The Railway Station Man (9 page)

‘I am grown-up, mother. I don't have to answer to anyone. I am an autonomous person.'

She smiled slightly.

‘Brutus is an honourable man.'

‘Father couldn't talk to you either.'

‘We just talked about different things, that was all. You are very like him.'

‘I …'

‘Oh I know you wouldn't agree with me. He believed in the hierarchy of power. He believed that it was possible to impose, to keep peace by the use of violence … He wouldn't have called it violence though. He didn't believe in God.'

‘He went to church … every Sunday off we trekked.'

‘He acknowledged God in a sort of social way. He didn't believe in Him though. He preferred symbols to the truth.'

‘I suppose you said all those things to him?' His voice was sarcastic.

She shook her head. ‘Oh no. I didn't begin to understand him until after his death. I certainly never recognised his fear.'

Jack didn't seem to hear that word.

‘He told me once that he sometimes thought you were a little simple.'

She laughed.

‘Anyway I'm not like that. Not remotely.'

‘Let's wait and see, shall we?'

They sat in silence. She put out her hand and took the lid off the pot and peered inside.

‘The tea
is
cold. Would you like some more? I'll make some more.'

‘Don't bother. I'll be off in a few minutes.'

‘Off?'

‘I'm going back to Dublin.'

‘Oh, I didn't realise … I hope it isn't because of …'

‘No. Bag packed and all. I have things to do this afternoon.'

‘Do you want sandwiches? A thermos? Anything like that? Hard-boiled eggs?'

‘No. No need. I'll stop on the way if I feel like it.'

‘Some fruit. I have some bananas. Easy to eat and then throw the skins out of the window. Bio-degradable banana skins.'

‘Stop being motherly for God's sake.'

She got up and took her cup and saucer over to the sink.

‘That's what I am,' she said. ‘That's how I know I exist. I'm a mother.'

‘Yoohoo.'

A voice shouted from the front door.

‘Oh God,' said Helen. ‘It's Mary and I'm not dressed or ready or anything … Halloo. Halloo. Kitchen.'

The door opened and a small woman in an anorak walked into the room.

‘I'm not dresssed or anything, Mary.'

‘I can see that. Morning, Jack. I didn't know you were home.'

‘Just a fleeting visit.' Jack stood up.

‘Cup of tea, Mary?' asked Helen.

‘No time to stand beneath the bough, dear. I've got loads of stuff to collect. ICA sale, Jack dear. We've the white elephant as usual. Why I said I'd collect you first, Helen, I can't imagine. I should have known you wouldn't be ready. How long are you here for?'

‘I'm off this morning actually …'

‘Lovely to be young again. No cares. Here today and gone …'

‘I have the stuff packed and ready in the porch, Mary. Why don't you take it with you in the car and I'll come down later on the bike?'

‘My dear it's simply lashing.'

‘A little drop of rain won't do me any harm.'

‘If you really don't mind. Then you could take your time. See Jack off the premises. Dilly and dally. I have no doubt you'll dilly and dally. Won't she, Jack?'

‘Darling, would you pack those things in the porch into the back of Mary's car for me? Sure you won't have a quick cup?'

Jack nodded and left the room.

‘No tea, dear. I had the most enormous breakfast only a few minutes ago. I'm sure we won't have time for any lunch. He's looking well. So grown-up these days. Didn't he have a moustache when he was last here? I get so confused about moustaches. If you really don't mind about the bike, dear, I think that would be best. Do keep covered up though. You wouldn't want to stand round all day in wet clothes. I'll fly away then. Must be there to marshal the troops. Don't be too long, dear.'

‘I promise. I'll just see Jack off the premises and then I'll be right down.'

‘Righty ho.'

She marched towards the door as Jack came in from the hall.

‘Sorry you're off so soon, Jack. See you at Christmas, I suppose. Don't keep your mother hanging around for too long. I'll be needing her below. Bon voyage. Tooraloo, dears.'

She was gone. The hall door banged behind her. They stood in the silence for a moment looking at each other. He moved across the room towards her and put out a hand and touched her shoulder.

‘Tooraloo, Mum. See you at Christmas.'

The rain stopped in the early afternoon. The sun came out and a small cold wind began to dry the village street and tease the leaves that lay in sodden heaps in the gutters. Liam the road man was supposed to sweep them up as they fell and take them away in his little cart, but nature's persistence always seemed too much for him and the leaves remained until the winter storms did Liam's work for him.

The hall was warm, quite stark, but cheerful. Mary Heron always refused to allow time to be wasted on paper chains and hanging decorations. On the platform at one end of the hall a dozen small tables had been set up and covered with coloured cloths and a number of women were sitting drinking tea and eating their way through plates stacked with sandwiches and home-made cakes. Helen was behind the white elephant stall.

Mary and I, she thought, are the true white elephants here. No one will buy us though. Neither useful nor decorative. That's not quite fair on Mary. She has her uses. She has drive, for what it's worth. This damn operation for instance, all these people pushing and buying cakes and useless objects they don't want, and arguing over second-hand cardigans, if Mary hadn't tooralooed and tallyhooed at them down all the years they'd all be safely at home watching an afternoon soap opera or darning their husband's socks. Would they have been happier? We all spend our lives waiting for something to happen … and I suppose in the end of all we're probably quite relieved when nothing does happen. Oh God, I remember when I left the College of Art to marry Dan I was so sure that some magical explosion of love would occur, would shake me to the very marrow of my bones. I hoped then to be rattled into life and I was too damn lazy even to feel unhappy when it didn't work out like that.

‘Wake up, wake up.'

Mary's voice poked into her head.

‘You're asleep, Helen. Mrs O'Meara's been waving that tea cosy under your nose for ages'

‘I'm so sorry, Mrs O'Meara. How terribly rude of me.'

Mrs O'Meara waved the tea cosy again.

‘Emmm … how … emmm?' She was shy and quite newly married and didn't really need a tea cosy.

‘What about fifty pence? It's quite pretty. It looks as if someone made it by hand.'

‘Fifty pence my eye,' said Mary. ‘It's hand-made all right. Victorian. A real piece of Victoriana that. Beautiful work. A pound. What would you say to a pound, Mrs O'Meara? After all it's in a good cause, isn't it? You've all come here today to spend some money, haven't you? A pound.'

Mrs O'Meara, as if hypnotised, opened her bag and took out a pound which she handed across the trestle.

‘Marvellous. Thank you so much. You won't regret it. You've bought a lovely little piece of the past. It might end up in a museum one day.'

Mrs O'Meara melted into the crowd, the lovely little piece of the past tucked under her arm.

‘You are terrible,' said Helen, laughing.

‘She can well afford it. That shop of her husband's is … what do they call it nowadays … a rip-off.'

‘You're not too bad at ripping-off yourself.'

‘Freddie always used to say I could get blood out of a stone.'

‘I'd give anything for something else out of a stone at the moment.'

The old woman leaned down and pulled out a box from under the trestle. In it was a large thermos flask and several plastic mugs.

She picked up the thermos and unscrewed the top.

‘A mug, a mug. Quick, get a move on. I see Father Quinlan heading in our direction.'

Helen held out two mugs and Mary filled the mug with what looked like effervescent water.

‘I'm afraid it's vodka, not gin,' she said, screwing the top back on the flask again. ‘Doesn't smell. It's cold … and strong.' She pushed the box out of sight with her foot. ‘Down the hatch. Whoops.'

‘Whoops,' said Helen.

‘I thought our spirits might flag as the day wore on. Good afternoon, Father Quinlan. What can we persuade you to buy?'

‘My house is filled with white elephants, Mrs Heron. Good afternoon to you, Helen.'

‘Good afternoon, Father Quinlan.'

‘I have strict instructions from Katy … just stick to the useful articles, she said, as I was leaving the house. So this year, Mrs Heron, I have to spend my money wisely. Jam, pickles, home-made biscuits. Katy will praise me when I get home, not scold. You wouldn't have Katy scolding me, would you?'

‘Dear Father Quinlan, Katy will scold the Lord God Himself when she gets to heaven, so you'll be in good company.'

He smiled.

When he smiled he showed an expanse of rather yellowing teeth and his tired eyes gleamed for a moment. He was a gardener, and his fingernails were more times filled with earth and his finger tips rough and pitted with grubbing in the soil. In spite of Katy's most strenuous efforts he was frequently seen with the knees of his trousers seamed with mud.

‘I spend most of my life on my knees,' he would smile and his eyes would gleam and his fingers would brush without much enthusiasm at the stains. His eyes wandered over the stall and rested for a moment on one of Helen's watercolours propped up against a tarnished brass jug. He put out a hand towards it. Helen turned away. She groped for the plastic mug and took a large gulp. Then she turned slightly so that she could see what was happening out of the side of her eye. She saw his black nails.

‘Framed up and it would be a nice little picture. Who did that now?'

‘I haven't the faintest idea,' said Mary. ‘Do you know, Helen? There's another couple somewhere.'

‘No … well … No.'

‘Framed up,' said the priest, holding the picture at arm's length. A bit of glass and a nice narrow frame. What do you think, Helen?'

‘Yes,' said Helen foolishly.

‘I don't see that Katy could make too much of a fuss about a nice wee picture of sheep and shadows.' He laughed suddenly. ‘I'm sure I can find some suitable soothing text to calm her. And all that admirable jam.' He turned the picture over and peered down to find a signature.

‘A modest artist,' he murmured. ‘How much … ah … Mrs Heron, would you want me to be forking out for this charming picture?'

‘There are two more, if you wait a moment …'

He shook his head quite firmly.

‘No. I am very happy with the one I have. If you produce two more I will have to make decisions, judgments. Also, Mrs Heron, confidentially with that little bit of sun, I want to get back to the garden. There is so much tidying-up to do before the winter sets in.'

‘Five, father. Five. It's all in a good cause and as you said yourself it's a nice little picture.'

He took his wallet out of his pocket and handed her over a five-pound note.

‘When it comes to raising funds, Mrs Heron, there's no one to beat you.'

‘Get back to your garden quick now, Father Quinlan, and God bless you.'

He tucked the picture under his left arm, made a little bow towards the two of them and turned and walked quickly towards the door.

Mary put the note into the cash box.

‘Where the hell did I put the other two? Do you think we can do that again? Ah, here they are. I doubt it.' She pulled the pictures out from under a pile of discoloured lace and propped them up against a couple of jugs. ‘Freddie liked him. Did you paint them dear? Quite nice, quite nice. Perhaps I should have asked him for more. I like him. He used to come up and play chess with Freddie when he was dying. He'd chat about trees and things … fishing … all the things that Freddie liked you know. Of course you never knew Freddie did you? He had more time for him than old Canon Fergusson. That was in the days when we had a Rector … old Canon Fergusson. He didn't know a bishop from a castle. He played bridge quite well though. He used to want to talk to Freddie about God. I suppose he felt it was his duty or something like that. Freddie hated that. Silly old bugger he used to say … just because he wears his collar back to front doesn't mean he knows any more about God than I do. Poor old Canon Fergusson. He was a little dim. Could you call that blasphemy? I don't suppose so really, just a bit of arrogance perhaps. I don't suppose God held it against him. Do you?'

She took her plastic mug from the window sill and drained it. ‘Bottoms up.'

‘Does that gramophone work?

Helen turned, startled by the strange voice.

‘I'm sorry …

‘The gramophone.'

He pointed with his only arm at the gramophone which was sitting on an upturned box beside the trestle table.

‘Oh, Mr Haythorne … yes … it does … but you have to wind it up.'

He smiled. His mouth twisted up to the left and seemed to get caught in the scar that ran down his face from the eyepatch to the chin.

‘Yes,' he said gently. ‘I presumed you had to do that.'

‘It is Haythorne, isn't it?'

‘Hawthorne. Roger Hawthorne. I don't mind winding it up. In fact I'd quite enjoy it. Hawthorne.' He repeated a little sternly. He looked at her for a moment.

‘I think perhaps I was a little rude to you the other day. Brusque … I …'

‘It's all right,' she said. ‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Of course I'd need some records if I were to buy it. Wouldn't I?'