Sixty-One Nails cotf-1

by Mike Shevdon

  "Friends? Is that what we are? Really?"

  She turned, collected her things from the ground and walked up the slope, shoulders square and head up. In a moment she had vanished around the corner of the low stone church. I shook my head, trying to clear it, wondering if the fall had knocked the wits out of me. None of this made any sense. I knew she was angry with me, but now I couldn't figure out what I'd done wrong.

  I pushed myself to my feet and brushed the dry grass stalks from my clothes, finding myself largely unscathed, despite the bad landing. I stood up and looked around. I was in a graveyard behind a church, the ground sloping steeply down to a little stream hidden in the thickets at the bottom. The church was surrounded by ancient yew trees and it took me a moment to orientate myself. I struggled up the slope between the graves and found the gravel path around the church.

  I caught sight of her sitting on the wooden bench in the lych-gate. She was sat in the long shadow of the surrounding trees as if nothing had happened. I shook my head again, wondering whether anything had happened or whether I was suffering the after-effects of a bump on the head.

  I walked down the path and through the gates to stand in front of her.

  She looked at me, head on one side in that characteristic pose. She took in the dishevelled appearance, the bits of grass still caught in my hair. Deprived of sleep, chased, threatened and almost killed several times, I wasn't sure I understood anything anymore.

  She got to her feet, shaking her head and chuckling to herself, and walked off down the lane. I trudged after her, more confused than ever. Had the fall addled my wits completely? Had she really kissed me or was I hallucinating? No, she had definitely kissed me. But then she stomped off in a huff and then laughed at me.

  She paused, waiting for me to catch up and then walked alongside me. I felt confused and resentful at being made fun of, but she didn't say anything and after a while I subsided into a circular thought pattern leaving me no wiser.

  We walked down a twisted lane, sunken between hedges as the light faded into twilight. There were glimpses of farmhouses and outbuildings through the hedge and the occasional distant tractor. A single car passed us, slowing as it drew level and then accelerating away once it was past. We crossed a bridge over a brook and started the climb up the hill on the other side. Real blackbirds scolded their alarm at our passing and there were occasional rustlings from the hedge beside the road that might, I suppose, have been a rabbit. She didn't speak and I had no idea what to say, so I stayed silent, mulling over what had happened.

  My relationships with women had always been fraught. Even my marriage to Katherine had been difficult. We had been brought together by friends who thought we were made for each other, and at first that had been true. We wined and dined, and went to the theatre and talked of culture and art and politics. We were affectionate and even passionate. We stayed up late and spoke about history and philosophy and our jobs and even our friends, but never about us.

  Our relationship was something we never discussed. I liked her a lot, but in the end it had been she who had seduced me. It was she who pushed our relationship from an intellectual exchange to a physical consummation.

  Quite suddenly the relationship changed. I found the physical aspect of our relationship overwhelming. I was obsessed with her. I couldn't wait to see her and be with her. But she wanted something beyond the moment, beyond the enjoyment of each other.

  We broke up on a Friday. I was looking forward to a weekend of Katherine. I thought everything was fine until she called me and told me it was over. When I asked her why, she told me she wanted more than just sex and when I said that I thought we had more than sex, she laughed and said that was the problem. I told her I didn't understand and she told me she thought that was true.

  That was why I asked her to marry me. Not immediately, not then, but later. I found I couldn't bear the thought of living day to day without her. It wasn't until much later that I realised I couldn't live with her constant suspicion and innate mistrust. By then we had Alex, and everything had changed.

  "You're quiet." Blackbird brought me back to the present.

  "Hmmm?"

  "We've walked about two miles and you haven't said a word."

  "I was thinking."

  "What about?"

  "Nothing."

  "Two miles of nothing?"

  "Old stuff, stuff that's gone; things long passed."

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "No. It's history."

  We walked on, rounding a bend and walking past a farmyard where a tractor was left running unattended, the driver presumably engaged in one of the buildings.

  "Blackbird, why aren't we friends?"

  "Aren't we?" She looked sideways at me. "I thought we were."

  "But you said–"

  "Back there? I don't know if we were friends then, but we are now, if you want to be."

  "Would you do something, for me?" I asked her.

  "What's that?"

  "Stick with me, stay friends with me."

  I waited while she considered my request. She didn't just say "OK", and I valued that. She treated my proposal seriously. Friendship wasn't something I offered lightly or trivially. It was a commitment to a way of being. It cheered me that she considered it carefully.

  She skipped forward and turned in front of me, leaving me no choice but to stop or step around her. I stopped and she rested her hands on my chest.

  "Do you know what you're asking?"

  "Yes. No. Is it so terrible to be my friend? Does it mean something else to the Feyre?"

  "No, it's not terrible and friendship amongst the Feyre has all the usual connotations. But do you know what it means when a guy says to a girl, let's just be friends?"

  "Oh, I see. I didn't mean that. I meant be my friend as well, alongside anything else you can be, that you want to be."

  "And what do you want, Niall?" Her eyes were sharp and focused.

  "Honestly? Right now I want a good night's sleep somewhere where no one is trying to kill me and the comfort of knowing I have a friend in the world. Beyond that, I am prepared to see what tomorrow brings."

  "A true answer and a fair one." She turned and continued walking, leaving me once more to catch up.

  "So is that a yes, or a no?" I asked her.

  She looked back over her shoulder. "It's not a no."

  I caught up with her and settled back into her gentle pace.

  "It wasn't exactly a yes, either," I pointed out.

  "No, it wasn't, was it?"

  And I had to settle for that. I figured that I had offended her earlier when she thought I was rejecting her attentions. Now she was more reserved.

  "As your friend, Niall…"

  "Yes."

  "Would you confide in me? Would you tell me your secrets?"

  "As your friend, I might, assuming I had any secrets."

  "Hmm. So if you liked someone, would it be a secret?"

  "Not a secret exactly, but it might be difficult to talk about."

  "Why would that be?"

  "She might be very complicated. I might not know where I was with her, even if I did like her quite a lot actually."

  "She might be older than you?"

  "She might, but that wouldn't necessarily be a problem."

  "Then why would she be complicated?"

  I sighed, wrestling with the theoretical realities. "Because she might have a lot of secrets of her own; because she might change in the wink of an eye and be someone different, someone I didn't know or someone else that I did, if I ever knew her at all. How would I know who she was?"

  "How do any of us know? We only show the parts we want others to see. We might not be able to cloak it in magic or switch in a moment, but we can all be different people, if we choose."

  "That's true I suppose, but it's hard to trust someone when you don't know who they are." And trust, as I had learned too late with Katherine, is where friendship and even love are founded.


  There was a long pause while we walked along, side by side, in silence.

  "You could get to know her," she suggested.

  "Yes," I agreed, "I might just try that."

  We walked along and after a few more yards, her hand slipped into mine and we walked along companionably. We could have been out for an evening walk if it weren't for the dark box in Blackbird's bag.

  "Glamour has a kind of side effect," she said, apropos nothing in particular.

  "It does? What kind of side effect?" I had visions of all my hair falling out or my teeth going green.

  "It becomes second nature."

  "How is that a side effect?"

  "You use it all the time and it becomes the norm. It becomes part of you."

  "Why is that a problem?"

  She stopped and I halted, waiting for her to carry on. Instead she looked pensive, worried even.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Niall, do you like the way I look?"

  "Is it important? I mean you look lovely, but looks aren't everything."

  "Do you? Because I can change it if you don't."

  "What would you change it to?"

  "Anything. Anything at all. Blonde, brunette, buxom, boyish, fat, thin, pink, green."

  "No, no. You don't need to change the way you look for me. You just need to look like yourself."

  "That's the thing." She hesitated. "I don't know what I look like. I've had glamour since I was fifteen and I've looked however I've wanted ever since. You want me to look like I am, but I choose how I am. I don't know how not to choose."

  "What happens if you just relax and let go?"

  "Nothing happens. I stay like I am. I've been doing this for so long I can do it in my sleep, literally."

  "What do you want me to say?" I was bemused and rather at a loss for words.

  "I just wanted you to know. It seemed important to you and I felt I should explain."

  She walked along beside me again, but her hand didn't return to mine. I felt as if I should apologise again, but I wasn't sure what for. Because I had assumed that she looked like a retired lady and not a young woman or because she didn't know what she looked like any better than I did? It was hollow and I was sure if I said anything, it would sound it.

  We walked down a gentle hill with a big brick farmhouse on our left. The hedges had recently been flail-cut and torn pieces of sticks and leaves were strewn across the roadway. It reminded me of my life.

  As we walked down the hill things began to register with me. It was like a seeing a cloud that suddenly looks like a dragon or realising the vase you were looking at is really the silhouette of two faces.

  I stopped and she came to a halt with me.

  "Do you know where we are?" I asked her.

  "We can't be too far away now. We must have walked a couple of miles and it's only about five to the village." She extracted the map from her bag and started unfolding it.

  I walked past her a few paces, watching images come into line and visions fulfil themselves.

  "You don't need the map. It's here."

  "We can't be at the village yet, it's another mile or so at least."

  "Come and look."

  She refolded the map and came and stood beside me, looking down a short access track at a pair of ornate iron gates attached to brick pillars with a large old brick farmhouse set out in a courtyard beyond them. The farm looked neat and well cared for.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Look at the name."

  The sign was for Forge Farm with a neat anvil depicted in the centre of the cast-iron oval sign.

  "There could be more than one. There were no end of forges and foundries in this area a hundred years ago."

  "Look at the roof."

  Along the line of the roof were three iron doves, black and outlined against the darkening skyline. One was pecking while the other two were artfully engaged in each other. At the other end of the apex an iron cat stalked along the captiles, ready to pounce on them. It was the cat from my vision. As soon as I had seen it from the road I had been certain.

  "Sure?"

  I nodded.

  "We'd better go and introduce ourselves then.

  "Blackbird, before we do. I have another request, if you'll allow it?" I spoke gently, aware that the wrong word at this moment would lead to a rift between us, just when I thought we were getting closer.

  "What?" Her answer was curt, but not harsh.

  "Would you stay like you are now, just for a while, until I get used to it? I rather like you like that."

  She didn't say anything, but as we walked down the track towards the farm her hand curled into mine again. It was such a small thing, but it lifted my heart and I couldn't help the smile that came unbidden to my lips.

  EIGHTEEN

  The gates to the farm were a challenge. They were wide enough so you could drive a combine harvester through them easily. They were at least ten feet high at the outside, sloping down through an elegant curve to about seven feet in the middle. The foundations for the pillars must have been put in specially because they were cold forged iron and neither Blackbird nor I were going to touch them.

  There was no bell or knocker. We could see there were lights on in the house but we were a good distance away so it was doubtful anyone would hear us if we called out. In America there would have been an intercom so you could get the gates opened electrically. This was Shropshire.

  The problem was solved by a couple of dogs. They tore out of one of the barns as soon as we came close to the gates, baying and barking fit to wake anyone within a quarter mile. They were great big things with huge ugly heads, tusk-like lower teeth and coats the colour of burnt toffee, possibly some kind of mastiff. Their brakes weren't too good as they skidded and collided with the gates at the end of their run in a race to be first to bark at the visitors. The gates didn't even rattle.

  "Well, that should get us some attention," remarked Blackbird.

  The dogs barked on for a good couple of minutes but no one came. They growled and ran up and down the gates, intimating that, if they could only get out, we would be dog-meat.

  "OK, maybe not. Still, we don't have to put up with this racket." She turned to the dogs.

  I don't know what she did, because it only lasted a second and I had my eye on the dogs. I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye as she shifted shape momentarily. The effect was instant and dramatic. Both dogs backed away from the gate, one turning and running back towards the farmhouse with its tail between its legs, the other backing off about ten yards, still barking, but with all the hackles raised down its back. Its back legs were down and braced. The bark had changed too, becoming darker, more urgent.

  "Brave dog," she remarked, nodding towards the one still barking.

  "Doesn't help us get past the gates, though does it?"

  "Hello?" A figure emerged from the house, the other dog close on her heels. She'd obviously been cooking because she was dusting flour from her fingers.

  "Hello!" I answered.

  She walked across the yard towards us, having trouble because the dog stayed close to her legs, putting itself between her and us.

  "Stupid animal." She pushed it away, but it was not budging from her. "Can I help you?"

  "We're looking for Mr Highsmith," I called to her.

  "Yes?" She looked at the dog, still growling and barking, well back from the gate. "Topaz! Heel!"

  The dog glanced at her and then continued its barking.

  "Topaz! Come here!"

  The dog backed slowly towards her, never taking its eyes from us, still growling deeply.

  "Is this the right place?" It was difficult to have a conversation through the gates and across the yard, but she showed no sign of wanting to open the gates with the dogs acting so strangely.

  "This is Highsmiths' farm, yes," she admitted, still watching the dog.

  "Could we speak to Mr Highsmith?" I asked, across the divide.

  "What abo
ut?" She made no move towards us.

  "We need to speak with him about an urgent matter, something we would like him to do."

  "And what sort of thing would that be?" Suspicion tinted her tone.

  "We need him to do some ironwork," Blackbird added.

  "I'm afraid you've wasted your time."

  "Have we come to the wrong place then?" I asked.

  "No, He's here. But he doesn't do commissions any more. He's getting on, you see."

  "He'll do this one," Blackbird asserted.

  Another figure appeared from one of the sheds around the courtyard. This one had the universal blue coveralls farmers wear. His were dark with grease and he had the look of a man that had been in the middle of fixing something and had been interrupted.

  "What's the matter with the dogs, Meg?" He walked over to her, wiping his hands down his thighs.

  "They rucked up when these people came calling and then Tasha here came bursting into the kitchen and hid under the table, growling at the door, silly dog." Nevertheless she reached down and stroked the dog's ears, reassuring her.

  "Topaz, heel!" The larger dog turned and trotted back to his master, then stood by his legs, still rumbling at us.

  He walked forward. "Can I help you with something?"

  "We've come to see Mr Highsmith, about some ironwork," I repeated.

  "I don't do ironwork no more, and my Dad's getting too old to take on work. Maybe I can recommend someone to you?"

  "No, I'm afraid it's you we need to do it. It's specialist work."

  "As I say I don't do ironwork anymore. There's no money in it."

  "This isn't for money, although I dare say there'll be payment," said Blackbird. "This is about two knives, one blunt and one sharp."

  That clearly hit a chord, because his manner changed.

  "Meg, go and get Dad, will you? And take the dog with you. Lock her in the back kitchen."

  "But Jeff–"

  "Just go and get him, would you, please?"

  She walked off, clearly not happy with the situation, but following his instructions.

  He walked a little closer, setting the dog barking again until he hushed it with a word.

  "What kind of work is it you're wanting?"

  "It's one of the knives. It's broken in two. Someone dropped it a while ago and no one's been able to fix it."