The Alexandria Quartet - Lawrence Durrell [125]
‘No thanks.’
The old man now consulted a huge watch and pursed his lips.
‘In a little while I must say an Ave Maria. I’ll have to push you out,
old man. But just let’s have a look and see how the Mock Whisky is getting on for a moment, shall we?’
I was most curious to see how he was conducting these new experiments and willingly followed him out on to the landing again and into the shabby alcove which now housed a gaunt galvanized iron bath which he must have bought specially for these illicit pur-poses. It stood under a grimy closet window, and the shelves around it were crowded with the impedimenta of the new trade —
a dozen empty beer bottles, two broken, and the huge chamberpot which Scobie always called ‘the Heirloom’; not to mention a tattered beach umbrella and a pair of goloshes. ‘What part do these play?’ I could not help asking, indicating the latter. ‘Do you tread the grapes or potatoes in them?’
Scobie took on an old-maidish, squinting-down-the-nose ex-pression which always meant that levity on the topic under dis-cussion was out of place. He listened keenly for a moment, as if to sounds of fermentation. Then he got down on one shaky knee and regarded the contents of the bath with a doubtful but intense eye. His glass eye gave him a more than mechanical expression as it stared into the rather tired-looking mixture with which the bath was brimming. He sniffed dispassionately and tutted once before rising again with creaking joints. ‘It doesn’t look as good as I hoped’
he admitted. ‘But give it time, it has to be given time.’ He tried some on his finger and rolled his glass eye. ‘It seems to have gone a bit turpid’ he admitted. ‘As if someone had peed in it.’ As Abdul and himself shared the only key to this illicit still I was able to look innocent.
‘Do you want to try it?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘Thank you, Scobie — no.’
‘Ah well’ he said philosophically, ‘maybe the copper sulphate wasn’t fresh. I had to order the rhubarb from Blighty. Forty pounds. Th at looked pretty tired when it got here, I don’t mind telling you. But I know the proportions are right because I went into it all thoroughly with young Toby before he left. It needs time, that’s what it needs.’
And made buoyant once more by the hope, he led the way back into the bedroom, whistling under his breath a few staves of the famous song which he only sang aloud when he was drunk on brandy. It went something like this:
‘ I want
Someone to match my fancy
I want
Someone to match my style
I’ve been good for an awful long while
Now I’ll take her in my arms
Tum ti Tum Tum ti charms…. ’
Somewhere here the melody fell down a cliff and was lost to sight, though Scobie hummed out the stave and beat time with his finger.
He was sitting down on the bed now and staring at his shabby shoes.
Abruptly, without apparent premeditation (though he closed his eyes fast as if to shut the subject away out of sight forever) Scobie lay back on the bed, hands behind his head, and said:
‘Before you go, there’s a small confession I’d like to make to you, old man. Right?’
I sat down on the uncomfortable chair and nodded. ‘Right’ he said emphatically and drew a breath. ‘Well then: sometimes at the full moon, I’ m Took. I come under An Influence. ’
This was on the face of it a somewhat puzzling departure from accepted form, for the old man looked quite disturbed by his own revelation. He gobbled for a moment and then went on in a small humbled voice devoid of his customary swagger. ‘I don’t know what comes over me.’ I did not quite understand all this. ‘Do you mean you walk in your sleep, or what?’ He shook his head and gulped again. ‘Do you turn into a werewolf, Scobie?’ Once more he shook his head like a child upon the point of tears. ‘I slip on female duds and my Dolly Varden’ he said, and opened his eyes fully to stare pathetically at me.
‘You what?’ I said.
To my intense surprise he rose now and walked stiffly to a cup-board which he unlocked. Inside, hanging