Tin Man(13)

He finished his coffee and watched a group of American tourists look for C. S. Lewis’s grave. They’ll see the sign in a moment, he thought. He stood up, picked up his bag and veered through the graves to the spectacle of colour the other side of the tree.

The daffodils were a mix of white and yellow, and he knew they were his father’s doing. A groundcover of forget-me-nots, too, not yet in bloom, the man was so bloody literal. He felt angry and he thought he shouldn’t be, the gesture was kind. His father loved Annie. The daughter I never had, that’s how he described her – his mouth always primed for cliché. Ellis found it hard to understand how flowers and care could reside equally in a man of such rage. Carol had tried to explain his father’s complexity to him when he was younger. Piss off, he’d told her, the one and only time. I deserved that, she’d said, and never tried again.

Guilty. That’s what he felt and that’s why he was angry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there. He sat down on the ground even though it was damp. He placed the pink roses in the central urn and they looked unseasonably forced, their heads small and tightly held, still in shock he thought, after the refrigerated journey from Holland. Her name on the stone still drew disbelief and sadness.

He used to find comfort planting flowers she’d like. He remembered he even had a theme once, only red flowers or variants thereof, until he realised the muntjacs were partial to a diet of bright petals. But he came and that was the most important thing. He faced the stark landscape of headstones and it was real. He would listen to people at Lewis’s grave comment that he died on the same day as JFK, and they were right, he did. But Lewis’s death was lost to the world as the world mourned Kennedy because sometimes you look away and things change. And every month or so, bright wreaths would adorn new graves and he would acknowledge the grieving. A reminder that he and they were not alone.

But then memories began to drift beyond his reach and the panic set in. He’d call people up whatever the time of night.

What did Annie cook when you came to dinner? he’d asked.

Ellis – d’you know what time it is?

What did she cook?

The phone went dead. Over time, the friendships too. Only Carol stayed on the line.

Ell?

He could hear the muffled sound of her getting out of bed.

What is it, Ell?

Annie. She used to sing a song when she was cooking and I don’t know what it was. I don’t know what it was, Carol, and I need to know— – Frank Sinatra, Ell. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’.

‘Fly Me to the Moon’!

She always went off key in the middle—

– Aw she did, didn’t she?

She was quite awful really, if you don’t mind me saying.

Oh, she was.

D’you remember, Ell, when the six of us had dinner at the Italian place opposite Mabel’s?

Sort of.

Your father stuck to beer because he couldn’t pronounce the wine.

Ellis laughed.

I’m being naughty. Maybe it was your engagement dinner—

– Yeah, I think it was.

You sat in the middle on one side. And—

– Who was next to me?

Michael and Mabel. And me, your dad and Annie were opposite. They played a medley of Frank Sinatra songs. All the greats: ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’. ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’. ‘New York, New York’ – that’s when you told everyone you were going there for your honeymoon. And then they played—

– ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, said Ellis. Annie stood up and she was drunk and she used the wine bottle as a microphone. And Michael joined her, didn’t he?

Oh, they were so happy, Ell. So daft and so happy.

Ellis stood up and brushed the dirt off his trousers. He picked up his shopping and was about to walk away but stopped. He took one of the roses from the urn and went over and placed it on Lewis’s grave. From my wife, he said, and he moved towards the churchyard gates.

He got off the bus at Gipsy Lane under a low sky suddenly threatening rain. The shopping bag was stretched taut and he wondered if it would split before he got it home. South Park was quiet and he could have gone for an early evening walk had it not been for the bag. He lifted it into his arms and picked up the pace.

He wasn’t sure, at first, what it was in his front garden, part hidden by a bush. But when he got to the gate, he said, Hello bike! and looked about for someone to thank. He walked on to Hill Top Road, down Divinity, but saw no one. An act of kindness from a stranger. He knelt to check out the chain and gears. Slight scuffing to the edge of the tyre, that’s all. He spun the front wheel and it rotated perfectly. He opened the front door and dropped the shopping bag on the table. He wheeled the bike into the hallway and left it at the bottom of the stairs. Later that evening, he brought it into the back room and placed it close to the fire.

Days went by clearing the garden. Slow, one-handed work that quietened his mind and had him rising with intention. He ate breakfast outside, planning the day’s assault, the smell of early rain and mud curiously exhilarating.

Secateurs he found in the garage. The floorboards were there too, stacked up against the wall at the side of the car. The smell of oak was sharp and fragrant still. He pulled a plank away from the pile and turned it sideways to see how straight it ran. He leant his nose against the grain. The smell of wood excited him, always had. He could still lay the floor in the back room, he thought. He could get back to working with wood. He was good, he was skilled, they both said so. There are things I can do, he thought.