Belle Moral: A Natural History (3 page)

P
EARL
. Poor Victor always wanted a puppy.

A clock strikes three
. F
LORA
exits
. P
EARL
resumes her work
.

F
LORA
stands outside Belle Moral, holding a lantern, peering into the darkness toward the sound of a horse exhaling, pawing the gravel. A carriage door opens. A footfall
. F
LORA
sees the new arrival. She makes the sign of the cross
.

Next morning. Over the mantelpiece hangs a family portrait. It is painted in the impressionist style with the prettiness of Monet and the fogginess of Turner. The figures are distinguishable as a bearded red-haired man, a dark-haired woman cradling an infant in a tartan shawl, and
P
EARL
as a young child. There is a sense of the portrait being compositionally off-balance: a gap between
P
EARL
and the infant. On the opposite wall is mounted a set of bagpipes of the same tartan
. P
EARL
is huddled under the hood of a camera
. F
LORA
stands posed, draped in a white bedsheet
.

F
LORA
. Is it to be a religious theme this time, pet?

P
EARL
. In a manner of speaking. Classical mythology.

F
LORA
. I’ll no’ be a pagan, Pearl.

P
EARL
. It’s purely symbolic, Auntie
[handing her scissors and a ball of yarn]
. You’re one of the Fates.

F
LORA
. What am I knitting?

P
EARL
. You’re capriciously toying with the life of some poor sod.

F
LORA
. Aren’t there any nice myth women?

P
EARL
. No. None of any importance.

F
LORA
. Well how do you want me?

P
EARL
. Dispassionate. This is a scientific journal. Hold still, now.

F
LORA
. Nowt. Thought I heard something.

P
EARL
[about to take the picture again]
. Ready? And –

F
LORA
. No, dear, I’m a touch forfochen this morning is all.

P
EARL
[matter-of-fact]
. Up half the night worrying about Victor, damn him, you look dreadful. Ready now? one, two, three –

F
LORA
. Victor!

V
ICTOR
[to F
LORA
,
playfully passionate]
. My God, what Attic vision; what vestal beauty stands here poised to cut or to extend a mortal skein? Fly, maiden, and transform thyself into a tree, else must I taste thine antique fruits, for I am the Highland Pan!

F
LORA
. Victor, ma bonnie, you should have let us know, we’d’ve sent Young Farleigh with the cart.

V
ICTOR
. Hello, Pearl.

P
EARL
[arch]. What are you doing, gadding about in that savage raiment?

V
ICTOR
. Airing my privates.

P
EARL
. Don’t be disgusting.

V
ICTOR
. Don’t start.

P
EARL
. You started it.

V
ICTOR
. I did not.

P
EARL
. Indeed you did.

V
ICTOR
. A didna.

P
EARL
. Did.

V
ICTOR
. Didna.

P
EARL
. Did.

V
ICTOR
. Didna –!  P
EARL
. Dididid –!

F
LORA
[making peace]
. Noo where’s yer fit bin gangin’ this time, laddie? London? Paris? Rome?

V
ICTOR
. Glasgow.

P
EARL
[dismissive]
. Ha.

V
ICTOR
. I was looking to trace Mother’s ancestors.

P
EARL
. And what did you discover swinging from the family tree? A backward lot of Highland crofters with an unwholesome fondness for things
Fr-r-rench;
blood-thirsty and Catholic to boot.

V
ICTOR
[grand]. A martyred race: soaked in glory, culture –

P
EARL
. And whiskey.

V
ICTOR
. The Highland warrior was the ideal man: fearless, faithful; and failed.

F
LORA
. If only your mother could see you got up so braw in her family tartan.

P
EARL
. He looks well in a skirt.

V
ICTOR
. It is a kilt, Madam.

P
EARL
. You can romanticize failure all you like, Victor, but the fact is, we bear the mundane burden of success, with all its rights and responsibilities. If you’re genuinely interested in your heritage, why not learn Gaelic? I’ll tell you why not; because that would take work. The truth is, all the Highlanders with any get-up-and-go, got up and left years ago. They now run banks and shuffle documents. A waist-coated legion armed with briefcase and pince-nez.

V
ICTOR
Poch ma hohn
[pron. pog ma hoyn] [trans: “kiss my arse.”]

F
LORA
.
Ainaibh ri cheile
.
^{[pron.
Eh-nev
ree
kaylee]}

V
ICTOR
. What does that mean?

P
EARL
. “I’ve been learning Gaelic.”

V
ICTOR
. Shutup.
[Nearly overlapping:]

P
EARL
. Shutup.

V
ICTOR
. Pearl –   P
EARL
. Pearl –

V
ICTOR
. Act your age –  P
EARL
. Act your age –

V
ICTOR
. Auntie –!    P
EARL
. Auntie –!

F
LORA
[suprising fury]
. Eneuch!

P
EARL
. Auntie, don’t bring the winkles in here, they’re revolting.

F
LORA
. Winkles?

P
EARL
. Ay, winkles. You said Young Farleigh –

F
LORA
[remembering her lie]
. Och ay, winkles! They were nane of ’em any good. Shells were empty.

P
EARL
. All of them?

F
LORA
. Pixies. Belike gobbled ’em up.

P
EARL
. “Pixies”? Why not fairies?

F
LORA
. Fairies dinna eat winkles.

P
EARL
. Auntie, you find evolution far-fetched, yet you’ve no difficulty with your taxonomy of fairies, pixies and werewolves.

F
LORA
. There’s no such thing as a werewolf.

V
ICTOR
. No matter, Auntie, I’ve gone vegetarian.

P
EARL
[muttering so Auntie won’t hear]
. Got to be difficult, haven’t you.

F
LORA
. Ma poor lad, shall I send for Dr Reid?

V
ICTOR
. I’m fine, Auntie. I saw a play in London by an anti-vivisectionist; he annoyed so many people with his socialists, sensualists and suffragists that I wound up converted in spite of the fact he’s an Irishman. So I’m no longer eating animals.

F
LORA
. I’ll fetch a bit of cold mutton, then, shall I?

V
ICTOR
. Any of your shortbread about?

F
LORA
. Fresh this morning! Now behave yourself, your sister’s working.

V
ICTOR
[toasting her]
. “Scots wha’ hae.”
[drinks]

P
EARL
. Don’t let Auntie see that, it would kill her.

V
ICTOR
. What’s ailing her?

P
EARL
. She’s cranky.

V
ICTOR
. She’s grieving, her brother died.

P
EARL
. Why ask, if you know? Auntie and I have been slaving here in a legal limbo with one foot in the poor house, waiting for you so Father’s estate can be settled. Belle Moral doesn’t run itself, you know. She’s getting on.

V
ICTOR
. Nay, she’s spry; and she’s got the full abacus upstairs, I can hear the beads rattling back and forth.

P
EARL
. Time does not stand still in your absence, Victor. You may manage to avoid growing up, but others do not. People age, fathers die.

V
ICTOR
. What are you working on these days?

P
EARL
. I’m searching the coast for fossil evidence of transitional species.

V
ICTOR
. Why not search the family plot?

P
EARL
. What have you done with yourself since the funeral? Apart from “roamin’ in the gloamin’”?

V
ICTOR
. I’ve been working.

P
EARL
. Really and truly? Victor Maclsaac, if only Father could hear you say that. So you’re finally taking your accountancy articles at MacVicar, MacVie, and MacVanish.

V
ICTOR
. No. I’m writing.

P
EARL
. Writing what? A treatise?

V
ICTOR
. A novel.

P
EARL
. In your spare time.

V
ICTOR
. It takes up all my time.

P
EARL
. Father hated fiction.

V
ICTOR
. I’ve dedicated it to Mother’s memory.

P
EARL
. What’s it about?

V
ICTOR
. It’s about an alienated young man who recognizes the meaninglessness of life.

P
EARL
. What’s the plot?

V
ICTOR
. The plot’s not the point.

P
EARL
. You must have a plot or there’s no point.

V
ICTOR
. That’s the point.

P
EARL
. Well something must happen.

V
ICTOR
. He shoots a stranger on the beach for no reason.

P
EARL
. For no reason?

V
ICTOR
. An Arab.

P
EARL
. Why an Arab?

V
ICTOR
. Pure chance.

P
EARL
. That’s absurd.

V
ICTOR
. Precisely.

P
EARL
. Is he apprehended?

V
ICTOR
. He wakes the next morning to find he’s turned into a gigantic insect.

P
EARL
. Have you finished it?

V
ICTOR
. I haven’t started it.

P
EARL
. Well get on with it!

V
ICTOR
. I can’t. To write it would be an act of faith, thus undermining the integrity of the work.

P
EARL
. Yer a wastrel.

V
ICTOR
. I’m the last honest man.

P
EARL
. A lazy loafer.

V
ICTOR
. I am not.

P
EARL
. You’ve never finished a thing in your life.

V
ICTOR
. Finishing is highly over-rated.

P
EARL
. You couldn’t even finish with Father’s death duties.

V
ICTOR
. I’m here now, am I not?

P
EARL
. On your own sweet time.

V
ICTOR
. I almost didn’t come back at all!

P
EARL
. You may fool yourself, Victor, but you don’t fool me
[grabbing paper and pen from an escritoire, writing]
. I’ll send for Mr Abbott. He’ll bring Father’s will tomorrow. No one will stand in your way again, you’ll have no one to blame – you certainly won’t have Father –
[sealing the note]
and we’ll see what you accomplish with your new-found freedom.

V
ICTOR
. Pearl –

P
EARL
[yanking a bell cord, calling off]
. Young Farleigh!

V
ICTOR
. Pearl! I really did want to stay away.

P
EARL
. Why?