by M. J. Hyland
I sit.
A few minutes later, she comes back.
‘Your mum was in here yesterday evening.’
‘Was she?’
‘She came for her tea with another lady.’
Jennifer.
‘Right.’
‘She wanted to know why I wasn’t an actress. She was very sweet.’
I fancy the waitress, and my mother’s sniffed the air and realised it.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘She said she was going home this morning.’
My mother’s already gone then and I don’t feel too great about it. I wanted her to go, and now she’s gone it’s like rejection, feels like it was her idea and not mine.
‘What would you like to eat?'
‘Sausages and eggs.’
I read the newspaper while I wait.
The waitress comes with my breakfast, four sausages, two eggs, two pieces of buttered toast.
I take my time eating and read the paper, start at the back, then work my way to the front.
When she comes to clear my plate, I look at her and smile.
‘This is a nice café,’ I say.
‘I’m glad you like it. My dad owns it.’
‘Why doesn’t it have a name?'
‘It does. It’s called The Harvest, but the sign’s being re-painted. It used to be called Powell’s, but we all hated that name. We changed it four years ago.’
‘Who’s Powell?'
‘That’s the family name. But it’s a boring name for a café.’
‘Harvest is good.’
‘I agree.’
She’s got blue eyes and, as far as I’m concerned, blue eyes are more real than any other colour.
‘How long have you worked here?’ I ask. ‘Four years.’
‘You changed the name first chance you got.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is it fun working here?'
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I need to serve a few tables. I’ll come back to you.’
I want to say more, something smarter than the things I’ve said, one more thing before she walks away.
‘I’ll be here,’ I say. ‘When you come back.’
‘Where else would you be?’
‘Right,’ I laugh.
I watch her serve tables.
She’s not only tanned, but she’s got small nostrils to match her small nose and everything about her is neat and in proportion.
I stall at the counter when I’m paying the bill.
She gives me change, but I’m not ready to leave. Sunday’s a lonely day, and if a man’s lonely on this day people will probably think he’s always lonely.
I’ll have her think I’m busy.
‘I’d better go,’ I say.
‘Are you late?'
‘Only a bit.’
‘Time flies when you’re having fun,’ she says.
I put the change in my pocket, but go on looking at her.
We give each other a smile and it seems a pact’s been formed. How quickly it happens when it happens.
‘I might come again tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I like it here.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘I’m open till ten o’clock.’
I turn to leave, but I’ve got to go back and ask her name. I take a deep breath and turn round.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Georgia.’
‘I’m Patrick.’
‘Nice to meet you, Patrick.’
‘And you,’ I say.
I kill some time down the pier. The pavilion’s open and I play arcade games and slot-machines and win a few quid. I buy a hamburger for lunch and sit on a bench and watch a fisherman untangle his net, watch the couples walking together arm in arm. I get to thinking I’ll go back to the café tonight, before closing, have a good chat with Georgia and offer to walk her home.
At four o’clock, the air cools and dark clouds threaten a storm.
I get back to the house just as a heavy rain starts up.
Bridget’s already started making the dinner and there’s a good smell of roasting chicken.
I go straight to the office.
She’s doing sums in a red ledger.
‘I’d like to use an iron,’ I say.
‘You’ll have to get it from Ian,’ she says. ‘He was using it this morning.’
I go to Welkin’s room, but he’s got company. The radio’s turned up loud, but not loud enough to cover the sound of the grunting and giggling.
‘I’m busy,’ he says.
I go back to my room and sit at the table and without any warning I’ve a vision of Welkin with his trousers round his ankles. He’s not bothered to undress, wears his shoes, and his girl lies on the end of the bed, her hips on the edge of the mattress, her legs round his waist, her hands grabbing at his hair.
He’s got my blood boiling.
I go back down.
Bridget’s in the sitting room putting flowers in a vase.
‘Welkin’s got company,’ I say.
‘Has he?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you get the iron?'
‘No. He has company.’
I put my haunches on the edge of the settee.
‘Well,’ she says. ‘You can get the iron later.’
‘I’m going out tonight,’ I say. ‘I want to iron my good shirt and trousers.’
‘Can’t you get it later?’
‘So, it’s okay then?’ I say.
She picks up a cushion, holds it to her chest.
‘Within reason,’ she says. She looks at the door. ‘As long as the girl’s gone by midnight and so long as there’s not too much noise.’
I say nothing.
‘We’re all grown-ups, Patrick.’
I shift my weight too quickly on the settee and it rocks.
‘Whoops,’ I say, like a child.
I smile weakly, don’t bare my teeth.
‘You seem worried about something,’ she says.
‘Do I? I’m not.’
‘Good.’
She steps closer, the cushion still hiding her chest.
‘Where’re you going tonight? Have you got a date?’
‘Yeah. I met her on the bus.’
‘When?'
‘On Thursday. On the way here. After I got off the train.’
‘Is that the real reason you were late?’ she laughs.
‘No. I missed my train.’
‘That was quick work,’ she says.
‘She’s a teacher.’
‘Ian’s girlfriend is a teacher.’
‘It’s not the same one,’ I say.
She looks at me as though she thinks I’m an idiot.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘of course.’
She smiles.
‘I better go,’ I say.
I go, but stand out in the hallway a few minutes, turn back to the sitting room.
‘Who was staying here before?’ I ask.
‘Before you? In your room?'
‘Yeah.’
‘A young man from Belfast,’ she says. ‘He left a few weeks ago.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘A short time. A few weeks.’
‘Why did he leave?'
‘I can’t give you his personal information.’
‘Right.’
I go on looking at her.
‘Right,’ I say again. She’ll not say any more.
I go up to my room and I want to get into bed and nap a while before dinner, so I’ll be rested for tonight. If all goes to plan, I’ll have a late night at the pub with Georgia.
But the phone rings downstairs, a blasting ring so loud it can be heard all through the house.
Bridget shouts up the stairs. ‘Patrick, it’s for you. It’s your mum.’
Welkin’s sure to have heard, and Flindall too.
I take my time going down.
The phone receiver’s hanging and I want to rip it from the socket but instead I pick it up and put it gently back in the
cradle and then I loosen the connection. I can’t talk to my mum now, not when I’m standing in this hallway when they’re all here and probably listening.
Welkin’s in the sitting room. He calls out to me.
‘Par-trick!’
I go in.
He’s on the settee and leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees.
‘Why don’t you come in and close the door,’ he says.
I close the door and stand with my back to it.
‘Was that your mum?'
‘Yeah. But we got cut off.’
‘We shouldn’t have made fun of her last night.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I think we haven’t got off to the best of starts.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
He stands and offers his hand.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘I think it’s time you knew that I’m glad you’re here.’
His hand is cold and strong and mine is damp, but I press firmly and make sure not to be the first to let go. I hate to shake another man’s hand, but it’s got to be done.
‘We don’t want you to feel unwelcome,’ he says. ‘It’s only that Flindall and I have become as thick as thieves.’
‘Not to worry,’ I say.
‘Don’t feel as though you’re the third man,’ he says.
‘I don’t.’
I know a fair bit about being the third man and I can’t stand it. When we were kids and we went on a rollercoaster, Geoff and Daniel sat together up front and I sat a few rows back with some other kid.
As soon as the three of us started going down the pub, it was the two of them who said where to sit, what music to listen to, and what to do after closing. My jokes were as good as theirs and they always laughed with me, but they were the ones saying what we did and how we did it.
The same again with my father and my brother and my father made it worse by saying things like, ‘Patrick, what do you want to do?’
‘That’s that all sorted, then,’ says Welkin.
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got to go now.’
‘All right.’
‘Will you tell Bridget I’m not stopping for tea?’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Bye then, Patrick.’
I don’t say more, don’t say goodbye, won’t use his name the way he’s gone and used mine. The thing is, I can’t speak, not now. I’ve got to swallow the lump out of my throat and my mouth’s clogged up and all because he’s decided to make this advance to friendship, or whatever the hell it is, and he’s patronised me and it riles me and it also makes me feel good and it’s hard to say, but I suppose I want his friendship more than I don’t, and what he’s said has got me in the neck.
I go out and walk along the promenade. The storm’s ended and the sun’s shining bright and warm. When I reach the pier, I take off my jacket and hang it over my shoulder.
I go into town the longer way, by the water’s edge, and I get to thinking that I don’t have the stomach for Welkin’s games, that we’ve nothing in common and nothing much to say to each other, but I know I want things clear and straight for a change and I suppose I want his friendship but I don’t want the hot and cold threat of it all and I haven’t the mind for being ignored, even when it’s somebody I might just as easily send to hell.
I go to the pub behind the station for a quick pint. I’ll soon go to the café.
I sit in a snug and an old man with the swollen nose of a drunk sits down opposite me.
‘I’m saving that seat for my girlfriend,’ I say.
‘Where is she, then?’ he wants to know.
‘She’s a nurse,’ I say. ‘There must have been an emergency at the hospital.’
I get away from him, play some pool, win five pounds after straight wins, but lose it all when I double up and go in-off the black.
I go to the bar to get another pint and the same old man comes to get his next pint, then turns round to face me.
‘Yer shirt buttons are done up crooked,’ he says, as though to tell me I’m in a worse state than he is.
Even with all the beer he’s had, his breath stinks of sour milk and I’d like to punch the crooked teeth out of his mouth. I take a good look at his dirty face and clench my fist and just thinking about punching him I can feel the crack of his teeth under my knuckles and when I run my tongue across my teeth I get a taste of blood off my gums.
‘Mind your own business,’ I say.
I’m not in the right mood now to go to the café. I won’t see Georgia tonight. I’ll see her tomorrow in the fresh, clear day.
I take my time getting home and stop to collect pebbles on the beach. When I’ve got two pockets full, I go out to the pier and sit with my legs over the side and throw the pebbles one by one into the sea.
I walk slowly back to Vauxhall Street.
8
It’s eight on Monday morning and I’m a half-hour early for my first day at work. There’s a middle-aged man standing out front, smoking a cigarette. When he sees me come through the gate, he turns and goes inside. I stall outside a few minutes, then follow him in.
He’s sitting behind his desk in his small office, doesn’t look at me when I walk in, and he doesn’t stand.
‘Hello,’ I say.
There’s no window in here and it’s near dark as night.
‘Oh,’ he says, checking his watch, ‘good morning.’
It’s as though he’s surprised, might have forgotten I was coming.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
He looks at me, but not for long, then down at his desk, flicks through the pages of a big RAC appointment book.
‘I’m Greg Hayes,’ he says. ‘You must be Patrick Oxtoby.’ I stay in front of his desk.
‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘Dean had nothing but good to say about your work.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
Dean’s my old boss and he’s also one of Hayes’ brothers-in-law.
When I told Dean I was leaving, he said he’d miss having me around, and he offered to help me find a new job. He didn’t ask me why I was leaving town, just said he hoped it all worked out. He told me to stay in touch.
‘Take a seat,’ says Hayes, ‘and call me Grey. That’s what they call me.’
I sit in the swivel chair that’s covered in the kind of carpet put on the floor of cheap cars.
‘I’ve been running this business for twenty years,’ he says.
He looks at the wall, at the dusty clapboard smeared with oil. He’s got the same kind of trouble making eye-contact that my father has. I bet if I blindfolded him now and asked him to describe what I look like, he’d not have a clue.
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Do you have a nickname? Or is it just Paddy?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s Patrick.’
He looks at the other wall, and I look where he looks, at a nude-girl calendar, torn and faded.
‘All right, Patrick. I’ll show you where everything is, then you can get to work on Mr Hancock’s car. It’s a 1966 MGB convertible, only a few years old, but the clutch is sticky and the steering’s slack.’
I’ve worked on at least a dozen MGBs and I know how to fix just about anything that’s wrong with them.
‘There are some overalls on the back of that chair,’ he says. ‘Grab them on the way out to the garage.’
‘Okay.’
‘They’re not yours to keep, but you can borrow them.’
‘I’ve got overalls with me,’ I say.
I reach for my duffel bag, but it isn’t by my feet.
‘I’ve left my toolkit somewhere,’ I say.
‘You won’t need it. I’ve got everything here.’
I’ve got everything in that kit. My brand-new torque wrench and my brand-new double-ended set of spanners. The whole lot. More than two hundred quid’s worth. I can’t lose it. I couldn’t bear to lose it.
‘I’m a bit worried I might’ve—’
‘Lost it?’ he says.
The panic’s spread to my throat and I’ve gone red hot.
‘Yeah.’
‘Where?'
‘I don’t know, if I knew where, then—'
Hayes looks at the wall behind me, says, ‘You won’t need them.’
‘I prefer to use my own tools,’ I say. ‘So I wouldn’t mind—’
‘I’ve got everything you’ll need here,’ he says. He’ll not let me reach the end of a sentence.
‘In my experience,’ he goes on, looking at a torn poster on the wall for the 1961 British Grand Prix and Von Trip’s Ferrari 156, ‘it doesn’t pay to sweat over lost things. They pretty well always turn up, and in the rare case when they don’t, it’s because they’ve been stolen or lost for good.’
He’s said these things as though they were wise and smart.
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘If you’re that worried,’ he says, ‘go ahead and use the phone.’
‘I’m not worried,’ I say. ‘I’ll get started.’
It takes me a good while to stop thinking about the kit, but after I’ve spent a few hours fixing and aligning the steering on the MGB, I’ve calmed down enough to take it for a test drive. It’s a lovely car, primrose-yellow, not the colour I’d get, but it still feels good to be driving it. A few miles out of town, I put the radio on and wind down the window. I drive along the esplanade road and stop for some fish and chips and sit on the promenade wall. I keep looking over at the MGB parked in the street and I get to thinking it won’t be much longer before I’ve saved enough to get a car of my own. Nothing as flash as the MGB, but something nice all the same. Maybe six months, a bit less if I’m careful.
Hayes has left me a note and stuck it on his locked office door. He wants me to look at the ignition circuit in a Peugeot 504 Saloon that’s misfiring.
I finish the work in a couple of hours, then take the Peugeot for a drive. It’s running perfectly, and when the distraction of work’s gone I get to worrying about my toolkit again.
I take a tea-break.
Hayes comes out of his office and we meet at the sink in the tea room. It’s a dark and windowless room and he stands so close I can smell the onion sweat coming off his hairy neck.
‘You can go home early if you like.’
This suits me in one way, seeing as I can go home and look for the toolkit, but it’s only half-three and I’m meant to be doing a full-time job.