Overland

by Graham Rawle

  “Oh, Jimmy. I knew it was you. I knew you’d come back.”

  She cradled the little man close to her, gazing adoringly at his face. A trail of strings hung from his backpack; the wind fluttered through the shiny silk fabric of the parachute attached to them. The doll’s pose remained unchanged, but now its raised arms seem to gesture a complete surrender to her love.

  Someone approached, tapping her on the shoulder. It was Dr Young, now wearing military uniform. He gently took the doll from her with a nod of reassurance.

  “It’s time now.”

  Queenie looked up at him and reluctantly she released her grip.

  The waitress shook Queenie’s shoulder, gently at first, then more firmly. Getting no response, she touched Queenie’s face, tapping her cheek with the back of her fingers. Then came cold realization; the waitress flinched, quickly withdrawing her hand and tucking it behind her back. She took a moment to compose herself, then gently lifted Queenie’s wrist to check her pulse. She acted with calm efficiency now, as if the similarity between her waitress uniform and that of a nurse had allowed her to slide more easily into the role.

  After a few seconds she laid Queenie’s limp wrist back on the table and headed for the payphone.

  “Told you she’s anemic.” The fat customer had been watching, wanting to have his say.

  The waitress glanced at him coldly.

  “Not any more, she ain’t.”

  Out on the street, passers-by noticed Queenie slumped against the window of the cafe. They couldn’t tell whether she was drunk or merely asleep, but with her face pressed to the glass and her mouth agape, she made a comical picture and some chuckled lightly at the sight as they passed by.

  George firmly gripped the top rung of the ladder with both hands. From here the distance between him and the ground below seemed enormous. But now that he was so close, his nose almost touching it, all he could see was a vast expanse of blue. In his peripheral vision he could vaguely make out other colors, but nothing identifiable. He was in the middle of the lake; it was not surprising that all he could see was water. He rested his fingertips on the surface of the picture and was both surprised and reassured to feel that the lake was wet. Calmer now, he released his other hand’s grip on the ladder and reached out so that he might plunge both hands into the cool, clear depths.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  GEORGE FOUND HIMSELF in the middle of Overland Lake. He was glad to be there, but his immediate concern was that only the upper part of his body was clear of the surface; his lower half was dangling below the hole. He looked for a way to pull himself up, but he was surrounded by slippery tarpaulin and there was nothing to grab hold of. He was supporting his weight on his straightened arms, his palms flat on the surface of the lake either side of him, but he was quickly beginning to weaken. Under the increasing strain, his arms buckled and he reluctantly lowered himself further into the hole until he was resting on his elbows. He was fading fast and knew he couldn’t hold this position for long.

  Then he spotted Jimmy standing at the water’s edge, calmly looking on. He must have registered the anxiety on George’s face, yet did nothing to help, as if he couldn’t quite understand what the problem was.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  George was growing increasingly frantic. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “I don’t know. Swimming?”

  “No, I can’t swim.”

  “Oh. So what are you doing?”

  “Drowning.”

  “Oh.” Jimmy considered this for a moment.

  “Throw me a rope.”

  “A rope?” Jimmy seemed half asleep, slow on the uptake.

  “Yes! There’s one right there on the porch. Hurry, pal. I can’t hold on much longer.”

  The urgency in George’s voice seemed to snap Jimmy into action. He made a beeline for the lakeside cottage porch.

  George could see nothing of what was below him, and could no longer rationally think about what was physically supporting Overland. For him, it existed, like a child’s concept of heaven, as an alternative utopian world hovering independently like an enormous magic carpet high above the surface of the earth. Nevertheless he sensed a dark void beneath him and knew that he could not afford to let himself fall through to it.

  Outside the Overland store, a small crowd had gathered at the foot of the sign-painter’s ladder. They formed a tight, concerned huddle around a figure lying motionless on the ground. An ambulance with siren and flashing light approached along the main street and was flagged down by a man on the corner who signaled it towards the incident in the parking lot.

  For a brief moment, George found himself on the ground looking up. He recognized the perspective as one often used in cinema to show the point of view of a delirious patient waking up to see the caring face of a pretty young nurse looking over him, her features swimming in and out of focus. Where am I? Lie still. Don’t try to talk. Here, though, the nurse had been replaced by a group of nosey spectators. One of them, a sales clerk from the Overland store, leaned in to offer his diagnosis.

  “I think he’s coming round. He opened his eyes for a second.”

  “What happened?” someone asked.

  “Darndest thing. I saw him up the ladder. He was kinda pushing himself against the billboard, like he was trying to climb into the picture.”

  “Is he awake? Uh, no wait. He’s going again. Hey buddy. Can you hear me?”

  Jimmy slung the rope across the lake. It uncoiled and the end landed on the surface directly in front of George. He made a grab for it with one hand, but in doing so he was forced to relinquish his elbow grip on the tarp and this caused him to slip a little farther down the hole. As Jimmy pulled on his end of it, the rope tautened, but George had lost considerable ground; his head was now barely above the surface.

  “I can feel a pulse, but it’s weak.”

  “You’re gonna be OK, pal. Ambulance is right here. They’ll get you fixed up in no time. That was quite a fall you took. Stay with me, buddy. You gotta just hang on.”

  “You gotta just hang on.”

  Encouraged by the voice in his head, George snatched at the rope and, hand over hand, attempted to haul himself up onto the water’s surface. He was desperate to reach solid ground. He yelled to Jimmy, spurring him to greater effort.

  “Pull me up!”

  Jimmy had him secured, equilibrium established between them, but seemed unable to haul him up. The tension on the rope increased, but nothing happened; it was like a deadlock in a tug of war.

  Kay suddenly appeared from the lakeside home, wearing an apron and clutching a big spoon. Seeing what was happening, she tossed the spoon to the ground and rushed to George’s aid. Taking her position in front of Jimmy, she grabbed the rope and hauled with all her might. The extra effort was enough to tip the balance. Like a newborn baby’s emergence from the womb George slithered easily across the surface and was soon safely on dry land where the pain and distress of the delivery was quickly forgotten.

  Kay touched his shoulder. “Where have you been?”

  “Lost. I couldn’t find my way home.”

  “Well, you’re home now. Lunch is almost ready. You’d better wash your hands.”

  George looked down and saw that his hands were covered in turquoise-blue paint.

  The ambulance men were steering their stretcher through the gathered crowd. One of them kneeled beside the reclining figure on the ground to assess the situation. The Overland store clerk pre-empted further investigation.

  “Too late, pal,” he said, shaking his head woefully. “He’s gone.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  GEORGE AND KAY leisurely climbed the steps from their lakeside cottage up to Lake Street. Everything seemed even brighter and cleaner than before. In George’s absence, new and unusual color schemes had been introduced and he was wonderstruck by the effect.

  A peacock-blue sky swirled with yellow created the perfect backdrop for a salmon-pink bungalo
w with newly painted orange window frames and a bright vermilion roof. It sat perfectly displayed in the middle of a vibrant green lawn like a delectable confection waiting to be eaten. A man in white pants and candy-striped blazer was tending his azaleas. He paused to remove his hat, using it to fan his hot bald head. He caught sight of George and held the hat aloft in greeting. George didn’t recognize him, but responded with a friendly wave.

  Horticulture seemed to be a strongly developing neighborhood pastime. Next door in a garden lush with exotic blooms a woman in a sunsuit and white gloves was trimming her hedge. Perhaps fearful of spoiling the perfection she had already achieved, her actions were fussy and tentative, the snipping blades of her shears never quite making contact with the leaves.

  Birds warbled as George and Kay sauntered through the suburban idyll. Stacked against a low wall near the church, they found painted wooden boxes overflowing with a bountiful harvest of succulent fruits: pomegranates, plump strawberries, juicy tangerines, lychees, shiny red tomatoes, vibrant pink dragon fruit and strange spiky yellow things too exotic to name—all seemingly chosen to test the properties of Technicolor. It looked like a market stall, but there was no vendor; instead there was a handwritten sign that said Help Yourself. A woman dressed as a nurse sailed by on a child’s scooter, snatching a rosy red apple from the display as she passed.

  George was particularly taken with the stream of clear blue water that wove a meandering path across the landscape as far as the eye could see. A pink footbridge traversed the stream, its color perfectly complemented by the blues and greens of the riverbank. A flotilla of toy sailboats threaded its way steadily downstream, watched from the bridge by a woman in a yellow polka-dot blouse. For an added dash of color, the banks of the stream were adorned with bluebells.

  “Why didn’t I think of that? Bluebells are my favorite flowers.”

  Kay smiled sagely; she seemed to already know.

  The trees on the sidewalk, he noticed, looked taller and more luxuriant, their leaves glistening as though freshly varnished.

  “It all looks wonderful—better than anything I could have imagined.”

  “Everyone’s been busy, trying to make it perfect. Look. Here’s Jimmy and Queenie’s house.”

  It was the house whose roof Jimmy once painted brick-red—and from which he subsequently fell. Apparently undeterred by the mishap, he was up there again brandishing his long-handled paint roller like some quasi rooftop gondolier, but this time he was painting the roof canary yellow.

  George and Kay looked on while Jimmy busied himself with the task. He eventually turned and saw them watching him. Looking down at his handiwork, he was a little dazzled himself by the brilliance of the color.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  “I think it’s … very … bright,” said George.

  “I told Queenie you wouldn’t approve.”

  “It’s not a color I’d have chosen, but …”

  “I know it doesn’t conform to your vision …”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Queenie wants everything to be bright and cheerful … like the sunshine.”

  “—it’s actually very beautiful. Besides, I think Queenie should have whatever she wants—so long as it’s what you want too.”

  “Oh, I want what Queenie wants. We see eye to eye on everything. That’s the way it is between us.”

  George smiled, nodding his approval. “She’s a good girl, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy smiled back. “I know,” he said.

  As he and Kay continued their leisurely stroll, George peeked through the young couple’s window, curious to see the world they had created for themselves.

  The room was gay with modish simplicity. Facing the picture window, angled slightly towards each other as though in conversation were two cute red armchairs. Though not identical, they at first appeared to be a matching pair, so well did they complement each other. The chair on the left, with its fashionable painted tree motif declared itself daring and modernistic, though George suspected this might be a more conventional chair recovered to make it appear à la mode. Its partner was more openly traditional, the integrity of its simple lines denoting a timeless elegance. He imagined Queenie and Jimmy sitting side by side in them, arms reaching across, their hands clasped together with fingers interlaced as they watched the world go by.

  George and Kay paused at the entrance to the new Overland Golf Club to look out over the fairways. A chestnut horse, sleek and handsome with glossy mane—the equine equivalent of Errol Flynn—greeted them over a neat white picket fence. The horse, perhaps a merry-go-round runaway or a retired display model from a saddle shop, had been cast from some kind of lacquered resin. Beyond it in the middle distance, a golfer in plaid knickers, sleeveless pullover and cap, played a long, driving stroke that was destined to be a hole-in-one.

  A woman turned the corner and headed towards them, pushing a splendid new baby buggy. As she drew nearer, George saw that it was Queenie. She was wearing a little bolero jacket over a white summer dress, cinched tight at the waist and decorated with a yellow rose-motif print. Matching accessories, crisp white gloves and a stylish wide-brimmed straw hat completed the look. She was perfect, like a model mother from a magazine advertisement.

  “Queenie! I’m so glad to see you,” he said.

  She replied archly. “Well of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be, with me looking so radiant?”

  George was amused. “I don’t know.”

  “So what happened to you? We’ve been waiting for you. This place didn’t feel quite the same without its creator. Everyone’s been saying the same thing: Where the HE-double-hockey-sticks is George, the ‘artistic’ director?”

  “I got lost.”

  “You got lost? How could you get lost?”

  She turned to point at a newly erected street map: a beautifully painted, two-dimensional graphic representation of the town. George had seen one just like it recently, but couldn’t remember where; perhaps it was this one. It showed the roads and fields, the lake, buildings and all of Overland’s important landmarks. There was a big red arrow pointing to their present location on Main Street.

  “See? You never need to get lost again. YOU ARE HERE.” She pressed a button and a little indicator bulb on the map lit up.

  George conceded with a little chuckle. “I guess I am.”

  “Listen,” said Queenie, “Jimmy said it was OK with him, if it was OK with you, if I played the part of the young bride. It’s quite an undertaking, I know, but I think I can handle it.”

  George was a little thrown. “The young bride? Sure. Remind me how that goes again.”

  “She falls for this sweet guy who goes away to war while she stays home praying for his safe return. He’s a paratrooper dropped behind enemy lines in France or someplace like that, and he’s like this big hero, but he gets captured and sent to a prison camp. Well, then she gets a telegram saying he’s been killed in action, but he’s not, he’s alive …”

  During her story synopsis, Jimmy pitched up. Queenie took his hand, drawing him possessively to her side before continuing.

  “So, anyway, he makes a daring escape and finds his way home. She’s waiting for him with open arms and she realizes she loves him twice as much—she had no idea how much until she thought she’d lost him. And he adores her, of course, because she has good legs and a nice figure—in spite of the baby.”

  “Baby?”

  “Oh, yes, there’s a baby. Didn’t you know?”

  She pivoted the buggy around to show him. George warily leaned in to peek under the hood, fearful of what he might see: a scary vent doll or a rotten piece of painted fruit. But to his surprise he saw that there was a real baby—a gently squirming, gurgling pink-faced baby. As if to assure himself that it was real, George cautiously touched the baby’s tiny clammy hand, feeling its fingers close around the end of his forefinger. The baby’s eyes swam a little, trying to focus on his face.

  Kay watched Geor
ge’s reaction. She and Queenie exchanged warm glances. Gushing with pride, Queenie rested her palm on Jimmy’s chest. He draped his long arm around her, drawing her close.

  “Anyhow, that’s the story so far. I haven’t seen a full script yet, but it’s bound to have a happy ending; these kinds of stories always do. Happily ever after. That’s what the audience wants.”

  Jimmy agreed. “That’s what everybody wants.”

  George nodded ruminatively. “You’ll be great, Queenie. But you don’t need me to give you the go-ahead. You’re a very lucky girl. Leading men don’t come any better than Jimmy.”

  Queenie made light of it. “He’s the lucky one. He’s crazy about me. Do anything for me, wouldn’t you, babe?”

  Jimmy gazed into her eyes, squeezed her shoulder. “Anything.”

  Leaving the happy couple at the corner, George and Kay strolled up to Vantage Point, a small promontory high up on one of the slopes that offered a panoramic view of Overland.

  George turned to her. “How long have I been away?”

  “How long?”

  “I mean. Queenie’s baby. Is it really hers?”

  Kay smiled a smile that suggested some unknowable wisdom. She didn’t answer, but he suspected he was asking the wrong questions.

  They stopped at a bench and settled down together to look out over the town. Amongst the houses there was parkland, and meadows dotted with tiny wild flowers. Residents, who in the past diligently obeyed the signs telling them to stick to the walkways, now discovered that the netting would support their weight; they wandered freely over the previously restricted areas—nonchalant rather than defiant. The ban appeared to have been lifted. Kay breathed in deeply. The air was clean and pure; in the new improved Overland, fire hydrants no longer emitted smoke. She let out a contented sigh.

  “I love this special time, when the day melts gently into twilight.”