by Isla Dewar
Anna read and re-read this. It seemed like this was Alistair’s farewell. She assumed George didn’t know at the time, but did she know now? Had she known Alistair spent her parents’ money on luxury food? I mean, she thought, if you give somebody money for food, you’re thinking maybe a bacon sandwich or some chips. You don’t think fillet steak, monkfish and Chablis.
Remembering how George had been when they had lunch, waltzing in her chair one minute, in tears the next, she wondered if she should give the book to her. The memories might be unbearable.
So she had a cup of tea and watched a brain-numbing game show on television. It was what she always did when she was bothered and wanted to avoid her thoughts. She went to bed early, wondering what to do.
George had always been loved. Her parents loved her, Alistair, Frank, Matthew and her children. So much love, and George had denied it. She hadn’t thought herself worthy. ‘Me,’ Anna said, ‘I’ve never really known love. The unloved child gives herself to anybody, just wanting a little bit comfort. I think I used to smile too much.’
If she was really honest, she had to admit she wouldn’t have liked the sort of relationship George had had with Alistair. He’d loved too much. Kept George to himself, maybe even needed her to make him feel important. ‘A somebody,’ Anna said. He’d wined and dined his love then, drunk, he’d crashed and died.
George had been suddenly alone; broke, friendless and a mother of a tiny child. How scary was that? She’d gone home. She’d have been relieved and ashamed and probably so entangled in her emotions she wouldn’t have known what to say. Her mother would have held her close, patted her back and said, ‘Never mind.’ How lovely to be told not to mind. Of course, it didn’t work. George had minded. Oh, how she minded.
Up till that time George had led a glistening life. Anna was sure her friend had never known self-doubt, self-loathing or even loneliness. Head on her blue pillow and not at all sleepy, Anna said, ‘Me now, I am self-doubter, self-loather of the universe. Gold-star worrier, me.’ Talking to herself was a long-held habit. Part of living alone. She provided a voice to break the silence. It didn’t matter what she said. She could be profound, ridiculous or silly – who cared? She could sing absurd songs like ‘I’m off to fry an egg’ to the tune of ‘We’re Off To See The Wizard’. It was one of the joys of the single life.
‘Of course,’ she told the ceiling, ‘George would be welcomed home. She was always loved. I wasn’t. But I didn’t realise this till I was a lot older and could look back with what little wisdom I had.’
She recalled times when she’d catch her mother looking at her with a disturbing who-are-you? expression and sometimes it morphed into a what-was-I-thinking-to-have-you? look. ‘I wasn’t that bad,’ she said. ‘I was a kid who wanted to be famous for writing poems. These days people just want to be famous for fame’s sake.’
Her mother had been demanding. Anna remembered being ostracised for not coming up to standard. Her mother stiffened and turned her back when she entered a room. Usually she didn’t know what she’d done, and as her mother wasn’t talking to her she never discovered her sins. Her father didn’t help. He was a quiet man, afraid of his own opinions. He turned being non-committal into a fine art. ‘Hitler,’ he once said, ‘didn’t really mean it.’
‘Yes, he bloody did!’ Anna had shouted. She’d been cold-shouldered for a fortnight after that. Not for her opinion, though. It was the bloody that did it.
Her father had been an immaculate man. Hair well-oiled, moustache trimmed, he’d mowed the lawn in a shirt and tie. He was a warehouse manager and kept perfect hours. Anna had written him a poem. It was one of her first. She’d been twelve or thirteen at the time.
Here comes Jack
In his cap and mac.
He says good morning every day
And then bye bye when he goes away.
Even then she’d known better than to show it to her mother.
The night rolled on. Sounds dimmed. She yawned. She knew what she’d do about the book. She’d ask the opinion of the one person she knew who was close to his emotions. He was, after all, experiencing some of them for the first time. Marlon.
34
The Pain of Being Me
They were strolling the short distance between school and Richard’s yard. Marlon no longer took her hand. This hadn’t been discussed, Anna just knew he considered himself grown up and needed to walk alone. She understood but missed the contact. Late August and the first sniff of autumn in the air. Mellow days on the way. This gladdened Anna’s heart as she preferred colder weather. She could put on a jumper and have a layer of wool between herself and the world.
They were talking about names.
‘Were you always called Anna?’ Marlon asked.
‘Yes. It’s the name I was given when I was born. Were you always called Marlon?’
‘I’m the only Marlon I know. There are two Jasons in my class and two Beaus and one Marlon. Me. My mum wanted to call me Luke. But she wasn’t well on the day my dad got me registered and didn’t go with him. So he called me Marlon after his favourite film star.’
‘What did your mother say?’
‘She wasn’t happy. But now she thinks I’m Marlon and I look like her Marlon and she thinks “There’s Marlon” every time she sees me. So I’m Marlon.’
‘I’ve always thought the way Native Americans give names is best. They wait till you’ve grown up a bit and they can see what you’re like. I’d call myself Finally Thinks Before She Speaks.’
Marlon didn’t think much of this. They strolled in silence for a while.
‘I’d be Runs Fast In His Underpants,’ he said.
‘What an excellent name. Do you?’
‘Yes. I run fast but I am even faster if I only have on my underpants. Mum can’t catch me to put me in the bath. But then she always does and then I get dumped in with the underpants on.’
Anna laughed. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Is this something you’ve thought about before you speak?’
‘Yes. If you had a best friend, someone you’d known for years and years and loved, and you found out something that might hurt them – would you tell them?’
Marlon stared at her, puzzled. He stopped walking and looked at the ground, frowning. ‘Huh?’ He started walking again. ‘I can’t say. I don’t really have a best friend. You’re my best friend. I’d like one who was the same as me, ’cos you’re old and I’m new. But you’ll have to do for the moment.’
‘Never mind,’ said Anna. They walked on. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,’ she told him, and decided she’d ask Richard.
*
Today was the big day. Marlon was at last allowed to take his spice rack home. He laid it on the workbench, ready to pick up when it was time to go. Meantime he and Richard discussed the boat they were going to make. Richard fancied a Mississippi paddle steamer. Marlon wanted to build a raft. ‘The sort you use to escape from a desert island.’ Anna suggested an ordinary boat with two funnels and an anchor hanging over the side. ‘A dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack sort of thing,’ she said. ‘It would be butting up the Channel.’
Richard gave her a long look. ‘That’s an actual poem, isn’t it?’
Anna confessed it was. ‘But I think the coaster would be easier than Quinquireme of Nineveh.’
‘And easier than a Mississippi paddle steamer,’ he agreed.
The rest of the visit was spent drawing a plan. The boat would be yellow. The funnels black. Anna sat in her car seat sipping tea, listening to the plans and wondering what George was doing now. Bossing the flowers in her garden, she thought. Or maybe she’s on her patio drinking wine. Then again, she’s probably taking someone to the optician’s or the hairdresser. She’s quite the saint these days. After that thought, Anna napped. Her favourite thing to do these days.
When it was time to leave, Anna asked Richard if he would drop in to see her this evening. ‘I’ve somet
hing to show you.’ Then she added, ‘A book.’ In case he thought she was doing a Mae West thing.
She carried Marlon’s school bag as they walked the last part of the way home. Marlon carried the spice rack, holding it aloft with two hands. He couldn’t really see where he was going, so from time to time Anna had to reach out and guide him to safety after he’d stepped off the kerb. A warm wave of responsibility and nurture swept through her when she did this. She welcomed it, enjoyed it. And knew that at one time she would have run from it, or howled at the moon resenting it. How odd to have never wanted to mother a child and then find they were quite nice after all. Still, she reckoned she’d have been a dreadful parent.
Marla was early coming to pick up Marlon. He was at Anna’s kitchen table with his usual hot chocolate when she arrived. He slid off his chair, fetched his spice rack from across the room where it leaned against the wall and presented it to her. She took it and held it before her and said nothing.
‘It’s a spice rack,’ said Marlon. ‘I made it for you.’
Marla still held the gift and still said nothing.
‘Well, Richard helped,’ said Marlon.
Marla took a breath. ‘It’s beautiful. The wood is lovely, the colour of honey and so smooth. You did this?’
Marlon nodded. ‘I sanded the wood and everything.’
‘There’s a little shelf for the spices and little sticky-out bits to hang the bottles. Amazing.’
There was a happy silence. The all grinned at one another.
Marla said, ‘We’ll have to get spices.’
‘We got you some.’ Anna brought out a small cardboard box. ‘There’s cumin, turmeric, mustard seeds, garam masala, nutmeg, ginger. Oh, lots. We’ve been collecting them.’
Marla stared into the box. ‘Cumin? Celery salt, I understand that. Turmeric? I’ll have to get a cookbook.’ She glanced at the book on Anna’s table.
‘That’s not so much a cookbook as a collection of recipes of a life. It’s not mine.’
Marla lowered her voice. ‘I have no idea about spices. I do fish fingers and that sort of thing.’
Anna whispered back, ‘I’ll find you a cookbook with spice things in. I’ll look in the charity shop.’
Marla nodded. She brought an envelope out of her bag. ‘Your money.’
‘Now,’ said Anna. ‘I have to tell you Marlon and I have been discussing things. Apparently I’m his best friend. Well, I am till he finds someone more suitable, he tells me. So I’ll still collect him till he doesn’t need collecting. But you can’t take cash for babysitting your best friend.’
Marla said, ‘I think you can.’
‘Nonsense. Buy me a present from time to time. Wine will do. I’m getting fond of that. I see your son has left the building and is heading home. I think he’s keen to put the spices in the rack. We can both assume he’ll get more of a kick out of it than you will.’
‘You’ll find a book,’ said Marla. ‘Then I’ll do one of the things in it and you can come to tea.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And I’ll buy wine and you can come to my house to drink it and chat about the stupid things you did when you were young.’
‘I was very good at being stupid. So why not?’
After Marla left, Anna realised that this was an offer of friendship and she had almost refused it. She hadn’t, in fact, recognised it. ‘That’s what’s become of me living alone and mostly thinking about the pain of being me.’
*
Richard knocked on her door at half-past six. ‘You had something to show me?’
‘A book,’ she told him again. She led him to the kitchen and offered him a cup of tea. ‘Or would you rather have a glass of wine? I have some. Red.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a good time for a drink.’
She pointed to the book on the table and fetched the wine from across the room. She got two glasses and poured. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s a cookbook. Lovely handwriting.’
‘It’s my friend’s life through the recipes her first love cooked for her.’
‘Romantic.’ He read and smiled. ‘He adored her.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m getting that she was beautiful.’
‘Oh yes. Very. Still is. Though older.’
He raised his glass. Sipped. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Well, it’s not mine. It was given to me to give to my friend, but I’m not sure I should do that. If you look at the last recipe, it’s a goodbye meal. I think he was leaving her. They’d had a baby and he felt neglected. He wanted to be her only love. I don’t think she knew he was going.’
Richard said, ‘Hmm.’ He took a second sip. ‘Maybe he knew the landlord was coming to throw them out. Probably he couldn’t face what was about to happen.’
‘So he left her?’
Richard said, ‘It’s likely. Where did you get the book?’
‘From the woman in the house we looked at. I asked if I could see the kitchen. It was amazing. I’m jealous of George spending time in it. Eating in it. Dancing, and all the things they did.’
‘Well, give it to her.’
‘I think it might break her heart. She doesn’t know he was leaving her.’
They sat considering this. Then Richard said, ‘All his clothes were in the flat. The bloke in the pub mentioned them. If he left his clothes, he must have been planning to come back. Perhaps he wasn’t saying goodbye to her. He was saying goodbye to the life they’d had and the people they’d been.’
‘How romantic.’
They sat. She looked at his hands – one holding his wine glass and the other on the open pages of the book. She thought them wonderful. Strong hands, she could see that. She wondered what they had built and who they had touched. Her own hands were plain. A few brown spots on their backs and nails kept to a practical length. She considered the people these hands had touched. Some people she’d loved and some who’d been lovers for a night. They’d brought brief comfort. That had been all she wanted. She’d never considered marrying again. She’d come to the conclusion that a husband would be a distraction. He’d want to chat when she wanted to read. Or he’d occupy the bathroom when she needed to get in. Or he’d just be there, a presence when she needed to be alone. But this man was different. She loved having him here. He wore a navy polo shirt open at the neck and a brown tweed jacket. His life was on his face. Lines round his eyes and lips. He’d known pain. She thought him beautiful.
‘You’re not going to give it to her,’ he said.
‘No. I’m not. I don’t know why. I just have a feeling I should keep it for the moment.’
‘The recipes have made me hungry. You want to go eat?’
‘I don’t have much money.’
‘I know that. I’m asking you if you want to eat.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, let’s go.’
They walked to the end of the street then stopped at the kerb, checking it was safe to cross the road. There was no traffic. Yet to keep Anna safe on the tiny hike to the opposite pavement, Richard put his hand on the small of her back. She thought it the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her.
35
The Room Stopped. I Went On
‘So,’ said George, ‘how is your great romance going?’
They were in George’s kitchen. It was her turn to provide a meal. It was raining. A teeming downpour battering against the window.
‘It’s not a romance really. It’s more about food than sex. We’ve had meals together.’
‘You don’t think eating together is sexy? Because it bloody well is.’
Anna remembered the book. Of course it was.
Their meal had been prepared by Matthew – a crab quiche with salad and a bottle of chilled white to sip with it. George was not in a sipping mood, though. She was feeling hearty. She drank.
‘Right, best sexy meals. Peaches and ham and Gorgonzola in a hotel in Florence with wine a long time ago. Juice
ran all over the sheets, though. But lovely. Windows open. Breeze and sounds from the street. You?’
Anna slipped a forkful of quiche into her mouth. The pastry was crisp and cheese-flavoured. God, Matthew could cook. She mentally flicked through sexy meals she was prepared to discuss openly. ‘A sausage sandwich in a shared bath with a man who was writing an epic poem about Elvis.’
‘Didn’t it get soggy?’
‘I am very careful and particular with sausage sandwiches. No, it didn’t.’
‘Fish and chips in a seaside B&B on Mull when it was chucking down rain outside. Propped against pillows and feeling warm and safe.’
‘Cheese and chutney and apple and pork pie in a holiday chalet with beer and a man who fixed my bike on holiday. We never exchanged names. But he looked like Robert Redford.’
‘What more could you want? Dark chocolate, Marie biscuits and rosé wine in a sleeping bag on a beach in the South of France.’
‘Hot toddies in a freezing flat in Dundee. Not sexy, though. Just trying to keep warm.’
George pointed across the table. Suddenly very excited at an unearthed memory. A magical meal from a time when she could jump on the bed and wildness was wonderful. ‘Smoked trout and new potatoes with fizz in a rented cottage on Skye. Log fire burning. Joni Mitchell on the hi-fi.’
‘Cheese on toast with whisky in a flat with his landlady banging on the door shouting, “Have you got a woman in there?”’ Anna snorted. ‘Your sexy meals are sexier than my sexy meals.’
‘I’m a sexier eater,’ said George. ‘I take dietary risks.’
Anna said, ‘I know that.’ She considered her plate. Forked a tiny baby potato finely covered with chopped parsley then said, ‘I’ve found it.’
George raised an eyebrow.
‘Your kitchen,’ said Anna. ‘I found it.’
George put down her fork. ‘It still exists?’
‘Yes. It’s in a huge posh house out Corstorphine way.’ She ate the potato. ‘The landlord of the flat saw it and fell in love with it. So when you left he went in with some workmen and they took it apart and put it together again in his house.’