Magnus Mills - Three to See the King

‘When shall we start?’ asked an eager Simon.

‘Soon as you like.’

While the three of them stood planning the expedition, I went and had a quiet look at the chalk markings. Sure enough, each part of the house bore an inscription, such as TRH, LHT or FRS. I couldn’t make head or tail of any of it, but I guessed that Steve had the method of assembly all worked out, and therefore I enquired no further.

By this time they’d agreed to set off immediately with the first few pieces. Simon had now thought of a possible site to establish his new home, and he estimated that it would take about five hours to get there.

‘We can stay at Michael’s tonight,’ he said. ‘Then come back for some more bits tomorrow.’

‘If we go via my place we can stop for a meal on the way,’ suggested Steve. Then he looked at me. ‘Unless, of course, you’d prefer your own cuisine?’

‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Well, if you want to nip home first we’ll wait for you.’

I gathered from this remark that they assumed I was going with them, which, of course, I wasn’t. In my view it was one thing to turn out and help someone get over a little local difficulty, but quite another to spend several days moving a tin house overland.

‘Actually, I won’t be coming,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay here and be quartermaster instead.’

‘Quartermaster?’ asked Steve.

‘Yes, you know, I’ll look after the pieces while you’re away. Stop them being stolen, that kind of thing.’

There’s no one here except us,’ he replied. ‘Who’s going to steal them?’

‘Well, they might get blown around.’

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘If you’re not interested it doesn’t matter.’

Without further word he walked away to join the others, leaving me feeling a little awkward. Subsequent conversation was held only between the three of them as they prepared for their forthcoming journey. A little later they set off, each bearing part of a house of tin.

No one said goodbye. Not even Simon.

I stayed there for a long time after they’d gone, reluctant to leave the remaining pile unguarded. I knew as well as they did that this was quite unnecessary, for as Steve had pointed out, there was no one around except us. Even so, I felt obliged to make certain everything was secure. A length of rope lay coiled amongst Simon’s possessions, and I used it to tie down all the various pieces. This, I assured myself, would protect them from the wind. Then, when I was satisfied there was no more I could do, I headed for home. Halfway back I met Mary Petrie. She was carrying a basket in her hand.

‘That was quick work,’ she said. ‘Have you put Simon together already?’

‘Not quite,’ I replied. ‘He’s decided to move.’

The basket contained a flask of coffee, along with some cakes which she’d brought to keep us going. I told her what had happened, and how the others had left without saying goodbye.

‘Well,’ she remarked. ‘At least you’ve still got me, haven’t you?’

This was one way of looking at it, of course, but as we returned home I couldn’t help thinking that I might never see my friends again. After all, they had little cause to come calling any more. These thoughts played on my mind quite a lot that night. By the following morning I’d resolved to go over to Simon Painter’s place every day with a basket of provisions for the three of them. Then they’d know that although they were gone, they were by no means forgotten. For some reason, however, I couldn’t face seeing them in person. This wasn’t because I felt ashamed for not helping with the move. It was just that I didn’t think I’d know what to say to any of them. Accordingly, I decided not to pay my visit until the late afternoon, by which time I reckoned they should have arrived and departed again.

Sure enough, when I got to Simon’s about an hour before dusk the first thing I noticed was that three more pieces of tin had been taken away. I was pleased to see they’d used the rope to tie down the rest of the pile, just as I had, but apart from that there was no sign of anyone having been there. I checked everything was secure, then left the basket of victuals in a prominent position.

When I went back the next day the pile had again been reduced by three items. It was disappointing to discover, though, that the flask of coffee had not been touched. Only the cakes were gone.

‘Perhaps the coffee went cold overnight,’ suggested Mary Petrie when she heard about it.

Of course, I thought, how stupid of me! After that I switched to making my delivery early in the morning, then returning again in the afternoon to retrieve the basket. This system was quite time-consuming, involving two journeys there and back, but I felt somehow rewarded the first time I found the coffee had been drunk and all the cakes eaten.

As the days went by I found that these trips became increasingly important to me. I would study closely the diminishing stack of tin to see which pieces had been removed, and always I looked to see if anything new had been left behind. There was nothing I was expecting in particular, I should add, but I thought I might find an occasional message saying how they were getting on, or maybe a ‘thank you’ note. Instead, there was only the empty basket. It soon became clear that my daily offerings were of little importance compared with the task of moving an entire house bit by bit. This did little, however, to reduce my interest, which was now starting to become obsessive. I began to recognize the ways in which the pieces of tin had been marked for reassembly, and I kept a note of them for my own reference. I’d soon worked out, for example, that FRS was an abbreviation of front right side, while LHT meant left hand top. The more I became acquainted with this special code Steve Treacle had devised, the more I suspected that it was doomed to failure. My doubts were confirmed when I came across a part marked TLH. What was the difference, I wondered, between top left hand and left hand top?

After two weeks the pile had decreased considerably in size. Still the coffee and cakes were consumed daily, and still I received no acknowledgement. Undeterred, I maintained my regular visits. This soon caused trouble at home. Mary Petrie mentioned frequently that I seemed to be spending a lot of time away, so one afternoon I invited her to come with me on my journey. Then she could find out for herself what was so fascinating about a heap of tin, as she put it. We arrived quite late because of the speed she walked, then all she did was stand gazing in silence at the deserted site. This was actually her first visit to Simon Painter’s house, and I could see that its reduced condition meant nothing to her. Therefore, I thought I’d better explain the layout.

‘Simon used to live right on this very spot,’ I said. ‘The door was here and the kitchen was there, and the stove was in that corner. Don’t you find that interesting?’

‘Not if he’s left the place, no,’ she replied. ‘Where’s his bell?’

A short search revealed it hidden amongst his other possessions, along with the Sandfire nameplate, the wind chimes and the rolled-up flag. I gave the bell a ring, and when she heard its familiar tone her eyes welled up with tears.

‘How come you’re so engrossed with Simon all of a sudden?’ she demanded. ‘When he was living here all you did was criticize him!’

‘Yes, but only as a friend,’ I replied.

‘You were never friendly to him!’

‘I was.’

‘No you weren’t!’ she cried. ‘And now he’s gone and you deserve it!’

Next moment she had turned away and was stalking homeward. I wanted to go after her and find out what fault I was supposed to be guilty of now, but there were one or two things I needed to do first. Quickly I counted the pieces of tin to see what still remained, then I checked the rope was secure, grabbed the basket and set off in pursuit.