UNCLE WILLIE AND THE THIEVES

New Zealand Listener, Volume 15, Issue 384, 1 November 1946, Page 22

UNCLE WILLIE AND THE THIEVES

(A Short Story, written for "Th e Listener" by :

DORIAN

SAKER

) E New Zealanders are a plain, matter-of-fact people, _even-dare I say it?-verg-ing on the dull. We have taken root in the ordinary, and we cannot understand any person who steps, no matter how cannily, off the road we are all treading. So we lack the most radiant, the most changeable, the most satisfying of all Pandora’s gifts to men-colour: and, even worse, we are totally lacking in that sane and gentle madness, that capacity for doing the poetical when surroundings are ineffably sordid, which is characteristic of’ such races as the Russians, the Jews, and the Irish. So this story I am going to write, of which the events happened in this very town, under your eyes and mine (but we were. blinded by the road), were better handled, would be endowed with more grace, and nuance, by a Chekhov, or a J. M. Synge. But the fact that it is so incongruous, and strange to, us, who are matter-or-fact people, is the stronger reason for telling it. . Uncle Willie (he would be offended if I told his real name) is no longer young. You could easily infer this from the grey dinginess of his beard, and its coarseness, so characteristic of old men. For twenty years now he has worn this beard, mainly for religious reasons, and also, perhaps, because by it he becomes conspicuous, whether at a’concert, _ a lecture, or merely when in the streets. Even behind this beard, you can tell that Uncle Willie is a kind man, a truthful man, and a seeker. * * % ' OME of us are like that. In this gargantuan, tri-dimensional jig-saw puzzle of a world, into which we ‘have arrived like travellers at a deserted station, we remain always on the lookout for a piece of the puzzle we recognise, and sometimes, finding two pieces and joining

them, we think that the whole confusion will fall into place. But as it never does, we keep on searching; until we get old, and the desire to mastér the puzzle recedes, and we give in-dozing by the fire. But not everyone. Some are obsessed by the puzzle for a lifetime, never cease the grapple, always séarch for that spiritual or that cultural philosopher’s stone which will turn their problems to whitewashed simplicity. Such a man is Uncle Willie, and perhaps that is why he has just started to learn the violin. Anyhow it stood him in good stead, as you will see. * Pa x VERY morning of the week Uncle Willie emerges from a side door of a’ large building in Featherston Street, + and walks leisurely to the other end of the town, where he unlocks another door-he is always first-hangs up his coat, puts on a leather apron, and starts his work, which is cutting leather for gloves. And he has become such an adept after twenty years, that it is quite clear, as his knife runs smoothly -a panel of light — up and down the leather, that his thoughts are nowhere near the making of gloves, but are probably trying to recall a theme of Mozart, or to understand what someone (to whom these things come naturally) said in a lecture on Ganguin. For to Uncle Willie these priceless things, this love of beauty, this thrill in response to the creator’s emotions, do not come easilyhe has only the sad, nameless yearning, like that of a mother for a child she has never seen. And something of this shows in this bearded face, as it looks up from the work, and its kindness is clouded with wistfulness. The day passes. At five Uncle Willie takes off his apron, puts on his coat, and leaves the factory. He walks through the town, buying here and there some food, his favourite sausages,

apples, bread, lettuces, and finally he whisks back to the door in Featherston Street, to which he has his own key. There he lays his purchases in his drab room, and hastens upstairs to the warehouse. If anyone is there still he pats them on the shoulder and asks how things are getting on. Occasionally the manager, working late, comes from behind the glass panels of his office to see him and says: "Hullo, Willie, what did you think of the Waldstein the other night?" And the seeker, ceey his eyes, replies deliberately: "It seemed * good. But I'll never know anything about music." "Well, you ought to, by now," says, the manager, and then after a few more words, he tells the old man about a window in the basement which requires screwing up-for during the hours of darkness Uncle Willie is this building’s caretaker. "Otherwise," the manager concludes, "you may have a robbery on your hands. So get it fixed as soon as you can, won’t you?" "Yes," the -old man mumbles. "All right. To-night." The manager, satisfied, returns to his padded swivel chair, and Willie continues his rounds. % % * UT the memories of old men are short, and after Uncle Willie had washed his few dishes, turned the gas off at the meter, and wiped his stained beard, he forgot that there was a task in store for him, and just sat on his ragged cane chair, his eyes half closed, his feet in torn green slippers crossed in front of an electric heater. How long he remained like that his dreams alone can tell, but he says that he woke with a feeling of guilt, to find the room stuffy and oppressive. He yawned and leaned forward to switch off a part of the heater, when his hand was suddenly arrested, as if caught by another invisible hand which held it stark in the alr. "God!" he said, "who is that?" Now he hears distinctly-feet scraping on the floor, boxes being shifted, the harsh squeak of nails on wood. It was so clear, coming down from the warehouse, that he wondered why it had not impressed itself on his sleep before. Uncle Willie trembled; the hand that had stretched out to turn off the heater returned to its owner’s side, shaking. A thought came to him. "Perhaps some of the boys have come back-some skylarking, or even overtime?" "Are you mad?" he said to himself. ‘Don’t you-know all doors are locked and no one but you and the manager hdve keys?" "But the manager? What about him?" "The manager, you old coward, is at a concert. He said so, and he wouldn’t miss it for all the warehouses in Wellington." "Then it must be . . . can only be . . . thieves!" Ah, the broken window. That word thieves brought it back. The window, he had forgotten; the manager had said that he might have robbers. on his hands,. By some unbelieveable callousness of the gods he did. * * * scrapings, the padded sounds had not been interrupted during his silent ‘self-communion. They were worse if

anything, because they appeared to be closer above his room. And his room faced one little cul-de-sac for trucks. That meant that they were taking things to the window and dumping them, for confederates, perhaps. It couldn’t be allowed-they were not to do this! Was he to stand by and watch them, these bandits, But he was an old man and not a brave one. Besides what could he do against two or three strong, young chaps -perhaps more. Obviously he would be a fool, mad! But the sounds went on. And now the thieves, with greater confidence by reason of their uninterrupted start, be--gan to talk to one another, and the sharp sound of their whispers, and quickly smothered laughs all fell to the lower floor where Uncle Willie stood indecisively inside his door, tugging at his scraggy beard till it bruised, and muttering. "I can’t allow it... I can’t allow it..." It was a bang louder than all the other noise put together that stirred the old man into action. A case, he thought with horror-perhaps even that case of English materials-worth hundreds. If they got away with that, he would lose his job! But no-he could not bring himself to step outside his room, creep up the stairs, and confront them. Searching round with his eyes, hungrily, he caught sight of his violin case standing in a corner. Elastic steps took him to the case. He opened it, whipped out the bow and fiddle, and feverishly tuned it. Then he placed his latest piece picked by his teacher open on the ledge by the door, and began to play "Santa Lucia." He put his whole heart into it. The bow swept up and down, like a saw in the hands of a giant. One foot tapped the time, his eyes were closed. If he had been in a sound-proof room, the casual observer would have thought: "Ah, a Szigeti at his practice. What freedom, what ease!" To anyone who had ears to hear it was fantastic beyond belief. But not until he had played "Santa Lucia" three times, and "Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring" twice, did he dare to stop. Even then he imagined that the last echo of Bach would be exploded in a fatal shot. It was a long, lingering note on which the chorale ended, stretched to five times the written breve. But when it had died away, wailing in the furthest corners of the warehouse, not a sound was to be heard. The thieves had gone. Uncle Willie waited for half-an-hour before he. moved, but when there was still no sound, he went up and inspected the floor from which the footfalls had come. Yes, there were boxes opened, ‘and new garments on the floor, but the box was still there, ten yards from where it should have been, certainly, and underneath a window-intact, with all the signs of a digeeciared retreat, % Ht : "BY jove, I bet they ran when they heard that ‘Santa Lucia,’ " I said, when Uncle Willie told me the story, "and as for ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ .. ." "Yes, they must; have been a bit scared," he replied. "If my ‘Jesu’ is | anything like as bad to others as it sounds to me, they’re still running." Wistfully he tugged at his beard. "No. I suppose I'll never know anything about music." : :