“Willie,” he began again. “I have already offered you a handsome price for this”-he jerked his head, just catching a glimpse of pink out of the corner of his eye- “and I’m willing to offer more, to top it up out of my own personal funds. And”-he held up a hand as Mr. Byers looked about to speak-“and I’m willing to gift you alternative workshop space, should you feel, in your wisdom, that you require it.”
“Where would this be, then?” said Mr. Byers.
“Far end of the caravan site. The old lock-ups.”
Mr. Byers snorted. “Down the back of the camp-site toilets, you mean? In beside the septic tanks and bins?”
Where you belong, thought Mr. McKendrick, where you belong. He leaned in close to the man’s face before he continued. “What are you getting out of it, Willie?” he said. “I don’t understand. It’s not even a business anymore.”
“Aye, you’d know all there is to know about doing business, James,” said Mr. Byers. “But minding your own’s a good start.”
“It is my own,” said Mr. McKendrick. “I’m the chairman of the committee in the association working to regenerate this town, that I have lived in my whole life, and you’ve been here ten minutes-”
“Five years.”
“-and just because you get some kick out of being awkward, you think-”
“So it’s the regeneration of the town, is it?” said Byers, cutting in on the rising swell of Mr. McKendrick’s tirade. “That’s what’s in your heart, eh, Jimmy? That’s what this is all about? All the meetings and the quiet wee visits and the chequebook waving in my face?”
“What else?” said Mr. McKendrick. He never blushed. His cheeks were ruddy from the golf course-and from the clubhouse afterwards too-but they were no barometer of his feelings. Still his eyes slid to one side and then the other before he could stop them. “What have you- I mean, what are you on about?”
“What have I heard?” said Byers. “Ah now, Mr. Chairman, that would be telling.”
“You’re bluffing,” said Mr. McKendrick. “You’ve heard nothing because there is nothing, and even if there was, who would be telling you?” Then, suddenly pushed beyond his patience at last, he shouted. “Christ, Willie, you ken fine we’ll never get grant money with this dump sitting in the middle like a boil on the bum.”
He edited slightly for Mrs. Poole.
“So I said to him, ‘Willie,’ I said, ‘I’m not going to play games with you. Name your price for this eyesore and let’s get on with it.’ ”
“And how high would you go?” asked Mrs. Poole.
“Well, I’m not a rich man, Grace,” said Mr. McKendrick. Mrs. Poole’s mouth twitched into a quick pucker and when it released again he saw a little curl left at one side where one muscle refused to come under control. He shifted in his seat, two instincts fighting. He hated to be laughed at or even taken lightly, but how he loved to see Grace with a smirk on her lips.
Grace’s lips occupied Jimmy McKendrick’s thoughts more than he cared to admit to himself. She always wore lipstick of a good clear pink (he disliked to see a woman of their age without a bit of lipstick almost as much as he loathed the overdone lips of girls, either too bright and sticky or too thickly coated, pale as wax). Gracie was just right; her lips coloured without being masked and above and below was the perfect downy skin of a handsome woman growing older with ease, fluffy enough to be soft but without either of Mr. McKendrick’s two aversions: bristles, or what was worse, the naked, shining skin of a woman who is dealing with her bristles somehow, whom he always felt scared to look at too closely in case he caught her pathetically halfway between appointments. Mr. McKendrick, being a bachelor, had never grown out of looking at women, or rather, seeing them when he looked, unlike a married man who withdraws into memories of his wife’s young face and looks at what is before him but sees none of it, so that coming upon his wife unexpectedly in the street can be unsettling in a way he’d rather not explain. And visiting her in hospital has him walking up and down the ward looking for the face he holds in his heart and passing by the reality over and over again until a nurse takes pity and steers him and his flowers to the bedside.
“Jim?” said Mrs. Poole. “You were miles away.”
“Not so far as all that,” said Mr. McKendrick. “But anyway, as I was saying, I’m far from rich, Grace, but I’ve been careful. I’ve been more than careful, I’ve been prudent, and besides that I’ve been lucky. So between you and me…” He glanced at Mrs. Poole, to reassure himself of what he knew already: Grace was no gossip. She nodded seriously, but still with a bit of a twinkle. “Between you and me I’m willing to match the bid. Double it. I’ll sell one of the holiday cottages if I have to.” Mrs. Poole looked startled. “I’m like you, Gracie, and like Duncan, God rest his soul.”
Mr. McKendrick blinked. Unexpectedly, he had landed in just the spot he had been trying to reach for weeks, and so he plunged ahead with it. “Business is business, and taking care of business is the only thing that’ll ever get you anywhere. I have no time for anybody who doesn’t understand that. They’re all swank and credit cards, anyway. You know what I’m saying? I support-no, I applaud-I applaud your decision to take rent for the flat, and anybody who says otherwise is just jealous of your good sense.” Mr. McKendrick kept talking, couldn’t stop now he had started, like a pram on a hill, but he could see Mrs. Poole’s face lose the twinkle and the little puckered muscle and turn blank again. Mr. McKendrick, back out in the cold he knew not why, thought about reaching out and taking hold of her, forcing her to talk to him, shaking her if he had to. He came near enough to doing it to make his blood pump faster at the thought, but when he moved it was only to rise from his seat, tuck it back squarely under the table, and say goodbye.
“Jim,” said Mrs. Poole before he could leave. Mr. McKendrick stopped like a dog on a choke chain and came back to her side. “What you were saying about renting the flat and good sense and all that?” She paused; he waited. “The thing is I’m having second thoughts about it. About her.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling, and Mr. McKendrick followed her gaze. “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea. I’m not sure I can go through with it after all.”
“What’s happened, Gracie?” said Mr. McKendrick. “What’s wrong?”
“I shouldn’t have agreed. It’s too soon after Duncan.”
“But it’s what Duncan would have wanted,” Mr. McKendrick said. “He loved Painchton just like we do.”
“And she’s… not what I was expecting,” Mrs. Poole continued. “I’m just not… I’d be happier if… Besides she’s a right noticing wee sort too. Watches, sees everything. She says nothing, but it’s all going in, you know.”
“All what?” said Mr. McKendrick.
“And young Craig’s been speaking to her too,” said Mrs. Poole.
“Craig?” said Mr. McKendrick. “Speaking about what?”
But the words, too painful to forget, were too harsh to repeat, and she just shook her head.
“She can’t have found out anything that she shouldn’t from Craig. He doesn’t know.”
“I’m just not sure I can carry on,” said Mrs. Poole. “And I wish you’d listen when I try to tell you.”
Mr. McKendrick patted her shoulder softly and left, thinking hard. He let himself out onto the street and righted himself, plucking each shirt cuff firmly out from inside his jacket sleeves, twanging each cuff-link gently then grasping the points of his waistcoat and giving a sharp downward tug. He took great comfort in the feeling this produced, of layers of well-tailored and properly fitted clothes snapping into place on his frame. He stood for a moment or two until to stand any longer would look aimless and then, almost without conscious thought, he turned about on himself, went in the house door, and climbed the stairs.