On my way from the Mill, to the Cod’s Head, driving up the hill towards the crossroads, I let the car slow down as I come up behind jack Pollock pushing his bike. I have never seen jack ride the bike, rather he leans into it, a grey woollen hat pulled well down over his bowed head, and walking slowly with his back bent, as always. Quite a thin man, and not tall, he wears his grey clothes loose and hanging, as though they might have fitted him once but not now. There’s no point in giving him a salute if you met him on the road. He moves as though blind to the world, deep in his own thoughts perhaps. He moves purposefully, steadily, as though he has somewhere definite to be, as if the air is thick, as if he is walking through treacle.Pint in hand, I ask the landlord of the Cod’s Head where jack lives. He tells me he doesn’t know, but that he’s heard that Jack used to live in a big house about twelve miles away, that he was comfortably off at one time and that he might have a son somewhere.
I have to wait for the lane to widen before I can overtake Jack with any polite consideration, and so I have time to observe. The strap of a flat canvas bag slants from the inside shoulder, pulling in his threadbare coat. He wears boots, probably black, and his grey trousers are tucked in to uneven socks, as though he intends to ride the bike at some time or other, but not just now, and certainly not uphill. I think I remember a scarf or muffler, but I can’t be sure. The bicycle is old of course, probably black, but it does have a pump attached to its frame, and this seems to imply some kind of maintenance, some kind of order in his scheme of things.
Setting off home, the lonely light of the Cod’s Head in my rear view mirror, I know that he is Malloy, not Jack - or is he Jacques Moran (Jacques/Jack) - or perhaps he is the unnamed hero of The Third Policeman?
Pip, pip.... The Leg
+cropped.jpg)
1 comments:
yes.
Post a Comment