Talking to the Dead

by Helen Dunmore

  ‘That’s going to take you’ forever,’ says Susan, coming in with Antony asleep at last, his face puffed and blotched.

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  Isabel and Edward work together, and I wonder if I’m the only one who sees how alike they are. I watch their slender fingers, their fine concentrated faces. They could be brother and sister. They are so much more alike than Isabel and me. Next to them I look like a peasant, and so does Richard. Richard’s watching them too, as they construct the mobile for his son.

  We’ll get this finished,’ says Edward, ‘and then we’ll plan tonight. We’ll have to have music. Are you well enough to dance?’

  ‘If it’s a slow number,’ says Isabel.

  ‘What’s happening tonight?’ asks Susan.

  ‘There’s going to be a party,’ says Richard, his voice and face expressionless.

  ‘Not a party, a celebration,’ says Isabel, her mouth full of thread.

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘A party’s open to anyone. This is private.’

  ‘I’ll go home for the evening, then,’ says Susan stiffly.

  ‘Oh no, Susan, I didn’t mean that. You’ve got to come. You must come. Please. It won’t be the same without you.’

  Isabel stretches out her hand to Susan, pleading, and Susan melts at once. She’ll come, of course she will, and so will her mother. All we have to think about now is what we’re going to cook.

  ‘Six courses,’ says Isabel.

  ‘But you can’t just have six of anything. You have to plan it so the dishes work together.’ It’s so obvious it shouldn’t have to be said.

  ‘They’re separate courses, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter,’ says Isabel, turning her obstinate, beautiful face towards me without really looking at me. I can’t put into words how a meal should be, how there should be pauses, and tiny repetitions, reactions of taste against taste. How it should build from the first note, then die down again. Isabel won’t think about any of that. She won’t consider the colours and textures of food, because she doesn’t want to give it that much attention. Food has been crushed down into a small space in Isabel’s mind. Six courses: one for each of us except Antony. Why should anyone count Antony? But if there’s going to be a celebration I can’t think of anything apart from his existence that we can possibly be celebrating. I could make a cake and ice his name on it.

  No one’s asked why Isabel wants a feast, when she won’t eat anything at it. This house is stiff with things which can’t be said. When we’re all in the same room what we say sounds more like code than conversation. But who wrote the code? Who’s forcing us to use it?

  ‘When are you leaving, Nina?’ asks Richard in front of everyone.

  ‘I was thinking of going today, but I’ll wait till tomorrow now.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, Neen,’ says Isabel, with a quick, public smile. ‘It’s been lovely having you here for so long.’

  She’s very tense. She pulls a plastic thread too hard and it snaps, but Edward ties it up in an invisible knot and it’s all right. Isabel sits back on her heels, blinking and wiping her hands, which are wet with sweat. ‘I can’t do it, Edward,’ she says in a voice blank with distress. Then, visibly, she gathers herself together. ‘It’s hurting my eyes. Nina, have you thought of what you’re going to do for the meal yet?’

  I haven’t thought at all, but I don’t need to. ‘Figs,’ I say.

  ‘Figs?’

  ‘Yes. Black Turkish figs. They’re just coming into season. I saw some the other day. A huge plate of fresh figs so we can have as many as we want for once. We could eat them at the beginning of the meal, or at the end. They won’t spoil the taste of whatever comes next. I’ll whip some cream to go with them, though I think they’re better without.’

  ‘You’re not going to cook, then?’

  ‘Isabel, they’ll be perfect, I promise you. Better than anything I could cook. I’ll probably make something else as well, but that’s a surprise.’

  ‘Oh!’ She relaxes. ‘You are cooking something, then.’

  The figs mean nothing to her. Their white paper packing, the fragile bloomy skin of each fruit, the way the seeds ooze slowly through cracks in the flesh, the fleshy fatness at the base of the stem. I bought figs in Dubrovnik market once, before it was shelled. The market women laid them out on leaves and when you looked closely you could see tiny fissures, like a crazy paving of sweetness, because the fruit was ripe to bursting. I ate figs and oranges with black coffee every morning and I found out that figs are never one colour. They’re black, then purple, but they always have some green left in them too, and as the skin grows thinner you see the brown-gold of flesh through it.

  I see Richard swallow.

  ‘What about all of you?’

  ‘I’ll make a fish soup,’ Edward says. ‘If we’re going into Brighton I know a good fishmonger there. Shrimp and garlic soup with coriander. It’s the fish stock that takes the time.’

  Fish stock is easy, as we both know, but Edward is scoring points this morning. ‘Or there’s a Galician fish stew I’ve been wanting to try out,’ he muses, ‘but you have to boil up olive oil and water to cook the fish and the timing’s tricky – if the emulsion’s not right the fish boils to rags –’

  ‘Make the soup.’

  ‘I know what I can bring,’ says Susan. ‘My mum’s got an ice-cream maker, and she’s made boxes and boxes for the Young Farmers – it’s all in the freezer. There’s gooseberry crumble ice-cream, and butterscotch, and raspberry. I’ll put one of each in a freezer pack and bring it over.’

  ‘I thought I’d make a fruit salad,’ says Isabel.

  Now there’s a tradition of my mother’s that Isabel has kept up. A sodden mass of tinned peaches and cocktail cherries in colourless syrup, brought to life by a quarter pound of green grapes and a couple of oranges hacked into slices. If my mother was feeling reckless she would tip in a glass of brandy to add smoulder to the tang of metal and sugar. Always cheap brandy. She could never really stop being careful. But Isabel isn’t doing the shopping, and I think I can remember a recipe for mango and peach slices with fresh lime and ginger syrup.

  ‘Do you mind what fruit we get, or shall we just buy whatever looks good?’

  ‘Oh anything,’ says Isabel. ‘I’ve got loads of tins. I think I’ve even got a tin of lychees somewhere.’

  ‘That seems to leave me with the main course,’ says Richard.

  ‘I know what you can do. It’ll fit in with everything perfectly, and it isn’t difficult,’ I say. ‘Roasted vegetables with couscous in layers with goat’s cheese. We’ll do aubergines and red peppers and courgettes and little onions. It sounds a mess but it’s good. You could do tabbouleh as a side dish, and goat’s cheese in filo pastry parcels.’

  ‘Christ, Nina.’

  Isabel laughs. ‘There you are, Richard.’

  ‘OK. This is what you’ve got to do. Don’t cook the couscous, let it soak for ten minutes in boiling stock. That works better. There’s stock in the fridge, and you can chop a couple of leaves of mint into it after you’ve boiled it up, and then strain it again. You only want an edge of mint in the couscous. The peppers need to be seared. If they’re sweet enough you’ll get that black, sticky taste from the skin, almost a toffee taste. And that’ll bring out the sweetness in the onions too. All the other stuff’s easy: we’ll buy the filo pastry from the Greek shop and the cheese too. It’s always fresh there. And those fat squashy olives.’

  ‘Easy,’ says Richard.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll help you. Let me just write down olive oil. That stuff I bought in the village is no good. And bread,’ I write on the back of an envelope. ‘Cheese. Champagne. How many bottles? I’m paying.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ says Richard quickly. ‘You’re not paying for anything this time, Nina.’

  ‘So put your purse away,’ says Isabel.

  We smile. We smile like sisters, like what we should be instead of what we are. For
a second Edward’s the family friend who’s splashed out on an expensive toy for the baby to whom he’ll be unofficial uncle. Richard is the proud father going out to buy champagne to wet the head of his first son. Isabel is the young mother who’s had a bad time but is getting back on her feet now. And I’m the aunt, the sister-in-law, the sister, the friend. The cook. Whatever you want.

  ‘There,’ says Edward, ‘that’s done.’ Carefully, he unhooks the finished mobile from the back of the door. He holds the frame where the two pieces of wood cross, and gives it a small shake. The fish shiver into position. The wires bounce a little, the threads go up and down, the fish wince and then start to swim through the air. Isabel claps her hands.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Edward. I never thought it would be so beautiful.’

  There’s too much emotion in her voice again, as there was when she pleaded with Susan, but Edward doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles as he pushes the mobile again with one finger and all the fishes turn. There’s a tiny clacking sound as their wooden fins touch. Edward’s face is proud and absorbed.

  ‘Antony’s going to love this,’ he says, as if Antony’s a person with tastes of his own.

  ‘So we’re going into town,’ says Richard, standing up. We’d better finish that list.’

  ‘It doesn’t need all three of us to go. I’ll stay with you, Isabel,’ says Edward. But Isabel leans back in her chair and shuts her eyes. ‘You go. You need to get all the stuff for your fish soup.’

  ‘I can write it all down for them, and stay with you. You don’t want to be on your own.’

  ‘I shan’t be on my own, I’ve got Susan. Really, Edward, I’d much rather you went. You’ve been stuck in with me since you got here. You could all have lunch out together, and I’ll sleep for a couple of hours or I’ll be dead later on. Susan’ll do the table, and then she can mind Antony, can’t you, Susan?’

  ‘If you’re tired, the baby can always come out with me while I do the table as well. He’s no trouble. And I’ll ring Mum, shall I, about tonight?’

  ‘I’ll ring her,’ says Isabel.

  ‘We’ll get that table moved then, Edward,’ says Richard. Even the way he says it sounds grim and masculine. They get up, facing one another, two men who don’t like one another but are used to having to get on. Now that they’re face to face I realize just how much they dislike one another. Their bodies know it. They move into position like boxers, and there are patches of sweat under Richard’s arms already, before they’ve even started lifting. They go out together.

  ‘What flowers shall I pick?’ asks Susan.

  ‘Whatever you like,’ says Isabel. ‘Pick everything.’

  She says it carelessly and Susan nods, because she has no way of knowing that this is something Isabel could never possibly mean. She doesn’t like picking any flowers for the house at all, though she gives way grudgingly and puts a few roses on the table when people are coming. Isabel would know if two heads of white phlox were cut from her border. She knows which rose is ready to drop its petals at a touch.

  ‘Cut the black dahlias. And the Japanese anemones have come out early because of the heat. They’d look good with the dahlias,’ she tells Susan. The black dahlias are rare. I’ve never seen their tiny velvet flowers in any other garden. They have bronze leaves, and Isabel has planted them in a mass in front of a sage bush. They are never cut for the house.

  ‘Where are those, then?’ asks Susan.

  ‘Go down past the cherry tree; they’re in the bed on your left, by the wall. No, never mind, I’ll cut them for you. But take anything else you want from the garden, Susan. Cut what you like,’ repeats Isabel, her veiled, cloudy eyes turned in my direction. Her hand dangles by the spread quilt where Susan has laid the baby. She does not quite touch him, but an inch closer and her fingers would brush his lips.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I follow Isabel out into the garden. She walks ahead of me easily, swinging secateurs from her right hand. Her brown-skinned arms are silky in the morning light. I want to slow her down, to draw all the beautiful retreating triangles of her walk down the path. You’d never think she had been afraid of anything. She brushes under the low branch of an apple tree and holds it up, waiting for me.

  ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘No, I’m just –’

  ‘I’m quite all right. There’s nothing the matter with me at all.’ She looks up at the sky. ‘There won’t be a storm; look at that blue.’

  The path is covered with flying ants, crawling and dragging their wings. It looks as if a nest has been kicked open.

  ‘Why don’t they fly?’

  ‘They will later on. It’s like the anemones, everything’s coming out too early. And look at these apples.’ She taps the branch sharply and five or six immature fruit bounce on to the path.

  ‘I can’t help stepping on them.’

  The ants disgust me. Their long, fly-like bodies seem fit for nothing, neither walking nor flight.

  ‘I’ll bring out a kettle of boiling water later and pour it over the nest, or we’ll have them crawling up to the house,’ says Isabel.

  ‘You aren’t really going to cut those dahlias, are you?’

  ‘Why not? They’ll look wonderful in a tall vase with the anemones. There are enough to fill three or four vases, all down the table.’ She walks on, past the cherry tree, and there’s the sage bush, its purple flowers heavy with bees, with the soft black dahlias in front of it.

  ‘I’ve never known these come out so early,’ says Isabel. She stands on the path contemplating the mass of flowers.

  ‘Don’t pick them. They look so lovely.’

  ‘Were you thinking of drawing them?’

  ‘I should. They’re beautiful.’

  ‘You won’t,’ says Isabel. ‘You won’t get round to it. You’ve got other things to do.’ She unclips the secateurs, leans forward and begins to slice off flower stems. At first she cuts long stems, but instead of gathering them she lets them fall to the ground. Some of them get trapped on the way down so that she slices through the same stem twice. They fall and catch on one another. I bend and try to pick them up.

  ‘Careful. I’m still cutting.’ I snatch my fingers back as Isabel’s steel secateurs shut on another tall bronze stem. ‘There,’ she says, ‘that should be enough.’ But the flowers are so profuse that there are still dozens left. Isabel shoves the cut dahlias aside with her foot, so that she can get closer to the plant. Leaning closer into it, she begins to snip off each tiny head with quick, short squeezes on the secateurs.

  ‘Don’t! Don’t, Isabel.’ But she carries on. Dahlia heads drop to the dry soil and the path like velvet buttons. Snip, snip, snip, snip. Soon the big branching dahlia plant is shorn of its flowers.

  ‘There,’ says Isabel. She is slightly out of breath. She stands, exhausted, the secateurs dangling at her side. The sun burns, as if through a metal mesh. There’s a buzz in the air and I think of insects, then thunder, but then we both look up at once and there’s the plane, its long black and silver pennant streaming behind it. It has the moon stitched on it, and the stars.

  ‘Come to Damiano’s Dreamworld,’ it says, louder and louder as the plane comes over us lower than it’s ever done before.

  ‘He’s wasting his time,’ says Isabel. ‘No one’s going from here.’

  The engine drone drifts and stutters. The plane picks up a little height and goes off across the water-meadows, taking its message with it.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I ask Isabel, touching the flowers with my toe.

  ‘Susan’ll have plenty for her arrangements.’ Isabel stoops to gather the long stems. ‘Hadn’t you better get going? Richard and Edward are waiting for you.’

  ‘Iźzy, what’s the matter?’ Her face is empty, her shoulders bowed. She looks as if she’s acting the part of an old woman. ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with me, Nina.’ She spits out the words in controlled syllables.

 
‘I know there is. Don’t be like this with me. It’s me, Neen. Your sister. I only want you to –’

  Isabel rubs a hand over her face, to and fro, pressing so hard I see the flesh whiten round her fingers. When she speaks it’s as if she’s wiped away herself to let out a new voice. Or perhaps an old one. It echoes like something I’ve heard before, and know well. It’s a high, sweet voice that makes the hairs rise on my arms. A child’s voice. ‘Is that what you want, Neen? All right. I promise.’ I stare at her and the voice trickles into the silence. I’m not sure she even knows I’m still here. Then she looks down, focuses on the secateurs and then up at me. She’s herself again. ‘I’m so tired, you don’t know how tired I am. Just let me get some sleep today and I’ll be fine tonight.’

  I lick my lips. ‘You go to bed, Iz. I’ll tell Susan you need to rest and she’ll look after the baby for you. Listen, why are we doing all this with the meal anyway? Nobody’d mind if –’

  ‘I want to do it’ She has a faint smile on her face and she looks overwhelmingly like my father. For a second I can hardly see Isabel at all; it’s like looking at her through the body of a ghost.

  It’s OK,’ she says, ‘I’ll tell Susan. Quick, you’d better go. They’ll be in the car. You know what they get like if they have to wait’

  Isabel and I both smile weakly, and then Isabel bends to pick up more flowers. She scrabbles together a double handful of buttons that are already losing their sheen. Half of them drop back on the path. Each time she handles the flowers they look worse.

  ‘What am I going to do with them?’ she asks me.

  ‘Leave them. Chuck them away. For Christ’s sake, Iz, it’s not a crime to pick flowers. They’re only a bush of sodding dahlias, even if you did grow them. It doesn’t matter.’

  She nods. Her hands droop at her sides with the dahlia heads spilling out of them.