Three Button Trick and Other Stories (8 page)

‘So you don't even know about that one yet?' Sydney asked. ‘Oh, you'll just love it. It's so cheap.' And she set about putting Carrie straight on that particular matter.

He'd kept on nagging so in the end she'd been forced to give in to him. ‘It's a terrible waste,' he said, ‘to keep on leaving the seats empty.'

Anyhow, Carrie was bored of sitting at home every night with nothing to do and no proper conversation. Sometimes he mentioned the name of a new actress. Sometimes he wasn't too tactful and inadvertently made her feel her age.

When Heinz finally entered the box, a little late, without his tie, pale-faced, dishevelled, Jack muttered, ‘Christ, I'd almost forgotten about him.'

Carrie said nothing, but she hadn't forgotten.

Sydney was sitting on her bed and in front of her was a pile of scrap books. She opened the first one. Dry red wines from the Perth region. She touched the wine label and wondered about her mummy and her daddy. Her elbows were itchy. She reached for a tub of Vaseline. She dipped in her fingers.

Heinz had had several options: to forget about her, to confront her and tell her what a bastard Jack was, to be a kind of bastard himself. He was old. If he'd learned anything along the line, he'd learned that the little things didn't matter, at the end of the day, but the big things mattered, and sometimes you had to compromise yourself, however slightly, to try to maintain that bigger picture.

In the interval they bumped into one another at the bar. Jack was several feet away ordering drinks. Heinz had given plenty of thought to this moment. He'd had several options available. He'd taken the cheapest. Arriving late, no tie, the business.

‘You look terrible,' she said, glancing over towards Jack, her lips barely moving. She stared at his shirt. ‘And your buttons,' she added, ‘are done up all wrong.'

He looked down at himself. ‘Really?' he said, wheezing, like he'd barely noticed. But when he looked back up again his old heart began pumping.

Jack was walking over towards them holding two glasses. A whisky, a port and lemon. He was walking over. He was close and he was closer.

Carrie put out her hand and touched Heinz's buttons. ‘Oh God,' she said softly, ‘that stupid three button trick, you old hound,' and her eyes started sparkling.

‘L
OOK,' TREVOR SAID, ‘YOU'VE
got to serve from the back, see?'

Wesley dropped the orange he'd just picked up.

‘Put it where it was before,' Trevor said sniffily. ‘Exactly.'

Wesley adjusted the placement of the orange. There. Just so. It was neat now. The display looked hunky-dory.

‘Let me quickly say something,' Wesley said, as Trevor turned to go and unload some more boxes from the van.

‘What?'

‘It's just that if you serve people from the back of the stall they immediately start thinking that what you're giving them isn't as good as what's on display'

Trevor said nothing.

‘See what I mean?'

‘So what?'

‘Well, I'm just saying that if you want to build up customer confidence then it's a better idea to give them the fruit they can see.'

‘It's more work that way,' Trevor said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

‘Well, I don't care about that,' Wesley responded. ‘I'm the one who'll end up having to do most of the serving while you're running the deliveries and I don't mind.'

Trevor gave Wesley a deep look and then shrugged and walked off to the van.

Another new job. Selling fruit off a stall on the Roman Road. Wesley was handsome and intelligent and twenty-three years old and he'd had a run of bad luck so now he was working the markets. No references needed. Actually, on the markets a bad temper was considered something of a bonus. Nobody messed you around. If they did, though, then you had to look out for yourself.

Trevor had red hair and a pierced nose. Wesley looked very strait-laced to him in his clean corduroy trousers and polo-neck jumper, and his hands were soft and he spoke too posh. What Trevor didn't realize, however, was that Wesley had been spoilt rotten as a child so was used to getting his own way and could manipulate and wheedle like a champion if the urge took him. Wesley had yet to display to Trevor the full and somewhat questionable force of his personality.

Wesley pulled his weight. That, at least, was something, Trevor decided. After they'd packed up on their first night he invited Wesley to the pub for a drink as a sign of his good faith. Wesley said he wanted something to eat instead. So they went for pie and mash together.

Trevor had some eels and a mug of tea. Wesley ate a couple of meat pies. Wesley liked the old-fashioned tiles and the tables in the pie and mash shop. He remarked on this to Trevor. Trevor grunted.

‘My dad was in the navy,' Wesley said, out of the blue.

‘Yeah?'

‘He taught me how to box.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Last job I had, I punched my boss in the face. He was up a ladder. I was on a roof. Broke his collar bone.'

‘You're kidding!' Trevor was impressed.

‘Nope.'

‘Fuck.'

‘Yeah.'

‘What did he do?'

‘Tried to prosecute.'

‘What!?'

‘I buggered off. I live my life,' Wesley said plainly, ‘by certain rules. I'll do my whack, but when push comes to shove, I want to be treated decent and to keep my mind free. See?'

Trevor was mystified. He ate his eels, silently.

‘I had a brother,' Wesley said, ‘and I killed him when I was a kid. An accident and everything. But that's made me think about things in a different way'

‘Yeah?' Trevor was hostile now. ‘How did you kill him?'

‘Playing.'

‘Playing what?'

‘None of your fucking business.'

Trevor's eyebrows rose and he returned to his meal.

‘I want to do the decent thing,' Wesley said. ‘You know? And sometimes that'll get you into all kinds of grief.'

Trevor didn't say anything.

‘Watch this.'

Trevor looked up. Wesley had hold of one of the meat pies. He opened his mouth as wide as he could and then pushed the pie in whole. Every last crumb. Trevor snorted. He couldn't help it. Once Wesley had swallowed the pie he asked Jean—the woman who served part-time behind the counter—for a straw. When she gave him one, he drank a whole mug of tea through it up his left nostril.

Trevor roared with laughter. He was definitely impressed.

After a week on the job Wesley started nagging Trevor about the quality of the fruit he was buying from the wholesalers. ‘The way I see it, right,' Wesley said, ‘if you sell people shit they won't come back. If you sell them quality, they will.'

‘Bollocks,' Trevor said, ‘this ain't Marks and fucking Spencer's.'

Wesley moaned and wheedled. He told Trevor he'd take a cut in his money if Trevor spent the difference on buying better quality stuff. Eventually Trevor gave in. And he took a cut in his wages too.

After a month, Wesley used his own money to repaint the stall a bright green and bought some lights to hang on it to make it, as he said, ‘more of a proposition.'

‘Thing is,' Wesley observed, fingering the little string of lights, ‘we have to get one of the shops to let us tap into their electricity supply, otherwise we can't use them.'

Trevor didn't really care about the lights but he was grudgingly impressed by the pride Wesley seemed to take in things. He went to the newsagents and the bakery and then finally into the pie and mash shop. Fred, who ran the shop, agreed to let them use his power if they paid him a tenner a week. Wesley said this seemed a reasonable arrangement.

Things were going well. Wesley would spend hours juggling apples for old ladies and did a trick which involved sticking the sharpened end of five or six matches between the gaps in his teeth and then lighting the matches up all at once. He'd burned his lips twice that way and had a permanent blister under the tip of his nose. He'd pick at the blister for something to do until the clear plasma covered his fingers and then he'd say, ‘Useful, this, if ever I got lost in a desert. Water on tap.'

After six weeks things had reached a point where Trevor would have done anything Wesley suggested. The stall was flourishing. Business was good. Wesley worked his whack and more so. He kept everyone amused with his tricks and his silly ideas. The customers loved him. He was always clean.

What it was that made Wesley so perfect in Trevor's eyes was the fact that he was a curious combination of immense irresponsibility—he was a mad bastard—and enormous conscientiousness. He wanted to
do
good but this didn't mean he had to
be
good.

One morning, two months after Wesley had started on the stall, Trevor got a flat tyre on his way back from the wholesalers and Wesley was obliged to set up on his own and do a couple of the early deliveries himself into the bargain.

He took Fred at the pie and mash shop his regular bundle of fresh parsley and then asked him for the extension cord so that he could put up his lights on the stall. Fred was busy serving. He indicated with his thumb towards the back of the shop. ‘Help yourself, mate. The lead and everything's just behind the door. That's where Trevor stashes them each night.'

Fred liked Wesley and he trusted him. Same as Trevor did and all the others. Wesley, if he'd had any sense, should have realized that he was well set up here.

Wesley wandered out to the rear of the shop. He pulled back the door and picked up the extension lead. Then he paused. It was cold. He looked around him.

A big room. Red, polished, concrete floors. Large, silver fridges. And quiet. He could hear the noise from the shop and, further off, the noise from the market. But in here it was still and the stillness and the silence had a special
sound.
Like water.

Wesley dosed his eyes. He shuddered. He opened his eyes again, tucked the lead under his arm and beat a hasty retreat.

He was in a world of his own when Trevor finally arrived that morning. On two occasions Trevor said, ‘Penny for them,' and then snapped his fingers in front of Wesley's unfocused eyes when he didn't respond.

‘I'm thinking of my dad,' Wesley said. ‘Don't ask me why'

‘Why?' said Trevor, who was in a fine good-humour considering his tyre hold-up.

‘I was just in the pie and mash shop getting the extension lead for the lights. Out the back. And then I was suddenly thinking about my dad. You know, the navy and the sea and all the stuff we used to talk about when I was a kid.'

‘Your dad still in the navy?' Trevor asked.

Wesley shook his head. ‘Desk job,' he said.

‘Probably those bloody eels,' Trevor said, bending down and picking up a crate of Coxes.

‘What?'

‘Those eels out the back. Making you think of the sea.'

‘What?'

‘In the fridges. He keeps the eels in there.'

‘How's that?' Wesley's voice dipped by half an octave. Trevor didn't notice. He was wondering whether he could interest Wesley in selling flowers every Sunday as a side-interest. A stall was up for grabs on the Mile End Road close to the tube station. Sundays only.

‘You're telling me he keeps live eels in those fridges?'

‘What?'

‘Live eels?' Wesley asked, with emphasis.

‘In the fridges, yeah.' Trevor stopped what he was doing, straightened up, warned by the tone of Wesley's voice.

‘What, like …' Wesley said, breathing deeply, ‘swimming around in a big tank?'

‘Nope.' Trevor scratched his head. ‘Uh … like five or six long metal drawers, horizontal, yeah? And when you pull the drawers open they're all in there. Noses at one end and tails at the other. Big fuckers, though. I mean, five foot each or something.'

A woman came up to the stall and wanted to buy a lemon and two bananas. She asked Wesley for what she needed but Wesley paid her no heed.

‘Hang on a second,' he said gruffly, holding up his flat hand, ‘just shut up for a minute.'

He turned to Trevor. ‘You know anything about eels?' he asked. Trevor knew enough about wild creatures to know that if Wesley had been a dog or a coyote his ears would be prickling, his ruff swelling.

‘Not to speak of…' he said.

‘Excuse me,' Wesley said to the customer, ‘I'll be back in a minute,' and off he went.

Wesley strolled into the pie and mash shop. Fred was serving. Wesley waited patiently in line until it was his turn to be served.

‘What can I get you, Wesley?' Fred asked, all jovial.

Wesley smiled back at him. ‘Having a few problems with the lights on the stall,' he said. ‘Could I just pop out the back and see if the plug's come loose or something?'

‘Surely,' Fred said, thumbing over his shoulder. ‘You know the lie of the land out there.'

Wesley went into the back room and up to one of the fridges. He took hold of the top drawer and pulled it open. The drawer contained water, and, just as Trevor had described, was crammed full of large, grey eels, all wriggling, eyes open, noses touching steel, tails touching steel. Skin rubbing skin rubbing skin.

Held in limbo, Wesley thought, in this black, dark space. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Nowhere to go. Like prison. Like purgatory.

Wesley dosed the drawer. He shuddered. He covered his face with his soft hands. He breathed deeply. He hadn't been all that honest. What he'd said about his dad and everything. True enough, his dad had been in the navy, he'd travelled on ships the world over, to India and Egypt and Hong Kong. Only he never came back from the sea. Never came back home. Sort of lost interest in them all. Only sent a card once, a while after … a while after … to say he wouldn't ever be back again.

Wesley knew all about the sea, though. Knew all about fishes and currents and stingrays and everything. His mum had bought him a book about it. For his birthday when he was six. And so he knew about eels and how they all travelled from that one special place in the Sargasso Sea. Near the West Indies. That's where they were spawned and that's where they returned to die.