Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

André looked down at his hands,
then at Jeanne and finally at Henri.
‘I’ll give you a week’s trial. Jeanne,
can you find him something more
suitable to wear? Make him take a
bath. Find somewhere for him to
sleep and bring my breakfast. I’m
starving. In fact, send Denise
through right away with a pot of
fresh strong coffee. I’ve had nothing
but lukewarm dishwater for the last
four months.’
He wheeled the chair towards
his room, then stopped and turned
back,
‘And for God’s sake, light the
bloody fires. I’m freezing.’
Jeanne tugged Henri’s sleeve and
led him from the room. As
Magilligan left, André noticed he
was slightly hunched and the line of
his spine skewed to one side. At that
moment, Alexia entered. Henri
stepped back politely to allow her to
pass.
‘Morning, Ma’am,’
He greeted her cheerfully with
his off-balance smile and a slight
nod of his head.
‘I’ll be back to bathe the master in
a moment. He’ll be spanking clean
by the time I’ve finished.’
‘Come on Henri,’ muttered
Jeanne. ‘I’ve got to make you
presentable and set out a few rules
of the house.’
‘You do that, Miss Jeanne. I
won’t mind a bit and if I get it
wrong you can wallop me with that
big stick you hide in the pantry.’
Jeanne pursed her lips and
propelled Henri down the corridor.
Despite his misgivings, André
began to laugh. Alexia looked at
him, her eyes wide with
astonishment and dismay.
‘You haven’t taken him on, have
you? You must be out of your mind.’
‘It’s the gas, Alexia... just keep
telling yourself... your husband was
gassed.’
‘May God help us,’ she moaned
as she collapsed onto the sofa.
‘Well,’ said André, ‘God’s
certainly with Magilligan, so maybe
he’ll adopt us too.’
♣
That other small room behind
the library had become a
building site. Old tarpaulins were
spread over the floor to protect the
parquet and a construction of
planks on trestles provided a raised
walkway round the walls, giving
access to the higher reaches and
ceiling. A wooden ladder leant
against the doorframe, and an old
tea chest with a chipped wood block
over it doubled as a worktable.
Spare brushes bristled from a jar of
turpentine and smaller paint pots
nestled against a large bucket of
white emulsion. Magilligan stirred
this with a broken broomstick,
before pouring the paint into the
smaller pots. They were easier to
manage and, if he did drop a pot, it
wasn’t a disaster. He used his longer
left arm for the painting, although
he was by nature right handed.
Balancing on the trestles, he
dipped the broad brush into the
paint and began covering the walls
of the small bedroom with smooth
strokes of colour. He worked
methodically, tipping into the
cornice below the ceiling then
sweeping down to the skirting
board, which he’d completed the
day before. Hopping on and off the
trestles was tiring, but he was
determined to do a neat job. At the
end of each panel of paint, he
feathered out the edges and
scooped up any drips with the dry
14
postgraduate fiction
brush he kept in his overall pocket
for that sole purpose. Then he
wiped over the gloss finish of the
wood, cleaning off stray spatters as
he progressed round the room.
He’d get this second coat on in a
couple of hours, but would leave it
to dry overnight. Many decorators
thought fingertip dry was sufficient
and added the next layer as soon as
possible but he, Magilligan, knew
better. That kind of short cut
produced a patchy result as the real
density of cover only showed when
it had “gone off”, as his father used
to say. It could look perfect at first,
but the flaws soon appeared once
the thorough drying process was
finished.
By the next day, after he’d
touched up those patches where the
under-colour was “grinning”
through, another of his father’s
expressions, it would be ready for
the final application. He’d need to
gloss over the skirting boards once
more, but then he’d be into the first
proper bedroom he’d ever had in his
twenty-eight years. It had a
washbasin with a mirror over it, and
a bathroom further down the hall
was for his sole use.
March wasn’t the best month for
decorating as the cold damp
weather made it hard to leave
windows open, but he needed to
sleep within earshot of André. The
sooner he finished, the quicker he’d
be able to do that. An alternative
had been a bed in André’s room, a
proposal which had not appealed to
anyone, least of all Alexia. She knew
her husband needed quiet privacy
until he was well enough to return
to a more normal life. Alexia liked to
sit with André in the cosy library
and then in his room until as late as
possible before retiring to her own
bedroom on the first floor. The
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
Magilligan
Johanna Yacoub