by M. J. Hyland
I don’t see. I say nothing.
‘Have you got work here?’ he says.
‘Yeah, I’m a mechanic. I’m starting at the place on the main road on Monday morning.’
‘Is that the one that does vintage cars?’
‘Yeah, and sports cars.’
He turns his cup round, looks at the tea leaves. ‘Why did you give up university to fix cars?’
‘I prefer it,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to do the thing you prefer.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I suppose that’s the right decision.’
I hadn’t asked him for his opinion on my decision.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘it’s a good line of work, and the money’s not too bad. And I get to drive some very nice cars.’
Bridget’s come back with my bacon sandwich.
‘Here you are,’ she says.
‘Thanks.’
I start to eat and she stacks dirty dishes onto a tray at the next table. Welkin stands to help her and when the job’s done she puts her hand on his arm and leaves it there, and they look at each other, longer than usual, and even though it’s not me she’s touching, the heat shoots through my legs. I hope she’s not one of those women who can touch a man she hardly knows without meaning anything much.
‘I’d better be going,’ says Welkin. ‘I’ve got to see a man about a dog.’
‘See you later, then,’ I say.
‘You’ve finished your breakfast,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you come up with me? You’ve got the room right next door.’ I’m not in the mood for more chat.
‘I’ll stay down here,’ I say.
‘I need to make a few phone calls.’ Bridget leaves and Welkin follows close behind. I’ll be damned annoyed if it turns out they’re having sex.
I wait for a few minutes, then go up to my room, get a towel, try the bath again.
The water’s still running cold.
I go downstairs to Bridget’s office and tell her, ‘There’s no hot water.’
‘The best time is earlier in the morning.’
She’s searching for something in the top drawer of the desk and looks at me as though she blames me for the fact she can’t find it.
‘I tried earlier,’ I say.
‘Oh.’
‘Can I have my key?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
She goes to the filing cabinet and gets two keys.
She looks at me.
‘Don’t forget to put your front-door key on the hook inside the door when you get in. This way we all know who’s home and who isn’t.’
‘Okay.’
‘Yours is the blue hook, which is the same colour as the number on your bedroom door.’
‘Right. I won’t forget.’
‘We’ll do the paperwork now.’
It’s very formal, like she’s a different person from last night. When I tell her I’m twenty-three, she tells me I look younger. She asks me if my parents are Irish, with my name being Patrick.
‘No, but my grandad was.’
‘But you’re not confirmed? You’re not a Catholic?’
‘How can you know that?'
‘You’ve put your full name down as Patrick James Oxtoby. You’ve got no confirmation name.’
I say nothing.
‘I’ll bet your mum will miss you,’ she says.
I ask her why she’s said that.
‘You told me earlier you’re the youngest, and you’ve left home for the first time.’
I shrug. ‘She might miss me. She might not.’
I go to the door, then turn back.
‘Have I done something that’s bothered you?’ I say.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Not yet.’ She smiles, just about the same sort of smile she gave Welkin in the dining room.
‘That’s good then.’
‘Don’t worry so much, Patrick.’
I don’t see how she could know how much I worry or not.
I leave the boarding house and walk into town and on the way I get to thinking that my mum’s probably worried sick and I should’ve left her a good long letter with some nice things said. She’s been a good mum. I should’ve said thanks, or something that’s the same as saying thanks.
My new workplace is on the corner of the deserted main street, two doors down from the post office. The metal sign outside is faded and rusted: North Star Mechanics. Specialists in All Makes & Models. Vintage & New. Service & Parts & Repairs.
I stand on the opposite corner and watch. I want to see what kind of business my new employer’s got running, but nobody goes in or out. Friday should be a busy day for a mechanic. First thing I’ll do on Monday morning is tell the boss to put up a new sign.
I walk on down the main street, towards the train station. I’ve got hungry again. I stop to buy fish and chips. I’m the only person in the chippy except for a ten-year-old kid and it takes a while to get the food ready because they’ve not had the oil on for long.
I go to the pier and sit on a bench and eat.
A fisherman comes in with his catch in a yellow bucket. He hasn’t got much, a few small ones, the kind I thought they threw back.
When I’m finished eating, I walk a while and look at the old pavilion. I try going in, but all the doors are bolted. There’s a sign down the back, one of those sandwich boards, someone’s written on with chalk: Closed Today.
I go back to the main street, pass an old cinema called The Royale. There’s only one film showing, a song-and-dance picture. I’d like to sit in the cool dark, but I’ve got no interest in song-and-dance. I want something with action and I’m in the mood for a pint.
I go to a pub behind the station called the Ducie Arms.
There’s an old man sitting at the bar. He’s got a lit cigarette in the ashtray, but he lights another and I get why he craves the start of things. All the hope that goes with the new thing. Coming to this town for a fresh start, I’ve got that feeling myself.
I order a pint and the barmaid sees me reading the chalk-board menu and asks me what I want.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You just go ahead and let me know if you change your mind.’
The door opens and I look round. I can’t help it. I suppose I’m a bit jumpy.
I have another pint.
Two men come into the bar, both about thirty, and they sit together near the door, one of them with a suitcase and he’s the one who gets the pints, then sits down again. But these blokes have nothing to say to each other. They just look out the window at nothing.
I’m not a heavy drinker, not by a long way, but I drink in bouts, and in these past three weeks since Sarah broke it off there’s been one of those bouts. It’s not that I want to get drunk, it’s the pain-killer part of it that I want.
I’ve had a sore neck and sore shoulders since I was fourteen. I don’t know why I’ve got the pains and the doctors don’t know either. The only time I don’t have the pains is when I’ve had a few pints and the edges soften a bit.
‘Are you waiting for somebody?’ asks the barmaid.
She’s asked because I’m sitting with my back to the door and keep looking round at it.
‘Yeah.’
I don’t bother making up a lie about who I’m waiting for. She’s a barmaid and she’s obliged to talk to any old fool.
I order another pint and then another. Even though dinner’s included in my bed and board, I’ve got a craving for a pub meal.
I order steak and chips and have another pint, then head back to the house.
It’s nearly eight o’clock.
I check my toolkit soon as I’m back in my room, and I leave it sticking out a bit from under the bed, like I always leave it, with the handle facing out, ready for me to pick up in the morning when I go to work. I don’t notice right away that the bed’s been made and my things have been tidied, but soon as I realise I get a rush of good feeling. Bridget’s been up here straightening and cleaning my things and it’s like I’ve been promoted. I can�
�t afford this life much beyond three months, but I’m going to make it good while it lasts, make it count.
I lie on the bed and smell the clean sheets, close my eyes. I’m in the mood to go down and look for Bridget and that’s my plan, until the noise starts up.
Welkin’s got a girl with him and the bed’s drubbing the wall and they’re talking while they’re at it. I sit up and listen. Welkin groans loud at the end of the act, then laughs as though at a mistake somebody’s made. I’m only glad it’s not Bridget he’s got in there.
To insult me further, a fly lands on my face. I swipe it, and it takes off, buzzes its dirty black body against the wall over my table, then comes back for another taste of my sweat. Once it’s been at my face, it goes for a rest on the carpet, catches its breath, then comes after me again. When it goes back to the wall over the table, I throw my shoe and shout, ‘Get out of my room, you fucking shit.’
There’s more laughter in the next room and my neck reddens and my arms sweat, even my shoulders sweat. I lie down and cover my head with the quilt.
My mood’s ruined.
I’ll need a radio.
3
It’s Saturday and I’ve woken too early to go down to breakfast. I kill a bit of time sitting at the table under the open window, look out at the shore and the sea, the dead flat horizon.
A child shouts, ‘Bye Dad, bye Dad,’ over and over, and when the child’s stopped shouting, the first bus of the morning comes past, down the esplanade, and it turns the corner out the front of the boarding house. I listen to the sound of its brakes as it pulls in to stop, the hiss of the doors opening, the moan of the engine taking the hill.
I leave the window wide open, dress, and go down.
It’s only quarter past eight, but Welkin and Flindall have already taken the table under the bay window. Flindall’s hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a flash pinstripe suit. Welkin’s got his silk-lined jacket draped across the back of his chair. All I’ve got on is an oily T-shirt and my lank brown hair hangs down over my ears.
‘Morning, Patrick,’ says Welkin.
I get the sense I’ve interrupted something.
‘Sleep well?’ says Flindall.
I’ve no choice but to sit alone at the table in the middle.
‘Like a baby,’ I say.
My table’s set with cereal and toast and I start eating, but feel a bit daft sitting by myself.
I pour a glass of water.
‘Why don’t you tell us a little more about yourself,’ says Flindall.
I try to think what I might say.
‘Maybe Patrick’s too tired to talk,’ says Welkin. ‘He was probably kept up half the night listening to me having the time of my life.’
‘Maybe that’s it,’ says Flindall, like a Greek chorus.
‘I was enjoying,’ says Welkin, ‘the ultimate satisfaction.’
I was hoping for some good chat over breakfast and now I’d like to punch Welkin in the neck.
‘Good for you,’ I say.
He smiles. ‘Tell us about life as a mechanic.’
‘There’s not much to tell.’
I sound like a man of few words, not like I want a fight with them.
Bridget comes with the hot food on a tray. She’s wearing a yellow frock, just down past her knees, and she’s got red lipstick on.
She’s a doll.
‘Good morning, Patrick.’
I stand.
‘Morning,’ I say. ‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No. Not at all. Sit and eat.’ She puts the tray of food down on the sideboard.
‘You’re paying me,’ she says, ‘not the other way round.’
‘And it’s a pretty penny, too,’ says Flindall.
She folds her arms across her chest in mock anger.
‘See if you can do better for less,’ she says. ‘I’ll bet you can’t.’
‘She’s right,’ says Welkin. ‘This is the best damn seaside boarding house in town.’
‘It’s the only seaside boarding house in town,’ says Flindall.
She laughs and gives us each a plate of rashers, eggs, tomatoes.
‘Has everybody got everything they need?’ she says.
We say we’re happy. She leaves.
I eat my bacon and the fork hits my teeth.
I stop eating.
‘How long have you both been here?’ I say.
‘Two months,’ says Welkin.
‘And me,’ says Flindall. ‘Two months.’
‘Did you come together?'
‘No,’ says Welkin. ‘Just a coincidence.’
Flindall moves his cigarette from one ear to the other. ‘There was another man though.’
Welkin looks at Flindall. ‘But he left.’
I’d like to ask them about the other man, but there’s no time.
The doorbell rings and soon as the door’s opened I hear that voice.
It’s my mother.
I get up from the table and go out to the hallway, but it’s too late. Bridget’s let her in.
I stand by the staircase.
‘Surprise!’ says my mother.
Her dress is like a bus seat cover and it’s the same kind of ugly thing she wears every day of the year.
‘Hello,’ I say.
She comes to me, throws her arms open wide and the wobbly white skin spills out. She looks happy, her blue eyes bright and big, like she’s ready for a picnic in the sun, and I’m glad of that, but it would’ve been a whole lot better if she’d warned me. I’d have met her in the town. I’d not have let her come to the house.
‘Is that all the welcome I get?'
The dining room door’s open and I know Welkin and Flindall can see us but I’ve no choice except to move closer so she can wrap her arms round. When I let go and she steps back, I get a whiff of the hot nylon off her stockings. She’s probably walked all the way from the station.
‘It’s good to see you, Patrick.’
‘You too,’ I say.
There’s a coin on the carpet. I bend down to pick it up.
‘Come into the dining room, Mrs Oxtoby,’ says Bridget. ‘Have a cup of tea.’
‘Thank you,’ says my mother. ‘I’m parched.’
Bridget goes into the dining room. My mother turns round and flashes me a quick smile.
I follow them in.
Welkin and Flindall stand and, soon as she’s been introduced, my mother takes a chair and sits down at the table with them.
‘I had a lovely train journey,’ she says.
‘You must have left home awfully early,’ says Welkin.
‘I stopped last night at my god-daughter’s house.’
It’s two hours by train, only one change, but it means she must’ve booked the train soon as I told her I was leaving.
‘Jennifer’s house in St Anne’s?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says my mother. ‘She says hello.’
Her handbag falls from the table. I pick it up and put it in her lap.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say.
I go up to my room and take a pillow and get the ball peen hammer out of my toolkit. I put the pillow on the floor and put a towel over it and bash good and hard. And I count: one fucking stupid bitch, two fucking stupid bitch, three fucking stupid bitch, four fucking stupid bitch.
She’s as good as followed me here and she’s going to be staying not ten miles away.
I hoped when I saw her waving goodbye at the train station, that’d be the last time for a long time.
I go to the table under the window and sit, but I can’t get my breath back. She’ll be down there telling them her hospital stories and they’ll know by now that she’s head surgical nurse, one of the most experienced nurses in England. Jesus. I can already hear her laughing and she’s made them laugh, too.
She’s smart and, if she’s worried they’re not impressed enough, she’ll find a way to tell them that she studied medicine for a year before her youngest son came along rather unexpe
ctedly seven years after two miscarriages, but not unwelcome, of course, not unwelcome.
I go to the bed and lie down and close my eyes and wait for as long as I think it’ll take her to tell her story and drink a few cups of tea. I’ll not begrudge her the story, but I’ll not sit through it either.
I go back down, stand in the dining room doorway.
‘Mum?’ I say.
‘Yes, Patrick?'
Welkin’s got a dirty smirk on his face and Flindall’s sniffing at his unlit cigarette. He looks pretty amused.
‘Let’s go for a walk along the sea,’ I say. ‘It’s a nice day.’
She looks at Welkin as though for his approval.
‘If you’re staying in town, Mrs Oxtoby,’ says Bridget, ‘why don’t you come back here for tea?'
‘That’s a good idea,’ says Welkin. ‘Come for dinner.’
Welkin’ll not have the evening meal known as tea.
‘Maybe I will,’ says my mother.
‘You must,’ says Welkin.
My mother stands and runs her hands along the front of her dress, removes the biscuit crumbs.
‘We’ll see you back here for dinner, then,’ says Welkin.
‘I very much hope so,’ says my mother.
‘Promise you will,’ says Flindall.
They like her, have liked her instantly. She hardly needs to speak and she has everybody liking her.
‘All right,’ she says. ‘I will.’
Bridget walks us to the door.
‘Don’t forget to show your mum the old pavilion,’ she says. ‘It’s very jolly this time of year.’
I take my mother to the bus-stop, left of the boarding house, away from the sea.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she says.
‘And you,’ I say.
I should say a lot more nice things and make her feel welcome, but she’s got to know I don’t want her here.
‘It’s a very nice house.’
‘Yeah.’
‘It must cost a fortune.’
‘I’ll be getting good pay,’ I say. ‘Nearly double what I was getting before.’
What I’ve said is true, and it feels good to say it.
‘That’s great news, Patrick.’
She reaches for my hand, takes hold of it. I don’t mind her doing it, and I like her warm touch, but I let go sooner than I would’ve at home. It’s different now.
