FROM THE ARCHIVE A Good Job by Nicolas Townley

The familiar grey had returned to our city. The streets no longer gleamed bright and the colours appeared less vivid. Clouds had crept back. Summer’s reign was over. Roofs and pavements stained with rainfall, the streets sounding more serious – cars whistling over the sodden roads which reflected the dead sky. The year’s end loomed closer. The artist perched on the windowsill with his cigarette. The cleaner hung the washing to dry.

Ghostly smoke danced sultrily around the artist as he watched the traffic and the trees. Other people were moving in other houses, living their other lives. He traced his left hand across the sore spots forming on his neck, temple, and shoulders. His right-hand fingers pointed up and stiffened like he was pointing a gun to the ceiling whenever he raised the cigarette to his lips, each time tilting his head back and raising his chin so the smoke wouldn’t sting his eyes – a performance which lent the simple, dirty act an air of elegance. He stubbed the butt out in the black pot ashtray which he carried into the small bedroom just four paces from the window.

‘I’m going to get some rest,’ he said to the cleaner.

Workers like her weren’t just cleaners, they were entrepreneurs.

‘See you on Friday.’

‘I’ll be done soon,’ she responded.

She placed the tiny vacuum cleaner that she was about to use back into the corner and took a dustpan and brush out of the small wooden enclave which housed the electricity meter, then bent down, resting her hand on the sofa to lower herself to her knees. She got to work running the brush under the sofa’s edge. The flat gathered dust and crumbs constantly, but was too small to store a large, full-size vacuum. The floor was always the hardest part – she had to crawl. From there the noise of passing cars was deeper, more like a subway train rising, peaking and fading. A stone pinged against the window, making her jump, and she rose to her feet by pushing down on the coffee table. One of the artist’s workers stood outside looking up at her. She put her finger to her lips, indicating for him to be quiet and went into the hallway and down the flight of stairs to let him in.

‘He’s gone for a rest, Richard,’ she told the man as she opened the door to the building.

Richard and the artist had known each other since school and had hung around on the streets as teenagers. He got to work connecting a new speaker system to the television, manoeuvring with care to work behind the huge TV without making a noise. When he finished, he turned both speakers and the television on to complete the install, his hand hovering over the volume button on the remote control. The cleaner continued sweeping on her hands and knees.

‘Rich,’ the artist called from the bedroom.

‘Hiya mate,’ Richard shouted back.

He saw the installation was successful and opened the bedroom door which couldn’t close fully as a thin metal clothes rail for coats and scarves was fixed over the top. The artist was lying on his back, on top of the sheets, fully clothed. The double bed, which took up most of the room, was dipped in the middle from where the flimsy aluminium frame had buckled. The artist lay on the far-left side, near the edge, looking up at the ceiling’s ghastly discolouration where the elderly tenant in the flat above must have left his bath running.

‘I came home one morning and the fucking bed was soaking. The mattress was ruined, I had to sleep on the couch,’ he said, closing his eyes and slowly shaking his head from side to side in disgust, followed by a sigh. ‘Fuck sake.’

‘Bloody hell, that’s a nightmare that,’ Richard said.

‘How have you got on today?’ the artist asked, staring up at the stain.

‘Yeah, good.’

‘Elaborate.’

‘Well we finished making the frame for the shoes behind the counter and the upholstery guys are almost done fitting the booths now.’

‘Fantastic. Is it looking good?’

‘Yeah, you’ll love it.’

‘All right, well let’s aim to get it done in the next two weeks and then we can push the opening forward.’

‘Well, they’ve got two days off now. I’m gonna be there tomorrow afternoon to take delivery of the fridges. Erm…’

‘Fuck, yeah. I totally forgot it was Friday.’

‘We’ll keep on it mate, don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worried,’ the artist said calm and firmly, sitting up and reaching for his cigarettes on the side-table. ‘I just want it done now.’

Richard ran his hand across his stubble and mouth and picked at the hair on his chin, nodding slowly and flicking his eyes from the artist to the bed.

‘I’ve got a million other ideas I want to get started on,’ the artist said, shifting his legs off the bed and lighting a cigarette. ‘You know what I mean?’

‘Yeah, yeah of course.’

‘Right, so really get them working hard next week.’ He got up and moved towards Richard and the door. ‘Speak to them over the weekend, make sure they’re not too hungover on Monday morning and they’re in early, O.K?’

‘Right, will do. I’ll message them over the weekend.’

‘Right. Good.’

His nodding accepted Richard’s obeyance and indicated for them to leave the room. Richard shuffled out of the bedroom into the lounge and paused at the coffee table in front of the TV, picking up the remote control.

‘Everything’s hooked up and ready to go now,’ he said, offering the remote over to the artist, who was looking at the main door, expressionless and silent. ‘Right then, let me know if there’s any problems with it.’

He placed the remote back on the table, opened the door and looked back at the artist, who moved to the window without shifting his gaze. In the hall, once the door had shut, Richard laughed to himself, shaking his head in his familiar disbelief. The artist could hear Richard moving quickly down the stairs and out the front door. He watched him move in and out of sight from the window, disappearing behind the hedges below. He took a long drag and looked forward at the roof of the house opposite. There was nothing on his mind; there wasn’t anything he needed to say. He closed his eyes and stood smoking. After a moment he smiled – it was good having Richard around.

The cleaner had gone to the bathroom, which was only accessible from the bedroom, to wash her hands. She was coughing. The artist heard her behind him. His eyes opened to let the light back in.

‘What are you doing tonight, Angela?’ he asked, turning his head in her direction. ‘Have you got to pick Rosie up?’

‘Oh, we’re going for a meal with Daniel’s mum, just near us,’ she said, wiping her hands dry on her apron, as he watched her coming back into the lounge. ‘I’ll pick up Rosie from her aunt’s and then get a shower and get ready.’

‘Ah, yeah, sorry. I don’t – it doesn’t cross my mind to open the windows anymore – with the smoke.’ He fixed his gaze on the garden across the street.

‘Oh no, no, I always like to get dolled up before going out again, it’s fine.’ She smiled at him, embarrassed, reaching to the coffee table for her handbag.

‘Yeah it must stink in here – I didn’t think,’ he said, focused on the windowsill now.

‘Nah it’s fine, don’t worry. Well look, you have a nice weekend and I’ll see you next week,’ she said, forcing a smile and moving to the door. ‘Bye.’

She shut the door to the apartment and bit her bottom lip, uncomfortable and awkward, looking forward to getting home and out of the smoky clothes. He heard her creak slowly down the stairs and gently close the main door to the building. He watched her get into her small purple car which she had half-parked on the pavement and the grass. As he watched her drive away he could feel his forehead creasing. He was frowning and pursing his lips. Dimping his cigarette out in the ashtray he was clutching, he sat on the windowsill and looked around the small rented flat that he had been in for two months now. The shadows darkened the place. The landlord said no holes could be drilled in the walls but there was no room to hang a painting anyway. He thought about their old house and the space he had once had, and he attempted to conjure the impossible scent of the jasmine washing detergent which had once streaked the rooms.

…………..

Nicolas Townley is a writer and musician living in Manchester. He is currently working on a collection of short stories, poems and vignettes which fuse literary realism with his philisophical studies. In his current musical guise of Parade, in 2020 he will release his first album.

Instagram: @nicolastownley