Samantha Harvey - The Wilderness

There is a sound which he recognises but cannot identify, something very familiar that makes him feel an action on his part is required. Pulling himself from the view of the garden he combs his hair with his fingers; perhaps he needs the toilet. He is not sure. Something, certainly, needs to be done.

A voice calls. “Jake!”

He confronts both exits from the bedroom and is undecided about which to take and where they lead. At some point he finds himself halfway down the polished wooden stairs as if he is simply shrugged from one moment to another without his consent, and now in the study, now the living room, the woman is there, and a man he has never seen before.

“Look who I found at the door,” the woman says. “Fergus.”

The man steps forward and takes his hand.

“Hello, Jake. Sorry to surprise you like this.”

“Of course it's fine.”

He smoothes his hand down his shirt before offering it out. He inspects the man — frazzled features, something very windswept and loose in even his small movements. He is wearing the matching clothes for work that everybody wears, that he remembers wearing himself, and has a bag over his shoulder and something of a schoolboy look about him. Large, excited eyes, hands that look cold. But no matter how he interrogates these pieces of evidence, no recognition comes.

“Are you well?” he asks the man, gesturing them towards the sofa.

“Yes, very.” The man casts an open look at him, a searching look that seems to expect to find something of great interest. “But what about you?”

He gives the man what feels to him to be a charming smile, an emulation of some replete composure; maybe he should have affected this earlier in life. Now it is the ideal tool for digging himself out of utterly vacated silences such as this, when the right thing to say does not present itself. When nothing at all presents itself. The man has a dim rattle in his breath, a straight, narrow nose, broken blood vessels on his cheeks. He is out of shape like a man at the end of a long race.

“Anyway, I brought some books I thought you might like,” the man declares, whipping open his bag with fingers that behave with the same invisible speed as the wind. “Just a moment, let me find them in here.”

“And how's your wife?” he says, watching the incredible fingers, wringing his hands in his lap.

The man holds his gaze in a way he has noticed Henry doing, distrustfully, or surprised. “She's great.”

“Very good. Then maybe you'd like coffee?”

Now the man beams, salvages his arms from the bag, and reaches forward to grasp his shoulder. “You know I would.”

The woman stands. “So I'll go and make a coffee then. You'll be all right, Jake?”

Do be good, she means; don't be mad. And she leaves.

Some time is spent looking around the room.

“Do you like the house?” he asks eventually.

The man stands and looks around him keenly.

“I do, very much. Haven't you lived here for years?”

“No, no I don't think so. We moved in recently.”

He gives a smile and the man returns it.

“We need to decorate. It's a mess,” he offers then, and the man comes back to the sofa and sits. Indeed, it is a mess; the stranger brings a light to the house, so that he can see what he had not noticed before. Objects on the floor, stacks of books and paper on the table, and, what are they, the clothes that go on the end, so many of them it would be impossible now to match them into pairs. Things for the dog. The television activators, piles of shirts and jumpers by the iron.

“You seem”—the man begins, putting the books heavily on his lap—“you seem well.”

“I am, I'm very well, there's so much fuss over it all.” He scratches his head. “A lot of fuss over a bit of a car accident. I hit a dog. I haven't been the same since.”

The man looks at him strangely then away. He opens one of the books and leafs quickly through until he finds a picture.

“Glass houses, Jake,” he says. “I thought you might want to have a look.”

He does look, turning the pages over and over, one house after another: long crystalline sheets of glass hanging onto cliff edges or glittering in woods — they strike him as X-rays, with their contents visible, the furniture and people just small functioning parts of the building. Oddly medical and diagnostic, as if to say, this is a house; after thorough examining it seems certain that this is a real house. They seem obliquely frail and vulnerable under this pressure of scrutiny.

“You see this one,” the man says, “built in the forties, and this one — built about two years ago, and yet can you tell there's fifty years between them? Not at all. Glass and steel are timeless, didn't you always say it yourself?”

He nods, rubbing the silky pages with his thumb. The colours bleeding on the panes seem to him indescribably meaningless and beautiful; it was once his job, he perceives dimly, to do this sort of thing, but now he would not know where to start, how to get those colours just so; how do the colours get on the glass? The responsibility of it is too immense now to contemplate, it does not seem like the sort of task for a man, or at least not this man. Not this man.

Leaning over this book, his slippers on, in need of a piss, his pyjamas (he fears) still on under his clothes, his wedding ring tight on a finger that, along with the rest, has swollen with uselessness, he is overwhelmed by these charges of failure. Becoming anxious, he resorts to his winning smile, backing off from the book, eventually nudging it from his thighs and standing. He goes to the television and turns it on, immediately reassured by the sound and its gravity, the pull that allows his thoughts to settle. He sits cross-legged in front of it.

The man clears his throat and speaks over the sound.

“The truth is, Jake, things aren't the same without you. You brought a bit of idealism to the office. Nobody is idealistic anymore, have you noticed that?”

He glances at the man over his shoulder, then languidly back. He sees a mouth moving, hears words cluster together like a series of shapes that promise tessellation, but which do not, no matter how one turns them.

The man breathes in, pauses, and raises his voice a little to compete with the television.

“At last we have an interesting project on our hands though — we've been asked to build a visitor centre on the moors. Made primarily of glass, which is why I dug out all these books. And I came to be thinking about all those plans you made way back for your own house — those designs, and how intricate they were. They were really good”'

He looks back at the man and suddenly sadness claims him, a roaring sadness almost indistinguishable from anger, envy, guilt, regret, and on its heels, an image from nowhere of his mother in some irreparable toothless state and Helen, Helen silhouetted by a tower of glass which veers away to a constantly escaping point in a bare sky.

The man now stands, comes to his side, and sits. He spreads papers across the floor. “These are copies of your drawings. We found them in your files when you retired. Look at them.”

The woman has reappeared and is dishing out coffee. Both look at him, and then the woman does something with the television and the noise cuts out. She too comes to the floor; the three of them lean over the papers.

“It's excellent, you see how there are different parts to the building?” The man traces his finger along a line of cubes. “Each room was a glass box, and you linked each one to the other with a series of corridors, here.” The finger slips along parallel lines. It plots from cube to cube in a right angle. “The idea was that you would excavate the peat, pour in concrete, and then embed the glass deep down into the foundations so that the house seemed to just rise from the ground.”