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Tinker

In ginger hue, stomach pressed above the train tracks, dangling over a bridge as a thunder cloud, I saw you galloping along the line, steaming all over, a beauty. I thought of who designed you, what time you had left and when you'd arrive, whether the driver had always wanted to be one and whether they'd worked two or three years or most of their lives. I walked home whistling, post watching you glide away, left a pot of tea to brew in an Earl Grey coloured sitting room and waited for the guest to arrive.  
Dusk plodded in before a knock at the door, spring sheet rain lingering on ear, a cursed, shaken umbrella, request of a drink, removal of shoes. It all occured before much conversation. When settled he asked if the fledglings had left the holes in my brickwork and whether I wanted it righted, I didn't, of course, but reassured at some point in life I'd rectify the situation. He spoke of the journey. A woman with long hair had been scolding her young children and then petting them on the head and making kissing noises while they recoiled when she noticed people were looking. The train car was hot and harrassed by people. An automatic door to a curved bathroom didn't work and so every slight bump it would ding, reopen and close again releasing vapours of use without cleaning. It wasn't an ideal start to his trip but it wasn't long or delayed. I could acknowledge he'd aged through work or alcohol or both. I made a warm meal on cherry decorated plates found in the larder, left them in the sink when we'd finished, said I'd do them tomorrow.
I didn't ask questions of South, though he seemed keen to address them. He said the swimming season hadn't been ideal and work in catering had all but dried up, tourism on a slump. He said he was reducing his indulgence in the usual vices to cope. I commented correctly as conversation seemed to flow. He fiddled with a star shaped burn mark on my Mother's tapestry chair. It had fraying edges though I hadn't the heart to throw it away. Sometimes, before quite awake, resting by the fire I'd smell her perfume drift across the room, through the crochet curtains and away again.
"When will you sell the place?" he asked drawing me away from white handmade drapes and lavender.  
“Why would I?"
"You know, to come back South, reopen the book shop, be with people you know." His eyes scanned the mountains of boxes, each filled with papers gathering dust.  
"I don't have plans, Neil. I wouldn't push it."
The clock on Mum's mantle displayed 12.52am.  
"I am going to bed. Your bed is made, upstairs on the left, second door. Turn off the lights when you go."
It wouldn't be the last time the topic would arise but I could not rise to face it just yet. Kicked old, plum slippers off at the mat, took the bannister in hand. I left the hall light on, stroked dust from some picture frames hung on dark wood, stared into a tainted mirror for much too long. Became a ghost until I heard him close the spare bedroom door then went back down and fell asleep in my chair.  
In the morning, same blue shirt, same grey shorts I tiptoed to the bathroom for first light showered, stared as fleckled light danced through frosted South facing glass against my skin. Washed pollution and smoke and chaos out from my hair, conditioned, brushed teeth and spat it at the plug hole, missed and dried my cursed self. I chose a jumpsuit, something I could muddle about in, sorting through some of the boxes in unused rooms, do some gardening if I could face it. Neil would muck in. If he didn't the pub we went to as teenagers still stood, he could find his way out there.
When I came down he'd set the table, fresh embroidered cloth, tied back curtains. A dawn sun made sand of his hair. The room smelt of coffee and croissant.  
"You good?" his eyes looked adjusted, awake and, for him, focused.  
"I'm here."
"That'll do. Come on," He wafted cheerfully, pulling a pine chair against flagstone. "Sit, eat, tell me about tomorrow's plan."  
I hadn't considered tomorrow to be honest and wasn't keen to admit the fact.
Neil had a way of seeing things as a list of actions. I saw them as a list of feelings, none of which I was keen to address. Let out a puff of air, rested my chin on hands and stared out at the chives in a raised bed beyond the French doors.  
"I suppose we'll have to go." He set warm, full plates down beside the cups, jug, butter dish and cafetiere, laughed. It was a dry boyish kind, one one only does in a room with someone whom they're wholely familiar. I hoped he'd retain that charm his whole life.  
"I suppose we will," he tore his portion, stuffed a quarter in his mouth and without a chew continued. "Are you intending to give a speech then?"
I drifted into the blue of his thinly shaped eyes and hooked there.  
"Yes, well, Margaret says I have to. I'd rather get drunk with you, can we do that after?"  
"Seems a plan. Have you written it out, do you want me to check?"  
"Doubting me?"  
"Trying to help."
"Don't." I hadn't the energy for it, he broke the contact due to a cry from beyond the double doors. Khan looked both damp and angry the other side of them.
"I forgot to let him. I'm not used to having a cat."
"Get him in, we can start emptying the study."
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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