The collected stories

This book made available by the Internet Archive.

INTRODUCTION

late at night telephone strangers and whisper provocative words to them. Sometimes I feel like someone who has committed the perfect crime, an offender on the loose, who will never be caught. Please don't follow me, or ask me what went wrong. Please don't watch me eat.

My secret is safe. No one ever sees me write. One of the triumphs of fiction is that it is created in the dark. It leaves my house in a plain wrapper, with no bloodstains. Unlike me, my stories are whole and indestructible. In a reversal of the natural order, I am the shadow, my fiction is the substance. If my books are buried by time they can be dug up. The most powerful of the Chinese emperors, Qin Shi huangdi - who tried - could not make printed books vanish.

I planned to be a medical doctor (who also wrote books) and on the days I cannot write, and especially when I am in a place like New Guinea or Malawi, I regret that I do not have a doctor's skill to heal. I am too old to learn now. But I would like to speak Spanish fluently, and tap-dance, and study celestial navigation. I intend to paddle for months down a long river, the Nile or one of the long Chinese rivers, or hike for a year or more across an interesting landscape. I dream of flying, using only my arms. I am well aware that some of these activities are metaphors for writing, but not the writing of stories.

Pretty soon I will be gone, and afterwards when people say, He is his stories, the statement will be true.

World's End

Robarge was a happy man who had taken a great risk. He had transplanted his family - his wife and small boy - from their home in America to a bizarrely named but buried-alive district called World's End in London, where they were strangers. It had worked, and it made his happiness greater. His wife, Kathy, had changed. Having overcome this wrench from home and mastered the new routine, she became confident. It showed in her physically - she had unstiffened; she adopted a new hairstyle; she slimmed; she had been set free by proving to her husband that he depended on her. Richard, only six, was already in what Robarge regarded as the second grade: the little boy could read and write! Even Robarge's company, a supplier of drilling equipment for offshore oil rigs, was pleased by the way he had managed; they associated their success with Robarge's hard work.

So Robarge was vindicated in the move he had made. He had considered marriage the quietest enactment of sharing, connubial exclusiveness the most private way to live - a sheltered life in the best sense. And he saw England as upholding the domestic reverences that had been tossed aside in America. He had not merely moved his family but rescued them. His sense of security made him feel younger, an added pleasure. He did not worry about growing old; he had put on weight in these four years at World's End and began to affect that curious sideways gait, almost a limp, of a heavy boy. It was a game - he was nearly forty - but games were still possible in this country where he could go unrecognized and so unmocked.

Most of all, he liked returning home in the rain. The house at World's End was a refuge; he could shut his door on the darkness and smell the straightness of his own rooms. The yellow lights from the street showed the rain droplets patterned on the window, and he could hear it falling outside, the drip from the sky, as irregular as a weeping tree, which meant in London that it would go on all night. Tonight he was returning from Holland - a Dutch

WORLD S END

subsidiary machined the drilling bits he dispatched to Aberdeen.

Without waking Kathy, he took the slender parcel he had carried from Amsterdam and crept upstairs to his son's room. On the plane he had kept it on his lap - there was nowhere to stow it. A man in the adjoining seat had stared and prompted Robarge to say, 'It's a kite. For my son. The Dutch import them from the Far East. Supposed to be foolproof.' The man had answered him by taking out a pair of binoculars he had bought for his own boy at the duty-free shop.

'Richard's only six,' said Robarge.

The man said that the older children got the more expensive they were. He said it affectionately and with pride, and Robarge thought how glad he would be when Richard was old enough to appreciate a really expensive present - skis, a camera, a pocket calculator, a radio. Then he would know how his father loved him and how there was nothing in the world he would not give him. And he felt a casual envy for the man in the next seat, having a son old enough to want the things his father could afford. His own uncomprehending son asked for nothing: it made fiercer Robarge's desire to show his love.

The lights in the house were out; it was, at midnight, as gloomy as a tunnel and seemed narrow and empty in all that darkness. Richard's door was ajar. Robarge went in and found his son sleeping peacefully under wall posters of dinosaurs and fighter planes. Robarge knelt and kissed the boy, then sat on the bed and delighted in hearing the boy's measured breaths. The breaths stopped. In the harsh knife of light falling through the curtains from the street Robarge saw his son stir.

'Hello.' The word came whole: Richard's voice was wide-awake.

'It's me.' He kissed the boy. 'Look what I brought you.'

Robarge brandished the parcel. There was a film of rain on the plastic wrapper.

'What is it?' Richard asked.

Robarge told him: A kite. 'Now go back to sleep like a good boy.'

'Can we fly it?'

'You bet. If it's windy we'll fly it at the park.'

'It's not windy enough at the park. You have to go in the car.'

'Where shall we go?'

world's end

'Box Hill's a good place for kites.'

'Is it windy there?'

'Not half!' whispered the child.

Robarge was delighted by this odd English expression in his son's speech, and he muttered it to himself in amazement. He was gladdened by Richard's response; he had pondered so long at the gift shop at Schiphol wondering which toy to buy - like an eager indecisive child himself - he had nearly missed his flight.

'Box Hill it is then.' It meant a long drive, but the next day was Saturday - he could devote his weekend to the boy. He crossed the hall and undressed in the dark. When he got into the double bed, Kathy touched his arm and murmured, 'You're back,' and she swung over and sighed and pulled the blankets closer.

'I think I made a hit last night,' said Robarge over breakfast. He told Kathy about the kite.

'You mean you woke him up to give him that thing?'

Kathy's tone discouraged him: he had hoped she would be glad. He said, 'He was already awake - I heard him calling out. Must have had a bad dream. I went straight up.' All these lies to conceal his impulsive wish to kiss his sleeping child at midnight. 'We'll fly the thing today if there's any wind.'

'That's nice,' said Kathy. Her voice was flat and unfocused, almost belittling.

'Anything wrong?'

She said no and got up from the table, which was her abrupt way of showing boredom or changing the subject. And yet Robarge was struck by how attractive she was; how, without noticeable effort, she had discovered the kind of glamour a younger woman might envy. She was thin and had soft heavy breasts and wore light expensive blouses with her jeans.

Robarge said, 'Are you angry because I travel so much?'

'You take your job seriously,' she said. 'Don't apologize. I haven't nagged you about that.'

'I'm lucky I'm based in London - think of the rest of them in Aberdeen. How would you like to be there?'

'Don't say it in that threatening way. I wouldn't go to Aberdeen.'

'I might have been posted there.' He said it loudly, with the confidence of one who has been reprieved.

'You would have gone alone.' He guessed she was poking fun;

world's end

he was grateful for that, grateful that things had worked out so well in London.

'You didn't want to come here,' he said. 'But you're glad now, aren't you?'

Kathy did not reply. She was clearing the table and at the same time setting out Richard's breakfast.

'Aren't you?' he repeated in a taunting way.

'Yes!' she said, with unreasonable force, reddening as she spoke. Then she burst into tears. 'There,' she stuttered, 'are you satisfied?'

Robarge, made guilty by her outburst (what had he said?), approached his wife to calm her. But she turned away. He heard Richard on the stairs, and the rattle of the kite dragging. He saw with relief that Kathy had fled into the kitchen, where Richard could not hear her sobbing.

He had dropped Kathy on the Kings Road and proceeded - Richard in the back seat - out of London toward Box Hill. It was only then that he remembered that he had failed to tell Kathy where they were going. She hadn't asked: her tears had made her stubbornly silent. It was late May and once they were past Epsom he could see bluebells growing thickly in the shade of pine woods, and the pale green of the new leaves of beeches, and - already high and drooping from the weight of their blossoms - the cow parsley at the margins of plowed fields.

Richard said, 'There are seagulls here.'

Robarge smiled. There were no seagulls - only newly plowed fields set off by windbreaks of pines, and some crows fussing from tree to tree, to squawk.

'The black ones are crows.'

'But seagulls are white,' said Richard. 'They follow the tractor and eat the worms when the farmer digs them up/

'You're a smart boy. But seagulls -'

'There they arc, 1 said Richard.

The child was right; at the edge of a held a tractor turned and jllSt behind it, hovering and swooping SCaglllls.

They parked near the Billfold Bridge Hotel, and above them Robarge saw the long SCai oi exposed chalk, a whole eroded chute oi it, and the steep green hill rising beside it to the brow ot a grass) slope where the woods began.

'Mind the cars/ said Richard, warning his father. They paused

world's end

at the road near the parking lot. A motorcyclist sped past, then the child led his father across. He was being tugged by the child to the far left of a clump of boulders at the base of the hill, and then he saw the nearly hidden path. He realized he was being led by the boy to this entrance, then up the path beside the chalk slide to the gentler rise of the hill. Here Richard broke away and ran the rest of the way up the slope.

'Shall we fly it here?'

'No - over there,' said Richard, out of breath and pointing at nothing Robarge could see. 'Where it's windy.'

They resumed, Robarge trudging, the child leading, until they were on the ridge of the hill. It was as the child had said, for no sooner had he walked to the highest point on that part of the hill than Robarge felt the wind. The path was sheltered, but here the wind was so strong it almost tore the kite from his hands. Robarge was proud of his son for leading him here.

'This is fun!' said Richard excitedly, as Robarge fixed the cross-piece and looped the twine, tightening and flattening the paper butterfly. He took the ball of string from his pocket and fastened it to the kite.

Richard said, 'What about the tail?'

'This kite doesn't need a tail. It's foolproof.'

'All kites need tails,' Richard said. 'Or they fall down.'

The certainty in the child's voice irritated Robarge. He said, 'Don't be silly,' and raised the kite and let the wind pull it from his hand. The kite rose, spun, and then plummeted to the ground. Robarge tried this two more times and then, fearing that he would destroy the frail thing, he squatted and saw that a bit of it was torn.

'It's broken!' Richard shrieked.

'That won't make any difference.'

'It needs a tail!' the child cried.

Robarge was annoyed by the child's insistence. It was the monotonous pedantry he had used in speaking about the seagulls. Robarge said, 'We haven't got a tail.'

Richard planted his feet apart and peered at the kite with his large serious face and said, 'Your necktie can be a tail.'

'I don't know whether you've noticed, Rich, but I'm not wearing a necktie.'

'It won't work then,' said the child. Robarge thought for a

world's end

moment that the child was going to stamp on the kite in rage. He kicked the ground and said tearfully, 'I told you it needs a tail!'

'Maybe we can use something else. How about a handkerchief ?'

'No - just a tie. Or it won't work.'

Robarge pulled out his handkerchief and tore it into three strips. These he knotted together to make a streamer for the tail. He tied it to the bottom corner of the kite, and while Richard sulked on the grass, Robarge, by running in circles, got the kite aloft. He tugged it and paid out string and made it bob; soon the kite was steadied on the curvature of white line. Richard was beside him, happy again, hopping on his small bow legs.

Robarge said, 'You were right about the tail.'

'Can I have a go?'

A go! Robarge had begun to smile again. 'You want a go, huh? Think you can do it?'

'I know how,' said Richard.

Robarge handed his son the string and watched him lean back and draw the kite higher. Robarge encouraged him. Instead of smiling, the child was made serious by the praise. He worked the string back and forth and said nothing.

'That's it,' said Robarge. 'You're an expert.'

Richard held the string over his head. He made the kite climb and dance. The wind beat against the paper. The child said, 'I told you it needed a tail.'

'You're doing very well. Walk backward and you'll tighten the line.'

But Richard, to Robarge's approval, wound the string on the ball. The kite began to rise. Robarge was impatient to fly the kite himself. He said he could get it much higher and then demanded his turn. He got the kite very high and while it swung he said, 'You're a smart boy. I wouldn't have thought of coming here. And you're good at this. Next time I'll get you a bigger kite - not a paper one, but plastic. They can go hundreds of feet up.'

'That's against the law.'

'Don't be silly.'

'Yes. You can get arrested. It makes the planes crash,' said the child. 'In England.'

Robarge was still making sweeping motions with the string, lifting the kite, making it dive. 'Who says?'