by Isla Dewar
With Marlon, she collected the money from her flat and took it across to Mother Dainty. And now she had a new living room to enjoy. Here she marvelled at a red and yellow intricately patterned carpet, an extremely comfortable blue and gold striped sofa, a small bookcase stuffed with paperback thrillers, a sideboard with framed pictures of grandchildren and a large ginger cat snoozing on a leather armchair by the fire. It was a happy room. Mother Dainty brought a tray laden with mugs of tea and plates of biscuits and put it on the long coffee table in front of the sofa.
Anna thanked her. ‘Lovely,’ she said. She’d been hoping for warm scones fresh from the oven. That was what Mother Dainty would serve. Chrissy obviously didn’t.
Anna handed over the money she and Marlon had collected. ‘For your garden. Everyone in the street contributed. We are so sorry about what happened.’
Mother Dainty opened the envelope and stared at the wad of notes. ‘I can’t take this.’
‘Yes you can,’ said Marlon. ‘Everyone wanted to give you something.’ He put three spoons of sugar in his tea, lifted his cup and took a sip. He nodded approval then took a biscuit, dunked it and ate. ‘This is very good.’
‘You can start again with your garden,’ said Anna. ‘I know it’s daunting. But you can’t give up. You can’t let a bunch of hooligans win.’
‘It’s the digging and bending. It’s hard work.’
‘She’ll help,’ said Marlon. ‘She can dig.’
Anna wanted to say she couldn’t. But she didn’t. ‘I could do a little,’ she said. ‘I could help.’ She hadn’t reckoned on this. She didn’t want to help. ‘You can decide what plants you want and get them from a garden centre.’
‘Oh, the garden centre? Where is that?’
Anna didn’t know. ‘I’ll find out.’
‘And you’ll take me? I’ll need help bringing everything back.’
‘I’m sure I can manage something. Leave it to me.’ Anna stood. ‘Thank you for the tea.’
Outside, Marlon said, ‘That was good. I only had two biscuits, though.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Anna. ‘You might die of starvation. Do you know you have somehow manipulated me to going to a talk about trees, taking someone to a garden centre and doing some serious digging?’
Marlon shoved his hands in his pockets, kicked a small stone and said, ‘It’s friendly. You should be friendly.’
It was a short walk home, just a few steps across the road, but they met Swagger Boy. He raised an arm, greeting Marlon. ‘Yo, Marlon.’
‘Yo,’ Marlon replied.
Swagger Boy looked at Anna and made a nasal noise before moving on.
‘Well, that’s not friendly,’ said Anna.
‘Yes it is,’ Marlon corrected her. ‘For him, that’s really friendly. Sometimes I think you should go back to school for friendly lessons. You’re not very good at it.’
19
The Vanishing Kitchen
James told George he was bringing a new girlfriend home for dinner. ‘Kate.’
‘This hasn’t taken long. You only split with Sarah minutes ago.’
‘We actually split ages ago. We just kept on living in the same flat. It was easier than finding somewhere new for me. But she got a new bloke, so I moved out.’
‘You didn’t tell me this.’ George was hurt.
‘It’s modern life,’ he said. ‘It’s a money thing. I couldn’t buy a new place till Sarah had enough to buy me out. Now she’s got a new bloke, he’ll buy in. I’ll get enough to put down a deposit and we’re fine.’
‘You’ll be moving out, then?’
‘In time. I thought you’d be glad.’
‘I am glad. But I like having you here. It’s good knowing what you’re up to.’
‘Ma, I cant be living with you at my age. It’s weird.’
‘I suppose. So, Kate?’
‘Three years younger than me. I think she’s the one.’
‘Does she know?’
‘Haven’t mentioned it to her.’
‘Well, I won’t either.’
‘Does she know about your wanting children?’
‘Yes. We’ve talked about that and it suits her. She already has one. A girl, Hannah.’
It was a small conversation that had taken place in the kitchen as James drank coffee before leaving for his new job, but it had bothered George for the rest of the day. In bed, sitting propped by pillows, holding a book she wasn’t going to read, she confessed her guilt to Matthew.
‘I want him to be happy. I don’t know why his meeting the one makes me feel sad, but it does. It has crept up on me.’
‘You’re sad because you are thinking you are losing your boy.’
‘No. I didn’t feel sad when he was with Sarah.’
Matthew gave up on his thriller. He shut the book, removed his glasses and put them on the bedside table. ‘That’s because Sarah, perfect though she was with her clothes, shiny hair, nails and so on, didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want her career and business life cluttered with children.’
‘She was funny. I loved having her round for a meal.’
‘Your boy is broody. It happens to men. He has fallen for a woman who will have a baby or babies with him. It’s normal. He’ll be a wonderful dad. A nappy-changing man. But he’ll always love you.’
She didn’t say don’t be daft. She asked, ‘Were you a nappy-changing man?’
‘Hell, no. Nappy-changing man is a recent thing.’ He slid down the bed, pulling the duvet over his shoulders. ‘The master has spoken. Time to sleep.’
George poked him.
‘What was that for?’
George said, ‘For being right. I hate that.’ She put aside her book and moved down to her sleeping position. Matthew turned to hold her. ‘Sometimes I’m scared,’ she told him.
‘What of? Ghosts? Crocodiles under the bed?’
‘Life. Just life.’
He kissed her. ‘Just eat your five-a-day. Watch when you’re crossing the road. Pay your taxes – and you’ll be fine.’
They kissed once more. Almost more than sex, George had always loved deep, long kisses. They were full of love and promise.
*
James brought Kate to the house just after eight. She was tall, dark haired and attractive rather than James’s usual stunningly beautiful. She smiled a lot. George liked her and gave herself a talking to for feeling slightly sad about that. Matthew made a rack of lamb and she did the pudding – a grape thing with caramelised sugar gleaming on top. It went down well. Candles flickered. There was laughter. The conversation was light and Kate was amusing about her little daughter. George didn’t ask about the child’s father. She’d be told about it soon enough. They drank three bottles of wine. Enough to be slightly silly and not overly sensible. James took her home by taxi and told George just to lock up, he wouldn’t be back tonight.
In bed Matthew said, ‘That went well. Kate’s lovely, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ George agreed. ‘She loved my pudding. Anyone who loves my pudding is all right by me.’
‘Well, she has taste.’
‘Absolutely. She reminds me of someone. Can’t think who. It will come to me.’
Matthew smiled. ‘She reminded me of you.’
‘I don’t think so. She’s attractive, well dressed, educated, articulate, funny. How does she manage that with a two-year-old?’
‘Nursery, a helpful mother, and whatever else it takes.’
‘I remember,’ said George. ‘I think I went through life with gritted teeth and face set in a fierce expression, eyes on the horizon. I was a don’t-mess-with-me girl.’
‘You still are,’ Matthew told her.
‘I was widowed and a mother with a baby. I was a mess. Grieving and angry. Training to be a nurse, I had a huge chip on my shoulder. I was a little bit wild. I barely recognise the person I was.’
‘I still see her now and then. I like her. I wish I’d known her.’
‘Now I’m o
ld and confused, and the older I get the more confused I am. I didn’t have time for it back then.’
He kissed her. ‘I love a confused girl. So easy to take advantage of.’
She took his hand and smiled. ‘I’m not so furious these days. I don’t mind being taken advantage of as long as it’s you doing it.’
*
The next morning George decided it was time to get rid of her ghost. There was a kitchen she had to see one more time and say goodbye to it. It had haunted her for years now.
She stood in her usual doorway across from the flat looking up at the kitchen window. It had changed. Well, it would, she told herself. It’s been a while, years and years. There was a wilting geranium on the sill inside and a blind pulled halfway down. The glass looked grubby. But then, it always was grubby. She didn’t recall ever washing it. She was nervous. Nearly went home. Go on, she willed herself to cross the road. Do it. Do it.
Inside, the hallway was dark and cool. She took a deep breath. Once this place had smelled of garlic and slow stews simmering and now she realised that had been down to Alistair. He’d been very junior in the kitchen where he worked. He indulged in his passion at home. George thought he’d had a spectacular future ahead of him. His talent would have been recognised and songs of praise heard in his name.
She stood at the door of the flat. It was painted red. A poor job, she noticed. The brushstrokes were clearly marked. There was a postcard pinned close to the letterbox listing the names of the six people who lived there. Used to be just me and him, George thought. Then me and him and Lola, then me and Lola. She blinked away tears and knocked.
A young girl answered. She wore black leggings and a huge yellow T-shirt, no shoes. She was pale and thin with long black hair. She stared at George. ‘Yes?’
George felt her face redden slightly, her mouth dried and she couldn’t think what to say. She shouldn’t have come here. She swallowed. ‘I used to live here long, long ago. I was happy then.’
The girl stared at her blankly.
‘The kitchen,’ George said. ‘I loved the kitchen. It had a huge effect on me. I’d never seen anything like it. My boyfriend, who became my husband, built it. I wonder, could you let me in to see it again?’
The girl said, ‘Really? The kitchen?’
‘Yes, the kitchen. Could I come in and look at it? I won’t disturb you. I’ll just be a minute.’
The girl stepped back, waved George in and pointed up the hall to the kitchen. George didn’t need to be shown the way. She knew this place well. Saying thanks with every step, she bustled towards the door she longed to open. And there was the kitchen. She stopped. She stared, mouth open. Then stepped back into the hall.
‘Where is the kitchen?’
The girl nodded to the room George had just entered.
‘This isn’t it,’ said George. ‘Is there another kitchen? Have I got it wrong?’
The girl shrugged. ‘That’s the kitchen.’
George went back into the room. ‘What happened?’ she said. ‘This isn’t the kitchen. It used to be fabulous. It shone. There were copper pots hanging from a rail and knives on a magnet thing on the wall and a row of pendant lights. The cooker was a huge range and there were worktops and rows of bottles of oils and vinegars and wines and herbs by the window over there. There was a long table with chairs and all sorts of exotic things in the cupboards. I’d never seen anything like it. I didn’t know such a place could exist. It took my breath away when I first saw it. I didn’t know someplace could be like that.’
The girl looked mildly interested. ‘Well, this is it now.’
There was nothing to it. The fabulous kitchen was gone. The ceramic sink had been replaced by a stainless steel unit. A small free-standing cooker stood against one wall. There was a single worktop and a row of cupboards with stained yellow doors. A selection of breakfast cereals stood on the worktop alongside a bottle of milk and a bag of sugar. There was a small fridge with a collection of magnets on the door. A few pots were piled by the sink waiting to be washed. A kettle and a mug tree on a small plastic table.
‘The kitchen that was here changed my life. It was everything. I have thought about it every day since I left here.’
The girl said, ‘Wow. I didn’t think a kitchen could do that.’
‘I saw it and knew that things could be perfect. I was young and frightened and angry. I knew Alistair had built it. I didn’t have the words to articulate it, but inside me I discovered that in life there are possibilities, hopes, a future. I started to think Alistair was a knight, a man who could do anything.’
The girl said, ‘I think that’s always wrong. Men are people, too.’
‘I know that now,’ said George. ‘But I was young.’ She looked round. ‘Who did this? It’s vandalism.’
The girl looked round. ‘It was like this when I moved in. It’s been like this for years. Years and years.’
‘The food,’ said George. ‘You wouldn’t believe the food. Steak in vodka, chicken in coconut with limes and coriander.’
‘I love that,’ said the girl.
‘Pasta with clams and pine nuts and things I didn’t know about. I was a kid. Straight from home. My mother didn’t cook. She wasn’t interested. Oh, she sang to me, told stories, gave me books, and we went to the movies. But food wasn’t her thing. The cooking that went on here would amaze you. Alistair would shake pans over the flame and talk and sing and add things. He played rock and roll – the Stones, Grateful Dead. He put oil in a pan and heated it and added lemon zest. Have you ever smelled that? God. Then lamb chops.’
The girl said, ‘That sounds amazing.’
‘We had a baby,’ said George. ‘Then he bought a car. An MG soft top. I saw it from the window.’ She crossed and looked down at the street. Summer in Edinburgh and it was heaving on the pavement. A tidal wave of people moving. ‘It was red, the car. He took off in it. Whoosh. Top speed. And he never came back. He hit a tree and died. He couldn’t even drive, the police told me. He hadn’t passed a test. He just thought he could do it. He was like that. Doing over seventy when he hit that tree. And that was it for me. My kitchen days were over.’
The girl said, ‘Blimey.’ She was holding her phone. She looked like she was aching to tell her friends about the strange visit. George thanked her once more for allowing her in and left. She stumbled down the stairs, joined the mighty swim of tourists and headed away as swiftly as she could.
She made it to the Mound and then into Princes Street Gardens, where she found a bench. She sat open-mouthed, shocked, numb – unable to make sense of what she’d seen. A kitchen, she thought, who would take out a fabulous kitchen and replace it with that collection of second-hand tat? She crossed her arms and held herself. Perhaps it hadn’t been true. Perhaps she’d imagined it. She’d wanted to make Alistair a god, a knight who’d rescued her, and it was a dream.
She fished her phone from her handbag and called Matthew. ‘You have to come and get me. You have to take me home. Something awful has happened. You must come. I need you.’
He asked where she was.
‘In Princes Street Gardens, just past the clock. Please, this is awful. I can hardly breathe.’
20
The World Needs Doors
Anna and Richard sat near the front, listening to the lecture on trees. She put her handbag at her feet, folded her hands on her knees and looked ahead at the platform. This was exciting. She was so close to Richard his leather jacket was touching her T-shirt. She hoped he couldn’t hear her heart beating. It was behaving badly, thumping away, letting her down. She hadn’t known hearts did that when they were as old as she was.
It had been a day. She’d fretted about what to wear. She wanted to look smart. She wanted to look like a woman who cared about how she looked, but not too much. She didn’t want to look overdressed. This was a lecture, not a dinner date. In fact, it probably wasn’t a date. It was a friendly outing. There would be no hand-holding.
She had
phoned George several times for advice but she hadn’t been picking up. In the end she’d asked Marla when she came to collect Marlon.
‘A lecture?’ Marla said.
‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘On trees. I’m not sure what to wear.’
‘What have you got?’
‘Well, I have a lovely silk shirt I put on over a scoop-neck camisole thing, I was thinking about that. And I have a good dark blue T-shirt that goes over a pinky-grey T-shirt so the pink one hangs down below the blue one and you can see a bit of it at the neck.’
Marla nodded. ‘What’s comfy?’
‘The silk can get sweaty. The blue T-shirt is soft and very comfy.’
Marla looked wise. ‘Well, the T-shirt it is. If it’s a lecture, you’ll be bored. If you wear the silk shirt, you’ll be bored and sweaty and uncomfy. If you wear the T-shirt, you’ll just be bored.’
Anna couldn’t argue with that. The T-shirt it was. But she wasn’t bored. She was enthralled. The lecturer, an ebullient middle-aged man with a lot of hair, in jeans and walking boots, spoke with passion. It seemed to Anna there was nothing he didn’t know about trees. Behind him was a large screen on which forests, individual trees and thick tangled roots appeared. To one side stood a group of poets, straight and still as trees on a windless day. A forest of poets, Anna thought. Or maybe a copse, there aren’t many of them. But they speak, they pour out words like fruit. An orchard of poets. How lovely.
She leaned towards Richard. ‘An orchard of poets. Still as trees and fruiting words.’
He didn’t take his eyes off the stage, but nodded.
‘The oldest tree in the world is in California,’ the lecturer told the audience. ‘It’s four thousand, eight hundred and fifty-one years old. It matters. Trees matter.’
Anna put her hand to her heart and said, ‘Magic.’ She was silent for the rest of the lecture.
Afterwards they went for a drink in a Spanish bar. Anna drank red wine and couldn’t contain her joy at all her new tree information. ‘They talk to one another. I never knew that. How exciting. What do you think they say? Good morning? Lovely day?’