³ÉÈËÂÛ̳

At the other end of the street, among the odd numbers, lived Mr and Mrs Green. They lived in neatly-painted comfort – carpet in the bedrooms and never a broken pay. They holidayed in the Isle of Man every other year - foreign travel to the neighbours.

Their house was neat, as if they were awaiting the arrival of a doctor or church visit. The furniture was never rearranged, the ornaments glued in place. Their showhouse had never been upset by children. They either had no relations or ignored them. They never had friends in and never went out together. Their front door usually closed. Their house was an island moored in our street.

Mr Green was a red leader in the shipyard. Because of the almost luminous quality of the bright orange paint on his only set of overalls, Mr Green glowed softly in long winter evenings. The second coat of paint gave a guide to Mrs Green’s colour scheme. The pink spattering around his shoulders was the bedroom ceiling. The cream streaks at his elbow the scullery walls, white gloss on each thigh from painting the window frames. White speckles on the peak of his cap appeared when he whitewashed the backyard. In the shipyard he was known as The Walking Colour Card. A quiet man, working all his life at the mouth of the lough, the bitter winter wind had given him a core of granite and a quick temper.

Mrs Green passed up and down the street only as her shopping dictated. She nodded shyly to those who spoke to her first. She never stopped in a neighbour’s doorway for a chat. She had no scandal to pass on, no gossip to exchange, never spoke ill of the dead. She was not worth talking to. She was one of the few women who never chased playing children from her door. Not a word about the hopscotch marked out in chalked squares on the scrubbed flagstones at her doorstep. She always paid well to those lucky enough to run a message for her. Always a soft word for children. The same could not be said of Mr Green.

In the alcove beside the fireplace sat a singer sewing machine with a treadle. A latticework of black metal, with the singer motif standing out in relief, supported the bench top. The mahogany surface burnished to a deep, warm shine. The red grain swirled over the length before turning back on itself. At the bobbin end, the French polish was worn and lighter in colour, where Mrs Green’s mother had pushed through countless yards of material.

The black spokes of the flywheel had not moved since her mother’s death. It was polished once a week and dusted every day with reverence. Mrs Green’s memories were enshrined there deeper than the cross grain of the hardwood top.

No-one knew the reasons for the rows – rare as they were – probably something small and uninteresting. The neighbours decided it wouldn’t be worthwhile holding a glass to the wall.

The first sign that all was not well would be the sound of Mr Green’s voice rising through walls which were so thin, one alarm clock could serve the whole street. Spaces were Mrs Green’s answers, the silent commas in Mr Green’s sentences.

‘Why don’t you leave?’
‘If you’re not happy here, go!’
‘To Hell with the neighbours!’
‘There are no bars on the doors.’
‘I’m not holding you against your will!’

Then Mr Green would go public. The outside door would smash open and the picture fall off the wall next door. Mr Green would step from the lighted kitchen onto the wet pavement of our darkening street.
‘Well, make up your mind in front of witnesses. You can stay or go.’
The witnesses would be hungry for more evidence. In the following silence, Mr Green would make his way back to the door.
‘You can’t say you didn’t have a choice.’
But that night he was about to step into the hall when Mrs Green met him at the threshold. She had on her Sunday coat, hat, black patent shoes and handbag. She held his eyes for a moment, stepped past him into the street and walked away. The growing audience trying to work out the plot as the curtain went up on the second act.

Mr Green disappeared back into the house, the people next door held their picture waiting for the door to slam. It never happened. Mr Green came back into view behind the sewing machine, guiding it roughly through the door frame on squealing castor feet, cursing as the corner chipped his neat paintwork to the bare wood. Then the Singer bounced irreverently onto the chalk-stained flagstones.

Mrs Green stopped at the sound but did not turn around. There was no need. Mr Green pushed the machine down the street, shouting all the time. Backs of heads became profiles.
‘Take this with you.’
‘I want nothing in my house I didn’t pay for.’
‘I’ll not be accused of anything!’

Latecomers peeked round the edge of their curtains. He gave the machine a final push and stood defiant as it skidded across the pavement, slowed down and nuzzled into the silent form of Mrs Green. He turned and went back into the house. The picture was held next door, but the Greens’ door remained open.

With resignation, Mrs Green, put her handbag on the polished top of the Singer and pushed it back up the street. As the singer crossed the flagstones, it mimicked a train over points. She stepped inside the hall and pulled the front wheels up and over the threshold, the black castors followed with a bump. She manoeuvred the machine into its place in the alcove. Before removing her Sunday coat, she took a cloth and rubbed the dampness from the polished top.

Mr Green’s slammed and bolted the outside door. Next door, they picked the picture off the floor again.