Tin Man

by Sarah Winman

  The champagne made him feel ridiculously bold (quickly drunk) and before he knew it, he had agreed to tell a joke and all these young eyes were on him. He thought for a moment.

  He said, How do you make a snooker table laugh?

  Pause.

  Tickle its balls.

  In the space after the punch line and before laughter, a brief silence ensued, in which he made plans to go home, watch television, that kind of thing, but then laughter erupted, and amidst the laughter people repeated the punch line and he was saved from an early night. A spliff was put in his hand and a refill of bubbles in the other, and Jamie leaned in close to his ear and told him he was really glad he was there. And Ellis said he was too. And Jamie said he’d won twenty quid in a bet. And Ellis said, What bet? And Jamie said, Nobody thought you’d come. You’re a mystery, mate.

  The effect of the dope inched across his brain and he left the crowds in the garden and went back inside to find a quiet place to smoke in case he hallucinated. He was worried what might come out.

  The front room was empty and blacked out, illuminated solely by a television screen that emitted blue from a vast blue ocean. He grabbed a cushion from the sofa, placed it on the floor by the television and lay down. He looked up. Dolphins were jumping over him. He smiled and inhaled a lungful of thick sweet smoke.

  She came into the room then. The door opened and she stood in the doorway, a dark presence haloed by yellow hallway light. She closed the door and sealed them in, alone. He watched her move closer, too dark to see her face, but her face became clear as she leaned over him and asked if she could join him. He could smell her skin and it could have been soap, or maybe the moisturizer she used, but it was a heavenly smell. He thought she was pretty. And much too young. She put a cushion down next to him and took a smoke. They swapped names, and he forgot hers straightaway because he was nervous, and he told her all he knew about dolphins and their capacity for empathy, and she said, Uh huh, uh huh, and she leaned across him and blew smoke in his mouth. Her hair fell over him and smelled of pine. He was aware of her aliveness, the brutal honesty of her desire.

  She put her hand on his chest and he thought his heart would explode, and he felt embarrassed because he knew she could feel it.

  You look scared, she said, and laughed.

  Sea otters now swimming in his eyes.

  She undid his shirt buttons and her fingers played on his chest and she ran a fingernail down the hairline to his stomach, and the feeling was sublime and caused him pain, and he stopped her then and said, Enough now. He kissed her hand. Enough, he said.

  OK, she said, and buttoned up his shirt. But can I rest my hand here, is that OK?

  That’s OK, he said, and he fell asleep with her hand on his chest and with tears spilling from the corners of his eyes.

  It was morning. She had gone. He was lying alone on the floor of a strange room under a television with the lingering melancholy of a young woman’s sweet touch. The house was quiet. He crept over bodies. In the hallway, the faint sound of lovemaking and snores gathered, and a quiet telephone conversation muffled by a hand. Through dark rooms the occasional light of a computer screen, or a portable television on mute. In the garden, the dustbins were full of water and empty bottles. He crawled back under the fence, a tomcat retreating home. He went straight to the bathroom and rinsed his face and hands, and his blue eyes stood out in the bloodshot whites. He came back downstairs and made an espresso in an Italian coffeepot he and Annie had brought back from Venice. In the bottom cupboard, he found an unopened pack of coffee beans and had to search for the electric grinder because like so many other things it had been pushed to the back.

  He drank the coffee out in the garden as the garden awoke. He suddenly realized the clocks had gone forward and it was officially spring and the birds were loud because the birds knew. He undid his shirt and goose bumps rose. He rubbed his hand across the plaster cast, across the phone number written large in thick black pen. Across the words: “Call me. You’re gorgeous. Love Becs.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THREE DAYS LATER, it was his father’s birthday and he decided to make an effort. He’d bought him a new cap, a good cap, navy, and he’d bought it from Shepherd & Woodward on the High Street.

  He gave him the present before the cake came out and his father said thank you and put the cap on immediately, and that’s how Ellis knew he liked it. He adjusted it a little, moved the peak from side to side until it rested heavily on his ears. He sat at the table all cap and teeth and ears and Carol said, Suits you, Len.

  She said, Show me the card now, and he held up his birthday card, a picture of an anxious-looking egg with the words, I’m cracking up, written above it.

  That’s funny, she said. What’s it say inside? and he pushed the card across the table to her.

  Happy Birthday Dad from Ellis, she said. She looked across at Ellis and mouthed, Thank you.

  They sang Happy Birthday to him (he joined in near the end) and he blew out the candles with his cap on. There were seven candles for a man of seventy-six. Carol didn’t explain why, it was probably all she had left in the drawer. Len cut his cake and Carol prompted him to make a wish, which he did, and Ellis thought, how is it possible I was afraid of this man?

  They said little as they ate the cake, the sound of forks scraping against plates, the sound of glasses as toasts were made and beer was drunk. The room became hot and Ellis took off his sweater and Carol’s eyelashes slapped against her cheek as she stared at his plaster cast.

  Ellis instinctively rubbed his arm and said, It’s just a joke, Carol. A mate wrote it for a joke. She doesn’t exist.

  Oh, Ell, she said, and she really did look disappointed. I thought—

  I know, he said, quietly.

  I really did think there was something you were going to tell us, she said.

  There is, actually.

  Go on, she said.

  I’ve decided to leave work. For good, I mean. When this is off.

  Silence.

  The sound of the bloody clock. The sound of his father taking off his cap.

  Oh, here we go, thought Ellis. (Bit tight now, would have been better in brown. What were you thinking? Still got the receipt?)

  Just like that? said his father.

  No. Not just like that. Ellis smiled. I’ve given it a lot of thought.

  Who’ve you spoken to?

  Bill McAuliffe. In personnel.

  So it’s official?

  Yes.

  His father finished his beer. It was a job for life, you know, he said.

  I’ll be fine, said Ellis.

  What are you going to do?

  The garden for the time being. One-handed of course, and he winked at Carol.

  Gardening? said his father.

  I find it peaceful.

  His father scoffed and stared at his empty beer glass. And for money? he asked.

  I still have Michael’s, said Ellis.

  Now you stop that, Leonard, said Carol, breaking the silence. He said he’ll be fine and he’ll be fine. You be happy for him now and that’s an order. Put your cap back on. Be handsome again.

  Ellis stood in the back garden, smoking. Lights from the Car Plant spilled across the darkening sky. He heard the back door open and close. Carol, of course. Smelled her before he could see her. He’d never asked them when the affair began but always presumed it ran along invisible tracks parallel to his parents’ marriage. Mum had the painting and he had Carol. Truce.

  I’m glad you’re not going back there, she said. Some are cut out for it, others aren’t. I don’t think you ever were, not really. You’ve been there a long time, Ell.

  He nodded.

  Too long, I reckon. I always said, When he behaves out of the ordinary, then I can stop worrying. It’s hard being born here, breat
hing this air. It becomes part of you, whether you want it to or not. Those lights become dawn and dusk.

  Mum used to say that.

  Did she? We were friends once.

  I never knew that.

  In the early days, we were. But then she seemed to withdraw. Rarely went out with your dad anymore. Maybe it was being a new mum. I reckon you were enough for her. Lucky Dora, we used to say.

  Ellis put his arm around her shoulder.

  She said, I did try and get him to change his mind about school, all them years ago.

  I know you did. I was always grateful.

  It was hard for us, wasn’t it? Getting to know each other?

  We know each other now, said Ellis.

  Yeah.

  And you know you’re too good for him.

  I know, said Carol, and they laughed.

  Do you think he’s all right? said Ellis, looking back to the house.

  Course he is. He’s just used to being a bastard. He’s one of them men who discovered later on that he’s got a heart. Makes him a better dancer.

  He dances?

  When we go away he does. Won’t do it round here in case anyone sees him. Says he’s got a reputation to think about. What reputation? I say. Everyone’s moved away. He’s a nice little dancer. Takes it seriously, too. I reckon he thinks he’s a little bit in the movies when he sweeps around. Are you happy, Ell?

  Happy?

  Christ! You say the word as if you don’t know what it means.

  I’m . . . hopeful.

  Hopeful’s a good word. You got a nice laugh, Ell.

  Annie used to say that.

  Life gets it wrong sometimes, doesn’t it?

  Did you find Mum’s painting, by the way?

  Oh God, course we did. We didn’t get rid of it—

  —No, I’m sure you didn’t.

  Let me go and ask your dad. He’s in charge of things like that.

  And she turned and went back toward the light of the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, the back door opened again and his father appeared. Ellis watched him stumble across the lawn toward him, and thought his father looked like a boy in his new cap and his ill-fitting jacket, and he thought he looked so unsure of himself in this modern world because he saw none of it coming, not old age nor old thinking.

  You all right out here? his father asked him.

  Yeah. You warm enough?

  Course. I’ve got a new cap. Wool, isn’t it?

  It is, said Ellis.

  See you still smoke, then?

  Yeah.

  When did you start? Never asked you.

  Nineteen? Twenty? Should stop, I know.

  I started as a kid. Smoked the way others ate sweets.

  Right.

  I’ve asked Carol to marry me.

  What? Just now?

  No, said his father with a rare laugh. For the last twenty years. She’s always said no.

  Really?

  Says she doesn’t want me telling her what to do with her money.

  And I thought she was just being modern, Ellis smiled.

  Yeah, that too. But she said I had to get your permission first.

  Mine?

  So that’s what I’m asking.

  You have it.

  You can think about it—

  —Nothing to think about.

  But you might feel different later.

  I won’t. Just marry her, Dad. Marry her.

  His father took off his cap and smoothed his hair. He put the cap back on. Painting’s upstairs, he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  ON THE LANDING, Ellis pulled down the ladder and climbed up into the loft. He wasn’t surprised by the tidiness or the order. Crawl boards splayed out in a grid system that made it easy to walk about, and boxes were neatly stacked with the contents written on the side: “Reader’s Digest.” “Shoes.” “Bank Statements.” He heard his father’s voice below: I left it just inside. You can’t miss it.

  I haven’t missed it! Oh, for fuck’s sake, he said under his breath.

  It’s here. I’ve got it, he said loudly.

  It was wrapped up in one of his mother’s dresses. He tugged the fabric away from the top right corner and the bowing head of a sunflower flashed out of the gloom.

  I’m handing it down, he said. Here, he said, and his father reached up and took the painting from him. His father said, Don’t forget the box as well. And Ellis said, What box?

  And his father said, You’ll see it. It’s just inside to the left.

  He turned to his left and saw it. A medium-sized cardboard box with “MICHAEL” written on the side.

  * * *

  • • •

  CAROL PULLED UP outside the house. She helped Ellis inside with the painting and the box, and when he turned on the lights in the back room, he asked if she wanted a drink or a coffee.

  No, she said. I won’t stop, and she turned to go.

  Carol?

  What, love?

  The box. Michael’s things, he said. Why’s he got it?

  She paused. She said, You came to us after you cleaned out his flat. You don’t remember, do you?

  No.

  You got back from London and stayed with us for weeks. You slept mostly. So we just kept the stuff with us.

  Right.

  It was difficult, Ellis. A very difficult time. Your dad thought it best to keep the status quo. What did he call that box? Pandora’s box—that’s it. He was worried that anything might set you off again. So we never mentioned it again. Just kept it up there. Did we do wrong?

  No, course not—

  If we did, I’m sorry—

  You didn’t.

  But we don’t have to worry now, do we?

  No, you don’t.

  Carol buttoned up her coat. Said, It’ll be strange not phoning you tomorrow, making sure you’re OK. Won’t know what to do with myself.

  Ellis walked her along the hallway.

  Come see us, she said. Don’t be a stranger.

  I won’t. And he bent down and kissed her.

  The front door shut. Silence now. The lingering smell of her perfume and lost, misunderstood years.

  He uncovered the painting and leaned it against the wall. It was bigger than he remembered. And it was a fine copy, and deserved more than the incongruous fate of being a prize in a Christmas draw. The only signature on the front was “Vincent” written in blue. On the back, though, was the painter’s signature: “John Chadwick.” But who John Chadwick was, no one would ever know.

  Fifteen sunflowers, some in bloom and some turning. Yellow on yellow pigment that darkened to ochre. Yellow earthenware vase decorated by a complementary blue line that cut across its middle.

  The original was painted by one of the loneliest men on earth. But painted in a frenzy of optimism and gratitude and hope. A celebration of the transcendent power of the color yellow.

  Nine years ago, in 1987, it sold for nearly twenty-five million pounds at Christie’s auction house. His mum would have said, Told you so.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE GARDEN took shape under April’s eye. The flowerbeds along the fence and walls of the house had been freed of weeds and transformed into perfect rectangles of tilled brown earth. Climbing roses and ivy were now supporting the crumbling back wall, and rhododendrons simply did their thing, flamboyant and loud in red and pink. He came across a family of primroses hidden under a nondescript shrub and transferred them to an area by the bench where he sat. He had grown to like primroses.

  He stopped for lunch and ate outside. A plate of ham that he didn’t need to cut, just folded it into his mouth with a fork. He remembered a time when he didn’t like to be in this garden. He
thought he had punished it, secretly, for being the last place he had spent time with them. He chose not to go further with those thoughts that day, and began to peel a boiled egg. A blackbird joined him on the arm of the bench. It had followed him around the garden most of the morning and made him think about the possibility of getting a pet.

  By late afternoon, he had showered and had decided to walk across to South Park. The grass was newly mowed, the scent sweet, and those towering spires glinted to his left. The sun was beginning to dip, but there was still warmth, and the light, he thought, beautiful. He stopped where the three of them used to watch the fireworks display every autumn. Where they used to hand around a small flask of Scotch as lights above them flickered and cascaded across their cold, delighted faces. Where afterward, they’d tramp across the dewy grass and Michael would complain about his feet, and they’d make their way to the Bear smelling of bonfire and earth. The three of them, breath misting, trying to walk in sync. Left, right, left, right. Keep up, Ell, you’re fucking it up!

  Everywhere he went he knew they had gone before.

  He stopped. He became aware that he had inadvertently stumbled into a scene of romance. Up ahead, a young man was leaning toward a tree, and from this tree, arms reached out and draped about his neck. He didn’t want to ruin their moment of privacy, so he decided to pass through but not to look, and as he moved toward them he speeded up.

  And yet, it was instinctive, his turn. Because the outline of the person leaning against the tree was so familiar to him, and so it was instinctive for him to turn and say, Billy?

  Billy froze. Across his face settled the shame of discovery, and his words were quiet. All right, Ellis, he said. And Ellis didn’t want it to be like that, not for Billy and his nineteen years, so he smiled and went toward him and said, Is this Martyrs’ Memorial, then?

  And Billy said, Yeah, and he looked up. Yeah.

  Ellis turned to the young man and offered his hand, said, Good to meet you. I’m Ellis. I worked with Billy, and the young man said, I’m Dan.

  How’s life, Billy?

  All right.