Mr. Bill by Nicola Field
Mr Bill’s house was not new and modern like home. It didn’t have nice red bricks and shiny white paint and wide oblong windows that sparkled in the sunlight. Mr Bill’s house was old and old-fashioned. It was not in a quiet, soft black tarmac cul-de-sac but on a big, dirty fast main road and in front it had a drive of grey slabs all poking up and broken with weeds spurting through. A separate garage was like a little house all on its own, with two wooden doors, cracked glass and peeling paint. It was nearly going to rain, perhaps even storm. She could feel the warmth and dampness creeping up under her pinafore dress and she looked up at the sickly sky, breathed in the yellow air. Balancing on first one foot up and then the other, she rubbed her Start-Rite sandals clean on the backs of her white lacy socks, then did as she was told and walked up to the front door of the house and waited to be let in.
Next to the front door was a window that was divided into squares with brown dust stuck to the glass. It jutted out. Inside were stiff beige net curtains she couldn’t see through. Bits of the window frame that had come away lay on the ground. She noticed that the whole of the front wall was made up of hundreds of tiny pebbles. Some had dropped off, leaving holes like empty eye-sockets, and she picked at a few stones that seemed like they might be about to fall. She still had patches of orange varnish on her nails from playing dressing up with Caroline Taylor last Sunday and the chipped streaks shone out against the greys like toy maps, or Munchkins appearing out of the smoking Kansas tornado.
The front door clicked and creaked then burst open with a rattle. Mr Bill staggered back heftily on the mat and seemed to be panting. He cleared his throat and with a dry chapped hand smoothed his thin brown hair over the top of his egg-shaped head. He was wearing slippers that were broken down at the back and that slid like skates.
“Comealongindear.” He ran his words together as though he wanted to get them all out without anyone noticing. Was she being too slow? What were the rules with men who were not husbands, or fathers either?
The sharp metal footscraper dug into her soles as she stepped up over the threshold. She wiped her feet on the mat and entered the hall.
Everything was dark, the green swirly carpet, the bumpy purple flowered wallpaper, the shadowy banister. Even the overhead light, when Mr Bill switched it on, was dark: thick and red through a lampshade with gathers and tassels.
A dog barked and barked, shut away in a room somewhere. The barks sounded like screams. There was a smell of lard and state digestive biscuits.
“TakenonoticeofLulu, she’llcalmdowninajiffy,” said Mr Bill, clearing this throat again, hard this time. He really must have had something stuck in there. “Comeintothefrontroom.” And he led the way. It was the room behind the net curtains, and Mum would have called it a ‘lounge’. Four big, dark green armchairs, with thick arms and fat headrests, sat in the corners. The darkness and the funny smell made her feel strange and stiff. Her palms clenched and unclenched on her dress, to get rid of the sweat. There was no television that she could see, but a large cupboard with a gathered front might have been a big one, like Auntie Sylvia had, or it could have been a drinks cupboard like Major Tweed’s who lived over the road at home and who had once invited the neighbours in for wine and cheese. Mr Bill turned on a tasselly lamp, which sent out silhouettes. He asked: ‘Whatkindofmusicdoyoulike?” and when she couldn’t think of anything to answer (because if she’d said the truth she might have had to explain who The Monkees were) he cleared his throat again and switched on a radio that looked like a sideboard. It glimmered and made gun-type noises, before an old man’s voice came on, singing:
“If I were a rich man! Buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh!”
It drowned out the noise of the dog.
“Whatwouldyouliketodrink?” he asked.
She licked her lips and tried to make a sound come out of her throat but something inside her told her again that a word like ‘Ribena’ might fall on dead ground.
“Howaboutadropoforangesquash?” he said, leaning back heavily on his heels and sticking his tummy out. It was quite a round tummy, a bit like Grandad’s. “Yes please,” she managed to whisper. Mr Bill went out. She heard him clearing his throat as he skated down the hall, his slippers slapping against the carpet. Cough, clear, cough clear.
Another old man had come on singing now, this time about God and love and some little green apples.
She moved to sit in one of the fat chairs but held back when she saw that over the back was a lacey mat, which was meant to be white but had gone yellow in the middle, and looked over at the jutting, net-curtain window instead. It was framed on either side shining, golden curtains which went all the way down to the floor: it was a grand as a stage. Some of the sickly yellow light from outside soaked through and she went to stand on the patch of carpet that seemed the lightest. She became aware that her throat inside was tense and hard, it felt as though her tonsils had turned into bones. She opened and shut her mouth to get things moving, stop them from fossilizing, and then she caught sight of the fireplace.
It was old-fashioned of course, all fireplaces had to be old fashioned because modern houses had radiators. There was a gas fire like Gran’s in the place where the flames would have burned. Dust speckled the silver bars on the front. But the interesting part was the mantelpiece. It was completely full up with ornaments. She went to look close up. From left to right went:
· A black and gold goblet, with a false, dusty rose sticking out
· A turn-upside-down glass bubble with a model of the Eiffel Tower inside that would snow if you shook it. She didn’t dare
· Six mats to stand your glass on with pictures of boats, in a wire box with silvery weaving leaves
· A miniature coloured person’s head on a wooden block
· A tiny potty with 'Oui Oui' in French painted on the side
· A pottery lady in a crinoline dress
· A Spanish dancing doll with a veil and a dress held out wide with wire
· A tiny gong, like the one the shiny muscle man bangs before the film, with a drumstick on a hook at the side
The last ornament was the most interesting of all.
It was a little china boy, aged about five, just about to do a wee. She picked him up. He was holding his willy out of the front of his trousers. The willy pointed out, like a finger, and it was shiny and pink – and it felt cold as she touched it delicately against her lips.
Next to the front door was a window that was divided into squares with brown dust stuck to the glass. It jutted out. Inside were stiff beige net curtains she couldn’t see through. Bits of the window frame that had come away lay on the ground. She noticed that the whole of the front wall was made up of hundreds of tiny pebbles. Some had dropped off, leaving holes like empty eye-sockets, and she picked at a few stones that seemed like they might be about to fall. She still had patches of orange varnish on her nails from playing dressing up with Caroline Taylor last Sunday and the chipped streaks shone out against the greys like toy maps, or Munchkins appearing out of the smoking Kansas tornado.
The front door clicked and creaked then burst open with a rattle. Mr Bill staggered back heftily on the mat and seemed to be panting. He cleared his throat and with a dry chapped hand smoothed his thin brown hair over the top of his egg-shaped head. He was wearing slippers that were broken down at the back and that slid like skates.
“Comealongindear.” He ran his words together as though he wanted to get them all out without anyone noticing. Was she being too slow? What were the rules with men who were not husbands, or fathers either?
The sharp metal footscraper dug into her soles as she stepped up over the threshold. She wiped her feet on the mat and entered the hall.
Everything was dark, the green swirly carpet, the bumpy purple flowered wallpaper, the shadowy banister. Even the overhead light, when Mr Bill switched it on, was dark: thick and red through a lampshade with gathers and tassels.
A dog barked and barked, shut away in a room somewhere. The barks sounded like screams. There was a smell of lard and state digestive biscuits.
“TakenonoticeofLulu, she’llcalmdowninajiffy,” said Mr Bill, clearing this throat again, hard this time. He really must have had something stuck in there. “Comeintothefrontroom.” And he led the way. It was the room behind the net curtains, and Mum would have called it a ‘lounge’. Four big, dark green armchairs, with thick arms and fat headrests, sat in the corners. The darkness and the funny smell made her feel strange and stiff. Her palms clenched and unclenched on her dress, to get rid of the sweat. There was no television that she could see, but a large cupboard with a gathered front might have been a big one, like Auntie Sylvia had, or it could have been a drinks cupboard like Major Tweed’s who lived over the road at home and who had once invited the neighbours in for wine and cheese. Mr Bill turned on a tasselly lamp, which sent out silhouettes. He asked: ‘Whatkindofmusicdoyoulike?” and when she couldn’t think of anything to answer (because if she’d said the truth she might have had to explain who The Monkees were) he cleared his throat again and switched on a radio that looked like a sideboard. It glimmered and made gun-type noises, before an old man’s voice came on, singing:
“If I were a rich man! Buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh-buhduh!”
It drowned out the noise of the dog.
“Whatwouldyouliketodrink?” he asked.
She licked her lips and tried to make a sound come out of her throat but something inside her told her again that a word like ‘Ribena’ might fall on dead ground.
“Howaboutadropoforangesquash?” he said, leaning back heavily on his heels and sticking his tummy out. It was quite a round tummy, a bit like Grandad’s. “Yes please,” she managed to whisper. Mr Bill went out. She heard him clearing his throat as he skated down the hall, his slippers slapping against the carpet. Cough, clear, cough clear.
Another old man had come on singing now, this time about God and love and some little green apples.
She moved to sit in one of the fat chairs but held back when she saw that over the back was a lacey mat, which was meant to be white but had gone yellow in the middle, and looked over at the jutting, net-curtain window instead. It was framed on either side shining, golden curtains which went all the way down to the floor: it was a grand as a stage. Some of the sickly yellow light from outside soaked through and she went to stand on the patch of carpet that seemed the lightest. She became aware that her throat inside was tense and hard, it felt as though her tonsils had turned into bones. She opened and shut her mouth to get things moving, stop them from fossilizing, and then she caught sight of the fireplace.
It was old-fashioned of course, all fireplaces had to be old fashioned because modern houses had radiators. There was a gas fire like Gran’s in the place where the flames would have burned. Dust speckled the silver bars on the front. But the interesting part was the mantelpiece. It was completely full up with ornaments. She went to look close up. From left to right went:
· A black and gold goblet, with a false, dusty rose sticking out
· A turn-upside-down glass bubble with a model of the Eiffel Tower inside that would snow if you shook it. She didn’t dare
· Six mats to stand your glass on with pictures of boats, in a wire box with silvery weaving leaves
· A miniature coloured person’s head on a wooden block
· A tiny potty with 'Oui Oui' in French painted on the side
· A pottery lady in a crinoline dress
· A Spanish dancing doll with a veil and a dress held out wide with wire
· A tiny gong, like the one the shiny muscle man bangs before the film, with a drumstick on a hook at the side
The last ornament was the most interesting of all.
It was a little china boy, aged about five, just about to do a wee. She picked him up. He was holding his willy out of the front of his trousers. The willy pointed out, like a finger, and it was shiny and pink – and it felt cold as she touched it delicately against her lips.
Nicola Field is a writer and artist. Her book Over the Rainbow is published by Pluto Press; her poetry, reviews and fiction have appeared in magazines including Socialist Review, Ambit and MIR; and she is completing her first novel. She is the founder of Steam Control, a collaborative project which incorporates new writing in performance-based media works: www.steamcontrol.org.uk.
