Tin Man(19)

By late afternoon, he had showered and had decided to walk across to South Park. The grass was newly mowed, the scent sweet, and those towering spires glinted to his left. The sun was beginning to dip, but there was still warmth, and the light, he thought, beautiful. He stopped where the three of them used to watch the firework display every autumn. Where they used to hand around a small flask of Scotch as lights above them flickered and cascaded across their cold delighted faces. Where afterwards, they’d tramp across the dewy grass and Michael would complain about his feet, and they’d make their way to The Bear smelling of bonfire and earth. The three of them, breath misting, trying to walk in synch. Left, right, left, right. Keep up, Ell, you’re fucking it up!

Everywhere he went he knew they had gone before.

He stopped. He became aware that he had inadvertently stumbled into a scene of romance. Up ahead, a young man was leaning towards a tree, and from this tree, arms reached out and draped about his neck. He didn’t want to ruin their moment of privacy, so he decided to pass through but not to look, and as he moved towards them he speeded up.

And yet, it was instinctive, his turn. Because the outline of the person leaning against the tree was so familiar to him, and so it was instinctive for him to turn and say, Billy?

Billy froze. Across his face settled the shame of discovery, and his words were quiet. All right, Ellis, he said. And Ellis didn’t want it to be like that, not for Billy and his nineteen years, so he smiled and went towards him and said, Is this Martyrs’ Memorial, then?

And Billy said, Yeah, and he looked up. Yeah.

Ellis turned to the young man and offered his hand, said, Good to meet you. I’m Ellis. I worked with Billy, and the young man said, I’m Dan.

How’s life, Billy?

All right.

Work?

Not the same. I’m still on nights and it messes with my head. I don’t know how you did it, Ell.

I know.

You’re not coming back, are you?

No.

Fuck it, Ell. You let me down. I should’ve heard it from you, not from that fucking twat Glynn. You have to do better with people.

I’ll do better.

It’s no fun being your friend. Jesus.

And I’m keeping your tools, he added.

Ellis smiled. You should. Garvy gave them to me, I give them to you. It’s continuity, right?

What are you going to do?

I don’t know yet, said Ellis.

You should get away.

You reckon?

Yeah. Take a gap year.

Ellis laughed. OK.

Billy? said Dan, quietly.

I know. We’ve gotta go.

Yeah, yeah. Go.

Billy took out a pen and quickly scribbled on a scrap of paper. There’s my number, he said. Call me sometime.

I will, said Ellis.

They left in opposite directions. Ellis was almost at the gate when Billy shouted out his name. He turned. There he was with his arm raised high. Follow the Yellow Brick Road, Ell!

Follow, follow, follow, follow, Annie and Michael sang arm in arm along Hill Top Road. June 1978. Two weeks before the wedding. Michael had organised the Stag and Hen and had merged them into one. Travel light, he’d said. Flip flops, shorts, that type of thing. Ellis watched them up ahead. The doors to Mabel’s van were open and Michael had unfolded a large map that the breeze was lifting. He heard Annie ask, So where are we going, Mikey?

Not telling, he said, and he refolded the map and threw it under the seat. All aboard, please, he said. Last one in’s a sissy.

Ellis jumped into the back, last.

Sissy, they said.

Music, please, co-pilot, said Michael.

Annie bent down and put the cassette player on her lap. Michael handed her a tape. ‘Road Trip Mix’ on the label. She put the tape into the machine and pressed play: ‘Heroes’, David Bowie. They screamed. They wound down the windows and sang out loud into summer dusk as the familiar roads of Headington slipped away behind them. Michael accelerated on to the A40, and the old van shook with effort and weight.

Through Eynsham, Burford, Northleach.

They listened to Blondie, Erasure, Donna Summer.

Through Bourton on the Water, Stow on the Wold.

They listened to Abba.

In the middle of ‘Dancing Queen’, the van changed direction but Ellis didn’t say anything. He leant forward and put his hands on Michael’s shoulders. And during ‘Take a Chance on Me’, he did something unusual and sang the solo whenever Agnetha someone sang the solo. At the end of the song, he said, Garvy taught me that.

And they cried, Garvy! Garvy! Garvy! and the old van shook as if it was laughing.

The sky was losing light and Ellis noticed Michael glance at his watch. Soon the recognisable cityscape of home came back upon them.

Mikey? said Annie.

Mikey looked at her and grinned.

They returned through Summertown, through St Giles. Don’t say a word, he said, and they obeyed. Looked out at the University buildings, illuminated and grand, at the pubs with students congregating outside.

Michael pulled up in Magdalen Road. They followed him into the shop and through to the back. The kitchen was dark and silent and Michael opened the back door. They walked out into a garden lit by scores of candles masquerading as stars. And in the middle of this constellation, two tents side by side, and behind the tents a large paddling pool where a lone boat floated with a tealight on its hull. It was simple, it was daft, it was beautiful, it was Michael.