The Railway Station Man

by Jennifer Johnston

  The back wheels of the car were spinning in a puddle.

  ‘It’s just my luck to be caught in the bloody pouring rain, miles from home with a one-eyed, one-armed, straight-haired loony in charge of a lethal weapon.’

  He began to laugh. He did something with his feet and the car moved more sedately forward.

  Helen blushed and then she too began to laugh.

  ‘I have passed a test … many tests … you know … and the machine has been adapted … at enormous expense. I’m really very safe in my machine.’

  ‘It just slipped out.’

  ‘My dear Mrs Cuffe, if I were in your position, I’m sure I’d feel the same.’

  ‘Please call me Helen.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s more helpful really when people acknowledge the disabilities of others. Mutilations, colour, madness, religion … whatever it may be. I have spent the largest part of my life among the mutilated. That for me is normal. I find the real world … I had an aunt called Helen.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘My father’s sister. I didn’t like her much. She too was crippled … by her own sanctity.’

  He swung the car out onto the road.

  ‘Madam doormat, my father used to call her. Oh God, here comes Madam doormat, and the temperature of the house would sink several degrees. He wiped his own feet on her when it suited him and despised her at the same time. So the name Helen …’

  ‘Doesn’t appeal to you.’

  ‘It has unpleasant connections. A long way back. We shouldn’t allow ourselves to be influenced by such memories.’

  ‘I think the rain is easing.’

  ‘I thought perhaps I had discovered something new … a place no one had ever seen before.’

  ‘That would be quite a triumph nowadays.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was really nice of you to bring me to see it.’

  It was strange, she thought, how between one word and another the strange face could become a mask. It was like a grotesque sleight of hand; suddenly the magician removed all life from the puppet.

  ‘Tobar na Diabhal it’s called.’

  He probably wasn’t listening.

  ‘The Devil’s Well.’

  There was silence between them for a long time.

  ‘If you’d given me notice of your kidnap I’d have worn my gumboots. These shoes let in.’

  ‘I never really know these things in advance. I tend to work on impulse. Anyway, here you are at home. Soon, you can be comfortable again.’

  ‘Will you come in and have a cup of tea … a drink?’

  He stopped the car by her gate.

  ‘No thank you. I would rather get on home.’

  He turned his head and stared at her.

  She opened the door and began to heave herself out.

  Ten years ago, five even, I would have been able to skip, skedaddle, now I heave and creak, like some ancient sailing vessel. Heave, creak.

  ‘Are you sure …?’

  He still stared at her.

  ‘I’m quite sure.’

  ‘Will you be able to manage the gramophone on your own … to get it out of the car?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  It’s like a drill, she thought, that eye, painfully penetrating. I’m so cold, drowned cold.

  He nodded. He did things with his feet. She slammed the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she called.

  The car moved off and as it turned the corner she realised that she had left the plastic bag with the pictures in it on the floor by the front seat.

  ‘Shit,’ she shivered.

  The door scraped.

  Helen looked round from where she stood at the Aga, just taking the coffee off the heat.

  Must mend that bloody door. Automatic, eternal thought. Useless thought. Roger stood there, the plastic bag tucked neatly under his arm.

  ‘Excuse me for … I saw you through the window. It seemed silly to go to the front door.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  She still looked quite scrubbed after her bath. Her hair straight and very clean spread out from her head as she moved. Some nights after she had washed her hair it would be filled with static electricity and crackle and spark when she brushed it.

  ‘Do come in. You’re just in time for a cup of coffee.’

  ‘You’ve washed your hair.’

  ‘I had a boiling bath. You have to push that door quite hard to shut it. One day …’ She fetched another mug from the dresser and put it on the table, pushing the debris of plates, dishes and a few books up to the far end. ‘Sit down. It’s good coffee. Bewleys. A major extravagance. Instant makes me feel sick.’

  Before sitting down, Roger put the bag carefully on the table. ‘I thought you might be worried about your pictures.’ He sat down. ‘Yes … I’d love some coffee. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘Black or white?’

  ‘Black, please.’

  His hand lay quite still and heavy on the plastic bag, as if he were protecting it against some surprise attack.

  ‘Sugar?’

  She put the cup down in front of him.

  He shook his head. ‘I used to take sugar, but too many people wanted to help me … I don’t know why … scoop it in, stir, take away the spoon just in case I dropped it on the floor, look at me with sympathy and concern. One day I just gave up sugar. Life seemed easier after that.’

  Helen burst out laughing.

  ‘How unkind of you.’

  ‘Hardly that … self-protective.’

  ‘Would you like a glass of whiskey? Or some red wine? That’s all I’ve got. Do have a whiskey. I’d love one myself?

  ‘That would be very nice. You’re very cosy here.’

  He watched her move to the cupboard, the sink.

  ‘Everything at hand.’

  Then back to the table with glasses, the bottle, water in a jug.

  ‘Shipshape.’

  She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I am famous for my lack of organisation. They wouldn’t have me on a ship. Do you take water? Help yourself if you do.’

  ‘A little water.’

  She sat down opposite him and lit a cigarette. She flicked the match into a saucer already filled with butts and dead matches. ‘How’s your house coming on?’

  Her fingers fiddled nervously with the cigarette. A thin string of smoke was caught in the light.

  ‘The essentials for living are there. Your health.’ He lifted the glass.

  ‘Sláinte.’

  ‘Damian has the box in working order. It won’t be too long before we’re ready. Then it will be up to CIE. I think we’ll have to operate the level-crossing gates manually to begin with, but I hope that after a while we will be able to tie them in to the box.’

  ‘It was very good of you to bring that back for me. It was so stupid of me to leave it behind. The rain …’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of looking … I hope that doesn’t annoy you … your private parcel …?’

  ‘No … of course not.’

  ‘Your work?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were a painter.’

  ‘We haven’t really had that sort of conversation … anyway I’m …’

  ‘You’re a painter.’

  She stretched her hand out across the table for the bag. But he replaced his hand, heavily, where it had been before.

  ‘I would like to buy them.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘After all, you were prepared to sell them at that terrible jumble sale. Why not to me?’

  ‘It wasn’t a jumble sale.’

  ‘Next best thing. Why not to me?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘My walls are as good as the next man’s. Better perhaps. Bare white walls crying out for pictures.’

  ‘I would like you to give them back to me. I’d like to consider. You’ve taken me by surprise. I don’t like that.’

  ‘I took th
e precaution of writing a cheque before I came here.’ He pulled the bag over to his side of the table and felt in his pocket. He took out the folded piece of paper and pushed it over the table towards her. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me and I hope you’ll accept it.’

  She stared down at it.

  ‘Please.’ His voice was very gentle.

  She picked up the cheque.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘As I said this afternoon, I work on impulse. I like your watercolours. I want to hang them on my walls. For me that is quite simple.’

  She unfolded the cheque and looked at it.

  ‘A hundred pounds. I can’t accept this. You’re out of your mind.’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  He pulled the bag off the table onto his knee.

  ‘I didn’t mean … you can’t possibly give me a hundred pounds.’

  ‘I’m buying your pictures. That I believe is a reasonable assessment of their worth. I also believe that you don’t know whether it is or not.’

  She shook her head. ‘I may of course be wrong. It’s not very likely though.’

  He took a gulp of coffee.

  ‘There’s no need to look so darn miserable.’

  ‘I’m not miserable. I’m delighted. I really am.’ She held the cheque out at arm’s length and stared at it. ‘I’ll frame it.’

  ‘I’d cash it first if I were you. I’ll give it back to you when I get it from the bank. You can frame it then.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know what to say. Have another drink?’ She pushed the bottle towards him. ‘Some more coffee? A slice of cold roast beef? Do have something.’

  ‘No.’

  He stood up. ‘I’m going home. I find night driving a bit hairy. May I come back sometime?’

  ‘I’m always here. Somewhere about.’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to see what you’re doing. Would you allow me …?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He gave the door a sharp pull and the cat walked in, weaving through his legs.

  ‘A cat. Your cat?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well … really I’m his human being. You know what cats are like.’

  ‘I’m glad you have a cat. I have very good relationships with cats.’

  ‘Come or go,’ she said. ‘I mean … well … don’t just stand there with the door open. The heat …’ She waved her hands. ‘Come back in. We could talk a while.’

  ‘No. Not tonight. I want to go home and play all those records and see how I feel. See what they bring back.’

  ‘Masochism.’

  ‘Possibly. Goodnight, Helen.’

  ‘Goodnight. I hope you won’t be found drowned in a pool of melancholic tears.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘And thank you. Thank you so much.’

  The door bumped, scraped, screeched a little and was shut.

  She listened to his steps across the yard. She poured herself some cold coffee. A freak?

  In 1944 I was fourteen.

  He clicked the gate shut behind him.

  September the tenth, just coming to the end of the summer holidays. Time for dentists, shopping for new school clothes, warm vests, those terrible green knickers that matched the gym tunics. Time for squeezing your feet again into sensible lace-up shoes, feet spread by summer freedom.

  The car started …

  He couldn’t have been all that much older. Eighteen? Nineteen?

  Drove away. The sound twisted along the road.

  Only the wind then bruising the white walls.

  In my whole life I have made two decisions. One was to marry Dan. I suppose that was a decision. I suppose at some stage I said yes. Pondered. Did I ponder? Or was I grasping at straws? I think for the record I will have to call it a decision. The second, of course, was coming here to this place, buying this house, throwing away all the detritus of the past.

  I must be some sort of freak too.

  She stabbed at one of the butts in the saucer with a match, impaling it finally like a cocktail sausage on a stick, then started on another.

  The de-insulation programme has to begin.

  The cat jumped up onto the table.

  ‘Do you hear me, cat? Hear. Understand? I have to say it aloud. I am making a decision. Get that into your yellow head, through your yellow eyes.’

  The giant step.

  What was that game we used to play?

  Forget it. Just get on with this decision-making moment.

  The cold coffee was foul.

  I could leave the issue untouched. I could continue to dabble in paint. Express myself to myself or whatever crudity of that sort is in my mind. I could sell the odd picture, get that satisfaction. It could be for ever a pastime. Pass time. If I could stop time, hold it here in this room. You may not pass on, old time, until I give you leave.

  Oh for God’s sake, even if I were to give up smoking and live to be a hundred that only gives me fifty years of rapidly passing time.

  She stood up and remembering the game for a moment took a giant step across the centre of the room.

  Cynical yellow eyes drooped.

  Forty-nine years. Forty-eight.

  I will become.

  She went upstairs to bed.

  When she woke up the next morning and looked at the moving shadows on the ceiling, she was filled with a joy that she had never experienced before, and likely never would again. Everything seemed so simple, so right. She lay and looked at the shadows and understood the meaning of ecstasy. Quite, quite abnormal for a person who had never allowed herself to be shaken radically in any way by emotion. For a while, five minutes, an hour, a whole morning, it was impossible to remember later, she felt liberated from doubt, from her own special wriggling worm of fear. Of course it all drained away, nothing could stop that happening, and she was left the same as she had been before.

  No rain on Wednesday. A fine sharp breeze blew the clouds across the sky. Like a race, she thought as she crossed the yard, a mug of tea in one hand, the cigarettes and matches safely clutched in the pocket of her dressing gown. Boats, spinnakers full of wind racing across the sea-blue sky. I will go to Dublin and buy myself a whole load of beautiful brushes. I won’t blinking well stint myself on brushes ever again. I’ll keep them clean, healthy. Build racks for them on the wall. Each one its allotted place. Fantasy of course. That sort of neatness was not in her nature. Anyway, she thought as she opened the door of the shed, the sky isn’t sea-blue, so it isn’t.

  She had been working for about half an hour when the door opened. She looked up from the floor, startled.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Roger, as he came into the shed. ‘You said I could come and see your paintings. Forgive me if I take you by surprise.’

  ‘You certainly do. I haven’t even combed my hair. I … I’m not …’

  ‘I can see you’re not dressed.’

  ‘I’m not even in my right mind yet.’

  He smiled slightly.

  ‘I thought if I came early I’d be sure to catch you in.’

  ‘I’m always in.’

  They stared at each other in silence. She struggled up from the floor, straightening the creaking knees.

  ‘I’ll go away if you prefer?’

  ‘No. That’s all right. I’m sorry if I was rude. You’re the first visitor I’ve ever had in here.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Oh God no. He never comes over here. I think he’s frightened he’ll despise my work and won’t know how to cope with that.’ She rubbed at the paint on her right forefinger with the forefinger of her other hand. ‘He has his own way of looking at things you know … not a bit like mine at all.’ She turned away and looked out of the small window at the end of the shed. In the distance a fishing boat moved against the rhythm of the sea, no smooth flow like the clouds, it butted against the sea and wind. Aggressive. Almost like I feel, she thought.

  ‘He doesn’t have to be involved. I would hate
dutiful respect from him. I think I’ve probably hurt him quite a lot. He never wanted to come here. I think he felt quite orphaned as he was growing up.’

  ‘It’s impossible to protect other people all the time.’

  She sighed and then she laughed suddenly.

  ‘I spend a lot of my time over here in my dressing gown. I’ll have to change my ways if I’m going to have a constant stream of visitors.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and organise yourself and I’ll just stay here and …’ He gestured around the room with his hand. ‘You wouldn’t mind if I did that, would you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She walked over to the door.

  ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Don’t rush. I’ll be quite happy poking around here. By the way, I told the boy he could sit in the kitchen. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Damian Sweeney. I didn’t feel like driving this morning, so he brought me over. I’ve taught him to use the pedals in my car. Sometimes I feel lazy, disinclined. I left him in the kitchen.’

  ‘You do make yourself at home, don’t you?’

  He bowed.

  She hadn’t cleared the breakfast dishes, nor indeed the remains of her last night’s supper. Time enough for all that when the light was gone, when her energy was low. Damian was sitting at the table with the cat on his knee.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Cuffe.’ He stood up politely as she came into the kitchen. The cat, at his first movement, stepped off his knee and onto the table.

  ‘Bloody cat, get off the table,’ said Helen crossly. ‘Good morning. He eats the butter.’

  ‘I think he’s eaten the butter.’

  Damian pointed to an empty saucer that might once have had butter in it.

  ‘Bloody cat,’ shouted Helen, clapping her hands. The cat jumped off the table and walked across the room past Helen and out into the hall.

  ‘You probably don’t remember me …’

  ‘Yes, I remember you.’ Her voice was brusque. ‘This place is in a mess …’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What of it? What’s a bit of a mess for God’s sake? You couldn’t remember me. We’ve never met I’ve seen you round the place, riding the bike and that, but we’ve never met.’

  ‘You hit Jack.’

  ‘That was years ago. We were only kids’

  ‘He came home in a terrible mess. It wasn’t long after we came here and I thought, oh God, what have I let us in for. He was all covered in blood. Noses bleed such a lot. What a little bully that Damian Sweeney must be. A brat.’