Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  84.

  Midday, thought Carl, and only three customers so far. He had been up since 5.30am, baking and burning croissants, and in that time had sold only one litre of milk, four tomatoes, and a pack of cigarettes. How was he supposed to cover costs with sales like that? He had not expected the residents of Wood Green to be quite so shy. But perhaps the snow was keeping them inside. Carl knew he certainly would not have got out of bed if it had been possible, but Tim and Maureen had insisted that days when it snowed could be some of their busiest. People running out of food, hiring DVDs, or just looking for a little conversation beyond their immediate family, especially before the pub opened its doors. Carl fed the pot-bellied stove another piece of wood.

  Jesus it’s cold, he exclaimed as the bell above the front door sounded.

  Paul sent me over to ask if you wanted any lunch, said Matthew.

  No thanks. Carl returned to the counter. Tell him I’m finishing off the leftovers from last night’s dinner.

  Matthew scanned the shelves where the novelty toys were stocked and picked up a plastic pink pig that released a sugared pellet from its rear end every time its tail was raised. Tim had sometimes given him toys like this for free, but it was not yet clear whether Carl was planning on being as generous.

  We’re having sausages and mash today. With gravy.

  Sounds good, said Carl as he picked up his phone and began a fresh search of South Africa’s news sites.

  Or there’s vegetarian lasagne for people who don’t like meat.

  Well I’m not one of those.

  Me either. I like sausages. They might be my favourite food after spaghetti bolognese and lamb chops. Matthew continued to fondle the toy. It was the last day of the school holidays and he wondered how much money Paul was going to pay him for his work in the kitchen. Maybe it would be enough to buy his Lego figurines and the pink pig. He returned the toy to the shelf. Carl wasn’t going to give it to him for free no matter how long he stood there admiring it.

  Well I’d better get going.

  By the time Carl looked up Matthew had crossed the street and disappeared back inside the pub. It was generous of Paul to offer him lunch, but Carl felt he was already growing fat from standing behind a counter all day. He was used to being more active, driving around in his car, drumming up business deals and taking meetings. When such work made him tired and frustrated the idea of serving inside a shop all day had seemed like heaven. But being so sedentary offered fewer pleasures than he had imagined. Already he was feeling trapped. Carl understood that a degree of disenchantment was to be expected at such an early stage in a new job, in a new place. And yet each afternoon he found himself spending more and more time on the internet, and questioning whether coming to Wood Green had been a good idea. What he needed was to hire someone to help. That way he could take a few hours off to relax and investigate what else Hobart had to offer. Someone like Matthew’s mother would be perfect. Paul was always going on about how hard Penny worked in the kitchen. And if he offered cash in hand then it wouldn’t cost that much. Otherwise he was going to have to start keeping shorter trading hours. Lack of sleep always affected his optimism, so staying up half the night with Paul probably wasn’t helping either. He enjoyed their time together on a physical level, but their lack of common interests was becoming a trial. Once they had finished discussing whether Mrs Whatshername was going to move into a retirement village, and if the new house being built up the road was too large and too ugly, Carl wanted to talk about news and politics and where the local economy might be heading. But every time he tried to raise such topics Paul’s face expressed utter bewilderment as to how such things could possibly be of interest.

  85.

  The sheets were clean. There was no blood on his fingers. His head did not feel sore or seem to have a bump on it. He looked under the covers. Two old feet at the end of pyjamas. Out the window the sun was shining but inside it felt cold. He pulled the blankets tight around his body. Who were the people in those photographs on the wall? He stood up. Scanned their faces. Nope. No. No. No. He didn’t recognise any of them. Shivering. Maybe he should go back to bed. He turned to the desk. Saw a note stuck to the wall above it. ‘Read the papers in the bottom drawer.’ Bottom drawer of what? The filing cabinet of course, don’t be stupid. He sat on the floor. Opened the drawer. There were fifty or sixty pages. All typed with dates and names. But who was the You they talked about? Maybe the You was one of the people in the photographs. He stood up. Left the papers on the floor. Did people still use old typewriters like that? He was cold. Tired. Then he heard someone walking in the hall. He hurried back to bed. Listened to the clatter of an old typewriter. Watched the one on the desk but saw the keys weren’t moving. He pulled the blankets to his mouth. Someone else was in the house. Maybe a murderer. Come to kill him. Or a burglar. To steal his possessions. But what possessions did he own? He got up. Removed the photographs from the wall. Piled them on the end of his bed. The robber can have those. He didn’t want them. Who were they of anyway? Maybe if he studied their faces…The typewriter stopped. Had there even been a sound? The keys of the machine on the desk certainly weren’t moving. There were the footsteps again. He got back into bed. Some of the photographs fell to the floor. Who was out there? What did he want? Was it even a man? It might be a female burglar. Then what did she want? A knock at the door. He refused to answer. Pretended he wasn’t there. Maybe then the burglar would just go away.

  Lucian? Are you all right? It’s time to get up.

  Who was Lucian? What were all those photographs doing on the end of the bed? Who had taken them off the wall? The doorknob was turning. Someone was coming into the room. His room. At least he thought it was his room.

  Lucian? Are you awake?

  He saw a man. Just standing there. Was that the burglar? He needed to go to the toilet. He was going to the toilet. Tears on his cheeks. He was cold. But out the window the day looked sunny.

  Lucian isn’t here, he shouted. I don’t know any Lucian. Lucian isn’t here.

  86.

  No doctors.

  But what if you…

  No doctors or the deal is off.

  As Michael sat on the floor of the sitting room he could smell the pot of tea brewing on the kitchen bench and feel the vibrations of the washing machine’s spin cycle. You don’t think what happened is cause for concern?

  Lucian had become hypnotised by the ripples travelling back and forth across the surface of his bath.

  Lucian, are you all right?

  He groaned. Stop asking me that. Of course I am. And of course I think what happened is cause for concern. But I can’t pretend it’s unexpected. You thought it was going to be just cocktails and discussions about Hemingway? Well guess what? Papa caused more trouble than he was worth, and so might I. There’s no guarantee that what happened today won’t happen again. But that’s what you signed up for. And it’d be pretty gutless to try and back out now things are getting a little unsavoury.

  I haven’t any intention of backing out. I just thought a doctor might be able to prescribe something to slow down the process, or help with the pain.

  I’m not in any pain, and if I were I’d choose my own form of medication thank you very much. And why on earth would I want to slow down the process? You think I like being this way? Wetting the bed and being treated like an invalid? Fuck extending that. I’m ready to check out the moment my book is finished.

  Michael took the opportunity to change the subject. So how’s it going? How far are you through?

  Why? You want to know how much longer you have to hang around for?

  Stop being childish, of course not. I’m a fan of your work, remember? I can’t wait to read what you’re working on.

  Lucian splashed at the ripples in frustration. Well it’s coming along I suppose. A first draft might be all I get finished, but I reckon you can tidy it up for me.

  You mean that?

  I don’t imagine you’d mess it up worse tha
n anyone else. Just promise me not to touch the punctuation. Start unravelling that and you’ll never get it back together. And try to remember that it’s okay not to change things. If you don’t understand something then the fault may not necessarily be with the book. Same goes for when you feel the urge to smooth out one of my sentences. Those rough edges and awkward rhythms are there for a reason. It’s called character – my character. Don’t worry if you don’t feel in control. I probably don’t want you to be. Personally, I read so I can have a break from being in control. Let someone else steer my consciousness for a while. That’s why it’s relaxing. That’s why it’s stimulating. I get to visit another person’s mind and witness how it works. Learn what it knows. I’m not scared to have my way of thinking challenged. In fact I’m bloody grateful when it happens. Being shown the world in a different light is what makes a book great, isn’t it?

  Of course it is.

  Well then keep that in mind when you’re about to use your red pen.

  I promise I’ll be more than careful with it. I’m just so flattered you’d give me the responsibility. I really am. I’d be happy to have a look now if you’re worried about it.

  No thanks. I’ve always had a policy about not showing my work to anyone before it’s finished.

  Sure, I understand. Do you want your tea in there?

  Yes please. I haven’t had a bath in ages. I’d forgotten how pleasant it can be. Push play on the CD player while you’re out there.

  As Michael poured the tea the house filled with a squealing horn, steady snare, and deep, lugubrious voice. He delivered Lucian’s cup to the corner of the tub then returned to his position outside the bathroom door. You wouldn’t prefer to listen to something a little more peaceful?

  I’m not dead yet, said Lucian. And there are few records more peaceful to my ears than Bailter Space’s first album.

  Is that one of the records you’d…

  What?

  Forget it. It was stupid idea.

  I can’t stand it when people don’t finish their sentences. Tell me.

  I’d really prefer not to.

  Well now you bloody well have to.

  Michael sighed. I was just wondering if this was one of the records you’d choose to have played at your funeral. Sorry. It was stupid. I spoke before I thought.

  Jesus, you’re a morbid person to have around. I have one little episode and already you’re measuring me for a casket.

  I tried not to say it but you insisted.

  Who cares what they play at my funeral. I won’t be able to hear it. Although I suppose it is the last opportunity I’ll have to force my taste on other people. What about you? Have you got a song in mind?

  Michael remained silent.

  Not too pleasant to think about is it?

  It’s not that. I’m just trying to come up with something.

  ‘The Black and Crazy Blues’ by Roland Kirk.

  That’s what you’d like?

  It’s the opening song on The Inflated Tear. I’d play the whole album if I could. But if I only get one song, then that would be it. Sweetest, saddest tune you’ll ever hear.

  87.

  Tim sipped his coffee and again judged it as inferior to the brew that Maureen used to make every morning. It was just another of the changes he had struggled to acclimatise to, along with waking up alone in bed and not being able to bite into a freshly baked croissant as soon as he walked downstairs. There were a few new faces in the B&B’s dining room, and as he listened to their discussions about the day ahead it occurred to Tim that he too was free to go shopping or sightseeing if he liked. With no cartons of milk or boxes of chips to load in, no firewood to chop, customers to serve or small-talk to make with the drinkers in Paul’s pub, he could spend his time whatever way he liked. His financial arrangements with Maureen had been finalised the day before, after which they had amicably shaken hands and walked in opposite directions. Now it was just a matter of waiting the necessary months before he could apply for a divorce, which he could do from anywhere.

  Tim opened his newspaper as Andrew returned to the room carrying a tray of bacon and eggs. After three mornings of listening to the proprietor’s stories about people who had stayed at the B&B – the majority of which had ended with a tone of grievance about some incident of selfishness or rude behaviour – Tim had made sure to enter the dining room with a newspaper under his arm. Andrew seemed to get the message and haughtily transferred his attentions to another guest who was sitting alone. The young woman tried to disguise her disappointment, but convinced only Andrew that she was not being inconvenienced by her sudden acquisition of a breakfast companion. From behind his newspaper Tim overheard the same stories he had been told a few days ago, and commiserated with the woman who was nodding her head and eating her breakfast as fast as she could. The sight of Andrew occupied encouraged Tim to take his time, enjoy his meal, scan the headlines, and admire the models advertising an underwear sale. A news story about food being wasted due to poor refrigeration procedures held his professional interest for two or three paragraphs, but a line about tomatoes came too close to reminding him of his own irregular practices. As Tim brought the sides of the newspaper together to turn the page he saw Andrew sitting at his table. Tim looked around the room and realised he was the last person to finish his breakfast.

  Anything in the news this morning? enquired Andrew.

  No, nothing important. Just the usual.

  Yes, yes it seems the same every day, doesn’t it? You know I’ve often wondered if they just repeat the same stories over and over. Sometimes I’m positive I’ve read them before.

  I think they’d get in a quite a lot of trouble if they were caught doing something like that.

  Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right, although someone would have to notice it first, wouldn’t they?

  Tim folded his newspaper. Someone would notice. They always do.

  Really? You think people are that observant?

  About things like that? Definitely.

  My experience is that people are only ever interested in what concerns them directly, and what they can get for themselves.

  I can understand how you might feel like that sometimes. I used to work in the service industry myself. But I guess it just gets back to that old argument of whether your glass is half full or half empty.

  You know I’ve always been a little confused by that one. If my glass is three-quarters empty, does that mean I’m pessimistic because I don’t think a quarter of a glass is enough?

  Tim pushed back his chair. It’s an interesting point. Unfortunately, I’ve got to get going. Lots to do today.

  Yes, yes, I’m busy as well. We should pick this up again tomorrow. I rather enjoy a philosophical discussion to start the day. Andrew followed Tim to the dining room door. What part of the service industry were you in?

  Huh? Oh, I used to own a general store up on the mountain. In a place called Wood Green.

  Oh yes, I know someone who lives up there.

  Really. What was their name? Maybe I know them as well.

  You know, isn’t it always the way. As soon I mentioned him his name completely disappeared from my brain. Maybe it’ll come back to me tomorrow. The same again for breakfast?

  Yes please, said Tim as he started up the stairs.

  Coffee? Tea?

  Tea please.

  But you had coffee today. And the day before that. In the mood for a bit of change are we? Well they do say it’s good for us. See you tomorrow at breakfast.

  88.

  Cautiously Michael leaned backwards, ready to grip the edge of his desk should his chair suddenly tip sideways and try to spill him onto the floor. With the latest pages of his book in hand, he was checking for the spelling mistakes that inevitably appeared whenever he used a manual typewriter. Michael wrote his initial draft by pen, but recently had started revising using Lucian’s spare machine. The ailing author said he found the sound soothing, and Michael was only too happy to provide
comfort any way he could.

  He needed to start thinking about dinner. It was his turn to cook tonight. It was his turn to cook most nights these days. Michael didn’t mind. Lucian’s more recent meals had begun to reveal the extent to which his memory was unravelling. Dubious combinations of ingredients and under-cooked meat; while other times it was clear that Lucian had lost track what dish he was supposed to be preparing. Michael just ate it. Pointing out mistakes only detonated Lucian’s temper, and unleashed latent accusations about catastrophic injustices. Reiterations of disputes that had already been resolved, and a deluge of emphatic claims about blatant disloyalty. In the aftermath of such insensible rancour Lucian wallowed in grief; made heart-felt promises never to do it again, and scattered fresh memos around the house that repeated the same logical advice but failed to rectify any of the problems. The most unfortunate outcome, however, was a further decline in his health. He dozed more often. And increasingly gave a stupefied expression to the most simple questions. Other times Lucian was his old self. Sharper than Michael could ever hope to be. Shrewd. Dominant. Confident. Priceless. And during those moments Michael was able to believe that nothing was different. Though they never lasted for long.