Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

kitchen, his trophies held high above his head. Jeanne
had screamed,
‘Get those filthy things out of here... out.. out out,’
and shooing him with the broom, had steered him into
the laundry, where they were first bundled with enough
naphthalene to eradicate the moth population of
Champagne. The curtains had washed up quite nicely,
he thought, and could be hung once the paint was dry.
He’d had a problem with the rugs. Rolled up for years,
they were cracked and encrusted with dirt. Magilligan
rigged up a line between two crossbeams in the stables
and, slinging the rugs over it, had gone daily to shake
and beat the grime out of them.
‘It’s not the dust and mildew,’ he’d complained to
Jeanne, ‘They’ve been self-composting for years. There’s
enough muck here to start a flower garden.’
‘What are you going to do about the tears and holes,’
she’d asked.
‘Don’t worry.’ Magilligan wasn’t concerned about the
occasional hole. ‘Isn’t there a saddler in Chalons? He’ll
have strong thread and those big needles with eyes like
snaffle rings. I’ve mended harness, so I can mend a rug.
It won’t look great, but it’ll cover the floor. That’s all I
need.’
Magilligan was excited by the notion of his own
room. He’d always shared with his brothers or with
other lads. On his uncle’s farm in Chalons, a boarded-off
corner of the barn above the horses had been considered
more than adequate for him, although the family lived in
comfort in a large house with spare rooms. Washing
had been at the pump by the kitchen door and his few
possessions were kept rolled in a canvas cloth.
‘No, Magilligan,’ he said. ‘This is not a step
backwards. Finally you’re on your way.’
♣
Charles saw the doors to his kitchen refuge close in
his face. His father’s return to Chateau de
Belsanges opened the house to a stream of visitors for
the first time since the beginning of the war. A
disorientated toddler clinging to Jeanne’s skirts was a
distraction. Too busy to devote time to him as before,
Jeanne now chased him back to his sisters, where he
was equally unwelcome. Violette and Inez resented his
intrusion into their private world of dolls, or jigsaw
puzzles and skipping competitions. A governess taught
them at home and the local priest supplemented
Mademoiselle’s basics with extra mathematics and a
smattering of Latin. There was even talk of sending
16
postgraduate fiction
them to the village school once the war ended. They’d
grown out of Charles. He was no longer the baby
brother they wheeled around the garden in his pram, or
dressed up in their clothes for fun, but an annoying little
boy who broke their playthings and interrupted their
secret games.
His familiar world was crumbling before his puzzled
eyes. Everyday he grew sulkier and more disconsolate.
His tantrums increased in frequency and ferocity and,
to the horror of his mother, he was once again wetting
the bed. Since that first dreadful encounter with his
father, he hadn’t dared approach him. Alexia had tried
to overcome his aversion but her encouragement was
insufficient to quell his irrational fear whenever he saw
the wheelchair. A reassuring grip on his hand and
coaxing words, or promises of special treats, met with
the same spectacular failure as threats and the
occasional sharp slap. He’d come close enough to see
André’s face, then wrench away his hand and run to the
safety of the nursery. Once inside and with the door
banged shut behind him, he’d kick his sisters’ toys
around in a rage he couldn’t explain whenever Jeanne
asked gently why he was so upset.
To his deepening distress, Charles saw the girls
conquer their initial reserve and re-establish their loving
relationship with their father, a relationship he’d never
known. His singular position as the only male in the
household had been usurped by this man who now
occupied centre-stage in everyone’s attention. The
arrival of a strange russet-haired person, who seemed to
be everywhere at once, also relegated him to a lower
position in the domestic hierarchy. Wherever he turned,
he was excluded.
Charles crept along the corridor behind the library.
His father was resting after lunch and Alexia had left for
an afternoon of local social calls. Although
apprehensive, his curiosity egged him on and, lured by
the smell of fresh paint, he tiptoed to Magilligan’s room.
The door was open. Charles hesitated on the threshold
and leaned forward to peek inside. He was afraid to go
in. The room was empty. There was no sound of
footsteps pacing up and down, or a body shifting in a
chair, or snoring from the bed. He took a tentative step
forward, flattening himself against the side of the door
to be less visible. At the edge of the door, he stopped
and quickly looked behind to see if anyone was hiding
there. Charles often hid behind the door then jumped
out with a loud ‘boo’ to frighten Violette or Inez. There
was no one. In the silence of the corridor, an irresistible
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
Magilligan
Johanna Yacoub