by Isla Dewar
‘You marched?’ said Anna.
‘Protested about the atom bomb and the Vietnam War. Marched against fighting in Iraq. I have marched and marched, and it was good. Every step was a step against violence and a step for the little girl who was sent round town with a huge, heavy box of soap and had her innocence ruined.’
‘Gosh,’ said Anna. ‘You just never know about people, do you?’
‘No. But now I am too old to carry a banner. I garden and I am happy.’
‘I’m not young,’ said Anna.
‘You’re young compared to me. You’ve got at least twenty years before you get to my age. All sorts of things can still happen to you. A mortgage?’
‘No.’
‘Marriage?’
‘Doubt it.’
‘You could get run over by a bus.’
‘I absolutely could. God, I’d forgotten about liberty bodices.’
‘Ghastly things – you wore them over your vest to keep you warm. And all those funny buttons. Went out of fashion when central heating came in. They’ll probably come back, now folks are turning their dials down and wising up about fossil fuels. They’ll be in bright colours and have a trendy name.’
‘I think liberty bodice is quite good, actually.’
*
Back home, Anna cooked the chicken. It emerged from the oven golden, crisp on the surface, succulent within. Anna felt a strange jolt of optimism and quelled it. Optimism comes before a serious failure. But failure didn’t happen. The food was good. They drank wine and Anna didn’t get roaring drunk. She got pleasantly relaxed and then she got honest. Later, reviewing this honesty, she doubted herself.
‘Ever been married?’ Richard had asked. He’d already carved the chicken. Praised its goldenness and poured wine, then heaped parsley-speckled potatoes onto his plate and smiled.
‘Yes, once,’ Anna said. ‘It wasn’t successful.’
He raised his eyebrows, questioning why the marriage failed. His mouth was too full to speak.
‘He was gay,’ said Anna. ‘So obviously the crucial part of the union didn’t happen.’ She drank her wine. ‘No matter. I made up for it later.’
‘Rock and roll,’ he said.
‘Oh yes. Have you been married?’
‘No. I had a girlfriend. A love, really. We never got round to marrying. But we lived together five years. She died of cancer.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Broke my heart,’ he told her. ‘I lost myself for years, following music around. Smoking weed. Can hardly remember what I did.’
‘When my husband divorced me, I sat in a bitterly cold room and wrote poems. They weren’t very good.’
They exchanged a look of shared sorrow and regret. Later, as she dished up the apple crumble Anna said, ‘I’ve done a really stupid thing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve promised my friend I’d find her kitchen.’
‘Well, there’re plenty of kitchens out there. All sorts.’
‘No. A specific kitchen that was in a flat she shared with her first husband. Apparently it was beautiful and she wanted to see it again. But when she got there, it was gone.’
He opened the second bottle of wine. ‘Tricky one.’
‘I know.’
He filled their glasses. ‘Where was the flat?’
‘High Street. She moved in with him. The kitchen was already there.’
‘So it was replaced by a new one?’
‘No, it’s a sparse, sort of rented-flat one now.’
‘Do you think your friend and her husband didn’t pay the rent? So when they moved away the kitchen was dismantled and sold off to cover the loss?’
‘That could be true. They sounded to be a bit lost in love, looking for adventure and doing an Irish jig in the High Street.’ She told him about the dance.
‘They don’t sound like dedicated rent-payers.’
‘I don’t think they were.’
‘When was this?’
‘Oh, years and years ago. When the world was young. The summers always hot and endless. Mama Cass was still alive. Everybody smoked like chimneys and middle-aged men wore hats.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask around. See if anyone remembers a beautiful kitchen in a High Street flat.’
He left at eleven o’clock. She wondered if he’d kiss her. Nothing wild and sexual, just a friendly peck on the cheek. But no. He hovered, hands in pockets, at the door and said he’d had a good time. ‘I’ll cook for you soon. I’m excellent at heating a pie.’
‘I love pies,’ Anna said. This wasn’t true. But for him she’d try.
Back in her kitchen, she started to wash the dishes. Watching suds soak over plates she decided that today and yesterday something had happened. She’d joined in. She hadn’t stood back and considered her situation, taking it in, analysing it and providing a narrative to her life as she lived it. She’d enjoyed each moment as it came along. There’s an amazing thing, she told herself. Perhaps I am a recovering poet. Or at least a recovering wannabe poet.
23
We Were the Weather
George led a busy life. She swam at her local swimming pool twice a week. She met Anna for lunch. She visited the library. She sat on two committees and once a week she shopped at the supermarket with Matthew. And she fussed over her family.
They met every second Sunday for lunch in her large kitchen. It was considered a sin not to turn up. Absence was only excused if the missing person was ill, working, on holiday or in hospital having emergency surgery. Partners were welcome.
Emma brought Robbie. Lola brought her long-term partner Ben and, of course, her two children, Morgan and McKenzie. James decided not to bring his new love yet. Their relationship was recent and George guessed that so far he hadn’t told her they were going to marry and have three children. In summer, if the weather allowed, the family sat in the garden and drank wine. In winter they gathered round the kitchen table, drank wine and looked out at where they’d sat in summer.
Matthew always cooked. But as James was still living with them, he helped. Today they’d served rack of lamb with roast potatoes and some green beans that George had grown. Pudding was a tarte tatin. They were inside, summer rain streaming down the windows and bouncing off the patio paving.
George watched it. She thought summer downpours romantic. Family sounds drifted past her. Emma was talking about some injustice at work. Lola was praising a film she’d seen. James was pouring wine. Matthew was listening to everyone, it seemed. In the living room, the grandchildren were playing a game. Rain battered down.
Memories kept coming to George. Sometimes they crept up from nowhere and for no apparent reason. But this rain brought a new recollection from a distant time. Alistair had told her he wanted to make love in the rain. He enthused about this when she asked why. ‘I want to experience everything. I want to know what it’s like.’
She had agreed to it. Though outdoor sex never appealed to her. Knickerless in a field or on a beach was not a good state of dress. She didn’t trust the sand, earth, grass or the insect life. There were places on her anatomy that she didn’t want stung or bitten. But his eagerness was infectious. When he stood before her, put his hands on her shoulders and leaned into her, his face alive with the promise of rapture, she could see that sex in a rainstorm could be marvellous. But once alone, perhaps dusting the ancient sideboard or squirting Harpic under the rim of the lavatory, she doubted the venture. What was wrong with a bed? It was soft, warm and comfortable, and so convenient for a post-intercourse sleep. Alistair, meantime, was watching the weather, hoping for weekend precipitation.
He got lucky. A fierce summer storm was predicted for a Sunday in July. ‘My God, perfect.’ He was overcome with joy. Knowing George’s worries, he bought a tartan rug. ‘This will keep you safe.’
The storm was due to hit at four o’clock, so they started to climb Arthur’s Seat at two. ‘We want to be near the top and up to a bit of nookie before the weath
er turns.’
‘Please,’ said George, ‘I hate that word. Nookie. I won’t do it if you call it that.’
They started their walk to the top. The storm hit early and by the time they were near their goal the rain was pelting down. They were surprised to find they were not the only people who wanted to experience extreme weather. Though Alistair was sure they were the only ones who wanted to orgasm in the wind and rain.
They found a spot among some gorse bushes – a small, perfect patch of grass, soft and hidden from view. They spread out their blanket and kissed. The rain soaked them. Flattened their hair and beat the ground they lay on. They kissed and kissed and thunder clattered overhead. Lightning. And Alistair was right. There was at least a minute, maybe two, when they didn’t notice the turbulence above them. A small slice of passionate time when George wasn’t terrified.
‘Beans, George.’ Matthew handed her a bowl. ‘Got butter and toasted almonds through them. They’re good. Must be the gardener’s touch.’
George said, ‘Hmm?’
‘You were miles away.’ Lola was looking at her from across the table. ‘What were you thinking?’
George thought, I can’t possibly tell you that. ‘Oh, nothing much,’ she said.
‘She’s always doing that these days,’ Matthew told them. ‘Drifting off into her own little world.’
She sipped her wine, slipped a forkful of beans into her mouth and let his remark roll round her head. He was right. She was prone to drifting off these days. A new memory came to her. Afterwards, when they’d finished, Alistair had stood, raised his arms to the sky, shaken his soaked head and shouted, ‘Wonderful! We were one with the universe! We were the weather!’
She’d sat up and said, ‘We should have brought raincoats.’
There followed a long, damp trudge home.
She smiled. What fools we were. How wonderful to have been a fool, though, for a little time anyway.
These days she often thought about her husbands. How absurd to have had three of them. Frank had been a crush, almost adolescent in its intensity. He was good-looking, attentive, quick with a spot of flattery, keen to go out to dine or to party. He’d had affairs. She’d known at the time. She now thought he needed to constantly reassure himself that he still had whatever was needed to attract women. Oh well, she thought, I wasn’t exactly an angel myself. Not that she’d had affairs. She’d been obsessed with work. Her life had been filled with keeping up to date with nursing and caring for her children. Busy with school runs and fish fingers and the correct procedure to drain renal abscesses and bed times and remembering which breakfast cereals to buy, she’d neglected her marriage. Her days were so hectic love and sex took a back seat. But then, she thought, he might have helped. He might have shown at least a little interest in their domestic affairs.
Husband number three, Matthew, was lovely. He cared. He brought her things she liked to eat. He’d actually learned to make tiramisu just for her. What a man. Though she suspected the pudding had gone commercial now. It was a passé pudding.
When they’d moved into this house she’d gritted her teeth, sweated and strained, vowing to be content. ‘I deserve contentment,’ she’d said. He’d agreed. They shopped together on Saturday mornings. She worked in the garden. He did crosswords and watched sport on television. They ate out. They drank Pinot Noir and talked about books they’d read and childhood days. They made sweet, undemanding but wonderful love that brought on easy sleep. They were content most of the time. ‘As good as it gets,’ he said.
Husband number one had been her love. He’d been her soulmate, her lover and her reason to live. Now, though, she had difficulty remembering his face. She didn’t have a photograph. There hadn’t been a camera in their flat. After he died, she’d left in such a hurry she didn’t think to look through his things for something – a memento, a thing that had been his that she could hold on to and keep. All she had were memories and his favourite small kitchen knife.
After he’d died, when those men had turned up at the door asking for Alistair, she’d said she didn’t know him. There had been a sense of menace about them. She sensed trouble. The rent, she thought. They want money. She realised Alistair never mentioned paying any rent. He just lived, went to work and spent every penny he earned. She had a tiny baby she had to protect. Penniless and scared, she’d gathered her things and fled.
That was how he was. He had passion. He had visions of himself. His first passion had been his kitchen. God, it was amazing. Then it was her. She hated to admit it, but she had been the centre of his life. He’d kept her to himself. Then it was cars. He’d wanted to experience speed like he wanted to be the weather. She sometimes wondered why her? But in time she knew it was because she never complained. She idolised him. He’d been a reader, a knight, an adventurer, a prince hurtling towards new experiences. Now she thought the only way forward for him had been to die young. But, oh, that kitchen had been fabulous.
She looked down at her food. The lamb was finished and now a slice of tarte tatin was in front of her. ‘Ah,’ she said. All eyes were on her.
‘Miles away again,’ said Matthew.
George nodded. ‘Anna has said she’ll find the kitchen.’ She sighed. Now she would have to explain what she was talking about. ‘The kitchen at the flat I shared with Alistair. I wanted to see it again. But it was gone.’
Everyone spoke at once. Questions. Questions. Questions. Why did she want to see the room again? Did she really expect it to be there? Was something wrong? Was she unhappy? Did she want a new kitchen?
She ate her pudding and said nothing.
James said, ‘It was probably taken apart and sold off. It would be too grand and expensive for that flat.’
Lola said, ‘Perhaps. But if it was so beautiful, someone might have fallen in love with it and taken it apart to put together somewhere else. They did that with Julia Child’s kitchen. It might be out there.’
‘You mean Anna might find it?’ asked James.
Lola thought for a moment. ‘Probably not.’
Even George agreed.
24
Absolutely and Definitely – Ace Detectives
Years and years ago, Anna’s affair with Michael had started when he’d turned up at her door and said, ‘I know what you need.’
‘What?’ She’d been surprised to see him. They’d met at a party and conversed for a while, drinking cheap red wine. She’d thought he was exciting and hoped she’d hidden this by being cool.
‘Me,’ he’d said. ‘You want me in your bed. Sex is what you need.’
She let him in. He made it to her bed and was in her life for a while. He was handsome, articulate, messy and arrogant. He was what you got if you let someone see you were needy. She chastised herself regularly for this affair.
When Richard turned up on her doorstep and said, ‘I know what you need,’ Anna was ready with a reply.
‘No, you don’t.’
He’d lost the wine-induced confidence of their evening together and was awkward again. He didn’t meet her eyes as he spoke. He shifted from foot to foot. He was nervous. But he stood his ground. ‘I’ve been thinking of how to do it, and I think I know.’
‘Really?’
He moved past her into the hall. ‘Yes. Bookshelves all the way from the front door to the living room.’ He turned to her. ‘It would work. The hall is wide enough to take them. It would clear the floor. I’ve been thinking the book piles could be a hazard. You could trip.’
If she was honest, Anna was a little disappointed. But bookshelves would make a difference. ‘Can’t afford it.’
‘I’d do it. I love a challenge and I’m not that busy these days. Odd door or window and a bit of panelling keep me going. But people buy flat-pack furniture these days.’
He pressed his hands to the wall. ‘Good wall. It would take the weight. You know, of the books. Can’t afford oak. But white shelving would lighten the hallway.’
Anna didn’t know what t
o say. She too was awkward now. ‘Bookshelves are excellent.’
‘It would be a challenge,’ said Richard. ‘I love a challenge.’
‘The floor would be cleared.’
‘Exactly.’
She offered him a cup of tea. They sat at her kitchen table. ‘I couldn’t start for a week or two,’ he said. ‘Have to get the stuff. I need to measure up, too. I’ll come back later.’
‘Actually, I’m going to the library with Marlon. He’s going to show me how to work a computer. I’ll use it to find out who owned the flat George stayed at. Then I’ll go and ask about the kitchen.’
He drank his tea, looking at her over the rim of his cup. ‘I’ll come with you for that. I don’t trust landlords.’
They dipped into silence, awkward again. He shyly took a biscuit. They smiled to one another. She wondered if this was what love was like, no matter how old you were. She remembered having a painful crush on Brian Fraser when she was eleven. She’d gazed at him misty-eyed across the classroom and never ever said a word to him.
‘There was word of a kitchen,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Phoned around. People knew about it. Gas fitters, carpenters, plumbers. Word spread. Kitchen got dismantled and put back up. It was something, that kitchen. That’s why it was spoken about.’
‘Where did they take it?’
‘I don’t know. I just spoke to a couple of guys who took it down.’
‘But you didn’t work on it?’
‘No, back then I was chasing the music. Went everywhere to hear “Love Minus Zero” or, later, Neil Young’s “Helpless”. Slept on sofas, slept on park benches, barely ate. Consumed by grief. Barely knew I was alive. My lost life.’
Her heart went out to him. She knew the songs and she felt a shiver of shame that she was jealous of the long lost woman who’d been loved enough to cause such misery.