In Another Country (20 page)

Jack sent another gift of mushrooms to Mrs. Wilberforce. Tell her she can keep the little box, he said. I found it on the beach. She says thank you very much, said Stan, and how's the mermaid coming on? Tell her she's coming on very well, said Jack. Her tail was done, he had even managed to give a flourish to the extremity. Then he dug out a little hole for her belly button and that was it, all of the bottom half of her was done. Now for the rest. He admitted to Stan that he was going to find the upper half more difficult. I mean, he said, everyone knows what a fish looks like. He knew as soon as he came up to her hips and when he was making the hole and the little bulge (like half a cherry) for her belly button that the rest of her was going to be difficult. The sea was quiet, the roundabout and every other amusement in the Folly Field had closed, on the beach the Minister's wife was unleashing her alsatian. No wreck, said Stan. Nothing, said Jack. What's Ethel say about you visiting Mrs. W? Nothing, said Stan. I go in through the garden, behind the bonfire, she never misses me. You mean you do your visiting in your gardening coat? Doesn't bother her, said Stan. And what d'you do up there? Stan had the face of a childish devil when he grinned, and his hands, when he rubbed them together, sounded as though they felt like bark. Have a chat, he said, have a cup of tea. Nothing else besides? A saffron bun maybe, if I touch lucky. Jack did not know where Mrs. Wilberforce lived exactly. Some days he might have gone that far and called on Stan, but his usual walk was along the beach as far as the seawall or along the front as far as the Folly Field. That way Ev knew where he was. What's she like? he asked. I've maybe seen her on Thursdays in the post office. Fullish, said Stan, and blonde.

The ladies Ev had when it was her turn to entertain were mostly grey, grey or white, but not an old colour, more like a frost and snow scene on a Christmas card. They came in talking and when they were in they began to shout. When it was over they shouted at the door, and went away again talking. They often wore blue, and jewellery, their mouths were done in red, and certainly one or two of them were fullish. Sometimes the noise they were making suddenly grew louder and Jack was worried in his shed that they might be coming out to visit him, to do him a serious mischief in a friendly sort of way. Mrs. Blunt had a face which was massive and immensely powerful around the jaws, her tongue was like a steak. Betty Creeble (the lady whom Councillor Rabbit had offended) seemed to have fractured as a flint does, rather than to have worn as will, for example, chalk. Jack thought Ev's ladies fiercer than buffalo. Must be very nice, he said, at Mrs. W's, I mean. Some conversation with a well-spoken woman must be very nice. Stan offered to take him along next time he went—Come up the ditch, he said, and meet me by the bonfire—or next time Ev had her ladies, to be on the safe side; but Jack declined. He was gazing at his hands. Using the chisels and the hammer so much had made them sore.

Halfway. Jack decided to start at the top and work down to her middle. He gave her a round face, like the moon, but left it blank for the time being and did her hair, which he imagined a golden blonde, he took it right down her back to where her fishy half began. She was lying face down, her front was unspoiled trunk of cherry tree, and he did her hair, spreading it so that her bare back was covered, streams of hair, plaited, in long knots, a semblance of wrack and thong, as was fitting. Then he hid her under the sacks and went in to wash his hands.

By the way, said Ev, as they ate their haddock, I've thought what you can do me with that nice piece of wood. The haddock was yellower than usual. Funny how very unlike a fish it looked. I'll have a lighthouse that lights up. That would be very unusual, don't you think? You mean with a flashing light? Jack asked. Yes, flashing, said Ev. And if we stand it in the corner no one'll see the wires. And do some waves around the bottom to make it look more real. I see what you mean, said Jack. But I think you'll need a longer piece, and not so fat. It's long enough, said Ev, and you can shave it if it's fat.

The bare light bulb, the steam of his tea, the smells of wood and of the seashore. Jack lifted the mermaid out in her sacks and uncovered her. She was face up, a blank round face, her arms were still encased in the unquarried wood. He had decided she would be empty-handed after all. He had decided she would be hugging herself as though she were cold. The hair came down her shoulders as far as her waist like a cloak, but open, entirely open, at the front, so she was cold. Used to the sea, and cold? The air was colder. He gave her an open face, her smile was innocent and broad, but her eyes were so wide open it was shock her looks expressed. He roughed out her arms the way he wanted them. It was time to begin dividing and shaping her breasts. Happy valley, as Stan said. But the time was a quarter to eight and Ev had woken and would be expecting her cup of tea. Mushrooms, she said when he came in with the tray and wished her good morning. You haven't been out, I don't suppose. Just off, he said. But they're getting to the end, you know.

Soon there were no more mushrooms, neither for Ev nor for Mrs. Wilberforce, the nights drew in, the mornings were darker. Jack walked on the beach as far as the seawall or sat with Stan in the deserted Folly Field. I'm doing her bust, he said. Get me some oil, will you, next time you're in town. And he gave him the money out of the pocket without a hole. Ev wants a lighthouse, he added, one that flashes.

Her bust, her breasts. Jack was doing them after an idea he had of a woman's breasts in perfection in his head. By her slim arms, vertical and horizontal, they were enclosed and given a lovely and entirely natural prominence. Day after day, in the early mornings as it grew light and in the late afternoons as it grew dark, Jack was working on the mermaid's breasts with a love and patience that were a wonder to him afterwards. He was glad to have finished with the necessary chisels and the knives. Now he eased the finer and finer sandpapers with oil to induce the wood to become as smooth as skin. Her hair was rough, as it should be, and all of her fishy half, and even her face he was happy to leave like a doll's with broad features, but on her huddled shoulders, her hugging arms, and on her breasts that were like young creatures in a nest or fold, he worked, in the sweet wood, for the perfect smoothness of a human and living form. He was in a trance of work, under the bare bulb, his mug of tea absent-mindedly to hand, the sky outside either lightening or darkening. It put him in mind of the best work ever done by the most gifted boys (surprising themselves) in all his years at school, and of the animals reached out through the wire by the prisoners of war in exchange for a couple of Woodbines or a twist of tea. The memory—the association—filled him with pride.

After such work he came into his own house like a stranger.

 

There was a big sea. Jack lay awake, listening. He would wake himself early, but not to go looking for wood. His time before Ev woke was for the mermaid. He lay awake in the night, thinking. The sea came nearer. Jack was thinking of the illegits, and of their mother, Stan's daughter, who had stood beside him carelessly in the Folly Field.

Next morning after breakfast Jack climbed into the loft and found the nativity carvings. They were in a shoebox wrapped in brown paper. When he unwrapped them on the dining-room table they gave him a shock, it was years since he had had them out, and when he took the animals and the human figures one by one into his sore hands he felt a joy and a grief that bewildered him. He fitted the baby into the crib, set father and mother at the head, and crowded the shepherds and the ox and the ass around as though their curiosity were greater even than their reverence. The carving was rough, but every figure had its own liveliness, its dignity and an almost comical manifest good nature. Jack was entranced, like a child, he sat at the table staring, reached now and then for the ox or for Joseph or for the mother herself, as though by pressing them in his grip he could get a little way further into the feelings that were troubling him. He felt regret, but also a sort of gladness and gratitude that he was coming nearer to the source of his regret. Then Ev's voice said: What d'you want getting them out for? She startled him, she stood facing him across the table and her face had slipped, he had never seen such a look on her before, she looked momentarily disfigured as though a stroke had halted her and set her oddly in relation to the world. Well? she said. Well? Her voice had gone strange. Jack was balancing Joseph and Mary in either hand. Thought I'd give 'em to the illegits, he said. Thought they'd look nice where there's a Christmas tree. Ev screamed, once, then again, it was a sound that seemed to have in it nothing at all of personal volition, as though she were ripped. Then she sat at the table and began to weep. Jack put the figures back into the shoebox and the brown paper around it easily resumed its folds. It was paper of a kind no longer ever seen, thick and with an oily texture. Written on it in Ev's big capitals, in purple copy pencil, was the one word NATIVITY. I'll have to get some more string, said Jack.

As he stood up with the box in his hands Ev uncovered her face. And where's my lighthouse? she asked. That would have been nice for Christmas in the corner. It was an ordinary morning in November, a Thursday. Shan't I be going to the post office? said Jack. Don't change the subject, Ev replied. I want my lighthouse. Jack set down the nativity box again, went down the garden to his shed, took up the mermaid in her sacks and carried her thus into the living room. There he unwrapped her on the table, turned on the standard lamp and set her upright on the orange floral chair. I made this instead, he said. Ev stared, said nothing, only stared at the mermaid standing on her fishy tail and smiling foolishly and hugging her breasts as though she were very cold. Ev said: So that's what you've been down there doing. Yes, said Jack. What do you think? Nice, said Ev, very nice. A mermaid will be very unusual. Her voice was quiet, Jack was beginning to smile. So you don't mind then? Stan says he'll get me another log. He tells me Mrs. W's got one left. Mrs. W, eh? said Ev. So that's where you get your pieces of wood from, is it? Just the one, said Jack. But she'll very likely give me another, for your lighthouse.

Very nice, Ev said again. She was standing in the lamplight next to the floral chair on which the mermaid was standing. Only one little thing, she said: Her tits will have to come off. Pardon me? said Jack. Cut 'em off, said Ev. I have my ladies round. They can't be expected to look at things like that. It isn't fit. You'll cut 'em off. Then she'll be very nice. Quite unusual really. Jack was looking at his hands. They were calloused and sore from the work he had done on the mermaid. Ev, he said. Her face was remarkable for its infinite creases and wrinkles, but her hair was newly permed. She was smiling, she seemed on the verge of a sort of hilarity. It wouldn't be natural, said Jack. Who ever saw a mermaid without a bust? That's not the point, said Ev. You'll do as I say. Jack got to his feet. He found that his hands were trembling He took up the mermaid and was wrapping her safely in the potato sacks. Ev said: And don't think I'm having her down there in your shed. She belongs in my front room. I'm having her on show. Jack backed away, hugging his burden.

When he came in again the table was laid for dinner. The nativity box was lying on the hearth empty. The fire was burning very fiercely. Ev set before him the pale-green fish-shaped plate. I've done you a nice piece of sole, she said.

 

Jack sat in the Folly Field with Stan. He was cold. She wants me to cut her bust off, he said. Hell hath no fury, said Stan. I don't follow, said Jack. I told her it wouldn't look natural, but she's adamant. He did not tell Stan about the nativity figures. He was ashamed. Stan finished his cigarette and tossed it away towards the empty beach. I'll tell you what, he said. Why don't you give her to Mrs. Wilberforce? She's always asking how you're getting on. Jack was tempted, he was very tempted. His heart raced at the proposal. Though he could not be certain that he had ever seen Mrs. Wilberforce, the idea of her, the idea in his head, which came not only when he sat with Stan in the Folly Field, was luminous and detailed. In spirit at least he often sat alongside Stan on the comfortable sofa in her parlour drinking tea and, on the luckiest days, eating one of her buns whilst the winter evening drew in. She lit the lamp, but left the big curtains open to watch the starlings hurtle past on a livid sky. And she might ask Stan would he mind throwing another log on the fire, and there they sat, making conversation without any difficulty, and she was indeed, as Stan had often said, a handsome woman. No doubt about it, the mermaid would look very well in that room. The sea was not so far distant (you could hear it when the wind was right), and the noise the big trees made when there was a wind in them was very like the sea. And didn't the mermaid belong there after all, to make up for the flowering cherry tree which Mrs. W had been so sorry to lose? She'd murder me, he said. She'd never know, said Stan. She would, said Jack. She finds out everything when her ladies come. Pity, said Stan. Would have made a nice present. Jack wondered whether his friend were deceiving him. Perhaps Mrs. Wilberforce never asked after him, perhaps she had never heard he was making a mermaid, perhaps Stan would present it to her one evening as the work of his own hands. Suddenly Jack even doubted whether he had been given any credit for the mushrooms. Stan could be very sly. Jack recalled numerous instances of his slyness in the course of their long friendship. Jack had become very downhearted by the time he said goodbye.

Jack switched the light on and unwrapped the mermaid. She lay on her back, her face as round as the moon, a helpless smile, hugging herself for cold. He was amazed at his achievement; or call it luck, a once in a lifetime abundance of good luck. The way her breasts were was exactly how the idea of them was in his head. He laid his cheek on them, closed his eyes, took into the blood of his heart her scent of oil and wood. Then he left her uncovered on the workbench, under the bare bulb.