Chapter Nine
Time waits for no Man
I know what I said. I made myself a promise but if you can't break a promise to yourself, who can you break one too? Ashley will not give up, she is insistent. I think about Ma and I know what she would say if I told her. She would say ‘follow your heart, son.’ I’m taking Ma’s unspoken advice.
Lenny and Alice are looking after the Lighthousekeeper and I am on my way. I have already set the wheels in motion to buy the Maltsters Arms. The agents and my solicitor will right now be earning an underserved half fortune from me.
I have rented my pick-up, might as well buy the bleddy thing and have done with it.
The old geezer is fully alert. “Back again?”
See, I told you. “I believe I am. Where’s your fishing pole?”
“Same place it always is. Help yourself, youngster.” A stream of black juice passes by me. I feel it is a warm welcome from the old feller.
And I do just that. I have stocked up with all I need. I even manage to remember to bait my hook this time. My sleeping bag is in place. My food is in the insulated bag that has never moved and my beer is in the water. My, the old geezer’s Stetson is tilted over my eyes once more and I am waiting.
As darkness begins to stretch across the prairie it also stretches its thick shadow across my mind. I have lain on the sandy bank all afternoon and without a bite of any kind. Suddenly I feel real loneliness for the first time since Jennifer went. I begin to think I should never have gone back at my last visit. I should have said something, but what? I could have just looked like another Limey idiot. ‘Excuse me darlin’, will you marry me and oh by the way; do you need to get divorced first?’ See, it would have been a messy bleddy business, wouldn’t it! So why have I returned, it might well be that way, if I ever see her again.
I drink my entire stock of beer after first lighting a camp-fire to keep out the chill of the star-filled
The Kansan sun is rising. I am hung-over. I know just how to cure it. Hard work! I intend to work on the crap hotel. The early morning sun is warming me as I circle the old building and I think about Henry, Taffy and Renee, all the people who had made
I can’t do much but patch up here and there but somehow my assumed task puts me in touch a tad with my forefathers. I begin to listen to the answers for my questions. I can’t be certain if the words are mine, or Henry’s or Renee’s or even the ‘wizened old Chinese cook’ who had had such an effect on the old ones. I listen anyway. I listen and I learn. I learn to have faith.
Oh I know I’ll never be a regular church-going man, I’m Maccy, a regular pub going man, a hell-raiser, a woman chaser, a scrapper and a Streaker but I am learning about myself and it’s a good feeling. And all the time there is no sign of her.
Ashley is out there somewhere but I can’t reach her, or she can’t reach me. Maybe she doesn’t want to. Perhaps I’m so full of vanity; I can’t see what's in the front of my face. I decide there and then I will just do what I have to. If she appears she appears, if not, I will accept it. At least I feel I have given us both an opportunity. Now it’s in the lap of the gods and they don’t seem to be smiling down.
The second morning the old geezer arrives on the oldest looking motorbike I have ever seen. He steps over the bike and pulls the machine onto its stand.
“Morning youngster, any luck?”
“Nope, not a sign. I don’t think she’ll ever return.”
“She, who’s she, son? I was just wondering how your fishing was coming along is all.”
And there you have it. I am so wrapped up in myself I can’t tell the difference between a beautiful woman and a Catfish. She would not be amused if she knew.
The old man stayed for an hour or two and we talked of the town's great days. He had known Renee and her children. The youngsters had apparently all gone to war and none had returned. Poor Aunt Renee had had her own crosses to bear. The crinkly old woman had had guts to share.
For the second day she does not appear. Catfish Woman is avoiding me. I plan my third day as I empty another stash of cans. Once again I sleep beside my stream. Unlike my love-life; my stream is continuously moving. Sparkling in the fire-light and forever washing the dirt off the stones below it. I dream of Henry, of Taffy, of Indian warriors and dainty squaws. In my dreams I come to believe I am one of them.
The old bloke had told me of Wild Bill Hickok and his association with
I have all the time in the world. I won’t give up yet. I’m not convinced she won’t suddenly appear and begin to berate me for just any or no reason at all.
The old feller visits every day now. I hear the ancient machine a mile away. Each day he tells me more and I am thankful of his company. In a way this old bloke is re-educating me. I’m glad to see him each time. I’m not forgetting why I’m here but he is getting me through the days. Then one day he brought his pistols and he stayed the night. The two of us sleep by the stream and it is easy to dispose of the contents of my beer cellar.
The old man produces a whiskey bottle that isn’t quite full. By the time we are sleeping it is quite empty. We have used all his pistol rounds and I have hit nothing but air but we have laughed until we fallen down and it has taken my mind off the girl a little but never completely.
Over the days; I continue with my patching up of the creaky old hotel and to be honest; it doesn’t look much different. I don’t care, I’m not bothered. I am just passing the time. If I get bored I’ll spend time weeding the graves in the tiny cemetery and it will somehow be satisfying to know my ancestors are around me, watching and maybe smiling at my complete uselessness as a landscape gardener.
One morning the strangest thing happens. A hoard of bikers appear, horned helmets and ‘leathers’; the lot. McCarthy’s main street is full of Hells Angels and to be honest for a moment or two I am scared stiff. They have arrived prepared. They don’t mug me anyway. They have food, they have beer and they have canvas. There are twenty of these guys, and girls. They are quickly erecting tents at the side of my stream and I feel they hardly even notice me, so much for my feelings.
I am approached by their elected leader. He is polite, he is friendly. “Y’all mind if we set here a while, friend?”
Like I’m gonna say no ‘piss off from whence you came, ugly and take the rest of your fat, hairy arseholed friends with you.’ My invitation sounds a tad hollow even to me. “Please feel free.”
They take me at my word. ‘Free’ and easy is their way it seems. Actually, I enjoy the company for a time. When the old git arrives from the gas-station he can hardly believe his eyes. He seems to take on a whole new persona. I just let them all get on with it. I take up the fishing pole and wait. I wait but Ashley never appears.
When the head Angel had asked if I all mind if they set a while; I thought they would brew some Magic Mushrooms, have a knife throwing contest, and disappear. Not so! The buggers stay longer than I do. I gave the group a wave as I left. I leave
I’m going home. It hadn’t all been a waste of time. I’d got to know a lot more about my ancestors and their lives. I’d got to know a little more about Maccy Tamryn.
The Spittin’ Woman never appeared in more than a week and it was long enough. She is to be in my past now. It had been just an enjoyable chance meeting. I don’t believe there will be another and I leave McCarthy in a mood of sadness.