Magnus Mills: Three to See the King

After about an hour, however, he stretched himself and said, ‘Well, I think I’ll be getting along now.’

‘You sure you’ve had enough?’ I asked.

‘Quite sure, thanks,’ he replied, rising from his chair.

After he’d got his bag he hovered awkwardly for a moment at the foot of the stairs.

‘Bye then Mary!’ he called.

‘Bye Simon,’ we heard her say. ‘Have a nice journey.’

A minute later I said goodbye to him and closed the door. At last we had the place to ourselves.

I won’t go into any of the details of what happened next, but needless to say my period of exile from the upper floor came to an end there and then. We passed the next three or four days shut inside the house, never even bothering to look outside. Here, I thought, was true fulfilment. With Mary Petrie lying in my bed I knew I had everything a man could need: somewhere to eat and drink and sleep without disturbance, and a good woman. We were warm and snug in a paradise made from tin! Then, just as I was about to drift into a state of permanent hibernation, the honeymoon suddenly ended.

It happened when I remembered I hadn’t been out to clear away the sand for some time. I went downstairs and opened the door, to be confronted with a great pile that practically fell inside. Closing the door again I sat and got my boots on, just as Mary Petrie joined me. She took her usual place next to the stove.

‘If this had been Simon Painter’s house we’d have been in trouble,’ I remarked. ‘His door opens outwards so we’d be blocked in.’

‘That’s alright,’ she said, smiling. ‘We’d just have to wait till we were rescued.’

‘It’s a serious matter actually,’ I replied.

Taking the broom I began sweeping up the remnants of sand that had spilled through the doorway.

‘Stop that at once!’ cried Mary Petrie.

I looked at her and noticed the smile had disappeared.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t want you doing that while I’m here,’ she said. The sand goes everywhere.’

That’s why I’m sweeping it up,’ I said.

‘Not when I’m here!’ she exclaimed.

‘When then?’

‘When I go out! Look, I’ll be going for a walk later. Do it then.’

‘Alright, but I didn’t know you’d be going out, did I?’

‘Well, you know now.’

Feeling slightly shell-shocked by this sudden burst of hostility I went outside and shovelled away the drift, taking care to keep well clear of the door. All morning I kept at it, before and after breakfast, working in a wind that showed no sign of letting up. The weather had turned quite cold now, and I wondered if Mary Petrie was serious about going for a walk. Sure enough, though, sometime around noon she came out of the house wearing a big coat, and set off without saying anything. I watched as her diminishing figure headed into the distance. Then, when she was reduced to a tiny speck on the horizon, she turned and began to follow a wide arc around the house. This was the time I was supposed to be sweeping up inside, so I quickly went and got on with it. When I’d finished there wasn’t a grain of sand anywhere, and the whole place was looking spick-and-span. Expecting Mary Petrie to be back at any time I prepared some coffee, then went to the doorway and looked out. At first I couldn’t see her at all, but as my eyes became accustomed to the daylight I spotted her far away to the west. I then realized she was walking a full circle, keeping the house just in sight. It dawned on me at the same moment that this was the first occasion I’d been there on my own for quite a while, so I decided to make the most of it. I went back inside, closed the door, and resumed my former pastime of listening to the walls creak in the blustery wind. When she returned about an hour later, I was on the verge of dozing into a peaceful sleep.

‘I could hear a bell clanging somewhere out there,’ she said, as she removed her coat.

‘It’s Simon Painter’s,’ I explained. ‘To let people know where he lives. Have a good walk, did you?’

‘Yes, thanks. Quite invigorating.’

‘Is that why you went out?’ I asked. ‘To be invigorated?’

‘Not really, no,’ she answered.

It wasn’t until the next day that I discovered the true reason. I’d got up fairly early and been out to clear away yet more sand. By the time Mary Petrie came down I was sitting at the table having breakfast.

‘Quite windy again last night,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I heard it.’

‘I expect Simon Painter’s door’ll be blocked up.’

She sighed, but said nothing.

‘He really ought to have it opening inwardly,’ I continued. That’d be a much better arrangement by far.’ ‘Right,’ she said, reaching for her coat. ‘I’m going out.’ ‘Already?’ I asked. ‘You’ve only just got up.’ ‘I don’t care. I’m not staying cooped up here with you all day.’

‘Why, what have I done?’ ‘You keep going on about Simon’s house.’ ‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes you do. You’re always criticizing it.’ ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I only mentioned his door opened the wrong way.’

‘There you go again,’ she said. ‘I’m not interested.’ ‘But you must be interested. You live in a house of tin yourself.’

‘Look!’ she snapped. ‘I’m going out! See you later.’ From then on she went for a walk every day, sometimes saying goodbye and sometimes not. After she’d gone I’d quickly do any sweeping up that was needed, before settling down to enjoy the brief period I had the place to myself.

On these occasions I would sit and think about what had happened to me. It was quite remarkable really. One day I’d been living alone in a house of tin, minding my own business. Then suddenly this woman, this Mary Petrie, had moved in, and everything had changed. Now I was subject to rules, such as where I could sit and when I should sweep up, and there were matters I was not allowed to discuss, or at least go on about too much. As I waited for her return it also struck me how swiftly I’d adapted to my new situation. To be fair I suppose Mary Petrie had adapted too, in her own way. She was the last person I would have expected to live in a house of tin in the middle of a vast and deserted plain, but I had to admit she was trying to make the best of it. Those long walks, for example, soon became an important part of her day. She always began by heading for a point in the distance, and then she would turn and follow an encircling course right around the house. She varied it by going clockwise or anti-clockwise, but she made sure she never went completely out of sight. Her starting point in the circle seemed to be chosen at random, and each time she set off I would look with interest to see whether she first went north, west, east, or south. Sometimes, when I was watching her move along in the distance, I would see her stop and then appear to be examining the ground. On these occasions she would return and show me a stone she’d found whose shape she thought interesting. Or maybe an unusual glass bottle. Generally she’d be in a better mood when she got back than when she went out, but she’d also be quite cold, so I always made sure the stove was fired up in readiness.

The walks weren’t the only way she adjusted to her new life. Before long there was a vase on the table containing an arrangement of dry grasses she’d collected. Meanwhile, the upper walls were hung with pictures, each depicting a dancer standing in a different pose.

She had plans for the shutters too.

‘We’ll have them open in the spring,’ she announced one breezy afternoon. ‘Once all this sand has stopped flying about.’

I knew, though, that spring would be a long time coming. She hadn’t spent a whole winter here before, and had no real idea how long it might last. There wasn’t likely to be much rain or snow, I was quite sure of that, but we could expect several more weeks of high winds yet. From my own point of view it didn’t make any difference if it was winter, spring, summer or autumn: all of them were equally interesting to someone used to dwelling in a house of tin. On the other hand, when I saw Mary Petrie being buffeted daily by the gales, I wondered just how long her endurance would last.