by Xan Brooks
“Fat little chap, isn’t he?” says Ferguson.
“Mr Ferguson. Please.”
Carmody says, “Our young friend is a freak of nature. He possesses the ability to make flames rise from his fingers, or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the ability possesses him. Either way, it is quite a sight. I’ve heard that customers pay to sit through his hogwash simply to watch him make flames.”
Ferguson remarks that he has half a mind to hand out a few shillings right now. He adds that this journey has bored him half out of his wits. He could use some entertainment to make the time go faster.
“Feel free to ask him, but I’m not sure it’s much use. I have the sense he’s not keen to acknowledge our company.”
“Oh yeah, I get it. Too good for the likes of us.”
But here again Mrs Kemp stands ready to correct him. She insists that this is not it at all. The boy would like to join in and be included in their gathering and this is why he’s smiling. But his very ability sets him apart and makes him lonely. One must be careful even shaking hands for fear of setting the other person alight. “Just look at him,” she says. “See the way he is smiling.”
Carmody says, “I believe there is a great deal of truth in that. Also one would do well to remember the boy is damaged goods. Some might go so far as to call him unsound.”
Mrs Kemp nods eagerly. “Sometimes I worry about him, it’s true.”
The line turns to the south amid dense woodland and the train slows, either to take the bend or because there is another train up ahead. But for whichever reason, the train is slowing; it is losing speed by the second.
Against the squeal of brakes, Carmody says, “Flames burn out. Mechanisms wind down. And the sad truth, I suspect, is that our young friend is a glitch. Or the consequence of a trauma. When the world suffers a trauma, as indeed it has these recent years, then it follows that certain energies are temporarily released. They spark and misfire. But these effects are short-lived because they are not natural, you see? Now some of these fires have made themselves a hearth of this boy. But what becomes of him when the fire burns out? Well now, your guess is as good as mine”
Ferguson asks, “If he’s got so much energy, how come he’s so fat?”
All at once it is as though the young passenger has rejoined them. The train’s movement has roused him; he turns to stare at the rain-spattered window. “Oh Christ,” he blurts. “Are we stopping again?”
Mrs Kemp says, “The train is stopping but the wind is not. If it blows any harder it will bring another tree down.”
But it is not just the young passenger that the train’s movement has stirred. When the brakes engage, the jolt is enough to wake the dilapidated gentleman in the corner. He comes to consciousness in a flurry of limbs, his snore aborted mid-breath and he proceeds to flash a sheepish greeting at his fellow travellers. His mouth is wide and wet, crowded with yellow teeth. “Hello!” he booms and then, when his eyes alight on the young man in his midst, “Dear boy! Hello!”
“You were snoring like a saw mill,” Ferguson informs him.
“Was I? Dear me, what a shame, I suppose that I was.”
Mr Carmody allows the old gentleman a moment to collect himself and take in his surroundings: the first-class compartment; the swaying branches outside. Then, leaning in, he says, “We were discussing this fascinating young fellow. But I believe the pair of you are already acquainted.”
“Indeed, yes,” says the man, pulling his embroidered robe tight around him. “He is a dear friend, that is true, a most remarkable boy. Fifty-eight years I have walked on this earth. And I have never seen anything remotely like him.”
“Fifty-eight years,” echoes the fat passenger and then laughs.
Mrs Kemp ventures that she does wonder if he might be a trifle deaf, although the dilapidated old man insists that he doesn’t believe that this is the problem. He admits the boy has other problems. But being deaf is not one of them.
“Why is he always smiling?” asks Ferguson. “And why do you reckon he’s so fat?”
“Shut up,” shouts the boy.
“And there is one further prospect that concerns me,” Carmody puts in. “When his wiring burns out – as it indeed it soon must – what becomes of the rest of us? We are travelling with him too, you know.”
The train heaves and stutters. Mrs Kemp stares at the window. The woman is of the opinion that the recent turn of the conversation has now run its course and is awaiting the chance to nudge it back on its rightful track. She says, “I must say, I have some experience of what a strong gale can do. Last year it tore a pair of heavy bags clean out of my hands. It sent all of my shopping into a dirty green stream.”
“Shut up,” the boy shouts. He clutches at his knees in an effort to make them stop jumping. His belly joggles against his lap. The smile has become a stricken leer. “Shut up. You’re just a bunch of buzzing flies.”
“Come to think of it, this fellow has something of mine,” the old fellow is saying. “He stole it from me and I would like it returned.”
“Here,” says Ferguson, “what did you steal from him, little bastard?”
“My amulet.”
“Shut up!”
“Your what?”
“A glitch in the system. A remnant of stale air.”
“Enough!”
“Amulet, I said. Amulet.”
The passenger doubles over as though he is about to be sick. He cries, “Shut up, shut up, for Christ’s sake, some peace!” And just as the train lurches forward to resume its painstaking journey, the door slides open and a uniformed figure appears in the jar. The conductor’s gaze rakes the compartment. He sees the chubby young man bent double in his seat. He asks, “All right there, sir, have you been taken unwell?”
The passenger peers back. His moon-face is white; his eyes are wet raisins. He croaks, clears his throat and says, “Have I been taken what?”
“Unwell, sir. I thought I heard you call out. Are you feeling unwell?”
The moon-faced man looks at the conductor. Then he throws a glance at the window. “No,” he says. “No, I’m fine.”
The conductor nods shortly, eager to be away on his rounds. Privately he is of the opinion that the solitary man in first class is some way short of fine. But this trip has been gruelling enough as it is, what with the trees on the line and everyone blaming him. He dearly wants to be home, so why go in search of fresh bother? He says, “Glad to hear it, sir, and thanks again for your patience. Sit tight and stay put. We’ll have you there in a jiffy.”
But this sad, sorry fellow appears to be too busy wool-gathering to follow what’s said. His smile is ghastly and uncomprehending. “In a what?” he asks.
“In a jiffy,” says the conductor and closes the door with some haste.
The continental visitor has brilliantined hair and a long grey topcoat that is almost a cloak – it extends to his ankles because his legs are so short. He dips his head with deference and he is constantly nodding and bobbing because his English is poor and he is always having to show up uninvited and he hopes this display will put his hosts at their ease. He is bobbing now as he pushes the door and steps apologetically in from the street. The publican shudders to see what fresh hell he’s been served.
“Oh,” he says, “you.” He cannot think what else to say.
Bowing and scraping, the little supplicant removes his hat and places it carefully on a peg. Then he clasps his waxen hands as though it is cold outside and he is desperate for warmth. “Mr Lloyd-ah, such joy. How is you and the family?”
Mr Lloyd makes no reply. He draws a deep breath; he is composing himself.
The little man is a working man and he offers assistance to the needy. His daily rounds have carried him the length and breadth of north London and they have worn him out; he has too many years on the clock. Experience has taugh
t him that the gentlemen he assists are seldom happy to see him and he counts this as his misfortune, an awkward cross he must bear. He circles the tables, contemplating a seat, and he could rightly sit anywhere because the taproom is deserted. But he knows he is not welcome and he has further errands to run. So he redoubles his bowing and scraping and says, “Mr Lloyd-ah, my friend. I have an interest in you.”
He says this with an earnest, open sincerity and his words seem to have the desired effect. The publican is so moved that he promptly bursts into tears. His shoulders heave. His Adam’s apple strains at his shirt collar. He has to grip at the bar to steady himself.
“Oh please, Mr Lloyd-ah. Please you don’t cry. I have kerchief in my pocket.” With this he hastens behind the bar, fishing in the confines of his billowing topcoat. He is mortified to witness the publican in such disarray and stricken by the knowledge that he has somehow been its cause. He holds out a crumpled cotton square. “Here! Look-ah!” And out of the corner of his vision he notices that the connecting door has swung open and that the publican’s granddaughter has joined them. He nods a diffident greeting. “Oh-ho,” he murmurs. “Bellissima.”
The publican shakes his head at the cloth and tries to speak through his sobs. He says, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
“Please, Mr Lloyd-ah. Please understand. I have a big interest in you.”
“Oh,” says the girl. “Spaghetti-oh.”
Behind the bar, Mr Lloyd makes a Herculean effort to collect himself. But it’s no use, it’s beyond him, and when the man takes his hand he only sobs all the louder. He says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t.”
The girl at the door has been observing these proceedings with a sober concentration. Now she says, “Oh Falconio. No Falconio. Please Falconio.”
The little man’s eyes widen in wonder. “The bambina?” he enquires. “She is making joke out of me?”
Mr Lloyd throws his granddaughter a desperate look. “No, Mr Falconio. Never.”
“You Falconio. Me Falconio. We Falconio. Please Falconio.”
Now the Italian makes a series of sweet, simple movements. His right hand dips into his pocket and returns in possession of a medium-sized hammer. His left tugs the publican’s arm out straight. Next he applies the head of the hammer to Mr Lloyd’s downturned elbow. He does this so cleanly, so smoothly, that he is able to reel off three swift strikes before the man can draw breath to scream.
“Oh,” says the girl over the publican’s racket, “oh, oh, Falconio.”
Falconio releases the publican’s hand and allows him to drop heavily to the floor. He now turns his attention to the bottles lined behind the bar, breaking each in turn with a single tap of his hammer. He spies his reflection in the large frosted mirror, ascends on tiptoe and delivers a blow to that too.
The publican lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He screams, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t.” But the din of glass is terrific and it drowns out his words. The girl flies into the hall in a state that one observer might take for terror and another for joy and there spies her grandmother huffing and puffing on the stairs. The old woman has planted both hands on the banister to make sure she stays upright. She says, “Fred love, what is it?”
And in a shrill falsetto, her pulse racing, Winifred sings, “Oh Falconio. No Falconio. See Falconio. Be Falconio.”
“Your grandad, Fred! What’s become of your grandad?”
Winifred grins and shrugs and points to the taproom at her back. “Falconio,” she says.
Early Sunday morning she takes the boy for a walk, away from the cottages and the infernal barking dog, to the low wooded ridge above Tucker’s Lane. Michael has it in his head to sketch the rooftops and road. He says from the ridge one can see the entire village laid out. His drawing improves by the week; she cannot think where he gets his talent. The last time she drew a horse it came out as a hippo.
She is learning to recognise the good moments in life. This morning, she decides, counts as one of those moments. The air freshly laundered, her son at her side and the wind only bothersome until they find a sheltered spot between two raspberry bushes, which opens to reveal the land down below. She has brought a tartan rug to lay out; they might remain here for hours. She might even nod off, how nice that would be.
One thing they’re not short of in the house is bright, white sheets of paper. Michael clips them to a board and lines up his pencils. He likes to rough the lines with hard lead and then move to soft. The wind picks at his hair. The nape of his neck’s caught the sun. He says, “Doing the houses is easy. What’s more hard are the trees.”
She tells him she thinks drawing is like a different way of seeing. It sharpens the eye or throws a new light on a scene. She’s been living in this village for year upon year. If she were able to sketch, as he can sketch, she would probably see things she hadn’t ever noticed before.
He says, “I’m going to draw every single old machine in Mr Lewis’s garden.”
“Now those I have seen. Those I could actually do without seeing.”
The road below is still waking up. She spots a horse and trap taking the turn to the church; a number of stick figures embarked on non-urgent errands. From this distance, however, she struggles to make out who they are.
With the thin wooden board propped against his bare knees, Michael puts in roofs and chimneys, a pedestrian on the road. She has noticed the boy has a tendency to be tentative in these early stages, scared of making a mistake that will leave a telltale smudge on the page. But after a few minutes his movements start to loosen. The pencil moves faster, the strokes gain authority. It does her heart good to see it. The trees are in leaf, which means he doesn’t have to agonise over the way the various boughs meet the trunk. Instead, he reaches for the soft pencil and drops them in as plumes of smoke, joyful explosions. She wishes she’d remembered to bring some green crayons. She finds herself wanting to colour the things in.
The last time Bram was home they walked up here together. Michael was a toddler; he had to be carried up the slope. They had sat in pretty much the same spot, on the exact same tartan rug, and he had leaned over the boy’s head to kiss her lightly on the lips. He joked that it was odd to find himself in the air but overlooking his house. He said, “Most of the time I’m looking down on French towns.”
“I hope you think this is better.”
“No doubt about it. That’s our little kingdom down there.”
This time, it transpired, it was her turn to kiss him. And then, after Michael had excitably announced the arrival of a woodlouse, she had drawn a breath and recounted what happened so recently to both Margaret and Jean. And she had stressed, seemingly for the umpteenth time, that she was absolutely determined it would not happen to her. Because it would kill her. Because she wouldn’t be able to cope. So her conclusion, she said, was that he must bring himself back safe and sound. He could come home and rest and they could take more walks like this one. They would put the whole business behind them and proceed with their rest of their lives.
“Aud,” he said gently, “I’m fine, I’ll be careful. And honestly, it’s better in the sky. I have more control. I can keep out of harm’s way.”
By now she was on the brink of tears. She had whipped her head angrily so Michael wouldn’t see.
“Promise me you’ll come back to me.”
He reached for her hand. He had lovely hands; long and strong. He said, “I’ll do my very best.”
“I’m sorry, but no. That’s not good enough.”
So then, still holding her hand, he set himself on one knee, as if about to propose marriage all over again. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “Aud, yes. I promise” and the solemnity of the moment was such that he had to fight back a smile. And the worst of it was that he’d broken his word. He had made her a promise and then gone and broken his word. She remembers th
e feel of his hand against hers and the way he had been trying not to smile – or possibly checking to see if she might smile back. She thinks a great deal about what that smile might have meant. Had he known even then that he would let her down?
The wind flutters the pages and it’s 1923. In the time she’s spent daydreaming, Michael has completed one picture and embarked on the next. She remembers that they are all booked in to have lunch at Jean’s house, with her jolly solicitor husband parked at the head of the table. Afterwards they may repair to the park, kick a ball back and forth. The good moments, she thinks, are coming more frequently. She loves her son deeply. Probably she loves Jim Winter as well. String enough good moments together and they might make a good life.
The boy’s neck is so reddened, she will have to dab on some cream. She says, “Base camp to Mick. Your presence is required.”
He grins back at her briefly. “Twenty more minutes. I want to get this one finished. It’s better than the first one. The first one was rubbish.”
“Twenty more minutes.” Audrey has to restrain herself from planting a kiss on his head; she knows how much it annoys him. She says, “Twenty more minutes and then we need to move out.”
19
They named sodden trenches after grand London streets and mapped the city upon the farmland of France. But somehow the layout had been shaken in transit, so that Piccadilly sat on the firing line to the east, with Regent Street running parallel close behind and the Mall conspiring to connect the two. And linking all three was a narrow, shallow scar, lined with splintering duckboards and butt ends, which had no name at all. Mr Pritchett told her that he started calling it Ermine Street and that this label caught on. Mr Pritchett joked that his French Ermine Street was only a degree or two worse than the real Ermine Street.
On returning from the front, Mr Pritchett had taken up his old job at the furniture warehouse and celebrated each payday with tankards at the Griffin, his clothes pungent with linseed oil. So far as she can tell, he has been able to darn himself back into his previous life so completely that one would have to look very closely to see that he had once been torn out. And she is aware that Pritchett is not alone. All around, in shops and offices and on factory floors, thousands of men have cast off their adventures and rejoined the throng and you would never guess where they’d been just a few years before. They might feel different inside but this makes no odds because the change doesn’t show.
