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Brian Phillips Online

A BOAT IN A GLASS CASE

7.35am. Jim was normally a morning person, but this was the weekend. He wanted to still be in bed. He wanted to be asleep with Maggie – even though she’d snapped at him when the alarm went off – beside him in the warmth. Instead, he was out in the cold, slipping on the frost, trying to get everything ready for the sale.

He’d already set up the first table (it was really a wooden door balanced on a pair of saw-horses) on the concrete in front of the garage and was covering it with various things that suggested a boy growing up. A small pile of x-men comics shared an end with a row of books – mysteries and science-fiction novels, as well as the occasional text on dinosaurs, medieval castles and modern-day disasters. Towards the centre lay a stack of board games and jig-saw puzzles, most in battered boxes but to Jim’s knowledge without any pieces, tiles or tokens missing, and ringing the hole where the brass doorknob used to be was a small formation of WWI and II fighter planes. Jim had left just enough room for the 1920s biplane made from blue plastic; he pulled it from the box and lowered into place.

Perfect, he thought, but it gave him no pleasure. He tossed the box to the ground, stood back and stomped to keep warm. So far, everything looked good. Each game, puzzle and model had its own neatly-written price-tag sellotaped in a prominent place, and cardboard signs proclaimed that the comics could be bought for 50 cents while the books would cost a dollar.

On another day he might have smiled, but today his face understood only frowns. He didn’t want to be doing this, and that fact wasn’t going to change no matter how well it was going. So instead of smiling he simply glared, then shook his head, blew white puffs of breath onto his hands, shrugged deeper into his fleece-lined jacket and left another trail of footprints in the frost as he headed back into the garage and reached for the blue Raleigh 10-speed. He tested the brakes, pumped up the tyres and gave the chain a squirt with CRC before dusting off the seat and carrier with an old rag. When he wheeled it out he was surprised to see Maggie watching, judging him from the patio, wearing the out of date ski-jacket and track-pants she always wore when it was cold.

He ignored her. If he’d been humming, he would have stopped. He leaned the 10-speed against the fence near the grape, then returned to the garage again.

The boat caught his eye. He hadn’t meant to think about it so soon, but there it was, sitting on the workbench next to the vice. The Sirius. A 1:150 scale model of the first ship to cross the Atlantic under steam power alone. Every detail was perfect. The mast, the way it was rigged, the colour of the paint. The paddle wheels even turned.

Graeme had built it out of balsa when he was just fifteen years old. Four months it had taken, every day after school and in the weekends when his friends were at the beach or down at the park. When it was finished, Jim had encased it in glass with a wooden base that opened to allow for occasional dusting. Even now, it was as clean as the day it was finished, without the slightest smudge anywhere. It was beautiful.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Jim jumped. He hadn’t realised his wife had followed him in.

“It’s not my choice.” Not looking at her, he picked up the boat, carried it out and displayed it prominently at the edge of the table.

***

8.52am. The sky was blue, but the breeze that swirled gently between the garage and house was as cold as a betrayal. The door-table bowed under the added weight of a portable tv placed next to the Sirius, a stack of stage 1 university texts (two kinds of biology, physics, calculus and, oddly, linguistics), a clarinet in its case and a small set of dumbells. A heavily pock-marked dart board was leaning against the bike, which had been joined by a surfboard, a snowboard with bindings and boots, and a rusty reel-mower minus the battery.

A second table (“Ours,” Jim said. “We’ll keep the money separate.”) had been set up half sticking out of the garage. This one was larger than the first, painted green with a white stripe down the middle, and complete with net and four paddles but no balls. It displayed an array of battered pots, a set of lead-crystal wine glasses still in the box, a selection of mature ferns, spider-plants, rubber-plants, fruit-salad plants and coleus, a frying pan, a toasted sandwich maker and an assortment of garden tools, as well as several gaps where the choicest buys had already been seized.

Customers were milling about. Maggie was negotiating with a woman who wanted some of the plants and a middle-aged couple were talking quietly to themselves. A boy dressed in shorts and a Crusaders jersey was meandering around the tables; he spun the biplane’s propeller with a fat finger before leaving a greasy print on the glass case of the Sirius and hefting one of the weights. Then he moved to inspect the comics. The boy was big with a round face and sullen features. He looked clumsy. Probably got into trouble at school, but despite this he reminded Jim of Graeme when he was young. The boy didn’t seem to belong to anyone, and Jim was about to tell him to stop playing with things and go away before something got broken when a voice interrupted.

“That’s a fine looking ship you’ve got there.” Startled, Jim turned and found himself face to face with an old man.

“My son made it.”

“Really? Must be a clever boy, your son.”

“He is. He’s just about finished his degree. When he does, he’s going to Europe.” Jim couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, but the old-timer didn’t notice. He just bent on his cane and peered through the glass.

“Sirius,” He straightened. “I’ve got a granddaughter over in London. She said she was going for a month, but that was four years ago. Seems she ‘met someone’.” The old-timer’s eyes twinkled.

Jim nodded. Ordinarily, he would have liked the old man, but today he didn’t have anything to say. Finally, when the silence had continued beyond the point of comfort, he said, “Do you think she’ll come back?”

“She will or she won’t. It’s hard on us older folk, but there comes a time when you just have to let go.”

***

10.30am. The sun was climbing steadily towards a thickening bank of grey, and the temperature of the wind had lowered. The portable tv was gone, as was the frying pan, the set of pots, the bike and numerous smaller items. The surfboard was going to be collected later on – the new owner had bought the ping-pong table as well, and was going to come back with a trailer.

Jim’s bum-bag was bulging. Despite the cold, there were several people about, looking and buying, occasionally passing comment about this item or that or the unpredictability of the weather. So far, only the old man had shown more than casual interest in the Sirius, but he hadn’t bought it. Now a younger man with an unkempt beard, black jersey and stained, black jeans was admiring it closely. Jim hesitated. Then, despite Maggie’s hand gripping his jacket and a hissed, “Don’t sell it!” he wandered over.

“How much is this?” the man asked. Jim realised only then that it didn’t have a price tag.

“20 – ”

“50 dollars,” Maggie snapped from behind. The man looked from Jim to Maggie and smiled uncertainly. “Too rich for me,” he said. He patted the glass, left a smear of grease and moved away.

***

10.34am. The clouds had rolled in fast and turned the day bleak and cold. Jim accepted $10 for the 12 remaining novels, helped the young buyer stack them in a box and watched her leave. He checked that there were no other customers, then turned to his wife. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That thing with the boat. You knew he wouldn’t buy it at that price.”

“I know. I didn’t want you to sell it.”

“It’s not our choice. Graeme said everything.”

Suddenly Maggie was glaring at him. She looked bigger than usual and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth made her look fierce. “You know as well as I do that that’s not true. We can afford it. The only reason the boat’s for sale is your pig-headedness!”

Jim glared back at his wife, but a young couple strolled into the driveway before he could speak. Maggie said, “We’ll finish this later,” and moved away.

Jim bent, huffed on the Sirius’ case and wiped the fingerprints away with his sleeve.

***

10.46am. The first light spots of rain started to fall – a squall carried by the wind, an advertisement for later. Jim was angry at his wife; she was rearranging the remaining plants on the ping-pong table, but every now and again she glanced in his direction. He ignored her and seethed. She had no right to say what she said. Even so, he wasn’t much interested in continuing the sale.

“Excuse me – umm – are you in charge?”

Jim blinked. There was a thin lady in front of him. He replayed her words, sighed quietly and replied, “What would you like to know?”

“Can I see it made up?” She was pointing to the clarinet.

“Sure.” It was worth quite a bit. Jim took all the pieces out of the case and put them easily together. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the boy who reminded him of Graeme was back, moving along the table, prodding various items just like before. Jim thought that maybe the boy belonged to the lady.

“Everything works,” he said, “and all those little pads are in good condition. They’re what usually go first.” He pressed all the keys, showing the lady that everything moved freely.

“Can I hear it?” she asked. The boy picked up one of the aeroplanes (a B52 Bomber this time) and made movements through the air with it, as if it was flying. He was standing very close to the Sirius.

“I don’t have any reeds – ”

“Any what?”

“Reeds. Bits of bamboo or something. They’re what makes the noise.”

“Like that?” She pointed to one that had slipped down the side of the case.

Jim picked it up. “It’s split. Might still work.” He lined it up on the mouthpiece and tightened the cage to hold it in place. He could see that the boy was getting more enthusiastic with the plane, moving more wildly and adding “nnneeerrruummm” noises as he played. Jim watched the boy’s elbow just miss the Sirius. He hesitated, unsure if he should say something, but then the lady took the clarinet from his hands.

She put the instrument to her lips and blew inexpertly, making not a sound.

“Here,” said Jim, distracted from the boy. “Like this.” He played the theme to the Pink Panther, one of only a dozen tunes he had mastered. The split in the reed bluntened the notes, but the lady seemed delighted.

“Vincent, come here!” she demanded.

The boy turned in surprise. This time, his elbow caught the top of the Sirius’ glass case. It toppled off the edge of the table.

***

10.48.34am. Jim saw everything. The sun had managed a way through the clouds and shone with all its might, illuminating the part of the driveway where the tables had been set up. It was still dark over the house and it was raining on the garage. The boy’s face had paled – he knew he’d done something wrong, but didn’t yet know what. The lady wasn’t looking – she was more interested in the clarinet. Maggie was looking at Jim.

The Sirius was on its side, the top right-hand corner half a centimetre from impact. There was nothing Jim could do.

***

10.48.35am. The Sirius touched the concrete. For a fraction of a second, Jim thought it would hold. Sunlight reflected from the flat surface and shone directly into his eyes.

***

10.48.36am. Sunlight splintered, and so did the glass. A million shards exploded outwards. Jim closed his eyes and the scene was repeated just for him, a thousand times in a second, the shards glittering in a rainbow of colours.

***

10.48.37am. Jim opened his eyes, but he couldn’t bear to look at the boat. Instead, he looked to his wife. Maggie had heard the explosion; she was staring at the boy with undisguised loathing.

There was a moment of silence. The sun, so bright a just before, faded behind the clouds once again.

“Vincent, are you all right?” The woman was beside her son, who was sitting on the concrete. Vincent was shaken and maybe a little scared. “I’m sorry,” he said, fractionally ahead of his mother.

It started to rain. Jim made his way to the boy. “Is he okay?” he asked, and the lady nodded. Despite the glass and Vincent’s shorts, there wasn’t any blood.

The lady helped Vincent to stand. “Go sit in the car,” she said. The rain was falling in large drops. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ll pay for the damage.” Already, her hair was wet through.

Jim shook his head. “It’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.” The woman nodded, obviously relieved, and hurried down the driveway without buying the clarinet.

When she’d gone, Jim bent and gathered the Sirius up. The mast was broken and some of the paint had been scraped away on one side, but other than that it was remarkably whole. “It’s all right,” Jim repeated, and this time he meant it.

Maggie was looking at him. “What do you want to do?” Even now, she seemed to be measuring, weighing his mood.

“I think we should get this inside before the rain damages it. I’ll fix it, and then we can put it back on the mantlepiece where it belongs. We’ve got to get the rest of this under cover.”

“And what about Graeme’s money?”

Jim smiled. “We can afford it.”

Slowly, through the thickening rain, Maggie smiled too.

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I live and work in New Zealand, which is on the opposite side of the world from just about everywhere else. More?