by M. J. Hyland
‘Goodness,’ she says. ‘And here I was thinking you weren’t happy.’
I’m standing close and wish she’d just go ahead and touch me. I bet if I were Welkin she’d put her hand on my arm.
‘I’m not unhappy,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had no hot water,’ she says. ‘I’m going to adjust the thermostat now.’
She walks to the kitchen.
I think to follow her so as we can keep chatting, but my breath’s got short.
I won’t say the right things.
I go upstairs, sit at my window and look out at the sea. It’s only just gone five o’clock and I get to thinking I should take a swim. It’s still warm and there’s a good clear sky and lots of light.
I’ve changed into my togs and I’ve got my towel in my bag but on the way out I meet Welkin coming up the stairs.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Hello.’
I scratch my shoulder so as to have something to do with my hands. He steps round me. ‘May I take a look in your room?'
‘Now?'
‘If that’s all right with you.’
I open the door and he walks right in. His trousers are hitched high and there’s a lot of length between his crotch and belt, but he stands next to my bed as though he’s king of the world.
‘It’s the same as my room, only a bit smaller,’ he says.
‘I’d rather have the view,’ I say.
‘I can see your point,’ he says. ‘With the sky outside and the view of the sea, it doesn’t so much matter if the room’s small.’
‘Right,’ I say.
I put my hands in my pockets then take them out again.
He’s having a good look round and he sees my toolkit.
‘What’s that?'
‘My toolkit.’
‘Did you paint it yourself?'
‘Yeah.’
‘You like fire-engine red then?’
‘Yeah. When I was younger I did.’
‘It’s pretty big.’
‘It’s a complete set.’
I’ve got everything in that kit. More than five years worth of collecting. My adjustable spanner, ball peen hammer, pliers, socket set, hackshaw frame, feeler gauges and distributor contact spanners.
‘May I take a look?'
‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to get going now.’
He leaves.
I’ll not bother with the swim. The pain in my neck’s come back. A drink’s what I want, and after a few I’ll go back to the café and see if the waitress wants to chat.
I lock the door and undress to my underpants, get on the floor, do fifty press-ups, fifty sit-ups and, after a quick wash and shave in cold water, change into a clean shirt and trousers.
On the way out, I look in the long mirror that’s inside the cupboard door. I’m skinny but I’m not a runt and I’ve got good strong arms and a bit of character in my face. I’m not as good-looking as Flindall, but I’m not ugly either. When my ears are covered with my hair and when I straighten up, put my shoulders back, and smile a bit, I’m definitely better looking than Welkin.
If all goes to plan, I’ll ask the waitress to the pub. We could eat a pub meal together, and if she wanted to come back here it’s a better place to bring a girl than my room at home and she’s sure to like the fresh linen and the full English breakfast that I’ll bring her while she’s still in bed.
I go the long way into town, down by the sea. The waves are bigger than they were yesterday, there are more people on the beach and the sun’s bright and hot.
Before the café, I go to the pub across the road.
It’s noisy and dark and I’m surprised to see so many people standing at the bar. My heart pumps faster.
The barman nods. ‘What’ll it be?'
‘A double whisky, no rocks.’
The girl on my right turns to face me.
‘You sounded like an American when you said that,’ she says.
She must be drunk. Her bare arm’s touching mine.
‘I like saying it,’ I say.
She’s young but she wears too much make-up, a bit like a prostitute, but I don’t think she is one. There’s a smell of soap coming off her short red hair and she’s fair-skinned with a few dark freckles on her nose.
The barman gives me the drink and she watches me like she’s watching the TV.
‘Have you been to America?’ she asks.
‘Not yet.’
I should ask her name.
She puts her left hand up to her mouth and holds it there for no good reason except to show me she’s not married.
‘I haven’t seen you before,’ she says.
‘And I haven’t seen you.’
The barman takes my empty glass. ‘Another?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Same again.’
‘Same again, Sam,’ says the girl.
I look at her properly, in the eyes, and smile, but not too much, not so as to make an arse of myself.
‘What’re you drinking?’ I say.
‘I’ll have the same as you if that’s all right, but lots of rocks for me.’
She talks like she’s used to having attention paid to what she says.
I hand the money over to the barman for both drinks.
‘Not necessary,’ she says.
She reaches for her purse.
The barman’s twenty-odd, with a shaved head, like an army geezer. He pours two doubles and, soon as the drinks are on the bar, he starts chatting to the freckled girl like he owns her.
‘Here’s one you’ll not have heard before,’ he says. ‘Did you know that coconuts kill more people than sharks?'
The girl laughs and so do the two men standing on my left.
‘How many get killed?’ I say. ‘How many people get killed by coconuts?'
The barman doesn’t answer and the girl turns away from me, turns to her friend.
‘He’s always got the most amazing facts,’ she says to her friend, then to the barman, ‘you’ve always got the most amazing facts.’
The barman smiles and nods.
I’m ready to ask for another double, then once I’ve had it, I’d better work on grabbing the girl’s attention, or head over to the café. One or the other.
But I don’t get that far.
Welkin comes from behind and hits me hard on the arm with a clenched fist.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ he says.
I put my hand on my throat so I can speak without him seeing I’ve got to swallow my nerves.
‘Just got here,’ I say.
‘Looks like the whole town’s here tonight,’ he says.
‘Is this your regular?'
‘There are only two pubs here. This one, or the Ducie Arms with sticky carpet behind the station.’
‘So this one’s better, then?'
‘Much better. Better ale and better whisky and better everything.’
He looks over my shoulder at the freckled girl.
‘But since you’re all alone,’ he says, ‘why don’t you come over and sit with me and Flindall?'
‘All right.’
This might be the time we clear the air a bit, get some friendship going between us.
I sit opposite Welkin and Flindall so I’m facing the bar and can watch the girl talking to the barman.
‘What kind of car does a mechanic drive?’ says Flindall.
They can’t have been here long, but Flindall’s already got bloodshot eyes from the drink.
‘I don’t have a car yet,’ I say, ‘but if I count my pennies I should have one soon.’
I’ve sounded like an old woman.
‘I used to have a car,’ says Welkin, ‘but my kid brother smashed it.’
We talk for a while more about cars and car crashes and the chat’s easy and my mood’s good.
Welkin gets onto the subject of Bridget.
‘She’s not had a man since her husband got killed.’
‘That’s what she says,�
� says Flindall.
‘She’s not a fashion model,’ says Welkin, ‘but she’s got serious grace.’
‘And considerable charm,’ says Flindall.
I ask them if they think Bridget likes her job. Welkin makes a crack that she must do because she has an endless supply of young men, and they laugh.
‘What was the other boarder like?’ I say.
‘He had to leave at short notice,’ says Welkin.
‘What happened?’ I say.
‘It was personal,’ says Flindall. ‘He wouldn’t tell us.’
‘When he left he did it in an awful hurry,’ says Welkin. ‘In the week before he left, he went about the house like a ghoul.’
‘He just stopped talking,’ says Flindall.
‘Anyway,’ says Welkin, turning to Flindall, ‘he was a bit like that schizophrenic who got sent down at Cambridge. Remember the one I told you about?'
I look over at the bar and see the barman’s put his hand on the girl’s arm.
I try to get back into the conversation with a bit more chat about cars and they both seem impressed enough with my knowledge and the whisky’s killed the pain in my shoulder.
‘What kind of car are you going to get?’ says Flindall.
‘A Triumph TR4.’
‘Right,’ says Welkin. ‘That’s a very nice car.’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
They start up about London again and I don’t bother trying to get back in.
I can see the girl’s leaning in close to the barman, her breasts squashed right down on the bar so as she can reach over to him. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to meet somebody.
I can’t stay.’
‘So soon?’ says Welkin.
I stand. ‘See you back at the house.’
‘All right, Patrick,’ he says. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye now,’ says Flindall.
They ask me nothing, not interested in who I’m meeting, where I’ve got to go.
I go down the main street and cross over to the café. My heart’s beating pretty fast, but I’m ready now, and I’m keen to see her again.
I go in, and there’s a different waitress. She’s about fifty and she’s wearing a dirty apron. I sit and order a coffee.
The coffee comes, but there’s still no sign of the other waitress.
The new waitress asks if I want anything to eat. ‘No, thanks.’
I get up to pay the bill before I’ve finished the coffee.
‘I was wondering where the other waitress is,’ I say.
‘She’s taking a few hours off.’
‘Right. What time does she come back?'
‘She’ll be back in the morning.’
I nod.
‘Do you want to leave a message?’
‘No. I’ll come back tomorrow.’
I go round to the pub behind the station and stand at the bar and drink another whisky, but my mood doesn’t go back up to where it was when I was first chatting to the freckled girl or crossing the road to see the waitress.
The two women in here are too old and dried up from the fags and booze and their voices are sharp and loud.
I speak to nobody and drink for an hour, walk back to the house, go in quietly, straight up the stairs to my room.
I’m in bed and near sleep when they come crashing through the door. I’ve forgotten to put the latch on.
I sit up, pull the sheet over my chest, try to make my face look more awake.
‘He’s in the bloody bed,’ says Flindall.
They’ve switched the light on.
‘Come down with us to the sitting room and have some more beer,’ says Welkin.
‘You could’ve knocked,’ I say.
‘Dead right,’ says Welkin. ‘But Flindall couldn’t find the knocker.’
‘Turn the light off,’ I say.
‘It was already on,’ says Flindall.
‘What time is it?'
‘Half-eleven.’
‘I might give it a miss,’ I say.
‘We absolutely forbid you from staying alone in your cot,’ says Welkin. ‘You can’t go to bed before midnight. It’s obscene.’
‘The very opposite of supreme,’ says Flindall.
‘Supreme’s enemy,’ says Welkin.
I’ll not get back to sleep now.
‘What’ve you got to drink?’ I say.
‘Three bottles of beer.’
‘One each,’ says Flindall. ‘Come on,’ says Welkin. ‘Have a beer with us.’
I get out of bed and they watch me put my shirt and trousers on.
We go down.
Welkin takes the settee and Flindall sits in the armchair facing him.
I sit in the second armchair, between them.
Welkin and Flindall are pissed and talking shite and there’s a load of in-jokes about mutual friends from college and the more exciting stuff that’s going on down in London.
I’m damned sick of being counted out of the London talk, but I know a man’s got to show he can stomach being cut out and I can’t say I’m going back to my room.
When I was a kid I stayed for a night at Daniel’s house. Geoff was there too. There were two single beds, one of them a foldaway that his mother had wheeled in, and when it was time to sleep Daniel said, ‘You have to choose, Patrick. Who do you want to sleep with?'
‘I think I’ll go home,’ I said.
They laughed at me.
‘Just choose where you want to sleep,’ said Daniel.
I chose Geoff, but once I’d made my decision he didn’t seem sure he wanted me to share with him. He looked at the floor as though that’s where I should go but I stripped down to my underpants and got into bed with him, my head near his toes, and he turned to face the wall and had nothing more to say to me.
Welkin and Flindall are still talking about London and their college days and I go on trying to add to the general thrust, but the beer’s run out, my tongue’s tied. I can’t get back in. I’ve no choice but to clear out.
‘I think I’ll hit the sack now,’ I say.
They don’t protest.
Welkin escorts me to the door.
‘What happened to your mother?’ he says. ‘We thought she’d be here for dinner tonight.’
‘She wasn’t feeling well.’
‘That’s no good,’ he says. ‘I was looking forward to a few more blood ‘n’ guts hospital stories.’
‘She’ll be all right,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Perhaps she’ll come another time. She’s a handsome woman.’
‘A damned sight more handsome than yours,’ says Flindall.
‘Not that you’d know,’ says Welkin. ‘She’s not ever followed me here, has she?'
Welkin laughs without opening his mouth. I don’t laugh.
‘Thanks for the beer,’ I say.
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Welkin.
When he says this, the way he says it, it’s as though he’s my friend, as though he wants me to stay, as though he likes me.
I get into bed and close my eyes but I won’t sleep till they’ve finished.
About a half-hour’s gone when they come up the stairs.
They stop outside my door, the two of them there, silent, as though waiting for something.
I get up, put my trousers on, turn on the light. I’m ready for them. When they come, I’ll ask them what the hell they think they’re playing at.
But they don’t bother me.
They go to Welkin’s room.
I get into bed and try for sleep, but can’t. They’ve got more booze in there and the two of them are laughing and shouting.
If Bridget’s home, they’ll have woken her.
I dress and go out to the hall and knock on Welkin’s door.
He answers. ‘Hello, Par-trick.’
‘You’re making an awful racket,’ I tell him.
He says nothing and this makes me say more than I’ve wanted.
‘I don’t mind if you have
a bit of fun, but I have to get up for work tomorrow.’
He laughs through clenched teeth. ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
‘Right.’
He smiles. ‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘I’d rather not,’ I say.
‘Come on. Have some fun. Relax for once.’
Fuck you.
I go back to my room, slam the door so hard it ricochets open and I’ve got to slam it a second time. A few minutes later, there’s silence.
It worked.
They’ve shut up.
I’ve shut them up.
I sleep a good sleep.
7
I’ve woken at half-six.
At home, I used to sometimes wake at dawn and listen to the first bus pull up outside my window. I’d daydream about getting on board with that airport mood I had when I went to Dublin with my gran, with my bags all packed and ready to go, but now I’ve got on a bus with my bags all packed, I don’t bother with that line of thought. It’s not something worth imagining any more.
I go down for breakfast.
Bridget’s setting the tables.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
‘Morning.’
I sit at the table under the open bay window and listen to the sea, the gulls squealing.
‘It’ll have to be a cold breakfast,’ she says.
‘Why’s that?'
‘Breakfast is served at eight-thirty on weekends. You’re too early.’
‘I thought you said I could have breakfast early if I wanted to.’
‘I don’t think we agreed to that.’
‘I wake early,’ I say. ‘I always eat breakfast before eight o’clock.’
‘I’m as busy as a frog in a sock,’ she says.
I stand.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
I’ve told her I’m sorry when I’ve nothing to be sorry for.
I go to the front door without saying goodbye, as though this is the way to show my strength.
It’s a cold, bright morning and I walk along the water’s edge with my hands outstretched. There’s nobody but that old man with his small white dog to see me.
I go to the café.
There are four people, each of them alone, at four separate tables.
I stand by an empty booth and the lovely waitress comes from the kitchen carrying two plates.
‘Hello,’ she says.
‘Hello.’
It takes me too long to realise I’m standing in her way. ‘Take a seat,’ she says.
