INKLINGS

BROOM CUPBOARD

 

 

 

 

he house was old and large, probably Victorian.  The knocker - an antiquated relic with its fancy scrollwork almost obliterated by age - dropped flakes of rust as I lifted it.  More rust powdered down as I gave two sharp knocks.  A minute later the door inched open and a pale-grey eye glared suspicion at me.

            ‘Mister Elvin?’  Suddenly nervous, I managed a half-hearted smile.

            The eye blinked.  After a long, uncomfortable period of silence a snappish voice bleated, ‘What?’

            ‘My name is Sharon Amos.  You phoned for a quote...  for a painting; a mural...  on a wall.’  For some strange reason the old man frightened me.  Already I was hoping I had got the address wrong, or that he might change his mind and tell me to get lost.

            Mister Elvin grunted something totally unintelligible … studied me for another long moment … then grudgingly unhooked the safety chain and motioned quickly, nervously, for me to enter.

            The minute I was inside he slammed the door shut and, spookily, without a word, led me along a shadow-strewn passageway that ran alongside a stairway with a broad, mahogany-banister.

            Just as I reached the conclusion that I might be in a not-too-safe situation and was contemplating making a run for it, he stopped by a door.  ‘This is my broom cupboard.  I want the mural in here.’  He opened the door, pointed a thin finger.  ‘On that wall.’  Small, blue veined hands made nervous, fluttery movements as he pointed.

            The “cupboard” was actually a small room; empty, except for a kiddies’ pedal car.  Like the house, the car was large and old-fashioned; a red-painted relic that would probably fetch a good price in an auction.

            ‘You want me to cover that one wall, with a mural - a country scene, wasn’t it?’ 

            ‘With a lane, running upward through trees and fields.’  His bony finger traced an imaginary route through imaginary countryside.  The snappishness had gone.  Suddenly he sounded quite timid.

            Confidence flooded back.   ‘Why here?’ I asked, putting an edge of authority in my voice.  ‘Why would you want a mural in this...?’

            ‘Broom cupboard,’ he interrupted irritably.

            ‘But why-’

            ‘Does it matter?’ he interrupted me again, grey eyes blazing with sudden anger.

            ‘No, of course not.’  I gestured around at the room.  ‘Er, do people still use brooms?’

            The small, pale-lipped mouth tightened and whitened.

            I hurriedly did a verbal side step to solid ground.  ‘Yeah, I guess they must do.  How about I put some sky in?’

            ‘Sky?’  Disturbingly bright, sparrow-like eyes lasered into me with an intenseness that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

            ‘And I could take the lane over the top of a hill, might give the mural extra depth.’  I tried not to look directly at him, yet still keep a watchful eye out for wrong moves.

            ‘Yes, yes,’ he exclaimed eagerly, ‘over a hill ... that would be ideal.  Er, could you make it a steep hill?’ 

            His excitement seemed genuine.  My nervousness evaporated.  ‘Steep as you want.’

            ‘When can you start?’

            ‘Tomorrow?’

            ‘Early?’

            ‘First light, if you want.  Oh, and talking of light, does that window open?’  The “window”, a small rectangle of dust-laden glass that looked as if it had never been cleaned, was set high in the side wall

            ‘I think so.’  He motioned timidly, the movement indicating how acutely conscious he was of his lack of height.  ‘Could you...’

            On tiptoes my fingers just about reached.  The window moved a couple of inches, then stuck.  A quick jump-and-shove forced it open one more inch.  ‘Best I can do,’ I gasped, and resolved to start jogging again.

            ‘Will that give you enough natural light,’ he asked worriedly.

            ‘Plenty.  Now, about these other walls ... a coat of paint would really brighten up the room-’   the look on his face stopped me mid sentence. 

            ‘Broom cupboard,’ he grated.  ‘It’s my broom cupboard.’

            ‘Yes, yes, your broom cupboard.’  I repeated it after him just to show I’d got the message.  ‘Pale yellow would-’

            ‘Only the mural,’ he interrupted angrily.

            ‘Okay.  Okay.  You’re the boss.’  I gave him a wide, pacifying smile.  ‘Oh, about that old pedal car.   Any chance you could move-’

            ‘It stays where it is!’  His voice had risen sharply, tone saying quite clearly that I shouldn’t push my luck.

‘Okay, Then I will see you tomorrow.  I’ll have my paints and stuff here early.  What time…’

            ‘I will supply the paints and brushes.  You must use only the materials that I provide.  Is that clear?’  His eyes shone as he leaned forward until his small face was close to mine and repeated,  ‘Is that clear?’

            I actually flinched.  ‘Yes.  Yes, perfectly clear.’

            It took four days to complete the mural.  The paints he provided had a strange texture and consistency and were hard to work with and the brushes uncomfortably large and unwieldy but, eventually, the final brush stroke applied with a grand flourish, it was time to check out the finished work.

            There was no way of telling if it was surprise or shock that hit me as I gazed on my completed masterpiece.  I mean I’d known, even before I’d stepped back a couple of paces, that I’d done a good job.  Well, I had put my heart into it; really working on detail, getting shadow and light just right.  But this, the finished article, was something else.  The mural had a depth and realism I’d not realised I was capable of; the fields looked so real you got the impression you could step into the picture and feel grass under your feet.

            I shouted my zany employer.  He came running, shoving past, near sending me flying in his eagerness to examine the mural.

            Expected compliments did not materialise.  Even before I could tidy up, old Elvin was stuffing money into my hand and pushing me out the front door.   It was the sort of treatment that would normally make me real mad.  Strangely, this time, I didn’t mind.  I actually walked away smiling.  The old man was a touch peculiar, but we’d got on okay.  In fact, over the last couple of days I’d gotten to like him a lot.  The poor man appeared to lead a terribly lonely life.

            I strolled along the crazy-paving pathway trying not to tread on the cracks.  The money was safely tucked away and I was happy with the world I lived in.  It was only as I reached the old wrought iron gate that something made me stop, turn, and glance back at the house.  The partly open window on the gable-end stuck out like a beckoning hand.

            After five minutes waiting beneath that window, listening so hard that my ears hurt, I began to wonder what I was doing - and why I was doing it.  Then, just as I was turning to walk away, the noises began.

            The sounds were slow at first, but the tempo quickly speeded up – each metallic squeak accompanied by a harsh, grating squeal that set my teeth on edge.

            The squeaks and squeals were vaguely familiar and I had to delve into childhood memories to retrieve the answer - they were from the toy pedal car: squeaks from the pedals, squeals from the steering wheel as it was spun back and forth. 

            The old idiot was in the car, pretending he was driving the thing!

            Normally I would have laughed out loud, but I didn’t.  Instead I found myself overcome by an immense sense of sadness that I could not understand.

             The squeaks and squeals intensified, speeded up, became frenzied - then, amazingly, seemed to fade into a distance that could not have existed in that tiny room, the sounds now so faint that I could barely hear mister Elvin screeching, ‘Brrr-rr-oo-m,  brroom ... brrr-oo-oo-m...  And then, strain as I might, even his reedy voice could no longer be heard.

            Worried, for a moment, I considered knocking on the front door.  But I didn’t.  Somehow I knew there would be no answer.