Three to See the King

9

I stayed there for a long time after they’d gone, reluctant to leave the remaining pile unguarded. I knew as well as they did that this was quite unnecessary, for as Steve had pointed out, there was no one around except us. Even so, I felt obliged to make certain everything was secure. A length of rope lay coiled amongst Simon’s possessions, and I used it to tie down all the various pieces. This, I assured myself, would protect them from the wind. Then, when I was satisfied there was no more I could do, I headed for home. Halfway back I met Mary Petrie. She was carrying a basket in her hand.

‘That was quick work,’ she said. ‘Have you put Simon together already?’

‘Not quite,’ I replied. ‘He’s decided to move.’

The basket contained a flask of coffee, along with some cakes which she’d brought to keep us going. I told her what had happened, and how the others had left without saying goodbye.

‘Well,’ she remarked. ‘At least you’ve still got me, haven’t you?’

This was one way of looking at it, of course, but as we returned home I couldn’t help thinking that I might never see my friends again. After all, they had little cause to come calling any more. These thoughts played on my mind quite a lot that night. By the following morning I’d resolved to go over to Simon Painter’s place every day with a basket of provisions for the three of them. Then they’d know that although they were gone, they were by no means forgotten. For some reason, however, I couldn’t face seeing them in person. This wasn’t because I felt ashamed for not helping with the move. It was just that I didn’t think I’d know what to say to any of them. Accordingly, I decided not to pay my visit until the late afternoon, by which time I reckoned they should have arrived and departed again.

Sure enough, when I got to Simon’s about an hour before dusk the first thing I noticed was that three more pieces of tin had been taken away. I was pleased to see they’d used the rope to tie down the rest of the pile, just as I had, but apart from that there was no sign of anyone having been there. I checked everything was secure, then left the basket of victuals in a prominent position.

When I went back the next day the pile had again been reduced by three items. It was disappointing to discover, though, that the flask of coffee had not been touched. Only the cakes were gone.

‘Perhaps the coffee went cold overnight,’ suggested Mary Petrie when she heard about it.

Of course, I thought, how stupid of me! After that I switched to making my delivery early in the morning, then returning again in the afternoon to retrieve the basket. This system was quite time-consuming, involving two journeys there and back, but I felt somehow rewarded the first time I found the coffee had been drunk and all the cakes eaten.

As the days went by I found that these trips became increasingly important to me. I would study closely the diminishing stack of tin to see which pieces had been removed, and always I looked to see if anything new had been left behind. There was nothing I was expecting in particular, I should add, but I thought I might find an occasional message saying how they were getting on, or maybe a ‘thank you’ note. Instead, there was only the empty basket. It soon became clear that my daily offerings were of little importance compared with the task of moving an entire house bit by bit. This did little, however, to reduce my interest, which was now starting to become obsessive. I began to recognize the ways in which the pieces of tin had been marked for reassembly, and I kept a note of them for my own reference. I’d soon worked out, for example, that FRS was an abbreviation of front right side, while LHT meant left hand top. The more I became acquainted with this special code Steve Treacle had devised, the more I suspected that it was doomed to failure. My doubts were confirmed when I came across a part marked TLH. What was the difference, I wondered, between top left hand and left hand top?

After two weeks the pile had decreased considerably in size. Still the coffee and cakes were consumed daily, and still I received no acknowledgement. Undeterred, I maintained my regular visits. This soon caused trouble at home. Mary Petrie mentioned frequently that I seemed to be spending a lot of time away, so one afternoon I invited her to come with me on my journey. Then she could find out for herself what was so fascinating about a heap of tin, as she put it. We arrived quite late because of the speed she walked, then all she did was stand gazing in silence at the deserted site. This was actually her first visit to Simon Painter’s house, and I could see that its reduced condition meant nothing to her. Therefore, I thought I’d better explain the layout.

‘Simon used to live right on this very spot,’ I said. ‘The door was here and the kitchen was there, and the stove was in that corner. Don’t you find that interesting?’

‘Not if he’s left the place, no,’ she replied. ‘Where’s his bell?’

A short search revealed it hidden amongst his other possessions, along with the Sandfire nameplate, the wind chimes and the rolled-up flag. I gave the bell a ring, and when she heard its familiar tone her eyes welled up with tears.

‘How come you’re so engrossed with Simon all of a sudden?’ she demanded. ‘When he was living here all you did was criticize him!’

‘Yes, but only as a friend,’ I replied.

‘You were never friendly to him!’

‘I was.’

‘No you weren’t!’ she cried. ‘And now he’s gone and you deserve it!’

Next moment she had turned away and was stalking homeward. I wanted to go after her and find out what fault I was supposed to be guilty of now, but there were one or two things I needed to do first. Quickly I counted the pieces of tin to see what still remained, then I checked the rope was secure, grabbed the basket and set off in pursuit.

It was remarkable how far she’d got in that short time. I judged she’d covered a couple of hundred yards already, which was some distance considering her earlier complaint that she couldn’t walk any faster! She marched along with such a determined stride that anyone would have thought she was trying to put as much space between us as possible.

For my part I had no intention of exerting myself just to catch up, so I strolled along at a normal pace, knowing that I was bound to overhaul her eventually. This actually took longer than I’d estimated, and it wasn’t until we were nearly home that I got close enough to speak.

‘I deserve what, exactly?’ I asked.

‘You deserve to be left on your own!’ replied Mary Petrie.

‘What, just because I criticized Simon Painter once or twice?’

‘Don’t drag Simon into it!’ she snapped. ‘At least he cares about other people! All you care about is yourself and your silly little house of tin!’

She was still making no effort to slow down, but pressed on with her eyes looking straight ahead. The house in question was now in full view.

‘What’s silly about it?’ I enquired.

‘It’s all silly! Look at it! Sticking up in the middle of nowhere, miles from anyone else!’

‘But that’s why it’s so perfect!’

‘You really believe that, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You really think you’re living some sort of enviable existence. That’s the reason you keep going over to Simon’s all the time: you just can’t accept that he could ever dream of moving away. Oh no, there can’t be anywhere better than here because this is the centre of the world! Everyone else must be wrong! How can they not want to live on a cold, windy and desolate plain, in a silly little house of tin where you have to shovel sand every morning and bolt the door to stop it flying open?’

Suddenly Mary Petrie stopped in her tracks and faced me.

‘I’ll tell you why you’re here,’ she said. ‘You’re here because you think it makes you different. You think this silly little tinpot life of yours, this self-imposed isolation, makes you more interesting than other people. Don’t you? Eh? You’re convinced that if everybody had the chance then they too would live in a house built entirely from tin. You can’t see that all you’re doing is playing, the same as Simon, Steve and Philip were playing before they grew out of it! You’re playing at being a loner who can get by without anyone else. That’s why you cut yourself off like some recluse! You couldn’t find a cabin in a canyon so you chose this place instead. A gleaming, grey, two-storey edifice with a sloping roof and a tin-plate chimney! You believe it’s a fortress, but I’ll tell you something: it’s tinny and it’s temporary and one of these days it’s going to fall down about your ears!’

When she’d finished speaking she stood glaring at me with her hands on her hips and her eyes ablaze.

I waited a moment and then said, ‘So you don’t like my corrugated dwelling?’

Mary Petrie sighed. ‘You still don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What I mean is, it’s not where you are that counts but who you’re with.’

‘Does that mean I shouldn’t go to Simon Painter’s any more?’

‘Of course not, but try to pay me some attention too.’

‘Alright then.’

Her look softened. She sighed again and turned towards the house. I watched as she walked the remaining distance before disappearing inside, then spent a few minutes pondering what she’d said. The gist of it, as far as I could gather, was that the whole place was on the verge of collapse. Obviously I didn’t want her to feel insecure, so I gave it a quick examination for structural weakness. As I expected there was nothing wrong at all, but I thought it better not to go inside straightaway as she obviously needed time to herself. Instead, therefore, I waited around while the pale afternoon light began to fade.

This was a time of day I’d always enjoyed, when I could watch the horizon being gradually encroached by gloom. The air felt slightly warmer than usual, suggesting that the wind had veered a little. A glance at the weathercock told the same story. The vane had been pointing steadfastly west-south-west ever since we’d fixed it to the roof. Now, however, it had swung towards Simon Painter’s house. In former times this would have allowed the futile clanging of a bell to drift into our hearing. Lately, of course, there was nothing but the moan of the wind, which at last appeared to be losing some of its harshness. There was less sand being borne along with it than usual, and I glanced idly towards the house to see if any needed clearing away. As I did so a distant movement caught my eye. It was far away to the north, where a dense bank of clouds was settling down for the night. I peered into the dimness, trying to work out what I’d seen. Then, after a few more moments had passed, I spied a remote and solitary figure wandering slowly from east to west.