First published 2008 in Torpedo 3 (Falcon vs Monkey Quarterly)
‘That little bastard was like giving birth to a ball of barbed wire,’ Mrs Collins pointed to Tony. ‘So I don’t want to hear nothing from you about suffering.’
Harold choked back a laugh while Tony sat there grinning.
‘But you love me all the same, don’t you Ma?’ he said.
‘Don’t have much choice, do I?’ She smiled and slapped him on the back of the head. ‘I tell you this sonny.’ She took his bowl after he scooped out the last mouthful of porridge. ‘If you weren’t mine I’d leave you for dead in the street.’
‘You’re all heart.’
‘Thanks for breakfast, Mrs Collins.’ Harold stood up to leave.
‘You could learn some manners from this one you could, Tony my boy.’
‘How can I? I haven’t the schooling for it,’ said Tony.
‘You got an answer for everything. Now get out of here, both of you.’ She banged the porridge bowl with a spoon.
Tony jumped up and ran into the other room to get his boots.
‘See you tonight,’ said Harold. He threw his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the door.
Mrs Collins reached for his arm and said quietly.
‘Don’t come back here tonight, Harry. We’ll be next door. The eviction date is today so the landlord’s men will be round at six.’
‘Do you need me to leave?’ he asked.
‘Of course not.’ She patted him on the head. ‘You’re part of the family now. It’ll be fine. We’ll come back when the men have gone.’
Harold didn’t like that kind of fine. He wanted to believe her but he had had a similar conversation with his father the day before the men had come.
Light rain was falling from the heavy clouds above and Harold watched as umbrellas began to sprout like black daisies among the crowd of commuters. A young boy of about ten years weaved in and out of the men in suits asking for pennies. He had no shoes and one sleeve of his stained shirt was missing. Down the street a line of unemployed men stood in the rain, unwilling to give up their place in line at the soup kitchen. Harold shivered and clutched his briefcase to his chest. Winter was on them and none of them were prepared. The coat his mother had bought for him five years ago was now a faint echo of what it had used to be. In its day it had been quite something, a coat that had made him feel strong, and secure. Not any more it wasn’t. The sleeves were tattered and dirty. The fabric had thinned and, the once rich silk lining was now torn and only served to catch on shirt buttons, cufflinks or his cold, numb fingers.
The grey walls of the Governance building rose up through the fog in front of him. Men in dark coats marched in and out while others milled around at the main doors in pre-work conversation. Trams, filled with men in suits and hats, rattled by on Swanston Street, while the headlines on the newsstand heralded another triumphant century from Don Bradman. 100 runs stolen from the Brits in two hours.
Harold didn’t care much for cricket. He didn’t care much for any sport for that matter. There were those in the office that found his lack of enthusiasm for the Don’s achievements strange, or even suspicious, but this didn’t bother Harold. He found the whole idea of a cricketer being a hero quite preposterous. Harold lifted his coat collar high up to his chin. The frayed edges tickled his cheek and he pulled it away quickly. He carefully folded down the frayed edges his collar, and then wrapped his scarf tight around his neck.
The street was littered with potholes. They were full of brown sludge, horse droppings and water. He could feel the big toe on his right foot getting wet as he hurried across. New shoes had been on his shopping list for a long time now, and Harold knew it would be some time before they could be crossed off.
The office was dark when he opened the door. He slipped his coat off his shoulders and hung it on the closest hook. It was then he saw it. On the last rung hung a brand new winter coat. It was a stern grey. An honourable grey. Harold turned around and scanned the office for early arrivals. All was quiet. He moved closer to have a look. He reached out slowly and ran the fabric between his fingers. It was unbearably soft. Two rows of fine stitching down the front, as even as tram tracks. The collar was unconventional in shape, almost military-styled, and was strong and commanding somehow. The kind of coat a man of distinction would own. But Harold was no man of distinction. He was simply Harold. Born at the wrong time and now sold to the lowest bidder. He let the coat slip out of his hand. It swung back to the wall as he walked to his desk.
Except for the muffled sound of trams rattling past on the street below the office was silent. The wooden chair creaked under him as he flicked through a pile of papers. He hadn’t been told about the appointment of anyone new, let alone a new manager. There was no way someone on his salary could afford a coat like that. Five years ago it would have been possible. Five years ago a lot of things were possible. When his father was still alive, before the market crashed, before his world had changed. The company his father had built, the company that would have been Harold’s, now belonged to a poker-faced Englishman by the name of Felix. In exchange, Harold was a lowly office clerk working for the man who ratted his father out to the tax office.
To get through the days Harold concentrated on keeping his pencils sharp and his desk clean, his hair well groomed and his shoes polished. A man must present himself in a way that instils confidence and trust in order to succeed, his father had always said. Most men judge you immediately, so you must carry yourself and dress for impact. They seemed like foolish words now: foolish words from a man of privilege. Harold took out a pair of scissors from the desk drawer. He cut off a few loose threads hanging from his sleeve then adjusted his cufflinks.
A tall, thin man walked into the office. He hung his coat on the rack. Harold noticed him glance at the new coat hanging on the last peg.
‘Good morning,’ he said as he sat down on the desk next to Harold’s.
‘Morning, Stephens.’
Stephens, first name Charles, was Harold’s office neighbour. He was a slender man with long, willowy fingers that danced over the typewriter like a concert pianist. Unfortunately for Charles Stephens, he didn’t have the accuracy that the grace of his fingers promised. He spent the better part of most days tearing out pieces of paper from his typewriter and muttering under his breath.
Harold didn’t like many people in the office. Most of them were very boring people. Harold knew they were boring because they were less interesting than himself and he considered himself a very dull person. Charles Stephens, however, was as close to a friend as Harold had and they would often have lunch together out on the fire escape.
‘Have you seen the new coat on the rack this morning,’ said Harold. He grimaced a little as he lifted his stale lettuce sandwich to his lips.
‘What coat?’
‘The new grey coat hanging on the rack.’
‘Oh yes. It looks expensive,’ said Charles.
‘So you noticed the fine weave and texture of the fabric?’
‘What?’
‘The stitching is worthy of a surgeon.’ Harold raised his hands up in proclamation. ‘And the cut would make us both look like kings.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Or at the very least lawyers.’
Charles laughed and tapped Harold on the head with a bread stick.
‘You are an unusual fellow, Harold. A coat is a coat. As long as it keeps you warm and dry through the winter it deserves your thanks. People like us cannot demand our coats be comfortable and fashionable as well as practical.’
‘You’re correct Charles – correct as always. But there seems to be no owner to this coat, so surely my desire is somewhat more justified. I simply don’t want it to go to waste.’
‘Of course Harold,’ he smiled. ‘It is your civic duty to see that the coat is put to good use.’
‘I’m glad you understand.’
‘I think I do.’ Charles paused and looked Harold in the eye. ‘Have you been thinking of your father lately?’
‘No.’ Harold shuffled where he sat. ‘Maybe a little.’
‘You mustn’t keep wishing for that life my friend. It is done.’
‘I know it is Charles.’ He was frustrated that Charles didn’t understand. ‘But it was here this morning and it has not been moved since.’
‘What was here?’
‘What do you think?’ said Harold.
‘Are we talking about your father or the coat?’ Charles looked confused.
‘The coat of course.’
They climbed in from the fire escape and went back to their desks.
In the afternoon Harold found himself staring at a pigeon making a nest on the fire escape of the next building.
‘Harold!’ The voice of Mr Broomfield cut through his daydreams. ‘In my office.’ He beckoned Harold with a pudgy index finger.
‘Every time I look out my door I see you staring off into space, Harold. I do wonder how it is you manage to get any work done at all.’
Harold noticed a few beads of sweat gathering at the top of Mr Broomfield’s forehead. He wondered how long it would take before the first would run down his face.
‘Are you listening to me, Harold?’
‘Oh, yes Sir.’ Harold hoped that he wouldn’t be asked to repeat it as he realised he had not been listening at all.
‘One would think the paperwork that has been entrusted to you was posted on the walls or the ceiling, or even out the window.’
‘Excuse me, Sir?’
‘You spend more time looking around than at your typewriter.’
‘Am I behind in my work, Sir?’ asked Harold.
Mr Broomfield rubbed his hands together uncomfortably.
‘It’s not that you are that far behind. To be honest I don’t know how you manage it.’
‘Is there a problem with my work, Sir?’
‘No. No there isn’t.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s your attitude Harold. Your method, if I can call it that. It’s a distraction to the other staff and a bad example.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I understand you are in a unique position here. This all could have been yours. He waved his hand around the office. ‘I know it must play on your mind. What could have been? But can you imagine?’ His mouth burst into a sickly grin. ‘Can you imagine the state of the place if you were running it… God help us all.’ He started laughing and a bit of saliva flew out of his mouth and landed on Harold’s coat. ‘Just stop your day dreaming and get back to work.’
Harold stood up and moved toward the door.
‘One more thing, Harold.’ asked Mr Broomfield. ‘Are you married?’
‘No Sir.’
‘I thought as much. You should think about it, Harold. A good woman can make a weak man like you strong.’
Harold slunk back to his desk and began making his way through the paperwork that was piled up on his desk. Shipping receipts and development permits needed processing and log entries needed filling in. It was an endless parade of numbers and figures, of addresses and names, of client companies and parent companies and receivers and exporters.
The afternoon soon feel away and the street below began getting dark. Harold sharpened his pencils and arranged his desk before making his way to the door. The coat hung there as it had all day. He stared at it as he threw his own coat over his shoulders. It called to him. It mocked him. It demanded to be stolen but Harold resisted.
‘Ow.’ His winced as his little finger caught in the lining of his coat and was pulled the wrong way. He stole another glance, this time an angry one, at the grey coat hanging on the other end of the rack. He slammed the door and marched out.
The streets were still glistening from the rain and a slow fog was edging its way between the dark buildings of Swanston Street. The rain was a gentle drizzle now and it was cold on Harold’s face. He didn’t mind. After a day inside the office, he was glad to have the change of scenery and the icy mist was welcome on his cheeks. The smell of horse manure rose up from the dirty street and big-wheeled carriages, auTonyobiles and trams competed for right of passage. They blew horns, rang bells and let out angry whistles each driver outraged by the one in front. Tram conductors hung out of swinging doors stamping tickets, counting money and shouting at auTonyobiles and carriage drivers to get out of the way. Harold took his usual shortcut, past St Peter’s church and the Chinese laundries nestled in the back streets. He stepped gingerly over the drains running through blue stone laneways and was careful to keep his shoes out of the puddles. Eventually he arrived at the train station holding his briefcase over his head to keep his hair dry.
The lights were on in the neighbours’ house when Harold climbed the steps to the front door.
‘Is that you Harold?’ Mrs Collins voice sounded nervous.
‘Yes.’
The door flung open and she ushered him inside. Her eyes scanned the street quickly then she slammed the door.
‘They’ve not been around yet. We have to be careful, Harold. They must have a lot of families to evict this week. Dirty dogs. They should be ashamed of themselves, the lot of them.’
They were all there in the lounge room near the fire, Mr and Mrs Singleton and their two small children, Mrs Collins and Tony. They were quiet children, unlike Tony. The Singletons had been good neighbours to the Collins for three years and in that time the families had become very close.
Mrs Singleton was a round woman with rosy cheeks and a cheeky smile. ‘Come and sit down Harold. You must be tired after a hard day at work.’
‘He’s lucky to be working at all,’ said Mr Singleton gruffly.
‘Easy now, Arthur,’ she scolded. ‘We should be grateful for the few of us that do have work.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Mr Singleton forced a weak smile across his face.
Mrs Collins turned to Harold.
‘How was work dear?’
‘It passed without too much fuss,’ said Harold. He was in no mood to discuss his boss’s comments, the winter coat or any of it for that matter. He was more concerned about the house. ‘So the landlord’s men haven’t been yet?’
Mr Singleton lifted himself out of his chair. ‘They’ll be along. Don’t you worry about that. They never give up, those bloody scabs.’
‘Language dear,’ said Mrs Singleton. She lifted some pots off the stove and put them on the table.
They all took a seat and Mr Singleton said grace.
‘Our father, who art in heaven, thank you for what we are about to receive.’
‘And for friends in hard times,’ added Mrs Collins.
Mrs Singleton nodded in agreement.
It was silent while everyone ate. The food was warming and Harold thought about his strange day while he ate. Tony’s dinnertime wit had been muted by the politeness of the Singleton children and there was a feeling of foreboding in the room. It reminded Harold of a night he’d spent with a boxer-friend who was taking a fall in a fixed fight. There was inevitability about the proceedings. No one wanted to speak, they were all thinking the same thought. They couldn’t continue to simply hide in each other’s houses when the landlord’s men arrived. Maybe it would work once or twice, but no more than that. Harold watched Tony eat greedily. He had a piece of small piece of potato stuck to the side of his mouth.
‘Don’t be greedy,’ said his mother sternly when she saw Tony load another large spoonful in his bowl.
‘It’s alright Ruth,’ said Mrs Singleton. ‘He’s a growing lad.’
Harold woke with a sore back the next morning. He had been cold most of the night. The thin rug he had used as a mattress had done little to save him from the hard floorboards. The landlord’s men had arrived not long after dinner. Harold and Mrs Collins had watched through the curtains while the men had come with cricket bats and batons only to find the house empty. They eventually came knocking on the neighbours’ door where Mrs Singleton had given a stellar performance, much to the amusement of the others, who were hiding in the back room. She had been completely believable as a concerned but ignorant neighbour. The men left, but not before leaving a letter detailing the amount owed, and the new eviction date. They posted it on the front door. It said they would return in a week. Harold hoped it would not be sooner.
The office was empty on Friday evening. Charles Stephens had left a few moments earlier and Harold found himself, as he often did, alone in the dimly lit office with just his pens, pencils and files for company. The thing that made this Friday different to any other was the winter coat. It hung on the wall, as it had done all week. No one had mentioned it: no one had touched it. In fact, no one had seemed to notice it at all. Harold wanted someone to own it, someone to take it away. He wanted it out of the office and out of his life. Looking at it every day hurt. Knowing it stayed inside, never to be worn, never to be valued, or even commented on. It seemed like an unholy injustice. People were starving, some homeless and he was scraping to get by after the markets had taken away so much with them. It was a crime to let something as valuable and as practical as a winter coat go to waste. It could be his if he were strong enough to take it.
Harold tried making a list of his tasks for Monday. He always wrote a list for Monday so as to avoid unnecessary worrying over the weekend. But today he couldn’t concentrate. He stood up, stretched his arms out and wandered round the office. He was desperate to avoid his eyes falling on the coat. He looked out the window. He noticed how the glass was streaked from the smoke inside and rain outside. The clouds hung heavy and threatening above the rooftops. In the low light he could see his greasy fingerprints from where he had last opened the window.
He went from desk to desk noticing things he hadn’t seen before. He picked up colourful paperweights and photographs, novelty pencil sharpeners and paper clips. He stopped in front of a framed Stephens family portrait. It was a strange image. None of them were smiling, but somehow they all looked happy. They were dressed for a funeral but seemed oddly cheerful under their stark expressions. Harold remembered being taken by his mother and father as a ten year-old to have his picture taken. He’d refused to smile, despite their best efforts, and the photo had been abandoned amid much scolding and bickering. He laughed out loud at himself then stopped short when his echo flew back at him from the dark corners of the office.
Not today he decided. For the first time in many years Harold decided not to make his Monday list. He had to leave and he had to leave now. He put a dust cover over his typewriter, threw some papers into his briefcase and walked toward the door. Both winter coats hung on the rack, the new coat taunting his own like a bully in a playground.
Harold’s heart was pounding and his palms sweating. He felt alive and dangerous. He had begun to take back what he deserved. He worked hard every day. He didn’t begrudge the fact he was now a two-bit clerk for the firm that he had been in line to inherit. He didn’t complain about his boss’s relentless workload and he never talked back. He had earned this coat, maybe not in a conventional sense, but he had in his own way.
The lights in the house were on as he approached.
‘Good evening, Harold,’ said Mrs Collins with a smile. ‘How was work?’ She looked at his red face then down at the coat. ‘What have you got there?’
‘Oh, this.’ He took out the coat. ‘It was a gift from my boss.’
‘Well isn’t that generous of him.’ She called out to Tony. ‘Come look at this fancy coat Harold’s boss gave him.’
Mrs Collins took the coat in her hands and turned it over.
‘My the stitching’s exquisite isn’t it?’ She looked up at Harold and winked. ‘He must be very pleased with you, Harold.’
‘I’ve been very busy lately.’ said Harold, trying to get the words past the lump in his throat.
‘You always were a hard worker, weren’t you?’
The guilt clung to Harold like a soggy shirt and he wished he’d never even seen the coat now. But Tony had already wrapped it around himself. He was strutting around the room like a gentleman, tipping his hat to his mother and to Harold.
‘It’s suits you well, Tony,’ said Mrs Collins with a smile. ‘Perhaps a little too big, but give it time. Let’s see it on you now, Harold.’
Harold slid his arms through the silk-lined sleeves with ease and he pulled it up over his shoulders. The coat was a perfect fit. He couldn’t believe it. He felt like the sort of man his father had been. A man of distinction: a man of taste. Sometimes, he thought to himself, you have to take what you deserve, even if no one offers.
‘My, my, it was made for you,’ said Mrs Collins. She brushed a few pieces of dust off the shoulders. ‘You could be a landlord with a coat like that.’ She chuckled and said, ‘Of course you’d have to keep the adorable smile elsewhere. I’ve never met a landlord who smiled.’
Harold walked around the room, then spun on his heel. He marched around with his chin held high while checking an imaginary pocket watch.
‘Bravo.’ Mrs Collins clapped. ‘You are a fine gentleman, Harold.’
Harold then took the iron poker from next to the fire and tapped it on the floor like a walking stick.
‘I shall buy one of each,’ he said in a mock serious voice.
The knock at the door was loud and commanding. They all stopped still. Tony’s eyes were wide with fear and Harold pulled his coat tight around him. The curtains were drawn. It was impossible to tell who was there. Mrs Collins put one finger to her lips and with the other she pointed at the shadow under the door.
No comments:
Post a Comment