by Magnus Mills
Magnus Mills
Screwtop Thompson
2010, EN
In ‘Hark the Herald’, a guest stays at an eerie guesthouse over Christmas without encountering any other residents, despite constant reassurance from the landlord that he would see them if only he arrived for breakfast slightly earlier; in ‘Only When the Sun Shines Brightly’ Aesop’s fable about a competition between the Sun and the Wind to get a man to take his coat off, gets a new look involving a railway arch, a builder and a piece of plastic sheeting; in ‘Once in a Blue Moon’, a man arrives home to find the family house under siege, with his mother armed, dangerous and firing at the police with a shotgun, and attempts to appease her with an invitation to seasonal hospitality; and, in the title story, rivalry between three cousins over a faulty toy gets out of hand as the cousins unwittingly imitate the toy they’re fighting over. Magnus Mills has published two collections of stories – “Only When the Sun Shines Brightly’ and ‘Once in a Blue Moon” – which are collected here for the first time, along with three new stories.
Table of contents
1: Only When the Sun Shines Brightly
2: At Your Service
3: The Comforter
4: Hark the Herald
5: Once in a Blue Moon
6: The Good Cop
7: Screwtop Thompson
8: They Drive by Night
9: Half as Nice
10: Vacant Possession
11: A Public Performance
∨ Screwtop Thompson ∧
1
Only When the Sun Shines Brightly
For a long time I lived beside a railway viaduct that took the trains past my house at rooftop level. It was a brick structure almost a quarter of a mile in length, and ran along the far side of our street. This being a busy commercial district, the rail-freight company had at some date closed up the supporting arches and let them out as business premises. Some spaces were rented by wholesalers who used them for warehousing. Others had been converted into workshops. The one opposite me was presently occupied by a joiner called Nesbitt. It was a noisy place, with lathes and power-saws going at all hours of the day, augmented every now and then by the trains trundling overhead. A locomotive pulling a heavy load could make all the buildings vibrate as it went past, but fortunately the line was only used for shunting and therefore traffic was infrequent. To tell the truth, I quite liked all the coming and going. It was nice arriving home in the afternoon and seeing the joiner’s shop in full swing, especially when Nesbitt had a big job underway. On these occasions there would be staircases or window sashes leaning on the outside wall awaiting collection, while he and his two assistants busily prepared the next piece. One of these helpers was a youth who was supposed to be serving an apprenticeship, but seemed actually to spend most of his time sweeping up wood shavings. The other was an old hand called Stanley. Nesbitt’s business methods appeared at first glance chaotic, as he tended to write down his estimates on used envelopes which he then inevitably lost, but the fact that he always had plenty of work was testimony to his basic abilities. I used to go over to the workshop sometimes and have a cup of tea with the three of them. Most days, however, I just gave a cheery wave as I passed by.
Early one morning at the beginning of autumn I heard an odd sound coming from outside. At first I thought I’d been woken by the first shunter of the day, which generally went down the line at about five-thirty. This struck me as unusual because I’d become quite accustomed to all the din and could ordinarily sleep through anything. I lay listening for a few moments, and soon realised that it wasn’t a train I’d heard. Instead, there came from the direction of the viaduct an irregular flapping noise, as of great wings being beaten. A bit of a breeze seemed to have got up during the night, which was nothing unusual at this time of year, and whenever a gust battered against my window the flapping became more noticeable. Yet for some reason I still couldn’t think what might be causing it.
Eventually I decided it was time to get up, so I dressed and opened the blinds. It was barely daylight, but I couldn’t help seeing an enormous plastic sheet caught up on the viaduct wall above Nesbitt’s workshop. Somehow it had become entangled in the iron railing that ran along the top of the wall, and now hung outstretched in the breeze like some immense flag.
I wondered where on earth it could have come from. Pieces of debris quite often came flying in as the autumn equinox took hold, items such as polythene bin-liners and carrier bags, but never had anything as big as this arrived. It was a piece of industrial wrapping, possibly twenty square yards in area, and I assumed it must have come adrift from the back of some lorry or goods truck. All the same, it must have been a strong wind to lift such a large bit of flotsam into the air and carry it here. As I made myself a pot of tea I vaguely wondered what Nesbitt would have to say on the matter.
“It’ll work itself free after a while,” he announced, as we stood looking up at the plastic sheet later that morning. “Then we’ll get hold of it and put it to some use.”
Nesbitt was forever talking about ‘putting things to some use’. Quite often he could be observed peering into a builder’s skip and pulling out some object that took his fancy; for example, a barrow that had been discarded because it had no wheel, or an empty cable drum. As a result, the corners of his workshop were piled with junk which he’d decided might come in handy at some future time. It appeared now that he’d seen a possible use for this huge plastic sheet, and as soon as he could get his hands on it, he would claim it for his own.
Unfortunately, getting his hands on it was more difficult than he foresaw. When I came home that afternoon the sheet had failed to free itself from the railings, and if anything seemed to have become fixed even more firmly than before. The weather had been deteriorating all day as the wind increased to a minor gale, and the flapping noise had grown louder and more insistent. Drawing near, I saw that Nesbitt now had a ladder against the viaduct wall, and had sent up his apprentice to seize the prize. The ladder, though, was nowhere near long enough for the task, and as the hapless youth poked desperately with a broom handle he looked as though he was going to lose his balance at any minute.
Nesbitt’s other assistant, Stanley, had taken the opportunity to stop working and watch this bit of ‘sport’ from the workshop doorway, and as I approached he gave me a sidelong wink.
“He’ll never get that down,” he murmured quietly. “Not in a month of Sundays.”
“Why doesn’t he go to the end of the viaduct and walk back along?” I suggested.
“It’s railway property, isn’t it?” he replied. “No one’s allowed up there.”
Meanwhile, Nesbitt was losing patience with his apprentice’s efforts.
“Try and reach up a bit more!” he kept shouting, which only seemed to make the lad look even more unsteady.
“Notice he doesn’t go up there himself?” remarked Stanley, before sidling back to his workbench.
“Come down then!” yelled Nesbitt, before turning to me. “Useless, young lads are these days. Flaming useless.”
I thought for a moment that he was going to give his apprentice a clip round the ear for his troubles, but after he’d carefully descended they simply took down the ladder and put it away. Next thing Nesbitt and Co. were back at work on their latest joinery project, and appeared temporarily to have given up with the salvage attempt. Nonetheless, the presence of the plastic sheet was difficult to ignore. From inside my house I could hear a constant succession of flapping, whacking and flogging noises, and as the hours passed the racket worsened progressively. I knew, however, that I could do nothing about it, so I closed the blinds, put the kettle on, and had a cup of tea. Before coming in I’d noticed large drops of moisture in the gatherin
g dusk. Soon afterwards it was raining cats and dogs, the drainpipes were flowing at full pelt, and I realised that autumn was now well and truly with us.
♦
One of Aesop’s fables tells the story of a wager between the sun and the wind to see which can succeed in removing a traveller’s heavy coat. The wind tries first, but however hard it blows it fails to make any headway because the traveller simply buttons his coat even tighter than before. Only when the sun shines brightly does he finally remove it, and the wind roars away in a bad temper.
I was reminded of this fable several times over the next few days, as the wind seemed to be equally unsuccessful with our plastic sheet. It blew like fury for half a week, but the sheet remained firmly attached to the top of the viaduct. Occasionally it became trapped in the railings at more than one point, bellying out and filling with rainwater which would then be released at unexpected times over Nesbitt’s doorway. At one such instance the poor fellow was standing directly underneath when it emptied its heavy load, drenching him from head to foot.
I soon noticed that Nesbitt had ceased to regard the plastic sheet as a ‘lucky find’, but instead glared up at it balefully for long moments as he tried to work out how to get it down. One afternoon I saw him trying to catch at it with a crude grappling hook on the end of a rope, assisted by Stanley and the young apprentice. Each of them tried and tried again to throw the hook up and get a grip, but they failed every time and had to move quickly out of the way as it came plummeting back down.
“Why don’t you write to the rail company?” I suggested. “They’ll be able to get at it easily.”
“Yes, you’re right,” replied Nesbitt. “I think I will.”
However, I knew for a fact that he wouldn’t. Nesbitt wasn’t the kind of man to spend time writing letters to railway companies. He had a business to run on a day-to-day basis, and the plastic sheet was really nothing more than an irritating diversion. He would repeatedly claim to be ‘doing something about it’, but his efforts amounted to nothing more than vain assaults with a grappling hook. Meanwhile, I suspected that Stanley found the whole episode thoroughly entertaining. As for me, well I was beginning slowly to get used to the plastic sheet. I would fall asleep at night to the sound of it whacking and flapping against the viaduct wall, and wake up in the morning to the same thing. It was rapidly becoming part of the scenery, the first object I laid eyes on when I opened my blinds, and I soon learned to live with it. Whenever friends arrived at my front door they would pass comment on the ‘eyesore’ dangling from the viaduct, suggesting that it lowered the tone of the neighbourhood. I countered such remarks by pointing at all the everyday litter blowing along the street.
“We live in an untidy world,” I would declare in a glib sort of way. “You’ve got to expect a certain amount of industrial detritus in a district like this.”
Judging by the looks on their faces, my friends seemed to find my argument spurious, to say the least.
♦
One blustery day a month or so later, a small diesel locomotive chugged slowly along the railway viaduct, paused above Nesbitt’s workshop, and then continued on its way. A minute later it came reversing back to where the plastic sheet still lay trapped. A door in the driver’s cab slid open, and three men climbed out, all wearing orange fluorescent jackets. They peered over the railing at the sheet as it flogged in the damp breeze, and then began disentangling it. After a while Nesbitt emerged and stood in the street offering words of encouragement. At least, that was what they sounded like from where I watched at my window. It took the three men almost ten minutes to gather the sheet in and fold it up. Then, when they’d exchanged greetings with Nesbitt, they climbed back into their cab and moved off, taking the plastic sheet with them.
That night our street seemed very quiet indeed, and it took me a long time to get to sleep.
∨ Screwtop Thompson ∧
2
At Your Service
My friend Mr Wee was only five feet tall, so if he ever had any domestic chores that required a bit more ‘height’ I used to go round and help out. If I was lucky he cooked me Chinese food as a reward. If not (which was more often the case) I got tea and burnt toast. Mr Wee’s manner was imperious to say the least, but in spite of this the pair of us generally got on very well together.
One day he summoned me to his flat and ordered me to bring my bowsaw.
“There is a tree obscuring my view,” he told me.
I arrived on Sunday morning and removed my boots (a prerequisite for entry into the Wee household on account of his spotless carpets). Then I knocked and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again, and after another minute the door opened. Mr Wee examined my feet and ushered me inside without apologising for the delay.
“I was just bathing the cats.”
As we passed through the hallway I saw his two cats glaring at me from the bathroom, their Sunday morning treat having been temporarily interrupted. They were yet to be rinsed, so I continued my wait in the lounge. The gramophone played Beethoven, and on the shelves stood marble busts of all the great composers. They watched in silence as I awaited the return of Mr Wee. Eventually the ablutions were completed and he came back, sat down and lit his pipe.
The tree in question was outside the rear window (Mr Wee lived on the second floor). It was a great overgrown thorny thing, and he expected me to climb into it and remove some branches. I asked if we were allowed to do this.
“Of course,” he snapped with a note of impatience. “I’ve spoken to the property manager.”
“We’ll need a ladder,” I said.
“Of course.”
Apparently it was all arranged: we were to carry the (borrowed) ladder through a ground-floor flat belonging to one of Mr Wee’s neighbours. I wasn’t sure if I liked the sound of this, but decided to say nothing. I got my boots back on and we collected the ladder. Then we went to the other flat.
“Shall I take my boots off again?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “She won’t mind.”
He knocked on the door and it was opened by an elderly lady. This was Mrs Petrov.
“We’re coming through with the ladder,” announced Mr Wee.
“But it’s Sunday morning,” she protested, in a strong Polish accent.
He ignored her and bustled into the flat, taking the ladder with him. Mrs Petrov followed and closed the door. I remained outside, waiting. Presently I heard raised voices within. Suddenly the door was flung open and Mrs Petrov commanded me to come and help immediately. I dashed into the flat and found Mr Wee disentangling the ladder from her kitchen curtains. She began shouting at him. He shouted back at her. Then she noticed my boots and shouted at me. Quickly I got the ladder out through the back door.
Some moments later Mr Wee emerged and the two of us started to examine the tree. I remarked that it was going to be a bit of a balancing act and I was likely to get thorns stuck in me. This did not concern him.
“Are you afraid of heights?” he asked.
I said I was not, and started up the ladder. As I did so I noticed curtains beginning to twitch in another of the flats. Feeling very uneasy I continued climbing. Then a man appeared looking rather upset.
“What are you doing?” he demanded of Mr Wee.
“This tree is obscuring my view,” came the reply.
“But you’re treading all over my garden!”
Mr Wee looked down at some crushed flowers beneath his feet. He muttered something and led the poor fellow away. I stayed in the tree.
Hearing no more raised voices I commenced work, choosing the largest branch that could be safely removed with a bowsaw. After much sweat and toil, it dropped neatly to the ground.
Mr Wee came back and peered up into the foliage.
“Not that branch, that one!” he roared, pointing to a large and almost vertical bough.
“I can’t cut that!” I yelled back. “I’ll probably kill myself or put it through someone’s window!”
Mr Wee stamped round in a fury while I sawed away at a few other branches until we’d both calmed down a bit. Then I descended. He looked at the finished job and said he ‘supposed’ that would have to do.
Running the gauntlet of Mrs Petrov again, we returned to his flat. I pointed out that his view was no longer obstructed. In fact, so much light was flooding into the room that Mr Wee decided to close the curtains, thus defeating the object of the exercise.
He grudgingly offered to make me a cup of tea for my troubles, but on this occasion there was to be no Chinese food.
∨ Screwtop Thompson ∧
3
The Comforter
I was looking for a way into the cathedral when the archdeacon found me. There were several doors, and I had paused before one of them.
“Locked, is it?” he asked, smiling.
“Well, I haven’t actually…er…not sure really.”
“Probably locked,” he announced. “Probably far too early. I always arrive far too early.”
The archdeacon laughed in a beneficent way and I smiled.
“You must be the architect,” he beamed.
“I suppose I am,” I replied. “Yes.”
“Very good. Very pleased you could come. There’s a door along here we can try.”
He shepherded me round the corner, past some shrubs and newly emerging bulbs. On this side of the building it was damp and shady, and there was a smaller door. It was locked.
“They’re trying to keep us out, I think!” he laughed again. This time it was a compulsory laugh, and I joined in. The archdeacon’s face was pink, his eyes were blue, his hair was white. He smiled a lot and took me under his wing. We sat down, side by side, on a wooden bench.
“They always seem to rope me in for these committees,” said the archdeacon, placing his briefcase flat across his knees. “Probably think it’ll keep me out of mischief! They’re most probably right!” This time I anticipated the laughter, which seemed to please him.
