pidgin

Mr Longhern had the soft buttery light of oil lamp positioned behind his head and his glasses perched half way up his bald head. He fiddled and fretted with the Singers sewing machine part that didn’t work, tuning it over and over in his hand, as if touching the metal would transmute into a working knowledge of what to do. His wife bustled about the dining room the smell of vegetable broth from the stove showing her endeavour, stealing glances at her husband and sighing in a way that suggested if looking was doing the machine would have been fixed by now. Defeated he put the part down on the roughly hewn dining room table. Chopping blades and saw-toothed knives had added nicks, quirks and ruts to its unvarnished surface so that its sturdy legs and broad surface seemed to have grown out of the paved floor and become a natural part of the old cottage in the same way as the thick stone walls and the Longherns themselves. They both looked up, across, and through the window at the front of the cottage into the inky darkness, at the faint sound of a car on the bend of the brae near the dirt track, which counted as a road, in Moran village. Mrs Longhen’s expression, half way to a frown, gave a smile as tight as the bun on top of her greying head and paused, dishrag in hand. One eye shot up slightly higher than the other and her eyebrow had the look of a question mark. Seven years had passed since the last car had caused a stir, shooting through the clusters of blue-slated roofs, its front lights weaving spinneys together, picking out hedgerows, grazing horses and cattle and had parked sideways outside their cottage. The gentleman had slapped the dust off his gloves, cleaned his goggles and cleared his throat to speak. Mrs Longhem was quick to offer him a glass of water. Such a finely dressed man. So proper. He’d been looking for directions after taking a wrong turn. This car was different. It panted and spluttered as if in pain and wheezed to a stop. They heard footsteps on the gravel outside the window, a pause, whilst they looked at each other and a worried look crept into Mrs Longhern’s hazel eyes. Mr Longhern, fingers splayed, pushed at the table to help him stand, pulling his glasses down off his head and over his eyes. There was somebody beating and chapping at the door, speaking with a strange guttural tongue that quickened his heartbeat and breathing. As he passed the hearth Mr Longhern picked up the long-handled poker, perched on a stand against the andiron, still warm from the glow thrown off by the white ashes. Mrs Longhern, solemn as the Kirk, scuttled sideways past him and positioned herself like a shadow at the edge of the floral chintz curtains. The nightshade of sudden silence was more unnerving than the sounds that preceded it and magnified the click of the door latch being lifted. Mr Longhern rushed across, but his dicky leg was playing up and he wasn’t quick enough, the door squeaked as it was pushed open.

There was more of that strange gabbing language before a man stepped over the threshold, quickly followed by a woman, her hand catching his, as if frightened that she would be left behind.

Mr Longhern’s hand loosened its grip on the poker and he shook his head. He’d never seen such a thing. They were both dressed in spotless white clothing of a peculiar cut. Even their shoes were white. Their cottage seemed shabby and dull in comparison. The man took a step forward and it was like a light edging into the room. He was a big man, but there was nothing threatening about him. Jabber. Jabber. Jabber. He looked towards Mr Longhern to see if he understood.

Mrs Longhern took charge. She cut across the room and stood in front of the man. ‘You’ll be hungry?’ But her smile was for the woman, touching her by the elbow, drawing her into the room and pushing her towards the table and the nearest chair. ‘Soup. Soup.’ Mrs Longden made clucking noises and mimicked picking up a spoon and eating.

The woman in white was so tall and so fragile that Mr Longhern doubted she’s seen much in the way of good feeding. She nodded back that she understood and said something in her gobbledygook language. Her hair was up, the only dark part of her that could be seen, so much hair on such a slender white neck, carrying so much beauty. Her companion slipped into the wooden chair beside her, gave her a long look, and under the table held her hand and whispered in her ear. She nodded back at him in response.

‘Away you and get Matt Taylor. And make yourself useful.’ Mrs Longhern didn’t wait to see if her husband had done what he was told. She searched for a knife to cut up the crusty bread for their guest. ‘If anyone can tell us what these pair of lovebirds is saying it’ll be our Matt.’

‘Do you think they’d like a glass of ale?’ Mr Longhern stood at the door licking his lips. One glance from Mrs Longhern and he changed the subject. ‘There’s no language that Matt can’t speak. All those years wasted with his nose in some old books. German. Italian. Spanish. Hebrew. Latin. And we laughed at him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could speak Eskimo.’

He laughed at his own joke. The two outsiders looked over at him mystified. His wife had her back to him, but the way she stirred the broth with the ladle beating and clanking off the sides, and the stiff way she held herself told him that her jaw was clenched.

‘I’ll be going then,’ he said, lifting the latch.

‘I’ll-be-go-ing.’ He tried speaking pidgin to the seated man. ‘Go-ing. Out-side.’ He pointed to the hill outside and the faint glow of Matt Taylor’s lighted window.

The woman nodded and smiled at him. She said something to her companion. Now Mr Longhern thought about it they could have been twins. Yes twins. The woman said something else in their Eskimoeese and nudged her twin. Both of them smiled at him full beam with perfect white teeth.