A simple heart does not mean a simple mind. But this is exactly what Skinner is thinking as he stands at the back of his farmhouse braving the early-evening cold and staring at the glow of Miss Carroll’s tent (who has now returned from calling on Vic and Rita). Vic is cycling to work from the gallery, Sam is hanging his painting on the wall space that was reserved for him, Rita prepares for another night of uncomfortable, broken sleep, and Skinner gazes upon the glow of Miss Carroll’s tent. Simple of heart, simple of mind. What you see on the outside is what you have on the inside. One a reflection of the other. The face, that happy, smiling face that he shows the world because it comes naturally, these arms and legs and pointed toes, this frame of his (with a lean that he has no memory of acquiring), this frame that he carts through life, this contraption that he seems to be, this is the outward appearance of Herbert — Bert — Skinner. And if he feels puzzled at referring to himself as Herbert, as if wondering who on earth this Herbert, this Bert, could be, it is because just as nobody else calls him Herbert he rarely thinks of himself as that. To the community he is simply Mr Skinner. Once upon a time, to his parents and his brother, he was Bert, even young Bert because his father was Bert as well. And he retained the title of young Bert while his father lived. Then, quite quickly, when his parents died (one after the other) and his brother was lost in what they then called the Great War, he became Mr Skinner. Or just Skinner, of Skinner’s Farm. And this contraption that is Skinner is what the world sees now. And it is possible that when people look upon the outer Skinner they also see it as a reflection of Skinner’s mind. A bit odd. Even silly. To some, possibly, even touched. Simple of heart, simple of mind. Yes, he is, he nods silently to himself, Miss Carroll’s tent glowing in the early-evening chill just on the other side of his paddock; yes, he is a ridiculous man. At least, this is the judgment that Skinner now passes on himself.
And perhaps he always was, for he is suddenly remembering when the news arrived — a brief telegram — telling the family that his brother had been killed. Somewhere in France. And he remembers, as well, the grim determination with which he told his parents the next morning that he was joining up, and the quiet acceptance with which they received the news. And how he’d come back to the house that evening and said nothing because he didn’t need to. Because they knew all along that no army would take a man approaching forty, with pigeon-toes and a lean like the Tower of Pisa. And, of course, Skinner knew this too. But he’d been told often enough that in a war the strangest things happen; rules that were once rules weren’t rules any more, and odd contraptions such as Skinner slipped into the army and found their place. No such thing happened and Skinner returned that evening feeling ridiculous. But the feeling left him, as feelings do, and as his parents faded away in front of him, he threw himself into the work of the farm. His parents died, young Bert disappeared, and Skinner, of Skinner’s Farm, took his place.
And he discovered early in his adult life that the few young women he met were unlikely to take up with odd contraptions, especially at dances. Perhaps what they always saw was what Skinner himself now sees: that the outer Skinner is a reflection of the inner Skinner, and that the simple heart that he offers the world is a reflection of the simple mind inside the contraption. And, having concluded this, they decided upon not having much to do with him.
It is the kind of thinking, he knows, that comes from being alone too often and for too long. For the mind of Skinner is far from simple — he knows that, but, nonetheless, this is the judgment that he passes upon himself right now as he stares across the paddock.
Once again he sees himself as that young painter must have seen him. Simple, easy to lie to. He sees the young man telling him how he would like to paint the farm, and sees his own credulous eyes, all too ready to believe, imagining depictions of the farm that the family had owned for three generations hanging in the art galleries of the country, a record of all there had been before it ceases to be. And he recalls, once again, with maddening clarity, his open, smiling face, a wave at the ready (always a wave at the ready), as he walked across the paddock that afternoon to inspect the young man’s work, pleasantly surprised to see, as he approached, that the painter and Miss Carroll were conversing. And, eager to join the conversation, he waved and quickened his stride. And that was when he saw the sketches, and that was when the smile fell from his face.
But above all, that was when he saw the look on Miss Carroll’s face. Pronouncing him simple, inside and out. Even now he hears his voice afterwards, calling out across the divide of the dirt road, explaining himself, when, all the time, the explanation was written in the eyes of Miss Carroll. And although he first took the look to be an accusation, an accusation of betrayal, as he watched her glare soften he realised it wasn’t that at all. For she had drawn the conclusion that betrayal requires a calculating mind, and that Mr Skinner did not have one.
He barely noticed the young painter leave (only the memory of a wave caught from the corner of his eye, which, this time, he did not return), but he did watch Miss Carroll depart the scene, turning her back on them both in a manner that suggested the world always lets you down, as Mr Skinner had just let her down; turning her back on him in the glare of the mid-winter sun, and walking away in search of firewood.
Even now, standing on his back veranda, he could take that short walk to Miss Carroll’s tent. He could call to her in the dark and she would hear a voice calling to her from darkness and know that it was Mr Skinner. Know that he was calling because he had to. And she, Miss Carroll, hearing this voice in the night, would answer because she had to. For when someone calls in the night, you must answer. And he would be glad of the night and the darkness, for there may be tears in his eyes and he does not want the world to see his ridiculous tears, especially that part of the world that calls itself Miss Carroll, because, in all of the great world, that bit of it has, in these last few weeks, become the most important part. And what, after all, should he say? When she stands before him in the glow of her tent, what are the words he could offer?
‘I am a simple man. Yet, simple as I am, I have something to give. I have a gift. Much more than milk and butter and cheese. I can give you company. And, with company, I can give you comfort. When you go away I will be here when you come back. And you will know that there is someone out there, after all. And that you are not alone. And I will not be alone. I, too, will know that there is someone out there who lights the darkness. And, together, we shall, each day, reflect upon this fact in wonder. I am a simple man, and I have let you down. But I will never let you down again.’
And she would answer because a call in the night must be answered. But what should she say? What are the words he would have her say to him?
‘Come into my tent, you simple man. And we shall sit and gaze upon the light inside that drew you and we shall know that we are not alone. And, together, we shall, each day, reflect upon this simple fact in wonder.’
So he would have it be. Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner. He the call, she the answer. And, in this way, he would enter her tent and be gathered into its light. Even now. But he does not take that short walk to Miss Carroll’s tent and the simple words of a simple heart are never spoken. Not now, not ever. For the moment has passed when such words could be chanced. The chance was there, but the chance has gone.
The night, as it does at this time of year, surprises him. Suddenly, all is pitch dark. Black. Except for the glow of Miss Carroll’s tent on the other side of his paddock. But it’s a different light now. It doesn’t call any more. Nor does it hold the comforting promise of company. Or, indeed, the potential that it once possessed. It is, he concludes before stepping in from the cold, a singular light, denoting a singular life.