Enthusiast
By matthewbrown
- 335 reads
Here's my daily routine, so you get an idea. I open the shop at 9
a.m. Stuff gets left outside - bagged up or lying loose on the
pavement. The shop next door is also a charity shop and if I see
anything I like in their pile, I take it. We get the strangest stuff -
skis, a huge satellite dish, plenty of feminine underwear, a
toothbrush. I sort through it all and make sure it goes in the right
section, price it up. Then I go round and tidy the books, straighten
them up a bit, make sure the shoes are more or less ordered, all the
clothes on hangers. You are always aware of the smell, at first al
least; the strange smell of the place, something like death hanging in
the air. One day I smelt the same smell in my cupboard at home, in the
suits I hadn't worn in twenty years but kept anyway. I open the doors
at 9.30 and people drift in and out. Quite a lot of girls, actually,
not that they look at me. They are too smug in their fresh youthfulness
- why would they look at me? I enjoy the customer contact; I'm good
with people, I suppose. I wouldn't say we've got regular customers, but
you get to know some faces. If I take fifty pounds in a morning, I'll
be happy. Someone else comes in and takes over at twelve so I can go
home. Lunch is on the table at 12:30 sharp. She'll do a bit of fish,
ham maybe. Potatoes. We eat, and I watch her, cheeks bulging as she
chews. I don't know what we talk about. Not much really. She takes a
swig of her tea while she's still got food in her mouth. After the
meal, I carry the plates to the sink and go upstairs to my "den" as she
calls it.
I sit at the workbench by the dormer window. In front of me,
I've got sheets of The News of The World stretched tight and taped in
place over the bench. (I don't have many spillages, but you can't be
too careful). Taped on top of the newspaper I've got the Plan. Straight
ahead of me is a miniature chest of drawers, in grey plastic,
containing files, blades, pins, etcetera. Then I've got tins of paint,
glue, tissue, sandpaper, dope, thinner, sealant. Then the wood - balsa
in sheets of different thicknesses, and blocks of all shapes and sizes.
It's all quite neat; I want to be able to lay my hands on what I need
when I need it.
At the moment, I'm building a Boulton Paul Balliol T2 - a
three-seat turboprop trainer - in kit form.
With kits, the major difficulty is that the parts come
printed on a sheet of balsa. You have to cut them out carefully with a
razor knife and sand them to the exact shape of their outline. This
takes a lot of time. You need plenty of blades, sandpaper and patience.
The parts (formers for the fuselage and ribs for the wings and tail)
are like cross-sectional slices through the aeroplane. You build up a
sort of skeleton, and this skeleton is covered with tissue paper to
give the final appearance of the plane. Originally, real aeroplanes
were made this way.
We had the loft conversion done in the 90s. We thought, why
not? It was always meant to be our space, somewhere to bring us closer
together, was what I think she had in mind. She needed the room for her
knitting, she said, she'd outgrown downstairs. And I must admit I hated
all her stuff spreading through into the lounge - her bloody knitting
machine (excuse my language) with its wires and hooks and stuff, the
endless balls of wool, patterns and scraps of paper. I was happy to
have it tucked away somewhere else. The house was encased in
scaffolding and plastic sheeting for a few months while they built out
the top floor then did the roof covering. The disruption wasn't as bad
as you'd think. It was worth the wait in the end. Maybe I had a
half-idea at the time what I might eventually use the loft for. I'm not
sure. In the end it was all a bit academic, since by the time it was
finished she couldn't negotiate the tight stairway to the top. Not with
her hip. Steep steps, polished oak, she just looked up at them and
shook her head. So she could only use the ground floor and the first
floor. She hid her disappointment and I hid my pleasure. That was how
it stayed for a while.
The Plan is an exact drawing of the component pieces of the model. The
various parts are assembled, held to the Plan with straight pins and
then glued together according to the instructions. This part's pretty
straightforward.
That day I had the radio on, I remember. The Test Match from
Lords. The usual banter. Above the radio I could hear her stupid
knitting machine downstairs - Zip! - up to one end. Zip! - down to the
other, decreasing in tone. It wasn't real knitting, was it? You just
told the machine what you wanted it to do, fed in the right colour wool
and stood there. Zip! Zip! Until a jumper, a scarf, or a sock popped
out.
If I went downstairs for a pee, I could hear her humming as she used
the machine. She used too hum a lot when we were together, years ago. I
would stand there and look at myself in the mirror. This old man; the
desiccation of age and nothing can stop it. Nothing can arrest it, no
potion can hold it back. We are what we leave.
After a while she stopped asking what I did up there all day.
Well, I didn't ask her what she was knitting the whole time, did I? And
of course I produce a plane from time to time - Cessna 172, Piper Cub -
carrying it downstairs cradled in my hands like a baby bird. If we'd
had kids I would enjoy that part. The look in a child's eyes. If we'd
had them. But that didn't happen, and she shut up shop, as it were,
pretty quickly. Once it was confirmed we couldn't have children (us on
one side of an enormous desk, the doctor on the other; her blinking
once, twice, as his gold fountain pen scratched on paper), she seemed
to say, Well, what's the point? The closest I got after that was the
soles of her feet cold against my calf in the night. I retreated a bit,
she retreated a bit and soon that was it - we just eyed each other
warily from a distance.
The canopy is a major feature of the Boulton. It's distinctive and has
a very complex shape. In the kit you get a big block of balsa and a
drawing. Your job is to get busy carving. I cut the block to the exact
dimensions of the canopy. Then I began to carve, carve, carve until I
produced a convex surface about an eighth of an inch thick. Lots of
razor blades and sandpaper were used.
So I suppose I just build these things for myself, for
posterity if you like. It sounds sad, maybe, but I like their beauty;
they will endure.
It was the in-between season. The first few daffodils had
popped up around the playing fields, even though the frost would be
back. She asked me once if the noise bothered me, the shouts and
screams as they played football or hockey. The playing fields lie over
the hedge at the back of the house, stretching over to trees on the far
side. The changing rooms are a single-storey brick building away to the
right. I shrugged, 'Don't really notice it.' But I noticed all right. I
would open the window and let the air and the sounds wash in like cool
green water for a minute before swinging the telescope round. The
smells. I would always stop what I was doing - except doping, which you
can't really stop - and put my things away; box things in the box, lids
on all round, before getting organised. I like the solid action of the
telescope on its tripod as I swing it into position. A blur for a
second, things jumping around in the lens, then intelligible images,
trees, buildings etcetera, and I can get my bearings.
Generally, I go all out for verisimilitude. With the Boulton, my first
line of attack was the landing gear. My local Hobby Care had a vast
array of wonderful brass wire, sheets and tubing that could be used to
simulate the hydraulic mechanism of the gear. I spent some time on
this.
In the winter, their legs glow raw and chapped in the cold as
they charge around red-faced, ponytails swinging. I love the crack of
hockey stick on ball and the thunk as it runs out of play against the
back-up boards lining the chain-link fence around the fields. It's good
to watch.
I did a lot of watching before I did any collecting. You get
favourites, of course, and I had my favourite. She had this bouncing
sort of run. And she was sweet-looking and nicely put together, with
this wild peachy ginger hair, really thick. She looked really clean and
scrubbed and I could imagine her body under her clothes; the skin, then
the muscles and tendons moving around underneath. The skeleton. She
wore a dark green sweatshirt. It was very distinctive, so I could see
her coming a mile off. One afternoon, she left it behind, by the
goalposts. I suppose she was just hot after the game and didn't think
about it. Well, I waited and waited but it stayed there, sort of
abandoned in a sad little heap on the grass. It got dark and eventually
the lights went out in the school. The next morning, I woke before
dawn, sort of breathless, and went out as it was getting light. There
was a soft March dampness in the air, a spray of dew on the grass and
on the sweatshirt too. I couldn't think what else to do, so I picked it
up and stuffed it inside my jacket. Then I walked back, slowly as I
could, trying to keep my breathing under control, pushed my way through
the hedge and went into the house. Upstairs, I pulled it out and it
felt strange having it in my hands in the attic. Her jumper in my
attic. You could smell her on it; a little smell, light and peppery,
but definitely a fresh, girl smell. I wanted to bottle it. I thought
about her skin in the sweatshirt and it made my head spin a bit. I was
going to chuck it away, but of course I kept it - and the various other
things that came my way from time to time. After a while it made sense
to put up a shelving system to keep everything in order, so I did just
that.
The original Boulton was fitted with a variety of rotary
engines - particularly Gnomes and Le Rh?nes. The service manual
contains several photos of the engine, so I thought that I would try to
replicate it. With application of time and patience, I managed to
assemble a reasonable replica out of balsa, wire, dowels, and other
odds and ends from Hobby Care. It looks OK.
We meet at meal times but otherwise we keep ourselves to
ourselves. Maybe the mealtimes give things the appearance of normality.
Anyway, she has her friends to keep her going - the "coffee crowd" -
and I have my interests. At first I would buy the occasional magazine,
bring it home folded into my newspaper and head straight upstairs. If
she was out, so much the better. But after a while, I just didn't like
all the creeping about. Now, I subscribe. It's just easier all
round.
My eyesight is OK, considering, but I have recently started
wearing glasses. Only for reading and close-up work, of course. I got
them at Christmas - on my sixtieth birthday to be precise. She laughed
when she first saw them, then she stopped.
The interior of the plane is very important to the realism of the final
model. The front seats are metal shells that have foam upholstery in
them. The rear seat in the actual plane folds down to accommodate
luggage. My scale model seat does the same thing.
I seem to have more space dedicated to the other stuff than
to the aeroplanes nowadays. I suppose that's bad. The shelving system
has four shelves. The top one holds all the clothing, folded and bagged
up. Keeps it fresh, or that's the idea. The other three shelves have
little chests of drawers like on the bench. This is the valuable stuff.
I was half-tempted to wash the muddy sock, but decided against it.
There's a single black stocking, rolled up like a condom. I like to
stretch the fabric out and touch it, feel the tension. The really
precious stuff I keep in the bottom chest of drawers balled up or
folded in bags. I really need to clear some of this stuff out. Just
having it around makes me sort of hot and itchy.
I should have been building planes that day, but it was warm
and springy. I felt restless and preoccupied and spent the morning
looking through the telescope, even though the playing fields were
mostly empty. There was a man cutting the grass with a tractor-mower,
going round and round. The buzz of the machine, coming and going, was
sort of hypnotic. He was mowing the grass in ever-decreasing circles,
starting at the edge of the field and working his way towards a point
in the centre of the field. In the past, the grass has always been cut
in the normal way - alternating stripes of light and dark green grass
on the field. The new way seemed a bit pointless. Anyway, he made me
cross and I had a headache and felt there was something else at the
back of my mind that I should be worrying about, but couldn't quite put
my finger on it.
The control console and dashboard are constructed as a stand-alone
subunit to be installed after painting is complete. I constructed the
steering yokes out of plastic rings (actually, I pulled them off the
knitting machine after rummaging around everywhere
else).
With her, things are settled now but we've had our difficult
patches, I suppose. Sometimes I look at her, sitting in the garden in
her tight floral print dress, the skin on her arms sort of saggy. Was
this ever enough to sustain me?
I suppose I went into the changing rooms the first time by
mistake. Well, the door was open, so I thought I'd have a look anyway.
It was evening. There was a corridor with a light on at the far end,
tiled floors. A shower was dripping somewhere; a plink, plink echoing
around the walls. The boys' side smelt of socks. Horrible. I could
hardly bring myself to go into the girls' changing room. I'm not sure
why. It was pitch dark, so I took a risk; a fluorescent light flickered
and lit the room. There was water all over the floor (I suppose the
cleaner came in the morning). I tried some locker doors, out of
interest. They were locked then one opened and I heard myself let out a
little gasp. I swung it open. My tongue felt sort of fat in my mouth. I
reached in slowly and pulled out a tee-shirt that was hanging on a
hook. I squeezed it gently in my hand, the fabric still damp. I raised
it to my face. And then, then I couldn't do it. I threw it back into
the locker and slammed the door. Outside, I leant against a wall and
vomited, once, twice. The sick made my teeth squeak on each other, but
after a minute I felt OK. There'd be other days.
The interior lining was modelled on the real thing. I chose a nice red,
white, and blue motif. It looked great.
Now I heard her call 'William,' up the stairs and I froze. I
switched off the radio, and listened again. Something was up; she never
called me, especially when I was working. 'William!' she shouted, 'Got
a second?' I said, 'All right, all right,' to myself and moved to the
door. Then, I don't know, I must have taken one step all right, when I
felt my heel slip on the edge of the second step, on the polished wood.
I threw my arm back to catch myself, but there was nothing there. I
felt my other leg come up and, for a second, I was flying. Looking up,
the bare lamp bulb overhead. I had time to think about getting a shade
for it. Ikea. The base of my spine, my right elbow, the back of my head
- all hit the stairs at the same time. Months later, a doctor would
show me the x-ray (ghostly joint, screws, pins) and explain how a blow
at exactly the right point could shatter a joint as though it were
glass. But at the time, I was only aware of a jagging bolt shooting up
my spine and a weird, warm feeling in my arm. Then the lights went
out.
When I came round, she was standing over me. She looked
enormous.
'Can you move yet?' she said, like we'd been talking about it
earlier.
I tried to speak, but no sound came. I couldn't get the air.
She tutted to herself. I tried to raise an arm for her to help me up,
but nothing happened. It was as though something wasn't
connected.
'Well,' she said, and stepped over me carefully and put a
foot on the first step up to the den. She stopped and turned as if to
ask me something, then seemed to change her mind and started up the
stairs again: right foot, left foot. She breathed steadily and got a
gentle rhythm going. Then she was round the corner of the stairs and
out of sight. I heard sounds, steps as she moved around above my head,
drawers opening, the crunch of balsa underfoot. I managed to glance
down and my left leg was bent out sideways at the knee.
I heard her coming down the stairs, slowly again. I could
taste blood in my mouth now. She stopped and held up one of my
magazines. Then she was flicking through it, turning the whole thing
through 90 degrees where appropriate, raising her eyebrows now and
then, glancing down at me and making small noises of
appreciation.
'I don't think I understand, William,' she said. 'This.'
Holding up the magazine by a corner, like something
dead.
I could only look at her.
'Really, I don't.'
She let the magazine flop down on the carpet next to me. I
tried to speak and again nothing came. I felt as though I was frozen
inside a block of ice.
She stepped over me without speaking or looking at me again,
her stockinged leg passing inches in front of my face. She went down
slowly to the hall below.
I heard her on the phone, talking slowly and evenly, even
though I couldn't make out the words. The tap ran in the kitchen and I
heard her click the kettle on. Then I heard the sound. Zip! - up to one
end. Zip! - down to the other.
I thought about the finish. I had painted the model with three coats of
Humbrol chrome spray lacquer. This does a wonderful job of simulating
an aluminium finish in scale. Aluminium paint is too
dull.
THE END
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