Billy Dix banged his booted foot down hard on the edge of the shovel and pushed it into the hard, gritty ground surrounding the massive boulder. Having made several attempts to remove it in the past, he was determined to succeed this time, though he had no idea how he was going to shift it once he had dug it out. But more than once he had heard the Angel say how a fine big rock would look nice in the garden rockery. Thinking of her, he began to clear the earth from around the boulder, heartily putting his back into it.
It was hot work. For once, he took off his coat. It wasn’t new but it was a big improvement on his old army topcoat. He paused, suddenly remembering how he had come by it. His face clouded and he spun around. “Ye’ll not take me again.” He held the spade aloft as if to ward off a threatening foe. Then, eyes popping, he made a quick recce of the surroundings, looking for interlopers. After satisfying himself that he was alone he fixed his attention on the boulder again and set to work.
After twenty minutes of hard digging he paused to catch his breath. Lines of creased dirt trailed across his lean torso, slick with moisture from his efforts to reach the depths of the boulder, still no nearer to prising loose. Using his palms he leaned into his back, which was beginning to ache a little. As he looked up to check the sun’s progress, drops of perspiration ran into his eyes, clouding his vision. He wiped his sweaty brow with a hairy forearm and then ran a hand through his hair, looking momentarily confused when he felt the spiky texture on his closely cropped scalp. With narrowed eyes, he recollected the removal of his hair. The thought prompted him to touch his face and he felt the growth of fresh whiskers brushing his grubby fingertips, ragged nails encrusted with dirt. All at once his face flooded with anxiety. He threw down the spade and ran towards the little bolthole he called home. Realizing he had forgotten his new coat, he quickly chased back to pick it up, fearing a devil or imp would steal it. His emotions were plain to see, striding across his face in single file one after another like a quick-change artist demonstrating his versatility: man in flight, enraged beast, creature in distress, the dawn of enlightenment – with a heavy dose of the bewildered thrown in.
In the last box that Rita Blackney had delivered he had found a shiny new razor and blades, together with other items that he hadn’t used for years. He had pored over them for hours, wondering if they had been slipped in amongst the food by mistake. Then it came to him: the Angel had sent them for him. So if she had sent them, then she must want him to use them. Shaving didn’t come easily to him anymore, and at first he had cut himself to ribbons, especially since he didn’t have a mirror. Now he managed the task using the reflection from his big knife, which he always kept clean, sharpened and shiny.
Those fiends who had taken him away had stripped him down and thrown buckets of water over him, and soap suds! He couldn’t think that the Angel had told them to do that. Then they had held him down and shaved his head and face. Was it possible the Angel had told them to do that? Even so, it felt good to have clothes that weren’t full of holes. The horrible things they had said and done to him had stuck in his head, just wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to wipe them out. But it wasn’t until he came across the razor that he connected the whole incident to the Angel. It took him ages to work out that she must want him to keep his face clean. Now, every time he felt just a whisper of fuzz on his chin, he would rush off to remove it.
Sadly, Billy’s new-found interest in personal hygiene didn’t extend to the rest of his body. It hadn’t taken long for the sweet smell of freedom to wear off. Already you could smell his approach from a mile away.
One other thing his befuddled brain had permanently latched on to was not to pick up bright, pretty things from the beach anymore. If he couldn’t eat it, if he couldn’t burn it, if he couldn’t wear it, if he couldn’t use it for anything – then he was to leave it alone.
And that had come directly from the Angel.
*
As a matter of fact it had been Rita Blackney who had suggested to Amelia Mullond the inclusion of toiletries in Billy Dix’s food box. Rita’s comment about how Billy Dix would soon look like an old tramp again if left to his own devises had given Amelia pause for thought. She suddenly felt terribly guilty that she had never given him as much as a bar of soap. Daddy had only said to look after him, never said exactly how she should do that. Apart from making sure he always had food, nothing else had ever occurred to her.
She knew Billy smelled bad. She didn’t think it was his fault. And she was so used to it that she never gave it a thought and certainly didn’t think any the less of him for it. She was giving it some thought now though, a great deal of thought. How did he manage? Perhaps he smelled bad because he couldn’t wash himself, because he had nowhere to wash himself or his clothes, or because he hadn’t got the stuff to do it?
A picture of Billy’s hut popped into her mind. Though the sight of it was familiar she had never ventured inside. It was rude to go into someone’s house without being invited. Had Billy got any stuff? Things like a sink, a cooker? Had he got a cold slab to put his food on? What about things like a table and chair? Certainly he didn’t have a bath! She wasn’t that dim-witted! What about a toilet? Gracious, had he got a bed, even? The more she thought about these things the more she worried. Though it had never occurred to her before, she realized he mustn’t have any money either, not a single penny. Because he never went anywhere to fetch any. And she had never given him any. Like her, he never moved further afield than the beach. But, unlike her, he didn’t have a cheque book.
Oh dear! Forgive me Daddy. I’m so stupid. I’ve been a very bad girl. I’ve let you down. I’m very, very sorry.
She went off to get pad and pen. The kettle was whistling when she returned to the kitchen. She switched it off but didn’t make herself a drink. She sat at the old pine table, pen in hand, staring into space. In her mind she took a slow walk through the house, her house, every inch of which was familiar to her. In every room she let her eyes rest on things she had always taken for granted – things that she was now sure Billy’s tiny place couldn’t possibly hold. At length she began to compile a list in her childlike scrawl. She remained engrossed in her project for several hours, her favourite radio programmes forgotten, her supper forgotten, the book that Rayne had lent her forgotten, and all so that she might put right that which she believed she had got so terribly wrong.
When she had completed the list – which had grown ever longer as the night wore on – she felt overwhelmed by a sense of having done something really important for once, and done it well. She was on the point of setting all aside for the morrow and making herself ready for bed when her self-satisfaction suddenly metamorphosed into acute disappointment. It suddenly occurred to her that all the stuff she had so painstakingly listed couldn’t possibly fit into Billy’s small shack. She had been doing nothing but building castles in the air, as Daddy would have said.
It seemed an insurmountable problem.
Her shoulders slumped. She was tired. All this thinking and working out what was and what should be had drained her. The best thing she could do was go to bed and sleep on it. Daddy always said that things never seemed so bad after a good night’s sleep, and she believed him.
Perhaps she could ask Rayne to work it all out? Rayne’s a very clever little boy. He was certainly cleverer than her.