Read Online Wait Till I Tell You by Candia McWilliam - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Candia McWilliam
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trysting places, Bill had an acceptance of folly that made his clients determined either to surprise him by behaving a great deal better or by trying ever harder to shock him.
Now autumn was coming. Bill had sought a new home throughout the summer but most places he found had been too comfortable, too draughtless, well-appointed, visible, to be shelters for the secret people whose lives nourished his own.
He felt the existence of these people like wiring running through a house or like strings essential to the performance of a puppet show. He loved to know that things were more than what they seemed, that you could never expose it all. It made his own unpromised life feel light and simple as a creature’s. He had Shona, and he had his own ways, and that was it. It was what he wanted.
He had found the Heronry on a walk. He saw it across the water, and wondered at the blue-grey slate gable pointing out of the ponticum. It was so neat and finely finished that he was sure it must be a place that was known and full of confided transactions, written and scratched into it.
He puzzled at first about how to reach the island, but he asked one of his weekend problem-bearers sidelong one Saturday if he knew where Bill might come by a wee boat. The man had a repair yard and hated writing cheques, so the dinghy, clinker-built and trim, was Bill’s, plus oars, if he’d pledge another six months of his advice and leave the boat behind when he left the area.
‘Good enough,’ said Bill. ‘Good enough.’
When he got to the place that first time, he checked it over, every bit of its stone, and its smooth coved interior. There was birdshit and there were feathers and the light bones of mouse and bird. There was dust and fallen plaster and the odd splint of lath. There were brambles curling in at one of the lower windows and in the doorway there was bracken. Half the egg of a blackbird had been blown behind an interior door. It was as bare as that, a building apparently unwritten upon except by the hand that had depicted the heron on the oval of glass, but even it was not like the words, that had come eventually to disturb Bill at each of the homes he found.
He pinched out the roll-up, took out his army knife and hooked the lid off the bottle of beer he had brought with him in the boat over from the shingle shore. He drank it so slowly that it was never related to thirst, only to the gradual relaxation of his body and the invasion of his mind by a mild forgiving warmth. Bill did not take drink in company. He liked to receive its blessing where he couldn’t be seen, when his unguarded self could come free of the outer, controlled, invisible man.
The rain on the hill had fallen out of the cloud that was now all silver. The black loch was shining blue. The floor of the island around the small house was all red mast and shooting bracken.
There was a grinding, then a clopping, and the resolved sound of a boat being pulled up.
Bill looked around. He was not thinking of where to hide himself – it was clear that he or someone must be here since there was the boat – but of where to hide the bottle.
This took on such significance that he began with his heel to dig at the soft soil with the heel of his boot. He knelt to bury the bottle, after pouring the last of the beer away.
He was arranging leaves tidily over the place the bottle lay when the new arrival came.
She was not only a woman, he knew her. She visited him at the carefully neutral drop-in centre for counselling in Lochgilphead. He could not forget the story she’d told him, though he tried to, in order to make his getaway.
‘Oh,’ said Ina Maclntyre, née Binnie, soon to be Paterson. ‘Oh, Bill Petrie.’ She’d pale hair the inside of beech-nut cases in colour and feather downiness.
‘Uh huh,’ said Bill. ‘Did you see a dog?’
‘Was that what you were scrabbling for down there, then?’ said Ina.
Bill felt the beer gather in his skin and go red. Red beer
Now autumn was coming. Bill had sought a new home throughout the summer but most places he found had been too comfortable, too draughtless, well-appointed, visible, to be shelters for the secret people whose lives nourished his own.
He felt the existence of these people like wiring running through a house or like strings essential to the performance of a puppet show. He loved to know that things were more than what they seemed, that you could never expose it all. It made his own unpromised life feel light and simple as a creature’s. He had Shona, and he had his own ways, and that was it. It was what he wanted.
He had found the Heronry on a walk. He saw it across the water, and wondered at the blue-grey slate gable pointing out of the ponticum. It was so neat and finely finished that he was sure it must be a place that was known and full of confided transactions, written and scratched into it.
He puzzled at first about how to reach the island, but he asked one of his weekend problem-bearers sidelong one Saturday if he knew where Bill might come by a wee boat. The man had a repair yard and hated writing cheques, so the dinghy, clinker-built and trim, was Bill’s, plus oars, if he’d pledge another six months of his advice and leave the boat behind when he left the area.
‘Good enough,’ said Bill. ‘Good enough.’
When he got to the place that first time, he checked it over, every bit of its stone, and its smooth coved interior. There was birdshit and there were feathers and the light bones of mouse and bird. There was dust and fallen plaster and the odd splint of lath. There were brambles curling in at one of the lower windows and in the doorway there was bracken. Half the egg of a blackbird had been blown behind an interior door. It was as bare as that, a building apparently unwritten upon except by the hand that had depicted the heron on the oval of glass, but even it was not like the words, that had come eventually to disturb Bill at each of the homes he found.
He pinched out the roll-up, took out his army knife and hooked the lid off the bottle of beer he had brought with him in the boat over from the shingle shore. He drank it so slowly that it was never related to thirst, only to the gradual relaxation of his body and the invasion of his mind by a mild forgiving warmth. Bill did not take drink in company. He liked to receive its blessing where he couldn’t be seen, when his unguarded self could come free of the outer, controlled, invisible man.
The rain on the hill had fallen out of the cloud that was now all silver. The black loch was shining blue. The floor of the island around the small house was all red mast and shooting bracken.
There was a grinding, then a clopping, and the resolved sound of a boat being pulled up.
Bill looked around. He was not thinking of where to hide himself – it was clear that he or someone must be here since there was the boat – but of where to hide the bottle.
This took on such significance that he began with his heel to dig at the soft soil with the heel of his boot. He knelt to bury the bottle, after pouring the last of the beer away.
He was arranging leaves tidily over the place the bottle lay when the new arrival came.
She was not only a woman, he knew her. She visited him at the carefully neutral drop-in centre for counselling in Lochgilphead. He could not forget the story she’d told him, though he tried to, in order to make his getaway.
‘Oh,’ said Ina Maclntyre, née Binnie, soon to be Paterson. ‘Oh, Bill Petrie.’ She’d pale hair the inside of beech-nut cases in colour and feather downiness.
‘Uh huh,’ said Bill. ‘Did you see a dog?’
‘Was that what you were scrabbling for down there, then?’ said Ina.
Bill felt the beer gather in his skin and go red. Red beer
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