New Cardiff

by Charles Webb

  ‘We’re itching.’

  ‘I heard you, Colin. She was watching the Vera tape again.’ She carefully shut Mary’s door, then opened the one behind it. ‘Can someone scoot over for me?

  ‘Where are Jennifer and Frank,’ Mrs Wynter said, moving over.

  ‘They’re having their day off,’ Mandy said, getting in beside her. ‘They’ll be back by dinner. Seat belts everyone?’ As the others pulled theirs on, she reached to the front to help Mary McMullen with hers.

  Colin started the engine and backed out of the drive and into the street.

  ‘Oh, Colin,’ Mandy said, ‘I hope you aren’t going that shortcut way again.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Because everyone had a stiff neck when we got there last time.’

  As Colin started forward, Mandy turned so she could see the others in the van. ‘I want to quickly go over what we’re going to do when we get to the pier,’ she said. ‘Mrs Campbell?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Mr Ware will drop us off in front, then he’ll go find a place to park, and I thought we could all have a doughnut while we were waiting for him.’ She raised her hand. ‘Could everyone raise their hand who wants a doughnut?’ She looked around at the others as they lifted up their hands. ‘So everyone wants one?’

  ‘Mr Ghandi doesn’t,’ Mrs Campbell said.

  ‘Mr Ghandi?’ Mandy said. ‘You don’t want one?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Why don’t you,’ Mrs Campbell said.

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘When we get out of the van,’ Mandy said, lowering her arm, ‘we all need to stay close together while Mr Ware parks.’

  Mrs Campbell turned in her seat to look behind her at Mr Ghandi. ‘Can’t you answer a friendly question today?’

  Mr Ghandi gestured for her to turn back around.

  ‘Here’s something we never did before,’ Colin said, bringing the van to a stop at a crossing.

  ‘One second, Colin. Now the only other announcement I have is that there are always lots of teenagers on the pier. They run around and half the time they don’t look where they’re going. Last time Mr Church was almost knocked down. Do you remember that, Mr Church?’

  ‘Yes, and I also remember waiting for an apology that never came.’

  ‘Right. So always try to be aware of unpredictable teenagers, Now are there any other questions before we get there?’

  ‘I don’t like the ingredients,’ Mr Ghandi said.

  ‘You what?’ Mandy said.

  ‘Don’t like the ingredients.’

  ‘Okay, well that’s not really a question.’

  Colin drove through the junction.

  ‘Mrs Campbell asked me why I don’t want a doughnut.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with the ingredients,’ Mrs Campbell said. ‘He just likes to be different.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Mr Ghandi said.

  Colin glanced into the rear-view mirror. ‘Mandy.’

  ‘One more second, Colin. Mr Ghandi, we don’t talk to women that way.’

  ‘She is no woman.’ He looked out his window.

  ‘I’m sorry, Colin,’ Mandy said, looking toward the front again, ‘what were you saying?’

  ‘Actually it was a bad idea.’

  ‘Well what was it.’

  ‘I thought we could all sing.’

  ‘Sing?’

  He veered sharply to avoid a car double parked at the side of the street.

  ‘Careful, Colin.’

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘I’m not against it. But I mean what would we sing.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What songs would we all know.’

  ‘There’s probably not a bus conductors’ anthem.’

  The street running past the entrance to the pier widened so that taxis and other vehicles would be out of the way of passing traffic when they were discharging passengers. Colin pulled over and stopped by the kerb and Mandy got out and went around to open the doors of the van for the others. ‘Colin?’ she said, as they were getting out. ‘Do you want me to take your things for you while you park? So you don’t have to lug them back?’

  He looked out at her from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Your sketch pad and everything.’

  ‘I don’t have them.’

  ‘I thought you were bringing them.’

  ‘You suggested it. But I didn’t.’

  The man in the car behind Colin beeped.

  Mandy helped Mary McMullen the rest of the way down on to the kerb. ‘We’ll be over by the archway.’ She closed the door and Colin drove away.

  By the time he’d parked the van and walked back, the doughnuts had all been finished and the residents were standing at the side of the pier, looking down at the people on the pebble-covered beach below.

  ‘Colin?’ Mandy said, going up to him as he approached.

  ‘I finally had to park underground.’

  ‘Could I just say one thing?’ she said.

  ‘Say many things.’

  ‘Just one,’ she said, taking his hand, ‘because I was kind of nagging you before about not bringing your art things. And I know ever since Jeremy came to dinner I’ve been sort of pestering you about your drawing. And I shouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re concerned,’ he said, ‘that’s not pestering.’ He glanced over at the others. Mr Church was calling down to someone on the beach below.

  ‘But it’s sort of not my business, is it.’

  ‘Mandy, everything’s your business.’

  ‘It’s just that Jeremy made such a big point of wanting extra drawings in the back to show people during your exhibit.’

  Mr Church put his hands on the railing and leaned forward. ‘Are you man enough to come up here and say that?’

  ‘He’d like more. But it’s not essential.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you like to have some more?’

  A stone came up over the railing and fell onto the pier at Mr Church’s feet.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘And Colin?’

  ‘Mandy, I don’t like to see you worrying about this.’

  ‘But the last drawing you did was the one of me a few months ago,’ she said. ‘And I keep thinking it’s my fault you can’t do more.’

  Mr Church bent over, picked up the stone and threw it back down at someone on the beach.

  ‘A supervisory vacuum’s developing,’ Colin said.

  ‘You know that news-stand where we were last week and I said you should try to draw the man there? And it didn’t come out because you said there wasn’t enough light?’

  ‘Not that there wasn’t enough,’ Colin said. ‘The light quality was wrong.’

  ‘Because I was in there again yesterday,’ she said, ‘and the light seemed fine.’

  Colin pointed at Mr Church, who was crumpling up an empty paper cup, preparing to hurl it at someone below. ‘Escalation in progress,’ he said.

  Mandy let go of his hand and turned around. ‘Mr Ware’s back,’ she said. ‘Let’s all come over here now. Mr Church?’ She shook her head.

  ‘It’s distressing how the quality of visitor to the beach has deteriorated since I first began coming here,’ Mr Church said, dropping the cup in a bin.

  The residents walked across the boards of the pier to join them, except for Mr Penrose-Smith, who remained beside the railing. He lifted up his foot.

  ‘Is that gum?’ Mandy called.

  ‘Bubble gum.’

  ‘How does he know that,’ Colin said.

  ‘We’ll take it off later,’ she said, ‘but right now we have to move along.’

  In a group, they started toward the arcade, Mrs Campbell glancing up at a loudspeaker as they passed it. ‘Why must they play that wretched music so loudly.’

  Mandy and Colin fell several yards behind. ‘So it’s not a problem that you’re not drawing then,’ Mandy said.

  Colin shook his head. ‘I could t
urn out a drawing a day and Jeremy wouldn’t be satisfied.’

  Ahead of them, Mr Penrose-Smith picked his shoe up several feet off the pier every time he took a step.

  ‘Struggle to the arcade as best you can,’ Colin said. ‘I’ll scrape it off there.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t feel guilty that you’re not.’

  He took her hand and raised it up to his lips. ‘Mandy, you should never feel guilty about anything.’

  Mr Penrose-Smith went over to a brightly flashing horse-racing game just inside the entrance of the arcade, steadied himself against it and held out his foot to Colin as he came in. ‘You’ll need something stiff,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a credit card would work.’

  Colin removed his wallet, going through several of the cards before selecting his Visa.

  On their last visit to the pier, Mrs Wynter had become highly agitated playing one of the games, but as soon as she entered the arcade this time she went right back to the same game and started playing it again. It was a glass-windowed booth with shelves inside where prizes were displayed between mounds of coins, and as more coins were dropped into a slot at the top the prizes were slowly nudged forward so they would fall into an opening below.

  Mandy stood watching as Mrs Wynter fitted several coins into the slot, looking in at the prizes as each coin fell, then quickly inserting the next. When they were gone she removed a five-pound note from her purse, fed it into a change machine beside her, scooped up the new coins and started pushing them into the slot.

  Mandy walked slowly over beside her.

  ‘The watch,’ Mrs Wynter said, pointing through the glass to a silver watch at the edge of one of the shelves. ‘It’s almost ready to fall.’

  ‘This happened last time, Mrs Wynter.’

  She dropped in another coin.

  ‘I told you before—they just make it look like it’s going to fall so you keep putting in more.’ Mandy opened her own purse and removed an envelope. ‘Look. I brought this to put your money in today. Then I’ll give it back to you later.’

  Mrs Wynter made a fist as she looked in at the watch. ‘Almost.’

  ‘Don’t put any more in,’ Mandy said, holding the envelope in front of her. ‘Here.’

  She dropped another coin.

  ‘Mrs Wynter.’

  ‘Please don’t stop me.’

  ‘But last time you almost had a nervous breakdown.’

  Mrs Wynter shook her head and put in another coin, then another, but as she dropped the next one in the coins on the shelf moved forward slightly, pushing something off the edge.

  She kept looking through the glass for a moment, then turned to Mandy. ‘I won.’

  ‘Well see what it is.’

  She reached down into the opening to bring up a small doll and hold it between them.

  ‘Homer,’ Mandy said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a Homer doll.’

  ‘Homer?’

  ‘Simpson.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Wynter stood quietly for several seconds studying it.

  ‘So you don’t have to do it any more,’ Mandy said. ‘You don’t have to put any more money in.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Positive?’

  Mrs Wynter nodded, continuing to look down at the prize in her hand. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ware,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll be all right now.’

  Colin was still standing by the horse-racing game, breathing on his credit card, as Mandy walked up to him. He rubbed it.

  Mandy watched him breathe on it again. ‘What are you doing.’

  ‘These can lose their magnetic charge if you abuse them.’ He frowned at the brown strip on the back. ‘It might be gum damaged.’

  ‘Colin?’ she said. ‘Remember what we were talking about before?’

  He held up the card to examine it in more light.

  ‘That you’ve stopped drawing? Because sometimes I think it’s because you got married.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Some artists go for years without doing any work,’ he said. ‘I really wish you wouldn’t keep worrying about this.’

  ‘Years?’

  ‘It’s common with all creative people. I read about a poet who wrote one poem in his whole life.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was quite happy to have written the one.’

  ‘I wonder what it was about.’

  ‘His mother as I recall. And I think it was even a haiku.’ Colin looked across the room, then at his credit card again. ‘I’m going to make sure this still works. I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Well, Colin?’ she said, as he started away. ‘I mean you’re not saying that could happen to you.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘Not draw any more.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  He looked at her a moment longer, then walked off between the games and toward a snack bar.

  While they were talking, Mandy had noticed Mr Ghandi, who was in a booth in the centre of the room, and after Colin left she walked over to the booth and looked in at him, seated in front of a large screen on which animated monsters were rushing back and forth. She put her head into the booth. ‘Mr Ghandi?’

  He looked up at her.

  ‘Did you want some help?’

  ‘Why would I want help, Mrs Ware.’

  ‘Because you’re just sitting there. I don’t think you know how to play the game.’

  They looked back at the screen. One of the monsters was racing forward and hurling boulders at them. ‘Here.’ She put Mr Ghandi’s hand on a plastic handle in front of him. ‘Shoot him.’

  ‘Why.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have no desire to shoot him.’

  ‘That’s the whole point, Mr Ghandi. Otherwise they kill you.’

  ‘Of what importance is that.’

  A scaly green monster was lurching toward them, beams of fire shooting out of its eyes. Mandy took the stick from him, aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. The monster screamed and blew up. ‘Did you see how I did that?’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Mr Ghandi?’

  She looked at him a moment longer, his hands folded in his lap as a two-headed snake hissed, uncoiled and leapt at him. Then she shrugged and backed out of the booth, making her way to the exit of the arcade where everyone was to congregate after half an hour and continue down toward the end of the pier to the rides and other outdoor attractions.

  When Mandy reached the doors the only other member of the group who was there was Colin, holding a small paper plate with a pastry on it.

  ‘What’s that,’ she said, going up to him.

  ‘A scone.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘They make them so people can find out if their credit cards are working.’

  She picked it up and took a small bite. ‘Stale,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘A stale scone.’

  She removed the plate from his hand, carried it over to a bin against the wall and dropped it, along with the rest of the scone, inside. ‘Do you feel better now?’

  ‘I didn’t know I felt badly.’

  ‘I was just hoping you were feeling better,’ she said, coming back to him, ‘since we started talking about your art. But, Colin? Can I say just one final last thing about it?’

  ‘Mandy, how many ways are there to bring up that I’m not drawing.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not about that. I mean, it’s partly about Jeremy, but not about not drawing.’

  Colin shrugged. ‘Whatever helps.’

  ‘It’s about after Jeremy left that night he came to dinner.’

  Colin nodded.

  ‘Do you remember that?’

  ‘After he left,’ Colin said. ‘Not too well.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I mean, I even had to put you to bed.’

  Several feet away was a large window that looked out
to sea. Colin stepped over to it and leaned back against the ledge at the bottom.

  ‘Do you remember anything about that night?’

  Colin looked down at the floor. ‘Waiting for Jeremy to come, I remember that. The bell ringing.’ He nodded. ‘Going to the front door. Jeremy telling me there was a case of wine in his boot that was a gift from an artist who owns a vineyard in Provence.’ He looked up at Mandy. ‘Then I remember the next day.’

  ‘So basically you don’t remember anything you said in bed that night,’ she said, coming over to sit against the window ledge beside him.

  ‘Not basically.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Because you said some things I’ve been thinking about ever since.’ She rested her hand on his knee. ‘And I’ve been kind of afraid to bring them up again.’

  ‘I can see why you would be.’

  ‘Why.’

  ‘Because I’m sure they were gibberish.’

  ‘Can I tell you?’

  ‘You can,’ he said, ‘but I already know they weren’t comments we’ll want to carve in stone.’

  ‘You kept saying I didn’t need you any more.’

  He nodded. ‘We won’t need the chisel for that one.’

  ‘You said I’d found my family now, with the others, and if you disappeared it would probably take me a week to notice you were gone.’

  ‘Look, Mandy.’

  ‘You did say that.’

  ‘I’m not disputing I said it. But I’m wondering why the words of someone who couldn’t even get up a flight of stairs unaided would stick in your mind as a memorable quotation.’

  They sat quietly for a few moments, looking down at her hand on his knee, till finally he rested his hand on top of hers.

  ‘That all my love was going to Mrs McMullen and Mr Ghandi and the others now and you could feel that there wasn’t any left over for you.’

  ‘A new conversational rule,’ Colin said. ‘When we’re discussing the comments of someone who was unable to find their way to bed, those comments will not be given the same weight as the speech of persons who can find their way to bed.’

  ‘If you didn’t mean any of that, Colin, why were you crying when you said it.’