Collected Stories

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘Ah, here it’s.’ She folded the magazine at the right page and gave it to him. ‘It’s only four lines.’ He glanced at the page and saw the poem framed in a black box.

  ‘I could do that very reasonable,’ he said. The corners of her mouth twitched into a relieved smile. ‘Five pounds.’ It was obviously too much for her because the smile disappeared and she set her hand on the arm of the chair as if she was about to stand up.

  ‘That would be framed and all,’ he added.

  ‘Maybe some time again.’ She kept looking into her basket.

  ‘On the best paper.’

  ‘What about cheaper paper?’

  ‘Four pounds?’

  Still the woman hesitated.

  ‘That’s still a pound a line. I didn’t think it would be as much as that.’

  ‘Any less and it’d be a favour,’ he said. Already he was out of pocket. He stood up to end the bargaining. Again she looked down into her raffia basket. He saw two tins of cat food at the bottom.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Four pounds. How soon will it be done?’

  ‘The end of the week. Call on Friday.’

  She seemed pleased and nervous that she had made a decision.

  After he had shown her out he read the poem.

  The words the happy say

  Are paltry melody

  But those the silent feel

  Are beautiful –

  It was by E. Dickinson. He looked at the date on the magazine and saw that it was over three years old. He closed it and set it on the shelf. It was like the woman herself, dog-eared and a bit tatty. She’d had nice eyes but her skin had been slack and almost a grey colour as if she’d been ill. Yet there had been something about her which had made him lower his price. He was not used to bargaining – most of his jobs came in the post from a small advertising agency. What they couldn’t be bothered to do in Letraset they passed on to him. But the work was not regular and he couldn’t rely on it – unlike the diplomas he did each year for the teacher training college.

  Two days later when he wrote out the poem he was dissatisfied with it and scrapped it. For the second attempt he wrote it on one of his most expensive papers and further surprised himself by using his precious gold leaf. He hated working with the stuff, held between its protective sheets, thin as grease on tea. It curled and twitched even when he brought the heat of his fingertips near it. Yet on the finished page it looked spectacular.

  On the Friday he found that, instead of working in the morning, he was tidying the flat. It was not until late evening that he heard her at the door. He turned down the volume of the radio and went to answer it. She sat down when invited and placed her hands on her lap. Her appearance had improved. She wore a mauve print summer dress, a white Aran cardigan and carried a shoulder bag, which made her seem younger. The weak sun, squared by shadows from the crossbars of the window, lit the back wall of the room behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s not finished.’ Her mouth opened slightly in disappointment. ‘I didn’t know whether you wanted the name on it or not.’

  ‘What name?’

  He held out the magazine and pointed to the name beneath the poem with his bad hand. It was as if he were pointing round a corner.

  ‘E. Dickinson.’

  The woman thought for a moment then nodded. ‘Put it on.’ She seemed quite definite. He folded the protective paper back from his work and reached for a pen.

  ‘Can I see it?’ she asked. He handed her the written poem and watched her face.

  ‘Aw here,’ she said. ‘Aw here now.’ Then she spoke the poem, more to herself than to him. As she read he watched her eyes switching back and forth across the lines.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Just lovely.’ He was unsure whether she was praising his work or the poem. She handed it carefully back and he turned to the table to write the name.

  ‘Can I watch?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  She came, almost on tiptoe, to his shoulder and watched him dip the pen and angle the spade-like nib. As he wrote, his tongue peeped out from the corner of his mouth. When he had finished he blew on the page, tilting it to the light to see if it had dried.

  ‘Where did you learn – all this?’ she asked.

  ‘I taught myself. Just picked it up.’ He stood and went over to the shelf and took down a book. ‘From things like . . . this ‘Book of Hours.’

  ‘Ours?’

  He smiled and passed it to her. She smiled too, realizing her mistake when she read the title. She opened it gingerly. The pictures were interleaved with tissue paper which slithered in the draught she made turning the pages. Each tissue bore a faint mirror image of the drawing it protected. The book was an awkward size so she sat down and laid it across her knees. She looked at the pure colours, the intricacy of the work.

  ‘This must have taken you years,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a printed book.’

  ‘Oh.’ She turned another page. He stood feeling idle in front of her.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  She looked up and hesitated.

  ‘It’s no bother,’ he said. ‘I’ve got milk.’

  ‘All right. That would be nice.’

  He put the kettle on and set out his mug and a cup and saucer for her. The crockery rattled loudly in the silence. The kettle seemed to take ages to boil. He asked her how she had known who he was and where he lived. She said that the priest had told her after she had admired the framed list of names in the church.

  When he handed her the cup and saucer she set the book carefully to one side.

  ‘It would be just like me to spill something on it.’

  He sat down opposite her. The sound of the contact between her cup and saucer made him feel nervous.

  ‘Do you like doing this work?’

  ‘Yes, it suits me fine. I don’t have to leave the house.’

  ‘You’re like myself,’ she nodded in agreement. ‘Once I’ve the one or two bits of shopping done, I stay put. I hate the city. Always have since the day and hour I moved here. And it’s getting worse. You used to be able to have a chat in Dunlop’s till they changed it into a supermarket. How can you talk to the check-out girl with a queue hopping behind you?’

  ‘You haven’t lost your accent.’

  ‘And please God I never will.’

  He finished his tea and stood up. He inserted the finished poem into its frame and began to tape up the back of it. He was conscious of her watching the awkward guiding movements of his bad hand.

  ‘It’s the quiet I miss the most,’ she said. ‘In the country you can hear small things.’

  ‘Would you go back?’

  ‘Like a shot.’

  ‘Maybe some day you will.’

  She smiled at this.

  With an awl he made two holes in the wood frame and began to insert the screws. He said, ‘You have a cat?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  He explained about seeing the cat food in her basket.

  ‘It thinks it’s a lion,’ she said. ‘We have a yard at the back with pot plants and it lies flat like it’s in the jungle and his tail puffs up.’ He laughed at her. She went on, ‘What I like about cats is the way they ignore you. There’s no telling what way they feel. If I want to be popular all I have to do is rattle the tin-opener and he’s all over me, purring and sharpening his back on my shins.’

  ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘Monroe. My husband thought that one up – not my idea at all. At first we called it Marilyn until we found out it was a boy. Then we had it neutered because of the smell. We used to go a lot to the pictures.’ After a pause she added, ‘He’s dead now God rest him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My husband.’ She set her saucer on the floor between her feet and held the cup in both hands. The sunlight on the wall behind her had changed from yellow to rose until it finally disappeared, yet the room seemed to hold on
to some of the light. ‘Since I got the TV there’s no need to go out. All the good movies come up there.’ She looked around the darkening room.

  ‘I prefer the radio,’ he said. ‘It means I can work at the same time. Or look at the fire.’

  He got to his feet and asked her if she felt chilly. Even though she said no, he lit the fire. The firelighter blazed in a yellow flame a few inches above the coal until it caught. It made a pleasant whirring noise.

  ‘I couldn’t be without the TV,’ she said. ‘It’s like having another person in the house.’ He smiled at her and began sweeping the hearth.

  ‘Am I keeping you back?’ she said suddenly.

  ‘No. No. Not at all,’ he said. ‘It’s not often anybody comes in.’

  ‘Especially me,’ she said. As the coals of the fire began to redden and burn without the help of the firelighter she talked about her childhood in the country: of making shadow pictures of monsters on the wall with a candle; of her elder sister scaring the wits out of her with stories of the devil at dances. She told of ringworm and of the woolly balaclava she had to wear to cover her bald patches; of sheep ticks and how the only way you could get them out of your skin was to burn their backsides with a hot spent match and then pluck them out while their minds were on other things. He listened to her shudder at the memory, but it was obvious from her voice that she loved it all.

  When she waited for him to tell something of himself he shied away and asked her if she would like some more tea. He did tell her that he had never known his father and that his mother had died asking what time it was. Famous last words. What time is it? When he said this she held back her laughter until he laughed.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked. He squinted through the gloom in the direction of the clock on the shelf and told her.

  ‘What? I must go,’ she said. But she did not get up.

  ‘I’ve given you a bit of picture cord.’ He hung the framed text on his finger for her to see. ‘Although it’s very light.’

  ‘Light verse,’ she said and laughed. He handed her his work and she held it at arm’s length to admire it. He switched on the Anglepoise for her and it seemed very bright after the slow increase of dusk.

  ‘It must be great to be an artist,’ she said.

  He pooh-poohed the idea saying that he couldn’t draw to save his life. He said he was an artisan and added, seeing her blank look, ‘A man with one skill.’

  She set the picture down and opened her shoulder bag.

  ‘Four pounds you said?’ She took her purse from the bag and looked up at him, waiting for confirmation of the price.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘This one is free.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I enjoyed doing it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Here,’ she said and set the four pound notes on the table. He picked them up and offered them back to her. She took them and set them on the mantelpiece out of his reach.

  ‘It’s a lovely job of work. You must be paid.’ She was now bustling, returning her purse to her bag, straightening her cardigan. She seemed embarrassed and he wished he had just taken the money without any fuss.

  ‘I am very pleased with it,’ she said. ‘It was kind of you to offer. But no, thank you. And now I’ll be off.’

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Let me wrap it for you.’ He looked in a cupboard and found some brown paper he had saved. She sat down again to wait. He wrapped her magazine and the picture together, sellotaping down the triangular folds he had made.

  A summer insect flew into the metal dome of the Anglepoise and knocked around like a tiny knuckle. She said in admiration that he was very good with his hands. He was aware of her embarrassment in the silence which followed. He held on to the parcel when he was finished and tried to think of something to say. He asked her if she had ever worked at anything. She said that for some years before she had married she had worked in a sewing-machine factory – years which had bored her stiff. He asked her if she had any children but she replied that they had not been blessed in that way. Her husband had worked with an X-ray machine before they knew the damage it could do. She averted her eyes and he did not know what to say. Eventually she stood up.

  ‘You have more than one skill,’ she said, looking at the neatness of the finished parcel. ‘Thank you very much for the tea – and everything.’ She stretched out to shake hands but it was an awkward clasping rather than a handshake, with his left hand in her right.

  ‘I’ll show you out,’ he said, turning on the landing light. They went down the lino-covered stairs.

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you again – some time in church,’ she said, looking up over her shoulder at him.

  He nodded. ‘Maybe. I eh . . .’

  She waited for what he was going to say but he reached past her and opened the Yale lock. Sounds of children playing below echoed up the stair-well. She left smiling, clutching beneath her arm the parcel of her poem.

  Upstairs again he sat down in front of the illuminated address for the bakery firm but did not begin to work. He stayed like that for a long time then punched the table hard with the knuckles of his fist so that the radio at his elbow bounced and gave a static crackle. It had been on all this time. He turned up the volume and filled the flat with the noise of voices he could not put a face to.

  THE BREAK

  THE CARDINAL SAT at his large walnut desk speaking slowly and distinctly. When he came to the end of a phrase he pressed the off-switch on the microphone and thought about what to say next as he stared in front of him. On the wall above the desk was an ikon he had bought in Thessaloníki – he afterwards discovered that he had paid too much for it. It had been hanging for some months before he noticed, his attention focused by a moment of rare idleness, that Christ had a woodworm hole in the pupil of his left eye. It was inconspicuous by its position, and rather than detracting from the impact, he felt the ikon was enhanced by the authenticity of this small defect. He set the microphone on the desk, pushed his fingers up into his white hair and remained like that for some time.

  ‘New paragraph,’ he said, picking up the microphone and switching it on with his thumb. ‘Christians are sometimes accused of not being people of compassion – that the Rule is more important than the good which results from it.’

  The phone rang on the desk making him jump. He switched off the recorder.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Eminence, your father’s just arrived. Can you see him?’

  ‘Well, can I?’

  ‘You’re free until the Ecumenical delegation at half four.’

  ‘I think I need a break. Will you show him up to my sitting-room?’ He made the sign of the cross and prayed, his hands joined, his index fingers pressed to his lips. At the end of his prayer he blessed himself again and stood up, stretching and flexing his aching back. He straightened his tossed hair in the mirror, flattening it with his hands, and went into the adjoining room to see if his father had managed the stairs.

  The room was empty. He walked to the large bay window and looked down at the film of snow which had fallen the previous night. A black irregular track had been melted up to the front door by people coming and going but the grass of the lawns was uniformly white. The tree trunks at the far side of the garden were half black, half white where the snow had shadowed them. The wind, he noticed, had been from the north. He shuddered at the scene, felt the cold radiate from the window panes and moved back into the room to brighten up the fire. With a smile he thought it would be nice to have the old man’s stout ready for him. It poured well, almost too well, with a high mushroom-coloured head. He left the bottle with some still in it, beside the glass on the mantelpiece, and stood with his back to the fire, his hands extended behind him.

  When he heard a one-knuckle knock he knew it was him.

  ‘Come in,’ he called. His father pushed the door open and peered round it. Seeing the cardinal alone he smiled.

  ‘And how’s his Eminence today?’
>
  ‘Daddy, it’s good to see you.’

  The old man joined him at the fireplace and stood in the same position. He was much smaller than his son, reaching only to his shoulder. His clothes hung on him, most obviously at the neck where his buttoned shirt and knotted tie were loose as a horse-collar. The waistband of his trousers reached almost to his chest.

  The old man said, ‘That north wind is cold no matter what direction it’s blowing from.’ The cardinal smiled. That joke was no longer funny but the old man’s persistence in using it was.

  ‘Look, I have your stout already poured for you.’

  ‘Oh that’s powerful, powerful altogether.’

  The old man sat down in the armchair rubbing his hands to warm them and the cardinal passed him the stout.

  ‘Those stairs get worse every time I climb them. Why don’t you top-brass clergy live in ordinary houses?’

  ‘It’s one of the drawbacks of the job. Have you put on a little weight since the last time?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll soon not be able to sink in the bath.’

  ‘Are you taking the stout every day?’

  ‘Just let anyone try and stop me.’

  ‘What about food?’

  ‘As much as ever. But still the weight drops off. I tell you, Frank, I’ll not be around for too long.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ve another ten or twenty years in you.’

  The old man looked at him without smiling. There was a considerable pause.

  ‘You know and I know that that’s not true. I feel it in my bones. Sit down, son, don’t loom.’

  ‘Have you been to see the doctor again?’ The cardinal sat opposite him, plucking up the front of his soutane.

  ‘No.’ The old man took a drink from his glass and wiped away the slight moustache it left with the back of his hand. ‘That’s in good order, that stout.’

  The cardinal smiled. ‘One of the advantages of the job. When I order something from the town, people tend to send me the best.’

  He thought his father seemed jumpy. The old man searched for things in his pockets but brought out nothing. He fidgeted in the chair, crossing and recrossing his legs.