Three to See the King

by Magnus Mills

  The clanging of Simon's bell interrupted my reverie. A breeze was getting up, but I noticed the shutters on the house were all wide open, which must have created quite a draught. Then 1 heard a joyful cry from within. This told me there would he no need to knock.

  'Oh hello!' called Simon as he threw open the door. 'Come in! Come in! This is a pleasant surprise!'

  I knew for a fact that he would have been watching through the shutters from the moment I appeared in the distance, but I said nothing as I had no wish to contradict him. He held the door open with one hand, and shook mine with the other. At the same time I remembered a feature of his house that I could never quite understand. For some reason he had the door opening outwards, which seemed to me a most inconvenient arrangement. It meant he had to reach right round the outside to close it whenever it was hooked open, or else there was a risk of it slamming shut when it wasn't. Much better, surely, to have the door swinging into the house. Then it could be open and closed with ease, and the flow of air regulated as required. Simon's insistence on having an outward-opening door only served to substantiate my judgement that he just wanted to be different from everyone else. To be fair on him, though, he was always a most genial host. As soon as we were inside he had me sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of me.

  'Well, well,' he kept saying. 'Lovely to see you. Lovely to see you!'

  As a gift for Simon I'd brought along a set of wind chimes, and I now presented them to him formally.

  'You could hang them up beside your bell,' I suggested. To keep it company.'

  'Thank you,' he replied. 'Yes, excellent idea.'

  'Speaking of which,' I continued. 'Did you know I had a guest?'

  'At your house of tin?' he asked.

  'Yes,' I replied. 'Of course.'

  'Sorry for asking, but. . . it's just that I rarely have visitors here . . . and . . . well . . . who is it?'

  'This woman I know.'

  'A woman?' Instantly he sprang to his feet, went to the nearest shutter and looked out. 'Is she there now?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'But you can't see her from here.'

  'Well, you must bring her over!'

  'Why don't you come to mine instead? You can keep her company.'

  'Alright, I will, yes.'

  He had a bag packed within minutes. Then he closed down the stove so that it would go out of its own accord, fastened down all the shutters and lowered his flag. Soon after that we were on our way back to my house. Most of the journey he didn't speak at all, which was unlike him, but as we got nearer he finally broke his silence.

  'By the way,' he asked. 'What's your guest's name?'

  'Mary Petrie,' I said. 'Do you know her?'

  'No, no,' he replied. 'I don't know any women.'

  The instant we went through the door I remembered I hadn't told her I was bringing someone back with me. She was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down on us.

  This is Simon Painter,' I explained. The person I went to see this morning.'

  'He's got an overnight bag,' she replied.

  'Yes, he's come to stay for a while.'

  'Pleased to meet you,' said Simon.

  'Pleased to meet you,' she answered, without looking at him.

  At this moment Simon displayed a flair for diplomacy which I didn't know he had, and stepped outside again.

  'Oh marvellous view!' we could hear him saying. 'Absolutely marvellous.'

  I advanced halfway up the stairs towards Mary Petrie.

  'What's he doing here?' she asked.

  'He's come to keep you company.'

  'What for?'

  'You said you didn't want to be here on your own.'

  'That wasn't what I meant.'

  'Wasn't it?'

  'Of course not.'

  'Well, what did you mean then?'

  She looked at me for a long time. The expression on her face did not change, but at last I understood.

  4

  I tell you, I was up those stairs in two strides! For the next half minute or so I forgot about the sublime and esoteric pleasures of living in a house of tin! I forgot about the wind that blasts across the plain all night and day. And I forgot about Simon Painter, waiting at a discreet distance outside the door.

  Mary Petrie, however, had not forgotten him.

  'That'll do for now,' she murmured in my ear. 'You'll just have to wait until he's gone.'

  'OK,' I said. 'I'll get rid of him.'

  This was easier said than done. When I got downstairs and saw Simon standing there with his overnight bag, I knew I couldn't just turn him away.

  'Everything alright?' he asked.

  'Yes,' I replied. Tine.'

  'I'm not in the way then?'

  'No, of course not.'

  'Thanks,' he said, smiling. 'House is looking good.'

  'Yes, I try to keep it ship-shape,' I laid my hand on the tin wall and noticed how cold it felt. 'Why don't you come in?'

  Mary Petrie was still standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at us, when we entered. I sat Simon at the table then quickly went back up to her.

  'He'll have to stay a while,' I said, lowering my voice. 'He came here especially.'

  That's up to you,' she answered. 'I've got plenty of time.'

  Her voice was the softest I'd ever heard it. She came down to meet our guest properly, and he rose to meet her.

  'So you're Simon Painter,' she said. 'How nice to put a face to a name.'

  As a matter of fact I'd never mentioned him before, but he seemed so pleased with the remark that I didn't say anything. During the following hours she treated him to all her charms, and made him feel thoroughly at home. Meanwhile, I kept wondering how long we could expect him to stay. In truth, I had only one thing on my mind at that moment, and there was definitely no part in it for Simon Painter. I also asked myself why she'd left it so long to let her feelings be revealed. To think she'd been staying here all that time and I'd had no idea! A few words would have been enough to let me know, but instead she'd kept it all to herself. Now, as I watched her entertaining Simon so generously, she appeared in no particular hurry to get shot of him. The events of the afternoon had held great promise, yet it was almost as if she was taking delight in further prolonging the outcome. From time to time she glanced at me with sparkling eyes and smiled. Mostly, though, her attention was turned to Simon.

  As for him, he was basking in every moment. He talked and talked about how wonderful it was for the three of us to be sitting together like this, enjoying each other's companionship with the stove to keep us warm. It transpired that in the few minutes it had taken him to pack he'd managed to include a gift. This was a framed picture of his house of tin, which Mary Petrie accepted with good grace and placed on the shelf.

  'Very kind of you,' she said.

  'My pleasure,' he replied. 'It's traditional in these parts to come bearing gifts.'

  Well it was the first I'd heard of it! I had taken Simon a present that morning because I knew he expected one, and for no other reason whatsoever. The way he spoke about it being 'traditional in these parts' made it sound as though everyone in the locality was part of some big happy family. The reality, of course, was quite different. As far as I knew nobody saw anyone else from one month to the next because they all wanted to be independent. The idea of being regarded as one of the 'folk' who lived in tin houses and who came bearing gifts made me feel quite uneasy. Yet one look at Simon told me he believed he was stating a fact.

  The picture itself, of course, couldn't have been less interesting. After all, who wants a view of someone else's home? There was hardly any difference between Simon's dwelling and mine but, nevertheless, the picture remained on display for the entire duration of his visit.

  This turned out to be almost a week. Mary Petrie made him feel so welcome that it would have been difficult for him to leave any sooner. At the end of the first evening she smiled at us both before saying goodnight and heading up the stairs. Hours later
I realized she was no longer moving around restlessly above me. Instead, I was being kept awake by Simon talking in his sleep. The corrugated walls creaked and groaned as they sheltered us from the steadily rising wind. A few days more and I would be alone with Mary Petrie. For the time being, however, my house of tin had three residents.

  In the morning I overslept. When finally I awoke the first thing I heard was Simon clumping around on the roof. Mary Petrie had risen before me and stood tending the stove.

  'How come you're up so early?' I asked.

  'I thought I'd make the pair of you some coffee.'

  'Thanks,' I said. 'What's he doing up there?'

  'He's seeing if there's anywhere to put a flagpole.'

  'I don't want a flagpole!'

  'He seems to think you do.'

  'Well, I don't!'

  I got up and went outside just as Simon came clambering down.

  'I hope you haven't left any dents,' I said. 'That roof's not for walking about on.'

  'No, no, I've been quite careful,' he replied. 'Did you know you can see my house from up there?'

  'The balloon or the house itself?' I asked.

  'Both,' he said.

  'No, I didn't.'

  This was the sort of news I'd rather not have heard. As far as I was concerned, Simon Painter's house and those of my other neighbours were positioned somewhere beyond the horizon. I found it quite disconcerting to think that, after all, we might each live within sight of one another, even if it was only from the roof. For a long time I'd been convinced that I occupied a remote and unusual part of the world. Suddenly I wasn't so sure.

  'You could fix a flagpole up there no trouble if you wanted,' declared Simon.

  'Well, thanks for having a look,' I replied. 'But I don't really want one.'

  'I've a spare pole back at home.'

  'No, it's alright.'

  'Well, if you ever do put one up, don't forget I've got plenty of flags.'

  'I'll bear it in mind.'

  Prior to going back inside I intended to clear away the sand that had drifted against the walls overnight. I quite liked doing this first thing in the morning as it gave me a bit of an appetite before breakfast, but when I got hold of the shovel I realized the job had already been done. The loose sand was all lying beyond the ends of the house where it could blow away freely. It had been moved there by Simon.

  'You ought to set up some windbreaks,' he said. Then you wouldn't have a problem with sand.'

  'It's not a problem,' I replied. 'I like clearing it away actually.'

  As I stood there with the redundant shovel I noticed Mary Petrie watching through the open doorway.

  'Now how are you going to pass the time?' she asked.

  'Can you close that door please?' I snapped. 'I don't want sand getting into the house.'

  She closed it slowly and deliberately, watching me intently as the crack grew smaller. Mary Petrie, of course, knew better than anyone just how difficult the next few days promised to be. How indeed was I to pass the time until Simon left? Before now I'd seldom been concerned with such questions. Existing in a house of tin was an end unto itself, a particular state of being, and time didn't come into it. You did not need to know what time it was, for example, to witness dry lightning as it flashed across the plain at dusk. Or to feel the threat of an approaching storm. These things occurred independently of time, which was why there was no clock in my house. I simply had no need for one. Nonetheless, as I led Simon back inside for breakfast, I realized that time was already beginning to slow down.

  It didn't help that until yesterday he hadn't spoken to anyone for weeks. Silence was clearly not his vocation, and now he was making up the deficit. I'd never come across anyone who talked so much! He could keep going for hours on end without a break! Worse, he seemed to think that a conversation consisted of asking a question, listening to the answer, adding his own comment and then asking another. I would have been quite content to sit peacefully at the table and talk about subjects as and when they cropped up. Every time there was the slightest period of silence, though, Simon felt obliged to interrupt it.

  'Heard anything of Steve Treacle lately?' he would begin.

  'No, I haven't,' I'd reply.

  'Nor me. I went over to his place about a month ago, but he wasn't at home. Well there was no answer when I knocked on the door, anyway. I never seem to be able to catch him these days. Last time was when I was making preliminary enquiries about my captive balloon. Incidentally, I take it you've still no objections to that?'

  'No, of course not.'

  'That's good. I gather Steve's recently become great friends with Philip Sibling.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Have you seen anything of him?'

  'Philip?'

  'Yes.'

  'No.'

  'Nor me.'

  And so it would go on. At some point in the exchange Mary Petrie would rise from the table, glance at the two of us, and proceed to the upper floor. I was sure she was enjoying all this in her own way because there always seemed to be a slight smile on her lips as she disappeared from view. Her graceful departure would cause Simon to cease talking for a moment while his gaze followed her movement up the stairs. Then the quietness would get the better of him and he'd be off again.

  'Apparently there's someone living even further out than Steve and Philip,' he announced one evening. 'His name's Michael Hawkins. Do you know him?'

  'No, sorry,' I replied.

  'I'll have to wander out there and see him sometime. Make contact, sort of thing, so he doesn't feel too cut off. Would you be interested in coming along?'

  'Probably not, actually.'

  'Oh ... er ... alright,' said Simon, momentarily silenced.

  The suggestion that this Michael Hawkins was 'further out' than the rest of us I found quite irritating. I mean to say, it wasn't as if we were all strung along some wild frontier beyond which no one could live. I had no doubts that Michael Hawkins deliberately chose to be 'cut off as Simon put it, and that was precisely why he dwelt in such a place. This didn't mean, however, that he was somehow different or more interesting than anybody else. Besides which, who was to say who was further out than the next fellow? I'd have thought it depended on the starting point really. I was tempted to take Simon to task on the matter, but I realized that with his point of view it would be a complete waste of time. Instead, I had a question of my own, just for a change.

  'Do you know if this Michael Hawkins lives in a house made entirely from tin?' I asked.

  'Yes, so I understand.'

  'And how long has he been there?'

  'Quite long.'

  'Longer than I've been here?'

  'I believe so, yes.'

  'Well,' I remarked. 'If he thinks he's established some kind of outpost then he's a fool.'

  At these words Simon gave me a very puzzled look before quickly changing the subject.

  That night I did not sleep well. There was a gale blowing outside, and I kept having this tangled up dream involving me, Mary Petrie and Michael Hawkins, in which he was in my bed and she wasn't. Several times I woke up wondering where she'd gone, and not until the morning did it occur to me that she hadn't been there in the first place. Furthermore, the person I'd thought was Michael Hawkins turned out to be Simon, fast asleep in the spare bed a few feet away. Considering I'd never even met Michael Hawkins I found this dream quite disturbing. It was almost as if I was suddenly in a competition against him, yet why this should be so I couldn't imagine. I decided to forget all about it, so at first light I got up and went out to clear away the overnight sand. A large pile had accumulated on the windward side of the house, but after an hour's work with the shovel I had it reduced to manageable proportions. The gale had subsided into a strong breeze. It was coming from the west, and now and again I heard the faint notes of Simon's bell clanging in the distance. All across the plain I could see red sand on the move, drifting in tiny particles. This was the roughest time of year to b
e in a place like this. I looked at my house of tin, knowing it would be some while before I saw it glinting in the sunlight once more. The sky had turned grey, and I was sure I could expect more gales in the next few weeks. My thoughts turned to Simon's suggestion about setting up some windbreaks. Come to think of it, this wasn't a bad idea at all, and I began to wonder if I should give it serious consideration.

  Then the door opened and Mary Petrie emerged.

  'You're being very patient,' she said.

  'Yes,' I replied. 'Suppose I am.'

  'Not that you've got any choice, of course.'

  'No.'

  'Still,' she observed. 'You seem happy enough out here with your little shovel.'

  'Do I?'

  'Yes, quite sweet really.' She picked up a handful of sand, allowing the grains to slip gradually through her fingers. 'Who's this Michael Hawkins?'

  'How do you know about him?' I asked.

  'I heard the pair of you talking last night.'

  'Well you know as much as I do then.'

  'Aren't you curious to meet him?'

  'Why should I be?'

  'Well, he's a neighbour, isn't he?'

  'Not really,' I said. 'He lives miles away.'

  Mary Petrie moved nearer and lowered her voice. 'Simon's going to see him.'

  'Is he?'

  'Yes, he's just told me.'

  'When?'

  'Today,' she said. 'He's packing his bag at this very moment.'

  'Well, why didn't you tell me before?'

  Instantly I dropped the shovel and went into the house.

  There was Simon, all wrapped up in his coat and ready to leave.

  'Morning,' I said, giving him my best smile. 'You off then?'

  'Yes,' he replied. 'I've been thinking about this Michael Hawkins and I really feel I ought to go and say hello to him.'