A Singular Man Part 12

"Just one thing before you go Mr. Smith. Nothing at all. But thought I'd just mention it. It's just had me wondering. But you know the great black slab over there, the big financier who died mysteriously. Well for about the last couple of months or so, maybe twice, three times a week a woman comes. Spends an hour or more. Sitting on the bench there. In black, thick veil over her face. I'd say she was fairly young, really beautiful legs is her distinction. For awhile we took no notice and just thought she's visiting the guy's grave but the funny thing is, I don't think she's coming to that grave at all but is watching this mausoleumgo up. Just strange. Thought I'd tell you. Brought opera gla.s.ses last few times."

"That is interesting Mr. Browning. But sounds like just someone interested, perhaps in the design, which as we know is a departure."

"To say the least, Mr. Smith. I mean, you know, pioneering so to speak."

"Well merry Christmas, do take care of yourself, Mr. Browning."

"You too, Mr. Smith."

"Bye bye."

"Bye."

Waves of the hand. Car moves off quickly across the hard snowy road. Past the black slab all white now. Brings opera gla.s.ses. Beautiful legs. Mr. Browning says it's nothing at all but why say it isn't anything if it isn't. At all. Legs. Black veil. Pity I have not employed the latter myself. Everyone tries to pry. And after prying they want to jeer. Good legs is her distinction. And And my mother and father are dead. In a watery cottage with creepers growing out of the wall. But had they lived, to take them away from that, ripping them up, bringing them to a world of impersonal luxury. Snuff their lives out in no time. Crashes on you this Christmas eve. Lonely. Out the window, death everywhere. Stacked up. Sealed up. Paid up, a few celebrated, some famous, the rest rich. Things G.o.d gave them. And when I beat up my children's mother, they ran clutching round our batding knees and those who could reach higher did so, they screamed leave our mommie alone, leave her, leave her, tears streaming down their faces. Each of those four little bodies came on four distinct afternoons when take me George, take me, from behind, in front anywhere you fancy because golly. Never remember what side I took ShirL Four little freckled faces with constant throats and beating little fists drive it out of your mind. my mother and father are dead. In a watery cottage with creepers growing out of the wall. But had they lived, to take them away from that, ripping them up, bringing them to a world of impersonal luxury. Snuff their lives out in no time. Crashes on you this Christmas eve. Lonely. Out the window, death everywhere. Stacked up. Sealed up. Paid up, a few celebrated, some famous, the rest rich. Things G.o.d gave them. And when I beat up my children's mother, they ran clutching round our batding knees and those who could reach higher did so, they screamed leave our mommie alone, leave her, leave her, tears streaming down their faces. Each of those four little bodies came on four distinct afternoons when take me George, take me, from behind, in front anywhere you fancy because golly. Never remember what side I took ShirL Four little freckled faces with constant throats and beating little fists drive it out of your mind.

George Smith directed the chauffeur to drive round die lake once before leaving Renown Memorial Cemetery. Near the frozen waterfall car halting. Smith viewing nature through the gla.s.s. Ice broken, two ducks swimming. One multicolored male, one drab female. Things are different in the spider kingdom. And over there, a monument sucking in the sky. Stiff stone garments in the cold grey air. Statue of a wife. One hand reaching out, upturned. Come hither.

Forty minutes past twelve. And the car sweeps out the high black gates. Grey guard, saluting. Back across the trolley tracks. Down through the woods again. By a lit-de hill. Children in bright red and blue caps sleigh riding. Ice crystals in the trees. Smith swallowing curious tears from the top of his lip. Christmas has always been so sad. At night when young with newly combed hair, tie and shirt all clean, all full of promise for this eve. I was sad.

Black limozine whistling down die highway, pa.s.sing across a bridge where far down flowed the litde river into a big river. No one to talk to, to meet, to laugh. When no one knows I'm alive at all.

Black car sweeping by above the piers and ships, under the shadows of stations, by the shut up markets, empty freight yards. Tell the driver to stop by a grey building. The fireboat station. Two tugs tied up. Now walk across the cold windy park. Staring at two statues. A cannon. Out onto the ferry slip. A cruise for the price of a small coin. Until seven o'clock in the dark evening. Pa.s.sing back and forth across the grey cold waters. Staring up at the towers as they receded and rose. Somehow at the tip. Down here. One can always jump. Somewhere. Or take a ferry.

And up between the canyon buildings. Walking and wandering the streets looking in the windows. By bars. Peer through a grating. See down into a room. A girl lying back on a dim couch under bedclothes. Sad little fire flickering. Against fire regulations. Flames melting on her face. Wan and dying.

A taxi back to Merry Mansions. Manse of rich mischief. More parties in progress. No sign of Hugo. Up the steps into Flat Fourteen. And the dark empty rooms. Light on in the foyer. And then to the sitting room. Where something moves. Shudder of fear. Goodly flash up the keester. And hair up on the back of the neck. Flick on some light. Sitting in black, a cowl over the head. For one second it looks like death. And the next with the veil back. Shirl.

"h.e.l.lo George. I was waiting for you didn't think you'd come. Hugo let me in. Don't get angry, not his key, got it right here, he got it from a Mr. Stone. Here it is."

"Thank you."

"I'm here George because I'm pleading for my children and myself. O.K. I said things. You said things. But still there are four children. Each with a future."

"Do have a drink, what would you like."

"No. I'm not staying. I just want to say what I've got to say and I'm catching the nine fifteen train. It's Chnstmas eve."

"I know it's Christmas eve."

"I don't want to fight."

"Well what do you want to do."

"I'm here because it is Christmas and I'm asking you to stop."

"Stop what."

"You know what, George."

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Your mausoleum."

"I beg your pardon."

"Let's not beat around the bush George. Please. Not tonight. I'm just asking you not to go on with it. You can't go on with it."

"Why wear that get up to tell me this. Black veil."

"And why are you wearing the get up you've got on."

"That's my business."

"And I know why, because that's what you wear when you go to that infernal cemetery."

"You better have a drink Shirl because that's all you're going to get from me. I have nothing further to say."

"You've been there, haven't you, in that ridiculous car with the radio telephone. As if you were playing cops and robbers,"

"And you've been hanging around."

"There. I knew it. It's yours isn't it. Admit it now."

"Shirl if you don't mind, you're going to miss your train. In short I live here."

"You don't have to tell me that. On your bathroom floor is Matilda. Absolutely unconscious drunk. And practically nude."

"How refreshing."

"Don't be so smug. I call it enticement, not that she probably has to."

"I prefer not to discuss my servants."

"You're such a G.o.d d.a.m.n phoney."

"Now look Shirl I'll clout you across the face if you continue. I've had enough bad news today."

"Why, run out of marble. O G.o.d."

"My mother and father are dead."

"Ha ha ha."

"Are you laughing."

"Yes. I'm laughing."

Smith standing stiffly, silently. Shirl leaning deeply back, drawing in a deep breath. Black feather crossing down upon her cheek. Brown eyes. Raising one brow. As the staring contest is engaged. When her mouth moves she's weakening. With both her mouths such soft tilings. And kissed them honeyed blossoms both so many times. She can draw love out of stone. Even now. Four children later. Ripe under linen in summer, soft wool in winter. And clinging and black silk now. Eats an apple while she pops a baby out like a pip. They grow as little kings and queens.

"Aren't you going to hit me George."

"I'm tired."

"What a rotten little trick, mother and father. You try everything. And what's that now."

"None of your business."

"Don't tell meyou're taking snuff. G.o.d."

From the tiny turquoise casket Smith pressed a pinch at each nose hole. Shirl crossing legs. Beautiful legs that is her distinction. Means she's got something more to say. And beyond Shirl's head, across the street, out of this dimly lit room, a slattern mother. And her grey husband holds his head in hands. Over his eight mistakes.

"Your train Shirl. This weekend's been enough already."

"I can stop you building that edifice."

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about one acre, foundations thirty feet deep, imported marble, and the biggest mausoleum built in Renown Cemetery. Doctor Fear."

"What are you talking about."

"That's who you are. Doctor Fear, who's building, whose name is connected with it. None other than George Smith."

"You've been reading too many comic strips, Shirl."

"My legal counsel is going to take steps. Are you pretending I can't stop you squandering what my children and I have a right to."

"You're amply supplied with money."

"And what happens to the rest of that money."

"What money."

"Why haven't you got accountants. Answer me that."

"What do you really want, Shirl."

"I want more. Because you've got more. You're rotten with it. You tried to buy two thousand canes from an antique dealer."

"Two hundred."

"And then walked out with a bronze pig worth a fortune."

"Bra.s.s."

"You admit it. And the poor man is hysterical."

"The whole world is hysterical."

"You robbed him."

"I did nothing of the kind. Bra.s.s. Recent."

"Bronze and ancient. My detective said so."

"I see. Some detective."

"Yes as a matter of fact he is. And happens to be a college graduate, something you're not."

"This is a problem of yours Shirl. Take it on the train with you."

"And that ghoulish monumentis going to be stopped."

"And I'm going to tell you perhaps for the last time, you're being fed, clothed and housed."

"Don't use that even voice with me. Save your precision for Matilda, you'll need it getting in there."

"This way please."

"O you big s.h.i.t. You s.h.i.t. Phoney. We'll get an injunction."

"My advice Shirl is to stay away from the law. It can grind both ways."

"You're not scaring me."

"And I a.s.sure you I'm not paying to have it grind me."

"We'll see."

"We may. Meanwhile you've enough money to hire some college kids if you need a quick one."

Shirl lunging forward, slapping Smith across the face. Moving a knee up to pound him in the privates. Smith neatly blocking with a deft thigh. She runs. Clicking across the floor of the foyer. Having caught the side of George's face with one lash of her claw. And a vase with one blossom of the wax dogwood flower. Held above Shirl's head and thrown. And a bark. Matilda. On all fours. Naked. One could charge admission to this zoo. Door slamming. Wince. One more crack sent through Merry Mansions. Smith shouting.

"Get out. Get out of here. Just get out. All of you get out. Stay out. And leave me alone."

Smith in his dark suit. Giving Matilda traffic directions back to her room. Didn't last long at her heaven. Once more step over shattered pieces of delf. And go and sit with a bottle of whisky. Lever off the silvery cap. Put it to the lips. Pour it down the throat. This time of year gives everyone a chance to pa.s.s out insult, and if possible, injury. The things that come out on Christmas eve. I beg your pardon. When so many things seem to happen. And you want to cry O G.o.d. Sent to a new world. With a father and mother dead in the old. Where all will grow over in white flowered bramble. Sink slowly in bog and be covered by the waves. Tinker people lined the roads. With fires at night. My father kept a hay fork leaning near the door to give them a pike in the a.s.s if they got fresh near evening because that countryside was terrifying after dark. By day once when I was pa.s.sing on my horse. A blond woman with gleaming eyes beckoned. Nodded towards the bushes and raised her brows, I was a child king who owned all the land. Get down and do something with her. A little awkward with the garb I was geared in. To mix my blood with road louts. But she was young. A woman. And dirty. But hair golden. She said come lay, hush now, with me. Fluttered her dress, held it wide with pretty dots and bows. Covered too, in horses.h.i.t. How can I risk my thin fingers with her strong bones. Tangling in the briars. In the yellow hair. And she turned away, aloof. Head high and haughty. And I got down because I thought I was no prince and this woman would do something strange. Something I had never heard of and young as I was I had sifted out a lot of information. She ran. Ducked under a wire in the hedge. And down the field and into the tall standing hay. I thought, Christ the fanner will kill us trampling this. She played with her pink blouse. And blue b.u.t.tons. Laughed and pushed me back as I got close. Till I tried to grab. Like falling into my own grave. My G.o.d how are her teeth. From here you could see the sea. She sang close to my ear. All the fright and fear she blew away. Christ if someone sees us. Got to do it, to begin life. She put her lips there and tasted me. Slowly gently just like the sailing vessel I could see beating its way up the sh.o.r.e this summer time and her voice so low and friendly.

I gave Her Her The young The young Horn Horn She said. She said.As the Grazing Grazing Was Was Green. Green.

7.

ON a day when winter was ending. On a promontory near a dead end of street pushing out into the river by the fish market. Dark sheds. Barges b.u.mping derelict. I walked out here on the first day I moved office and have come lunch times ever since. To watch the ferries, the pigeons scared into the air by hoots. And to conjure up a future for my past. a day when winter was ending. On a promontory near a dead end of street pushing out into the river by the fish market. Dark sheds. Barges b.u.mping derelict. I walked out here on the first day I moved office and have come lunch times ever since. To watch the ferries, the pigeons scared into the air by hoots. And to conjure up a future for my past.