Breakdown (7 page)

“George!” Pauline called, and he raised his head. She held the letter up. “I’ve had a letter from Michael. This is a friend of his, Chris Price.”

George got the same wide-eyed look Pauline had at the mention of Cooper’s name. He came around from behind the tractor. He dressed more like the history professor he used to be than a farmer. Chris was surprised at how young he looked. Cooper had told him that George was the older brother, and Chris had envisioned an older man, even though he knew that wasn’t the case, forming the image of grey hair and a tweed coat with patches on the elbows. Instead, George had thick, dark hair and appeared younger than Chris himself. Chris would have thought him the younger brother, the one who’d gone missing.

“George is my brother,” Pauline said to Chris. He nodded.

“Good to meet you,” George said. “How is Michael? We’ve not heard from him in quite a while.”

“He’s good,” Chris said, then turned away as he coughed long and hard.

“That’s a nasty cough.” George put hands on hips, one foot automatically edging backward.

“He’s seen a doctor. He’s not contagious,” Pauline said. “Michael asked me to look after him. He can stay awhile, can’t he? We can put him to work when he’s better.” She turned to look at Chris, a small smile on her face.

“I can earn my keep,” Chris put in.

George shot a questioning look at Pauline, his eyebrows drawn down. He tilted his head to the side.

“Michael sent him,” she said. They held eye contact for about five seconds, then George nodded once.

“Well, I wouldn’t turn away a friend of Michael’s, and we can certainly use a hand around here,” George agreed.

“Thank you,” Chris said.

“Do you know anything about these bloody machines?” he said, hooking his thumb back toward the tractor.

“Just the basics, really.”

“Ah, well.” George shrugged.

“Come in the house,” Pauline said and turned for the back door. Chris followed her in.

The door opened directly into the kitchen, which was bigger than Chris would have thought for the size of the house. He saw that originally it had been two rooms. The wall between them had been removed and the wallpapers didn’t match. Peaceful warmth and the smell of woodsmoke and food cooking enveloped Chris, and he was reminded of childhood summers at his grandparents’ house in the country, eating blackberry pie in the kitchen after a day of fishing with his brothers. He stopped, rooted just inside the door, had to drag himself back into the present.

An older woman was straightening up from a black iron woodstove set against the far wall between two windows. She wore a print dress and a cardigan. Her grey hair curled closely against her head.

“Mum, we have a houseguest. Michael has sent us a letter, and a friend,” Pauline said to her. “This is Chris Price. He’s going to be staying for a while. Michael’s asked me to look after him. This is my mum, Grace.”

“Hello,” Chris said.

“Well, how do you do?” Pauline’s mother said, smiling at him. “How is Michael?”

“He’s good.”

“Marie’s not back yet?” Pauline said to Grace.

“Not yet, no.”

“Marie is George’s wife,” Pauline said to Chris.

Chris nodded, coughed some, but not too badly.

“Chris needs something to eat,” Pauline said. She turned back to Chris. “Sit.” She pointed to the table and chairs. Chris slung his duffel off his shoulder and did as he was told.

“I had a bit of lunch,” he said, but Pauline looked at him skeptically.

“Not much, I’d guess, from the look of you. If you’ve got food coupons, why haven’t you used them?”

“I only just got them this morning, when I was let go.”

Pauline put her hands on her hips. “Michael said you were on a work detail, at a Distribution Center.”

Chris nodded. “That’s right.”

“You were in jail?”

“They held me until I passed a second blood test is all.” He wondered if she had any idea what sort of bitterness, frustration, tedium, hunger, and discomfort that simple statement minimized. From the piercing look she gave him, he thought she might. Her mother made a disapproving clucking noise by the stove.

“They still do that?” Pauline said, and he nodded. Her mouth went hard. She turned away to get a mug out of a cupboard. She used a padded mitt to pour water into the mug from a teakettle on the stove, then got a jar out of another cabinet and stirred a spoonful of the contents into the water. She brought it to him. “Hot water and honey. We haven’t any lemon, of course, but it should help your throat, all the same.”

“Thank you.”

“And then they expect you to pay them back for your jail time,” she said, as much to her mother as to Chris.

He nodded again, sipping the water and honey. It felt good going down. He put down the mug and opened his duffel. “Cooper—ah, Michael—sent you some things.” He pulled out a bag of salt, packets of yeast, a sack of sugar, razor blades, several boxes of matches, and a jar of mixed seasonings, piling them on the table. Grace came over and exclaimed in delight. She picked up the seasonings and unscrewed the cap to smell it. Chris found the bar of scented soap and small bottle of shampoo. “He said these were for you, especially,” he said, handing them to Pauline. She smiled, held the soap to her nose, closed her eyes for a moment.

“I’m not always such a mess,” she said lightly. “Where did he get them?” She held the soap out for Grace to have a sniff. Chris let the question go, not having an answer for it anyway. He pulled the ration books out of the side pocket of his bag.

“Here, take these.”

“Two books?” Pauline put the soap and shampoo down on the table.

“Michael sent one. The other’s mine.”

She chewed on her lip, took them from his hand, looked at the blank one thoughtfully. “Mum, do we have a pasty left, for Chris?” When her mum had turned away to get it, she looked back at him. “Where did he get it?”

Chris sipped at his mug and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want him to get in trouble.”

“He’s clever. Anyway, it’s done, right?”

“Clever, yes.” She frowned. “Was he in jail, too?”

“Not with me. I don’t know. But I suppose so.” He had another coughing session, a bad one, and it hurt his ribs so much he clutched at his chest and leaned over in his chair, his eyes watering.

“You’ve cracked a rib, haven’t you?” Pauline said.

“I expect so.”

“You need to be in bed.” She dropped the books onto the table, went to the sink, washed her hands. “Mum, I’m going to make up the bed in the spare room. Get Chris fed, would you? I’ll be back down in a bit.” She kicked off her wellies by the back door and picked up two buckets sitting there. “I’m taking the water up,” she said. She went out of the kitchen in her socks. Chris could hear the stairs creaking as she went up.

Grace brought a pasty over on a plate, and a fork. “It’s still a bit warm. She’ll take good care of you, dear. I’d advise you do as she says.” Chris looked up at her and saw that her eyes were crinkled up with a smile.

“I will do,” he assured her and managed a smile in return. “Thank you, for everything.”

She patted his shoulder, and he took up the fork. The pasty was, of course, delicious.

* * *

Pauline led him up, and Chris climbed the stairs behind her, gripping the rail. He had to stop to cough halfway. She waited for him at the top.

“Here’s the loo,” she said at the first door and let him look in. “Wash up in the basin. There’s soap there and clean water in those buckets. Dirty water goes in the loo if you need to flush, or in the bucket in the tub if you don’t, for the next flush. Do you have an old flannel?” Chris nodded, and she went on. “You can hang it here,” gesturing to a bar within reach of the toilet that already had four hanging on it. “Paper’s a luxury we don’t often have, of course...You’ll keep your towel in your room. Have you a towel?” He nodded again. “Good.” She left the doorway and went down the short hall to the end. “This will be your room.”

He followed her in. It was tiny, with barely room for a bed, bureau, and a chair next to the bed. The closet door was half the width of most doors.

“The closet’s full, but there’s room in the bureau; the top two drawers are empty. You can hang your towel here.” She gestured to a short chrome towel bar attached to the half-sized door. She put her hands on her hips. “Do you need anything?”

Chris shook his head. He set his duffel on the bed and looked around the room. Lace curtains framed the window. A tray on top of the bureau held an oil lamp, a drinking glass, and a plastic bottle of water. The chair had a crocheted cushion, the bed a white chenille spread and a fat pillow. Two nondescript landscapes hung on the wall over the bed, and a framed mirror over the bureau. The room in his grandparents’ house had been only fractionally larger. He had shared the bed with Kevin. Jon, the youngest brother, had slept on a pallet on the floor. “It’s brilliant,” he said. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Is it?” She glanced around her as if seeing it fresh. “How long have you known Michael?” she asked him, out of the blue.

“A couple of months is all.”

“What did he tell you about us?”

Chris wasn’t sure what she meant. “Um—”

“I mean about him and me,” she clarified.

“Ah. That it didn’t work out, that he wishes it had, that you’re still friends.” He stopped there, it seemed enough.

She crossed her arms, leaned against the doorframe. “We grew up together. He lived just down the road.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“It’s been almost a year since I’ve heard from him. He always did that, disappeared, for months, or years.” She stared off out the window, deep in thought.

Chris was quiet, looking at her. She had changed into jeans and a pale-green knit shirt that hugged her curves. She had muscular arms, a slim waist, trim hips. Her face had a strong jaw and a pale wash of freckles. Her eyes tended toward green. Once he had a chance to look more closely, he could see that Pauline seemed older than George only because she had an elegance to her looks, whereas George had a boyishness. She had to make herself look stern; when she didn’t think about it, her mouth turned up at the corners. He could see why Cooper had liked her. He had to stop looking for a round of coughing. A little groan escaped him.

“Let me get you some aspirin,” she said, concern in her voice.

“I don’t want to use up your medicines.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. She left him abruptly and came back a few moments later. She poured water from the bottle on the bureau into the glass and handed it to him with two white tablets. “Take them.”

He did. “Thanks.”

“We boil the drinking water, of course. Now, have a wash if you want, and get into bed. Stay there. I’ll bring you up some supper if you’re awake. You need to rest if you’re going to get better, right?” She smiled at him a little, or maybe she just wasn’t thinking about it.

CHAPTER 7

C
hris huddled in the bed, coughing, ribs aching, unable to fall asleep, watching the light fade and the window finally go as dark as the room. Later, there was a soft knock, and Pauline came in with a plate and a mug, barely visible in the soft light from the hall. Chris coughed and struggled to sit up without hurting his ribs more.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked, setting the plate and mug on the dresser.

“I don’t think so.”

She lit the oil lamp, then pulled a second pillow out of the closet and put it behind his back.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to eat?”

“Please.”

She brought him the plate: two fried eggs, a slice of ham, and a thick slice of bread with butter on it. He hadn’t seen food like that since before Portsmouth. The aroma of the food filled his nose. He picked up the knife and fork.

Pauline got the mug from the bureau. “Cider.” She set it on the chair next to the bed and did a double take. “Is that a torch? Does it work?” she asked, as if she didn’t believe it.

Chris nodded, his mouth full. He had got the small black torch before he left Portsmouth. The batteries were the rechargeable kind. He’d put it on the chair in case he needed it after dark. He swallowed his mouthful. “The chap I got it from said it’s a good charge. I don’t know how long it will last.”

“Does everywhere else have electricity?”

“Only the cities, usually. Some bigger towns.” He took another bite. “This is delicious, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it. I thought the eggs would be good for you.”

“I haven’t had eggs or ham in a long time.” He paused to cough.

She fished in her pocket, held out more aspirin. “Here, have these.”

“No—”

“I can hear you in here coughing. I know it hurts. Please, just take them.”

He did, and she handed him the cider. “Gosh, that’s good, too.” He took another drink.

“A man in the village makes it. I thought the alcohol might help you sleep.” She sat down gently on the end of the bed. “Why didn’t Michael come with you?”

“He wasn’t released.” Chris tried to make it sound casual, so she wouldn’t be worried. “He has a few more weeks.”

“Is he going to come when he is released?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t really talk about it. He said once that he kinda thought he’d worn out his welcome.” He took another bite.

“That’s not true.” She shook her head with a distressed frown. “Could I send a letter? To the Distribution Center?”

“I suppose so. He’ll get it, I think, if he’s still there.”

“He didn’t say where he was planning to go?”

Chris shook his head, chewed a bite quickly. “He said he had some prospects, but wouldn’t say what. He said he’d write to you again.”

She took a deep breath, let it out. “I won’t count on it. You didn’t know him long enough to really know him.”

“He seemed a good chap.”

“He is a good chap,” she agreed. “He’s just not, well, for the long term, you could say. I don’t know that he’s ever finished anything in his life.”

Chris didn’t know what to say to that. Pauline roused herself, stood up.

“Well, I’ll be back in a bit for the plate.” She went out.