Tack

 TACK

     Some people are born to die violently. They don’t attract murder, but they spend their lives in the wrong places, where the coincidence of events will result in a death, or two, or three. Tack Smith was one of these. He was killed on a dreamy warm Sunday evening when he happened to need a box of milk, and wandered into a robbery in progress. When he realised what was happening, he turned and bolted straight into the path of the number 5 bus, which first bounced him to the ground and then ran over him. The driver refused to finish the route, and quit the next day. His name was Mr Townsend, and he was the husband of the live-in housekeeper for Tack’s father. She had resigned to marry him, and so had made way for Tack's father and mother to beget him.

     Here’s the back story.

     Julius Quintus Smith was the fifth son of a Latin teacher. To please his father, he took a degree in classical studies and tried teaching history. He could not control his classes, his students holding him in affectionate contempt. His last class was genuinely surprised when he resigned at the end of the term. A local insurance broker, desperate for someone to fill in for a dying colleague, took him on. Julius surprised them both by becoming a success. His gentle manner and his habit of quoting Latin tags put potential clients off their guard. They even helped him explain the policies to them, sometimes reading an obscurely worded paragraph, and asking Julius if it meant thus and so.

     After a few years of boarding at Mrs Moore’s, Julius bought his own house, and engaged Mrs Moore’s sister, Bethany Slocum, to keep house for him. Bethany was a few years younger than he, and enjoyed the conversations they had over supper, which he insisted she take with him.

     One day Bethany asked if she could have a few words.

     “I’ll be giving my notice,” she said. “I’m to be married six weeks from today. Mr Townsend, who drives the number 5 bus, has asked me to marry him.”

     “Oh,” said Julius.

     “Alphonse, Mr Townsend that is, is man of interesting conversation,” said Bethany. “It was that which attracted me when we had coffee after his shift. I’ve become accustomed to interesting conversation.”

     “Oh,” said Julius.

     “If I may say so, Mr Smith”, said Bethany, “it was the conversations in which you so kindly included me that enabled me to hold up my end, as it were. Mr Townsend respects a woman of good conversation. He says that a mutual interest in good conversation increases the attractiveness of a woman.”

     She blushed

     “Oh,” said Julius

     “Mr Townsend is a respectable man,” said Bethany. “We would be honoured if you could attend the wedding. Mr Townsend asks if you would be so kind as to propose the toast to the bride.”

     “Oh,” said Julius. “Yes. Of course. Be delighted.”

     He looked at her, and realised that despite her plain features, the intelligence and good will in her face made her pleasant to look at. He noticed for the first time that she had a well proportioned figure. He realised he would miss her. And he suddenly envied Mr Townsend, who would soon be enjoying Bethany’s pleasantly plump charms and interesting conversation.

    “Congratulations and best wishes,” he said. “I shall wish you all happiness.”

     And wondered what he would do for a housekeeper. But Bethany had thought of that, too.

     “You should advertise in the paper, and put up a notice at Wootten’s,” Bethany said. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing one.” She handed him a slip of paper. “I’ve made the starting date a week before the wedding, so that I can train whoever it is that gets the position.”

     WANTED: Live-in housekeeper for bachelor starting June 10th. £5 a week, full board, two days off per week. Apply Mr Julius Smith, 24 Royland Street, between 5 and 7pm.

     And that was that.

    Next day was Bethany’s day off. Julius heard the front door bell. He looked through the glass, and saw a young woman carrying a suitcase. He opened the door.

     “Er, hello,” he said.

     “I’ve come about the job,” said the young woman.

     “Er?”

     “The housekeeping job. I need it, and I can do it..”

     “Er?”

     “My name is Jane Grey. I’m 32 years old, I was let go from my last job a month ago, I don’t have a place to stay, and I’m hungry.”

     “Er?”

     “Just let me in, and I’ll explain.”

     “Er, yes, er, Miss Grey, please come in.”

     Jane Grey came into the hall and put down her suitcase.

     “I’ve been working in a clothing store, maybe you know it, Markwell & Shields on Worthington? Sales have been down ever since Mr Shields retired. Three weeks ago they gave me my last pay. Last week I couldn’t pay my rent, my landlady said she would let me owe for a month, but I don’t like that, it’s five pounds, so when I saw your ad I thought, That’s a perfect job for me, I can do housework and cook. I kept house for my Dad for six years after Mum died, and I can pay my back rent out of my first pay.”

     She looked at Julius expectantly.

     “Er, yes, I suppose so,” he said, staring at her. He hadn’t stood this close to a presentable young woman other than Bethany for many years. She was a little shorter than he. She wore a grey coat, a dark red scarf, and a dark red hat. Her brunette hair curled invitingly. She gazed at him from hazel brown eyes. She wore pearl studs Her mouth was coloured the same dark red as her scarf. She looked very attractive.

      “Do I get the job?” she asked. “I can start immediately.”

     “Er, yes, I suppose so.” He continued to stare at her, and a slow blush crept over her face.

      “Here, let me take your suitcase, I’ll show you to your room.” He headed for the stairs.   

     “Here,” said Julius, opening the door to the front bedroom. Jane walked past him into the room and looked around. It was neat and clean.“This will do nicely,” she said. “Please show me the kitchen.”

     Jane opened the cupboards, found what she wanted and made tea with toast and kippers. “Shall I take this through to the dining room, or will you take it here?” she asked. “Er, here,” sad Julius, and so their courtship began.

     Bethany approved of Jane. She had only to tell her of Julius’s quirks. The wedding went off well. Bethany invited Jane too, so it seemed natural that Julius and Jane would go together. They danced a couple of dances, and made small talk with the two other couples at their table. That is, Jane talked while Julius listened and said Er and Rather, and Quite so.

     Julius ate his meals with Jane as he had with Bethany, but he found himself tongue-tied, unable to find the conversational openings that would impress Jane. Jane had no trouble finding things to talk about. The weather opened the day, whatever item of news caught her fancy made the second topic, and after that Julius learned to take whatever she offered. A rose that she had admired on her walk to the shops. Mrs Wendover’s sciatica, which led to a lively give and take about nerve damage, a subject Julius knew nothing about. The narrow boats on the canal, a subject Julius could discuss, and having spent a week on one as a boy, he could add lively details of personal experience. The vagaries of the number 5 bus, which ran on time only at the beginning and end of the day, despite Mr Townsend’s best efforts to keep to the schedule. The shapes of stained glass, which Jane loved. The pattern of tiles in the kitchen floor, which prompted Jane to talk about tessellations and quilts. She began to make a quilt, using log-cabin squares in shades of cool blues and greens with a touches of warm yellow and red.

     One day she mentioned Mr Grantham’s dog Percy, a bad-tempered black Scottie. “He growls at everybody but me and Mr Grantham,” she said. “He doesn’t like his name.”

     “Who, Mr Grantham? I don’t know his given name, do you?”

     “It’s Wallace,” said Jane, “and he likes it. Keeps quoting that line about the Scots that hae wi’ Wallace bled. I meant the dog. Imagine calling a Scottie Percy. The Percys weren’t exactly friendly towards the Scots, and the dog knows it. Besides, it’s a prissy name.”

     “A prissy name? What’s in a name?” said Julius.

     “Well, yours is the name of a Caesar, isn’t it?” said Jane. “That shows your parents had ambitions for you.”

     “What about yours, then?” said Julius. “It doesn’t suit you at all.”

     “What do you mean,” said Jane.

     “You’re no plain Jane,” said Julius, and felt his face grow warm.

     Jane studied his face. “You’re blushing,” she said. “But you needn’t be embarrassed. I like a compliment now and then.”

     “Do you really? I could pay you compliments all day long,” said Julius. He felt very daring, and reached across the table to cover her hand with his. Jane did not take her hand away. She smiled at him, and said, “I’d like that.”

     Two months later they were married. Bethany and Mr Townsend stood up with them, and their guests ate and drank and offered toasts, and wondered how soon they would bore each other to death. Julius’s brothers and sisters, all movers and shakers in their careers, gave them suitable presents, and later occasionally invited them on family outings.

     Julius and Jane continued to have interesting conversations. Each was willing to talk about anything that interested the other. They tried out a number of diversions, and discovered they both liked baroque music and all kinds of art, which neither had taken seriously before. They produced a son, and would have had more children, but an infection attacked Jane’s ovaries and that was that.

     Julius was taken by a sudden urge to honour his father, and named the boy Tacitus. Jane added Graydon after her mother’s family. Julius pronounced the boy’s name in the classical fashion, so he became Tack. He thrived in school, made many friends, and had teachers who encouraged both his intellectual pursuits and his dreamy creativity.

     And very early on, he displayed a talent for accidents. He pulled a pan of boiling water off the stove when he was four. But it spilled sideways, and two nasty burns on his left foot was the only consequence. He hung a swing from the oak tree in the back garden, which promptly fell when he tested it, and left him with a twisted ankle. When he played soccer with his friends, he accumulated skinned knees and bruised shins. He played cricket, and stumbled while running backwards trying to catch a high ball, wrenching his back. An attempt at skating left him with a concussion when he fell over backwards, slamming his head on the ice.

     Tack went off to university, and lost his way and his luggage on the journey to his lodgings. His lodgings burnt down in the spring term, and only Tack sustained an injury when he dropped three feet from his ground floor window onto the lawn. A twisted ankle again. He had registered to read chemistry. During the first laboratory session, a test-tube exploded and burnt off his eyebrows. He‘d been wearing safety goggles, or there would have been worse injury. Punting on the back reach of the river, the pole became stuck. Tack hung onto it, it slowly leaned over, and Tack went into the water, wrenching his back (again) and injuring his dignity.

     But Sally, his girlfriend, who was reading philosophy, thought the calamity was cute. As was Tack’s habit of denting his car on miscellaneous poles and posts that appeared to infest the roads and parking lots only when he was driving. She decided to keep him, and engineered an introduction to Tack’s parents. They approved. She was a sensible girl, obviously fond of their son, willing to take on the job of making a life for them, and of repairing the damage the fates inflicted on him. As soon as they could after taking their degrees, Tack and Sally married. Tack garnered a quality-control job at a paint factory. Sally taught kindergarten. Tack took up painting, to use up the paint samples from the lab. Sally learned quilting from Jane. They were very happy.

     One Sunday morning Sally drifted into the kitchen with a small frown on her face. “Good morning,” said Tack. “You’re frowning.”

     “I think I may be pregnant,” said Sally.

     “Oh.”

     “Well, it does happen,” said Sally. “In fact, some people expect it.”

     “Oh. Er, did you? Expect it, I mean?”

     “Oh yes. Just not this soon. Not to worry. If I’m pregnant, I won’t be due until July or August, so I can finish out the year, and I’ll qualify for leave.” Sally was indeed pregnant, and she soon began to feel those sudden cravings described by all the guides to pending motherhood. Maybe she felt she should have cravings, or maybe she just decided that pregnancy was a good excuse to indulge her whims. Tack was more than happy to indulge her whims, too. It became his habit to go to the corner shop whenever Sally announced a craving. Mr Wootten noticed the variety of requests, guessed the reason, and solicitously inquired after Mrs Smith’s health. Tack kept him up to date. The two men discovered a common interest in Test Matches, which gave Tack an excuse to linger a few extra minutes before returning home to discover whether he had bought the right brand of chocolate or raspberry jam or tea biscuits. Which he rarely had, but Sally always forgave him.

     Sally also wanted more milk. Usually, the daily three pints were enough, but every now and then she disposed of them by tea time. Then Tack would go out to get some more. That’s why he was wandering up the street at seven o’clock on a warm June Sunday. When he opened the door into Mr Wootten’s shop, it was unusually still, but Tack didn’t notice. He went to the cooler and picked up a box of milk, and turned towards the counter. He was looking forward to a nice chat about cricket. He saw a man with strangely squashed tan features. For a moment or two he was puzzled, and then noticed the gun pointing at him. The man said something about moving over behind the counter. Tack saw that Mr Wootten was holding his hands in the air, and that a pile of banknotes were lying on the counter. The man waved his gun at Tack again. “Move!” he said, not loudly, but his tone was extremely unfriendly. Tack stood near the door holding the box of milk. Perhaps it was the thought of escape that triggered his sudden movement, He whirled and pushed at the door and ran straight into the street. The number 5 bus was turning the corner. Tack bounced off it, half fell, turned again to regain his balance, and stumbled forward. The bus knocked him down and ran over him. By the time it stopped, Tack was dead.

     The robber ran out of the shop, saw Tack’s body, and stopped. He stretched out his hand towards Tack. Then he doubled over and vomited. Mr Wootten came up behind him, took his gun from him, and smacked him smartly on the head with it. The robber fell. Mr Wootten returned to his shop and called the ambulance and the police. By this time, Mr Townsend had stepped out of the bus. He took one look at Tack, and fainted. Mr Wootten came out of the shop again, looked at Tack’s body, shook his head, and walked over to Mr Townsend. He helped the man sit up, and they waited for the police.

     Mr Townsend never drove another bus. He took early retirement, and spent the rest of his days growing roses in his back garden. Bethany and his children told him he wasn’t responsible for Tack’s death, but he blamed himself because he had managed to get back on schedule one round early.

     The robber, whose name was Geronimo Percival Brown, came to, and sat on the steps of the shop waiting for the police to arrest him. Like Tack, he had attracted bad luck all his life. The robbery had been his first attempt at crime, and Tack’s death convinced him it should be his last. After his prison sentence, he learned how to repair shoes, and made a modest living.

     Tack’s parents and Sally grieved for him. His son was born six weeks later. He was christened Walter Benjamin, after a philosopher that Sally admired for his ideas about art. They had made for interesting conversations with Tack.