He leaned into me, blue eyes wide, face twitching.
‘My elbow’s fucked mate. I can barely open it further than this.’ An arm extended, palm facing up. ‘It’s from plasterin’ mate. Plasterin’ and wankin’.
His skin was blotchy and sagging. Bags were grey and oily under his eyes. He kicked a clump of mud off his boot. (more…)
A man in an anorak shuffles down the carriage. He sits heavily as if cut from a rope. A girl looks up, shifts and frowns into her book. He glances at her. His face looks shrunken, as though once bigger.
The train picks up speed, sways on the tracks. Stiffly, like a man with his neck in a cast, he turns to the girl and mutters,
‘Does this train go to Aberdeen?’
‘Aberdeen?’ the girl looks up from her book. Her skin flushes. ‘Yes it does.’ She moves closer to the window and continues to read.
‘Where are you getting off?
She glances up, ’Edinburgh,’ and carries on reading
‘Oh lovely. Is that where you’re from?’
She closes the book on her hand. ‘No I’m from Australia.’
‘Oh lovely. You’ll be exploring all the places then.’
‘Yeh,’ she frowns into her book. Her skin flares as though allergic to the questions.
‘Oh lovely.’ He strokes his knee under the table.
The train trundles on. He stares at the world slipping by the window, face blank as ply board. He pulls a leather bound book from the anorak, eyes unmoving. The book has “Holy Bible” printed in gold on the spine. His pale hand places it down. LOVE is tattooed, one blurred letter on each digit. Half his forefinger is gone, stumped at the end. He stares at the book cover.
The train glides into a red brick station. It steams and waits grumpily as passengers trail on. People hug on the platform, muffled in jackets and hats. Voices rise and swirl like ghosts of their creators. Electronic announcements boom steadily, seeping from the bricks.
A passenger with a boxer dog approaches the table opposite. He hustles the dog under the table.
‘Get under there boy,’ he says in a low voice as if not to embarrass the dog.
The dog circles urgently, wrapping the lead around its self before slumping on the floor.
More newcomers peer down the carriage in search of seats. Bags weigh down their arms. With them comes a chill that hasn’t yet died in the heat and stillness of indoors, the smell of dead leaves and a freshness carried in on the rosey tips of noses.
The owner of the dog is enormous. His upper arms are like two ham joints. A vest clings to his bulging chest. On one of his biceps are three scars in a row, as if a giant cat has attacked him. He sniffs and empties a shopping bag onto the table. Standing, he wolfs down a handful of crisps then zips his shoulder bag and pushes it onto the rack with one arm.
Bricks ease past the window. The engine moans, desperate to drag its trailing body into the open. The burly man does not sit. He takes an iPod from his trouser pocket. The headphones look like dental floss dangling from his hands. The dog noses a few circles under the table before sticking its head into the aisle.
‘Get your arse in there boy, get in there. Sit. Sit.’ He shunts the dog with his foot.
The dog looks up with drooping eye lids, circles a few times and lies down like a deflated balloon.
He munches and looks out of the window. Fields open up, divided by lines of poplar. Lonesome oaks are proud, earth worn underneath where animals have lain. Stubby cottages are peacefully resigned to their position.
On the table opposite, the man in the anorak turns halfway towards the Australian girl. His eyes stare out of the window as if he can’t turn his head enough to look at her. Her skin flares again.
‘Are you travelling all alone?’ He asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh……. I once travelled alone from Inverness to London. I had to go down for work ya see. A lot a my pals in Inverness were rough ya see. They didn’t work, they hung about doing heroin and lazing about. I didn’t want to sit around on the heroin so I took the train all the way down to London like.’
The girl doesn’t answer. He continues to gaze out of the window.
‘Of course there’s heroin in London too eh. But I’ve found God now.’ He takes a pen and places it on the bible. She looks at the finger. ‘Keeps me safe and away from the heroin.’ He sits upright as he talks, his tiny, melted head sticking out of the oversized collar.
‘It must be lonely being up here without family and friends,’ he says.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘There must be times when you need company like, being up here alone with nobody to talk to.’
The pen rolls off the table. He bends down to pick it up. On his way up, his hand brushes past the girls knee. She freezes and stares at the table.
‘No, I’m fine thank you!’ She moves her knees up against the side of the train.
The burly man sits, facing the window with headphones in his ears. He lifts his heel to the music. Supermarket sandwiches and crisp packets are strewn on the table with a litre bottle of coke. He rolls his head to the beat, closely shaven neck stretching out.
His nose is wide and misshapen. His eyebrows are strong ridges. One is stained blue with a bruise that covers the lid and corner of his eye socket. Trees stand in the fields, skeletal with a few leaves dangling. He admires the green fields slipping past and sinks into a peaceful daze.
The hand with the stubbed finger rests on the bible. The girl is just out of his vision, huddled up against the window, her book pressed to her face. His dead stare cuts across. His eyes are glazed and don’t flicker or shift with the rushing landscape. They just stare, as if a fly could land on them and cause no disturbance.
The food trolley shudders down the carriage. The dog leaps up to the seat opposite the owner and collapses, eyebrows twitching.
‘Get your arse off that seat, get, get,’ he hisses. ‘Go on get down.’
The dog jumps down.
The huge man sits back in his seat, sniffing and breathing. He tears open a sandwich, tiny in his hands. Munching, he feeds a crust to his dog. It looks up at him, tail beating the floor.
The girl’s book covers her face.
‘You’ll have a time in Edinburgh. Good people in Edinburgh….My people are from Edinburgh. My family.’ The words creep from his mouth. Pale lips stretch across his face as if a surgeon has stuck them on. ‘Are you staying in a hostel?’
‘Yes. I’m staying in a hostel.’ She crosses her leg and lifts the book to her face, forehead a mess of wrinkles.
‘Aye, I’ve stayed in lots of hostels in Edinburgh. See my family were never always good to me. Especially my Ma like. Aye she was awful crude to me. Used to fuck me about for no reason at all.’ He curls his hand to a fist. ‘So I spent lots of time in the hostels like…..Are you staying there long?’
‘Four nights.’
‘Oh lovely.’ He pats the bible. ‘Aye it’s a lovely town Edinburgh.’
Coastline appears beyond the double glazing. A cliff of jagged rocks drops down to pale, ragged grass. The man in the vest takes out his headphones and leans towards the window. He watches the sea chopping silently, boats still on the horizon, the beach calmly receiving the infinite beat of the sea.
‘Aye, your family must be missing you, a pretty lass like you. Your Papa must be missing you all the way back the other side of the world. I bet you’ve got a nice family back there eh? A nice lass like yourself. I bet you’ve got a good family to go back home to eh?’
The burly man turns his head. He takes his eyes off the landscape and focuses on the window sill.
You must miss them a wee bit no?’ He chuckles, a scratching croak, more suited to a corpse than a living man. ‘Aye you must. No need to be brave darling.’
‘No. I don’t miss them,’ she looks up. ‘I’m reading if you don’t mind.’
The dog owner turns from the window, rolls up the headphones and puts them away. The dog gets up and he shunts him with his foot. ‘Sit down dog, sit!’ The dog curls up on the carpet.
‘Aye no worries darling.’ He taps the bible with his stumped finger. ‘No need to listen to me gabbing off, I just like a chat you know?
‘That’s OK, I’m guna read now.’
The train rocks. The burly man moves to the aisle seat, opens a pack of crisps and rests his forearms on the table. He sniffs and munches hungrily, his knee bouncing up and down.
Across the aisle, the man in the anorak inhales between his lips.
‘Aye,’ he says, ‘Theres nothing wrong with being friendly. You know there’s nothing to be afraid of darling.’
The dog owner finishes the crisps and folds the packet into a tight rectangle.
‘It’s some world if you cannae talk to people like.’
The dog snarls and the man in the anorak turns from the girl. ‘What’s wrong with you dog, eh?’ The dog snarls again.
He turns back to the girl and leans towards her, breathing in her ear, ‘It’s ok to be friendly.’ She stiffens and jolts upright, an electric shock running through her spine.
The huge man stands. He crosses the aisle and rests both fists on the table. He stands there, hovering over the shrunken pea head. The head turns, startled eyes glistening and retreats into its scrawny neck. A meaty hand picks up the bible and pushes it into the puny man’s chest. The tiny man clutches it against himself. His upper lip twitches and he scrambles to his feet, a knee clunking on the table. A deep snarl rumbles from the dog. He glances at it then limps down the carriage, stooping and wrapping the anorak tighter to his body. The dog owner sits back down.
The girl breathes unsteadily, her eyes wide and rabbit like.
‘Thank you,’ she says shyly. ‘He was starting to scare me.’
‘No bother, he was scaring my dog too, that’s why he had to go.’ He smiles and the girl looks at the blue bruise covering his eye. ‘Where are you getting off?’ He asks.
‘Edinburgh.’
‘Oh lovely, is that where you’re from?’
‘No, I’m from Australia.’
‘Oh lovely, you’re out exploring then.’
‘Yeh.’ the girl glances down at the cover of her book. Her skin flares.’
The train is heading south and I stand between carriages. My hand rests on the open window and darkness rushes past. Trees are rigid against the moonlit sky. Smoky clouds are ghost like. A man on the floor gawps into a glowing screen, the blue glare illuminates his oily face.
Passengers are crammed in seats. Legs stick out into the aisle and bag straps dangle from overhead shelves. A dark haired girl walks down the aisle. She passes me, quiet with wary eyes. Her T-shirt ends at the belly button, clinging onto her small waist. Baggy tracksuit bottoms are filled by a round bum. I wonder if she is wearing them to accentuate her bum or to hide it. I conclude that she probably just likes the tracksuit bottoms. She ducks into the toilet and the door slams with the shuddering of the train.
My legs are apart, knees bent. The train rocks and wobbles, loose under my feet. The toilet door is firmly shut. I plan to smile as she walks back. I picture her squeezing a smile back and walking on. I beef out the plan with the idea of saying hello whilst smiling. Picturing this, it goes well, a nice little scene.
The grey door remains shut and unmoving. It seems firmly closed compared to other doors. Perhaps because of the way it fits so tight to the frame. Pressing hands deep inside pockets, I stretch my arms and run the scene again. This time it doesn’t seem fluid. The idea of waiting outside the toilet puts me off. My smile is forced, unnatural and the scene is jarred. I create another one, her queuing at the café and me behind her. Nobody listening in. Me asking where she’s from. This one seems good.
The grey door pops open as if barged from inside. With head down, she turns and closes it. It slams with the jolting of the train . She walks straight up to me and asks which way the café is. Her face is long and gaunt. Black hair hangs past her shoulders. Smiling, I point and say it’s up that way. I press my eyes into hers and she presses hers back. They are deep black globes. She thanks me and smiles. I watch her track suited bum swing down the carriage. The material has tiny cotton balls clinging to it from over washing.
The train gallops through the night. It sways as if barely connected to the tracks. On the floor, the man’s laptop is propped on his knees. He presses his face into the glow of the screen, headphones trail from each ear. No sound comes from him; no sound reaches him from outside his glowing world.
I give it a minute. Tail-ending her to the café would be too full-on. When I see her head bobbing down the next carriage, I pursue. Striding down the walkway, I grip the tops of seats with long, swimming motions. Passengers glance up and back down. I cover a few carriages until at the end of one, people stand static with shoulders sloped.
There is no movement so I turn and wait between carriages. Pushing the window down, I breathe in cool, black air. I peer down the carriage.
She walks back up the aisle with a paper cup. Her presence surprises me. I knew she needed to get back to her seat but somehow didn’t expect her to pass.
‘You made it,’ I say as she gets close. She looks up as if she didn’t know I was talking to her.
‘Oh, Yeah. Took me like an hour to get back though,’ she eases away from me.
‘Well I’m about to experience that myself,’ I force a tight smile onto my face and can’t think of much else to charm her with. She smiles and walks on.
Heading back down the train, I look into the faces. All seats are taken. Families sit at tables with gaping crisp packets and squashed juice bottles. Men stare into the windows, cans standing at arms-length. They watch objects dragged into the distance, lights swept away and forgotten.
Every black-haired head I pass, I check the legs for the tracksuit. I spot her. On the fold out table in front of her is a thick book, open with sentences highlighted green. I pass by and return to my seat.
A man is in the seat beside mine. A rim of grey hair circles his shiny, bald head. In front of him is a can of Carlsberg on a folded napkin. He gets up to let me in and I clamber into my seat.
Looking straight ahead, he says from the side of his mouth, ‘there’s been a few competitors after your seat.’
‘We’ve been fighting them off for you,’ chirps a northern woman from the seat in front. Immediately, I picture her to be fat with short blonde hair.
‘They can get pretty vicious,’ I say.
They both chuckle cheerily and I hope they will not talk further. The man picks up the can and tips it to his lips. He places it back carefully in the middle of the square napkin. His arm moves slightly. He is getting ready to talk. I turn my head and stare at the window. His reflection is clear in the metallic blackness. He’s a funny looking man. Small, monk like.
I pick up my own reflection and imagine what people see when they meet me. It must be different for them. They can’t see what I see. The familiarity of my face must have warped the image I see. A train passes on the adjacent tracks and my face is gone. A blur of yellow light races past. The trains are sucked towards each other and I feel the release as the last carriage whips by.
A few sentences into my book, I flop it down and let thoughts rush to my head. I decide to stand between carriages again. Firstly, I prefer this area. Limbs can move and cold air can be breathed. Secondly, the girl may walk past again and I can try to engage her in a longer conversation. I shift my body to get up and the monk stands unhurriedly. He smiles stiffly as I step into the aisle.
The carriages are hot and fetid. Passengers sprawl. Red faces talk loudly over cans balanced on tables. The last hours of the journey drain away.
I stand between the clattering carriages. She is alone, languid in her seat. Her skin is dark and I wonder where she is from. This will be my next question.
The metal connecting the carriages is covered by folding rubber. As we round corners it shrinks and grows like a wheezing accordion. I rest my back against it and feel it folding in and out. Down the carriage, a child lifts strands of dark hair, giggles and lets the hair fall. I can’t make out if it is the girl’s hair or not. A child could add to the complications. Squinting, I see the hair belongs to a woman in the seat behind her.
A stream of passengers enter and exit from the carriages. The doors hiss and slide behind them. Like the blind, they wobble their way to the toilet.
Entering London, the buildings tower over the train. They stare down with power, yellow eyes dotted all over. The passengers have begun to shuffle from stupors. Children are wrapped in jackets. Bags are lifted from racks and flabby midriffs flashed.
The station ceiling is high and echoey, the lights dazzling. The train looks slim for the amount of people spilling out of it. They drift down the platform, loud on their release. I face the flow of passengers and wait. The air is cold, fragments of passing conversations rush to me. I wonder if she has left through the other end of the carriage. She can’t have, she was too close to this one. People brush past me and I feel stupid standing against the rushing crowd. I begin to hope she has left through the other door.
Then I see her stepping through the crowd, hair long, body shorter than it appeared on the train. I nudge her and she looks delighted to see me. We walk down the platform and I hover over her, hands dug in my pockets. My questions stumble over hers, we talk about people being friendlier up north. Each sentence peters out into nothing. She tells me she lives in Euston and we part at the tube entrance.
She stands there looking at me, wheelie bag in one hand. I ask for her number.
She says, ‘No’ and keeps looking at me, then says, ‘I’m not…’ and walks off dragging her wheelie bag.
#
Photo of Azuga Station in Romania by Rupert Wolfe Murray
Captain Cutler by Tom Wigan.
The long car crept slowly towards a green shed, wobbling through pot holes in the sandy track. The shed was wide and hunkered down in the ground. Behind, a forest stretched onto a hill. The trees let off a light, floating steam, damp and misty. Halfway up they shrunk into the brown, heathery ground. The dark hill top, where no trees grew, loomed maternally over the forest. Stretching in front of the shed, was a field, still and quiet. Blades of grass stuck up straight to the sky. The wind was held like a giants breath, waiting for the day when it would be released and blow steadily across the land. Sheep moved slowly, noses down as if attached to a chain leading them through the field.
In front of the low green shed, the track ended and became a gritty turning area. The driver swung the long car round and backed up to the door. He stretched one velvet trousered leg onto the sandy, orange grit and clung to the roof of the car with a boney hand. A grey crop of hair rose from the car as he heaved himself up with a tired grunt, His long tweed coat flapping over his thin body.
On the door of the shed hung a large rusty padlock, its weight dragging heavily with time. He was an old man and was frail. He had a lightweight, floating air about him as if the wind could knock him down with one heavy gust. Walking to the shed door, his body was stooped forward. Long arms hung loosely at his side. Dangling off each arm his thin hands hung like bones covered with no flesh, just a thin layer of skin. He was slow to move. His stalk like legs lifted each long foot in front of him and carefully placed it on the ground before the rest of his body followed. He moved in a parched fashion as if restrained by a freshly starched shirt
At the shed door, he dipped one hand into his pocket and brought out a small key with a frayed string attached. One feeble, dry hand held the padlock as the other began turning the stiff lock. As he scratched away, bits of rust crumbled off and fell onto his brown leather brogans. He flicked them off with a jolt of his foot and proceeded to rattle at the large padlock. More rust crumbled to his foot. As he flicked it off he heard a voice behind him
‘Captain Cutler.’
Walking towards him was a short man in a long Barbour jacket making him look more shrunken than he already was. A gap was between the bottom of his jacket and the top of his green wellington boots. A tuft of corduroy trouser stuck out over his boots and lapped over the side. A huge smile was plastered across his ruddy face. He strolled towards the captain with a merry gait, his round belly protruding in front of him, hands shuffling in the front pockets of his Barbour jacket.
‘Hello Richard,’ exclaimed Captain Cutler. His thin, pale lips stayed in the shape of the last word spoken. With squinting eyes, he gazed onto the stubby man walking towards him.
Richard’s wellington boots scraped on the sandy road as he pumped wholesomely forward. He shuffled his hands in his side pockets, resting them on his paunch until he was just in front of the Captain. The Captain shook the plump, sausage-fingered hand that was thrust in front of him. The shape of his pale, grey lips was renewed with, ‘How nice to see you Richard, you’re looking extremely well.’ His voice was soft and airy, like paper blowing in the wind.
‘As are you Captain,’ Richard squeezed through his wide, red-cheeked smile. ‘The drive down alright?’
‘I made very good time. Stopped at a friend’s house for lunch and did the afternoon stretch in a oner. Although my wrist does tend to ache nowadays after a long drive,’ he clasped his boney wrist with a long flappy hand and looked dreamily through Richard.
‘Well you made it here in one piece. If there’s anything heavy to be carried my son’s on half term. A bit of heavy lifting might be good for him.’
‘I’ll hear nothing of it. I’ll get through this alright. Rather looking forward to seeing what’s found.’
Richard glanced at the shed door, ‘Have you managed to get in yet? I had a look at that lock. It’s a rusty old thing, may need some WD40. We’ve got some at the house if you need.’
‘Oh no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll give it a rattle, those old locks are built beautifully’
The Captain gazed at his acquaintance with steady eyes, his hands clasped in front of him, the key hanging from them on the frayed piece of string. Richard shuffled his boots on the sandy ground.
‘In that case I’ll leave you to it. Head up to the house when you’re finished’
‘I look forward to it,’ replied the Captain with a thin, pale-lipped smile.
The spacious kitchen had a long table running through the middle. One light hung above it on a white cord. It was a modern room with a clean, slightly clinical look. A large window split into four sections looked out onto a flat, green field stretching into the distance. At the end of the field was the low green shed.
The table was brighter than the rest of the room and Richard sat at the end facing the window. His thick, purple fingers were wrapped around a steaming mug. He cradled it; upper body leaning forward as if protecting his brew from thieves. His Barbour jacket hung on the back of the door like a deflated farmer. A portly woman pottered around him in a flowery apron. She whipped around the room, clattering pots and pans in one corner, chopping vegetables in another and nursing a pan of sizzling onions in between. Her shrill voice followed her around the kitchen as she fluttered from each task.
‘I don’t want him staying the night like last time. He can clear his stuff and leave after dinner.’
‘He’s in his seventies Jane. We can’t expect him to set out after dinner.’
‘Well it’s just unneeded stress having him around. I don’t know why you let him keep that stuff here in the first place. He’s always talking of his many friends. Why can’t he stay with one of them?’
‘Jane…Don’t be ridiculous, he’s going to have to stay one night. He’s never much trouble.’
He lifted the mug to his face and took a throaty gulp. Placing it back on the long wooden table, he peered out the window, dipping his head to see under the frame crossing through the middle of the glass. The door of the shed faced away from the house. Captain Cutler’s estate car was parked to the side, gleaming in the evening sun. On the other side of the shed was a rusty oil drum. Wisps of white smoke curled from it and vanished into the sky.
The end of the day was heavy and pressurised, ready to deflate and let the evening creep up, smoothly spread long grey fingers and massage the world to a sleepy stupor.
Through the musky dusk light, the long car appeared at the top of the driveway. Slowly, it wobbled along, collapsing in and out of potholes. Parking at the front of the house, the captain heaved himself out and slowly drifted to the boot of the car. Weakly pushing the chunky door up, he began rustling around inside. He stooped into the boot, bent over as if he might topple in at any moment. After some time, he rose sharply from this position with thin arms wrapped around a large cardboard box. Its contents stuck out from the top, strange objects stacked on top of each other, boxes and shapes jutting out at different angles. He turned stiffly with the box and began moving towards the back of the house. Slowly lifting one foot in front of the other as if weights were attached, he plodded forwards, a wisp of grey hair floating over his gaunt face, his stomach pressed in where the box was and his upper body and head hanging over it. He puffed heavily each step he took. The grey wisp of hair floated out with his breath then landed back over his face. His eyes were directed stiffly ahead of him, his face exhausted and blank as if in a trance.
Richard glanced out of the kitchen window and stood up as he saw the captain swaying with the enormous box. He teetered to one side and regained his balance just as it seemed he was about to topple. Richard put down his mug and walked briskly to the side of the house. The captain was staggering madly with the box clutched to his groin. It dragged his long, gangly arms downwards. His grey face was exhausted and flustered. The wisp of grey hair now hung over it in a long tired strand.
‘Let me help you with that Captain,’ Richard shouted, walking briskly over and taking the box from the old man’s grip.
‘No no Richard don’t trouble yourself,’ he wheezed as the box was taken from his arms. He straightened up and brushed the sleeves of his tweed coat.
‘There’s a few things in there might come in handy. I never use these bits anymore, lets take them to the shed and have a look.’
Richard carried the box to the shed at the back of the house. He peered into it as they walked along. Hammers, screwdrivers, old files, drill bits, greasy oil cans and small boxes full of screws all rested on each other in a jumble of metal.
‘Wow, this looks great!’
‘There’s some good stuff in there’ Captain Cutler proudly agreed as he patted himself down and brushed off his jacket.
Once in the shed at the back of the house, they riffled through the bits and bobs in the box. Richard beamed with gratefulness. Captain Cutler took the thank yous and compliments smoothly, allowing one to roll to him after the other. He soaked them up calmly and commented on each gift that was taken from the box.
Eventually Richard announced that they must be heading in for dinner and led the Captain inside to a warm aroma of roast meat and steamed vegetables.
They sat around the long, wooden table in the middle of the kitchen with plates of food steaming in front of them. The son was opposite the Captain. He watched him intently as he told stories from the war and talked of how the world had changed since he was a boy.
‘And for you,’ he said reaching his hand across the table to the boy, ‘a mini telescope issued to me before going undercover in Germany.’
The boy held the telescope with a shiny smile. He blushed as he looked at it all hard and metallic in his soft young hand. The Captain looked at his plate and glanced at Richard out the corner of his eyes before lifting his head to talk.
‘There’s an awful lot of stuff down there; it’s amazing the things one accumulates during ones life. If its not too much bother I’ll finish the rest tomorrow.’
‘Of course, not a problem,’ replied Richard, knife and fork in hand, you stay the night and finish it off in the morning
‘Oh well, I was going to stay with a friend down the road but if there’s a bed here that would be wonderful’
‘Oh yes, Jane’s made up a bed for you. You stay the night here and finish it off in the morning’
The Captain looked at Jane with watery eyes, ‘Thanks ever so much Jane, you’re terribly kind.’
*
At lunchtime the next day, Jane stood sturdily in the alcove of the kitchen window. She chopped carrots on a thick wooden board. Tied round her was a flowery apron spattered with stains. An oily burn mark was melted into it just to the right of her belly. The steel knife clonked down on the board. Outside, the still trees were against a blue sky, resting in the calm. Thin trails of cloud were scattered in frail lines like cotton balls pulled apart. On the field which stretched towards the green shed, the sheep nosed the grass. Silently, they drifted around, heads stooped to the ground, softly skimming the field. To the right of the shed, Jane made out the rusty old oil drum. A thin line of smoke leaked from it. Rising up in a white line, the smoke dispersed into the blueness, diluted by the huge sky.
She shifted her eyes up and down from the chopping board, taking quick glances out the window in between chops. Then something caught her eye. Walking towards the oil drum with a huge object grasped in front of his long, thin body was Captain Cutler. His arms were stretched towards the ground as he cradled the object by his groin. Strenuously lifting one foot in front of the other, he heaved it forwards. On reaching the oil drum, he swayed like a drunkard and quickly balanced the object on the side to prevent him from toppling into the grass. He pushed it over the rim. The smoke thickened and billowed, heavy and grey. He stood by the fire, neck stuck forward and arms loose and long at his sides. He stared as the smoke rose into the air. It multiplied above the flames, rolling into bigger clouds, softly expanding into the fresh sky and transforming into nothingness.
‘I’m just going down to see he’s alright,’ shouted Richard from the porch.
Jane leant over her shoulder and shouted back, ‘Ok, I’m making a soup for lunch, it should be ready in half an hour so don’t be too long.’
She proceeded to chop the cabbage in front of her. Her arm worked in a smooth rocking motion, knife thudding steadily on the board. Out of the window, Richard walked into the field leading to the green shed. He bumbled along, each step quickly following the last. His hands dug deep into the front of his thick wax Barbour jacket. His elbows bobbed gently up and down. A few sheep scattered as he passed. They spread into the field like a handful of spilt flour. As they trotted away, Jane looked up from her board. She saw the Captain turn his head from the oil drum and gaze at the field. He angled his head into the air like a dog sniffing the wind. A few second later, he strode smartly behind the shed, out of sight.
‘Ah, Richard,’ the Captain exclaimed as Richard merrily walked towards him, his heavy Barbour jacket flapping slightly at his knees.
‘I was just finishing up to have a quick break. I’ve lost a bit of stamina over the years. Amazing how quickly one begins to deteriorate. Listen, I’ve burnt an awful lot of cushions and clothes that are past it, that oil drum works fantastically well, and in those boxes are some more things that I thought might come in handy.’
The Captain lifted a long arm towards four cardboard boxes lined up against the outside of the shed. His hand hung off the end of his arm and he pointed with one long, scrawny finger that drooped weakly towards the boxes. To the left of them, the shed door was closed, the rusty lock clasped over the latch.
‘It’s just old bits and bobs, tools and what not, what’s really worth looking after is in this box here.’
He leaned over one of the boxes and released a slow groan as he straightened up with a smaller box in his hand.
‘There are about fifty in there,’ he explained snapping open a rusty clip at the front of the small, pale wooden box. The wisp of grey hair dangled over his eye. It came from the back, near the top of his head where his hairline had retreated. His thin-skinned skull was large and shiny with faded, blue veins lightly scribbled over it.
‘They should still be OK. Don’t seem to have gone mouldy. I was given them by my great uncle on his return from the war. They’re all Cubans.’
‘Gosh! Captain, they look great.’ Richard shone with delight. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’ He picked one out, fingered it and gave it a whiff under his chubby nose. ‘They smell spectacular. Aren’t you going to keep some for yourself?’
‘I’d love to but unfortunately I can’t smoke these anymore. The doctors strictly forbidden me.’
‘Well I’m sorry to hear that. Thank you ever so much Captain I’ll really enjoy them. Come up for lunch when you’re ready. Jane has some soup on the go. Should be done in the next half hour.’
‘Oh, she is sweet. I just have a few more things to throw in the drum. Will be up shortly.’
On entering the house, Captain Cutler met the young son of Richard and Jane in the corridor.
‘Ah, just the person I wanted to see,’ he announced softly. He dug around in his tweed coat pocket, tilting his head to the roof and touching his lower lip with his tongue. Eventually, he pulled his hand out. In it was a glinting fishing reel made of smooth black metal.
‘This,’ he said holding the reel out to the boy, ‘is an old reel given to me by my grandfather. It has never been used and is actually worth a bit of money. They are beautifully made these old ones you see. The mechanism will last many lifetimes.’
The boy held the reel in his soft palm. He wound it round clumsily and lifted his little head towards the Captain. ‘Thank you,’ he squeaked before trotting into the kitchen and holding it out proudly for his mother to see.
‘Wow! Look at that darling. Now, did you say thank you to Captain Cutler?’
The Captain slid round the kitchen door with one long stride. Both hands were clasped behind his back and a wide smile was stretched over his thin face.
‘He’s been exceptionally grateful.’
He stood with his feet together looking down on the boy. His abdomen stuck out a little and his shoulders sloped down behind him.
‘I was just telling him, that reel is very well made and actually worth a bit of money, so look after it. Save it for a rainy day.
‘Thank you Captain,’ said Jane quietly. ‘He’ll be over the moon with it.’
She stirred the soup. Her chunky, red arm rotated smoothly in a well-practised manner.
‘Now, let me give you a bowl of soup.’
The Captain remained standing with heels together and toes slightly apart.
‘Thank you Jane, it smells delicious.’
They sat round the table gently spooning soup into mouths, occasionally breaking bread rolls open with their hands. Birds twittered outside. The trees nodded happily in a slow breeze.
‘How are you getting on down there?’ Richard asked raising his eyebrows above a spoon full of soup.
‘Oh rather well. Although things become a bit slow at my age. I may be taking be a little longer than expected but I’ll make sure to finish by tonight.’
‘Well no rush,’ replied Richard easily. ‘And if you need a hand carrying anything I’m not too busy this afternoon. I could come down in an hour or two.’
‘Oh, no. Please don’t trouble yourself. I will just work away at it.’
The Captain was slumped in his chair, his back bent and arms stuck out on the table where they could reach his food.
‘Rather fun going through all of ones old stuff,’ he smiled briefly then got back to buttering a roll on his plate.
As evening settled in, the air turned grey and faded. Trees became black shapes against the pale sky. Sheep were balls of white shifting in the field. Slowly, darkness sprinkled its dust, transforming the world to its other existence.
The orchard had a low stone wall around it. In parts it had toppled over and never been repaired. A few apple trees grew in the thick grass. In a vegetable patch, fenced off from the rest of the orchard, Richard thwacked his wooden handled spade into the moist soil. He repeated the motion of lifting it high, stretching one arm above his head and booting it deep into the earth. A straight line of turned soil was behind him. He plugged on, red in the face and stripped to his blue chequered shirt. His Barbour jacket hung hopelessly on a fence post.
He whacked his last few spades into the ground and stood upright to look at his work. A patch of unturned soil was left which he would finish tomorrow. He grabbed his jacket from the post, clipped the orchard gate shut and headed for the house.
Jane heard the door slam and the clomp of her husbands boots.
‘Rich, he’s still here,’ she shouted from the kitchen. ‘It’s almost pitch black, how’s he still here?’ She added.
‘He’ll be gone soon darling, I’m sure he’s just finishing up.’
Richard walked into the kitchen in thick woolen socks, his cheeks and nose red from the freshness of outdoors. Smells of roasting meat filled the kitchen. The windows were dark. In them glowed a reflection of the single yellow light that hung above the table.
Jane whirled from the alcove at the window. With a steel knife, she swept chopped veg off a board into the huge pot sitting on the stove.
‘I just don’t want it to turn out like last time,’ she said looking into her pot.
‘He’ll be gone tonight Jane. I’m sure he’s just finishing up.’
*
Richard was reading his book by a small crackling fire in the sitting room.
‘Richard,’ Jane shouted from the kitchen, ‘dinner.’
He placed his book face down on the arm of the sofa and dawdled over to the kitchen window. Cupping both hands onto the glass, he peered into the darkness. Large flames flickered from the oil drum, lashing a meter into the air. He watched as they danced and swished around. A circle of faded orange light glowed around the fire. Into the rim of faint light, the figure of Captain Cutler appeared. He trudged towards the flames clasping another huge box. He plodded forward, tipped the box into the fire and stepped back to admire the flames. He stood there, strange and tall in the flickering light, watching with his head tilted slightly up. The flames got bigger. They whooshed up into the night, naughtily flicking and prancing around.
‘Jane, darling I better go and see he’s alright. Can you put that in the stove? I’ll have it later.’
Jane rested her elbows in the alcove and stuck her chin in her hands. On seeing her husband’s torchlight, she made a tunnel with her hands and peered through the window. The torchlight swept across the field. She could just make out her husband plodding along behind the yellow beam.
As Richard got closer, the light began to climb the shed wall a little then drop back to the field as he swung his arm. The beam jolted around as he walked. She could also see the Captain standing by the fire with his head tilted up, admiring the flickering flames that licked away at darkness. As the torch began lighting the shed wall more frequently, the Captain turned his head towards the field. He took three long strides away from the fire and was swallowed by the darkness.
‘That you Richard?’ The Captain frowned into the night as the torchlight wobbled its way towards him.
‘Hi,’ Replied Richard as he stomped forwards. ‘I came to check everything was alright.’
‘Well, I’m getting there.’ Captain Cutler stood by the shed door with padlock in hand and his mouth hanging slightly open.
‘Well I hope you’re not straining yourself too much Captain. I’d find this a struggle myself.’
‘Well, I’ll just keep working away. Another few hours and I should be done.’
‘Captain, you can’t lumber round here in the dark’
‘Oh no. I’ve just a few things to get in the fire and a few bits and bobs to sort out. This is a great torch. I was given it in the army. It’s brighter than most and the bulb seems to last forever.’
He flicked his torch on and shone it into the rustling pine trees.
‘It’s great for spotting birds.‘
‘Gosh, it is strong Captain…Lets have a look in here and see how much is to be done. Richard stepped forward. His head bumped into the Captain’s arm, which stuck out across the shed doorway. He looked up and his whole view was taken up by the captain’s face. Sparkles of sweat glistened on his forehead. The firelight lit his skin in flashes of orange. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated.
‘Oh no Richard! It will only depress you’
A slither of light came from beneath the door and for the first time Richard had ever seen, the latch was loose and the door a few millimetres open.
Richard stopped, a little startled with the arm in his face. A grey strand of hair hung over the Captain’s eye and a reptilian smile shone over his face in the flickering fire light.
Richard smiled weakly and stepped back from the tweed-sleeved arm.
‘Oh, I forgot to mention!’ The Captain skipped over to the wall where more boxes had been lined up.
‘This,’ he said rummaging in a box with his back facing Richard and both knees bent either side of him, ‘is an old dagger I was given by a tribesman in the heart of the Republic of Congo.’
He stood up holding a machete like dagger with a large, oily blade and thick wooden handle. ‘It might come in handy when you’re in the woods.’
‘God, look at that,’ said Richard as he reached his hand out to fondle his latest gift. He held it by the handle and swung it around a bit. ‘Goodness, it’s very well made, sturdy as hell. Thank you Captain, you’re spoiling me.’
‘Oh not at all. It would only be sitting in a shed somewhere if you weren’t here to take it.’
‘Well thanks all the same. Now, I wont have you scrambling around down here in the dark. Come up to the house and finish this in the morning.’
‘Are you sure it’s not a bother Richard? I can drive down the road and stay with a friend. I have a very dear friend not far from here. He’s always willing to put me up for the night.
‘Don’t be silly. You must be exhausted. Come on up to the house, We’ll get you fed, watered and rested.
‘You are kind,’ the Captain said airily with a distant look on his pale face. He clipped the padlock around the latch and turned round to Richard, eyes glinting in the dancing light. ‘Better safe than sorry.’
After a late dinner Richard dozed in his bed. He lay in a heap with bed covers collapsed on top of him. The large room was lit by a lamp glowing weakly on Jane’s bedside table. She stood brushing her teeth in a small sink attached to the wall of the bedroom. She held one arm against the sink and gently brushed with the other. Her head hung over the sink and a mess of hair covered her face. After a final splash, water gurgled down the plug and she floated to the bed in her white nightgown. She lifted the heavy covers and climbed in, sweeping up her trailing nightie behind her. ‘We’ve got to get rid of him tomorrow,’ she whispered.
‘I know darling, I’ll deal with it,’ mumbled Richard into his pillow.
‘He was meant to be gone today. How on earth has he got so much to do down there?’
‘He’s old Jane. He’s slow. We can’t push him along. He’s in his seventies.’
‘Why won’t he let you help? You could have had it done in a day.’
‘I don’t know Jane, it’s his own private stuff, he may not want people rummaging through his belongings. We’ll have to leave him to get on with it. He’ll be finished tomorrow, I’m sure. Now lets go to sleep.’ Richard shifted his head and tucked a hand under his pillow. Jane’s bedside lamp glowed orange and warm. She took a sip from a small glass of water and flicked off the light. Darkness fell over the room like a dropped blanket.
The next day the Captain was re-lighting his oil-drum fire at 8:30 AM. Having just woken up, Jane wandered into the kitchen in her wafting nightgown. She walked to the alcove and looked sleepily out the window. Morning was soaking up the last of darkness. It had rained in the night; the world was freshly washed. Trees were still and from their finger like branches dripped shining droplets of water. The sun rose proudly, powerfully into the sky. She sighed and looked out across the field. A wet patch of glistening condensation clung to the window, blocking her view of the green shed. She wiped it away with the sleeve of her nightgown and there he was, bent over the oil drum, a few puffs of smoke rising into the clear morning.
Later in the day, as Jane prepared lunch she occasionally glanced out the window and saw him staggering with strange objects and armfuls of fabric. Every now and then after tipping something in, he would stop and look at the flames licking up, lashing and flicking. She watched him as he stood there as if in a peculiar trance, his head pointed up to the top of the flames, arms hanging as if weights hung off each hand.
‘I’m going to get down there and try to quicken him up. He’ll have to speed up a bit.’ Richard slammed the door and trudged down to the green shed. Sheep dispersed as he crossed the field briskly. He walked round the shed and saw the long estate car parked as if sleeping in the mid day sun. The air was silent apart from a few twittering birds. The hill behind the shed loomed heavily over the fields, pine trees steaming healthily. As he came closer to the shed door he saw that it was open a crack and the rusty old padlock lay on the ground. He glanced at the oil drum that burned with a lonely stream of smoke rising into the sky.
Lightening his footsteps, he walked daintily to the shed door. He could see the stone floor covered in dust as he walked towards it. When he got within arms reach he gently leant out and pushed open the creaking wooden door. He stood in the doorway and gaped into the shed. Sunlight streamed through the single window in an arrow like beam. Dust swirled in the sunlight; it rolled and whirled around, brought to life by the draught from the opened door. He took a step in and stood there watching the dust and looking at the bare stone floor. The shed was empty, a single light bulb hung from a white wire attached to the roof.
‘Hello Richard.’
Richard turned sharply and was met by the tall figure of Captain Cutler. He stood in the doorway, blocking the outside light. Richard gulped and looked at him with the eyes of a startled rabbit. ‘Hello Captain,’ he squeezed a tight smile between his chubby, red cheeks.
The Captain peered into the room, his mouth slightly open, his eyes excited and moist. ‘Rather spooky seeing it empty like this after so many years.’ He stood there looking over Richard’s head into the empty shed.
‘Quite,’ said Richard slipping past the Captain’s thin body and out into the open air. The Captain turned with a weird smile on his weak lips.
‘Well Richard, I shall finally be out of your way. Amazing the amount of stuff that was in there. Any one would think I was some sort of hoarder.’
Richard laughed quickly, ‘Well I’m glad it is all out of the way. It’ll be good for Jane and I to have some more storage space.’
‘Yes,’ said the Captain. ‘I am incredibly grateful for you letting me keep so much stuff down here.’
‘Oh not a problem at all.’
‘I’m meeting a friend for a late lunch about an hour’s drive away so must be getting on. You are kind for having me. It has been wonderful to see you both.’ He looked up towards the house with nose in the air. ‘I better come up to the house and say goodbye to Jane.’
‘Oh don’t worry about that. You get on your way. I will say your goodbyes for you.’
‘Well, please do thank her very much for everything. It’s been wonderful.’
‘I will make sure to Captain.’
Captain Cutler stuck out a long arm. His hand drooped as he held it out to be shook. ‘Lovely to see you again Richard. Thanks ever so much.’
‘And you captain, safe journey.’
He climbed slowly into his car grinning at Richard halfway through the manoeuvre. Richard watched as the car crept down the sandy track bobbing in and out of potholes. He let out a deep long breath filling his cheeks with air and began walking back to the house, leaving the oil drum smoking sleepily by the shed.