Pud Imrie lay awake like he did most nights, eyes blank and round in the dark. There were no curtains at the window and the cold kept him awake. Some nights there were spots of electric light on the blue hillside but Imrie didn’t imagine the homes behind the lights, the kitchens with winter soup or the porches with socks steaming on the radiator at the back. He had never spoken to any of the people from these houses. He liked being a stranger in their country and had no desire to change that. He never confessed to anyone that he was surprised by the cold. Pud Imrie claimed he didn’t need sleep.
He thought of the tasks the following day would bring and he thought of how he wouldn’t have the time or funds to complete any of them. He thought of the money he owed and the repercussions for not paying it. He didn’t dream of escape but of how to outwit creditors for another day. Always how he would be able to stay ahead of the game for another few days. A job like any other.
He was totting up the things he thought he could sell. The remaining things. There weren’t very many. He still had some tools but he would hold onto some of them. He knew his way around a tool kit but he had only ever done small restoration jobs on items he went on to sell. No one had ever hired him and the place was already littered with broken furniture and objects. In the morning he would sell the things he had borrowed. There was an old watch. It flipped open like a locket. There had probably been a chain on it but that was gone. People sometimes bought them as a novelty but even the gold ones didn’t fetch much. And the usual cutlery. He had come to depend on teaspoons. Women bought them. If he wrapped them in coloured tissue paper and polished them up he could get the odd customer to part with a fiver. On a good day he might offload five or six teaspoons. Near enough a hundred percent profit for him. He was never idiot enough to hope something would turn up. He was not an optimistic man. Pud had learned that he was not lucky. But he had worked on his spiel.
The spoons were silver from the hold of a ship. They were Russian in a Swedish shipwreck. 1901 crossing the Dardanelle Straits all hands lost. Cobbled together tails from the cloth-bound books on Phil’s stall. He enjoyed that some of the women hung on his every word although he hated wasting his creative talents on these people, some even rooting through the rest of his things heads down as he spoke.
Diane rolled against him and snored softly. Recently Imrie had come to realize Diane was like those women who bought spoons. The lies she had told him frothed up in his mind again and his skin grew hot and uncomfortable. She had led him to believe she had strength but now her lies and weakness disgusted him. There wasn’t time now but he knew he’d get rid of her soon. It irked him being distracted by her when he had important things to do. The French weren’t fools. They would see through her but it wouldn’t make for successful trades. This realisation settled itself in his mind and he started to sweat. He stared at her tangled hair spread over the pillow. His face reddened in the dark. Bitch, he thought. Sometimes he felt like he was dying.
Morning, she whispered. Is it morning yet John?
Pud could feel her leaning over his face. He felt her fingers on his cheek but he kept his eyes closed thinking how badly he needed to be on his own. Her hand trailed down over his chin and neck and she stroked the hair on his chest. He resisted the urge to push it away. He lay on his back feeling desire and revulsion as her hand worked slowly down over his belly. She hesitated. Her nails circling his naval which protruded now the way Rachel’s had when she was pregnant with Duff. The thought of his son made him flinch.
He saw Diane clawing at him in the narrow bed beneath the coverless duvet, skin grey in the half-light. His own body bloated with middle age.
Get on with it, Jesus, the fuck’re you doing? he said and grabbed Diane’s hand forcing it down to his genitals. She said nothing. Pud kept his hand covering hers and adjusted the speed if she slowed down or went too fast.
Christ, he muttered pushing her into the middle of the bed. His knees sank into the ancient mattress.
Just stay still, he said when she raised her hips up to meet him. He was pleased to feel her body loosen beneath him and thumped into her harder.
What are you staring at me for? he said. How the fuck can I do this with you staring up at me like that, Jesus.
When he was finished he rolled off her and got up.
He reckoned he could get one of these French places like Phil’s. He’d been checking out the buildings round about and some looked like they’d been empty for years. No sign of any electric wiring or even plumbing to some of them. Maybe mostly old barns and outbuildings. Unlined walls inside with just the bare stone. He could fix it up himself like some of the other places in the village. Sort out the garden. Phil planned to rent his place out to tourists but Imrie would get down here for good. He could use Phil’s place while he was working on it. He liked the fact that since bringing the car down here for Phil he was in credit for a return favour. Duff could come down.
At first light he was out at the far end of the yard. There was a good patch of dirt for burning things with bricks and boulders which he arranged in a circle. He had burned most of the crap in the shed. Junk that must have been there for fifty years or more. Old wheels and tyres, a pram, vinyl car seats. Stuff that needed to be sorted. Some of it didn’t burn away but only scorched. He flung these things back across the yard in the direction of the shed. There was a strewn line of machine bits, batteries, sheets of bent corrugated iron that had been part of the big slider door skewed off its runners, old clay piping and car spares half sunk in the frozen mud.
It was a three day job hauling things out across the rutted ground then standing back watching the flames. He burned a load of planks from the shed before realising it was the floor. He didn’t like wasting time and if things didn’t take quickly he hurried it up with the petrol he had found in a can at the back door. When he couldn’t find anything to burn he dribbled petrol into the potholes in the hard ground and torched the puddles.
Gut rot forced Pud to accept that they needed something decent to cook on. The tiny open fire in the kitchen where he had installed an ingenious hotplate from a piece of corrugated iron rarely built up good enough heat. He wondered what the hell Phil used. Most of the fuel was damp and throwing petrol on it produced only a temporary flare up and made everything taste bad. The potatoes were greenish and hard. Imrie had taken the sack in from the shed when they had frosted. Once thawed, they were mostly rotten.
You should have saved some of that wood from outside, Diane said. It was probably hunger that forced her to speak out and Pud surprised himself with the force he used for the punch. Her whole body sprawling there took up the entire floor.
Wake the fuck up, he said. There was no room to get by. He had to kick her each time he stepped over.
A direct road ran through the middle the village with a couple of narrow turn offs here and there but for the main it was roughly a mile stretch with houses dotted along the edge. The only shop was a dark- windowed boulangerie which Imrie had never found to be open. A river ran parallel to the road but Imrie didn’t know what it was called. The empty house stood between the river and the road. He reversed the car up close to the wall glad to shut off the din from the engine. An undisturbed greyness seemed to rise off the French stone.
The cooker got stuck halfway through the window. It was smaller than Pud had expected but he wondered how Diane had managed to get it up to the window at all. He peered past it into the kitchen where she stood leaning her chest into the bulk of it.
Go round and open the door, he told her.
Won’t it be locked?
Go round and open the door.
She hesitated.
Do you want someone to come by and see us breaking in?
You said they wouldn’t mind, she said but she turned and ran for the door.
Pud left the cooker stuck where it was and walked round to the front door of the house. Even under the ice it was a well-tended garden with neat grass squares and earthenware tubs lined up along the wall waiting for spring.
Diane was panicking with the old wooden doors, rattling the lock, the handle going up and down. He stood silently watching for a few minutes then raised his boot and kicked the door in. She screamed and Imrie laughed at the sight of her then picked her up and swung her round in a bear hug. She stared at the shattered door making little groaning noises in the back of her throat trying to suppress them with her hands over her mouth.
Don’t fucking start Diane. It’s you who’s been going on about a cooker.
She kept it going even when they were hauling the cooker out to the back seat of the car, bent over and holding onto her belly.
I don’t think I should be doing this, she said. She got in the back with the cooker.
Keep the grease off the seats, said Pud hunching over the wheel listening. It took a couple of tries before the engine kicked in.
She mentioned the petrol light again. Hadn’t he explained to her about looking after a car.
Sorry. I was just reminding you, she said. She was trying to smile at him in the rear-view mirror with her gums still swollen and bloody with the tooth missing. It sickened Imrie.
Only people like you need reminding. Vast majority of idiots need reminding. Okay? He stared at her in the mirror.
Okay. Sitting there biting her nails like an idiot looking out the back window again. She gripped the cooker as he took a bend too fast.
It’s important. But he couldn’t be bothered going on.
If he was honest Imrie had a problem with French garages. A couple of weeks ago in Roscoff the dark night had felt good lit up with the 3D Michelin men along the tops of the petrol pumps. They would fetch a few quid back home. Pud hadn’t noticed the guy running out the building waving his arms shouting something. He had skipped across the forecourt towards the car and grabbed the pump handle from Imrie, petrol dribbling over Imrie’s shoes. The guy gesturing towards the car and firing off more rapid French shaking his head slotting the nozzle home.
Pud shrugging and saying, non pas monsoir, holding out the flats of his palms but the guy hurried back to the office. Pud had gone back over with money but he couldn’t find the entrance to the kiosk. The French guy sitting in the window reading a magazine at a table strewn with oily paperwork and cigarette packets. Imrie tapped on the window holding up the notes but the guy ignored him keeping his eyes on his magazine. Imrie had slammed the car shut, French fuckin prick.
He drove to Pontivy where there were several large self serve garages. He made Diane do the petrol. She came back from paying pleased with herself.
I got us gas for the cooker, she said, and a postcard for Duff. She handed the card to Imrie but he didn’t take it.
Where’s the gas?
You’re supposed to take one of those red cylinders, she said. They know it’s paid for.
And I’ve to lift it into the car I suppose, he said. Diane climbed in the back seat.
Probably best, she said. He slammed the door.
She didn’t speak the rest of the way which somehow annoyed him more than her endless complaining.
Is that you in the fuckin huff now?
Market day saw a change in Imrie. He stood in front of a pink compact propped open on the cooker and licked his palms to flatten down his beard.
What do you think? he smiled at Diane in the mirror. She was shivering in spite of the big jersey. He had swapped it with Phil years ago for a pile of gilt frames. It was the genuine article, yarn coated with oil to keep the wind out. You never washed a thing like that. Diane always said she loved the smell. He licked his palms again and rubbed a couple of marks off his jacket. He liked the pioneer look the untrimmed beard gave him.
Very handsome, Diane said linking her arm through his. You’ll knock ‘em dead. She kissed his cheek.
Baby they ain’t seen nothing yet. He rubbed her cold fingers and kissed her forehead. Diane held out the postcards, I don’t have a stamp for these. Is it okay if you post them in the town?
Imrie sucked in his belly and tucked his shirt down the front of his trousers, I think I’ve lost a bit of weight. He took the cards and put them in his inside pocket without looking at them.
John, I don’t know what I can do here all day.
You wanted to write. Do that.
Winter sunlight from the window caught the pile of cutlery on the table at Pud’s elbow and he sorted out some spoons first spitting on them then finishing with a final polish on his sleeve before rolling them into a length of cloth. He chose a spoon and held it in the sun so that a disc of light bounced over Diane’s face. He held it steady across her eyes.
I’d rather come with you, she said squinting.
I’m better doing this stuff on my own, he said wobbling the spoon making the spot of light jiggle. She held up her hand to block it.
I could do with getting out of here for a bit.
Pud replaced the spoon on the pile, just leave it Diane.
It’s freezing. At least if I came with you I’d be warm in the car. I could just stay in the car if you like. I’d just be sitting in the car.
Pud headed out the door.
When are we going home John?
Fuck, here we go again. He turned and walked towards her.
You’re fuckin doing it again.
He stared at her then turned away and walked out of the door without closing it behind him. He threw the box onto the front seat and slammed the car door revving the engine till it screamed and skidded on the ice. Diane was out the door and following the car on foot. He was glad when the tyres stopped spinning long enough to get a grip. He heaved the car up the hill and away. He needed to feel movement. He opened the window and the icy wind was good. The wipers were frozen solid and Imrie enjoyed the moments of blindness each time the sunlight flickered through the trees turning the filthy windscreen bright gold. He used to ride his bike blinking in the wind making it like a strobe behind his eyelids going faster than any of the other boys. A minute longer in that house and he’d have killed her.
Imrie felt the familiar buzz of adrenalin at the sight of the market. Bunting hung between the lampposts, the smell of grilled sausages and cheese warmed the air and people were already picking through the stalls but it wasn’t long before he discovered the French were unhelpful. They wasted time and seemed to deliberately stopper his chances at making good any deals he proposed. The steward allocated him a pitch at the wrong end of the street which he had to share with a fat woman selling lace doilies. She was not friendly and interfered with his display pushing it to the edge of the table. Other stallholders looked over his spoons making comments to each other in French and gestures Imrie understood were mocking. He also knew sales would be terrible with this fat moron belching and picking her teeth. The crowds circulated the stalls at the other end of the market and when a customer approached and Imrie attempted to make a sale the fat woman laughed at his French. He sold nothing and found little solace in the fact that her doilies didn’t sell either.
In the end the woman offered twenty euros for everything which somehow ended up being fifteen in Imrie’s hand. He didn’t argue. Snow had started to fall half an hour earlier and was blowing diagonally in a dense veil down the street. He was glad not to be burdened with the box for the walk back to the car. He put the money in his pocket and left without saying anything. He was aware the other traders were watching him from beneath the rims of their hats.
When he found the car humped under the snow it wouldn’t start. The engine was dead and wouldn’t even turn over. He sat in the drivers seat with his hands on the wheel staring at the snow falling onto the windscreen. Gradually it formed a thick layer on the glass and Imrie enjoyed the privacy happy that no one could see in and he couldn’t see out. He felt unable to move in the peaceful grey light beneath the cocoon of snow. He was tired and didn’t know the distance to the house.
It’s dangerous to fall asleep in this cold, he thought. I should make a move before it’s dark. I should get this door open before the lock seizes up in this fuckin cold.
ANNIE PROULX
ALICE MUNRO
RAYMOND CARVER
ANNE TYLER
JOHN FANTE
FLANNERY O'CONNOR
