by Ron Butlin
Your clothes seemed to be cascading imperceptibly from the back of the chair on to the floor. Let them, you thought. They looked tired and rejected – so you rejected them. Something new instead for a new morning. Something fresh, clean and crisp; something light. But quietly – you didn’t want to waken Mary – and so, nothing too crisp.
Sliding open the sock and underwear drawer, the shirt drawer, the wardrobe door – but ever so carefully, silently, smoothly. Which suit? A suit to suit the day, of course. To mediate between the day outside you and the day inside you, complementing both. The light blue, you decided. Discreet, but partaking of deep joy.
Grasping the basin in one hand, you closed the bedroom door with an all-but-silenced click, then off down the stairs two at a time. Not too fast, however, not until the landing. One step. Two step. Three step. And four and five and six then turn. Seven, nine, eleven, all the way to the bottom.
Into the kitchen. The basin back where it belonged. Then on with the tea, the toast and Mozart. A beautiful morning. You opened the back door and breathed: a beautiful day. The birds were singing, the trees were rustling with pleasure, the flowers were growing, scenting and colouring. The bushes, the stone wall, the sky. Ah, the sky! Another deep breath and back to the toast.
The table was set, and you were set to call them down. Cups and plates, spoons and bowls. Hurry – you told them to hurry to see the garden, hurry to hear the birds – hurry to breathe and live.
The table looked good, the tea was perfect (and there was extra water on in case). There was marmalade, honey, butter, jam and Shreddies. A feast. You called them to the feast. There was toast, cool fresh milk, and . . .
And in they came! You welcomed them: Good morning, a chair for Elise; a chair for Tom; a chair for Mary, your good wife. Then last, but not least, a chair for yourself. All together now. A family breakfast. A family feast.
Smiles and hot buttered toast. Four brimming cups; lemon for Mary. Perfect, perfect. Three sleepy faces, three very yawny mouths. The garden was still bright, the tea was delicious, and Mozart was – Mozart! Piano concerto number two, written when he was ten, more than two hundred years old and as good that morning as—
‘You can’t get on the radio when you’re ten,’ interrupted young Tom.
‘Of course you can,’ you laughed.
‘Will I?’ he asked.
‘If you write music as good as that, you will,’ you replied, then hummed along with it for a moment, conducting a few bars with the butter-knife. ‘Wait for the rondo – a real belter!’
‘It’s boring,’ stated Elise.
‘Boring?’ you repeated with mock-incredulity.
‘And too loud,’ said Mary. She reached over and turned it down. That was the first time she had spoken since coming downstairs. That was her morning greeting.
You sat very still for a moment, then drank some tea. You had got up early to make breakfast for everyone – a surprise. And that was all she had to say: ‘The music’s too loud.’ You drank some more tea. The garden was outside, and the sky. Sunlight. She was tired, that was all. You smiled at her. Three minutes passed. The rondo.
Mozart was to be succeeded by his son, you were told. The announcer’s little joke – although some say Francis Xavier’s true father was Sussmeyer, Mozart’s pupil, the one who finished the Requiem. You had never heard anything by the son. It should be interesting, you thought. Mary was talking with Tom about his swimming class and the visit to their granny’s that evening. Elise wanted some orange juice. Francis Xavier Mozart had over forty opus numbers, it seemed. He was neglected nowadays. A piano trio. A minute passed, and you thought to yourself: ‘Justly neglected.’
Then ten minutes passed, and breakfast was over.
You announced to Mary that there was something you would like to show her. It was the wrong time; you knew that she was angry, but you were leading her into the garden. You wanted to put your arms around her and tell her that you loved her. You knew it was the wrong time.
A patio, you remarked. What did she think about having a patio where the family could eat outdoors on summer evenings?
‘I could move the shed to the top corner,’ you suggested, ‘and lay some paving stones, or whatever the crazy ones are called. From the french windows over to the beginning of the lawn.’
Mary said nothing. She stood beside the back door. You talked on, developing the proposed renovations: an all-weather table with four chairs and an extra two, foldaway, in case of guests. What would be the best colour? you asked her. A martini-style umbrella in the middle? An extension socket set into the side wall for a light perhaps, not too strong, of course, fixed in position above the—
Without a word, Mary went back into the house. Although you knew it would only make things worse, you followed her.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ you demanded.
She glared back at you but said nothing.
‘I said – what’s wrong with you?’
She had turned to leave the kitchen. You reached out and grabbed her arm.
‘Let go,’ she said firmly.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘And?’
‘And I want an answer,’ you insisted.
‘Well, then, you’ll just have to want,’ she replied, and turned away. She went into the hall, where she called Tom and Elise.
For several moments you remained standing in the kitchen, then followed her. She was opening the front door. Tom must have already gone out; Elise turned to wave goodbye. In a moment the house would be empty apart from you standing there, isolated.
‘Mary,’ you began.
‘This evening, Morris.’ Pulling the door behind her, she added: ‘If you’re home, and if you’re not too drunk, that is.’
You listened to them walk down the steps and along the gravel path. Then came the slam of the car doors, the engine starting, Mary driving off.
For nearly a minute you stood in the centre of the hall, then returned to the kitchen where you picked up your briefcase, locked the back door, and switched off the radio. It was time to go.
You arrived at the station a few minutes early, eight seventeen for eight twenty-three, so you walked the length of the platform and back; then sat down by the chocolate machines. A glance at the empty sky. A look down the tracks, at the fence posts, the trespass-notice, the timetable. A man in a white jersey and jeans asked you the time. You told him. A dizzying perfume: a woman with red shoes walked past. A man with grey sleepy eyes. A red-faced man, swollen.
At the sound of the train entering the station you turned and saw a piece of white paper flutter briefly in front of the driver’s window. For a split second you thought of the cottage you had lived in as a child, its white walls – then the train stopped abruptly. Only halfway into the station.
The driver has dashed out of his cab on to the platform a few feet from you.
He shouts, ‘I’ve killed someone! I’ve killed someone!’ – and rushes back into his cab again.
Through his open window you can hear him scream into his radio: ‘I’ve killed someone! I’ve killed someone!’ He looks like a man drowning – his arms threshing wildly, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring out through the glass.
The passengers have leant out of the windows or opened the carriage doors to see what is happening. Those who were about to board have moved to the platform’s edge and are looking down to see as best they can; or else, having looked, turn away immediately afterwards from the mess of colours crumpled under the wheels. You stare at it. A complete stranger addresses you – you nod and keep staring. The complete stranger addresses someone else. The three of you stare down at the remains of the man with the white jersey and jeans. At the mess of colours. Less than a minute ago he had been standing beside you. He had asked you the time. He is much further away now than you can even begin to understand.
Another stranger addresses you. Everyone feels the need to talk, to say something to someone. You can feel it all around you
and inside you. A kind of panic because you also want to talk, to touch people.
The driver stands at the side of the engine. He is young, hardly even your age. A man is holding him by the arm just above the elbow, as though to support him. On the driver’s other side a man and a woman are talking excitedly. You catch the odd phrase: ‘So quick, so quick.’ The driver is repeating his version and shaking his head. He is being forgiven, excused, held, and then listened to. Forgiven, excused, held, and then listened to all over again.
You go backwards and forwards between the sight of the dead man under the train and the activity round the driver – trying to make sense of what has happened. Although you had never seen the man in the white jersey before, you feel that you should be upset. Nearby a woman is crying.
The other passengers have begun to drift away, to make new arrangements for their journey. People stand in small groups discussing the availability of taxis, buses – or how long it might be before the trains are running again. Can the points be operated so that the trains in both directions use the other platform?
You feel a strong pull to join one of these groups: the taxi-crowd, the other-platformers, the forgivers. They appear to understand what has happened. By yourself, however, you simply keep blundering from the dead man to the driver and back again – as along the critical distance, suddenly revealed, between the past and the present, trying desperately to decide where you belong. Backwards and forwards you go, bewildered by what, in your state of shock, appears as two aspects of the same person: one dead, and the other still crying aloud his guilt. Eventually someone asks you if you’d like to make up the number for a taxi.
You look back just as you are about to leave the platform: the train is at rest half in and half out of the station, giving the scene a very static quality. Like a photograph. To a casual glance there would seem to be nothing unusual: this is the train entering the station, and these are the waiting passengers. You, however, possess another and more sinister interpretation – and for a brief moment as you pause at the ticket barrier you feel the need to return and reassure yourself of what has happened. To touch the metal front of the engine; to see again the body lying underneath the wheels. You want to be quite certain that the tragic element, which at this distance you can only sense, does not come from you nor in any way belongs to you; that in this case your nature is quite innocent of any—
‘Come on!’ calls the man. ‘The taxi is waiting.’
You turn and go to join him.
The sun was shining into your little mud-cramped, mud-trap office. So brightly that you could not bear to look out of the window. Instead, you stared at the multicoloured graphs, the Mondrian, and the blue-backed files. Suddenly Katherine’s back was towards you. She was leaving the room. Abruptly. Angrily.
A moment ago you had put your hand up her skirt, and now she is storming off towards the door. The dictation pad still in her hand.
She had been standing beside you, close beside you, leaning over to indicate a difficulty in one of the letters that had arrived. Her fingertip was tracing the line:
‘Respecting the delivery date, we would consider that—’
‘Shouldn’t there actually be a date mentioned?’ she had asked.
Her fingernail was pressed against the comma where she felt the date should be, and so lightly pressed that you could hardly believe she wasn’t in fact touching you.
‘Here, d’you mean, Katherine?’ you had suggested, pointing directly to the comma as well, your finger almost grazing hers.
‘Yes, and here too,’ she indicated a similar omission in another line further down the letter. This time your fingers touched.
‘And over,’ she added, reaching to turn the page, her palm and the back of your hand making brief contact. Your left hand was resting on the arm of your executive swivel, and gradually the chair turned until the back of your hand was against her leg. She did not move away.
‘And lastly,’ she continued, ‘where it says something about penalty clauses . . .’ You let your hand rise ever so slightly from the arm of your chair, keeping it in contact, in gentle contact, with her leg. The touch of her skin on the back of your hand. The hem of her skirt. She still hadn’t moved; she was expecting you to—
‘Katherine!’ you call after her. But already everything is happening somewhere inside you, even her crying on your shoulder while you reassure her, telling her how this and how that. You need only act it out: say the words, perform the gestures – and she, in turn, will play her part.
And so, almost laughing aloud at the simplicity of things, you get up from your chair.
‘Katherine,’ you repeat, taking her arm.
You will turn her round, and she will be angry and in tears. You will comfort her, telling her how much she means to you and has meant ever since you first met. That first morning at the lift, just after she had started to work here, does she remember? you will ask You will turn her face round so you can see the tears, and be so deeply moved as to take her in your arms, then begin stroking her hair.
Your hand is on her arm: ‘Katherine, I—’
She faces you. She is almost in tears. You have not let go of her arm, however.
‘Katherine,’ you try again, ‘you must understand that—’
‘How could you?’ She is trembling.
‘It was—’
‘No, no,’ she is looking away from you. ‘What were you—?’ she begins slowly. ‘What did you think that I—?’
‘Katherine.’ You have moved a half-step closer to her.
‘And let go my arm,’ she pleads.
Her face is very pale. She glares at you – standing only a few inches away.
Although you know it is only going to make things worse, you move slightly to put your arm around her shoulder, to pull her towards you, to comfort her.
‘Listen, Katherine, I know how you must feel. I’m very sorry that . . .’
You speak slowly and deliberately to show that you are deeply moved. You hesitate briefly before continuing.
‘But is it really so unlikely that—?’
‘You. Say. Nothing.’ Her voice is suddenly firm. She pauses between each word as if with the effort required to utter the next. ‘Nothing.’
She steps backwards from you.
‘And don’t touch me again. Ever,’ she adds, then pauses uncertainly. ‘You bastard.’
As she says the word ‘bastard’, you notice that her voice trembles momentarily. Soon she will be in tears – and then you can draw towards her and comfort her.
You continue your previous sentence as though you had been anticipating her interruption and that, in fact, everything was all right.
‘Is it really so unlikely,’ you proceed, ‘that I should feel like this for you?’
For a moment she stares at you, but says nothing. A good sign. She doesn’t believe you, of course. She is surprised – but as she has said nothing you keep talking.
‘It’s just . . .’ you turn a little to one side, slightly embarrassed. ‘It’s just that everything’s come out wrong, Katherine.’
You look into her eyes now; you are being sincere.
‘I did not want it like this. Not like this,’ you repeat with regret, holding up your hand against any interruption. You want to be truly honest now.
‘I didn’t mean it like this,’ you speak almost sorrowfully, but as though you were making great efforts not to betray that sorrow – for you are too ashamed.
She still doesn’t believe you – but she is listening. Now you tell her about what she meant to you, ‘even when we met that first morning in the lift,’ you say. Does she remember?
She nods, but says nothing.
You continue: you would notice and chat to her in the open-plan; then she became your secretary. How hard it has been, you tell her, having her so close day after day – and yet being unable to say anything. But how much harder it would have been without her. Does she understand what you mean?
So m
any times you have almost begun to tell her, to say something that would allow you to . . . Here you make a vague gesture instead of completing the sentence. But either the phone would ring, you explain, or someone would interrupt, or – and here you look away briefly – you just couldn’t.
You give particular examples.
You continue: every time your fingers touched when passing letters for signature it was as though – and she is still listening – as though . . .
You leave this sentence unfinished also, and lay your hand gently on her shoulder.
‘It’s been very hard, Katherine, very hard,’ you repeat, slowly, looking directly into her face.
‘And now it’s all come out, all at once – and all wrong.’
You pause; then in a concerned tone you ask:
‘Do you understand?’
You pause again. Then apply a very slight pressure on her shoulder before you move your hand in preparation for replacing it nearer her neck.
Then you ask: ‘Can you understand, Katherine? Can you see what I mean?’ You are speaking very slowly, carefully – sincerely.
She looks back at you in silence. Confused.
‘Oh, Katherine, Katherine,’ you say in a hardly audible voice – as if you did not want her to hear you speak her name in this way. The slightest pressure now will draw her towards you. There is no need to say anything more. In a few seconds you will be able to put your arm around her.
It is very quiet in your office: you and Katherine stand close together for several moments, facing each other without speaking.
Over her shoulder you can see three lorries at the loading bay opposite. The checker is sitting on an empty box at the side with his clipboard, marking off the different kinds of biscuit as they are loaded. From this distance it is difficult to see exactly when he marks the paper. He is talking to one of the men who leans against an empty trolley – perhaps one of the lorries has just been filled and they are waiting for it to drive off.