Read Online The Man in the Shed by Lloyd Jones - Free Book Online Page B

Simpson had brought a map with him, and he could see they were a short distance east of where the itinerary placed them. Tall pines made a secret of the surrounding countryside. They had stopped at a restaurant and a warm and almost circular glow in the distance suggested they were on the outskirts of a small town.
    ‘Look here,’ Mr Simpson said to the Greek driver. ‘Shouldn’t we be in Kaunas?’ The driver gazed at the plastic which covered Mr Simpson’s map, then at Mr Simpson with a flicker of contempt for his need to know, as if to say, ‘I decide. Me. The driver.’ Mr Simpson trailed after him.
    He could hear his wife saying, ‘I’m sure it is all right. There’s no point in our worrying.’ Then she said, ‘Look, we’re the only ones not inside the restaurant.’ He turned back to her. Suddenly they could hear voices, and laughter, and even what sounded like tears. Over the windows of the restaurant were wooden shutters and warm glow at the bottom of each sill. It occurred to Mr Simpson that they were the only ones left outside. Alone, out here in the Russian night, thought Mr Simpson. Well, it was not quite night because they could see the tops of the pines. But Mr Simpson thought it might be a moment worth telling about once they got home. It would be something Maggie would bring up. ‘Bill, why don’t you tell Paddy and Dan about that time in Russia …’ His wife wouldhave on oven-gloves and she would be holding an oven-hot casserole dish, and he would shoot a quick look of disapproval, or perhaps laugh, as if she had rekindled a lost memory.
    They walked along a path of trodden pine-needles. Mr Simpson allowed his hand to be held, but inside the restaurant, in the cloakroom area, he shook free. Through another set of doors a speech was in progress. Mr Simpson braced himself for the moment when a roomful of faces would stare his and Maggie’s way; but none did. They pushed through the swing-doors and no one paid the Simpsons the slightest attention. A man with greying hair and a sad drooping moustache was giving the speech. At times he interrupted himself to blow his nose and brush away a tear. Mr Simpson’s eyes moved to the far end of the room, where in an open doorway he saw the driver seated at a table. He had started on his food and ate hungrily from a fork, while keeping his other hand on the stem of a wine glass for fear it would be removed, or stolen. None of what was happening in the restaurant seemed to be of concern to him.
    There were two long tables set with white table-cloths. Bouquets of wild flowers were set between carafes of spring water. Now, at last, a man in a waistcoat, an older man about Mr Simpson’s age, found them a place at the bottom end of the second table. The Simpsons stepped over a bench and sat down. The Russian spoke in Mr Simpson’s ear, but it was unintelligible. Mr Simpson spoke in English. He said he was sorry. The waiter shushed him. He held up the palms of his hands, as if Mr Simpson had expressed impatience.
    The speech had come to an end, and now the speaker began to read from a list of names. ‘Serge.’ A man got up from the Simpsons’ table. A second name was called. ‘Masha.’ A woman slowly rose from the other table. The entire room looked up. The man ‘Serge’ held out his hands and the woman walked over to where he stood, and took both his hands. Another woman at the other table was crying loud, painful sobs. Now the speaker held up his glass and offered a toast and on either side of the Simpsons glasses were raised. The Simpsons tried to follow suit but were raising their own as the rest of the glasses in the room were returned to their resting places. Applause broke out. From both tables people called out ‘Masha’ and ‘Serge’. Room was made at the top end of the Simpsons’ table, and the couple sat down. When the woman began to touch the man’s face with her fingertips Mr Simpson looked away. He folded his napkin and looked at it