Tin Man

by Sarah Winman

  He passed the old Regal Cinema, where thirty years ago Billy Graham, the evangelist preacher, had beamed out from the big screen to 1,500 of his faithful. Shopkeepers and passersby had gathered on the pavements to watch the masses stream out from its doors. Drinkers outside the City Arms pub had looked on awkwardly and shuffled their feet. It had been a standoff between excess and sobriety. But hadn’t the road always been a point of tension between east and west? Two ends of the spectrum, the haves and have-nots, whether it be faith or money or tolerance.

  He crossed Magdalen Bridge into the other country where the air smelled of books. He slowed to let a couple of students pass wearily in front of him—up early or still up late? It was hard to tell. He stopped and bought a cup of coffee and a newspaper down by the market. He cycled one-handed and drank it resting against a wall at the end of Brasenose Lane. He watched bleary-eyed tourists make use of a jet-lagged morning. Beautiful city you have here, one said. Yes, he said, and he drank his coffee.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, a Rover 600, pulled from the line, was waiting in the bay. Ellis checked the handover book and notes from the day shift. Another left front wing. He put on a pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket and spread out his fingers. He ran his fingertips across the damage line and could just feel the disparity, so slight that even light on paintwork could barely catch it. He stood upright and stretched out his back.

  Billy. You try, he said.

  Billy reached out. White gloves moving across the body. Pausing, retracing. Bingo.

  There, said Billy.

  You got it, said Ellis, and he picked up the dolly and spoon. Couple a taps, he said. That’ll do it. Quick and light. There we go.

  He checked the paintwork. It ran a perfect silver line, and Billy said, Did you always want to do this? And he surprised himself and said, No. And Billy said, What then? And he said, I wanted to draw.

  The horn blared out and they walked out together into the biting freeze. Ellis pulled his hat down low and retied his scarf. His gloves came out of his pocket and he had to chase down a tissue that rolled away with a sudden gust of wind. He didn’t mind Billy’s laughter, Billy’s laughter was easy.

  I’ve got a date on Friday, said Billy.

  Where you going?

  Pub, I think. One in town. We’re meeting by the Martyrs’ Memorial.

  Really? said Ellis. Where’s your bike, by the way?

  Over here near yours, said Billy. I don’t know why I suggested meeting there, I couldn’t think of anywhere else. And look at this, he said, pointing to the side of his nose. Spot.

  You can hardly see it. You like this one?

  Yeah, I like her, I really do. She’s too good for me, said Billy.

  And then Billy said, You have anyone, Ellis?

  And he said, No.

  And Billy said what no one else ever said. He said, Terry told me your wife died?

  And the way he said it was gentle and direct and uninhibited, as if the death of love was normal.

  She did, said Ellis.

  How? said Billy.

  Terry didn’t tell you?

  He told me to mind my own business. I can, you know. Mind it.

  Car accident. Five years ago now.

  Aw fuck, said Billy.

  And Aw fuck was the only suitable answer, thought Ellis. Not, Oh sorry, or, That’s awful. But Aw fuck. Billy was steering the conversation better than anyone had in a long time, and Billy said, Bet that’s when you started on nights, right? I didn’t think you did it for the money. I bet you couldn’t sleep, right? I don’t think I’d ever sleep again.

  Billy and his nineteen years understood. They stopped at the gate and stood aside to let cars pass.

  Billy said, I’m going to the Leys for a beer. Why don’t you come?

  I won’t.

  It’s just me. And I like talking to you. You’re not like the others.

  The others are OK.

  D’you ever go for a drink, Ell?

  No.

  Then I’m gonna keep trying. I’ll make you my project.

  Go on. Off you go.

  See you tomorrow, Ell! and Ellis watched him disappear among the dozens of others heading out toward the estates of Blackbird Leys. He got on his bike and cycled slowly back west. He wondered when the kid had started calling him Ell.

  It was eight in the morning and the sky across South Park had begun to lighten. Frost had settled on windscreens and birds’ nests, and the pavements glistened. Ellis opened the front door and wheeled his bike into the hallway. The house felt cold and smelled of woodsmoke. In the back room he put his hand on the radiators. They were on, but they were battling. He didn’t take his jacket off right away but stacked the hearth and got the flames going instead. He was good at building fires. He built the fires and Annie opened the wine, and the years rolled out. Thirteen, to be precise. Thirteen years of grapes and warmth.

  He took a bottle of Scotch out of the cupboard and came back to the heat. In the silence, the echo of industry receded, just flames now, and the soft thud of car doors opening and shutting on a new day outside. This had always been the worst time, when the quiet emptiness could leave him gasping for breath. She was there, his wife, a peripheral shadow moving across a doorway, or in the reflection of a window, and he had to stop looking for her. And the whisky helped—helped him to walk past her when the fire was doused. But occasionally she followed him up the stairs and that’s why he began to take the bottle with him, because she stood in the corner of their bedroom and watched him undress, and when he was on the verge of sleep, she leaned over him and asked him things like, Remember when we first met?

  And he said, Of course I do. I was delivering a Christmas tree.

  And?

  And I rang your doorbell, smelling of pine and a bit of winter. And I saw your shadow approach through the window, and the door opened and there you were, plaid shirt and jeans and thick socks you wore as slippers. Your cheeks were bright, your eyes green, your hair splayed out across your shoulders, and in the lap of dusk it looked blonde, but later I would find hues of red. You were eating a crumpet, and the hallway smelled of crumpets, and you apologized and licked your fingers and I felt shy in my fur hat, so I pulled it off and held up the tree and said, This is yours, I presume, Miss Anne Cleaver? And you said, You presume right. Now take off your boots, and follow me. I kicked them off obediently, and followed and I never looked back.

  I carried the tree into the front room where cloves had punctured the skin of oranges and I could see where you had been only minutes before. Your indent was still warm on the sofa with a book open to its side, a table with an empty plate, a cardigan, and the slow fade of a fire.

  I placed the tree in its stand and helped you cover the base with gold paper. From gold paper I moved to lights, from lights I moved to baubles, and from baubles, I reached up high and placed a star on top. When I came down I came down by your side, and didn’t want to leave.

  You said, Have you nowhere to go?

  No, I said. Just back to the shop.

  No trees to deliver?

  No trees, I said. You were my last.

  So what’s at the shop? you said.

  Michael. Mabel. And Scotch.

  Ah, you said. That famous children’s book!

  I laughed.

  You have a nice laugh, you said.

  And then we didn’t speak. Do you remember? Do you remember how you stared at me? How unnerved you made me feel? And I asked you why you were staring at me.

  And you said, I’m wondering if I should take a chance on you.

  And I said, Yes. Yes, is the only answer.

  As dusk moved into darkness, we raced down Southfield, holding hands, stopping once in the shadows where I tasted crumpets on your lips and tongue. We stopped at
Cowley Road. The front display at Mabel’s had been packed away and music blared out of the open door—“People Get Ready” by the Impressions. You squeezed my hand and told me it was a favorite of yours. Michael was alone in the shop, dancing and singing out loud to the song, and Sister Teresa was standing in the doorway watching him. We crossed the road and joined her. The music ended and we applauded and Michael took his bow. Sister said, Will you be coming to church this Christmas, Michael? We need singing like that.

  He said, I’m afraid I won’t, Sister. Church is not for me. And he said, Do you have everything you need for the big day? And she said, We do. And he said, Wait, and went into the back. Here, he said.

  Mistletoe, she laughed. Long time since I stood beneath that, and she wished us all a Merry Christmas and left.

  And who is this? said Michael, turning his gaze on you. I said, This is Anne. And you said, Annie, actually. And he said, Ms. Annie Actually. I like her.

  The year was 1976. You were thirty. Me, twenty-five.

  These are the details you never thought I’d remember.

  We all three sat outside in the garden behind the shop. It was cold but I didn’t feel cold with you by my side. Mabel came out to say hello, and you stood up, said, Sit here, Mabel. And she said, Not tonight. I’m going to bed to listen to the music. What music? you said. But she didn’t hear, just disappeared back inside.

  We built a fire in the middle of bricks and we drank beer and ate baked potatoes and sank down into blankets as our breath misted, as stars appeared as fragile as ice crystals. The sound of a trumpet interrupted our words and we all three jumped at the back wall and held ourselves up by our fingers, as we looked across the wild and overgrown churchyard. We saw the dark silhouette of a trumpet player leaning against a tree.

  Who’s that? you asked.

  Dexter Shawlands, said Michael.

  Who’s he? you said.

  An old flame of Mabel’s. Comes here once a year to play her song.

  That’s love, you said.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY, the alarm went off at five in the afternoon as it always did. Ellis sat up sharply. His throat felt tight and his heart was racing. Whatever confidence he had in himself had disappeared in his sleep. He knew this mood and it was a fucker of a mood because it was unpredictable, and he rolled out of bed before he couldn’t. He turned off the alarm and it would be his first triumph of the day. The second would be cleaning his teeth. The room felt cold and he went to the window. Streetlights and gloom. The phone rang and he let it ring.

  The first flurry of snow fell as he cycled down Divinity Road. There was a weight to his body, and he’d tried to explain it once, to a doctor, but he never really had the words. It was a feeling, that’s all, an overwhelming feeling that started in his chest and made his eyelids heavy. A shutting down that weakened his hands and made it hard to breathe. When he passed through the gates of the factory he couldn’t remember the journey at all.

  He spent the hours preoccupied and distant, and those who knew his history warned others with a quick nod or wink in his direction, meaning “wide berth, fellas,” and even Billy kept his head down. During a lull, he sat against his locker and took out his tobacco and began to roll. Billy stopped him and said, What you doing, Ell? And Ellis stared at him and felt the kid’s hand on his shoulder. Bell’s gone, said Billy. Dinner, Ellis. Come on. Let’s get your stuff.

  In the canteen, he could feel his leg twitch. His mouth was dry and there was too much noise, it was all around him and under his skin, he could feel his heart thumping.

  And the smell of cooking was overwhelming and he had a plate piled high with food because word had gone round and Janice felt sorry for him, so she piled the plate high, and men nearby complained, but she shut them up with that certain look she had. And now Billy and Glynn were at it. Ever read The Stud, Glynn? Who hasn’t? Should be on the national curriculum. Ever done it on a swing, Glynn? I have actually, you ignorant twat. Oh yeah? Children’s playground?

  The noise. The fucking noise, and he got up from the table. And he was outside and snow was falling and he could hear it fall. Look up, look up and he did. He opened his mouth and caught snow on his tongue. And he was calm again, out there alone, just him and snow. The noise settled and the quiet drone of traffic lifted into the sky.

  Billy came out and saw him looking up with tears frozen before they could fall. And he wanted to say to Billy, I’m just trying to hold it all together, that’s all.

  He wanted to say that because he’d never been able to say that to anyone, and Billy might be a good person to say it to. But he couldn’t. So he walked past him without looking, walked past and ignored him just as his father would have done.

  He didn’t go back to the line. He got on his bike and began to ride. The back wheel pulled away every now and then, but the main roads had been salted, and soon he was racing away, thinking about nothing, a body expending so much effort trying to escape from something he could never put words to. When he got to Cowley Road he was distracted by a light coming out of Mabel’s old shop, and that’s why he didn’t see the car until it was too late. It sped out of Southfield and it happened so quick, the terror of freefall. He stretched out his arm to lessen the impact and when the curb rushed up at him he heard the crack in his wrist, and the heavy thud winded him. He saw the taillights of a car moving away, heard the rhythmic sound of rotating bike wheels. He let his head rest against the cold pavement and the weight lifted. He could breathe again.

  A man ran out of the dark and said, I’ve called an ambulance. And the man crouched down at his side and said, Are you all right?

  Never better, said Ellis.

  Don’t sit up, said the man.

  But he did sit up and he looked about at the snow. What’s your name? asked the man. Where d’you live? The sound of a siren coming toward them, getting louder. And Ellis thinking, All this fuss over nothing. I’ve never felt so clear.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN HE WAS SMALL, Ellis remembered how he used to like to watch his father shave. He used to sit on the toilet cistern with his feet dangling, looking up at his father because his father was so big. The air was steamy and the mirror dripped with condensation and neither said a word. His father wore a vest, and sunlight streamed through the window and fell on his shoulders and chest, and his skin was patterned by fleurs-de-lis that had been carved into the glass, and the overall effect made his father look as if he had been sculpted from the finest marble.

  He remembered how he watched his father pull his skin this way and that way, drawing the razor across the bristles, the sound of sandpaper in the folds of soap. And sometimes he would whistle a tune of the time, and then tap tap tap, the foam fell into the steaming water and small black flecks settled against the white porcelain and remained there, a tidemark, when the basin ran dry. And he remembered thinking that his father could do anything and was afraid of nothing. And those large hands that liked to spar in the boxing ring were also capable of beautiful gestures, like splashing onto his cheeks and neck the sweet musky scent that completed him.

  And once, in that sweet state of completeness, Ellis reached out and held him. A brief moment of ownership before his father’s grip tore into his arms and wrenched them away, before the sound of a door slam instantly replaced the tap tap tap of love. And Ellis remembered thinking how he would have given anything to have been like his father, anything. Before the pain of that memory stopped him reaching for him again.

  He didn’t know why he thought of this now, lying in his bed, plastered from hand to elbow, and he could only conclude it was because earlier in the hospital, the nurse had asked him if there was anyone she could contact.

  No, he’d said. My father’s away on holiday in Bournemouth with his woman, Carol. She wears strong perfume. That’s how I know when she’s been around. The
y always thought I never knew but I did. The perfume, see?

  Talking bollocks because of the drugs.

  And now he was in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the things he could have done that would have made this moment more convenient. Top of the list, he thought, was a Teasmade. They were ugly. But they were useful. He just wanted a cup of tea. Or coffee. Something warm and sweet, but maybe that was simply the shock coming out. He felt so cold, pulled on a T-shirt he found under his pillow. He thought the room was shabby. All the jobs he never finished. All the jobs he’d never started. A garage full of oak floorboards, five years in the waiting.

  Music from next door bled into the room. Marvin Gaye, old-school seduction. It was the students. He didn’t mind them, they were company of sorts, and he sat up and reached for a glass of water. He used to be friends with his neighbors but he wasn’t so good at it now. He used to be in and out of their homes, but that was before. But his neighbors were now students and, next year, there would be another bunch not to get to know. He looked at his watch. He leaned across the bedside table and took out a Voltarol and co-codamol and finished the last of his water. He exercised his fingers as best he could but they felt stiff and swollen. He wasn’t sure what the bottle of whisky was doing next to his bed. It was that fairy again, he thought.

  The music from next door turned to sex, and he was surprised because he’d assumed sex was not a frequent occurrence for the students next door. They studied statistics and, statistically, they had little chance against the kids studying literature or philosophy. Or art, come to that. Well, that’s what he thought. It was just the way it was, some subjects were sexy. The bed was knocking against the wall, they were hard at it. He lay back down and started to drift off to the sound of a young woman coming.

  When he woke again, the clock said seven. It was dark outside and streetlights lit his room. It could be morning, though it was probably evening. Absolute silence in the world. Nobody watching out for him. He rolled out of bed and stood up shakily. He felt bruised and tender and could see mauve shadowing spreading across his thigh. He went across to the bathroom.