Placing the flowers softly on the lower step, I said, I’m sorry I was in such an awful rush the other morning. Please forgive me. I curbed neither inflection nor vocabulary. Effie said not a word, slamming the door behind her, but as I turned I heard from inside the house a great guttural sound. The window flew open, well I say flew but what with the damp winter just past, the condensation required some effort on her part. When Edna finally managed to heave up the window, she bailed out her reddened face and screamed, Fucking English prick English prick English prick.
I was seventeen.
I needed Rudolph. Woof woof. That would make her laugh. Though perhaps not the man in there with her. Not him.
It hadn’t been such a bad war for Da. I knew it when Jack and Gregor came over to have a look at me. They were glad to see Da still had some relations to speak of.
And we’re glad to have you back Sheddie, though you’re all caught up with your stupidself and speak like them.
I asked about the war but they turned to England and people they knew who’d died.
There’s a job for apprentice at the surveyors’, Jack said, I saw it yesterday on a card in the window.
I said, Is there. I didn’t mean to stay in Gwydyr. Do you know this lady Edna, or Effie it is, with bright hair hanging around The Plough? Athea? Jack said, That was quick. And Gregor laughed and laughed and finally shut up and got pale and started to cough. Athea, then.
She’s a sister of Thomas who drowned off the coast a few years back who played football for England. Did she follow you home, Shed? Did she say, how does it go now, he looked over at Gregor but Gregor was looking at a china dog Da kept on the mantel. Turning back, Jack said, Did she say, You’re troubled and go mournful at the eyes?
I stood by the one window in the front room, the same window I used to watch Da set off from every morning, away to work while I stayed wrapped in my blanket lighting cigarettes for Mam with the lamplighter matches. Athea, then. I can’t remember a thing about her, I told Jack. But it came to me, yes yes I could recall her saying exactly that, that for all her yellow hair and wayward lip color and the nervous wobble to her heels, it was the recognition which made me follow Athea that night. She knew it was no good feeling troubled at home when all along you thought trouble came from being a stranger.
I turned to Jack. Where’s this surveyors’ then?
The office had the sweet rot of a rich man dying in a cabinet. He was English of course, as if I needed more associations. I couldn’t help my vowels coming out thin for him. Would you marry me? With the sound of the el. He drove me to the Algernon in Cardiff where these past years the English sipped brandies on the veranda and waited for the war to pass. I never expected to find anything like you in Gwydyr, he said driving up on the curb accidentally. I didn’t mention that, in terms of first impressions, it might be best to avoid hitting the biddies in their cardigan shawls and horsy teeth. But first impressions are never that if you belong to the club.
Watty had white hair in his ears. He was a better driver after two drinks, a worse one after three. At the hotel bar he bought me a brandy. I would have preferred gin. I tried to impress him by what I knew of surveying, only he turned out to be a barrister. I had never been inside the Algernon, having only been to Cardiff twice in my life. The lounge was dimly lit and smelled of cigars. I thought the lack of light might be related to the war just over, blackouts, conservation of resources. But it was dark for the biddies. Shadows are kinder on age.
I’m taking you on, Watty said. As my apprentice. Apprentice made it sound more like bricklaying which I appreciated. Though I also hated the reason for his charity. I was the closest thing he’d find to English in Gwydyr. Old Watty ate peanuts, cracking them open with his teeth. I’d have rather seen open heart surgery than watch that man’s stained teeth grasp the dimpled shell and peel it back like the skin of a banana.
I chose instead to watch two biddies play cribbage in front of the fire. They argued and the bigger of the two looked on the verge of throttling the slighter one. When I glanced back, Watty had finished disassembling the nuts and was now intent on some personal housecleaning. Finger edging up his nostril. Shell detritus trembled on his upper lip. I coughed, excused my drifting attention with a witty remark about the two ladies, and looking back at them, wondered the extent to which Watty would next take his diligent hygiene. I had another brandy, he disgusted me less. There was a daughter who remained in England. She was only twenty although he must have been close to seventy. Her mother, he bent to find a peanut in the carpet, we lost in childbirth. Ah, I said. My standard response to nonstandard remarks. Watty found his peanut and again I politely looked away.
The biddies did not spar as I hoped they might. Though I like to think that when we left, shawls were tossed aside and fists were raised. Watty drove back to Gwydyr with all the windows down. His hair wavered in the night breeze and snowed dandruff on his collar. I was reminded of a Rembrandt, a man in overcoat with thinning hair. Mr. Mortimer had the coasters.
Watty saved old flowers smashed between the covers of romantic books, poetry. Shakespeare. He pressed me to talk with him about Hamlet. I wouldn’t. Among the shelves of papers and files I deposited apple cores and pits of chewed-up paper in hidden corners. I would come across them days later, disgusted to realize that I had more in common with the old man than I might have liked. Only a matter of time before I was forcing brandy on a young idealist, skin of a peanut dancing on my lip, finger dug up my nose. Only time.
The bell above the door tranged. Thinking it was a client, I ignored it. Gwydyr was in a fever about the new barrister, all wanting to sue neighbors for the horse getting out and eating their carrots, or for libel which previously went by the name entertainment. Months since the end of war, enemies were scarce.
Trang. There she was. I loved her. I could have given her some free legal advice her in her long legs and clutch. Hat like a clam. I’d have advised. Well nothing.
Miranda, Watty doddered up, some piece of lunch stuck to his face. Oh, you’re the daughter, said I, making mental note to talk with him about Hamlet then if that was what the old man wanted. You’re English, she remarked over Watty’s shoulder as she was hugged. No. You sound it, she said. That’s a sore subject, Watty warned. I was thinking that the Barrister should drive us all over to the Algernon, buy a round of brandies and I could seduce his daughter under his very own eye. And then I was paralyzed.
Watty dropped into his swivel chair. He could spend a full day in it, only getting up for the lavatory and I am not certain even then. Chewing paper in my secret aisles, I would hear a terrific noise and look up to see the Barrister rolling madly toward me, propelling himself forward with his heels as he shouted, Where’s the good brain God gave you and find that damn notice. It was only by the grace of said God that the plane of the floor was as true as it was. Any dip in the grain and old Watty would have pitched himself through one of the plateglass windows in front or tipped backwards into a pile of collecting hairballs coughed up by the dying tabby he refused to put out of my misery.
Miranda. I leaned against Watty’s desk for support, my legs buckling in agony. I looked up at her, attempting a sort of apologetic yet at the same time charming smile, one clearly indicating, Legs! Who can help the devils! But from the alarm she registered, I leered like a madman. Miranda. Dark and lovely on reliable legs, she reduced me.
Sit down, my darling, Watty said, oblivious. Darling was too much. A nonsensical torrent blurted forth. I lunged to the storage room to collect myself. Leaning miserably against the cold brick, I had the striking thought that a body is not simply vehicle for a brain, but contributes, rightly or wrongly, for better or worse, to some kind of whole. I was disturbed by this—I don’t think I can call it anything less than a revelation—for I had invested heavily in cogitation to the exclusion of even an elementary understanding of physiology. I was in no mood to be overtaken by systems I could not fathom, never mind control. I had neglected my biology
studies and now I was paying the price.
The bricks were cool. I was content in the back room. I certainly took no guilt at shirking, after all, it was Watty’s fault I had been reduced to such a state. I felt better. I had read of hot flashes though I had understood them to be confined to women. I became confident that I had suffered a momentary instability. The day was hot, and it suddenly occurred to me that it was after four and I had not eaten lunch. There were reasons for my collapse. I kissed a brick, I don’t know why.
I gathered myself to reenter the front room, quickly trawling for thoughts not sexual or deviant. This was more difficult than it seemed. I was seventeen, and in my experience, attempts to avoid a subject usually compelled it, my mind being somewhat contrary by nature. I tried to chase down an innocent boyhood memory.
I had begged my father to take me fishing for perhaps a year when he finally succumbed. The fishing sites in Gwydyr were limited, though as a six-year-old I believed I could catch a trout in rainwater if I set my mind on it. We left at dawn. I made us black bread and ham sandwiches, there was not much to eat that year and the meat was an extravagance. I packed the food on top of our rain gear, jumpers and a tin of worms I had spent three days digging out of the garden. Upon our arrival at the fishing spot, I don’t know how it happened, did I heave out the gear in my excitement to get to the worms? Was I cold? Anxious for a jumper? All I remember was the slow arc the worm tin carved in the air as the sandwiches flew up over the water. They’re still good, I cried, lunging down the bank toward the river. No. Da held me back with one arm, the other crooked around our rods. Please Da, they can dry out. But we could see the bread was already beginning to sog and drift into pieces. And the sun was not strong enough. We stayed to fish. This was my first memory, an uneasiness as I waited for dinner hour to approach, for Da to begin shifting as his hunger mounted, unable to resist—and who could blame him—throwing me a glance or two as he tasted our lost sandwiches. The restorative powers of this memory on my legs and breathing were not great.
The back room smelled of coal though it was too damp to store a lump. A funny trick a mind can play when senses won’t collaborate. It smells of coal, says your nose. Yet it’s damp, replies your skin. Then cognition chimes in, What would coal be doing in the storeroom, addlepate? Time moved forward. My legs were legs again and I was becoming less agitated and more irritated. Who was this woman, alright, creation then. Even if she was Watty’s daughter, what right did she have to come barging into a place of business dressed as she was with legs in stockings and a skirt, a skirt that. Well, how did she sit down? Yes, the more thought I gave it, the more I was appalled by the lack of respect I had been shown. It was an affront. Without further ado, I charged back into the front office, my legs serving me well on this occasion.
She was leaning forward, I shall never forget it. In emphasis or reiteration, difficult to tell. As if the Barrister were the most charming person on the globe. Head at an angle as if she hoped that Watty might release another nugget as compelling as the last. This, when after three weeks I could tell you that old Watty’s antics on the office furniture was about as fascinating as it got. Emerging from the memory of my father, my distressed self at six, I wondered had I ever looked at my father as Miranda was looking at hers, with such kind indulgence?
Don’t be shy, Watty said with a fart. Then she turned, killing me. She had hair in waves. Don’t ask me to describe the style, I’m no good. But I know it shone. Well for God’s sake, the lamp was directly above her, I’m not a sentimentalist. Her eyes, a sort of green. Did she want me to join the two of them, I couldn’t tell. Her knee was bent, right over left. Soft. Curved like a comma. I began a sentence I wanted parsed.
There’s the files to—file, I said intelligently. Language, as I’ve mentioned, not my strong suit.
Well those can wait, it was she who said it not Watty, from whom I took my orders. We must get to know each other, she continued. My father’s been telling me how helpful you’ve been.
I struck a pose, yes I admit it. Braggadocio. Hands casually in pockets, back against the wall. In truth, of course, it was for support, out of deference to the buckle in my knees. Ah, I said. As I’ve mentioned, my reply to the beguiling. She was a vision, but then I’m prone to exaggeration. I waited for something intelligent to surface, but only the banal swam up. Have you come from London? How long are you planning to stay? It was more interview than conversation. Feeling myself beginning to slide down the wall, I directed my hands from their home in my pockets to a fingertips-bent, one hand against the wall support, a position I had seen Mr. Mortimer take up when in the deepest contemplation. That eased the situation for the time being and we chatted amiably with the Barrister interjecting from time to time but mercifully resisting any temptations for snot excavation. In such a case, I would not have known which way to look. The idea of giving Miranda a glance she might interpret as judgment of her father, the pain that might cause her, was enough to bring on a finger cramp. I managed to balance myself to a standing position, vigorously rubbing my hands but furrowing my brow in an air of erudition to suggest that finger massage was the sort of distracted habit found in genius.
She knew a boy I had known at Monstead, an insufferable lout in my opinion but I agreed with her assessment that he held England’s hope for political reform or some insanity. He was two years older than me, closer her age than mine and I found myself jealously speculating as to the nature of their relations. According to Miranda, in the years since leaving school, Brickman had established himself as indispensable to some member of the government. Sycophant, no doubt, to some sausage wreaking havoc on the working class.
There’s a rumor, she leaned closer to convey a secret, I bent to hear it but she adjusted her shoe, That Brickman was affiliated with the Resistance.
At this I snorted. Yes, snorted. The French Resistance, I asked, or the Prefect resistance to not enough sugar? I couldn’t help myself. In truth what I remembered best about Brickman was his penchant for taking cutlery between thumb and forefinger, targeting the back of a junior’s head and unleashing said weapon with the vicious flick of a Japanese throwing star. He and his cohorts gained much amusement from it. Having been a victim to this torture myself, I know a fellow can not easily forget the shock of impalement while engaged in a mildly pleasant activity, refilling a jug of tea or stooping to address a classmate. Though it must be added, if one were not the target, it was fairly amusing to see a fellow’s face quickly fall. But the notion that Brickman led or was involved in any worthwhile organization was ludicrous. Really, did old Brickman aim forks through knotholes as Poles quivered beneath the floorboards. Oh anyone is capable of changing I suppose.
In order to deflate the Resistance comment, I gave an inquisitive lift to my eyebrow, a sort of Good old Brickman How is the Old Boy expression. At this point in the game, I had no friend in integrity. Deftly I maneuvered the conversation to the nature of her involvement with Brickman. She imparted that it was innocent. I would have had trouble seeing them together, Brickman appraising a fork over a meal in a French restaurant. But I was glad to hear it directly.
Well I should let you blabla, said she, gibberish about getting back to work while she had errands to finish. Your father took me to the Algernon once, I mentioned. It was lovely there. An invitation so obvious I blushed.
Back in the storeroom the sloppily mortared bricks gave no answers. In her absence. Why hadn’t the bricklayer troweled better. It would trouble me always.
Da and I were eating when she came by the house. I had purchased a chicken on the way home, and we sat at the table attempting potatoes that were stones near the middle. With cooking, timing is all. At the knock, Da went out for the door, Gregor often came by when he gauged we’d be at supper. I heard her voice. Gregor’s never sounded like glass. A piece of chicken went down the wrong way and a bone caught in my windpipe. I could have died. I was more concerned with humiliation. I jumped up, gasping for air. Throwing my midsection
against the sink dislodged the bone. They came in. Mr. Watson’s daughter, Da repeated. I leaned back against the sink sending a prayer to my legs. She took my chair and Da pushed over the step he used for the taller cabinets. I perched.
We spoke, I don’t remember much of it. I recall Da saying I can’t imagine how my son landed that job with your father, Teddy never was one for numbers. I didn’t know what to do with that. A father mistakes his child for himself. You see it all the time. I scraped at something on my trousers, well nothing. You could see Da was impressed by Miranda, though not so happy over her nationality. After an awkward silence while Da finished his chicken and ate around the potato centers, he shooed us into the front room. Go on now, tying a cloth around his waist for the dishes.
It was still too light for a lamp. Miranda picked up the china dog and barked at me.
Yes.
Replacing it, she said, Are you a good cook?
My timing’s still wrong, I said and blushed for the phrase seemed to take on a different meaning.
She told me she had instructed her father to bring us to the Algernon the following Sunday. Then we spoke about Brickman, it seemed he was to be our common subject. I contrived ways to tell her about myself. I was seventeen, forgive me for needing to convey more than I wanted to hear.
Last night I had a dream, I said. Miranda said nothing, so I continued. I dreamed I was a girl. I dreamed I had long hair and wore slippers. I sat at a table full of strangers, at the head of which a woman sang the most beautiful aria. As I was listening I accidentally scraped a boy’s foot with my ankle. The whole table turned to stare at me, disgusted. Flirt, they shouted, Flirt. These strangers frightened me but I could not explain myself. Then the singer leaned down to me and said, He told me about you. What? I begged to hear it, What did he say? Oh, the singer whispered, He said, Oh, the simple allowance of the girl.
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