The Quiet Man

Traffic

I’m late. I’m very late. I don’t know why she wanted me here at eleven. I should have asked. I left later than I intended to, and traffic was terrible; I think there was an accident, or something. That’s all I can say: I’m sorry I’m so late, Mrs Hudson. Traffic was terrible. There must have been an accident nearby, all the roads leading here were jammed full. It would have been faster to walk. How’s your sister? Surely an hour won’t make much difference. If I couldn’t get here on time, surely the repairman can’t either.

221b. Here I am again: waiting for the door to open, nervous. Alone in the world. This is familiar. I’ve done this before.

This place doesn’t change, does it. Years go by and it looks just the same, the way we found it, the way we left it. Anxious, then happy; devastated, then resigned: we’re the ones who change.

A white van is pulling up behind me. The repairman? Must be. Maybe she won’t need me after all. But I’ll stay; I’ll stay if she wants me to. If she says she doesn’t need me anymore, I’ll tell her I want to move back in. I’ll stay either way. This is home now, for me. I suppose it always was. The van makes a signalling noise, backing into a tight parking spot behind me. The windows are tinted, I can’t see the driver. There’s no logo. It’s just white. It looks brand new. Who did she hire to replace her boiler? No wonder they didn’t do it right. I bet the whole operation is one kid. He’s probably eighteen and thinks he knows everything.

The door opens. Mrs Hudson, looking anxious, nervous, maybe. Why? She steps outside and pulls me into her arms.

“John,” she says. “Oh, John. It’s good to see you.”

That’s odd. It hasn’t been that long, has it? She must be lonely, living here with no tenants, all these problems with the boiler, and now worrying about her sister. I should tell her I’m thinking of staying. She might like that, a tenant she can trust. I wasn’t the one who shot her wall. Though it was my gun, admittedly.

“Come inside,” she says. She pats me on the arm.

“Is that your repairman?” I point to the van.

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No, that’s–” She stops herself. “Come inside, John.”

I pick up my bags. “Sorry I’m so late, traffic was terrible.”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I thought it might be.”

“You did?” I pull my bags inside, and she closes the door.

“I’d give you a hand with those,” she says. “But my hip.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” I’ll bring the big one up first and come back for the rest. Seventeen steps: I can manage. It’s not that much stuff, anyway. I’ll be fine.

Where am I going to put them, anyway? I won’t be needing the second bedroom. I don’t need a flatmate. I don’t want one, either. I’m not sure if I’m ready to sleep in Sherlock’s room, though. I don’t know. It will be different. But that’s as it should be. Because it is different, now.

She smiles at me. It’s a sad smile, a bit more of her sympathy-on-the-verge-of-pity. Like she knows, she understands: it’s not easy for me to come back here. Or is it even simpler than that: does she know that I’ve just left Mary? Well, of course she does: here I am, all my worldly belongings in tow. I’m carrying my winter coat in the middle of the spring. She must guess. Anyone would. Even the taxi driver guessed. Though he said, so she threw you out, did she? and I didn’t correct him. I just shrugged, and he gave me that same sympathetic, pitying sort of look through the rearview mirror. And he doesn’t even know me. Can’t live with them, he said. Waiting for me to finish his sentence. And I did. Can’t kill them. He laughed. I didn’t.