‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll get rid of him.’
This was easier said than done. When I got downstairs and saw Simon standing there with his overnight bag, I knew I couldn’t just turn him away.
‘Everything alright?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied. Tine.’
‘I’m not in the way then?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling. ‘House is looking good.’
‘Yes, I try to keep it ship-shape,’ I laid my hand on the tin wall and noticed how cold it felt. ‘Why don’t you come in?’
Mary Petrie was still standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at us, when we entered. I sat Simon at the table then quickly went back up to her.
‘He’ll have to stay a while,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘He came here especially.’
That’s up to you,’ she answered. ‘I’ve got plenty of time.’
Her voice was the softest I’d ever heard it. She came down to meet our guest properly, and he rose to meet her.
‘So you’re Simon Painter,’ she said. ‘How nice to put a face to a name.’
As a matter of fact I’d never mentioned him before, but he seemed so pleased with the remark that I didn’t say anything. During the following hours she treated him to all her charms, and made him feel thoroughly at home. Meanwhile, I kept wondering how long we could expect him to stay. In truth, I had only one thing on my mind at that moment, and there was definitely no part in it for Simon Painter. I also asked myself why she’d left it so long to let her feelings be revealed. To think she’d been staying here all that time and I’d had no idea! A few words would have been enough to let me know, but instead she’d kept it all to herself. Now, as I watched her entertaining Simon so generously, she appeared in no particular hurry to get shot of him. The events of the afternoon had held great promise, yet it was almost as if she was taking delight in further prolonging the outcome. From time to time she glanced at me with sparkling eyes and smiled. Mostly, though, her attention was turned to Simon.
As for him, he was basking in every moment. He talked and talked about how wonderful it was for the three of us to be sitting together like this, enjoying each other’s companionship with the stove to keep us warm. It transpired that in the few minutes it had taken him to pack he’d managed to include a gift. This was a framed picture of his house of tin, which Mary Petrie accepted with good grace and placed on the shelf.
‘Very kind of you,’ she said.
‘My pleasure,’ he replied. ‘It’s traditional in these parts to come bearing gifts.’
Well it was the first I’d heard of it! I had taken Simon a present that morning because I knew he expected one, and for no other reason whatsoever. The way he spoke about it being ‘traditional in these parts’ made it sound as though everyone in the locality was part of some big happy family. The reality, of course, was quite different. As far as I knew nobody saw anyone else from one month to the next because they all wanted to be independent. The idea of being regarded as one of the ‘folk’ who lived in tin houses and who came bearing gifts made me feel quite uneasy. Yet one look at Simon told me he believed he was stating a fact.
The picture itself, of course, couldn’t have been less interesting. After all, who wants a view of someone else’s home? There was hardly any difference between Simon’s dwelling and mine but, nevertheless, the picture remained on display for the entire duration of his visit.
This turned out to be almost a week. Mary Petrie made him feel so welcome that it would have been difficult for him to leave any sooner. At the end of the first evening she smiled at us both before saying goodnight and heading up the stairs. Hours later I realized she was no longer moving around restlessly above me. Instead, I was being kept awake by Simon talking in his sleep. The corrugated walls creaked and groaned as they sheltered us from the steadily rising wind. A few days more and I would be alone with Mary Petrie. For the time being, however, my house of tin had three residents.
In the morning I overslept. When finally I awoke the first thing I heard was Simon clumping around on the roof. Mary Petrie had risen before me and stood tending the stove.
‘How come you’re up so early?’ I asked.
‘I thought I’d make the pair of you some coffee.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing up there?’
‘He’s seeing if there’s anywhere to put a flagpole.’
‘I don’t want a flagpole!’
‘He seems to think you do.’
‘Well, I don’t!’
I got up and went outside just as Simon came clambering down.
‘I hope you haven’t left any dents,’ I said. ‘That roof’s not for walking about on.’
‘No, no, I’ve been quite careful,’ he replied. ‘Did you know you can see my house from up there?’
‘The balloon or the house itself?’ I asked.
‘Both,’ he said.
‘No, I didn’t.’
This was the sort of news I’d rather not have heard. As far as I was concerned, Simon Painter’s house and those of my other neighbours were positioned somewhere beyond the horizon. I found it quite disconcerting to think that, after all, we might each live within sight of one another, even if it was only from the roof. For a long time I’d been convinced that I occupied a remote and unusual part of the world. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.
‘You could fix a flagpole up there no trouble if you wanted,’ declared Simon.
‘Well, thanks for having a look,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t really want one.’
‘I’ve a spare pole back at home.’
‘No, it’s alright.’
‘Well, if you ever do put one up, don’t forget I’ve got plenty of flags.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
Prior to going back inside I intended to clear away the sand that had drifted against the walls overnight. I quite liked doing this first thing in the morning as it gave me a bit of an appetite before breakfast, but when I got hold of the shovel I realized the job had already been done. The loose sand was all lying beyond the ends of the house where it could blow away freely. It had been moved there by Simon.
‘You ought to set up some windbreaks,’ he said. Then you wouldn’t have a problem with sand.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ I replied. ‘I like clearing it away actually.’
As I stood there with the redundant shovel I noticed Mary Petrie watching through the open doorway.
‘Now how are you going to pass the time?’ she asked.
‘Can you close that door please?’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want sand getting into the house.’
She closed it slowly and deliberately, watching me intently as the crack grew smaller. Mary Petrie, of course, knew better than anyone just how difficult the next few days promised to be. How indeed was I to pass the time until Simon left? Before now I’d seldom been concerned with such questions. Existing in a house of tin was an end unto itself, a particular state of being, and time didn’t come into it. You did not need to know what time it was, for example, to witness dry lightning as it flashed across the plain at dusk. Or to feel the threat of an approaching storm. These things occurred independently of time, which was why there was no clock in my house. I simply had no need for one. Nonetheless, as I led Simon back inside for breakfast, I realized that time was already beginning to slow down.
It didn’t help that until yesterday he hadn’t spoken to anyone for weeks. Silence was clearly not his vocation, and now he was making up the deficit. I’d never come across anyone who talked so much! He could keep going for hours on end without a break! Worse, he seemed to think that a conversation consisted of asking a question, listening to the answer, adding his own comment and then asking another. I would have been quite content to sit peacefully at the table and talk about subjects as and when they cropped up. Every time there was the slightest period of silence, though, Simon felt obliged to interrupt it.