This Is How

by M. J. Hyland

  I go to the door, don’t mean to leave, don’t know what I mean to do. I turn back and look at her a while longer, wait for something more to happen. But I don’t know what it is I’m waiting for.

  ‘I really am sorry, Patrick. Will you accept my apology?'

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘But it’s him who should apologise.’

  I keep watching her. She starts cutting the bread again, moves the knife back and forth across the bread but the knife doesn’t cut through. The knife’s got more like the bread, the bread more like the knife.

  ‘I can’t concentrate,’ she says.

  ‘Fuck this,’ I say.

  I leave the kitchen, but stop outside in the hallway. A moment later, she comes. We stand together.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t have given him the key.’

  She puts her hand on my arm, looks into my eyes. I’m shaking and hope she can’t feel it.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘That’s okay.’

  She smiles. ‘I’m glad.’

  12

  I go down early for breakfast. Bridget’s set out croissants, sliced meats, two boiled eggs, a half a baguette, toast and jam.

  She’s also left today’s newspaper and a note.

  Good morning Patrick,

  I’m at the shed this morning. I hope you enjoy your breakfast. It’s just like the one you get in a Paris hotel. If you want coffee, help yourself. It’s all set up in the kitchen.

  Ian won’t be down this morning. He’s gone to St Anne’s for the day.

  Best wishes, Bridget.

  I eat alone and make myself right at home. I feel like royalty with the dining room all to myself. I can breathe easier and eating’s easier, too. I wish I had the place to myself every day. It would be just me and Bridget.

  I get to work early, in a good frame of mind. At about half-eleven, I’ll take the Mercedes out and pop down to the bakery and get a picnic for me and Georgia, some nice sandwiches and a few cakes, and pick her up at noon.

  Hayes is sitting at his desk.

  ‘You’re early today.’

  ‘Sorry I was late yesterday,’ I say.

  ‘There’s another Fiat that needs looking at. Check the clutch and the pedal lash.’

  He winks at me, says, ‘And if you find anything else wrong, fix that too.’

  But I won’t do work that doesn’t need doing. I’ll only fix what honestly needs to be fixed.

  I get to work and finish fast.

  At eleven o’clock, I hear somebody out front.

  I stop work and go outside.

  Ben’s hand-washing a car. He’s wasting time with a bucket of soapy water, probably leaving scratches on the paintwork with that dirty old rag.

  ‘All right?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, and you?'

  ‘Yeah. All right.’

  I go back in.

  I’ve nothing left to do, but I’ll not stand idle.

  I sweep the garage floor then go to the tea room, rinse the kettle and cups, wipe the biscuit crumbs from the draining-board.

  I go to Hayes’ office to ask if I can take a bit longer for lunch.

  He gets out from behind his desk, and comes and stands next to me in the doorway.

  ‘Why don’t you go home,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing left for you to do today. We have it all under control.’

  He’s talking about Ben.

  ‘I don’t think we really need anybody else,’ I say.

  He leans his hand against the doorframe, his arm a bar across the entrance. It’s the kind of thing a man does when he wants you to know he’s in charge.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he says.

  I put my hands in my pockets.

  ‘Your nephew,’ I say. ‘There’s probably not enough work for him.’

  ‘I think that’s up to me to decide.’

  He moves his hand lower down the door frame.

  ‘Listen, you’ve still got a job and so has he. I’ve just got to keep all my commitments.’

  I’ve nothing to say.

  ‘And I’m paying you good money, better than you were getting before.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s true, but—'

  He drops his arm, looks at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you Monday.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’ I say.

  ‘No need. Come in on Monday.’

  ‘Eight-thirty sharp,’ I say.

  ‘Right. Or don’t bother coming at all.’

  I laugh as though what he’s said is a joke and go straight out to the tea room.

  I give my hands a good scrubbing with soap and hot water and get rid of most of the oil.

  The Mercedes is ready to go and the keys are in the ignition. I take my overalls off, throw them in the back seat beside my toolkit, get in, start her up and drive out the back way.

  When I stop at the traffic lights I use a bit of spit to get rid of some dirt on my good black slacks and I straighten my shirt collar.

  I don’t care if he’s seen me drive out. Let him. He owes me at least this much. I’ll have the car back in a few hours and in perfect condition.

  It’s a hot day and there are more people out on the street than usual, but I still get a parking space outside the bakery.

  I stand behind a pregnant woman who’s ordering a birthday cake and it’s taking her a long time. She’s got red arms from being out in the sun and right next to her, on the wall, there’s an insect killer called Exocutor. It’s zapping flies while she talks and it’s got a blue light inside a metal cage.

  To stop my nerves and cool down, I go to the ice-cream fridge and take a good look inside.

  When the pregnant woman leaves, I buy two ham and salad sandwiches with extra beetroot and two sponge cakes and two vanilla slices and a big bottle of lemonade. I also get lots of napkins. Women always like to have napkins.

  I get in the car, take the top off, put the radio on. I find a station playing jazz. If there’s not much chat when she first gets in the car, at least there’ll not be silence.

  It’s ten to twelve, but Georgia’s already waiting in the street. She’s not outside the café though. She’s four doors down, outside the pawn shop, standing in the shade.

  I pull up beside her.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  ‘Hop in,’ I say.

  But I’ve not opened the passenger door and, have to lean over to open it for her. I should have got out and done it.

  ‘What a lovely car,’ she says.

  She’s wearing a pink dress with a big V-neck collar and, when she sits down, the skirt rides up.

  ‘You look nice,’ I say.

  ‘Do I?'

  ‘Really nice.’

  ‘I thought we could go to the park,’ I say. ‘It’ll only take about ten minutes to get there.’

  ‘I like that park,’ she says. ‘It’s got a big pond.’

  As soon as we get off the main street, past the station, the road’s empty. I want to put my foot down, open the engine right up, but that might make her nervous. I keep the speed steady and slow and turn the radio up a bit.

  ‘Who owns the car?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. It came in yesterday and I’ve just finished working on it this morning.’

  She’s looking at me, smiling. She’s been looking at me since she got in.

  ‘What kind of car do you have?’ she says.

  ‘I’ve not got one yet, but I’ll soon have a Triumph.’

  ‘A convertible?'

  ‘Yeah.’

  The sun’s streaming in and she’s covered in sun. There’s sun all over her legs and her hair’s shining.

  When we get to the park, I realise I’ve not got a rug. We’ve got nothing to sit on. I tell her and she laughs.

  ‘Isn’t sitting on the hot grass the best thing about a picnic?'

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’

  We find a spot beside the pond, right near where the ducks are. She sits with her legs tucked under her bum and I sit cross-legged.
She’s taller than me like this, so I move my legs under. It’s not long before my knees hurt.

  ‘If it starts raining,’ she says, ‘how long does it take to get the roof back on a car like this?'

  ‘The lid on the Mercedes is back on in less than a minute,’ I say. ‘About forty seconds.’

  ‘That’s fast. It’s like something from James Bond.’

  ‘Do you like those films?'

  ‘I haven’t seen From Russia with Love yet, but I liked Dr No. Have you read the books?'

  The chat flows easily and I don’t even lie to her and tell her I’ve read the books. I tell her I hardly ever read and she seems not to mind.

  She’s put her hand down on the grass so the ants can walk over her fingers.

  ‘You like ants,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. They tickle.’

  I get a crumb and put it on her hand and we wait. We watch an ant pick up the crumb and carry it all the way down her thumb, back onto the grass. We both smile and I’m not nervous. I’m as calm as I got to be after me and Sarah had been on two dates and this is only the first. It turns out Georgia hates beetroot but loves cake and she eats half of my vanilla slice as well as her own. I ask her how she stays so thin and she tells me it’s because she only sleeps five hours. We talk about insomnia and lots of other things. We talk for about half an hour and there’s no awkwardness.

  I ask to look at her watch and when I move in closer and have hold of her wrist, I don’t let go right away. She doesn’t stop me holding her, doesn’t stop me from touching her skin, but she doesn’t encourage me either, and as soon as I move in a bit closer she takes her hand away and starts tidying up the wrappings, puts all the napkins inside the paper bag.

  ‘I hope you won’t be cross with me,’ she says, ‘but I’ve got to get back.’

  ‘It’s not even been an hour yet.’

  ‘I couldn’t get extra time,’ she says. ‘Michelle’s got to leave at one.’

  ‘Why?'

  ‘I didn’t ask her.’

  ‘Do you want me to drive you back now?’

  ‘If that’s all right.’

  She offers to give me money for the picnic and I refuse it.

  There’s more easy chat on the way back to the café and she looks happy. She goes on smiling at me and she laughs at my jokes and she seems to be having a good time. Maybe she wanted to stay longer like me. Maybe next time she’ll let me kiss her.

  ‘Drop me outside the pawn shop,’ she says.

  I pull over and when I stop the engine she stops smiling. It’s as though she’s worried I plan to stay here and make a move, but I was only going to get out and open the door for her.

  Instead I turn the key in the ignition and the engine starts up.

  She opens the door, smiles again.

  ‘I’ve had a really nice time,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry I have to rush off.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Let’s have another picnic,’ she says. ‘When I can get more time off.’

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘That’d be good.’

  I stay parked by the side of the road and wait for her to turn round and wave at me. She doesn’t.

  I take the car back to the garage and park it out front, leave the keys in the ignition, honk the horn loud and sharp to let them know it’s back, then catch the bus home.

  I pay no attention to anything on the bus, couldn’t tell you how many people got on or off, what the driver looked like. Nothing.

  There are no keys on the hooks. I go up to my room, put my toolkit under the bed, change into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and lie on the bed for a bit of a rest.

  The pipes in the wall are groaning again.

  I go down to talk to Bridget about the fact that Welkin’s leaving his tap running.

  She doesn’t answer when I knock. She’s on the phone.

  I knock again when she’s finished, but still she doesn’t answer. I try the door, but it’s locked.

  I go back up to my room and sit at the table, open the window and look out at the sea.

  Bridget’s coming up the stairs. I know it’s her and not Welkin because she uses the banister and it creaks when she leans on it halfway up.

  I rush to straighten the bedclothes and put my shoes on.

  She knocks.

  I open the door.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I forget to tell you,’ she says. ‘I talked to Ian last night about your alarm clock.’

  ‘Yeah?'

  ‘He said it’s about time the three of us had a drink together.’

  ‘Yeah?'

  ‘He’d like to meet in the sitting room tonight. And he wants to apologise and he’d like us to have a drink and he’s going to bring some Cuban cigars.’

  ‘Tonight?'

  ‘Yes. What do you think?'

  I like the idea of sitting with Bridget, that’s for sure, and I wouldn’t mind hearing his apology, wouldn’t mind knowing what the hell he thinks he’s playing at.

  ‘All right,’ I say. ‘That sounds good to me.’

  ‘Eight o’clock then? In the sitting room?'

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘That’s good.’

  She turns and goes.

  I eat dinner alone. Bridget’s made me a fish pie.

  She comes in right after I’ve eaten the last mouthful.

  ‘How was it?'

  ‘The best fish pie I’ve ever had.’

  ‘I caught the fish myself,’ she says.

  I laugh.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ she says. ‘I went out this morning at five.’

  ‘In your boat?'

  ‘Good grief, no. Mine won’t be built for another six months or so.’

  ‘Is yours a fishing boat?’

  ‘It’s a sailing boat.’

  I nod.

  ‘A twelve-foot, gaff-rigged sloop,’ she says.

  I don’t know what a sloop is.

  ‘That’s a small boat?'

  ‘But it’s going to be a beauty.’

  ‘Can I see it?'

  ‘In the shed you mean?'

  She thinks on it.

  ‘You could come with me after breakfast on Sunday.’

  I might have Georgia with me then. I’ve been thinking I could go to the café tomorrow night and ask her out for a drink. On Sunday morning we might want to stay in my room all cosy under the blankets after I’ve brought her up her breakfast.

  ‘So, will you come?’ says Bridget.

  I suppose I could see Georgia on Sunday night. She might prefer that, might prefer it if I wait a while before asking her out again.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

  She picks up my dirty plate.

  ‘Don’t forget to be in the sitting room at eight,’ she says.

  I have a rest after dinner then wash and change into my best clothes.

  At eight, I go to the sitting room.

  I’m the first to arrive.

  I open the window and sit in the armchair closest to the fireplace.

  Bridget comes in.

  ‘Good evening, Patrick.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I like your blue shirt,’ she says. ‘You look dashing.’

  She’s wearing a knee-length black dress and high-heeled brown boots with pointy toes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You look dashing too.

  ’ She smiles. ‘Shall I open the brandy now?’

  ‘Good idea,’ I say.

  She looks at the clock, then goes to the cabinet.

  ‘That dress suits you,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you. I bought it last week. It’s not too short?’

  ‘It’s definitely not too short.’

  She gives me a glass of brandy and sits on the settee.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘how’s your new job?'

  ‘It’s first-rate,’ I say. ‘I’ve already got some praise from one of our best customers.’

  ‘You must be doing a great job.’

  �
��I don’t know about that, but I like it when people comment on my work.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s always nice.’

  She looks at the door.

  ‘Ian said he’d be back from St Anne’s by eight.’

  ‘What about you?’ I say. ‘Do you like your job?'

  ‘Very much,’ she says.

  ‘Is there anything else you want to do?'

  ‘What do you mean?'

  ‘I don’t know. A different job?'

  ‘I’ve always liked taking photographs,’ she says. ‘I did a course a few years ago and I’ve thought about converting the box-room on the third floor into a dark room.’

  ‘If you did,’ I say, ‘I could help you out. With the set-up and all that.’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  She smiles at me, but has no more to say.

  I do as she does and look at the door.

  ‘What do you take photos of?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, the sea usually, and boats. Sometimes the sky. That kind of thing.’

  ‘What about portraits?'

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the confidence for that.’

  She gets up and pours us each another glass of brandy.

  ‘I’ll light the fire,’ she says.

  I hope Welkin doesn’t come.

  ‘Do you think it’s silly to light a fire when it isn’t cold out?’ she says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I think it’s a good idea.’

  I watch her pile up old newspapers and sticks and briquettes. ‘Do you want me to help?’

  ‘No need.’

  She has it done, sits again.

  The front door opens and closes and there are slow footsteps going up to the first floor, the sound of somebody moving back and forth across the landing, from bedroom to bathroom, opening and closing doors. We both know it’s Welkin, but we don’t say it.

  ‘Do you play the piano?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘but I’m thinking of learning the guitar.’

  ‘Ian plays the piano,’ she says. ‘Maybe he’ll play something for us tonight.’

  Welkin’s not in the room but he might as well be. We’re in the company of his absence.

  ‘I think you should take portraits,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I think you’d be good at it. You make people feel comfortable.’

  The booze is warm in my throat and chest and the pains have gone.