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…)
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
The pub was warm and glowing with orange lamps. Big men in suits told stories at the bar, arms gesticulating in front of them. Booming voices erupted from their flushed faces, eyes excited and glazed. They tipped back on their heels and laughed enormously to the ceiling.
The rest of the room was filled with people standing in clusters. Women in smart, tight skirts and short suit jackets passed compliments over glasses of white wine. The deep rumble rising within the room was absorbed by a dark wood bar and shiny carved pillars which sternly supported it.
I shuffled my way through the roaring crowd, brushing against duffel jackets and weaving my head from side to side to avoid hitting shoulders and pints of beer. I leaned close to raw, pink ears and uttered ‘Excuse me’, into them. Burly, Chinese eyed men turned to me grinning and said, ‘Sorry, sorry’, whilst shifting out of the way and briefly inspecting me, retaining jolly expressions as they did.
At the back of the pub were the toilets and to the left of them a thin, battered wooden staircase. Stepping on, it felt hollow and weak. The angled ceiling was low and close above my head. The middle of each step was dented and splintered. The once varnished wood, pale and scuffed where many feet had clomped up and down. Arriving at the top of the dark, tunnel staircase, I turned left and followed the sound of muffled voices.
The rectangular room was brighter than downstairs. Two sturdier steps led down onto a dark red, carpeted floor. Lamps protruded from paneled walls. The lamp shades were crisp and papery, semi opaque like dried animal skin. The rumble was clearer in here and I could hear little sections of drifting sentences.
Immediately to my right was a small table with a man and woman opposite each other. They ate pub food off thick white plates, glancing at one another every so often. Directly behind them was a larger table of two shiny eyed young men sitting in front of three giggling girls. They shouted over each other eagerly and slid their elbows around on the table, freshly washed cheeks rouged from drink.
Further round the room, lined up against the back wall was a long table. Fifteen or so people sat round it listening to each other talk, smiling, nodding, widening eyes and comforting each other with sounds of agreement. I walked over and hovered for a bit, then made eye contact with a buck toothed, middle aged Indian man.
‘Baskervilles meet up?’ he asked, eyes brimming with excitement.
‘The book club?’ I replied shaking his thrust out hand.
‘Yes! Grab a chair and find a space.’
‘I’ll find a chair, you find a space’, I said as a few lame waves and curious smiles were sent my direction.
I scanned the room quickly and could see no chairs. At this point I knew how this would turn out. I trotted downstairs and looked hopelessly through the crowd for a stray chair which can occasionally be found in a crowded room. On the far side of the room was a window with a sill sticking out below it. Tucked under the mantelpiece, I could see a tall stool with a jacket slumped over it. I thought about sitting perched on a stool at the corner of a table with fifteen people sunk below, deep in the warm flow of conversation. Knowing already that pubs don’t have spare chairs, I asked at the bar if any more were around for the event upstairs. The black haired, greasy and pleasant looking bartender nudged his colleague and asked her something. She shook her head.
‘There’s no chairs,’ he said turning back to me, ‘I’ll see if I can get a bar barstool.’
He walked from behind the bar and began searching before I could tell him I already knew where one was. I watched the crowd envelope the bartender and thought about my options. Standing at the side of the table, the newcomer standing stiffly, looking down onto the group which he intended to insert himself into, perching on the corner of one of the stranger’s chairs, or taking the barstool. The bartender waddled out of the crowd beaming shyly with a barstool hanging off one elevated hand. I thanked him and stomped upstairs.
No space had been made. I assessed which people to squeeze between. A few glanced at me then returned their attention to the current speaker, a fat, curly haired man with perfectly trimmed beard, glazed eyes and a constant smile plastered on his triangular face.
The nearest corner of the table seemed the easiest option for me. Between a gangly, innocent looking man and a fat blonde lady who looked onto me kindly, I put down my stool. And here I sat, perched above my new acquaintances. A few of them had books laid in front of them, the woman next to me had an internet print out on her lap which I could read from my all seeing position. “The Hound of the Baskervilles, Arthur Conan Doyle,” was printed at the top, below this “Questions for discussion.” She smiled briefly up at me and I squeezed one back. I took off my jacket and folded it under the stool.
‘Right, said the bearded man, shall we do another circuit?’ He looked up and lifted his hands from the table. Everyone agreed and he announced to the group, chunky forearms waving in front of him, ‘We’ve covered some of the writing style which we mostly agreed we’ve enjoyed, but did not think spectacular. Now let’s do a bit on the storyline. Did this story capture us, did it frighten us, stir us, shock us? Conan Doyle was such a popular writer, do we think he is worthy of this popularity?’
He leaned forward on his chair and rested his elbows on the table. As he spoke he clasped and unclasped his big sausagey hands. ‘I was speaking to my mother the other night and mentioned I was reading “Hound of the Baskervilles” and the first thing she said was, “Oooooh, I remember that one being scary.” Now I don’t know if it’s an era thing or something to do with us being of another generation but I just didn’t find it scary. So starting on that point, Adam, did you find it scary and how did the story line bode with you?’
He moved both open hands to his side as if passing a tray to his neighbour who was a Pakistani man with thin rimmed glasses and an uneasy presence. He stared at the table, fidgeting hands between his thighs. His bottom lip was red, wet and droopy. His balding head was large. Not lifting his gaze from the table he spluttered his views, hands madly crawling on each other under the table.
‘I thought the story line was excellent b-b-b-but not scary in any sense. A heavy atmosphere was carried throughout the novel b-b-b-but it did not scare me at any point.’
The words jolted from him quickly with no pause between sentences. They burst from him in painful flurries as if he was squeezing them out with effort and intense concentration, ‘The-the-the-the scene on the moor when Watson sees the dark figure silhouetted against the moon is the closest I got to being scared b-b-b-but at no point through the novel did I feel this emotion strongly.
‘Yes’, said the man who had challenged Adam with the question, ‘This is similar to what I thought. The novel carries with it a heavy atmosphere, but it’s not what you’d call scary. Sarah, what did you think?’
He stretched out his butcher’s arms towards Sarah with palms open as if releasing a dove.
Sarah was a small woman with horn rimmed, perfectly circular glasses. She gave her opinion on the book elegantly, suggesting it was perhaps a little outdated to find scary in a day and age when horror films and terrorism have de-sensitised us to ghost stories and mythical hounds. The listeners nodded in agreement. I moved my head a few times with the wave of nods.
I smiled tightly when soft jokes were made about Conan Doyle and his fire-breathing hound. I felt my shoulders slouching, gravity dragging me down on the stool that balanced me above the table. My hands were hot and bulbous and feeling good to be indoors after the day’s work. I had been heaving logs into the back of a truck and ramming branches into a wood chipper. I looked around and wondered what these guys had spent the day doing. They looked tired and their fingers were long and pale.
My upper back ached and I changed positions. Leg over knee, knee over leg, both hands on knees, arms crossed. Each gave me a few moments of comfort before another ache heated up. The discussion below me rumbled on. I looked on with a mask of interest. Occasionally, unable to maintain my tight smile and agreeing nods I picked at my hands and peered at the stinging scratches I bore.
The arrowhead directed by the cheery bearded man clocked round and in a minute or two it would be my turn to speak. I knew what I wanted to say and was looking forward to no longer being the mute on the stool. He directed his palms to me saying, ‘sorry, I never caught your name?’
‘Tom’, I said with a weak little wave at the many faces now peering up at me.
‘Hello Tom, and what did you think? Did you enjoy the book?’
‘I did enjoy the book’, I replied, ‘This was my first Conan Doyle and I thought it was really excellent. I enjoyed the whole thing from start to finish. I thought his tension was great and loved the heavy atmosphere he sets. I loved the descriptions of the moors and the dark, melancholy scenes he creates. I thought it was very atmospheric.’
‘Great’, replied the man, It’s my first Conan Doyle too and I’m looking forward to reading more as I’m sure you are too. And did you find it scary?’
‘I actually did find it scary. I found lots of the scenes unsettling and was actually scared by a lot of it.’ I gave an example of a scene that unsettled me and the people nodded and smiled and looked at me vacantly. I spoke directly to the bearded man not wanting to talk to the group like a preacher.
To finish off and partially due to panic I said, ‘I also thought the characters were very strong and the dialogue really good too. I thought the book was pretty unflawless.’ I think I said the ‘un’ at the beginning of ‘flawless’ quietly enough for them to question whether they heard it. Anyway, they got my drift.
‘Great’, he said, looking at me through slit eyes. ‘And Matt, tell us what you thought.’
The conversation drifted round the circle. After each speaker the rest of the table expanded on how they agreed with the statements made. The speakers swept their eyes slowly from one section of the table to another so as not to miss any one out. Twenty minutes passed and I sat on my stool looking at the huge clock which informed me one more hour was to come.
Once a full circuit was done, the conversation drifted into a less orderly fashion. The floor was now open and people dived onto it, referring to previous points made and elaborating on them apologetically.
At one point a ginger haired woman with gleaming skin said, ’I just want to add to what we agreed upon at the start about the dialogue being old fashioned and unconvincing.’ She then spent a few minutes describing the turgid dialogue and dismissing it as outdated and unrealistic. The rest of the table nodded and mumbled in agreement.
Sentences began to scramble over each other but never did the conversation multiply into two. I watched, shifting on my stool. The fresh air from outside had flushed my skin. The stuffy warmth was begging to close in. I had a few things I wanted to say, but didn’t know how to phrase them without sounding aggressive.
The reason for this was that I aggressively disagreed with most of what was being said. The book was pecked at by these hungry crows. With immense pleasure it was beaten and clawed on the ground like an old deflated balloon. Of course there was positive feedback, always followed abruptly by a “but” and then a long rampage on the weakness of the characters, the ludicrous idea of a fire breathing dog and the book’s general failure to scare.
I looked around the room. The back of a bald man’s head moved slightly as he talked. He was stocky and short and his head tilted up towards a blonde woman with curly, wet looking hair. As she replied hungrily her hands played with each other in front of her mouth. She dipped her head down and smiled with sparkling, slightly intimidated eyes. Every so often she would laugh daintily and expose her throat. I watched the bald head moving softly and the girl fluttering in front of it. I admired his ability to entice and charm the woman. He had dissolved the social tension that floats between people not well acquainted. From here it would be easy.
It had been a long time since I had said anything and I wondered if I should. I couldn’t get my head round the idea of speaking to a group. Last time I had singled out the bearded man and spoken directly to him. I didn’t want to cast my eyes smoothly from one person to another voicing my opinions. Staying silent, I began thinking of an exit strategy.
I thought about getting up under the pretense of buying a drink, however I would have to pick up my jacket and this would give the game away. So I waited. My body ached and my face was red. My eyelids drooped and I began to sink. I straightened my back a few times to get rid of the slouching gorilla position. It had reached the time of day when tiredness drags me down.
The meet up was due to end at nine o’clock and the time was twenty minutes to nine. The bearded man announced that if anyone wanted another drink, now was the time to get one. A few people got up and squeezed round the backs of chairs saying sorry and laughing. They trailed down to the bar. I questioned the three people in close proximity to me and they questioned me. They were friendly and warm.
The gangly man had come all the way from Kent for the meet up. He was pale and floppy looking. He took big gulps from his pint with knees wide apart and elbows sticking out either side of him. I wondered why he couldn’t have gone to a meet up closer by. Perhaps this one was particularly good.
Gaps around the table were filled again and pints of beer were sturdy on the wood. No topic was set but the group naturally returned to the preacher- disciples routine. I waited for the brief moment when the conversation had mutated into a gabble. I quietly excused myself from the people either side of me and with a smile stretched onto my face, made a few noises about next month’s meet up. Slipping off my stool, I whipped out and trotted down the stairs. Swinging open the light pub doors, outdoor air filled my skin and flowed into me, cooling my hot, inflated body.
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.