Come to Harm (6 page)

eight

Dr. Bryant read with
his chin sunk on his chest, his lips pushed fo
rwards and pressed together, making his ginger moustache bristle. From time to time he crunched his mouth up even more, working his glasses up
his nose and scraping the moustache hairs against the undersides of his nostrils with a rasping sound.

“That all seems in perfect order,” he said at last, signing the last page. “Your customary efficiency in full swing.”

Keiko stared at him. He had never met her before.
Japanese
efficiency, did he mean? He stared back. Was she only imagining a bloom of colour on his cheeks?

“Tell me a little about your proposal,” he said.

Keiko nodded and cleared her throat. “The construction of knowledge in social groups,” she said.

“A very well-researched area,” said Dr. Bryant.

“In general,” Keiko said. “But I've chosen a focus that's relatively—”

Dr. Bryant's eyes had strayed to his computer screen and he was reading something there.

“Food as modern folklore,” said Keiko.

Dr. Bryant touched his mouse and his screen scrolled upwards. “Yes … yes …” he said. He clicked his mouse again.

“I'm thinking about q-methodology perhaps for the profiling, or a Likert line, created stimuli for the feedback into the networks.”

“Good, good.”
Click, click
.

“And there will be useful insights from anthropology and sociology. From the literature, I mean.” She took a deep breath. She could always claim language problems. “And embroidery and some snowboarding.”

“Yes, I see,” said Dr. Bryant. “Well I'm very glad to hear someone giving proper consideration to a robust theoretical grounding right from the start.”

“Yes, I see,” echoed Keiko and, thanking him in such a soft voice that his attention was not hooked away from his screen by the smallest fraction, she let herself out.

_____

Charismatic teachers are really for undergraduates
, she told herself.
Or high school English teachers who lend their personal copies of Faulkner; even grade school teachers who take seven-year-olds to their first ballet
.

Her
studies, her time here—the early blossoming of her career as she would no doubt call it in years to come—would be made up of her own careful probing scholarship, bounced off the other young minds, fresh bright minds, just beginning, like her own.

What she should be doing was meeting her office mates. She checked the floor plan on the wall of the entrance atrium and set off into the dark halls and stairways. Already she could see the three of them sitting in armchairs, or maybe the two of them sitting in armchairs, listening, while Keiko stood on the rug by the fireplace and read a draft of a paper to them, and how they would put down their sherry glasses and stare at her as she finished, how one would whistle and one would clap and they would toast her and tell her to send it straight to the journal. And she would say she couldn't have done it without their help, and someone would knock at the door and it would be Dr. Bryant, asking her if she wanted to see him and she would say, ‘No, I don't think so,' and he would close the door again.

She was in the right corridor now and she shook her head, dispersing the daydreams and told herself to pay attention. She walked slowly, trying to fix the moment, so that later, in the years to come, when she ran along this corridor every day, she would still remember the first time.

And there it was. She paused outside to read the names on the door:
Grete Marr, A.L. Ebberwood, Keiko Nishisato
. She raised her hand to knock but then instead, tracing her fingers over her own name, she turned the handle and walked in.

It was a smallish room although high-ceilinged. Rather awkward actually, with once-white walls and once-blue carpet, worn dark and shiny over years. There were three desks. The one under the dusty window and the one on the long bare wall were occupied, two students hunched over laptops, both wearing ear buds and typing furiously. Neither of them looked up at her. The third desk, the smallest, was in the darkest corner by the door, half-covered in bales of yellowing paper and clusters of smoked-glass coffee mugs with cold, cloudy dregs in the bottom. On the bookshelf above, a spider plant had died, and dried-up nodules of it had fallen on the bales of paper and the coffee mugs, like little brown squid.

Before picture
, Keiko told herself. She stepped into the room. One of the others—the female one (Grete?)—hit the save button twice, plucked out an ear bud and turned to Keiko.

“Okay,” she said. “Here's the deal. I've been working on my thesis for five years”—she turned back to her keyboard and hit the save button again—“I'm nearly finished and I can't have any disruption. I asked Lynne—the secretary—not to put anyone in here, but there's no space anywhere else.” She put her ear bud back in, hit the save button yet again, and started typing.

“You're talking,” said the other student, without turning. His voice was a flat drone. “It's happening already. She's here and you're talking to her.” He turned up the volume on his own ear buds and put his head down.

Keiko stood in the doorway for a moment listening to the midget
tsk-tsk
of the two iPods, then stepped back into the hallway and let the door close quietly behind her.

_____

Those people with the sherry
, she told herself,
are literature scholars, not psychologists. Work like mine demands solitude and sobriety.
She found the secretary's office, knocked, and went in. A woman was standing with her coat on reading pieces of paper and throwing them into her waste basket.

“Lynne?” she began. “I'm Keiko Nish—”

“I know who you are,” said the woman.

“I have something to ask you. A big favour.”

“I've been to the dentist today, and I'm leaving early,” the secretary replied.

“I hope you'll say no if it's too much to ask,” said Keiko. Lynne raised her eyebrows and waited. “I wondered if I might have a change of office.” The eyebrows moved even higher. “When one becomes available. I realise it may be some time.” The woman's stare had become fixed. “But I would be most grateful if you would put me on the list.”

“Well, we'll have to see, won't we?” the secretary said. “There isn't a list as such. I just allocate rooms first come, first serve. They're pretty much all the same.”

“Oh yes, yes of course,” said Keiko. “But perhaps there's a room where all the students are just starting?”

“Yes, well, the thing is that the
home
students”—she paused—“all arrived on time, last month, at the start of the semester. It's only ever
international
students”—careful articulation there—“who keep us waiting and then roll up with a list of demands.”

Keiko took a moment to process this. “Ah yes, I see,” she said. “We have to arrange our visas and funding.”

“Precisely. You need
permission
to take up a place, and you cast about for
money
wherever you can.”

“And the overseas fees are so very expensive.”

“But still they keep coming. Floods of them, every year. A deluge.”

_____

She couldn't face the bus stop, so she hailed a taxi with a surly driver who asked to see cash before he'd start on so long a trip and kept an eye on the meter, ready to stop and pitch her out when it rolled round past twenty pounds, which was what she'd shown him. But he kept the other eye on her, in the rearview mirror, and saw her tip her head back and press her fingers along her lashes,
heard her gulp and sniff but refuse to let go. So when the meter hit twenty, he just switched it off and kept driving, all way to the empty street with the shut shops and dark windows. And he waited until he saw a light come inside her flat before he drove away.

Strange place
, he thought, looking all around him, up and down the streets, and a phrase of his mother's came back to him.
Not a soul astir,
she used to say. He looked at the closed-down petrol station sitting out on its own and shook a sudden knot out of his shoulders. He wasn't sorry to get to the open road and the sixty-mile limit to put his foot down.

nine

Keiko didn't notice the
quiet, except to be glad that she got inside without anyone seeing her.

Inside the old petrol station on the corner, Willie Byers was glad of it too. He was sick of them all, with their hints and their nagging. They didn't even have to open their mouths these days; he could see it in their eyes, could easily imagine what they said about him.

He had bought the garage as a going concern, right there by the main road and ten miles from the nearest chain with its discounts. And Painchton folk didn't hold with new cars every three years, so there was good trade in keeping their old ones going. And Mr. Byers could surely live cheap, with his quiet ways and no wife to his name. Could have taken on a lad right away—people made mental notes to mention that to him whenever he should come to his first Traders' meeting. He never did come though, just as he never bought so much as a newspaper or a packet of cigarettes at Glendinning's or in the Spar, although he stopped in at both of them to read the headlines.

At first, Iain and Margaret Ballantyne assumed he had plumped for the Bridge, and Alec and Sandra Dessing guessed he'd taken to the Covenanters' and it was six months before it dawned on the four of them that the new mechanic didn't drink anywhere. Not so much as a single glass of beer after bending over an engine all afternoon on the hottest day of summer.

And so with nothing to build fellow-feeling, the judgement began. It was a work of willpower, said Kenny Imperiolo, to make a garage fail. Even a handless mechanic could have lived off the passing trade from the petrol pumps if he'd only kept the place tidy and put in the hours. But Byers took half-days here and weekends there and shut for Easter, and when he was tinkering away with his body repairs, he rested doors and wings and bumpers up against the outside walls to spray them and left stencil-ghosts all around so that tourists would slow down, but then shake their heads and look on the map for the next place to fill up.

Eventually, judgements made, the Traders turned on him in a pack with the full might of the town behind them. He complied with the order that his “premises should be predominantly uniform in colour.” Technically. He spent one Sunday slathering on pink industrial paint with a nine-inch brush, all over the walls, right over the doors and window frames, up over the roof, unprimed and on top of the dirt. He worked on until his paint ran out and then burnt the tins on a bonfire the next morning, the women right up that side of the main street whipping in their Monday wash to get it away from the smoke and fumes.

And still none of them had seen it coming.

They were looking right at it now, though. As Keiko dried her tears and Byers enjoyed the quiet, up in the Covenanters' sat the same people around the same horseshoe-shaped table, which looked shabbier in the daylight, clothless, covered in folders and coffee cups, phones and elbows. Byers was the business of the day

Mr. McKendrick ran his hands through his hair.

“I'll talk to him,” he said. “Again. There's no reason whatsoever for him to be hanging on to that site.” Fancy was waving at him. She had arrived late and unexpected. “Miss Clarke?”

“Don't we already own the site?” she said. “Aren't we only trying to buy the buildings?”

“Is that a point of information or a question to the chair?” asked a sharp little woman sitting to Mr. McKendrick's left, scribbling minutes.

Fancy sighed. “Sorry, Miss Anderson, it's a point of information. Mr. Chairman, can I remind the meeting that the Traders own the land and only need to buy out the buildings and the business.”

“Thank you, Miss Clarke,” said Mr. McKendrick, blandly. “I stand corrected.”

“Business!” said Mrs. McLuskie, jaunty today in a golfing sweater and check trousers and without her provost's chain. “What business? He's running it into the ground, the lazy beggar.”

“Live and let live,” said Miss Morrison from the charity shop.

(Mrs. McLuskie didn't think a charity shop selling old clothes and odd china was a business either and so Miss Morrison, in her opinion, didn't belong in the Traders.)

“I'd let him live if he wasn't killing it for the rest of us,” Kenny Imperiolo said. “Of course, we've got our loyal regulars, but you need passing trade too. Fresh blood.”

“Meat,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Fresh blood would be a new business in competition with us. It's fresh meat we're after.” No one answered. “To turn to happier news,” he went on, “our international initiative has come to fruition.”

“Ah, how is the wee lass?”

“How's she settling in?”

“I saw her sitting there working away at her books last night.”

“She's loving it,” said Fancy. “She's—”

“No report on Miss Nishisato's arrival is scheduled, Miss Clarke,” said Miss Anderson, without raising her head.

“But I still don't see—if I'm honest, Jimmy,” said Mr. Glendinning, “what she's doing here.” There was a sound somewhere between a rumble and flutter, with some clear voices breaking through:

“You and me both, pal.”

“Good question.”

“No harm to the wee soul, but …”

Mr. McKendrick's voice rose above all of them.

“Several of our target funding sources look kindly on international reach,” he said. “And cultural exchange.”

“But why a Japanese?” said a voice. “Why not the likes of Canada or New Zealand or somewhere? My Auntie Margaret's boy Stewie would have—”

“Oh aye, some big cultural exchange that would be, your Auntie Margaret's boy Stewie!”

“
If
we can move on?” said Mr. McKendrick. He looked over the tops of his spectacles, sweeping a look around the room until it fell silent. “I'll speak to Byers again unless there are other volunteers.”

“I wonder if maybe Mrs. Poole might have a word with him.” People craned round to see who had spoken. Sandra Dessing, Mrs. McLuskie's buxom counterpart, sitting next to her and, like her, dressed for golf, stared defiantly back at them.

“Grace?” said Mr. McKendrick, and he leaned forward to look along the table at Mrs. Poole, who was sitting quietly next to Pet McMaster from the florist, watching her knit. “I'm not with you, Sandra,” he said.

“Since she's in an interested position,” Sandra continued. There was a mild shifting in seats.

“You mean because Murray rents his workshop from Mr. Byers?” Mrs. McMaster asked loudly.

“I think Grace has done more than enough already,” said Mr. McKendrick, “in offering the flat.”

“Oh I see,” breathed Sandra. “I hadn't heard that the terms had changed. That's most generous of you, Grace.”

Mrs. Poole looked fixedly down at the knitting needles.

“It's well seen I'm not sitting beside her, Grace,” whispered Mrs. McMaster, “or she'd have one of these pins in her fat behind.”

“The cost of Keiko's accommodation is being borne out of Traders' funds as is only proper, Sandra,” said Mr. McKendrick. “That's very clearly set out in the accounts appended to the minutes that we passed at the start of this meeting.”

“And as I understand it, Sandra Dessing,” said little Mrs. Watson, “Murray is giving up his tenancy, aren't you pet?” She looked at Murray for support, but he was watching his mother.

“Well, if Byers loses the income from renting out the workshop, that can only benefit us,” said Sandra. “That's a piece of lucky timing.”

A babble of voices broke out, and Mr. McKendrick banged lightly on the table. “Mrs. Dessing,” he said in an unsteady voice. “Can I remind you that Murray is back in the butchers instead of in his own place, because of his father dying.”

“Oh for heaven's sake!” said Sandra, with her chin up. “Grace knows I didn't mean anything to do with Duncan. Stop stirring it up.”

“As the pot said to the kettle,” said Mrs. McMaster.

Mrs. Watson said something too soft for Murray and Craig to catch.

“I think,” said Mrs. Poole, and the room immediately quietened. “I think we should get back to the business at hand. I accept Mrs. Dessing's apology.”

“I nev—” Mrs. Dessing began, but she stopped before she could say more. Instead she brushed imaginary specks from the front of her powder-pink golf jersey with three hard swipes.

“Don't minute that, Miss Anderson,” said Mr. McKendrick. ‘So, I'll speak to Willie Byers. And I'll get back to you at our next meeting, which is on the …”

“Twenty-third of October,” said Miss Morrison.

“At the Bridge,” said Mr. Dessing, of the Bridge Hotel. It was the first time he had spoken; his wife fought her own battles.

“Back here,” said Mr. Ballantyne, of the Covenanters' Arms. “Mr. Chairman, we agreed that meetings would alternate. There's a meeting scheduled for next week. So that'll be across the way and then back here on the twenty-third again.”

“No Iain, that's a committee meeting,” said Mrs. Dessing. “It was my understanding, Mr. Chairman, that the full meetings were turn-about and the committee were suiting themselves.”

“What committee?” said Fancy. “I thought we were the committee.”

“The inner circle, Fance,” said Craig. “The hard core.”

“The grandmasters,” said Murray. “The high priests.”

“I'd rather not discuss the committee while we're in full session,” said Mr. McKendrick, glowering now.

“Secret order,” said Craig. “Like
Opus Dei
.”

“Enough,” said Mr. McKendrick, sending a black look down the table to Mr. Ballantyne for bringing it up, and the meeting was over.

The Traders straggled out to their cars in weary ones and twos except for Mr. McKendrick, Kenny Imperiolo, and Iain Ballantyne, who came downstairs together and, like a shoal of mackerel, executed a sharp right into the public bar. Mrs. Dessing and Mrs. McLuskie, ruffled and too late for golf, went off for a tetchy half-hour in the practice range. Craig, Murray, and Mrs. Watson came reeling out in fits of giggles and ran into Mrs. Poole and Mrs. McMaster standing at the kerb.

“Your mother and I are just going to take a walk up by,” said Pet McMaster to Murray, nodding her head towards the top of the road.

“D'you want me to come with you?” asked Murray, moving away from Fancy and Craig. “Mum?” Mrs. Poole looked at him without expression, then turned to the beckoning arm of Mrs. McMaster, who bore her away.

“Okay, pal?” said Craig, as they began to head down the street towards home.

“We all know how it feels to lose a loved one, Murray,” said Mrs. Watson. “No shame in sorrow.”

“I'm fine,” said Murray. “Bloody nuts, anyway.” He spoke too softly for the others to catch his words, then he winked at Craig and went on, louder: “What did you call Sandra Dessing, Mrs. Watson?”

“What did you say, Mabel?” said Fancy.

“It sounded like ‘Vinegar Tits' to me,” Craig said.

“I did not say any such thing!” Mrs. Watson protested. “Murray, you're a disgrace to your poor mother and the memory of your father. And you, Craig McKendrick, your uncle would be ashamed of you.”

“Ha! Lucky me then,” said Fancy. “No good name to lose!”

“Och, you and your nonsense,” said Mrs. Watson stepping into her shop doorway and picking over a bunch of keys. “I'm away in to give this place a good clean.”

“Don't forget to wash your mouth out,” said Fancy, but Mrs. Watson just tutted and went inside.

“Hey!” said Craig, looking up at the big bay window, where Keiko and Viola were watching them. “I thought she was away into the uni.”

Fancy shrugged. “She came back. Offered to baby-sit.”

“Offered?” said Craig.

“Well,” said Fancy. “Didn't say no.”

“She looks a bit fed up with it,” said Murray, squinting up at Keiko.

“Nah, she was fed up already,” Fancy said. “I think she'd been crying.”

“What?” said Murray. “Bloody hell, Fancy. Why are we standing around down here staring at her then?”

_____

“So how did you get on?” he said, upstairs in the kitchen, blowing on the top of his tea. “First day and all that.”

“Fine,” said Keiko. She smiled at him. “Thank you for asking.” Her voice wobbled as she spoke. “Please eat. I have plenty.” The bottom cupboard was stacked with cash and carry multi-packs of Kit-Kats and Bountys and Mars Bars, crackling heaps that threatened to slide out onto the lino whenever she disturbed them. Craig dipped his Twix in his tea and stirred it around before sucking off the chocolate.

“I can't believe you still do that,” said Fancy, shaking her head at him.

“How come?” said Craig, taking the Twix out of his mouth with a long suck that put deep dimples in his cheeks and left a ring of chocolate on his lips afterwards. “Don't you still do anything you used to do at school?”

Fancy blinked and snapped her head around to stare—without seeing—at Murray instead.

“So, Murray,” she said. “What's em … Where's—yeah!—Where's your mum off to with Pet, then?”

“Cemetery,” Murray said.

“Who's dead?” Viola asked with her eyes wide.

Fancy shushed her. “Murray's daddy, sweetheart,” she said. “You know that. And so his mummy's gone to visit him. Sorry. Really. Sorry.” She glared at Craig.

“Bloody nuts,” said Murray again. “Visiting his grave. As if he's in there waiting for company.”

“Er, Murray,” said Fancy nodding at Viola who was owl-eyed now.

“Viola, ask your mum what Mrs. Watson called Mrs. Dessing,” said Craig. Fancy smiled at him, forgiving.

“Mrs. Dessing that hates you?” said Viola.

“Who hates you?” said Keiko. “Why?”

“I made posters advertising massage treatments,” said Fancy. “And Sandra Dessing reckoned she'd cracked the code.”