Magnus Mills - Three to See the King

Suddenly Mary Petrie threw open the door. ‘Go on!’ she ordered. ‘Go and see it for yourself!’

As I departed she seized the hammer and began using it to beat a saucepan flat. I could still hear the metallic blows when I was half a mile away. At this distance they reminded me of the chimes from Simon Painter’s bell, but they had none of the forlorn tones that had been so familiar a year ago. Instead they clanged out a simple, strident message: ‘I am going to fix the chimney whether you like it or not!’

I thought about Mary Petrie while I headed west, and remembered how helpless she’d seemed when she first arrived. She’d brought with her a world that revolved around a trunk, a mirror and a vanity case, and knew nothing about living in a tin house. The sound of that hammer, fading away behind me, was evidence that she had since become fully conversant with the subject.

The wind was blowing hard that day, and sent ripples of sand scurrying across the plain. It was not enough, though, to disturb the many trails of footprints I encountered. Throughout my journey I came upon them, all heading resolutely west. I passed the places where Simon, Steve and Philip had once lived, and then continued into the hinterland, not knowing quite what to expect.

By now some of the trails had merged to form more obvious routes, and I noticed that once they’d joined together like this they never separated again. After I’d been going for some while I began to yearn for the sight of a stray set of footprints wandering off to the left or to the right, choosing their own direction rather than merely following the crowd. None appeared.

All the same, I had to admit I found the excursion fairly interesting. Several times I stopped to examine the points where various trails converged, and on each occasion tried to work out if people were travelling alone or in groups, and even whether they were carrying loads.

Those who were, I guessed, were the ones with the heavier tread.

It was now approaching early evening. I remembered something about Simon taking five hours to get to Michael Hawkins’s place. That being so, I reckoned I should be in the vicinity by now, and therefore I stopped and peered around me. The day had been wild and blustery, with a grey sky that was already beginning to darken in the north. To the west, however, some light persisted, and as I stood looking I saw the dull and unmistakeable glint of a house of tin.

At the same instant my eye was caught by a similar glint slightly to the left of the first. Suspecting that maybe my sight was playing tricks on me in the failing conditions, I blinked once or twice. When I tried again I saw yet another glimmer, somewhat further away. Now I was certain. There, about a mile distant, stood at least three houses, maybe more, all built from tin. In the acute and final rays of daylight I attempted to count them. This time I made it five, but then an additional gleam emerged from the dimness, so that was six.

‘I will if you will,’ said a voice behind me.

Startled, I turned quickly to see a man advancing from the way I’d just come. He was carrying a bag and had addressed me in a very familiar tone, even though I’d never seen him before.

‘Pardon?’ I asked.

‘I will if you will,’ he repeated.

‘Will what?’

‘You know,’ he said. ‘Complete the journey. Take the final step, as it were. I’m about to do the same thing.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Savouring the moment, were you?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Thought so. The name’s Patrick Pybus, by the way. I’ve been following you for the last hour and I noticed you’ve been moving very slowly. You kept stopping all the time and studying footprints. That’s how I caught you up so easily. Then you stood here for another five minutes without moving at all.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, I was just looking at all this lot.’

I pointed in the direction of the tin houses and realized there was now nothing to see, the dusk having enveloped the plain. Even so, Patrick Pybus seemed to understand perfectly what I was talking about.

‘Marvellous, isn’t it?!’ he exclaimed. The years I’ve wanted to do this, and now I’m finally here! What a life! I can’t wait to sit by the stove late at night, listening to the wind as it plays under the eaves, the four walls creaking and groaning! Here, I’ve got something to show you.’

He reached into his bag and produced a large piece of paper, folded, which he carefully opened out for me. I peered at it in the gloom and saw a drawing of a house of tin. This had been done in a very correct manner, with proper measurements and so forth, and bore a strong resemblance to my own house. On closer examination, however, I decided it was more like Simon Painter’s.

‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘Is this where you’re going to live?’

‘When it’s built, yes,’ he replied.

‘Well, shouldn’t you be carrying some tin along with you?’

‘I’ve got some friends coming along behind,’ he said. They’re bringing the tin with them.’

‘Then they’ll be going back, will they?’

‘No, they’ll be staying.’

‘But what about their own tin?’ I asked.

‘Their own tin?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If they’re bringing the tin for your house, they won’t be able to bring their own as well, will they?’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘It’s not like that. We’re going to be sharing.’

‘Sharing? What, all in one house?’

‘Yes, of course. Why not?’

‘Well…’ I began, but then trailed off. One look at Patrick Pybus told me it would be futile trying to explain the finer points of living in a house of tin. He was simply too enthusiastic to understand that primarily you needed to be alone, and miles from the next person. Maybe in time he would learn this, and certainly there was enough room on this vast and empty plain for any amount of tin houses. Meanwhile, I just couldn’t bring myself to blunt his fervour.

‘Well, good luck,’ I said.

‘Same to you,’ he replied. ‘Shall we press on then?’

‘No, you go ahead if you like. I think I’ll stay here a bit longer.’

‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘See you.’

I watched Patrick Pybus disappear along the trail, then followed behind at a more leisurely pace, not being in quite such a hurry as him. To tell the truth, I’d been somewhat alarmed by the sight of all those tin houses. I had a feeling that the ones I’d counted were only the first of many, judging by the amount of footprints coming in this direction. True, there was a possibility that the numerous travellers we’d observed over the past year had been heading for a wide and varied set of destinations. In reality, though, I suspected they were all gravitating towards the same place. This made me wonder how I was going to cope when I got there. I was used to living in isolation with only Mary Petrie for company. The prospect of all those people, waiting less than a mile away, was frankly quite daunting, and as a result I took my time.

Another question was where I was going to spend the night. I had no doubt that Simon, Steve and Philip would all make me quite welcome, but first I had to find one of their houses. I was now drawing near to the half dozen or so I’d seen earlier, but I had no idea whether any of them belonged to my friends. In former days I’d always known whose place I was approaching simply because of its location. Simon lived to the west of me, for example, while Steve lived west-north-west of him. Here, where the houses all stood together, it was difficult to tell them apart. Admittedly they varied slightly, some being higher than others, or having different gable ends. Essentially, however, they were all the same. Each was built entirely from tin.