Concrete island

20 The naming of the island

As he sat on the damp ground beside the caisson, Maitland watched Proctor working away like a happy child at the concrete surface. Within half an hour the reluctant pupil had become an eager apprentice. Already the wavering letters of his first alphabet had become strong and well-formed. Using both hands, he struck at the concrete slope, slashing his A's and X's side by side.

'Good, Proctor, you've learned quickly,' Maitland congratulated him. He felt a surge of pride in the tramp's achievement, the same pleasure he had found in teaching his son to play chess. 'It's a great invention – why don't we all write with both hands at once?'

Proctor gazed delightedly at his work. Maitland handed him two more of the cosmetic crayons he had taken from Jane Sheppard's room. Proctor held Maitland's arm, as if to reassure him of his seriousness as a pupil. To begin with, when Maitland had chalked up the first few letters of the alphabet, the tramp had refused even to look at them, cringing away as if they threatened some terrifying curse. After ten minutes of persuasion he had overcome his fear, and the lower surface of the caisson was covered with streaky letters.

Maitland pulled himself alongside Proctor. 'It doesn't take long, does it – all these years you've wasted… Now, let me show you how to write a few words. What do you want me to start with – circus, acrobat?'

Proctor's lips moved noiselessly. Shyly, he stuttered, P… P… Proct-or…'

'Your own name? Of course, I didn't think. It's a unique moment.' Maitland patted him on the back. 'Now watch. I want you to copy these in letters three feet high.'

He took the crayon from Proctor and wrote; MAITLAND HELP 'P… P… Proctor…' he repeated, moving his fingers along the letters. 'That's your name. Now copy it in really large letters. Remember, it's the first time you've written your name.'

Eyes watering with pride, the tramp stared at the letters Maitland had chalked up, as if trying to engrave them for ever on his fading mind. He began to scrawl the letters across the concrete with both hands. Each word he started in its centre, moving outwards to left and right.

'Again, Proctor!' Maitland shouted above the roar of a truck climbing the feeder road. In his excitement the tramp was garbling the letters together into an indecipherable mass. 'Start again!'

Carried away by his own enthusiasm, Proctor ignored him. He scribbled away at the concrete-, mixing up the fragments of Maitland's name, happily chalking the letters in streamers down to the ground, as if determined to cover every square inch of the island's surface with what he assumed to be his name.

Satisfied at last, he tottered away from the wall and sat down beside Maitland, beaming up at his handiwork.

'God Almighty…' Maitland leaned his head wearily against the crutch. The ruse had failed, partly because he had not taken into account Proctor's blubbery gratitude.

'Very good. Proctor – I'll teach you some more words.' When the tramp finally settled down Maitland leaned forward, whispering with deliberate archness, 'New words, Proctor – like "fuck" and "shit". You'd like to be able to write those. Wouldn't you?'

As Proctor tittered nervously Maitland wrote carefully: HELP CRASH POLICE He watched while Proctor reluctantly transcribed the words. He worked with only one hand, using the other to cover the letters he had written, as if frightened that he might be caught. He soon broke off, and rubbed away the message with the back of his hand, spitting on the coloured concrete.

'Proctor!' Maitland tried to stop him. 'No one will see you!'

Proctor threw the crayons on to the ground. He glanced with continuing pride at the straggling fragments of Maitland's name, and sat down in the grass. Maitland realized that Proctor had been only briefly amused by writing the obscene words on the wall, and was refusing to take part any further in what he considered to be a childish exhibition.