“And speaking of the Pooles,” said Mrs. Watson. “I was hearing in the post office first thing that Willie Byers has finally caved in and agreed to sell to the Traders. He went round and told Jimmy McKendrick last night.”
“Really?” said Keiko. “That’s excellent news. Well, not for Murray.” What would he do? she wondered. Cut the ties, leave Painchton, and find a proper place of his own? For a split second, the feeling this thought produced-a flattening out, a downward swoop in her insides-might have been mistaken for disappointment, but in no time at all she had identified it: it was relief.
thirty-two
Wednesday, 27 November
After talking with Fancy on Monday, Keiko did not put on her tracksuit and trot over to the workshop at the time set by Murray for their sessions. She sat in the flat listening for him and rewording her explanation until bedtime. The next night she waited again, thinking of all the times she had skipped downstairs to find him, of how he had watched for her passing and come out onto the street to talk to her, of how he only climbed the stairs-all that effort!-when he needed something.
So when the knock finally came at seven o’clock on the third day, as she was standing in the kitchen slicing vegetables for her dinner, she was almost tired enough of thinking about him to feel no triumph at all. She stood aside to let him in and he slouched towards the living room and threw himself down into a chair with a groan. Keiko settled herself on the sofa.
“Have you heard?” he said at last.
“I don’t think so,” said Keiko, almost sure what he meant but refusing to go along with his estimation of its enormity.
“Willie Byers said to McKendrick that the Traders can have his place. He’s going to sell.”
“I see.” Was she trying to provoke him with this performance of calm?
“It must have been right after Mum went to see him. For sheer spite.”
“He is not a kind man,” Keiko said. “But does it matter? Since you want to leave anyway?”
“What?” said Murray. “Who said I want to leave? Why would I want to leave after the work I’ve put in on the place?”
Keiko was speechless for a moment. “You said it,” she said, when she had got her voice back. “You said it over and over again. That Painchton wasn’t right for you. Or for me. That it was dangerous and you wanted to get away.”
“Oh,” he said. “That. Yeah, well, it was just the shop really.”
“But you said there was a secret. You said I was in danger.”
“What secret?” he said. “Yeah, I said you were in danger-of ending up like Malcolm and the rest of them.”
Keiko thought hard. Could that be right? Had Murray really never mentioned a secret? Was that her own imagining? “You said there was a puzzle,” she told him. “You definitely said that to me.”
“Yeah: how to keep my workshop when the Traders were trying to get it,” he said.
Keiko felt the last twist of tension leave her. Fancy had driven most of it away, but there had been wisps left behind. Small questions, small worries. Now she felt nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.
“It might be for the best that Byers is selling,” she said to Murray. “This way you can look for better premises, perhaps in a busier place where you’ll have customers. Start taking on repairs. Get a bank loan, draw up a business plan.” Like Fancy had done when she was only seventeen. “Or,” she softened her tone, “if it’s to be just a hobby, then make it a hobby. Build a shed in your garden.” Get a garden, she thought. Get a house.
Murray shook his head, as if she didn’t understand. “There’s no reason for him to sell to the Traders,” he said. “He doesn’t give a stuff about the town. And he should compensate me. We had an agreement.” His eyes darted to and fro across the pattern on the carpet as though the answer was hidden there in the brown and orange swirls and he could catch it if he was quick enough. “Someone must have nobbled him. He wouldn’t have done this. I know him. I know how he works.”
“Clearly you don’t,” she said. “Unless he’s only toying with the Traders. Has he signed anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So talk to him.” She did not quite manage to hide the exasperation. “If you really think you want the whole redevelopment stalled so that you can have your bikes and your gym where it suits you to have them…”
“Mum won’t-” he began.
“Oh Murray, it doesn’t matter if your mother won’t do it for you. Do it for yourself. At least enforce the contract yourself. Try to get compensation.”
“But he’s made up his mind,” said Murray. “I’m no good with things like that.”
“At least try!” Keiko said, even louder. “Don’t just say you can’t. Change his mind. Unmake his mind.” He was staring into the fire again and his breathing was getting quicker. “People are not lumps of meat, Murray. Take it from me. You can change them and fix them, just like motorbikes. What do you think I spend my time doing?” He was almost panting now listening to her. “Byers is playing you and the Traders off against each other, and you shouldn’t let him.” She was getting to him. She tried to sound like Fancy, who made all things seem so clear. “He’s…” She groped for the phrase. “He’s as happy as a pig in shit, making all this trouble,” she said. Murray turned his whole body towards her and gave her a stare that was both hard and vacant at the same time. “And,” she went on, “you shouldn’t let a shitty old pig decide your life for you.”
“You’re right,” said Murray. “I knew that. I just needed to hear someone else tell me.” He sprang out the chair so suddenly that she flinched. And then he moved, faster than walking, smoother than running, out of the room. She heard the front door bang behind him.
“It doesn’t have to be this minute, you… plank,” she said to the empty air, then shook her head at her reflection in the mantelpiece mirror. Not a word. Not a single word about her, about them. Just total concentration on his own little problem. Like a child. She laughed out loud and went back to the kitchen.
The red onion, green pepper, and white radish were sliced into thin lengths with pointed ends like quills, and she sprinkled them into a smoking skillet smeared with a drop of oil. She took an egg from the fridge. She would make it into a thin omelette to wrap around her vegetables, slice the tube into rounds and then sit at the table and nibble away until she was tired. Except that she was tired already. She watched the vegetable strips beginning to crisp at the edges and, moving with sudden speed, she got another two eggs, broke all three into the pan and stirred the mess until it was mixed. While the underside browned, she grated cheese on top, holding the grater over the pan, ignoring the sound and smell of stray shards hitting the stove. She roasted it under the grill until it was bubbling and then, holding it between two slices of toast, she carried it, plateless and licking the melting butter from her wrists, over to the table and ate the lot.
She was in her bedroom about to start undressing when the next knock came.
“Hello?” she said through the door, striking just the right note of caution to let him know that she didn’t assume it was him. And if it was him, he could forget it; he was not getting back in tonight.
“Keiko?” came the answer, just as soft. Malcolm.
He was as uneasy as she had ever seen him, swaying in the familiar side-to-side shuffle, looking down. She had always thought of him as looking at his feet, but she realised now that when he looked down he must be looking at his chest or maybe his stomach; he couldn’t see his feet from there.
“Keiko, I’m sorry to trouble you so late.” It was almost midnight. “But I really need to speak to Murray.”