Tin Man(7)

When he came back he poured out a small measure of Scotch in his water glass. He stood at the window and drew the curtains wide. South Park was dusted in white and the streets were empty. He drank the whisky and leant against the books. He glanced down at the photo of the three of them, Michael, him and Annie. Annie loved her books. That’s how he’d surprised her on their sixth wedding anniversary. Led her blindfold from her job at the library, to what would become her own bookshop in St Clements, and there, restored her sight with two brass keys. Michael had been waiting inside with champagne, of course. What am I going call this place? she said, as the cork flew across the floor. Annie and Co., they suggested, trying hard not to sound too practised.

Ellis flicked the catches and opened the window wide. He shuddered, unprepared for the incoming freeze. He knelt down and stuck his arm out the window. He clenched his fingers, opened his fingers. Clenched them, opened them. He was diligent and did exactly what the nurse had told him to do. He suddenly felt tired again and the bed looked far away. He tugged at the duvet and pulled it towards him. He wrapped himself up and fell asleep on the floor.

The heat of the room eventually woke him. He was wedged up against the radiator after a restless night of bad thinking. He had no idea what day it was but had a sudden recollection of a phone call with Carol, a promise to check the heating in their house later that day. He sat up and smelt his armpits. There was something murky lurking in the fibres, and he got up and went across to the bathroom and ran a bath. The throbbing in his hand had subsided and he wrapped his arm in a plastic bag as the nurse had told him to.

Out in the garden, the crisp air felt good to breathe. Blue skies had nudged out the grey of yesterday and for a brief moment, in the faint rays of winter sunshine, the promise of a new season teased and the snow had already turned to mush in its presence. Ellis leant back against the kitchen wall with the sun on his face.

You all right, Ellis?

Ellis opened his eyes. He was surprised the young man standing at the fence knew his name.

Yeah, not too bad, he said.

What happened?

Ellis smiled. Fell off my bike, he said.

Shit, said the student.

Wait, said the student, and he disappeared inside. He came back out with a steaming mug.

There you go, he said. Coffee. And he lifted the mug across the fence.

And Ellis didn’t know what to say. He felt fucked up a bit from the pills and the sleep but it wasn’t that really, it was the gesture that unsettled him, the kindness that made the words catch in his throat and, eventually, he said, Thank you. Thank you, your name, I— Jamie.

Yes, right. Jamie. Of course. Sorry.

Anyway, enjoy it. I’m going back in. If you need anything, let us know.

And the kid was gone. Ellis sat down on the bench. The coffee was good, it wasn’t instant, it was real and strong, and stopped the hunger. He needed to shop. He couldn’t remember when he ate more than toast. He drank the coffee and looked across the garden. It had been quite a haven once. Annie’d had the vision and she’d turned it into a seasonal palette of rotating colour. She took out books and studied them late into the night, sketched out her ideas. She halved the lawn and planted flowers and shrubs he could never pronounce. Tall grasses became water in the wind, and around the bench the joy of nasturtiums every summer. You can’t kill nasturtiums, she’d once declared, but he had. All those delicate, brilliant ideas had withered in the shade of his neglect. Only the hardy remained beneath the overgrown brambles. Honeysuckle trailers, camellias, they were all in there somewhere, and he could see thick clusters of scarlet heads shining out of the undergrowth like lanterns. Weeds grew around him, along the borders by the back door and kitchen. He bent down and picked up a handful and they came away surprisingly easily from the soil.

He felt warm liquid trickle from his nose and he wondered if he had the start of a cold. He searched for a handkerchief but had to make do with the hem of his shirt. When he looked down he saw blood. He held his hand under his chin and caught the pooling blood as best he could. He went back into the kitchen and pulled off a wad of kitchen roll, which he clamped hard to his nose. He sat down on the cold tiled floor and leant back against the fridge. As he reached for more paper, it was then that he imagined his wife’s hand instead. He closed his eyes. Felt her hand in his hand and the softness of her lips leaving a shimmering trail across his arm.

You’re so distant these days, she said.

I’m an idiot.

You are, she said, and laughed. What’s got into you?

I’m stuck.

Still? she said.

All the things you were going to do, she said.

I miss you.

Come on, she said. You could still do them. This isn’t about me. You know that, right, Ellis?

Ell?

Where have you gone?

I’m here, he said.

You keep fading out. You’re really annoying these days.

Sorry.

I said, This isn’t about me.

I know.

Go find him, she said.

Annie?

He kept his eyes closed long after she was gone. He felt the cold of the room, the hard floor. He heard blackbirds and the persistent drone of a fridge. He opened his eyes and pulled the compress away from his nose. Not bleeding now. He staggered up and felt so much space around him he almost choked.

By the afternoon the snow had virtually gone but he kept to the roads because the roads had been gritted. At Cowley Road he waited for a break in the traffic and crossed. He looked about for his bike but couldn’t see it in the vicinity. He couldn’t imagine anyone would want it, top of the range it wasn’t. Cost him fifty quid ten years ago and even then, everyone said he’d been done. Time for a change, he thought. The pain in his arm prompting his sudden equanimity.