‘Another couple of weeks now and we’ll start on the boat. I have enough money put by for the timber. We’re going to take the electricity over to the goods shed and we can work there during the winter. Then in the spring, when the weather starts to get better we’re going to lay the tracks …’
‘How do you lay tracks? You and Roger can’t lay tracks. It takes a whole gang of men to lay tracks.’
‘In the spring we’re going to lay the tracks,’ he repeated.
She sighed.
‘I think perhaps that was when he got into trouble last time,’ said Damian.
‘How do you mean?’
‘In Scotland, or wherever it was. He started to have rows then with the railway people and his family got roped into it all. It was bad trouble. I don’t know why people won’t just leave him alone.’
‘I suppose he annoys them.’
‘You wouldn’t want to see him harmed, would you?’
‘No.’
He smiled at her.
‘I didn’t think you would.’
She leaned over and put some wood on the fire.
‘Do you want to come and see the pictures?’
‘Yes. My fame.’
‘Come on then.’ She pushed herself up from the floor and led him out across the yard.
The four canvases were standing against the wall. In the fourth painting the beach and the sea were empty expanses. A seagull moved across the glare of the sun and footprints displaced the sand, leading from a pile of clothes to the edge of the sea. The clothes were the only colourful objects in the four paintings. A red jersey thrown on top of faded blue jeans, a blue shirt, red and white striped runners, grey woollen socks to one side of the pile.
‘Where am I?’ he asked. ‘What have you done with me?’ His voice sounded slightly panic-stricken, as if she had disposed of his reality in some way.
‘You’ve gone.’
‘But why? Why did I have to go? Couldn’t I come back again?’
She laughed.
He examined the clothes closely, stooping down to study them.
‘They’re mine all right,’ he said. ‘I must be going to come back. God, Helen, that’s a creepy thing to do to someone. Make them disappear like that.’
He clicked his fingers.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Not quite like that. You can see from the beginning that he’s going to disappear.’
‘He?’
‘You, if you like.’
He looked at each one in turn again.
‘Yes, I suppose you can.’
‘You just have to forget that it’s you, Damian. If it upsets you.’
He nodded.
‘What are you going to call them?’
‘Rather boring really. “Man on a Beach”.’
‘That’s all?’
‘1, 2, 3, 4.’
‘Helen.’
Roger’s voice called across the yard.
‘Here,’ she called back.
‘Man on a Beach, Man in the Sea, Man Swimming and A Pile of Lonely Clothes would be better names,’ suggested Damian.
Roger’s lurching steps crossed the yard.
‘Man on a Beach. Like it or lump it,’ said Helen.
The door opened and Roger came in.
‘I’ve finished.’
‘The Short Story of Disappearing Damian.’
‘Pay no attention to him,’ said Helen.
Roger looked at the pictures in silence. Helen watched his face for a while and then turned away and began to tidy up things on the table. Pencils, brushes, into neat rows, smallest to the left. She scraped at the clotted paint on the blade of a knife with her finger nail.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘It’s finished.’
She put the knife down on the table.
‘I… well… what do you think?’
‘I think you are a most remarkable woman.’
‘The painting …’
‘To have held all that inside you for so long, without driving yourself into some state of insanity. Looking at that, one would think you’d been painting for years.’
‘I have. In my head.’
He took her hand and kissed it.
‘Hey,’ said Damian. ‘She’s made me disappear and you kiss her hand. That’s my fame there and look what she does to me.’
She linked her arm through his.
‘I’ll paint you building your boat. How will that be?’
‘No more disappearing?’
‘No. Solid as a rock.’
‘Okay.’
‘Let’s go. Let’s have a happy time.’
They crossed the yard to the house, linked together not merely with their arms, but by an exuberant peacefulness.
Three people are happy, she thought, as she pulled the curtains tight almost as if to keep out the world’s unhappiness. That’s a crazy sentimental thought if there ever was one. She wondered if she could have ever felt this way with Dan and Jack. There had been too much judging. How strange. I was happy when I started to pull the curtains and now here I am, as I finish that act, melancholy once more. A passing melancholy, that’s all I intend it to be.
‘What’s the cat’s name?’
‘Sorry.’
She turned from the curtains and looked towards them. Damian was leaning over the back of the sofa scratching the cat’s stretched orange stomach.
‘I’ve brought some champagne,’ said Roger. ‘But it’s the one thing I can’t manage. It’s in the kitchen. I’ll just…’ He went out of the room.
‘He doesn’t have a name.’
‘Why not? I’ve never heard of a pet before without a name.’
‘Dogs, yes. A dog without a name would be a lost soul, but cats are different. “I am the cat who walked by myself and all places are alike to me.” I think you diminish a cat by calling it Tommy or Smudge or something … anyway they come if you call puss, puss, so why bend your mind any further than that. He’s puss puss at meal times and bloody cat when I’m angry with him.’ The cat twitched his ears at the familiar words.
‘You win,’ said Damian. ‘I’ll never call a cat Tommy or Smudge.’
Roger came back with one bottle in his hand and another tucked awkwardly under his arm.
‘Oh what a beautiful sight,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t think I have the right glasses. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I’ve never tasted champagne,’ said Damian.
‘The great cure-all. Here.’ Roger put one bottle on the table and handed Damian the other one. ‘The doctors’ surgeries would be empty if only more people were aware of its magic qualities. Glasses at the ready, Helen? Lesson number one. Take off the paper and then unscrew the wire. Right. Hold it carefully and then with both thumbs ease the cork. The right hand over the top. That’s it. Feel it coming?’
Damian nodded.
‘Glass, Helen. It shouldn’t pop too hard. A well-pulled champagne cork should just jump quietly into your hand. That’s it. Great.’
Helen caught the bubbles as the cork came away. Damian filled three glasses.
‘Man on a Beach.’ Roger raised his glass.
‘Man on a Beach.’
‘Me,’ said Damian.
They drank.
‘That’s lovely. You didn’t get that down in Mr Hasson’s hotel.’
‘I did not. What do you think, Damian? As good as a pint of Smithwicks?’
‘I think I could learn to love it, given a bit of practise.’
‘That’s good. Mind you, you can get ghastly stuff. Sweet, like sparkling eau de cologne. Knappogue Road.’ He drank again.
‘Knappogue Road,’ said Helen. Might as well, she thought, it’s his champagne.
‘Aye,’ said Damian. ‘The station.’
‘I suppose we should eat,’ said Helen about an hour later. ‘I think I may only have eggs.’
‘I love eggs,’ said Roger.
Damian stood up.
‘I’d better be going.’
‘Don’t be s
illy. Why would you go? Sit down, Damian. We’re all going to eat eggs …’
‘My mother’ll have saved my tea.’
‘It will be disgusting now.’
‘I think …’
‘If you really want to.’
‘Yes.’
Roger groped in his pocket and took out his keys. He held them out to Damian.
‘Here. Take the car. I’m going to be in no fit state to drive. Just mind it. Mind yourself.’
Damian took the keys.
‘Thank you. Yes. Thank you.’
He did a little bow to each of them in turn.
‘Tomorrow.’
He went out jingling the keys in his hand.
‘Well,’ said Helen after a moment.
‘Well what?’
‘A trifle high-handed perhaps?’
‘Not at all. I simply thought I didn’t want to give the postman, nice as he is, the fun of seeing my car outside your door at eight o’clock in the morning.’
‘You’re making assumptions … Anyhow I never get any post.’
‘Am I?’
‘Omelettes,’ she said, standing up. ‘Scrambled, poached, boiled …’
‘Am I, Helen?’
‘Fried, coddled …’
‘Helen.’
‘Take your pick. Yes. You’re making assumptions … but they’re correct. I expected you to stay the night. Even if you hadn’t brought the champagne I’d have expected you to stay the night. I’ll even go so far as to say that I want you to stay the night.’
He smiled.
‘What’s a coddled egg? That’s a new one on me.’
He got up and followed her into the kitchen.
‘Good heavens, did you never have coddled eggs when you were a child?’ She took a bowl of eggs from the top of the refrigerator and put them on the table.
‘Almost hard-boiled and then broken into a cup and sort of mushed around with lots of butter and pepper and salt. Then you eat it with fingers of toast. Maybe it wouldn’t be nice now. Oh dear, that’s a really nostalgic memory. Nursery tea, and our pyjamas warming on the guard in front of the fire. How peaceful and safe it seemed.’
‘I don’t think we’ll have our eggs coddled. Apart from the fact that you would obviously drown in sentimentality, I’ve brought a nice bottle of claret. An omelette would be the most suitable dish on offer.’
‘You seem to have a bottomless well of wine up there.’
‘I see no reason to deprive myself of the good things of life, just because I choose to live separately.’
She took a bowl from the dresser and began to crack eggs into it.
‘What would you have done, Roger, if… if… things had been different? If Arnhem hadn’t happened?’
‘I think the Bar and then perhaps politics was what they had in mind for me.’
‘What did you have in mind for yourself?’
‘I did not have time to find out. Those last couple of years at school I actually didn’t care who won as long as the war ended before I had to get out there and fight. My head was full of such patriotic thoughts,’ he laughed. ‘I remember saying that to my father one night. I thought he was going to kill me on the spot. After that I kept my nasty thoughts to myself and just used to pray that I would be killed quickly. So you see I didn’t have much time to work out what I wanted to do with my life.’
‘To be serious…’
She mixed the eggs together with a knife, tilting the bowl sideways as she worked.
‘Oh I suppose I’d have liked to have been a writer, a painter, a poet, but I didn’t have the gift. Nothing else ever seemed worthwhile to me. That’s serious, Helen. I have left no footmark on the world. Three railway stations and a whole lot of angry relations … a great legacy.’
‘Lay the table for me. You’re starting to sound sorry for yourself.’
‘No. I promise you, not that. I have enjoyed my railway stations and I’m embarrassed to say I’ve also enjoyed teasing my family… and I look forward to death. So… no sorrow. No happiness either. Just equilibrium.’
‘You’ll get knives and forks in the drawer behind you. I don’t know what you’re talking about at all. You’ve got less equilibrium than anyone I’ve ever met. Do you like herbs in your omelette?’
‘Of course. Do you love me?’
She burst out laughing. She threw the knife across the room, clattering it into the metal sink. She picked up the bowl and walked with it in her hand over to the Aga. She stood there a moment with her back to him, before reaching to the cupboard for a small black iron pan.
‘I don’t know,’ she said at last.
‘I suppose that’s not too bad an answer.’
He was meticulously spacing the knives and forks, the round rush mats, the wine glasses.
‘Why do you wear your shirt in bed?’ she asked.
‘I would have thought the answer to that was obvious.’
‘I’m not exactly a thing of beauty. Aren’t those things forgettable?’
‘Mutilation is an indignity. I like to preserve what dignity I can. It’s pride, I’m afraid, Helen. Will you allow me that?’
‘Yes. I’ll allow you pride. Do you like your omelette runny in the middle?’
‘No. Eggs should be hard.’
He poured them each a glass of wine.
It was the cat who woke Helen in the morning. Having jumped on to the bed, as was his custom, fairly early every morning, and found his pillow space to be occupied, he sat himself on Helen’s chest and proceeded to stare morosely down at her face. After a few minutes she opened her eyes and stared back into the yellow ones that were staring at her. Beyond his head she could see blue sky through the window, the white frame reflected the hard glitter of the sun and a million dusty particles seemed caught in the morning light Amazing, she thought how that one shaft of sun creates reality and mystery at the same time. Hard-edge solidity at the window, then diffused, nothing defined any more, objects almost shimmering further into the room. Everywhere pools of dark. The cat bent forward and rubbed his head on her face. She disentangled a hand from the bedclothes and scratched at the top of his head.
‘I suppose breakfast is in your mind, crude cat,’ she said.
‘Breakfast is in my mind too,’ said Roger’s voice from beside her.
She was startled.
‘Had you forgotten about me?’ he asked. ‘So soon? La donna è mobile.’
She laughed.
‘No, no, no. I hope you haven’t been awake for long thinking about breakfast.’
‘Just a few minutes. The cat and I have had a small confrontation. I don’t think he likes me.’
‘He’s just confused. He’s a creature of habit. You’re in his space. What time is it anyway?’
She looked at his watch.
‘Eight.’
‘Late. I’m usually up long before this. I’ve usually had two cigarettes by eight.’
‘Well, I’ve at least saved you from that.’
‘True. But on the other hand, the Aga may have gone out. It’s also a creature of habit. It likes to breakfast at half past seven …’
She began to hustle herself out of bed. He put his hand on her shoulder, holding her.
‘Don’t go.’
‘I must.’
‘Rubbish. Let the bloody Aga go out. Stay here with me. After all…’
She shrugged his hand off her shoulder and got out of the bed.
‘No.’ Her voice was faintly exasperated.
The cat jumped down from the bed and rubbed himself around her bare legs.
‘Even for Paul Newman I wouldn’t let the Aga go out.’
She took her dressing gown from the back of the door and put it on. The cat dashed out onto the small landing and waited at the top of the stairs for her to follow. She hunted round on the floor for something to put on her feet. The rope soles were under the bed. She bent down to pull them out. His fingers grappled into her hair.
‘You’re being very unroma
ntic,’ he said.
‘I’m too old to be romantic.’
She shuffled her feet into the shoes and stood up.
He lay there already looking abandoned.
‘There’s too little time,’ she said. ‘Far too little time.’
She almost ran out of the room and tripped over the cat outside the door and they both fell several steps before she grabbed the bannister and landed angry and undignified half-way down the stairs. The cat fled round the corner and into the kitchen.
‘Bloody cat,’ she yelled after it.
‘Are you all right?’ Roger called from the bedroom.
‘No bones broken. Dignity impaired. Suffering from mild shock. Blood pressure going crazy. Otherwise everything all right.’
‘It’s a judgment on you for being unromantic. What’s so great about Paul Newman anyway?’
He stood in the doorway looking down at her, the bedspread draped around him. She stood up slowly, creaking and crackling like a pair of cheap shoes.
‘Just the glorious unattainable.’ She began to laugh. ‘You look like a Roman senator. Heroic and noble.’
And crumbling. One half of the face removed by the worms of time and weather. I like the idea.’
One of her shoes was at the bottom of the stairs. She hobbled down and put her foot into it.
‘Do you want a bath?’
‘Roman senators spent their time having baths.’
‘You’ll find towels in the press in the bathroom. There’ll be breakfast in about half an hour. Ave atque vale.’
‘Miaow,’ screeched the hungry cat.
Aga revived, the cat content and asleep on the chair in the porch, they sat, almost accustomed to each other at the kitchen table, eating toast. He was amazingly adept, she thought. He seemed to be able to cope more neatly with his one hand than she had ever managed to with two.
‘Did you never think to have an attachment of some sort… a false arm … you know?’
‘I tried. Yes. Years ago. When I was still in hospital. They all thought it would make life much easier for me. I found it a bit repulsive though. Things might be different now, but then, what they offered me was quite crude and … well… repulsive is the best word I can think of. A lot of straps and things.’ He smiled. ‘I was allowed out one weekend to stay with my father and I went off for a walk and dropped the damn thing in the river. They were quite cross really. All of them. Yes. Quite cross. They considered I was ungrateful. I thought that was funny. There was a lot of trouble round about then.’
The Railway Station Man Page 19