by M. J. Hyland
‘I’m happy to go on,’ I say.
‘No need,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing left to do.’
He walks away before I’ve a chance to ask him if he’s pleased with what I’ve done with the MGB and the Peugeot. When I worked for Dean, he used to give me a pat on the back when my work was good.
I catch the bus home and talk myself through what I did this morning before I left the house. I’m pretty sure I left the toolkit by my bed, that I had to put it down to get my key out to lock the door.
When I’ve settled my head, I get to thinking I’ll come back into town after tea and ask Georgia to have a drink with me. I should’ve gone to the café last night and we would’ve gone for a nice meal together instead of me drinking alone at the station pub.
Welkin’s at the front gate with a girl. She looks to be about eighteen, wears red-framed glasses. She’s very pretty. He sees me and grins, his mouth plump with happiness.
‘Bonjour, he says. ‘Comment ça va, Par-trick? Je suis ravi!’
The girl and Welkin, they’ve got the same kind of hair, blond and healthy, and they’ve both got blue eyes.
Welkin puts his hands under the girl’s armpits, lifts her high, spins her round. She’s wearing a tight T-shirt and a short skirt and she’s got a nice body, small firm breasts. She dangles from him, laughing, happy for him to throw her round even though it probably hurts.
I say nothing and go past.
The girl laughs, ‘Do it again,’ she says, ‘but mind my glasses.’ So, she’s having some fun all right.
On the way upstairs, I get a whiff of the food Bridget’s making. Smells like roast beef and onion.
I go to my room and see that my toolkit’s right inside the door. My relief’s so good I get my appetite back straight away. But I’ve got a lot of time to kill before tea, so I might as well go to the window and watch them.
I open the curtains, stand well back, and look down. Welkin’s much taller than the girl and he leans down, says something into her ear. She turns round and he grabs hold of her wrists, rough and hard, pulls her body into his and thrusts his hips in and out.
It’s like seeing a dog all over a rabbit.
I close the curtains and go to my bed.
I’m down ten minutes early for dinner and sit at the table under the bay window.
Bridget comes in. She’s wearing a low-cut blouse and she’s got her hair tied back in a red-and-black polka-dot scarf.
‘You’ll need to tell me when you’re not stopping for dinner,’ she says.
‘I told Welkin last night.’
‘Did you?'
‘Yeah. I told him to tell you.’
Silence.
‘Shaun’s gone to London,’ she says. ‘He’s got a business meeting there.’
‘Right,’ I say.
She stands opposite, smiles, looks right at me, makes proper eye-contact.
‘And Ian’s not coming down tonight. He’s going out for dinner.’
‘It’s just me and you, then.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and get your tea.’
When she comes back in, I’ll get some chat going.
She comes back with my food. ‘What is it?'
‘Steak and kidney pie, mash, peas and carrots.’
She puts the plate down, careful.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Happy?'
‘Happier than a pig in shit.’
She steps back from the table.
‘Why do people say that?’ she says.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It just popped out.’
‘I’m not offended. I just wonder why people say it. Are pigs so happy?'
‘No,’ I say. ‘But sometimes they roll onto their backs and when somebody rolls round like that we think they’re happy.’
Jesus. I’ve just embarrassed myself, made my ears and neck go hot.
‘And their tails are curly,’ she says. ‘And they snort like people do when they laugh. Maybe that’s why.’
She’s not embarrassed. It’s only me.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re dead right.’
She pours me a glass of water, gives me a napkin. I’ve got a chance here to use one of the biggest words I know.
‘It’s called anthropomorphism when we do that,’ I say. ‘When we compare the things animals do with the things humans do.’
‘I haven’t heard that word since school,’ she says. ‘It’s a nice one.’
‘But hard to say.’
‘You said it perfectly.’
This is good, this is.
Her mood’s friendlier with me now, a bit more like it was on the first night, and she looks at me longer than usual, like she’s fond of me.
The sun’s coming in through the window and her face is all lit up. She looks lovely.
‘I’m happy,’ I say.
She puts her hand on her heart and gives me a big smile and I’m reminded of when I told the girl in the theatre foyer that I was nervous and how the truth got a good reaction out of her as well.
‘People hardly ever say that,’ she says. ‘They’ll soon enough tell you when they’re not happy, but rarely the other way round.’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
But now, just like that, smack in the middle of the good, warm feeling, the chat’s suddenly stopped and she looks away and it’s like a cloud’s passed over.
She picks up the tray and holds it in front of her chest.
‘Don’t let your tea go cold,’ she says. ‘Go ahead and start.’
I cut the pie open, but she doesn’t leave.
She moves things on the sideboard.
I wish like hell I could think of something new to say instead of this silence and eating alone, with her in the room, not watching, but listening.
I should tell her I like being mothered by somebody who isn’t my mother, that I like the way she puts her finger between her teeth when she can’t find something, that I like that she’s spending a lot more time in here than she needs to. I’d like to tell her she’s got one of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen and that I love the way her breasts don’t wobble even though they’re big.
‘You could open your own restaurant,’ I say.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘But this is enough cooking for me.’
I should ask if she’ll have a drink with me. And why not right here? We don’t need to go out to the pub. Flindall’s gone and Welkin’s leaving soon. We can stay here, just the two of us.
She’s finished stacking the plates on the sideboard.
‘Do you have everything you need?’ she says.
I’ve a mind to rush to my feet and kiss her on the neck.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
‘You don’t have to go.’
‘I’ve some things that need doing.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Busy as a frog in a sock.’
‘That’s it.’
She leaves.
No matter.
We’ll soon be alone.
I could go out to the off-licence and buy a nice bottle of sherry or port for us to share. I’ll bet she likes sherry and port.
After I’ve eaten the pie, I go up to my room to wait for Welkin to leave. I finish hanging my clothes in the cupboard and tidy my toolkit. When everything’s in order, I put the kit back under my bed, but leave it sticking out a bit, like I always leave it, with the handle facing out, ready for me to pick up in the morning.
It’s half-seven when I’ve finished doing these things.
I should’ve got a newspaper. I don’t know what to do to kill time indoors. I’ve never been good at it, have always been bad at doing nothing, even worse at waiting.
I lie on the bed a while and look up. I keep on looking even though there’s nothing to see but a freshly painted white ceiling.
It’s eight o’clock.
Welkin’s still in the house and the pipes in the wall are squealing.
I g
o out.
The bathroom door’s wide open.
He’s not here, but the hot tap’s running. The bath’s near full and the air’s full of steam. He’s got it working and I can’t.
I turn off the tap and go back down the hall to my room and sit on the bed and do nothing but listen to the pipes clicking and groaning.
Welkin’s door opens and closes.
I go back out, pass his room, down the hall to the bathroom.
He’s leaning against the sink and he’s got the bath plug in one hand, the other hand down the front of his pyjama bottoms.
He takes his hand out.
‘Hello, Par-trick,’ he says. ‘How go things?’
He’s waiting for the bath to empty.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Things go well.’
I’ve made my voice posher like his.
He takes a clean towel from the linen closet and spreads it across the tiled floor and stands his dirty feet on it.
‘Why didn’t you take that bath? I say.
‘The water went a bit cold. I like it nice and hot.’
I say nothing.
‘Well, then,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ve got a date.’
‘Yeah?'
‘She’s about six foot tall and she’s got the best pair of pins I’ve ever seen and the most gorgeous olive skin. A Spaniard, I think. We’re going to a flashy restaurant.’
Georgia?
I’ve got short of breath, like I’ve been running.
‘But what about the girl outside? The one I saw you with earlier.’
He laughs. ‘She had to go back to school. She’s a bad girl and she’s got detention.’
‘What kind of hair does she have? The girl you’re seeing tonight?’
‘Who cares what colour hair she’s got? She’s tall as an Amazon and she’s got great pins.’
‘Right.’
He passes the bath plug from one hand to the other.
‘But I must admit,’ he says. ‘I usually prefer the shorter ones. Nice and portable.’
‘Right.’
He throws the bath plug at me.
I catch it neat.
‘Good catch,’ he says.
I throw it back.
He catches it neat.
I leave.
On the way back down the hall, I stop to look inside Welkin’s room. It’s bigger than mine and he’s got two single beds, pushed together but made separately.
At the end of one of the beds he’s got a white screen like doctors have in surgeries, made of a thin and papery material.
I go back to the bathroom.
‘Have you got anything to drink?’ I say.
‘Sure, my friend. In my bar fridge. Help yourself.’
My friend.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘And I’ve a few bottles of the hard stuff in the cupboard under the sink. We’ll settle the bill later.’
He’s got a half-dozen bottles of beer in his fridge, a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates. In the cupboard, three bottles of whisky and two of gin.
I take two bottles of beer and the champagne to my room and put the champagne in the sink after I’ve filled it with cold water, then bring the beer down to the sitting room.
I take a copy of yesterday’s newspaper from the magazine rack, but I can’t concentrate. My legs are hot and restless. I change to the armchair by the window, but all I can manage is a short article about a snooker tournament. John Pulman’s won again.
I finish the first beer fast and it’s doing a good job of getting rid of the pains in my neck and I’m starting to feel better about the night.
The phone in the hallway rings.
Welkin runs down the stairs and answers it.
I’ve got the door closed and can’t hear what he says.
He hangs up, comes into the sitting room.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘I was going to turn on the TV.’
Bridget’s coming down the hall and neither of us speaks while we wait for her.
She comes in, but she doesn’t look at me, only looks at him. She’s got her hair out loose and she’s got red lipstick on.
She speaks to Welkin. ‘I thought you were going out on a date, love?'
‘She just cancelled,’ he says. ‘And she fed me a rotten lie about a sick cousin.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t a lie,’ she says. ‘It’s the second time she’s cancelled.’
‘Were you keen on her?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Ah, love,’ she says. ‘What a shame. And you were looking forward to going to that lovely new restaurant.’
Welkin pouts.
‘I won’t cry,’ he says, ‘unless you tell me there’re plenty more fish in the sea.’
‘Well, there are.’
‘I don’t want fish.’
‘Poor dejected monkey,’ she says.
Welkin laughs, then stands, goes to her.
‘Want to hug a monkey?’ he says.
She thinks on it.
‘A poor dejected monkey?'
They go ahead and embrace, and me sitting right here.
Bridget’s got her back to me and Welkin’s facing me and he’s got his eyes open with a hard stare and, when he pulls her in tight, he’s looking right into my eyes, one hand high on her back, one down the bottom of her spine.
‘Mmmm,’ he says.
He takes hold of her hair like it’s a piece of rope.
‘Mmmm,’ he says. ‘You’re a lovely one for hugging.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘That’s enough.’
She turns away and she’s blushing crimson.
‘I’d better go,’ she says.
She goes out.
Welkin looks at me and shrugs.
I go up to my room, close the curtains and sit at the table. I take off my trousers and I’ve thoughts of holding Bridget, without speaking, grabbing hold of her as she walks by, and for a minute we’re at it against the banister.
But it’s no good. I keep seeing Welkin’s dead eyes, the way he looked right at me while he held her. He’s downstairs, but it’s just the same as if he were standing inside my room, laughing without opening his mouth, then saying some cocksure thing in French.
The front door slams.
I open the curtains an inch and watch him leave, walk towards the bus-stop.
I dress, wash my hands, wait a few minutes, then go down.
Bridget’s sitting on the settee, her stockinged feet up on a pouf. The TV’s on, the sound turned down low.
‘Hello, Patrick.’
‘Hello.’
She takes her feet off the pouf, slides them back into her flat shoes. She was wearing heels when Welkin hugged her. ‘I thought you were busy,’ I say.
‘I’m just taking a little break,’ she says. ‘There’s a picture I really want to see starting in a few minutes.’
She looks back to the TV.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I think I’ll just read the newspaper for a while,’ I say.
Although it’s still light out, she’s drawn the curtains. The air’s stuffy and there’s the smell of sweat from her feet.
I turn on the lamp and sit in the armchair nearest the window.
The TV’s tuned to a game show. She turns up the volume.
‘I like watching people win things,’ she says. ‘I can always tell I’m in low spirits if I can’t be happy for somebody winning something.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say.
The contestant’s a middle-aged man with a stout belly. He sits on a backless stool and his feet don’t reach the bottom rung. The prize is a fridge and it spins to the sound of tinny music on a slow carousel in the middle of the studio floor. He doesn’t win the fridge and I don’t feel sorry for him.
‘What a pity,’ I say.
‘It was only a fridge,’ she says.
She stares at the screen.
I wish she
’d talk more.
There’s a blowfly and it’s buzzing behind her head and it circles her face, goes after the sweet soft skin on her cheeks, but she isn’t bothered. It’s just as though she doesn’t notice.
I get up and go after the fly with a newspaper, hit the lampshade.
‘Leave it,’ she says. ‘It’s not bothering me.’
I sit.
‘I can’t stand flies,’ I say. ‘I can’t be in the same room with them. They take up so much… ‘ I fold the newspaper. ‘What?’ she says.
‘They take up so much of everything, they take the air out of the room, with their noise and the beating of their fat bodies all over the walls and sucking on your skin.’
She goes on looking at the TV.
‘They don’t bother me,’ she says. ‘And they only tickle. They don’t suck.’
She won’t look at me.
I move forward in the armchair, so I’m closer to her.
‘Who knows what flies are doing,’ I say, ‘when they land on your face or hands and twitch their legs and make their wings vibrate. They’re probably sucking. For all we know, that’s exactly what they’re doing.’
She ignores me, watches the commercial break.
Somebody’s yelling at us about soap powder, shouting that it makes whites whiter than white.
At last, she turns to face me.
‘Patrick. If I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve been drinking.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘You’re in a strange mood.’
You all want me to talk more, and when I do this is what happens. I can’t keep up with life.
‘It’s only that I don’t like insects, especially flies. I wouldn’t take it personally.’
She laughs, but it’s not a nice sound. It’s nervous and brittle. ‘I didn’t take it personally,’ she says. ‘I only thought it was a bit of an outburst. That’s all.’
‘There must be things that get on your goat,’ I say.
‘I suppose.’
‘Give me an example.’
I know she likes being asked questions. Everybody does.
Sure enough, she looks at me, smiles. ‘Let me think.’
I let her think, stop myself filling in the silence by counting the knobs on the TV.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I suppose parents being cruel to their children, you know, when they hit them and scream at them in the street and your blood boils just knowing that right in front of you a life’s on its way to being destroyed, then the next generation and the one after that…’
