servant boy?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t see it through your eyes. I know it too well.”
Then Lady Dalcastle came in, clinging to the young lad’s arm. She was like a wisp, as if a gust of air could carry her away and fling her against the wall. She was still wearing her bright clothes—an ultramarine silk jacket with a tartan shawl and a dark maroon woollen dress. She clasped Brodie’s face between her claw-like hands and stared at him, repeating his name softly.
“Brodie, Brodie, Brodie Moncur, as I live and breathe. I never thought I’d see you again.”
She turned her bright blinking eyes on Lika.
“And who is this young lady?”
“This is my wife, Lady Dalcastle. Lydia—whom we all call Lika. Lika Moncur, ma femme.”
Lika gave a little curtsey and smiled as Lady Dalcastle advanced on her, as if she were seeing some kind of ghost.
“Enchantée, enchantée,” Lady Dalcastle spoke to her in her politely accented Scottish-French. “C’est un très grand plaisir.” She turned. “Where’s that stupid boy? He’s old Broderick’s great-nephew. Call for him, Brodie, his name is Lennox.”
Brodie stepped out into the corridor. Lennox was sitting there on a stool picking at his fingernails. Brodie ordered tea and returned to the room. Lady Dalcastle was talking to Lika about Paris.
“J’adore Paris. Mais elle est dangereuse.”
Tea was brought in on a tray and served, just warm—Lennox had clearly been well trained by his great-uncle. Brodie gave Lady Dalcastle an edited version of his travels.
“And where did you two get married, my dear?”
“Biarritz,” Brodie interrupted quickly. “The English consul.”
“How romantic!” Lady Dalcastle clapped her hands in pleasure. And young Lennox appeared.
“What do you want?” Lady Dalcastle asked him, crossly.
“I thought you summoned me, my lady.”
“Well, we’ll have some cake, seeing you’re here.”
“There is no cake, my lady.”
“Some shortbread biscuits, then.”
“I don’t think the shortbread biscuits will do, my lady.”
“We’re not hungry,” Brodie said. “We’ve just breakfasted.”
They stayed another twenty minutes, the tepid tea growing cold in their cups. Lady Dalcastle reminisced about her times in Paris with her late husband, Hugo.
“And that was in the last century,” she said to Lika. “I never thought I’d live to say that. Never.”
As they were leaving, Lady Dalcastle resting on Brodie’s arm—like a straw on his sleeve—she drew him out of the corridor into her study.
“J’ai une commission à faire,” she explained to Lika.
Her study was lined with empty glass-fronted bookshelves. Here and there were small stuffed animals mounted on plinths—a marmoset, a capercaillie, a red squirrel. Her desk was heaped with mounds of papers. She searched a drawer and took out a book of cheques.
“I’ve sold all Hugo’s library,” she said. “Quite a tidy sum. I couldn’t believe how much they paid me for them. I had an antiquarian bookseller up from London—none of those Edinburgh thieves. I’ve got enough to last me two years, now. If I survive, that is.” She laughed gaily at this prospect. “Darling Hugo, finally did me a favour. Silly, worthless man, who’d have thought?” She sat down and wrote out a cheque for £100 and handed it to Brodie.
“You know I can’t accept it,” he said.
“It’s your wedding present,” she said. “Cash it fast while there’s money in the bank. The creditors are waiting to pounce.”
Alfie had managed to find a man with a neat, sprung gig cart in the village who would take them into Peebles for a shilling and deposit them at Callum’s house. Brodie and Lika made their farewells to the sisters. The mood was untypically emotional—tears were shed and wiped away quickly—and when he kissed Electra goodbye she whispered in his ear, “Send for me, Brodie, I beg you.” Brodie whispered back that he would try but he could sense her despondency.
He and Lika were about to climb into the gig when Brodie suddenly asked where his father was.
“In the garden,” Doreen said. “He takes a short walk once a day. Doctor’s orders.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll say your goodbyes for you, he’s not in the happiest of moods.”
“That’s never put me off before,” Brodie said and, telling Lika to wait a moment, went to find him.
He wandered round the side of the manse into the darkness of the garden, the evergreen leaves seeming to suck up the meagre winter light. The sagging conifers were heavy with night dew, still dripping. The damp smell of mould and rotting leaves was strong. He saw Malky with his two sticks tottering along a gravel path, muttering to himself. He was wearing an old homburg and a rust-coloured tweed coat that hung nearly to his ankles.
“Father!” he called, and crossed the lawn to him, wetting his boots. “We’re away. I’ve come to say goodbye.”
“Away with your Russian whore.”
“She’s my wife,” Brodie said. “And mind your language, if you please.”
“She’s as much my wife,” Malky said. “Do you take me for a damn bloody fool? I can tell. I know lust. I know fornication. I know the reek of the harlot.”
“Of course you think you do, speaking as an old fornicator yourself.”
“How dare you!” Malky half-raised his stick as if to strike him and thought better of it. “You’re not welcome in this house any more, you black swine. Take your painted bawd and go to hell.”
Brodie drew his fist back and, for a split second, was fully prepared to punch his father in the face. Then he stopped himself, and smiled.
“The leopard never changes its spots,” he said evenly, though his heartbeat was reverberating in his chest. “You’ve lived as a miserable bastard all your life and you’ll die one.”
Then he kicked one of Malky’s sticks away and watched him keel over onto the path, slowly.
“I hope your death won’t be too painful,” Brodie said as Malky swore vilely at him and threw his other stick at him, wildly, sending it clattering off the trunk of a fir. He rolled onto his back struggling vainly to get up. Brodie leaned forward. “And I’ll never see you alive again.”
Brodie walked away as Malky began to bellow for Doreen. He stored this final image of his father in his memory—supine, raging, impotent—and didn’t look back at him.
On the way into Peebles Brodie told Lika what had happened, word for word, moment by moment.
“My God,” she said, nodding, taking it in. “Just as I keep telling you—it’s completely like Russia.”
15, Danube Street
Stockbridge
Edinburgh
17 March 1901
Dear Callum,
Please don’t take offence at this letter. I am your older brother and your best friend. Everything I write down I would say to you face to face.
I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to introducing you to Lika. So, to find you drunk at 2 p.m. was the first unwelcome shock. The second was your appearance. When we met you said you’d been ill—I now know it’s dipsomania. It seems you’ve aged twenty years since I left.
I thought your Sheila was delightful and I was sorry that little Randolph had the croup. A pretty child, nonetheless. But think what that child is storing in its memory. To see his father, unwashed, unshaven, unsteady—bumping into chairs, cursing like a dragoon. We grew up with Malcolm Moncur—we know what a domestic monster is and I think that the saddest aspect of our visit to you at Edenbrae was for me to see you following in his noxious footsteps and having the awful premonition of like father, like son.
Moreover, how can you talk to Sheila like that in front of strangers? How can you order her around like a kitchen skivvy? And why is your language so persistently foul? Fucking this, shit and shite and fucking that. I know it’s the drink talking but that doesn’t excuse the stream of profanity we endured. And to address the little serving maid in the way you did was deeply offensive to me and to Lika. Lika thought she was coming to meet my beloved brother, about whom I’ve told her everything, my soul’s companion. Yet you sat there, soused, a cigar burning by your plate, complaining about the food, calling out your cook to upbraid her like some medieval tyrant. It was as well you took yourself off to your bed, carafe in hand. Sheila was sweetness itself, trying to make excuses, apologizing, explaining that you had lost your job at the Writer to the Signet’s office and were depressed to be looking for work. She made as good a gloss on your behaviour as was humanly possible. You have a sweet devoted wife, Callum. That is your good fortune—don’t destroy it.
But if that wasn’t enough, Lika, going down to breakfast, finds you on the stairs in your nightshirt, still drunk, practically bare-arsed, bellowing for your chamber pot and cursing the little maid who was bringing it to you in the most revolting terms.
You are turning into a drunken bully. Yet we are the sons of a drunken bully. Look what he did to our poor mother, driving her to an early death. Look at the despotism he inflicts on our poor suffering sisters, his daughters. We have always been disgusted with Malky Moncur. I don’t want to be disgusted by his son, Callum.
By nature you are a funny, generous and affectionate person. Return to that state, to the old Callum—throw this ugly doppelgänger out of the door. It’s not you, brother, and I was sick at heart to witness it.
Well, I’ve stated my case. My conscience is clear. Read this letter as a love letter, sent by someone who loves you. Write and tell me that you have listened to its message and that the old Callum will live and thrive again.
I am your faithful brother,
Brodie Moncur
Brodie and Lika went round the corner to their neighbour, Mrs. Dalmire, who had agreed to look after César during their short trip to Peebles. Mrs. Dalmire slipped César’s leash and he rushed to Brodie, jumping up so Brodie had to catch him, writhing in his arms as he desperately tried to lick Brodie’s face.
“See, he loves you more than me,” Lika said, laughing.
For the first time since he’d left Callum’s house Brodie felt his mood improving.
“I’m so sorry about my family,” he said as they walked home, César trotting happily between them.
“I think that’s now more than two hundred times you’ve apologized since we left Peebles.”
“But I’m shocked. So embarrassed. It was so horrible.”
“Your sisters are charming. Alfie is a fine young man.”
“What’s happened, though? Malky unrepentant, revolting. Yes. But Callum?”
“It’s life, unfortunately,” Lika said. “I had an uncle who shot himself. A devoted wife and five children, a good job as a collegiate assessor, second class. He brought ruin and misery down on everyone. Families. I hate to say it but yours is more normal than you think.”
They went down the worn stone stairs to their little flat in the basement. Soon a fire was reddening in the grate and there was the smell of soup coming from the kitchen. César jumped up onto his favourite armchair and rolled onto his back, wanting his stomach scratched.
“We’re home,” Lika said, carrying in a steaming tureen and setting it on the small dining table. “Everything is fine now.”
“I’m going to go and see Ainsley Channon next week,” Brodie said, serving them soup. “I wonder what he wants…”