Magnus Mills: Three to See the King

It didn’t help that until yesterday he hadn’t spoken to anyone for weeks. Silence was clearly not his vocation, and now he was making up the deficit. I’d never come across anyone who talked so much! He could keep going for hours on end without a break! Worse, he seemed to think that a conversation consisted of asking a question, listening to the answer, adding his own comment and then asking another. I would have been quite content to sit peacefully at the table and talk about subjects as and when they cropped up. Every time there was the slightest period of silence, though, Simon felt obliged to interrupt it.

‘Heard anything of Steve Treacle lately?’ he would begin.

‘No, I haven’t,’ I’d reply.

‘Nor me. I went over to his place about a month ago, but he wasn’t at home. Well there was no answer when I knocked on the door, anyway. I never seem to be able to catch him these days. Last time was when I was making preliminary enquiries about my captive balloon. Incidentally, I take it you’ve still no objections to that?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘That’s good. I gather Steve’s recently become great friends with Philip Sibling.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Have you seen anything of him?’

‘Philip?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Nor me.’

And so it would go on. At some point in the exchange Mary Petrie would rise from the table, glance at the two of us, and proceed to the upper floor. I was sure she was enjoying all this in her own way because there always seemed to be a slight smile on her lips as she disappeared from view. Her graceful departure would cause Simon to cease talking for a moment while his gaze followed her movement up the stairs. Then the quietness would get the better of him and he’d be off again.

‘Apparently there’s someone living even further out than Steve and Philip,’ he announced one evening. ‘His name’s Michael Hawkins. Do you know him?’

‘No, sorry,’ I replied.

‘I’ll have to wander out there and see him sometime. Make contact, sort of thing, so he doesn’t feel too cut off. Would you be interested in coming along?’

‘Probably not, actually.’

‘Oh … er … alright,’ said Simon, momentarily silenced.

The suggestion that this Michael Hawkins was ‘further out’ than the rest of us I found quite irritating. I mean to say, it wasn’t as if we were all strung along some wild frontier beyond which no one could live. I had no doubts that Michael Hawkins deliberately chose to be ‘cut off as Simon put it, and that was precisely why he dwelt in such a place. This didn’t mean, however, that he was somehow different or more interesting than anybody else. Besides which, who was to say who was further out than the next fellow? I’d have thought it depended on the starting point really. I was tempted to take Simon to task on the matter, but I realized that with his point of view it would be a complete waste of time. Instead, I had a question of my own, just for a change.

‘Do you know if this Michael Hawkins lives in a house made entirely from tin?’ I asked.

‘Yes, so I understand.’

‘And how long has he been there?’

‘Quite long.’

‘Longer than I’ve been here?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘Well,’ I remarked. ‘If he thinks he’s established some kind of outpost then he’s a fool.’

At these words Simon gave me a very puzzled look before quickly changing the subject.

That night I did not sleep well. There was a gale blowing outside, and I kept having this tangled up dream involving me, Mary Petrie and Michael Hawkins, in which he was in my bed and she wasn’t. Several times I woke up wondering where she’d gone, and not until the morning did it occur to me that she hadn’t been there in the first place. Furthermore, the person I’d thought was Michael Hawkins turned out to be Simon, fast asleep in the spare bed a few feet away. Considering I’d never even met Michael Hawkins I found this dream quite disturbing. It was almost as if I was suddenly in a competition against him, yet why this should be so I couldn’t imagine. I decided to forget all about it, so at first light I got up and went out to clear away the overnight sand. A large pile had accumulated on the windward side of the house, but after an hour’s work with the shovel I had it reduced to manageable proportions. The gale had subsided into a strong breeze. It was coming from the west, and now and again I heard the faint notes of Simon’s bell clanging in the distance. All across the plain I could see red sand on the move, drifting in tiny particles. This was the roughest time of year to be in a place like this. I looked at my house of tin, knowing it would be some while before I saw it glinting in the sunlight once more. The sky had turned grey, and I was sure I could expect more gales in the next few weeks. My thoughts turned to Simon’s suggestion about setting up some windbreaks. Come to think of it, this wasn’t a bad idea at all, and I began to wonder if I should give it serious consideration.

Then the door opened and Mary Petrie emerged.

‘You’re being very patient,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Suppose I am.’

‘Not that you’ve got any choice, of course.’

‘No.’

‘Still,’ she observed. ‘You seem happy enough out here with your little shovel.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes, quite sweet really.’ She picked up a handful of sand, allowing the grains to slip gradually through her fingers. ‘Who’s this Michael Hawkins?’

‘How do you know about him?’ I asked.

‘I heard the pair of you talking last night.’

‘Well you know as much as I do then.’

‘Aren’t you curious to meet him?’

‘Why should I be?’

‘Well, he’s a neighbour, isn’t he?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘He lives miles away.’

Mary Petrie moved nearer and lowered her voice. ‘Simon’s going to see him.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yes, he’s just told me.’

‘When?’

‘Today,’ she said. ‘He’s packing his bag at this very moment.’

‘Well, why didn’t you tell me before?’

Instantly I dropped the shovel and went into the house.

There was Simon, all wrapped up in his coat and ready to leave.

‘Morning,’ I said, giving him my best smile. ‘You off then?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been thinking about this Michael Hawkins and I really feel I ought to go and say hello to him.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘So I’ll get moving this morning if that’s OK with you.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget to take him a gift.’

‘Oh, thanks for reminding me. I’ll drop in at my place on the way and find something suitable.’

He picked up his bag and headed for the door.

Then Mary Petrie said, ‘You’d better have some breakfast before you go.’

I was really beginning to think she was doing it on purpose. I mean to say, Simon was just about to walk through the door when she said this! Next minute he’d taken his coat off again and was sitting down at the table. By now, of course, I’d worked up quite an appetite of my own, so I found myself in a very weak position. Then I realized that the best course of action was to play her at her own game. I was the host and therefore I had to do the cooking, but I certainly wasn’t going to make her anything. Instead I gave Simon the best breakfast he’d ever had.

‘Marvellous,’ he said, when I placed it before him. ‘You’re so kind.’

Mary Petrie, in the meantime, retired to the upper floor without saying another word. I could hear her moving around up there, humming softly to herself. It sounded as if she was putting fresh covers on the bed. As I looked at the coffee pot heating over the stove, and listened to the sand chafing against the tin walls, the inside of my house suddenly felt very warm and comfortable. It wasn’t really a day for a person to be setting off to see someone he’d never met before, especially when he wasn’t even expected, and it occurred to me that Simon could very easily change his mind about going. He certainly looked contented enough, silting there at the table.