Well, there was one other thing—and they’d gone straight back to the boarding house and done it for most of the afternoon. They hadn’t felt so very old, that day: but three years later Cyril was dead.
On the doorstep she pulled the door shut behind her. She didn’t bother to lock it. After living in London for so long, she forgot that things were different here. She would probably still have locked it if there’d been anything inside worth stealing, but when she’d moved she’d looked at all the things she’d accumulated over the years, and realised very few seemed important enough to bring all this way. Apart from a few sets of clothes and a couple of odds and ends, she’d dispersed everything among friends and relatives, which had been nice to do. Her granddaughter Jane, for instance, had always loved looking through the old photographs May kept in a wooden chest. Giving them to her meant she would always have something to remember her by.
That, and their joke, which they’d shared since Jane was small. ‘Why do gypsies walk lop-sided?’ May would ask, and Jane, though she knew the answer, would always pretend she didn’t. ‘Because they’ve got crystal balls,’ May would cackle, and the two of them would laugh.
It was a bit of a rude joke, May supposed, but a little bit rudeness never did anyone any harm. If people didn’t get a little bit rude with each other every now and then, there’d be no new people, would there?
She hesitated for a moment, looking up her path, and then set off. The road at the bottom turned gradually away across the fields, surrounded by green and waving gold as far as you could see. It was a long road, and May paced herself carefully. There was no hurry.
By late morning she judged she had travelled about three miles—not bad going for an old goat, she thought. It was so easy walking here, listening to the birds in the hedges and banks of trees. It reminded her of other holidays with Cyril, when they used to get out of the smoke and head out for the countryside somewhere, to walk together down lanes and stop at tiny pubs for lunch. It was a shame that he could not be with her now that she could walk like this whenever she chose, but it didn’t do to regret things like that. Cyril always said that regrets are for people with nothing to look forward to, and he was right.
About half a mile later she rounded a bend to find a little clearing by the side of the road, and saw there was a small pub back up against the trees. Always a believer in signs, May decided that it was time for lunch.
The inside of the pub was cosy, the landlord and his wife as friendly as everybody else seemed to be in these parts, but it was too nice a day to sit inside. May bought a small sherry and a slice of pie to add to the lunch she had brought, and took it outside to sit at one of the wooden tables. As she contentedly munched her way through the food she thought of other pubs and other times, thought of them with a calm detachment that had nothing of loss within it. You have what you have, and that’s it. There’s no point in wishing otherwise. If something was good enough to miss, then you were lucky to have had it in the first place.
After a while she saw a figure walking down the road towards the pub. It was a young man, and he sat at her table to chat and eat his lunch. He seemed a little glum. He had moved away from his family a year before, and was just back from visiting them. Though most of them seemed reconciled to his having moved on, his mother was not taking it well. May recognised the feeling she had about today’s business, of having to look back and remember things that seemed past, like recalling as an adult what it was like to take exams and tests, so as to be able to sympathise with a child who was only now going through that particular form of hell.
The young man cheered a little as they talked. After all, he said, he didn’t want to go back, and if it took a little time for his mother to get over his leaving, then that was the way it was. This might have sounded harsh to anyone else, but not to May. She knew well enough that nothing would have dragged her back to London, now that she was here.
Before she could become too comfortable, she got to her feet and started out again, armed with a recommended spot to look for later from the young man, who was going the other way.
The afternoon was even warmer than the morning, but not too much so, and as she walked May felt her heart lift with happiness. It really was very nice here, as nice as you could want.
By four the quality of the light began to change, and afternoon began to shade towards evening. The landscape either side of the road started to change too, becoming wilder, like a moor. May felt heavy with anticipation now, wondering how her business was going to go, and hoping it would be more conclusive than the young man’s had been. It wasn’t that she minded having to go through it, not at all: but she would feel happier if today could be the end of it.
She kept an eye out for the landmarks the young man had mentioned, looking for the spot he had recommended. She felt that soon it would be time.
Half an hour later she passed a gnarled old tree by the side of the road, and knew she was close. Soon she found the little path which led off the road, and followed it as it wound between small bushes and out onto the moor. She stopped once and looked back, across the green, and as far as she could see everything looked the same, a limitless expanse of country under a rich blue sky. How anyone could live anywhere else she couldn’t imagine. If anything she wished she’d come here sooner.
Then the path broadened into a kind of circular grassy patch, and May knew this was the spot the man had mentioned. Not only was it the ideal place to sit, but there was no path out the other side. She lowered herself gently to the warm grass, and prepared to wait. The air was slightly cooler now, almost exactly body temperature, and as she sat May felt the first hint of a breeze.
She felt calm, and relaxed, and soon another breeze ran by her, no colder than the air but brisk enough to make the grass bend. Then another breeze came, and another, and soon the grass was swaying in patterns around her, leaning this way and that in lines and shapes that changed into something else as soon as you noticed them. The wind grew stronger, and stronger, until every blade of grass seemed to be moving in a different direction and May’s hair was lifted up round her face in a whirl.
Then suddenly all was still.
May had a vague sense that someone was thinking of her. It became stronger, a definite tugging. She let her mind go as quiet as possible, giving herself up to it. Though she could still feel the grass beneath her hands, her mind seemed to go elsewhere, to broaden—and when she opened her eyes the world inside her head seemed as big as the one all around her.
‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’m here.’
Immediately she felt warm, and knew that the message had been received.
A moment later a voice came towards her out of the air; at first very weak, then more strongly.
‘Who are you here for?’ it said.
May’s heart leapt. ‘Jane,’ she said. ‘I’m here for Jane.’
She heard the voice ask if there was a Janet, and corrected it, repeating Jane’s name, enunciating it clearly.
After a pause she heard the voice again. ‘There is a Jane here,’ it said, ‘Who is speaking?’
‘May,’ she said strongly, ‘It’s May.’
The voice addressed the people she could not see. ‘Does the name “May” mean anything to you?’ it said, and May waited to see if she could hear the answer. She couldn’t. It was too far away.
But then the voice spoke to her again. ‘Your name seems to mean something,’ it said. ‘Jane is crying.’
May felt her heart go out to her granddaughter, and wished that she could see her, reach out and touch her. Jane had always been the one who had visited her, when her other grandchildren or even children were too busy. Jane had come at the end too, when May had been in the home. Even when May’s mind had been confused and dark and she hadn’t been very nice to talk to, Jane had always come, and May wanted very much for her to know that she remembered her too. Most of all she wanted to show her that the words she’d spoken near the end were not her own, but the r
andom jumbles of a mind that was too old to accurately reflect what was still inside.
‘Tell her,’ she said, and then cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Tell her “crystal balls”.’
‘If you say so,’ said the voice, and there was a pause.
Then suddenly May felt warm again, warmer than she ever had before. Her cheeks sparkled as if flushed, and eyes flew wide open, and she felt Jane’s life inside her, and she knew that her business was over.
Jane had received the message. She would be able to forgive May for not saying goodbye as herself, and to let her go. She would know that it was all right to move on.
‘Did you get that?’ asked the medium.
‘Yes,’ said May, ‘I got that. Thank you.’
As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The connection was broken, and May was left sitting on the grass alone.
She stood up and looked towards the path, and wasn’t surprised to see that it wasn’t there any more. On the other side of the clearing the bushes had cleared. The way now led in that direction.
She walked into the growing darkness, knowing there would be light at the end of it. She would miss her little cottage, she thought, but not for long. It had only been a temporary measure, somewhere to stay until she was ready to go.
She was ready now, and she saw in the distance that someone was waiting for her, and she walked more quickly because she wanted very much to see him again. She didn’t think he’d mind that she’d left the coat behind. She wouldn’t need it again.
If anything could keep her warm forever, it was him.
The Vaccinator
Walk North up Duval Street in Key West, past the restaurants, fruit juice stands and T-shirt emporiums, and pretty soon you’ll come to the Havana Docks. It’s a tourist harbour, quite small, bordered on both sides by restaurant piers and not much used for seafaring beyond a couple of glass-bottom boats and a jetski concession. Mainly it’s there for looking at, and eating by, and watching the sun set over. Also, stuff swims in it. Some days you’ll see a manatee down in the water around the pier supports, and there’s generally some Yellow Tail and Black Fin flicking around. You’d think fish would have the sense not to swim right up close to seafood restaurants, where people can look down at them and think ‘I’ll have one of those, please, with broccoli and a cold glass of wine’, but evidently not. At night little sharks swarm in the underwater lights, so many and moving so fast that it makes you wonder if the whole sea is like that, right out to the invisible horizon, a twisting mass of creatures who barely know we’re here and won’t miss us when we’re gone.
On this particular morning a man called Eddie was sitting alone on the upper level of the East pier, feet up against the wooden railing and a cup of iced tea cradled in his lap. He was watching one of the tan jetski assholes going through his chops in the bay, showing the sparse tourists how much noisy fun they could have for a mere fifty bucks an hour. The skier hadn’t fallen off yet, but there was still room for hope. Eddie was thinking that it would be best if it happened out in the bay, a long way from shore, and that if anybody asked he’d say he hadn’t seen anything. It was early yet, barely ten o’clock, and the sun was just getting into its stride, glinting off the weathered wood of the pier, the swirls in the water below, and the fading edges of Eddie’s hangover.
After a while another, older, man climbed the steps up to the pier. He walked along the deck until he was level with where the other man was sitting, and then ground to a halt.
‘Are you Eddie?’ he asked eventually.
‘I am,’ Eddie said, without turning. He took another sip of tea. It was warm already, the ice long gone. ‘And you would be George?’
The other man nodded jerkily, realized he couldn’t be seen, and said that he was. Then carried on standing there.
Eddie levered himself upright in the chair, turned and looked him over. George was tall, late fifties, spreading around the stomach and thinning on top. Neatly pressed grey shorts, a blue short sleeve shirt with razor creases and dinky white socks—and in general not the most hip person in the Keys that morning.
‘Sit,’ Eddie suggested. ‘Standing there, you look like some kind of Illinois realtor on vacation.’
‘Uh, I am,’ George frowned, stepping back to perch on the edge of the nearest chair. ‘That’s what I am.’
‘I know. That was a joke, to set you at ease. Didn’t work, evidently. You want a cigarette?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t smoke.’
‘Right,’ Eddie nodded equably. ‘You and everyone else. May you all live forever.’
George watched while the man lit up. Eddie was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a loose jacket and an expensive-looking T-shirt that didn’t proclaim him a member of the Conch Republic or have a picture of a very specific breed of dog on it or say that while he was only one year old, he had an ‘attitude’—so it couldn’t have been bought in Key West. He had short dark hair and a trim goatee beard, deep and sharp blue eyes. He looked late thirties, was lean but broad in the shoulders, and gave the impression that whatever he did, he did it fast and well.
‘Okay,’ Eddie said. ‘All I know is what Connie told me. You sell land up North, and might have an unusual kind of problem.’
‘Connie? The guy’s name was Connie? Isn’t that a girl’s name?’
‘Usually, yes. In this case it’s short for ‘Conrad’. You want to take the issue up with him then be my guest, but I wouldn’t advise it.’
George nodded, looked down at his feet, quiet for a moment. His mouth opened after a while, but then closed again, tight enough to make a popping sound.
For the time being, that appeared to be it. Eddie watched as some seabird—he’d never been able to figure the difference between the types, or why it would be worth knowing—dropped chaotically out of the sky and snatched something from out of the swell. George meanwhile remained silent.
‘Here’s what you’re thinking,’ Eddie prompted, eventually. ‘You got involved in a conversation last night with a barman you never met before. You let something slip. A matter you can’t even talk to your wife about, and now here you are, sitting with another guy you’ve never met, and you don’t think you can tell him about it either, even though you want to.’
‘How did you know I was married?’
‘Look in the mirror some time, George. I never seen a man look as married as you. Which is a good thing, incidentally.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘Right. Approval’s very important. Plus that’s not exactly a small ring you’ve got on your finger there.’
‘So—am I going to tell you these things?’
‘You are. Because you don’t like hiding stuff. Like the fact you told your wife you were going out to bring back pastries or something this morning as an excuse to come here alone. But lying’s becoming a habit, because you don’t want to worry her, and that’s making you do things like go out to bars when she’s asleep in bed in your nice hotel room. And that’s a dubious way of life, George, because sometimes bad accidental things happen to guys in bars, and then it’s going to look like you got some whole secret history you wouldn’t even want.’
George smiled with half his mouth and one eyebrow. For a moment he looked like a man who closed a lot of prestige sales and was a local legend for giving junior realtors merry hell when they stepped out of line. ‘Thanks for the advice. So why don’t you tell me what my problem is?’
Eddie shrugged. ‘You’re afraid.’
‘Of what?’
He evidently needed to hear someone else say it. Eddie said it. ‘You think you’re going to be kidnapped.’
George’s face went complex, relief and confusion vying for the same advertising space. ‘Kidnapped?’ he said.
‘What else would you call it?’
George suddenly looked very tired.
Eddie dropped his butt to the floor, ground it out with his heel. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s happening, and then I’ll t
ell you what I think and if there’s anything I can do about it.’
George started slowly, but gradually gained speed and confidence. He was a man used to conveying information, and his story was short and concise. Eddie occasionally asked for clarification, but mainly just let him talk. It took perhaps ten minutes, and then George stopped and spread his hands, embarrassed, like a man expecting to be ridiculed.
‘Okay,’ Eddie said. ‘In time-honoured fashion, I got some bad news and some good news. The bad news is you are indeed shaping up to be kidnapped.’
All the breath in George’s body came out in a rush. He looked like he had sunstroke. ‘So what is the good news, exactly?’ he croaked.
‘I might be able to do something about it,’ Eddie said. ‘How long are you aiming to stay in Key West?’
George rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘Today’s Thursday. We thought probably the weekend, leaving Monday lunchtime?’
Eddie considered. ‘Should be enough. Relax for a day or two. Act like nothing’s happening. You staying at the Marquesa?’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘Just a guess. It’s a good hotel. I’d be staying there if I was you. You should make sure you’re around late afternoon on Saturday. They sometimes have wine and cheese around the pool.’
George laughed shakily. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Go to Bug’s Pantry on the way back: they have some nice stuff there, and it’s different enough to the continental breakfast that it’s not going to look weird you went out for it. Corner of Curry Street. They sell flowers too, and newspapers. One more thing. You realize this is going to cost?’
George the businessman came back. ‘How much? And what kind of guarantee do I get?’
‘A lot, and no kind at all. Take it or leave it.’
Eddie watched George think about the phone calls, and the fax. About what had happened to his car. About his wife, and the things he hadn’t told her.
‘I’ll take it,’ George said.
‘Need the boat tonight. A beer in the next twenty seconds.’
More Tomorrow: And Other Stories Page 52
