This Is How

by M. J. Hyland

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say.

  She’s ranted just like me and she’s got to see now that we’re not so different.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ I say.

  She looks back at the TV. ‘No,’ she says.

  ‘Nothing?'

  ‘I think I’d like to watch this,’ she says. ‘And just have a quiet rest. Is that all right?'

  Her voice’s gone flat and cold.

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  I stand up.

  She doesn’t look at me.

  ‘Enjoy the picture,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, Patrick,’ she says. ‘I will.’

  There’s no point staying if she’s not in the mood and there’s no point taking it to heart. She’s probably tired from making the dinner or she’s remembered her dead husband and she’ll be wanting some distance between us now because of her embarrassment with Welkin.

  I’ll wait.

  I go up to my room and undress and get into bed with the champagne and drink it straight from the bottle.

  9

  I wake at 5 a.m. I’m in a strange mood and my hand shakes when I take a shave. I’ve been thinking about Sarah and the first night we had sex, how she slept behind me with her hand on my chest and how I thought we’d always sleep that way. She said she liked it.

  I don’t go down for breakfast.

  I want a walk in the fresh air to clear my head and I want to see Georgia and find out if she’s been seeing Welkin.

  It’s a bright, warm morning and I walk the long way, cross the esplanade, climb over the low wall marking the edge of the promenade, go down to the sand.

  My mood’s good by the time I reach the café and even better when I see Georgia.

  She’s clearing a table, her back to me, and I watch her a while before I say good morning.

  I get to thinking that I always liked Sarah best in the moment before I got to her, before she came to my front door, before she came to meet me after work. I always liked her more in the thinking of her. But it’s not so with Georgia. I like her just as much when I see her.

  Soon as she sees me, she turns and smiles.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Hello. What’ve you got there?’

  ‘My toolkit.’

  Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are as blue as the blouse she’s wearing, like the colour in brochures showing swimming pools in fancy resorts.

  ‘Have you started work?'

  ‘Yesterday.’

  There are five other customers. Three workmen wearing overalls who sit together by the window and two women in their forties in the back booth.

  A man in the kitchen calls, ‘Order!'

  I didn’t know she worked here with a man. I’d like to get a look at him.

  ‘I think there’s a man at the boarding house who knows you,’ I say.

  ‘Who?'

  ‘His name’s Ian.’

  She says nothing, only looks at me.

  ‘Do you know him?'

  ‘I might do. If he comes in here, then I probably do.’

  ‘He’s tall and he’s got blond hair.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the furnace,’ she says. ‘Take a seat.’

  She turns away. I call after her. ‘Can I have the usual?’

  She turns round. ‘Sausages and eggs and coffee?'

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  I take a seat in a booth in the middle, and face the door. There’s a newspaper already on the table.

  I’ve only read half the sports pages when she comes back with sausages and eggs and coffee.

  ‘Here you are,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I swallow a bit of my nerves, then speak.

  ‘I wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me?'

  She looks toward the kitchen. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That’s so sweet.’

  This probably means she’ll say no.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask.

  She’s making the tea-towel into a rope, twirling the length tight.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Never mind.’

  She walks away.

  I eat the eggs and sausages, but look over my shoulder whenever the kitchen door swings open.

  When she comes back, she doesn’t speak, just reaches for my plate, leans across in front of me and the closeness of her breasts makes my heart beat hard in my neck.

  ‘Would you like more coffee?'

  We both look round to the back of the café. One of the women has raised her voice in argument and she says, ‘I’d be a lot bloody happier if you didn’t keep telling me I look tired.’

  I look at Georgia, make my mouth into a grimace, and she copies me. She’s showing me that she likes me.

  ‘I was wondering,’ I say. ‘If I borrowed a nice car from work, a sports convertible, would you like to go for a drive somewhere and maybe have a picnic?'

  ‘When?'

  ‘When it suits you.’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Could it be a surprise?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  She smiles. ‘I’ve never been in a convertible. I could have my hair in a scarf and wear dark sunglasses.’

  ‘So you would?'

  ‘I could finish early one night.’

  ‘What about Thursday or Friday night?’ I say. ‘It’s bright till well after eight o’clock. What if I picked you up after work, around seven o’clock?'

  ‘Are you allowed to take cars from the garage?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I can get my hands on an MGB.’ She says nothing.

  ‘So, do you want to?’ I say. ‘You don’t have to.’

  I’m nervous as hell and she looks at me for a good long while as though to check if I’m lying.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll ask Michelle to spot for me.’

  She picks up my cup and saucer.

  Her hands are steady. She’s not shaking at all, it’s as though nothing’s happened.

  ‘Back to work,’ she says.

  I go to the counter and leave the money I owe next to the till. There’s a pen on a pad of jotting paper and I get the idea I should write a romantic note for Georgia and leave it for her on the counter and she’ll find it when she’s least expecting it.

  I lean on the counter and think what I might write, but when I look up at the clock on the wall I see I’m late for work.

  There’s no time. I pick up my toolkit and go.

  Hayes is sitting behind his desk and doesn’t bother saying good morning.

  ‘Could you work on the Renault?’ he says. ‘I think you’ll need to look at the tappets, they’re really noisy. Check the whole lot. Cam, tappet, push rod and rocker arm.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I go out to the garage, use my own tools, and get the job done quickly.

  At morning tea, we sit in the small tea room and talk about cars. It’s the first proper chat we’ve had.

  ‘You’re a pretty good mechanic,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  Pretty good? I’m better than he is, better than most. Why doesn’t he say so?

  The phone rings in his office and he’s gone a good while. I pour both cups of tea down the drain.

  He comes back.

  ‘I’d better get back to work,’ I say.

  ‘What did you do with my tea?’ he wants to know.

  ‘I thought you’d finished.’

  ‘I’d only just started.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  At noon I take a break and go outside to the yard.

  I’ve only been outside in the sun a few minutes when a Triumph TR4 drives slowly by. The driver’s got his elbow resting on the open window and he looks damn well happy. He’s got the radio turned up loud, his long hair flaps against his face in the breeze and his pale-blue polo-neck looks expensive, straight out of the shop, clean and new.

  I go back in. I’m dying to take Georgi
a for that drive. I’ve got to ask Hayes if he has any customers with a TR4.

  He’s in the office, on the phone. I stand back from the door so he can’t see me. I hear him say, ‘Come in tomorrow, I’ll have some work for you then.’

  I step away, but I’m too slow. He’s seen me.

  ‘Patrick?'

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘There’s a message for you. From your mum. She sounds like a very lovely lady.’

  He holds out the piece of paper and I’ve to go to him at the desk to get it. My hand’s shaking when I take if off him. I want to know what she’s said and I want to ask him who he was talking to about work and I want to ask about the car.

  I’ll start with the car, wait till my nerves steady before the other questions.

  ‘I was wondering if I could get in touch with the owner of the MGB? Mr Hancock.’

  ‘Why?'

  ‘I’d like to ask him if I could borrow it.’

  He frowns. ‘That’s not exactly company policy.’

  His words have come out sharp. He’s in a filthy mood about something.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Not to worry.’

  I’ll ask the other questions tomorrow.

  ‘Get to work on the Rover,’ he says. ‘It’s just come in.’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  ‘It’s out the back.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I finish work on the Rover and Hayes meets me in the tea room to tell me to knock off early.

  ‘I’m happy to stay on,’ I say.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘The Rover might need a new clutch,’ I say.

  ‘Do an estimate for me tomorrow and I’ll talk to the owner.’

  ‘I can do it now.’

  ‘It’s a nice day. Go ahead and knock off early.’

  It’s only four o’clock but I’m in the mood for a drink.

  I cross the esplanade and walk down to the end of the main street and go to the pub behind the station. I put my toolkit under the barstool and order a pint.

  The two young lads who were smoking on the end of the pier yesterday are here. They’re sitting at a table near the door and they’ve got pints of dark ale and in between drags on their cigarettes they look at their hands, same as they did at the end of the pier, as though in awe of the act of smoking.

  I drink the pint and get to wanting a game of pool. My hands are steadier now.

  I go to the lads and ask them.

  ‘Mark’ll play,’ says the lad with pimply skin. ‘He’s better than me.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll play,’ says Mark.

  Mark stands.

  He’s skinny and about five nine. Not much different in build from me.

  We go over to the table and the pimply lad follows.

  ‘Want to make it interesting?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can we play for pints then?'

  Mark’s a good player and he wins the first game, probably grew up on this table, but after that it goes my way. All I need to do is make it close enough to keep him interested.

  ‘Want to play a quid a game?’ I say.

  He nods, slow and cocky.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘You’re on.’

  Mark wins the next game, but he needs a few flukes to do it.

  I win the next three.

  Mark asks his friend for a lend so as he can keep playing.

  I’ve had five pints now but I easily win the next, and the one after that.

  ‘Better call it quits,’ he says, ‘or my girlfriend will have me bollocks.’

  He’s smiling even though he’s taken a beating. ‘

  Thanks for the games,’ I say. ‘You’re a good player.’

  ‘Ta.’

  He shakes my hand, a good firm shake, then turns to leave.

  ‘Hey wait,’ I say. He turns back.

  I take five quid out of my wallet and put it on the table.

  ‘Here’s your money,’ I say.

  He looks at me like he feels sorry for me.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘It’s here on the table,’ I say. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  I walk away, don’t look at him again and go into the toilets, tell myself I’m getting out of his way, making it easier for him to take the money.

  I go into a cubicle and sit on the toilet. I don’t know exactly what goes wrong but, with the stink in here and the bright lights, I end up hanging my head over the toilet bowl and I’m sicker than the ale could’ve made me. I’m sick as a dog.

  I stay hunched over the toilet bowl, my head resting on my arms, staring down into the dirty bowl, then it starts. The sobs hit me without warning, flood up from my chest, and I can’t stop it, just like that time in the theatre.

  I stay in the toilets a good long while, then go out to the basin and wash myself up with soap and toilet paper.

  I walk the long way back to the house and go straight up to my room.

  Nobody sees me.

  10

  I wake with a hangover. My neck’s sore as hell and I’ve got to breathe deep and slow to stop from heaving. Instead of going down for breakfast, I run a bath and the water’s finally running hot and I stay in for a good while and the relief of the warmth makes me feel better.

  When I get back to my room, and I’m ready to leave, I check in the usual place for my toolkit and realise I’ve gone and left it at the pub.

  My back’s soaked in sweat by the time I get to work and I mean to ask Hayes if I can use the phone to call the pub. But, soon as I arrive, Hayes stops me at the garage door.

  ‘Let’s put the kettle on and have a cuppa and a chat,’ he says.

  We go to the tea room and I reach for my cup.

  ‘What about having a half-day off then?’ he says.

  ‘I’ve only just got here,’ I say.

  We both look up at the clock on the tea room wall. It’s 9.30.

  ‘No matter,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing for you to do here today.’

  Somebody’s pulled up outside.

  ‘See who that is,’ he says. I go out to the yard.

  A man’s pulled up in a Jaguar.

  He parks and gets out, walks in my direction.

  He’s got a tidy moustache and he’s wearing one of those pale linen summer suits, makes him look like he’s just got out of bed, but rich at the same time.

  ‘I’m Mr Hancock,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for the man who fixed my MGB.’

  ‘That was me,’ I say.

  He smiles. ‘I wanted to thank you in person. The engine’s never run so well.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I say.

  This is great, this is.

  He’ll give me his number now and I won’t need to ask Hayes for it and I’ll ask to borrow the MGB. I could offer him some free work in exchange, after-hours like, or I could dip into my savings and pay a hire fee.

  ‘I’d like to tell your boss what a good new man he’s got.’

  ‘I’ll go and get him,’ I say.

  Hayes is sitting behind his desk.

  ‘Mr Hancock’s here,’ I say. ‘And he wants a word.’

  Hayes goes out and I follow.

  ‘Mr Hancock,’ he says, a big smile on his face. ‘How’s the MGB?’

  ‘It’s purring like a kitten. I came to thank the young man in person.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Hayes.

  Mr Hancock looks at Hayes’ shoes and sees what I see: Hayes has small feet, and one shoe’s bigger than the other.

  ‘My wife will be bringing her Peugeot in next week,’ says Mr Hancock, ‘and my brother might bring his business to you as well.’

  Hayes hasn’t once looked over at me. ‘Anything we can do for you,’ he says. ‘We’re here to oblige.’

  Mr Hancock looks at me.

  ‘Here’s my business card,’ he says.

  He gives the card straight to me and I put it in the pocket of my overalls.

  I’m grinning ear to ear.

  ‘Thanks,’
I say.

  ‘I’ve got to dash,’ he says.

  We say our goodbyes.

  We go back in and Hayes stops outside the tea room.

  ‘Let’s finish that chat,’ he says.

  In spite of what’s just gone on, he sounds cross.

  ‘I’m sorry I was late this morning,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Let’s sit.’

  We sit on kitchen chairs.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I suppose there’s no time like the present.’

  ‘Yeah?'

  ‘I probably don’t have enough work for you full-time. Part-time, yes. Full-time, no.’

  ‘How many days then?'

  ‘How about we stick to five days but you just work the mornings?'

  My breath’s gone shallow with the anger and the shock. It’s not fair what he’s done and there’s a lot I want to say, but I’m in no position to argue. For now, at least, the only thing to do is take what he’s offering and be a man about it.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Thanks for being a sport about it.’

  ‘Did I do something wrong?'

  ‘No, like I said. You’re a good little mechanic.’

  Little.

  ‘Do you want me here today, then?'

  ‘You can go home now,’ he says. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yeah. And thanks for being a sport about it.’

  He stands when I stand and hands me a crisp tenner.

  ‘Here’s something for making Mr Hancock happy.’

  I take it and say, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good man. When you get here tomorrow, we’ll have a chat about splitting up the work between you and Ben.’

  ‘Who’s Ben?'

  ‘My nephew. I thought I told you. He’s starting his apprenticeship.’

  That’s who he was talking to yesterday.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Family’s family, right?’

  I’ve got to keep a lid on my anger.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but I’ll look after you, too. Don’t worry.’

  I feel lousy and I’ve remembered my toolkit.

  ‘Can I use the phone in your office?’

  ‘You can.’

  When I call the pub, there’s no answer. I’ve got to get my toolkit back and I’ve got to do it tonight.