by Magnus Mills
'You're probably right.'
'So I'll get moving this morning if that's OK with you.'
'Of course,' I said. 'Don't forget to take him a gift.'
'Oh, thanks for reminding me. I'll drop in at my place on the way and find something suitable.'
He picked up his bag and headed for the door.
Then Mary Petrie said, 'You'd better have some breakfast before you go.'
5
I was really beginning to think she was doing it on purpose. I mean to say, Simon was just about to walk through the door when she said this! Next minute he'd taken his coat off again and was sitting down at the table. By now, of course, I'd worked up quite an appetite of my own, so I found myself in a very weak position. Then I realized that the best course of action was to play her at her own game. I was the host and therefore I had to do the cooking, but I certainly wasn't going to make her anything. Instead I gave Simon the best breakfast he'd ever had.
'Marvellous,' he said, when I placed it before him. 'You're so kind.'
Mary Petrie, in the meantime, retired to the upper floor without saying another word. I could hear her moving around up there, humming softly to herself. It sounded as if she was putting fresh covers on the bed. As I looked at the coffee pot heating over the stove, and listened to the sand chafing against the tin walls, the inside of my house suddenly felt very warm and comfortable. It wasn't really a day for a person to be setting off to see someone he'd never met before, especially when he wasn't even expected, and it occurred to me that Simon could very easily change his mind about going. He certainly looked contented enough, silting there at the table.
After about an hour, however, he stretched himself and said, 'Well, I think I'll be getting along now.'
'You sure you've had enough?' I asked.
'Quite sure, thanks,' he replied, rising from his chair.
After he'd got his bag he hovered awkwardly for a moment at the foot of the stairs.
'Bye then Mary!' he called.
'Bye Simon,' we heard her say. 'Have a nice journey.'
A minute later I said goodbye to him and closed the door. At last we had the place to ourselves.
I won't go into any of the details of what happened next, but needless to say my period of exile from the upper floor came to an end there and then. We passed the next three or four days shut inside the house, never even bothering to look outside. Here, I thought, was true fulfilment. With Mary Petrie lying in my bed I knew I had everything a man could need: somewhere to eat and drink and sleep without disturbance, and a good woman. We were warm and snug in a paradise made from tin! Then, just as I was about to drift into a state of permanent hibernation, the honeymoon suddenly ended.
It happened when I remembered I hadn't been out to clear away the sand for some time. I went downstairs and opened the door, to be confronted with a great pile that practically fell inside. Closing the door again I sat and got my boots on, just as Mary Petrie joined me. She took her usual place next to the stove.
'If this had been Simon Painter's house we'd have been in trouble,' I remarked. 'His door opens outwards so we'd be blocked in.'
'That's alright,' she said, smiling. 'We'd just have to wait till we were rescued.'
'It's a serious matter actually,' I replied.
Taking the broom I began sweeping up the remnants of sand that had spilled through the doorway.
'Stop that at once!' cried Mary Petrie.
I looked at her and noticed the smile had disappeared.
'What's the matter?'
'I don't want you doing that while I'm here,' she said. The sand goes everywhere.'
That's why I'm sweeping it up,' I said.
'Not when I'm here!' she exclaimed.
'When then?'
'When I go out! Look, I'll be going for a walk later. Do it then.'
'Alright, but I didn't know you'd be going out, did I?'
'Well, you know now.'
Feeling slightly shell-shocked by this sudden burst of hostility I went outside and shovelled away the drift, taking care to keep well clear of the door. All morning I kept at it, before and after breakfast, working in a wind that showed no sign of letting up. The weather had turned quite cold now, and I wondered if Mary Petrie was serious about going for a walk. Sure enough, though, sometime around noon she came out of the house wearing a big coat, and set off without saying anything. I watched as her diminishing figure headed into the distance. Then, when she was reduced to a tiny speck on the horizon, she turned and began to follow a wide arc around the house. This was the time I was supposed to be sweeping up inside, so I quickly went and got on with it. When I'd finished there wasn't a grain of sand anywhere, and the whole place was looking spick-and-span. Expecting Mary Petrie to be back at any time I prepared some coffee, then went to the doorway and looked out. At first I couldn't see her at all, but as my eyes became accustomed to the daylight I spotted her far away to the west. I then realized she was walking a full circle, keeping the house just in sight. It dawned on me at the same moment that this was the first occasion I'd been there on my own for quite a while, so I decided to make the most of it. I went back inside, closed the door, and resumed my former pastime of listening to the walls creak in the blustery wind. When she returned about an hour later, I was on the verge of dozing into a peaceful sleep.
'I could hear a bell clanging somewhere out there,' she said, as she removed her coat.
'It's Simon Painter's,' I explained. 'To let people know where he lives. Have a good walk, did you?'
'Yes, thanks. Quite invigorating.'
'Is that why you went out?' I asked. 'To be invigorated?'
'Not really, no,' she answered.
It wasn't until the next day that I discovered the true reason. I'd got up fairly early and been out to clear away yet more sand. By the time Mary Petrie came down I was sitting at the table having breakfast.
'Quite windy again last night,' I said.
'Yes,' she replied. 'I heard it.'
'I expect Simon Painter's door'll be blocked up.'
She sighed, but said nothing.
'He really ought to have it opening inwardly,' I continued. That'd be a much better arrangement by far.' 'Right,' she said, reaching for her coat. 'I'm going out.' 'Already?' I asked. 'You've only just got up.' 'I don't care. I'm not staying cooped up here with you all day.'
'Why, what have I done?' 'You keep going on about Simon's house.' 'No, I don't.'
'Yes you do. You're always criticizing it.' 'Well,' I said. 'I only mentioned his door opened the wrong way.'
'There you go again,' she said. 'I'm not interested.' 'But you must be interested. You live in a house of tin yourself.'
'Look!' she snapped. 'I'm going out! See you later.' From then on she went for a walk every day, sometimes saying goodbye and sometimes not. After she'd gone I'd quickly do any sweeping up that was needed, before settling down to enjoy the brief period I had the place to myself.
On these occasions I would sit and think about what had happened to me. It was quite remarkable really. One day I'd been living alone in a house of tin, minding my own business. Then suddenly this woman, this Mary Petrie, had moved in, and everything had changed. Now I was subject to rules, such as where I could sit and when I should sweep up, and there were matters I was not allowed to discuss, or at least go on about too much. As I waited for her return it also struck me how swiftly I'd adapted to my new situation. To be fair I suppose Mary Petrie had adapted too, in her own way. She was the last person I would have expected to live in a house of tin in the middle of a vast and deserted plain, but I had to admit she was trying to make the best of it. Those long walks, for example, soon became an important part of her day. She always began by heading for a point in the distance, and then she would turn and follow an encircling course right around the house. She varied it by going clockwise or anti-clockwise, but she made sure she never went completely out of sight. Her starting point in the circle seemed to be chosen at random, a
nd each time she set off I would look with interest to see whether she first went north, west, east, or south. Sometimes, when I was watching her move along in the distance, I would see her stop and then appear to be examining the ground. On these occasions she would return and show me a stone she'd found whose shape she thought interesting. Or maybe an unusual glass bottle. Generally she'd be in a better mood when she got back than when she went out, but she'd also be quite cold, so I always made sure the stove was fired up in readiness.
The walks weren't the only way she adjusted to her new life. Before long there was a vase on the table containing an arrangement of dry grasses she'd collected. Meanwhile, the upper walls were hung with pictures, each depicting a dancer standing in a different pose.
She had plans for the shutters too.
'We'll have them open in the spring,' she announced one breezy afternoon. 'Once all this sand has stopped flying about.'
I knew, though, that spring would be a long time coming. She hadn't spent a whole winter here before, and had no real idea how long it might last. There wasn't likely to be much rain or snow, I was quite sure of that, but we could expect several more weeks of high winds yet. From my own point of view it didn't make any difference if it was winter, spring, summer or autumn: all of them were equally interesting to someone used to dwelling in a house of tin. On the other hand, when I saw Mary Petrie being buffeted daily by the gales, I wondered just how long her endurance would last.
I also feared she might get bored after a while. She changed her clothes several times a day, and told me it was so that she'd have suitable attire for whatever she happened to be doing. Privately, though, I suspected she was attempting to break each day into shorter spans.
Another sign of boredom was when she amused herself by teasing me. Usually I wouldn't have minded this, as I can take a joke same as the next man. Unfortunately, she often chose to raise the subject of my failed plan for living in a canyon. She seemed to have grasped that this was quite a sensitive matter with me, but instead of avoiding it she brought it up in conversations all the time.
One day, for example, she said, 'You know that canyon you wanted to live in?'
'Yes,' I replied. 'What about it?'
'Would there be a river in the bottom?'
'Could be.'
'Cos if there was you'd need a canoe, wouldn't you?'
'Suppose so, yes.'
'But you haven't got a paddle.'
'No.'
'So you'd be up a creek without a paddle!'
She then dissolved into a fit of giggling, while I was supposed to sit there and smile politely. As I said before, I can take a joke the same as the next man, but I didn't really like it when she kept reminding me about that canyon. To avoid the situation I tried to think of ways to stop her from getting bored, and the solution I came up with was to offer to accompany her on her walks. We tried this once, only to discover that we both went at completely different speeds. I ended up arriving home about half an hour before her, so we decided not to bother again.
'Besides,' she pointed out. The whole idea of the walks is for me to get away from you for a bit.'
Early one morning I became aware of a gentle drumming noise. I was lying in bed, half asleep, listening to the gale outside and wondering how much sand had accumulated overnight. At first I didn't notice the noise at all, as it almost blended in with the more familiar renderings produced by the house.
Almost, that is, but not quite.
The difference about this drumming was its highly rhythmical quality, so unlike the normal desultory attacks made by the elements. As if to demonstrate the point, a particularly severe blast of wind struck against the walls and brought me fully awake. When it faded away I realized that the drumming had changed. Now, all of a sudden, the rhythm had sped up. Then it stopped altogether.
At this moment Mary Petrie stirred a little, so that the sheets and blankets rustled. By the time she'd settled down again the drumming had resumed. It was coming, as far as I could tell, from downstairs. I began to suspect that maybe an empty kettle or pan had been left on top of the stove, and was expanding as it heated up. But, surely, if it had been there all night the bottom would have melted by now, wouldn't it? Anyway, this noise wasn't really sharp enough for that. It was altogether softer and duller. I listened for another full minute and during that time the rhythm changed twice again.
Then Mary Petrie awoke and said, 'Is it raining?'
'No,' I replied.
'What's that drumming noise then?'
'Don't know.'
'Well, aren't you going to go and find out?'
'Could do I suppose, but I'm quite comfortable here.'
A few more seconds passed. The drumming persisted.
'Go on,' she urged. 'After all, it could be a serious matter.'
Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed and put some clothes on, then headed for the stairs. It wasn't until I was halfway down that a thought occurred to me. Hadn't I heard this sound somewhere before? I stopped and listened again. It had now become much more emphatic than it was earlier, and my suspicion increased. Moving more quietly I continued to make my way downstairs. With utmost stealth I slid aside the bolts at the top and bottom of the door. Then, very slowly, I opened it by about two inches. Through the crack I saw Steve Treacle, crouched down at the corner of the house, drumming on the wall with his knuckles. He was concentrating very hard on this activity, with his face close down by his hand, and didn't notice me. I opened the door a little further. Standing about fifteen feet away, his collar turned against the wind, was Philip Sibling. He was watching Steve's antics with a tired expression on his face. I managed to catch his eye, and he shook his head in a resigned manner. I put my finger to my lips. He nodded. I closed the door. Treading very lightly, I went to the point on the inside wall that corresponded with Steve's position.
I allowed him a few more seconds of drumming, then suddenly banged hard on the wall with a hammer.
There was a startled cry.
6
Pulling my boots on, I went outside to greet my guests formally. Steve was now standing about six feet from the house with a surprised look on his face.
'Made you jump, did I?' I asked.
'Yes,' he replied.
'Well, why can't you just knock on the door like normal people?'
'I was trying to wake you gradually, by degrees.'
'It's a tried and tested technique,' added Philip.
Each of them was wearing an identical heavy coat, but all the same I could see they were both quite chilly.
'I've got a good mind not to invite you in,' I remarked. 'Now don't forget to wipe your feet.'
'Is that the latest rule then?' asked Steve.
'Yes,' I said. 'There's a whole new regime here.'
I hadn't seen either Steve or Philip for quite a while, and it was good to renew the acquaintanceship. What seemed surprising, though, was the fact of their turning up together. I vaguely recalled Simon Painter mentioning that they'd become friends, but to tell the truth I'd thought this was just wishful thinking, as it fitted perfectly into his scheme for everybody to be friendly with everyone else. The thing I least expected was a joint visit from two individuals I regarded very much as 'loners'.
Besides, it had always struck me that Steve was the sort of person who'd tax anyone's patience after a while. He had his own way of doing everything, even down to announcing his arrival at my house. Frankly, I was quite astonished that Philip could tolerate being with him. Yet here they were going about together like a couple of lifelong pals. Even their coats were identical.
The reason the drumming sound had seemed familiar, of course, was because I'd previously heard it at Steve's house. He found it almost impossible to sit still, so he would pass the minutes by drumming with his fingers on the table, or whatever other surface happened to be nearby. The last time I'd been to see him was to collect some sugar he'd borrowed some months earlier and hadn't returned. He insisted that I stayed for a
while, then subsequently drove me half-mad with this incessant drumming.
When he wasn't doing that he was rushing round making so-called improvements to his house. It was similar to mine in many respects, built entirely from tin, yet for some reason he was never quite satisfied with it. As a consequence, there was always some half-finished job under way: shutters on and off their hinges; the chimney lengthened or shortened; the stairs rebuilt. On the occasion of that last visit he'd been engaged in fixing a weathercock on the roof, a task with which I somehow became involved. I lost count of how many times I had to hold his ladder while he went up to make adjustments, but at the end of the day he still wasn't happy with the result.
Another thing I remembered about Steve was that he tended to leave his door open for long periods, which allowed masses of sand to be blown inside his house. He didn't seem the slightest bit bothered by this and traipsed it all around the place. I knew very well that Mary Petrie would frown on such carelessness, so as soon as he arrived I made a mental note to keep an eye on him.
Philip, on the other hand, was much more of a stalwart figure who could be trusted to leave doors firmly closed. On the few occasions I'd been to his house, everything had been battened down securely against inclement weather. He had never struck me as the type who would be easily given to running round on half-baked schemes of the sort favoured by Steve. Nonetheless, the two of them seemed to get on very well together, so I didn't question their friendship.
As they sat there at the table, with Steve already beginning to drum his fingers, I wondered what they'd come over for. Neither of them owed me anything, nor I them, and as far as I knew they weren't in the habit of making calls just for the sake of saying hello. That was much more in Simon Painter's line than theirs. The only other motive I could think of for the visit was that they wanted some sort of favour. I decided, therefore, that the best course of action was to make breakfast, and let them choose their moment.
'House is looking good,' remarked Philip, as he peered around the interior.