Tin Man(36)

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, you say.

Nerves, I say, and I button your shirt up myself. I hand you your trousers and you slip them on. You say, I think my boxers are wet. I say nothing. I’ve noticed your socks are inside out but I say nothing. I run the narrow tie around your collar and knot it. I fold your collar down, make small adjustments. Your breath smells of toothpaste. I gently pick off the scrap of toilet paper stuck to your chin. Not bleeding, I say. I thread plain silver cufflinks through your cuffs and you tuck your shirt into your trousers, zip up.

Shoes? I say.

Scuffed brogues. You sit on the bed and put them on. The only thing I asked you to do.

You stand up. I hold your suit jacket and you put it on.

Hair, I say, and you run your hands through it, and it’s almost dry.

Right, I say.

And I take a step back. The suit is of a decade before. Lightweight navy wool, two buttons, narrow lapels and narrow trouser legs that stop at the top of the shoe. White shirt. Thin maroon tie with two navy stripes. I brush your shoulders with my hand.

Will I do? you say.

Very handsome, I say, matter-of-fact. My words avoid the lump in my throat.

You’ve got the ring? you say.

I take it out of my pocket. Check, I say.

Mabel shouting, Car’s here!

I offer you my hand.

You look at me. You say, Thank—

– It’s OK, I say. Come on, let’s go.

Nights are my recovery. The walk across the gardens as the mas sleeps. The ritual of undressing under a black night, the sensation of water as I jump in, as I rise and break surface. The power in my arms and legs drawing me along. One, two, three, breathe. I flip, I turn. My thoughts numbed by the monotony, my rage tamed by the rigour. And in the iridescent blue, I slowly meet myself again.

I sit long after dinner in the spray of candlelight, blessed by the smoke of mosquito coils and I drink the local rosé as if it is water. I listen to other people’s conversations because my understanding of French has improved. And an elderly couple, who have been there all week, pass by my table and say, Bonsoir, Monsieur. And I raise my glass, and say, Bonsoir, back to them.

I stand at the edge of the pool and close my eyes. Not a breeze. Just my breath. And it’s loud because my mouth is open and I’m breathing from the depth of my stomach, and tonight my stomach churns and I don’t know why. I slip into the water and begin to swim. My pace is fierce as it always is but soon my breathing becomes ragged, a sudden explosion of in-breaths, and then I’m gasping. I have to stop swimming, I’m treading water, I’m going nowhere and I’m crying. Abandoned by the rage that fuelled me, I’m consumed by an overwhelming sadness that’s left me unanchored in the middle of the pool. And there I cry for everyone. For Chris, for G, for my mother and father and Mabel, and for the nameless faces that fall away each year. And I struggle between my tears, and can do little else but make for the side.

I rest till I’m calm and my breathing has settled. I lift myself out and sit by the edge of the pool with a towel around my shoulders. And I wonder what the sound of a heart breaking might be. And I think it might be quiet, unperceptively so, and not dramatic at all. Like the sound of an exhausted swallow falling gently to earth.

The third week of June is my time to leave the mas. New holidaymakers are moving into my room and I have to go. When I pay, the manager, Monsieur Crillon, says to me in English: Come back soon.

I walk along the stone track where rows of lavender and oleander challenge a hundred shades of green. At the end of the road, at the crossroads, I stop and wonder what I’m doing. I’m not ready to leave. I don’t want to leave. Instead of waving down the bus, I turn back to where I’ve come from.

This is soon, says Monsieur Crillon, smiling.

I’m looking for a job, I say in French.

The manager tells me there are no more jobs for men, and the only vacancy he has is for a chambermaid, that’s all. A position made free that morning. Not for a man, he says, cleaning rooms. He shakes his head. Not for a man, he says.

I say, I can do that. I’ve done that, give me a week’s trial.

He stares at me. He thinks it over. He shrugs. He gives me a week’s trial.

I change the sheets and launder the sheets and clean the toilets and wipe down the showers and sweep the flagstones. And each job, to me, is proof that I still can care. And the little touches I leave in my wake, the small jars of lavender or vetiver or rosemary, or the carefully arranged toiletries on the slate ledge that make guests smile when they return to their room, well, these are the things that secure me the job, and more importantly, precious time.

At the back of the mas are four white stone sheds on the outskirts of farmland, homes for staff who don’t have a place to live in town. They’re in lieu of a portion of our wages, which I don’t mind at all. The fifth shed, painted blue, is the shower room and toilet.

My shed is called Mistral and sits at the edge of a field of sunflowers. Everything I need is in this small room: a bed, a table, mirror and a lamp. And I learn soon enough that I share the space with an inquisitive lizard, and a feral tomcat that keeps vermin at bay. I still look out for a cough that’s more than clearing my throat, or a sore in my mouth that wasn’t there the day before, and I still monitor my eyes for recurring blurs, but nothing so far. My eyes are fine, just irritated by the chlorine and the ulcer in my mouth is from drinking too much peach juice and disappears as soon as I regain my taste for water.