Three to See the King

3

As she reminded me of my scheme in all its detail, I pondered on how I could have come to abandon it so easily. What had distracted and led me on such a different path? The answer, I soon realized, lay in the moment I’d stumbled upon my present abode. With one look I had allowed myself to be seduced by its grace and solidity, by its warm stove, and by its shutters that could be closed against the weather. Oh yes, it was a house of tin alright, but instead of being in a canyon, it was situated high up on the plain!

I opened the door and gazed out across that vast expanse, asking myself if I’d left it too late to resume my search. It was the afternoon of a desolate winter’s day, and as I stood there a savage gust of wind warned of the hardship that such a life would bring. Quickly, I stepped back into the warmth.

There probably isn’t even a canyon,’ I said, by way of explanation.

‘How far did you look?’ she asked.

‘Quite far.’

‘And you found nothing?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I suppose it hardly matters really,’ she remarked. ‘As long as you’ve got a roof over your head.’

Maybe so, but I was curious as to why she’d raised the subject in the first place. At no time had she questioned my desire to live in a canyon, and seemed only concerned with my obvious failure to do so. At first I assumed this was simply another criticism to add to the current list. After a while, however, I began to suspect there was more to it than that. Nothing else was said about my unfulfilled plans, nor did she mention them again over the next few days. Instead, she adopted a strategy of silence, during which I couldn’t help thinking that she was waiting for me to do something. Over and over again I felt her eyes on me as I carried out some domestic duty in the house. When I brought some extra pillows to the upper floor, for example, she sat on her bed watching while I struggled to get them into their covers. She didn’t utter a single word, but instead looked at me as if to say, ‘You’re wasting your time doing that: there are much more important things to be getting on with.’

This unsatisfactory state of affairs continued for almost a week, and at last I could stand it no longer.

‘Right,’ I said, one cold, bright morning. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Where?’ she asked.

‘To look for a canyon to live in. I might be gone a while.’

‘But I don’t want to be here on my own,’ she protested.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’ll sort that out first.’

I put my boots on and went over to see a neighbour of mine called Simon Painter. He lived a couple of miles away to the west, in a tin house of similar construction to my own. This Simon Painter moved into the vicinity round about the same time as me, and I suppose you could call him a friend. To tell the truth, though, ‘half-friend half-nuisance’ would he a much better description. The trouble with Simon was that he tried too hard to be sociable, frequently turning up at odd hours of the day on so-called surprise visits which generally involved exchanging unnecessary gifts. These calls were fine so long as they were also short-lived, but unfortunately he had a tendency to outstay his welcome and often needed to be shown the door. For limited periods, however, he was a good companion, and for this reason I knew he could be relied on for what I had in mind.

I should mention that Simon Painter was not my only neighbour, but he was by far the nearest. Living beyond him were Steve Treacle and Philip Sibling, and strewn around the area were two or three others whom I’d never met, all separated by intervals of several miles. The only thing we had in common was that we each lived alone in a house built from tin. We rarely saw one another because we preferred it like that. So went my understanding of the arrangement anyway.

The last time I’d laid eyes on Simon was when he came over to tell me he was planning to hoist a captive balloon above his house. Did I have any objections, he wanted to know. Well obviously I didn’t, and I realized he’d made the journey simply as an excuse to visit somebody. I had no doubt that he’d also called upon each of the others under the same pretext. The idea of this balloon, apparently, was to make his residence more easily identifiable. I knew for a fact that it was already equipped with a flagpole on the roof and a bell that chimed whenever the wind blew. This proposed new addition confirmed an opinion I’d held for some time, namely, that Simon Painter was trying to attract attention to himself. Why he’d chosen to live in such a remote setting I couldn’t understand, because he seemed to spend his days seeking the fellowship of other people. I’d lost count of the many occasions (when the wind was in the right direction) that I’d heard his bell clanging forlornly in the dead of night. If I could hear it at such a distance, then surely it must have kept him wide awake, which seemed a high price to pay.

Of course, it wouldn’t have done to question Simon’s presence on this wide and deserted plain. He always swore that it was the place where he’d found contentment, and he would have denied any suggestion to the contrary. Nevertheless, I wasn’t entirely convinced.

As I approached his house the first thing I saw was the balloon anchored above it. Large enough, at a guess, to support the weight of two or three men, this balloon swayed gently at the end of a long rope. Next I saw his flag, brightly coloured in a combination of orange and purple, flapping at the top of its pole, and indicating that Simon Painter was ‘at home’.

Drawing nearer to his house of tin, it was odd to think that I wasn’t the only person to occupy such a dwelling. Recently I’d spent so much time in or around my own place that I’d come to believe I was unique; that there was no one else in the world with such an interesting existence. My visit to Simon Painter reminded me that there were, in fact, several of us. His walls and roof gave off a dull gleam in the morning sunlight, and for a few moments I could only stand and stare at such a perfect spectacle.

The clanging of Simon’s bell interrupted my reverie. A breeze was getting up, but I noticed the shutters on the house were all wide open, which must have created quite a draught. Then 1 heard a joyful cry from within. This told me there would he no need to knock.

‘Oh hello!’ called Simon as he threw open the door. ‘Come in! Come in! This is a pleasant surprise!’

I knew for a fact that he would have been watching through the shutters from the moment I appeared in the distance, but I said nothing as I had no wish to contradict him. He held the door open with one hand, and shook mine with the other. At the same time I remembered a feature of his house that I could never quite understand. For some reason he had the door opening outwards, which seemed to me a most inconvenient arrangement. It meant he had to reach right round the outside to close it whenever it was hooked open, or else there was a risk of it slamming shut when it wasn’t. Much better, surely, to have the door swinging into the house. Then it could be open and closed with ease, and the flow of air regulated as required. Simon’s insistence on having an outward-opening door only served to substantiate my judgement that he just wanted to be different from everyone else. To be fair on him, though, he was always a most genial host. As soon as we were inside he had me sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of me.

‘Well, well,’ he kept saying. ‘Lovely to see you. Lovely to see you!’

As a gift for Simon I’d brought along a set of wind chimes, and I now presented them to him formally.

‘You could hang them up beside your bell,’ I suggested. To keep it company.’

‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Yes, excellent idea.’

‘Speaking of which,’ I continued. ‘Did you know I had a guest?’

‘At your house of tin?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Of course.’

‘Sorry for asking, but… it’s just that I rarely have visitors here … and … well … who is it?’

‘This woman I know.’

‘A woman?’ Instantly he sprang to his feet, went to the nearest shutter and looked out. ‘Is she there now?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But you can’t see her from here.’

‘Well, you must bring her over!’

‘Why don’t you come to mine instead? You can keep her company.’

‘Alright, I will, yes.’

He had a bag packed within minutes. Then he closed down the stove so that it would go out of its own accord, fastened down all the shutters and lowered his flag. Soon after that we were on our way back to my house. Most of the journey he didn’t speak at all, which was unlike him, but as we got nearer he finally broke his silence.

‘By the way,’ he asked. ‘What’s your guest’s name?’

‘Mary Petrie,’ I said. ‘Do you know her?’

‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know any women.’

The instant we went through the door I remembered I hadn’t told her I was bringing someone back with me. She was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down on us.

This is Simon Painter,’ I explained. The person I went to see this morning.’

‘He’s got an overnight bag,’ she replied.

‘Yes, he’s come to stay for a while.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Simon.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she answered, without looking at him.

At this moment Simon displayed a flair for diplomacy which I didn’t know he had, and stepped outside again.

‘Oh marvellous view!’ we could hear him saying. ‘Absolutely marvellous.’

I advanced halfway up the stairs towards Mary Petrie.

‘What’s he doing here?’ she asked.

‘He’s come to keep you company.’

‘What for?’

‘You said you didn’t want to be here on your own.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Well, what did you mean then?’

She looked at me for a long time. The expression on her face did not change, but at last I understood.