Hartsend (11 page)

Different planets. With each stride he felt himself resenting what he was going towards. Their house was as clean as the one he'd just left – his mother cleaned as if that was what kept the planet turning, but that was all you could say. Nothing matched. Every window ledge had some stupid, cheap ornament on it. Two furry kittens in a basket adorned the bathroom cistern. He'd tried and failed to find some kind of symbolic significance in that. On the kitchen wall hung a calendar with red print and green exotic birds, a freebie from the local Chinese takeaway. Why she kept it, he didn't know, since there was nothing written in any of the spaces. In the living room on top of the fireplace sat his all-time favourite, a glass vase decorated with a hand-painted teddy bear in a tartan scarf, and the words
A Present from Ullapool
in gold script. Ullapool had probably been glad to see the back of it.

He vaulted over the front gate. The catch was stiff, and there was a metal bit that could catch the delicate skin between your thumb and first finger if you didn't do it right. Just one more shitty detail in his life. Up till now he'd managed to convince himself that money and class and all that crap didn't matter because his day was coming, the day when everyone would see that he, Ryan Flaherty, was right up there. Inside he was a genius, inside he was different from everything and everybody round about him. God, it was easy to despise the bourgeoisie when you hadn't tasted their parsnips.

‘‘Is that you, Ryan?''

‘‘No, Mum,'' he muttered, ‘‘it's Pierce Brosnan come to take you dancing.''

Loud canned laughter burst from the TV in the living room as if the studio

audience got the joke.

‘‘Your tea's in the oven, son.''

‘‘Ah'm no' hungry,'' he called back.

He kicked off his shoes, hung his coat over the post at the foot of the stairs and was halfway to the upper landing when the phone began to ring. Usually it was for her – one of his sisters complaining or passing on some piece of trivia. But it might be for him. He'd told them his name. Kerr had written down the address and phone number.

‘‘Dinna answer it!''

His mother came rushing from the living room. Her face was flushed.

‘‘What?''

‘‘Pit that doon!''

He did as he was told.

She turned away, bumping into the doorframe before finding her way back into the room.

‘‘What's happened? Wha's deid noo?'' He shouted after her.

He stood where he was for a few moments. She'd been up at the chapel again, he guessed. Every time she went she came back with news of some fatal illness or sudden death. That and a fresh sense of shame because her son never showed his face at Mass.

She was staring at the screen and didn't turn her head.

‘‘Talk to me.'' He moved between her and the set. ‘‘What's the matter? Am ah in trouble again?''

She pressed her hands against her eyes. ‘‘You're in the road. Awa an' have your dinner. It's waited for you long enough.''

Behind him the studio audience ooh'd and aah'd.

‘‘D'you want a cup of tea or somethin'?''

She shook her head, her hands still up against her face.

In the oven he found a foil-covered plate of boiled potatoes, with three slices of fried bacon and some baked beans. He wrapped most of it in the foil, binned it, and put the dirty plate next to the sink. He could have washed it, but she'd only wash it again.

Up in his own bedroom he closed the door and locked it. His most recent sketch lay on the desk. He lifted it by the two top corners, but after a few seconds laid it down. Why take your anger out on a decent drawing, an innocent sketch of wind-blown branches?

There was a pencil lying on the carpet beside the bed. This he picked up, and holding it in both hands, forced it until it shattered, startling him, so that one of the broken ends stabbed the soft cushion of flesh below his right thumb. He watched the bright blood well up, then smeared it over his jeans. If she asked, he'd say it was a nose bleed.

He switched the light back off and went to the window. The radiator was hot against his legs, the window glass chilled his upper body. He couldn't see Harriet's house for trees, but he knew where it was now, knew she was inside it, putting plates back in the white cupboards, watching TV with her brother, or reading some fancy book, just generally being a nice girl. He kicked off his shoes, lay down on the bed and pulled the quilt over himself.

This room had been his for three years, since Kelly moved in with her boyfriend. He'd painted the walls dark red, put up some posters, and binned the pink curtains.

‘‘Ah'm no' buyin' new ones,'' his mother told him. ‘‘There was nothing wrong wi' those. An' they were lined.''

‘‘Ah'm no needin' curtains anyway.''

‘‘You'll feel it come winter.''

She was right. The heat didn't extend more than two feet into the room. Some day he would have his own place, with more than one room to himself. Two or three rooms. One just to paint in, loads of space with a wall of glass and nothing outside but the ocean. There would be one room to sleep in, with a double bed, so he could turn over without fear of falling out, and a ceiling painted dark blue, with small lights in it like stars. There'd be a jacuzzi bath at the far end, behind a wall of glass bricks, and a fitted fridge and bar in an alcove, really tasteful and discreet, and a few bits of antique sculpture under subtle spotlights, and the wall that faced the sea would have sliding glass panels so that on hot nights the whole thing could be opened up. And maybe above this, he'd have another room for music, with perfect acoustics, and the best Bang and Olufsen system money could buy.

She walks out of the ocean like that actress in the old Bond film. He pretends not to see her walking up the beach towards where he sits on the veranda shaded by palms, he keeps his head down, keeps going with the sketching. All day it's been hot. Now it's late afternoon. Maybe there's going to be thunder and a quick rain. Her shadow falls across him. She says hello. He grunts, as if he's too busy to notice her. He's so famous for his art now, he doesn't like visitors.

Maybe they met somewhere else the day before, she was buying mangoes and the bag burst and he helped her pick them up, and she offered him one as a reward, and that was it, and once he left, she asked the stall holder who he was, and now she's tracked him down. Leaving tiny grains of sand from her soles, she goes around the room. It's on two levels, with a high ceiling. She loves everything she sees: the paintings, all originals (but not his own, these he'll show her later), the subtle colours, the sound system, every piece of furniture. He keeps quiet about the fact that these are exclusive pieces he's designed himself. He's won awards for design, big international prizes.

She wants to see what he's working on, but he says, no, it's not ready. Now she says she's hot and thirsty, so he puts down his pencil, makes her something with ice, some drink she's never heard of. She tastes it and says it's wonderful. He acknowledges this with a modest nod of the head. She's wearing a one piece swimsuit in the same creamy colour as the dress she'd had on the day before. A butterfly darts in through the open wall, and settles on her shoulder, attracted by her perfume. He reassures her, tells her what kind of butterfly it is, because he knows that sort of thing. He asks if she'd like him to put on some music. He can smell her hair when she kneels down beside him to look at all his CD's. She undoes her sandals, or maybe she doesn't have sandals on, since she was swimming. Or maybe they're in her canvas bag with her towel and sun-cream. She lies back in one of the recliners, running her fingers along the butterscotch Italian leather
 …

 

The ring of the phone woke him. The heating was off and the air in the room was freezing. He looked at the bedside clock. Half one. The phone rang until it rang out. Seconds later the whole thing repeated itself. He lay for a while waiting. Silence.

Wide awake, he went down to the kitchen and heated some milk. There were strange-looking pastry things in the fridge, and small cooked potatoes with bits of green stuff on them, but luckily there was still some bread in the box. He made himself a sandwich with red jam. His hand hurt a bit, so he ran cold water over it for a time. Sandwich in one hand, milk in the other, he stared at the phone in the hall. He put the mug down on the ledge and dialled 1471. It wasn't a number he recognised. He pressed three.

‘‘Hullo.''

A male voice.

‘‘Hullo? Who's that?'' it repeated.

He put the phone down without answering.

When Duncan returned to work the Library was depressingly quiet, with only a few students around, and none of them needing assistance. More importantly, little Mrs Fleming who brightened his mornings and chatted with him while she ate her packed lunch was missing, afflicted by a viral infection, which was a great pity, as he had rehearsed a conversation in which he would ask about her Murder Mystery evening, and she would learn about the new bird book, which he had brought with him. Mrs Fleming was quite interested in birds, and quite interested in poetry, so he felt she would be very interested in a book where the two were combined.

So far he had been surprised and pleased by how accurate the poems were in their choice of detail. Hardy's robin poem was the only one he had encountered before, (There was another poem in the collection, ‘‘The Darkling Thrush,'' but he was keeping his rule, and hadn't reached it yet.) and though he liked the first three verses, he disliked the last one, not merely because Hardy allowed his robin to die of starvation, but because in Duncan's experience, birds fluffed up when sick and did not resemble balls when dead. Besides, although he had never been able to discuss this with a poetry expert, he was unsure about the bird knowing how it felt to be dead. Since he was very fond of Hardy's poems, it was easier to leave the last verse unread.

However, this new book was proving more than satisfactory. He
had
allowed himself to glance at the afterword, written by one of the editors, and it seemed to him to be as poetic and accurate as the chosen poems. He was, in fact, beginning to feel rather excited, like someone discovering a new continent, like the chap in the Keats poem who stood on a mount in Lebanon, or wherever it was. Perhaps Mrs Fleming would be back soon.

His bus journey home was uneventful until they came within two miles of the village, where the nearside lane was cordoned off and a queue had formed. Eventually they reached two police cars with lights flashing. A uniformed officer signalled to the driver to open his doors, spoke to him and went away.

The bus driver swivelled round and shouted, ‘‘Right, everybody. We've got a wee problem up ahead. Big Sam's chippie's on fire at the moment.'' He talked on over the buzz of voices. ‘‘So we're no' goin' through the village. We're goin' off by the old farm road and back on at the other side at Bogend. So if any of youse want to walk the last bit, you'd better get off now.''

Duncan stepped down out of the warmth of the bus, grasped his umbrella firmly, and pulled his scarf a little higher. The smell of smoke was apparent even this far away. With his long stride, he was soon ahead of the others. He had never been inside Big Sam's establishment and was unable to feel a great sense of loss. Besides, he was forever lifting greasy cartons and paper from where they had been stuffed into the back hedge. It seemed that a portion of fish and chips could be consumed in the time it took the average teenager to walk from the shop to that part of their hedge bordering the shortcut through the golf course. He had never visited the Tandoori Takeaway, or Ming's Oriental Restaurant either but sometimes they too made their presence felt. On a summer evening with the French doors open, the breeze would now and then blow from the north, wafting the smells of fried pork, papadums and curry all the way from the centre of the village.

None of these establishments had existed when their house was built. None of the roads was tarred. The doctor of the day had owned the first motor car; the District Nurse used a bicycle. In summer the children went shoeless. Year round, each Friday, they watched the big plough horses being shod where Mr Ming's restaurant now stood. When the school bell rang, they hurtled across the old bridge. Being late mattered in those days. The blacksmith's shop had still been there in his own childhood, though the horses had gone.

People were milling about on the traffic-free High Street, everyone cheerful and excited as if some festival had been announced. The side street itself was cordoned off, and blocked half way along by two large fire engines. There was plenty of smoke, but no flames that he could see. An ambulance and a couple of police cars were parked beyond the fire engines. Someone had put up a step ladder on the pavement, and there was a man with a camera on it, while others were holding mobile phones high to take photographs. Going like a fair, Duncan thought: bustle and jostling and shrieking children and yelping dogs twisting on leads to get at one another. The village sergeant and constable were trying to soothe a group of irate-looking bystanders. He recognised one of the local councillors, who on seeing him, waved, as if to say, Come over here, Mr Crawfurd, I'll tell you all you need to know. Duncan nodded in a non-committal manner, slowly turned himself around, and began to walk away. The man had a habit of pausing for breath in the middle of sentences, so that you could never interrupt without talking over him, besides which, having lived in Hartsend all his days he took it for granted that the village was the centre of the world. His conversation moved inevitably into detailed news about people he assumed Duncan knew and cared about, or worse, news about people
those
people knew, who might be dead, missing, or living in Patagonia for all Duncan knew or cared.