Three to See the King

by Magnus Mills

  There was no fixed distance between the houses, nor did they appear to have been laid out in any uniform pattern. Instead there were rows heading off in all directions, higgledy-piggledy, as if each had been added one after another. I recalled Steve's remark about Michael Hawkins having shown them where to build their houses, and I tried to work out the logic of the arrangement. The only thing I could see for sure was that they were all sited very close together, but for the moment I had no idea why.

  The trouble with wandering along in the dark like this was that it was easy to forget which way I'd come. I knew I'd turned right at a house with four front shutters and two at the sides, and had then walked past one with a markedly angled roof. Yet when I returned a short distance to check my bearings, I couldn't find either of them. Continuing back a little further, I discovered a side-junction I hadn't noticed before. I followed it round.

  Then, somewhere away to my left, I heard the faint clanging of a bell. It was a sound I'd recognize anywhere, and soon I was standing outside Simon Painter's house. There was no captive balloon hoisted in the air above it, nor was there a flagpole on the roof. Nevertheless, I knew I had the right place. The bell hung on a bracket beside the door, swaying gently in the breeze and chiming from time to time. I was about to make myself known when I heard a peal of laughter within. It came from several voices, one of which I knew to be Simon's. The rest belonged to women. I waited and heard Simon say something else, then more laughter followed.

  It certainly sounded as if they were having a good time in there, and I was reluctant to interrupt. Just then, however, the door opened and a smiling young woman emerged. When she noticed me standing there, partially hidden by shadows, she appeared not at all surprised. 'Simon!' she called into the house. 'We've got a visitor!' 'Come in!' I heard him cry. 'Come in! Whoever it is!' Apparently the young woman was just heading off somewhere. She smiled and held the door for me. 'Thanks,' I managed.

  'That's OK,' she replied, slipping away through the darkness. I hesitated for a few more seconds, then stepped over the threshold.

  14

  As I entered, Simon was half-rising from behind a table, around which sat four women and another man.

  'Hello!' he boomed. 'You decided to join us after all!' 'Yes, well,' I replied. 'I thought I'd come and have a look anyway.'

  'Good! Good! Michael will be so pleased to see you!' There then followed a swirl of greetings, handshakes and introductions as I met the rest of the group, all of whom apparently knew I was an ex-neighbour of Simon's. Not being used to dealing with so many people at once, I found their names tended to go straight in one ear and out the other. Nonetheless, they treated me like a long lost friend. Soon I had a drink in my hand and a place of honour at the table. Simon immediately told the story of how his house had been dismantled while he was away, and how I'd gone over to help him out. He described his despair at seeing the pieces of tin all stacked up on top of each other, his former existence thereby reduced to a meaningless puzzle. Inevitably, of course, we had to listen to the bit at the end where Michael Hawkins came along and put everything right again. It quickly became clear that Simon was an established raconteur amongst his new-found circle of friends, and I was quietly impressed by the way they listened enthralled to every word he said. All the same, I was slightly baffled by his earlier comment that Michael would be so pleased to see me, as though this had some extra special significance. If he'd said, 'I'm so pleased to see you', or even 'Steve will be so pleased to see you', I could have understood the remark perfectly. Instead, it seemed only to matter what this Michael Hawkins thought, and I wondered why Simon should abase himself in such a manner. Still, there was no cause to dwell on these questions right now. The present company was most acceptable and I had nothing to complain about. Quite the opposite actually. While Simon was talking, I began to notice I was getting a good deal of attention from one of the women. Several times she cast meaningful glances in my direction, and she smiled at all the parts of the story that involved me. I had a feeling she was called Jane, which was one of the names that had been bandied around during the introductions, but I couldn't be sure. For the moment I decided I would just have to pretend I knew her name, and see how things went. Judging by the looks she gave me, the prospects were certainly promising.

  In the meantime, Simon's tale was coming to an end.

  'These days we can build a house of tin with our eyes shut,' he concluded. 'But, of course, it helps if we keep them open!'

  There followed a gale of laughter from his listeners, and it struck me that Simon's gift as a storyteller was in marked contrast to the streams of enquiry which had characterized his past conversations. I thought back to those dreary afternoons when he'd questioned me on whether I'd seen Steve or heard from Philip, and I decided that the new Simon was a great improvement. If only he would stop going on about Michael Hawkins! He was at it again a few minutes later when the woman who'd let me in returned.

  'Michael could be coming to visit us tomorrow,' she announced. 'I've just seen Philip and he says there's a strong probability.'

  As she spoke her eyes were sparkling, and in the same instant I felt a stir of anticipation pass round the table.

  'Oh that's marvellous,' said Simon. 'Did he tell you when, exactly?'

  'No, it's not definite yet,' replied the woman. 'It depends on how well the canyon is going.'

  'Of course,' he uttered, almost inaudibly. 'I understand.'

  'How is Philip?' I asked, but Simon hardly seemed to hear.

  'Michael's work never ceases!' he said. 'Day after day he conducts operations in that canyon! It's already deeper and wider than any of us could have ever imagined, yet still he goes on. We implore him to rest, and to come and take refreshment in our houses. Instead he chooses to work. Those of us who help him do all we can to lessen his burden, but in the end only he can decide when to stop. This news from Philip is most encouraging!'

  The new woman came to join us at the table, which meant we each had to move round a little bit. She was introduced as Sarah, and soon she was telling everyone the latest tidings about Michael Hawkins and his possible forthcoming visit. Meanwhile, I again found myself under the gaze of the other woman, the one who'd been paying me all the attention earlier. Beside her sat the only man present apart from Simon and I. He was leaning back in his seat, peering intently at the roof as though carrying out a thorough examination. Eventually the talk subsided into a sort of reverent hush, and at last he broke his silence.

  'Listen to that,' he said, his eyes still raised to the roof. 'Can you hear it?'

  The only sound was the wind playing beneath the eaves. It was something I'd heard on a thousand or more occasions, in my own part of the plain, yet now I was being urged to listen to it as if for the first time in my life.

  'Ah yes,' I replied. 'The wind.'

  'Isn't it wonderful?' asked Sarah, in an exultant voice.

  As we all sat there with our heads tilted slightly to one side, it occurred to me that this was probably one of Michael Hawkins's ideas too. Fortunately, it didn't go on very long, and I was pleasantly surprised when my admirer suddenly glanced across at me and spoke.

  'Quite a crowd we've got here,' she remarked. 'Why don't you come along and have a look at my house?'

  'Well,' I said. 'I'd like to, but ... er ... would that be alright with you, Simon?'

  'By all means,' he replied, with a friendly shrug. 'Go wherever you're most comfortable.'

  'I haven't seen Steve and Philip yet,' I pointed out.

  'Don't worry on that score,' he said. There's plenty of time!'

  'Shall we go now then?' said the woman.

  We went out into the darkness, and a moment later she took me by the hand.

  It's hard finding your way when you first get here,' she explained. 'But it's quite simple once you're used to it.'

  Certainly I would have been lost without her to guide me. There was no one else about, and everywhere we turned there were houses of
tin, all with their shutters closed for the evening. They were mostly silent, the hour now being late, but from within some of them we heard soft murmurings.

  'Did you say your name was Jane?' I asked.

  'Yes,' she replied. 'Jane Day.'

  'How long have you been here?'

  'Oh, I'm a fairly recent arrival. Got swept along with the others.'

  'And do you intend to stay here for a bit?'

  'Of course!' she said. 'I want to find out all there is about living in a house of tin! I expect you know a lot more on the subject than most people, don't you?'

  'I suppose I do, yes.'

  'Well, if there's anything you want to teach me, I'll be happy to learn!'

  As we walked I managed once or twice to steal a glance at her in the moonlight. At the same time I tried to work out what it was that appealed to me so much. In truth, I had to admit that her attractions were no greater than those of Mary Petrie. They were just different, that was all.

  After a while we began heading towards a particular building, rather than just wandering along. I peered ahead and saw that it was a fairly typical tin house, with no unusual features.

  'Is this it?' I enquired.

  'Yes,' she said. 'What do you think?'

  'Looks fine to me.'

  'Have you felt the walls?'

  'No.'

  She smiled. 'Well, go on then.'

  I placed my hand upon the corrugations, and at once recognized the coldness of the metal. It was just the same as the walls of my own tin dwelling all those miles away. For some reason this caused a surge of guilt to rise up inside me, and I had to struggle for several moments to overcome it.

  'Shall we go in?' I suggested.

  The first thing I noticed when we entered was that the inside was a precise replica of Simon's house. There was a table in the kitchen, with four or five chairs placed around it, and in the corner a stove glowed brightly. Even the chimney went out through the roof exactly where Simon's did. On top of the stove was a pot of coffee.

  'Ah, good,' said Jane. 'Alison must be back.'

  'Who's Alison?' I asked.

  Some feet could be heard on the stairs, and a few seconds later a woman appeared. I knew her immediately. She was one of the three I'd encountered when I went to collect the basket from Simon's old place.

  'Oh, it's you,' she said when she saw me. 'I heard you might be coming.'

  'Have you two met each other before then?' asked Jane.

  'Just once,' came the reply.

  I remembered this Alison being quite unfriendly on the occasion of our first meeting. Hostile even. Something told me that she was a permanent resident here, and all at once I realized I wouldn't be spending the night alone with Jane. For her part, she appeared totally oblivious to the cool manner in which Alison was regarding me from the stairway.

  'He's come to see our house of tin,' she explained.

  'Has he?' said Alison. 'How nice for us.'

  'I can go back to Simon's if you like,' I said.

  'No, it's alright,' she replied, in a resigned tone. 'Now you're here you might as well make yourself at home.'

  It turned out that Jane really had invited me back just to talk about tin houses. For the next hour she quizzed me with such questions as when was the best time to open or close the shutters, and what strength of wind would make the walls creak and groan. As we talked I got the strong impression that she already knew most of the answers, but that she was keen to embrace the subject even further. Oddly enough, though, the more she enthused about it the less interested I became. As a matter of fact I found her eagerness quite exhausting, and was consequently relieved when at last Alison intervened.

  'Don't you think that's enough for one night?' she said. 'Our guest must be getting tired.'

  'Oh, I do apologize!' Jane exclaimed, jumping to her feet. 'You must think me very rude.'

  'No, no,' I replied. 'I've found the whole evening most fascinating.'

  She then began rushing round preparing somewhere for me to sleep. This hadn't been exactly what I'd envisaged when accepting her invitation, but I was now so tired that I no longer cared. Ten minutes later I was installed in a camp-bed on the ground floor, and the women had made their way upstairs. In many respects it was just like being in my own house on one of those rare nights when, for undisclosed reasons, Mary Petrie would banish me from the upper storey. I thought of her as I lay listening to muted footsteps moving around on the floor above, and then I dozed off to sleep.

  Sometime in the dead of night I was woken by the sound of the door opening and people coming in. They weren't noisy or intrusive, and had soon dispersed to various parts of the house, except for one who remained downstairs. I heard bedding being unrolled in the darkness, so I thought it might be polite to let him or her know that I was there. Whoever it was seemed to be fumbling around quite a lot, as if unacquainted with the layout of the place, and this provided my opportunity to speak.

  'Do you need help with that?' I asked quietly.

  The other person gasped with surprise, then answered, 'No, I'm fine thanks.'

  'Is that Patrick Pybus?'

  'Yes,' he said. 'Is that you I met on the way here?'

  'Yes it is. How did you get on this evening?'

  'Very well indeed, thanks. I appear to have landed right on my feet. I've already come across two of your friends, Steve Treacle and Philip Sibling, and they arranged for me to stay here tonight.' He lowered his voice. 'The girls are all very friendly aren't they?'

  'Most of the time, yes,' I said. 'What are Steve and Philip up to?'

  'They've been helping Michael Hawkins with the canyon. I'm going to see it tomorrow. Have you met him yet?'

  'No, I haven't had the pleasure.'

  'Nor me, but I'm really looking forward to it. They say he's doing some marvellous work out there, and can turn his hand to any task. Not that you need telling, of course. You're already well-versed in his achievements.'

  Patrick had now adopted the hushed tones I'd become used to when people spoke about Michael Hawkins. There was an expectant pause as his words sunk in.

  'Me?' I said, at last.

  'Yes,' he replied. 'After all, it was Michael who built your house, wasn't it?'

  15

  Patrick spoke the words as though they were a truth set in stone.

  'Who told you that?' I asked.

  'Several people,' he said. 'Didn't you know?'

  'No, I didn't.'

  'Well, the story is that Michael started constructing it long ago when he was still seeking his way here. Tin was plentiful in those days, so he came onto the plain and set to work raising his house. Not until he'd finished did he realize the mistake he'd made.'

  'Which was?'

  'He'd built it on sand, and therefore he had to abandon it and start again somewhere else.'

  I lay in the darkness and listened with mounting dismay. After all, this was my house of tin we were talking about! Admittedly, I'd discovered it standing empty and deserted in the middle of the plain, but never had I questioned how it came to exist. As far as I was concerned it was just there for the taking, so I'd moved in and made it my home. If this story was correct, then I was a usurper.

  'Well, why has it never fallen down?' I asked. 'Answer me that.'

  'I can't,' replied Patrick. 'I'm just telling you what the others told me. Maybe your house will last for many years. It should do if Michael built it. Then again, he wouldn't have forsaken it for no reason, would he? It could collapse next week for all we know.'

  'That seems unlikely.'

  'Well, it doesn't matter anyway. You're here now, so you'll be quite safe.'

  'But aren't these houses built on sand as well?'

  'No, not according to Steve and Philip. Apparently Michael dug down and found clay underneath.'

  'I see.'

  'Reassuring to know you're on solid ground, isn't it?'

  'Suppose so.'

  'Goodnight, then.'

  'Nigh
t.'

  Judging from the sounds he made, Patrick Pybus fell asleep more or less the moment his head touched the pillow. It took me a little longer.

  The dominant news next morning was that Michael Hawkins's long-awaited visit would have to be postponed yet again. From what I could gather, there were so many volunteers helping him with his canyon that he was reluctant to leave them unsupervised. I learnt this as I sat at breakfast with Jane, Alison and Patrick, as well as two other women who'd come in during the night. These I recognized as Alison's travelling companions. By the time I awoke, Jane had already been out on an early morning errand.

  'I saw Steve Treacle,' she explained. 'He told me Michael will be staying in the canyon for another day at least.'

  'How far away is it?' I asked.

  'About two miles,' she said.

  'Well, doesn't he go home in the evenings?'

  'Oh no. He always stays with his helpers.'

  It turned out that the canyon was now so immense it wasn't deemed worthwhile for these volunteers to return to their houses each night. Instead they sheltered under tarpaulins and remained on site for three or four days at a time. When eventually they did come back, they were immediately replaced by fresh recruits.

  'Our turn next!' said Jane. 'I can't wait to get out there and lend a hand.'

  Alison, I noticed, didn't look quite so enthusiastic.

  'Well, I wish Michael would inform us when he's changing his arrangements,' she sighed. 'He's let us down like this before.'

  'He is very busy, you know,' Jane pointed out.

  'Yes,' replied Alison. 'I am aware of that.'

  Despite her initial hostility, I found I actually preferred Alison to the rest of them. She had none of the sweetness and light that exuded from all the others, and which I thought rather tedious. On the contrary, she struck me as coming very much from the Mary Petrie sort of mould, and I had a feeling we would probably get on alright together in the end.