by M. J. Hyland
I leave the office and Hayes is standing right outside.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he says. ‘Anything wrong?'
‘I left something at the pub.’
‘Yeah?'
‘My toolkit.’
‘There’s really no need to lug that thing around,’ he says. ‘We’ve got everything you need here.’
I can’t speak.
‘Was there anything else?’ he says.
‘No.’
I leave.
On the walk home, I’ve got a churning stomach about the kit, an awful nervousness. I go over Hayes’ words and this business with his nephew and the scenes with my mother and I get to wondering what Sarah’s doing and my brain floods with all the sour things it’s been storing up.
I’ve got to think my way out of this panic before it takes hold.
After I’ve called the pub again, I’ll run a hot bath and relax a bit in my room, or maybe have that swim in the sea.
There are no keys on the hooks other than Bridget’s. Unless somebody’s forgotten to put their key on, it’s just me and her.
I take a hat from the coat-rack and try it on. It’s a brown trilby, with a band round the rim made of black felt, and I look at myself in the hallway mirror and I see that it might be true that a good hat can make a short man look taller.
I could wear this one for the drive with Georgia. I’ll ask Bridget if I can borrow it.
‘Well, don’t you look a pretty picture?'
It’s Welkin.
He’s sitting on the landing and he’s with the blonde girl.
I put the hat back on the hook. At least he’s not got Georgia.
‘Glad you approve,’ I say.
‘You look really well in it,’ says the girl.
She’s not wearing her glasses today.
‘Why don’t you leave your dirty overalls at work?’ he says. ‘Why should he?’ says the girl. ‘He looks good. He looks like a painter who paints with engine oil.’
Welkin’s got nothing to say.
I smile at the girl and she smiles at me and I put my shoulders back a bit and head up the stairs.
When I reach the landing, Welkin takes hold of my trouser leg.
‘Were you were thinking of stealing that hat?’ he says.
‘No.’
‘I wouldn’t have picked you for a thief, but then again, you’re the inscrutable type.’
He’s still got hold of my trouser leg.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I say.
‘It means you’re impossibly opaque.’
I’ve a good mind to knee him in the face.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Aren’t you in a fine mood,’ he says.
The girl stands, says, ‘I’ve got to get going.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ says Welkin. ‘I’ll pick you up from school.’
They laugh.
‘Bye bye,’ she says.
We watch her go down to the front door, then Welkin stands and follows me up to my door.
‘Flindall’s leaving for London,’ he says. ‘He’s got a new job.’
The last thing I want is to chat with him, but I’ve got no choice.
‘When?'
‘He had an interview with a big firm. He was offered the job on the spot. A big commission in London. He’s the head architect on a new office building, a bank’s headquarters, as far as I know.’
‘Is he coming back to get his things?'
‘He’s coming back this evening, to say goodbye and all that, but he leaves again in the morning.’
‘Right.’
I search for my key in the pocket of my overalls.
‘Do you want something?’ I say.
He stands close and when he stands close like this I’ve got to look up at him.
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘steady on. I’m only having a bit of fun. Didn’t your grandmother tell you that being teased is a sure sign that somebody likes you.’
‘No, she didn’t,’ I say.
I find the key.
‘You’re in a punchy mood,’ he says. ‘Anything wrong?'
‘No.’
‘How about a drink before dinner then?’ he says. ‘I’ve got a full bottle of whisky and we’ve got to give Flindall a nice farewell.’
Welkin’s either making an offer of friendship or he’s winding me up. I wish I didn’t care either way. The thing is, I do.
‘I’m a bit busy,’ I say.
He sighs. ‘That’s too bad.’
I should’ve gone straight to the pub after work to fetch the toolkit. I could’ve had a few pints by now or I could’ve gone back to the café and asked Georgia to have some tea down the pub with me.
The key’s jammed in the lock.
‘Need a hand there?'
‘Go on, then.’
He has it opened straight away.
‘There!’ he says. ‘Là, ta porte est ouverte.’
He walks into my room as though it’s his room and I’ve no choice but to follow him in.
I stand with my back to the door, put my hands in my pockets, take them out again.
‘Well, I’d better get on with it,’ I say.
He doesn’t bother to ask what I’ve got to do.
‘Surely you’ve got time for a drink,’ he says.
‘No thanks. Maybe tomorrow night.’
‘Listen, Patrick. I think you’ve got me the wrong way. Can we call it a truce?'
‘What for?'
‘I don’t want you thinking ill of me.’
He holds out his hand and I shake it and I know he notices I’ve got a lot of sweat on me. He lets go too quickly.
‘How about after dinner?’ he says. ‘Just a few drinks. And when Flindall gets back, we can toast to his success.’
I suppose I’d like to say goodbye to Flindall.
‘All right.’
He smiles. ‘Come to my room at eight o’clock.’
I go back downstairs and call the pub. There’s no answer. I wait in the sitting room and watch some football. Half an hour later, I call again.
A woman answers.
‘I’ve just come on,’ she says, ‘and I haven’t seen a toolkit.’
‘I’m sure I left it there last night,’ I say.
There’s hot panic come up from the pit of my stomach.
‘I’ll have to check out the back,’ she says.
‘I’ll wait.’
‘I can’t do it now. I’m busy at the bar. I’ll have to wait till somebody else comes on.’
‘Could you check now? It’s a good kit and—'
‘I’m sure it is,’ she says, ‘but I can’t leave the bar now.’
‘I’ll give you my phone number then.’
‘No need,’ she says, ‘call us back in about an hour.’
I go up to my room and mean only to take a small rest, but fall asleep.
I’ve slept through dinner. Bridget’s going to be cross with me because it’s the second time I’ve not told her, and now I’m starving hungry.
I go down in hope of getting some leftovers, but the food’s been cleared.
I go to the phone.
‘I’m calling about the toolkit,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ says the woman, ‘we’ve found it. It was left in the toilets.’
‘Right, I’ll be in to collect it then.’
‘I’ll keep it out the back.’
‘Okay.’
‘You might want to keep a closer eye on it in future,’ she says. I hang up.
At eight, I go to Welkin’s room, knock on his door.
‘Come in!’ he shouts.
I go in, but leave the door open behind me.
‘Take a seat,’ he says, ‘and close the door.’
He’s sitting on the bed by the left-hand wall.
‘Has Flindall come back yet?’ I say.
‘He’s decided to stay in London. He’s not coming back.’
‘What about his things?'
‘B
ridget’s having it all sent down. His new firm’s going to pay for it all. And they’ve given him a three-bed flat right near Green Park.’
‘Right,’ I say.
He picks the bottle of whisky up from the floor and pours me a glass.
‘Take a seat,’ he says.
I don’t sit, but take the glass.
He pats the space next to him on the bed.
‘I can’t stay long,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go out and meet somebody.’
‘You don’t look like you want to be here at all,’ he says.
‘Yeah, I do. But I’ve got to go soon.’
‘Maybe we should do this another time then?'
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh, fuck it,’ he says. ‘Stay a while, Patrick.’
He sounds like he means it, like he wants my company, and I hate myself for being flattered.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tonight,’ I say.
I take a sip of whisky, then hand back the glass.
He’s got a glass in each hand now and he holds up both glasses and brings them together.
‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘Bottoms up!'
He downs the whisky from both glasses.
He’s smiling, but doesn’t look happy.
I’ve got to admit I’m a lot more relaxed in his company now he’s not so cocky.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow night.’
‘Sorry about tonight,’ I say.
‘Never mind. I’m sure I’ll find something to do.’
‘What about your girlfriend?'
‘I’m rather in the mood for some male company tonight,’ he says. ‘Maybe a game of poker, maybe blackjack. That’s the mood I’m in.’
I’m a reasonable poker player and there’s a good chance I’d beat the pants off him.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Maybe I could come back later. This thing I have to do, it’ll only take an hour or so.’
His face lights up.
‘All right. It’s a date. I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you.’
A bus pulls away from the nearest stop. I make a run for it and the driver sees me and, even though he’s a good fifty yards from the stop, he pulls over.
I get on. ‘Thanks,’ I say.
But he doesn’t even look at me, only takes my coins and gives me the ticket.
He’s an old bloke, about sixty, and he’s got a tattoo on the back of his neck. Strange how when someone does a kind or good thing you expect them to be chatty and cheerful and not have tattoos.
‘Anyway, thanks,’ I say.
I sit down the back and can’t keep my eyes off the driver. This old woman gets on and she’s slow dragging her trolley up the steps and the driver shakes his head at her like he wouldn’t mind speeding off and leaving her on the street.
It doesn’t make any sense why he stopped for me and I get tight in my chest with the frustration of watching him and not having any idea what makes a man like that tick. I get to thinking the world would be a better place without the likes of him.
I get off outside the train station and go round to the pub. ‘
What can I get you?’ says the barmaid.
She’s much nicer to look at than I thought she’d be from the sound of her voice.
‘I’ve come about the toolkit.’
‘Oh yeah, you were the one on the phone.’
She yells for a man called Joe and he comes from behind the bar. He’s middle-aged and bald, probably her husband. He’s got a thick gold wedding ring on just like hers.
‘All right?’ he says.
They’re both from up north.
‘I’ll get it for you now,’ says the barmaid.
While we wait, Joe washes glasses and I peel the paper off a beer mat. The barmaid brings the kit. She carries it in one hand as though it weighs nothing.
‘You’re right lucky, you are.’
She laughs and her laughter sounds like coughing. ‘I know.’
‘It were found in the last cubicle,’ she says, ‘squeezed between the wall and the cistern.’
I open the kit on the bar and check to see that everything’s there.
‘Right,’ I say.
‘You’re dead lucky it weren’t nicked,’ says Joe.
‘I know.’
‘Are you stopping for a drink?’ says the barmaid.
‘No, I’ve got to meet somebody.’
‘That’s too bad. Maybe another time?'
‘He might come back and fix some of the plumbing,’ Joe tells her.
He’s wearing one of those thin white shirts with silver lines running through it, like my father wears when he goes to work and, just like my father, his nipples show through.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But I’m not a plumber. I’m a mechanic.’
They both laugh.
I go home.
I’m looking forward to a drink and a game of cards with Welkin. I think tonight, when it’s just the two of us, and him being in the humbler mood he’s in, things might work out, and the chat might be friendly and straightforward.
I go upstairs and knock on his door.
There’s no answer, but the door’s not locked. I go ahead and open it. He’s not in, but the bottle of whisky’s on the draining board and it’s near empty.
I go back to my room and wait.
About ten minutes later, he comes up the stairs.
I give him a minute to get to his room, then I go back out.
I knock, but he doesn’t answer.
I try the handle. It’s locked.
I call his name a few times, but he’s not answering. I go downstairs.
There’s no sign of Bridget and her office door’s locked. I try the kitchen door. It’s open and I go in. She’s not there.
I help myself to a few slices of thick white crusty bread and a lump of cheese, go to the sitting room and get a newspaper, then take the food and newspaper up to my room.
I get into bed, eat and read, get drowsy right away.
Somebody’s knocking on the door.
I check the alarm clock on the headboard. It’s half-midnight.
‘Patrick? It’s Ian. May I come in?'
I get up, put my shirt and trousers on, open the door, switch on the light.
‘Did I wake you?'
He’s wearing his dressing-gown and he’s got bare feet. He’s pretty drunk, not legless, but drunk all the same.
‘Yeah.’
‘Sorry.’
He comes in, walks right by me and sits on my bed.
I cross the room, open the window and sit at the table.
‘How are you?’ he says.
‘I’m not too bad.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my barging in like this.’
‘No. I don’t mind.’
‘Nice day today. Even warmer than yesterday.’
‘Yeah. It was pretty warm.’
He looks down beside the bed. ‘What’s that?’ he says. I get up and walk over. ‘That’s my toolkit.’
‘It’s huge.’
I’m sure he’s seen it before. ‘Yeah, it’s got everything in it.’
He takes my pillow, sits back, puts it behind his back, makes himself nice and comfortable. I stay standing.
‘Do you know a girl called Georgia?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he says. I go over and lean my back against the sink.
‘She works in the café near the chemist.’
‘Does she?’ he says.
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘Have you been in that café?
‘Yes, it’s the only one in town.’
‘Do you go there a lot?'
‘Why don’t you sit down,’ he says. ‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘I’m happy like this.’
He turns round and plumps the pillow.
‘I’ve got this theory,’ he says.
‘Yeah?'
‘I think every man is mistaken about the kind of man he really is.’
>
I say nothing.
‘We never know how we seem to other men,’ he says. ‘I think it’s time you and I did something about it. You tell me what kind of man I am, and I’ll tell you what kind of man you are.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘I’m ready to hear it,’ he says. ‘I think the time’s come for me to hear the truth about the kind of man I really am.’
I say nothing.
‘What do you think of me, Patrick? I want you to tell me what kind of man I am.’
‘Not now,’ I say. ‘Speak, Patrick.’
He lays himself down, sideways, his big hand on his face, supporting his big blond head, his dirty big feet on my sheets.
‘Tell me,’ he says.
I say nothing and go back over to the table, sit down.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Tell me something true, then it’ll be my turn.’
‘I don’t know what I think of you,’ I say.
‘Come on, man. Something. Anything.’
Funny thing is, I’m in the mood to say more. Maybe because he’s drunk, it’s as good as me being a bit drunk and I’d rather have him on my side than not, and it looks like that’s what he wants too.
‘I think you want everybody to like you,’ I say, ‘but you treat people like you own them.’
‘More,’ he says. ‘More.’
‘You’re a bit of a pain in the neck,’ I go on, ‘but I wouldn’t mind a bit of your confidence.’
‘This is good,’ he says. ‘It’s just what I need. Go on.’
I didn’t plan to say this much and it’s given me a sweat but I don’t mind that I’ve said it because I’ve said some of the truth and now it’s out and I see Welkin’s face, all happy with approval, and my chest floods. Even though he’s woken me in the middle of sleep, I’ve got a pretty good feeling right now.
I stand up from the table and go to the sink, lean my back against the draining-board.
Welkin puts his legs over the side of the bed, like he’s ready to stand, but doesn’t.
‘That’s the thing about you,’ he says, ‘you see through me.’
I nod as though I’ve thought the same thought.
‘And I’ve never met anybody like you,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing false about you. I don’t think you know how to hide anything. And I think you’re much smarter than you let on.’
My hands are on my hips. I change them to my pockets.
‘The truth suits you,’ he says. ‘I like you even more now.’
