by Mark Morris
The bronzed man was always in his customary position when Eamon arrived, leaning over the balcony railing, presiding over the complex. Eamon had considered getting up even earlier to see if he could be at the pool before the bronzed man, but he felt intuitively that the bronzed man wouldn’t approve and was reminded of the defensive posture he’d assumed when Eamon had tried to make his way to the top of the complex. The bronzed man clearly did not want to share his dais.
Eamon assessed his own tan as he took off his T-shirt, literally pale in comparison to the bronzed man’s, though certainly possessing a healthier glow than when he’d arrived. He wondered what kind of spectacle he made. He was overweight for sure, but he felt better moving through the water, becoming more proficient with his swimming each day. He wondered if the bronzed man had noticed the improvement; keen to be more than just another idle holidaymaker.
Why the bronzed man never deigned to come down to the pool often occupied Eamon’s thoughts as he swam. Surely, he would want to cool off, to dip his feet at the very least as the day drew on. The roof terrace offered no shade, and in all this time Eamon had not seen the bronzed man pause to apply sunblock or to take a drink. He just remained at his post, apparently without fear of sunstroke or melanoma, as the sun beat relentlessly down.
With a flourish, Eamon dived underwater, surprised at his own confidence. He emerged seeking the gaze of the bronzed man and his inward applause. But the bronzed man was looking into the distance, beyond the arc of patio umbrellas, the coconut fibres like witches’ tresses. They cast shadows on the ground, knotted mounds resembling bonfires. Eamon heard the cry of a baby before he saw the young man in the baseball cap, rocking the infant in his arms. He watched him walk toward the edge of the pool whilst trying to hush the child. The man nodded at Eamon when he caught his eye and, as Eamon returned the greeting, he noted that in all this time he had never exchanged such a simple courtesy with the bronzed man.
Eamon tried to continue swimming but the young father pacing beside the pool put him off his stride. The sound of his flip-flops against the paving, the whimpering of the baby, all served to distract him. Eamon observed how tired the young man was; the way he rocked the baby with his eyes closed as if encouraging the child to do the same. The young father tried lying back against the sunbed whilst maintaining a cradling position, but whenever he got comfortable the infant would stir up. The child sought movement and the man rose again, rocking with renewed conviction.
Eamon had little sympathy. Though the Two As were better sleepers now, he was not out of the woods yet and he had two to contend with, after all. Try having twins, he wanted to shout at the young man. But he sank into a breaststroke instead, swimming toward the pool ladder, not wanting to advertise the fact he could devote a portion of his day to leisure.
But the man was too preoccupied with the baby to notice Eamon. He walked and rocked, walked and rocked. He came closer to the water, stepping into a stream of light peeling down from the mountains and the baby’s crying became louder. The young man didn’t step back into the shade, however, but looked up towards the bronzed man, lifting the peak of his cap so he could see more clearly. It was then Eamon saw the flash of understanding across the young man’s face, the expression so transparent it was as if he were mouthing his intentions. He began to rock more vigorously, gaining momentum, and for a moment Eamon was sure he was about to release the baby into the water.
“Eamon!” He heard his name called from across the complex, saw Sherry waving impatiently from behind the pushchair, beckoning him to breakfast. When he looked back, the young man was walking away from the pool, cooing softly to his child.
* * *
It seemed ridiculously early to be eating such a big lunch. They’d not long finished breakfast when they were back in the dining hall, lining up at the buffet. Sherry had insisted, since it was nearing the end of their holiday, that they should experience the luxury of full board. It was no different really to their evening meal, the counters full of typical English fare, a tokenistic corner reserved for paella and an untouched urn of gazpacho. Eamon had managed to skirt Sherry’s entreaties to go down to the beach, citing the difficulty with the pushchair, the irritation of sand, but he had to concede something. He much preferred grabbing a bite at the poolside bar, where he could keep an eye on the bronzed man and he felt strangely disloyal being sat at a linen-covered table and not by the pool, where he was supposed to be.
The Two As seemed similarly frustrated at being indoors and force fed, snivelling in their highchairs as Sherry tried to tempt them with coils of pasta. Eamon found a CBeebies clip they liked and placed his phone in front of them.
“This is the future,” he heard an elderly woman say to her companion, “devices with dinner.”
Sherry smiled apologetically but returned to the buffet so that Eamon was alone in feeling their disdain. He tried to call after Sherry to get more bread rolls, but she’d woven her way along the dessert aisle and out of earshot. He stood to get her attention and it was then that he saw the bronzed man making his way through the canteen. He looked smaller among the other diners than he did perched at his summit, his tan less golden and more rust-coloured; clearly not as immune to the ravages of the sun as Eamon had first thought.
The bronzed man walked past the laminated notice which banned swimwear from the dining hall, dressed only in yellow Lycra trunks. His flip-flops squeaked against the terracotta tiles as he approached Eamon, but no one seemed to notice; his attire seemingly less offensive than the presence of an iPhone displaying cartoons. Eamon sat upright, expecting a nod of acknowledgement, an exchange of words, but the bronzed man walked straight past and Eamon was left to observe the leathery quality of his flesh, the skin folded like vellum above the band of his swimming shorts.
* * *
The incident at the pool with the young father had left Eamon unsettled, along with the bronzed man’s uncharacteristic venture into the dining hall. But he was determined to have one last swim on this, the final day of the holiday, before he was expected to begin the tedious task of packing. But the twins were already stirring before Eamon was awake, as if they could sense the impending departure. Annabelle sat upright in her cot as Eamon dressed, reaching upwards to be released from her prison.
“You can’t leave me with both,” Sherry said, pulling the bed sheet around her tighter. “You’ll have to take one.”
Alex still squirmed under the weight of sleep, so Eamon reached for Annabelle, dressing her hastily, his morning solitude now shattered with the encumbrance of a toddler and changing bag. But he wasn’t about to forgo his swim and approaching the poolside he placed Annabelle in the crèche, scattering a selection of toys across the crash mats. He stepped into the kids’ side of the pool, realising how inferior it was for swimming, the waterfall partially obscuring his view of the bronzed man. Annabelle seemed content enough, so he swam beneath the cascade, a feat he wouldn’t have contemplated earlier in the week, and emerged in the deep end.
He was able to swim a couple of lengths, feeling the appraisal of the bronzed man as he moved through the water, before he heard Annabelle crying with the realisation she was abandoned and alone. Somehow, he knew it was a sound that would please the bronzed man.
The hotel was busier than normal with new arrivals, their body clocks out of kilter with the early hour. They gravitated to the pool, pale satellites encircling the radiance of the bronzed man. A group of teenagers ran beside the water, pretending to push one another in before disappearing out of sight, their voices carrying across the complex. Eamon plunged beneath the surface, imagining himself at the top beside the bronzed man, watching the suffusion of golden light drift down from the mountains.
When he resurfaced, he saw Annabelle toddling along the periphery of the pool. Had he not closed the gate of the crèche? Had it been opened? Her pace quickened when she saw him in the water, the tiles underfoot slippery from the splashing of the waterfall.
Stop, he said i
n his mind, but he continued to tread water, knowing the bronzed man was watching, knowing what he craved. And he saw Annabelle’s awkward gait, her mismatched clothes that he’d selected, as she made her way closer to the edge. Eamon found himself watching the situation as if from a height, as if through a bronze haze, all the while thinking how much easier it would all be with just one.
Amid the hum of cicadas, he hardly perceived Sherry emerging from the lift, Alex on her hip, the quickening patter of her flip-flops against the ground as she ran toward the pool. His name called in a vague, far-off way, but resounding through the complex, like a nagging light at the edge of slumber.
Suddenly, life starts up. Annabelle crouches to jump and spurred into action Eamon swims across the pool with uncharacteristic speed, as if he had been practising all week for such a moment. Between his strokes, he sees the fear in his daughter’s eyes as she leaps, as she begins to fall, the shock of the water against her chubby legs, replaced with a breathless smile as he manages, just in time, to reclaim her from the water. She squirms safely in her daddy’s arms. Again. Again. But Eamon clutches her tightly, rocks her gently and feels the cold breeze against his skin as a shadow passes overhead.
He would live that moment again and again as he lay alone, or in the arms of various girlfriends who came in and out of his life in the future, Sherry having filed for divorce a few years after the holiday, unable to forgive his negligence that day. The recollection resurfaced with increasing vibrancy the night Annabelle missed her curfew and he found her slumped outside a kebab house, one shoe lost to the gaiety of the night, and the time she broke her wrist playing basketball; these brushes with danger all lent a golden aura that he could see as clearly as his daughter’s younger self, hovering beside the water’s edge. He forgot all about the bronzed man, of how close he came to his sulphurous glow. All that endured was a dull patina that formed over the memory, reddish gold, like scales of rust.
THE TYPEWRITER
Rio Youers
Thursday 16th January 1964
So frightfully cold outside. Watkins says it’s going to snow overnight, and Watkins is usually right about such things. He has uncanny knowledge. Ask him about the Purley contract and he’ll chase his tail like a dog. Ask him about dowsing or the healing properties of certain minerals and he’ll talk for hours. A most peculiar individual.
I told the children to expect snow, and how their little faces glowed. Patricia danced up and down the hallway, and Christopher has already set aside his coat and gloves. They won’t sleep tonight, I’m sure. It warms me to see them so full of glee. After tea, Christopher asked if he could put a log on the fire and I permitted him, watching as he removed the guard from the hearth and gently laid the log amongst the flames. He gave it a couple of manly prods with the poker, then replaced the guard and turned to me with an expression of boundless pride. We then sat as a family and talked for a full hour, mostly nonsense, but with a measure of love and understanding I so miss when I’m not with them… and sometimes when I am. It was a precious moment, and it didn’t matter that the windows rattled in their draughty way, or that the chimney sometimes howled and made the single log hiss as if it were alive.
At eight o’clock we sent the children to their beds, and Evelyn and I curled in front of the fire, she with her head on my shoulder, me with my fingers in her hair. I smiled and watched the flames, listening to the window rattle, believing myself the luckiest man alive.
Friday 17th January 1964
A strange day, all told. Watkins was right about the snow. My goodness! I woke to a different world, with everything draped in a white so clean it hurt your eyes to look at it. When I left for work, Christopher and Patricia were playing in the front garden, their noses red and their gloves wet from snowballing.
There were no buses running, so I had to walk, and thus arrived late. I wasn’t the only one, of course, so Drummond couldn’t reprimand me, although I could tell he wanted to. I appeased him by completing the Worthington contract ahead of schedule, and starting on Blackwell-Wright. I occasionally glanced up at our single office window, watching the snow fall, sometimes in dusty swirls, often in delicate clusters. The drifts were knee-deep by the time I collected my wages and left. Still no buses, so I walked with my coat tugged close and my scarf wrapped about my face. I trudged down the Old Kent Road, desperately cold and bleak, until I passed Temple’s Bric-à-Brac, where the light spilled onto the pavement in a most inviting fashion. I was drawn to look at the window display and saw there an item that immediately took my fancy: an old typewriter, an Oliver No. 6, with a ridge of dust along its platen and its green paint in places scorched away as if it had been recovered from a fire. The price tag propped between the second and third row of keys read: £1/5s. Rather pricy for a thing so neglected. Nevertheless, it had a distinct appeal, like a mongrel dog or a worn pair of slippers, and I was moved to enquire within.
The shop itself is quite fabulous: a cornucopia of wondrous artefacts in various states of disrepair. Muskets spotted with corrosion, gramophones with tarnished horns, spinning tops that have lost the will to whistle. Temple himself is equally threadbare, a chameleon amongst his wares, to the point that I thought the shop empty when I first entered, and in calling his name was startled to see him rise from the camouflage of a cluttered desk.
“Temple, my good man,” I said as he shuffled towards me. “The typewriter in the window… What can you tell me about it?”
“One pound, five shillings,” he replied.
“Yes, I can see the price tag,” I said. “But does the machine work? It looks in questionable condition.”
Temple shrugged his dusty shoulders. “It’s not meant to work, is it? It’s an antique. A display piece.”
“A display piece?” I barked, aghast. “Where would you display such a monstrosity? Other than in your window?”
“Obviously, it needs to be restored.” Temple took a packet of Embassy Regal from his shirt pocket, but didn’t offer me one. He lit the fag with a box of matches plucked from a nearby table of oddments and blew his smoke into the air above us. “Think of it as a project. You clean it up, replace a few parts, tighten some screws, and Bob’s your uncle. Display in pride of place or sell to a collector. You might even make a few nicker.”
The idea had appeal. Not for fiscal gain, but to take a thing so untended and make it kind on the eye. It seemed the opposite of what we do with our lives—everything being worn to nothing: our possessions, our bodies, our state of mind. Here was an opportunity to reverse the process.
Temple, as I have mentioned, is a dishevelled individual. His skull consists of three teeth, brown as ale and unkindly spaced. His left eye is perpetually closed. It works fine, to the best of my knowledge, but he keeps it screwed shut, regardless. This gives him the appearance of a pirate, which makes bartering with him easier.
“I’ll give you fifteen shillings,” I offered.
Temple blew a string of smoke into the air, which bloomed like a peacock’s tail. “You saw the price tag.” He cracked an unsightly grin. “I’ll take a pound even.”
“Codswallop,” I said. “Seventeen shillings. I’ll not go higher.”
“Nineteen,” he said. “And six.”
“Eighteen,” I countered brashly. “And not a penny more.”
He considered in histrionic fashion, rubbing his chin and shaking his head, and then agreed with a greasy handshake. I subtracted the total from my wage packet of £15, and then left with the typewriter—a deceptively heavy beast—in my arms.
It made the walk home longer, and harder.
I could write several pages more in regard to Evelyn’s reaction to my purchase, but suffice it to say that she was not best pleased, and the atmosphere in the house tonight was decidedly icier than that of yesterday. Indeed, it was less frosty outside, standing next to the snowman built lovingly by my children. At one point his carrot nose fell off, and I popped it back into place, thinking, with a wry smile, that I had better g
et used to restoring things.
Sunday 19th January 1964
The typewriter is in the shed, sitting on my workbench. It is an ugly little thing, and I can see why Evelyn does not want it in the house. It smells dreadful too. A sickly, back-of-the-throat stench I can only liken to a dead puppy I once discovered in a drift of fallen leaves. Yes… the typewriter smells like a dead puppy.
But not for long. I shall strip it and clean its individual components with cotton buds, fine brushes and turpentine. Broken parts will be either fixed or replaced. Once reassembled, I dare say it will be fine enough for a museum.
Wednesday January 22nd 1964
Spent the entire evening in the shed with my typewriter— or what used to be my typewriter, but is now a sprawl of levers, wheels, bars, and various other pieces I have no name for. Had a blanket wrapped around me, but still so cold, my fingers numb as I painstakingly cleaned each piece. Got about 1/8th of them done. Will continue tomorrow.
Monday 27th January 1964
Repainted the typewriter’s body today. Found the exact shade of olive green in a model shop. It took me hours to sand away the old paint and scorch marks, and I used a spray gun to apply the new coat evenly. I must say, it looks rather splendid.
Wednesday 29th January 1964
