A Day Like Any Other

by Isla Dewar

  ‘So many pictures,’ she said. They were all of food or people serving food. Aubrey Beardsley’s Garcons de Café and below that a cheeky parody featuring three formidable fifties waitresses in full uniform, complete with little bonnets, standing looking like they disapproved of their customers. Pictures of picnics, pots of jam, hams, a Cecil Aldin print of a hunting party round a table at an inn, plates of pasta, glistening fruit, pies, people gathered at a table eating formally, seaside people laughing and holding piping hot fish and chips.

  ‘It takes a while to really appreciate them. Some are valuable. Some are framed postcards. Actually, there’s a Mrs Beeton first edition in the cookbooks,’ said Grace.

  Anna nodded.

  ‘This room,’ said Grace, ‘is about them. The couple. There’s food and eating and music and dancing and reading and wine.’ She looked round and sighed for a life she’d never have. ‘They must have lived in here more than any other room in the flat. Was she very beautiful?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘She still is. Though she’s older now. There’s life and experience on her face. I think she suits it.’

  Grace went to the wine rack. ‘Red or white?’

  ‘Red,’ said Anna. Then, ‘Oh look, a gramophone. Complete with horn. How absolutely lovely.’ She crossed the room to examine it. ‘It has a ragtime record on it.’

  ‘Yes. I imagine they did the Charleston. I think my grandfather was smitten. He only saw her once. He said she was exquisite, made all the more beautiful by being pale and fraught with a tiny baby. I think he would have let her stay in the flat if she’d asked. Probably wouldn’t have charged her much rent. But she was gone when he went back.’ Grace put a glass of wine on the table and invited Anna to sit.

  ‘She’s happy now,’ Anna said. ‘I expect you know that he, Alistair, died. She married again then split with him after their son died. I thought she’d never get over that. I thought the grief would be the end of her. But she slowly got herself together. Started to breathe again. She met Matthew. Fell in love and almost stopped beating herself up.’

  Grace smiled. ‘A sort of happy ending, then. Or as near to happy as you might get.’ She opened a drawer on the side of the table. ‘Perhaps she’d like this. I think it was written for her.’ She brought out a thick notebook with an elaborate dark green and red floral cover and handed it to Anna.

  She opened it. Eating With My Lovely One was written in an exquisite hand in green ink on the first page. Food For George below that. Anna flicked through it. There were recipes, drawings of a sweaty cook, a couple beaming over heaped plates, the couple laughing and singing. And there were comments – OK, so I won’t wipe my hands on the seat of my trousers and Paella, eat it and weep, Georgie, baby and more.

  ‘Take it,’ said Grace. ‘It belongs to her. He wrote it for her. She ran away and didn’t know it was there.’

  *

  Back home, Anna sat at her kitchen table and leafed through the book. She read one or two recipes for chicken and chocolate pudding and smiled at the margin notes.

  She noticed the recipe headings and realised that they took her through the relationship from beginning to end. She knew she was going to read them. Even though they revealed her friend’s private moments and even though she felt like a voyeur.

  32

  Fruit Pie for the Girl with Café Eyes

  By midnight she was tired and bed beckoned. She wasn’t taking in anything she read. She’d continue in the morning. At nine, she sat with a mug of coffee guiltily discovering a new truth about her friend’s first love affair. She now knew Alistair had been obsessed with George. He’d seen her across a café and had fallen in love with her face. Fabulous Face Milkshake was one of the first recipes. The drink was milk, fresh strawberries and ice cream, and he’d drawn a chilled glass complete with straw below the heading. At the end of each recipe was a suggested piece of music to play while preparing the dish. The milkshake’s song was ‘I Saw Her Standing There’.

  Anna sipped her coffee and brought to mind George’s young face. Beautiful indeed, she thought. She remembered French classes in which boys abandoned all hope of learning the language. They lolled on their desks and gazed, almost panting with longing, at George.

  Next recipe was Fruit Pie for the Girl with Café Eyes. It wasn’t that intriguing. Just lattice pastry with apples. The song was Dusty Springfield: ‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself’. Make better pies, thought Anna.

  And then she thought he had. The next recipe was Tiny Onion Soup Keeps Café Girl Happy. Anna thought it would. She fancied eating this soup. Tiny onions cooked till golden, add bacon then stock with tomato purée and pasta, and grated Parmesan on top. The song was ‘Here Comes The Night’. Good supper, thought Anna. She pictured George and Alistair at that large table, eating this awkwardly and laughing. Van Morrison roaring out.

  She envied them. ‘I was probably struggling with Geography homework at the time.’

  The doorbell rang. It was Marlon. He stepped into the hall as soon as Anna opened the door. ‘My mum needs eggs. She wants to know if you’ve got any.’

  ‘I do,’ said Anna, following him to the kitchen. ‘How many do you want?’

  ‘Three. She’s making a cake. She says she’ll pay you back and I’m to say please and thank you.’

  ‘I should think so,’ said Anna. She put three eggs in a paper bag and handed it to Marlon.

  He was looking at the book. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A book.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like a proper book.’

  ‘It’s a cookbook. It’s full of recipes.’

  Marlon considered this. ‘Books are boring.’

  ‘No they’re not.’

  ‘Yes they are. Phones are better. Computers are better. Books are boring.’

  ‘Well,’ said Anna, ‘chocolate ice cream is boring.’

  Marlon was shocked. ‘No.’

  ‘Chips with ketchup are boring.’

  ‘No.’ Marlon clearly couldn’t believe this.

  ‘Cakes are boring.’ Anna was enjoying herself.

  Marlon cottoned on. ‘Poems are boring.’

  ‘Games are boring,’ Anna said.

  Marlon started for the door. ‘Bookcases are boring. Soup’s boring. Eggs are boring.’ He galloped down the hall. ‘Shoes are boring. Hoodies are boring. Socks are boring.’

  Anna heard him make his way back to Marla’s kitchen. He was enjoying himself. ‘School’s boring. Cheese is boring. School dinners are boring.’ He went into his house still chanting.

  Anna laughed. She often got visitors these days. Mother Dainty came by yesterday with four blueberry muffins to eat with a cup of tea and a gossip. Swagger Boy knocked on her door to tell her he was sitting his driving test. ‘I’ll fail. Always do.’

  ‘Don’t wear your baseball cap. Especially don’t wear your baseball cap backwards. Not a good look for a driving test,’ Anna had advised. ‘Put on an actual shirt. Try to look responsible and not like a boy racer.’ She pointed to his CRASH & BURN T-shirt.

  ‘I am a boy racer,’ he admitted. ‘My car doesn’t go fast, but I love speed.’

  ‘Just for an hour when you’re sitting your test try not to look like one. The test bloke might approve of you if he doesn’t think you’re going to go roaring about.’

  ‘Okay,’ the boy agreed.

  ‘And,’ Anna poked him gently in the chest, ‘you shouldn’t whizz about all over the place. Every time you get the urge to tank along, you should think about having a pint of beer or sex. Yes, sex. Because if you crash, you might die or injure yourself so badly you’ll never stand at a bar drinking or have fantastic sex again. You’d miss it.’

  ‘Okay,’ he’d agreed again. Though she could tell he didn’t think she’d ever had sex in her life and didn’t know what she was talking about.

  This was all new to Anna. She’d never had many visitors before and wasn’t sure what to do with them. She’d sit them at the kitchen table, make them a cup
of tea and listen. At first she was baffled that people could chat about things and people they knew little about. But soon she found herself interested to find that Mrs Mackay three doors down had been taken to hospital after tripping over the back doorstep. And, to her surprise, she found she had opinions about television shows and new biscuits on the market. ‘It would appear,’ she told herself out loud, ‘that I’m only an ordinary human after all. This is a relief.’

  George in the book was eating well. Alistair had melted a Mars Bar and poured it over ice cream. Dream Girl Food. There was a drawing of a longhaired girl in late teenage raptures licking a spoon. Van Morrison’s ‘Cleaning Windows’ had been playing. Perhaps this was a reward for some housework. Well, she’d given that up. There was a week of curries and Miles Davis. Later, a celebration of some acquisitions – a brass microscope, a square copper kettle and an ancient coffee grinder – with a frozen grape pudding that followed an escalope. They’d danced to an old recording of ‘The Blue Danube’. Anna imagined they’d played this on the horn gramophone they’d got some days before – drawing of George with her ear to the horn, recipe for garlicky roast chicken and Jelly Roll Morton.

  How did they get that food? And, Anna wondered, how did George stay so thin? Well, she was lucky that way and she’d walked everywhere. Anna remembered George returning to school and being hailed as a hero by her fellow pupils. Her mother had forbidden her to talk to her old friend, but Anna ignored that. She’d given George her pocket money to pay bus fares. It was a hike from the High Street to Leith and it wouldn’t be pleasant in winter. They’d exchanged secrets. Vowed teenage love for John Lennon and shared lunchtime buns. But George had gone home to her magical, carefree bohemian life. Anna, to a mother she hated.

  Later, when they’d left school, Anna had gone to university, strived to become a poet and excelled at being young and stupid. George, before Lola came along, had slipped into a life of playing music and wandering Edinburgh with her love. They had almost lost touch. This was the time that interested Anna.

  At two o’clock she was still reading the book when Marla turned up. She’d brought a slice of her cake on a cracked green floral plate and leaned on the kitchen unit holding it. ‘I’m not much of a baker but this is so good I thought you’d like some.’

  Anna thanked her.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ asked Marla as she filled Anna’s kettle and switched it on.

  ‘I’d love a cup, thank you. The mugs are in the cupboard behind you.’

  Marla brought two out. Examined them and declared them to be cool. ‘Where d’you get your stuff?’

  ‘I’m the queen of the charity shops,’ said Anna.

  The kettle boiled. Marla spooned coffee into the mugs, poured in water and fetched milk from the fridge.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ said Anna.

  ‘I will. I need to talk to you about telling Marlon all these things are boring.’

  ‘It was a joke. He knew that. He enjoyed it. He doesn’t think chocolate and chips are boring. Or books, come to that. But he was a bit bored and he let loose and shouted. It was good for him. We all need to shout sometimes. He’s a little boy. He likes to feel mighty.’

  ‘Don’t we all,’ said Marla. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’

  ‘A recipe book.’ She pushed it across the table.

  Marla thumbed through it. ‘It’s got music to cook to and eat to. I like that. And drawings. Here’s a recipe for gaining strength for an Irish jig.’

  Anna pulled the book back. ‘Oh my. Irish stew and Guinness. I could have guessed. They’d have been stuffed full.’

  ‘Then they did a jig? Who would do that?’

  ‘My friend and her boyfriend used to do Irish jigs in the High Street.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘They were young and stupid and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Weren’t you young and stupid once?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Marla reached over and took the cake from the unit. She picked off some icing and ate it. ‘Still am stupid. Not young, though. My husband left me, y’know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sleeping around.’

  ‘It’s hard being alone at home knowing he’s out there with someone else.’

  ‘Maybe you’d know about that. I don’t. I was the creep that slept around. I didn’t deserve him.’

  Anna said, ‘Ah.’ And thought, How surprising things are sometimes.

  Marla stopped picking at the icing of the cake and took a proper bite. ‘Was your friend ever stupid?’

  Well, thought Anna, she ran away from home on account of her name. I rather think her first husband was a rogue of some kind. She did Irish jigs in the street at three in the morning . . . ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you?’ Taking huge bites of the cake now.

  I married a gay man who said he’d make me a famous poet. I died my pubic hair green. She covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.’

  Marla said, ‘That’s a yes, then.’

  33

  The Truth About George

  The next day was Sunday. Anna was still leafing through the book, still feeling like a voyeur and unable to do anything about that. The book was too fascinating. She would give it to George next time she saw her. Right now, she was reading about George’s sex life. Afternoon treats while chicken marinated. Anna thought this fun. Lovely naughty George. Lola would follow. In her own life, Anna had moved away from home and was living in a draughty flat with a gay guy who’d promised to make her famous. She cooked for him and cleaned for him and sat at home worriedly working on poems while he cruised bars, picked up boys, drank and had a lively old time. She’d been a fool. Perhaps George had been too. But George had been warm, fed and loved. And that meant everything.

  It had been a time of giving herself up to love and finding she wasn’t loved back. Yesterday Marla had complained of suffering the same painful thing. ‘It happens,’ she said.

  ‘Was that Marlon’s father?’ Anna asked.

  Marla shook her head. ‘No. Before him. I was just crazy for this bloke and he wasn’t crazy for me. I thought about him all the time. I think I went a little bit insane. I punished myself for not being good enough. I shaved my head.’

  ‘Goodness. Were you living at home? What did your mother say?’

  ‘Nothing. She fainted. She saw this strange bald woman coming into the kitchen and wham – she hit the floor. It felt good at first. Cool air round my head. Then I realised what I’d done and I cried and cried and wouldn’t go out for days.’ By now she’d finished the cake and was dabbing the plate with her finger, picking up crumbs. ‘Thank goodness for hats.’

  Anna agreed.

  Marla looked at the empty plate on the table. ‘I seem to have eaten your cake.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Anna. ‘Embarrassing memories can make you do such things.’

  When Marla left, Anna returned to the book. Not being much of a cook, the recipes didn’t really interest her. They were full of instructions like sear the meat, marinate overnight, put in hot oven for twenty minutes then reduce heat, finely slice onions, peel garlic. She had no intention of doing such things and classed them along with bungee jumping, motor racing and marathon running. They were not for her. The margin notes amused her – after eating this leave dishes till morning, cook for length of Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, put in pan, listen to sizzle and tango with your love for two minutes. There was a list of ingredients that usually included a sketch – an onion perhaps, a chicken, a row of olives dancing.

  The pair enjoyed a honeymoon time of Champagne breakfasts and long evening dinners. There were recipes for slow-cooked food while the pair walked hand-in-hand through the city’s ancient streets and down narrow wynds and cobbled lanes. They sang Bob Dylan songs and discussed his lyrics. Love Minus Zero pasta spicy with clams and tomato sauce was a favourite dish. Then Alistair lost his job. After Unemployed Boy Tuna Bake the food got more and more austere. Anna was well acquainted
with cheap food. George and Alistair were dining on potatoes, rice, carrot soup and homemade bread. Anna suspected that George didn’t know or care. There were sketches of her dancing to music on the horn gramophone and looking joyful at a plate of spaghetti and smashing chocolate cake into Alistair’s face. There was food for after polishing a junk shop kettle, food for recovering from a late night swim, food for rock and roll on the radio. Food for every occasion.

  Anna shut the book. Stared ahead. Pages and pages and no friends were mentioned. Every recipe was for two in love. The pair had never entertained. They were lost in their world of food, sex and music. Anna remembered herself at that age. She had friends she sat with in the pub making a pint of beer last all evening. There had been flats she visited where she’d sat on the floor, talked about her dreams and ambitions and given critical opinions of films she hadn’t seen and books she hadn’t read while listening to Joan Baez.

  Things were intense for the lovebirds. Anna knew what would happen next. A baby. Tiny, noisy, demanding, messy, milky, incontinent and with no concept of an eight-hour night’s sleep. The end was nigh.

  It came slowly. Their finances healed and Alistair showed off his cooking skills with Jiving to Fish Peppered Halibut with Lemon and Caper Mash. Music played – ‘Downtown’, Satie’s Gymnopédie, the Rolling Stones’ ‘Get Off Of My Cloud’. This last was played to All Hail Ma and Pa Flambe Steak, which made Anna wonder if the injection of cash had come from George’s parents.

  She wasn’t prepared for the final entry. Goodbye Sweet Times Roast Monkfish followed by Kissing Café Girl Adieu Intense Chocolate Pudding. He played ‘Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye’ and drank Chablis. Café Girl isn’t drinking, he wrote, finished the bottle by myself. No wine for Lola, then. Little bit of cognac for me, though. Lola doesn’t mind. Café Girl isn’t smiling any more.