by Rachel Cusk
She said, “What did you do today?”
Dom said, “I attended a seminar on the correct procedure for the prosecution of parking fines.”
She took his arm in its heavy coat. She put her hand with his in the pocket and he grasped her fingers. They walked together along the dark, deserted tunnel of the street, towards the junction where it swept around the corner to the main road.
She said, “I went to the park this afternoon and everybody’s dog was called Maisie. I swear there were about four of them. Everywhere I went I could hear people calling, Maisie! Maisie!”
She laughed out loud and the sound rang up and down the street.
“Mai-sie! Come on, Maisie! Come here, Maisie! Come here! Good girl!”
Christine was stuffing the chicken breasts when her mother rang.
“What did you decide? The chicken or the fish?”
Viv had given her a recipe for salmon glazed with Rose’s lime marmalade.
“I’m doing the chicken,” Christine said. “It’s just easier, isn’t it?”
Viv was silent in Newton Abbot.
“To be honest, Mum, I can’t be bothered with fish. I feel with chicken that I know where I am. I just thought, you know, why not make life easy? Why make things more difficult than they actually have to be? Do you know what I’m saying?”
“The fish was easy,” said Viv.
“I just couldn’t be bothered.”
“It was easy, Christine. And with chicken you can never be sure. You could send them all home with salmonella poisoning. You’ll wish you’d bothered then. Larry always used to say a chicken was a filthy bird.” Down the phone Christine heard her mother take a drink of something. “After he worked on the chicken farm that summer he wouldn’t touch it. He said the cages were so crowded most of the birds never once stood on their own legs. They just sat there in their own leavings pecking each other’s eyes out.”
“That sounds like our house on a Saturday morning,” said Christine.
“It’s no laughing matter,” said Viv. “Make sure you keep your surfaces clean with chicken. Don’t touch the cooked meat with any implement you’ve used for the raw.”
“Get you,” said Christine, holding the phone under her chin and tearing the cling film off another Styrofoam package of chicken breasts. “You and your technical jargon.”
“If you’d done the fish I wouldn’t be worrying,” said Viv. “Then there’s all that scandal about the black market in meat. People getting meat off the back of a lorry and then changing the sell-by dates. You think you’re eating fresh produce when in fact it’s half-rotten. A lot of restaurants buy their meat that way, apparently. The Asians are the worst. That would affect you more than it does me. I can’t stand their food.” In Newton Abbot, Viv took another drink. “Apparently they cover up the taste of the meat with the sauces so you can’t tell.”
“Oh, I like a good Indian,” said Christine.
“That’s what your father used to say,” said Viv. “He used to say the only good Indian was a prawn biryani.”
With a knife Christine slit open a chicken breast and forced the herb butter into the jellied flesh with her fingers. It was hard to get the butter to stay in. It kept coming away on her fingers. She prised open the slit and wiped her fingers all over the veined insides. Liquid ran out and coated the gobs of butter and made them slippery.
“You’ve put me off these now,” she said.
“Where did you get them?” her mother asked.
“The supermarket. They were on three for two.”
Viv tutted. “They inject them with fluid to make them look bigger, you know. That’s what they say. At least with a fish you know it’s clean. Though now they’re saying the fish are full of rubbish from the water, aren’t they? Make sure you wash your hands after you’ve touched them, that’s all.”
Christine had given up trying to stuff the breasts and was hurling them one after another into the roasting dish. She tipped the herb butter in on top of them and then tore off a sheet of foil and smothered the whole dish with it. With both hands she crushed the bloodied Styrofoam trays and cling film all together and dropped them into the bin.
“Are you out tonight?” she asked her mother.
“No.”
“I thought tonight was your bridge night.”
“I didn’t fancy it,” said Viv.
“Didn’t you? Why not?”
“They’re all so old,” said Viv dramatically. “Yet they seem like they haven’t lived.”
Christine rolled her eyes and emptied the remains of the herb butter into the bin on top of the Styrofoam trays. There was only a strip of foil left in the box, so she threw that in too.
“So what are you doing?” she said.
“I’m sitting on the floor,” Viv replied, “drinking a very nice bottle of Rioja.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“Since five. I went to see the new Tesco’s with Angela and she dropped me back here about half four. They’ve built a new Tesco’s superstore on the ring road and of course Angela wanted to see it. I wasn’t bothered one way or the other, really. It’s not what you’d call exactly exciting, is it? Then she said did I want to spend the evening with her and Bill instead, but no thank you very much, I thought, not another evening with those two. Bill talking golf all night and Angela still offering you cups of tea at ten o’clock when you’re gasping for a drink. No, I thought, I’d prefer my own company.”
“You said you enjoyed bridge last week.”
“It was the novelty. The novelty’s worn off now, though the others don’t seem to think so. They all seem to think they’re having the time of their lives.”
There was a pause. Down the phone Christine heard a click and then a long exhalation of breath.
“Are you smoking?” she said.
“Just the odd one or two.”
“Christ alive.”
“That’s another reason not to go to the bridge club. You’re not allowed to smoke. They make you go outside, like a dog. It’s funny, really, when you think about it. There they are, all prim and proper, all obsessed with good health and living a longer life, and what have they got to live for? What are they doing with all this life they’ve got? Playing bridge to pass the time!” Viv took another drag. “Larry would have seen the funny side of that.”
Christine was rooting out plastic bags of salad from the fridge and tossing them on to the table. Then she took out a bottle of ready-made salad dressing and a half-full bottle of white wine, slammed the fridge closed with her hip, and, with the phone still wedged beneath her chin, pulled the cork from the wine bottle with her teeth.
“Look, Mum,” she said, tipping the wine into a glass, “I know it’s not easy being on your own. He’s only been dead six months. Just give it a bit of time.”
“People always tell me that,” said Viv. “I say, what do I want to give it time for? I don’t have much time to give. Your father took most of it.”
Joe appeared in the doorway and looked at Christine with a chagrined expression. He tapped his watch meaningfully with his finger. After a while he went away again.
“He had his boat and his golf and his Friday night at the pub. What did I have? He’d never let me on the boat, for a start. I was never allowed anywhere near it. What did he think I was going to do, sink it? The trouble was, Larry was selfish. In his case it came from being an only child. They never learn to share, only children. That’s why I didn’t stop at Stephen. I wanted to, but I couldn’t do it. I thought, I can’t let this go on into the next generation. I can’t just perpetuate this disease. I was never a family person, though. No one ever taught me how to be. I never knew what on earth to do with you and Stephen on a rainy afternoon. Everyone else always seemed to be making fairy cakes. But I just thought, if I want fairy cakes I’ll go and buy them.”
One by one Christine tore open the bags of salad and emptied them into a big bowl. Then she made a crinkled ball of the bags wi
th her fists and dropped it into the bin. She took a long swallow of wine.
“I know what you mean,” she said.
“It wasn’t like it is for you now. You just put yours in front of the video and you don’t hear from them for the rest of the afternoon.”
“That’s right,” said Christine.
“We were expected to actually do things with children. And then the food you had to make! We couldn’t just open a box of fish fingers like you do and call it a day. Then when Larry came home he’d want his meal. I sometimes felt like I was manning the buffet car of a British Rail train, serving separate sittings. But in those days it was expected of you.”
There was another click, and an exhalation.
“What about Stephen?” said Christine. “Have you seen his house yet?”
“It’s not as nice as yours,” said Viv indifferently. “They’ve got no taste, him and Samantha. They’ve only been there a fortnight and they’ve got it all tricked out like a whore’s parlour. It’s all gold fittings and swag curtains and these great sofas with fringes. I said to them, look, you two, this isn’t it at all. It’s all minimalism these days. It’s all floorboards and white walls. You want to ask Christine’s Joe, I said. He’ll tell you. He’s an architect, he knows about style.”
“I’ll bet they thanked you for that.”
“They’ve got televisions in all the rooms,” said Viv. “It’s like a Holiday Inn.”
“You’ll enjoy seeing the children, though,” said Christine.
“I’ve been seeing more of them than I planned,” said Viv ominously. “Last week he and Samantha invited me round and then announced that they were leaving me with all three and going out!”
“That was nice.”
“Then he phones up and says would I like to have Oliver two days a week because Samantha’s decided to go back to work. I said, why are you asking me? You’ve got money, why don’t you pay someone to do it? He acts all hurt and says, but I thought you’d want to do it, Mum. So I say, why would I want to do that? You don’t want to do it, and you’re his parents.”
“And that went down well, did it?” said Christine, emptying a bag of potatoes into a bowl and slamming it into the microwave.
“I always imagined that families were loving things,” Viv said disconsolately.
Christine looked at the kitchen window, with its black squares of oblivion.
“You could be forgiven for imagining that.”
“I grew up in a home, you see.”
“I know you did, Mum.”
“I used to look at families and think they were like a tree of love. All these connected people rooted to the ground.”
“That’s a lovely thing to think.”
“And I was just this little scrap, you see, this little piece of rubbish being blown around in the wind. That’s how you feel, growing up in an institution.”
“Your childhood wasn’t easy, Mum.”
“Only now I look back and I feel that I’ve been robbed. I feel I have even less than I started with. All I see is selfishness and greed, Christine. I feel them sucking the life out of me.”
With the phone in the crook of her neck Christine tore a black plastic bin liner from a roll and shook it open. Then she went around the table sweeping newspapers and magazines and empty drinks cartons and Ella’s felt-tip pens into it. She knotted the top of the bin liner and then shoved it behind the armchair in the corner. She looked at her watch. It was nearly eight o’clock.
“I didn’t tell you,” said Viv. “I drove past it the other day.”
“Past what?”
“The place where I grew up.”
“What were you doing all the way out there?”
“I made the journey specially. I don’t know why, but I wanted to see it again. They’ve turned it into a hotel.”
“Have they?”
“And I thought, what if I went in and booked a room? I sat in the car, all the time thinking I was about to get out and go in. I wanted to find my old room, you see. I wanted to find my room just as it was and get into my bed.”
Christine put back her head for an instant so that the phone nearly fell off her shoulder and fixed her eyes on the ceiling.
“I thought that if only I could get into my bed everything would be all right again. It was the strangest feeling, Christine.”
“That is strange, Mum,” she said, going out into the hall. She found a vase of flowers that was standing on a shelf and carried it unsteadily with one hand back into the kitchen, so that some of the water slopped over on to the floor. She deposited it heavily in the centre of the table and gave the blooms a shake. “What do you think made you feel that?”
“I don’t know. I only know it was what I felt. It felt like that was my rightful place. It felt like home.”
“That was a strange thing to feel, wasn’t it?”
“Then I came back and phoned up Yachting Weekly and put in an advertisement for Larry’s boat.”
“You didn’t!”
“And a week or so later a gentleman came to the house, offered the full price, and towed it away. I tell you, Stephen was spitting with rage. He’d been biding his time, you see. He was so angry he wouldn’t talk to me. Samantha told me they were all very disappointed. We hadn’t liked to bring it up, she said, out of respect for Larry. Get that, out of respect for Larry. We didn’t think you’d be getting rid of his things so soon, she said. I said to her, I’ve done you a favour, girl. That boat made me a widow before I had a grey hair in my head. I’m selling the golf clubs next.”
“Good for you, Mum.”
Christine wrenched open a drawer, took out two handfuls of cutlery, and walked around the table dealing them out.
“It’s all one way in a family, Christine. It’s all selfishness and greed. Don’t let it happen to you.”
“No, I won’t, Mum. Do you think we need napkins? Or is that just too boring and middle class?”
“Follow your instincts, love. I’m no expert.”
“Well, in for a penny,” said Christine, walking around the table again with the napkins.
“Won’t they be coming in a minute? Shouldn’t you be getting ready? Have you decided what you’re going to wear?”
“I bought a new top today,” said Christine. “I might put that on, see if anyone notices.”
“You make them take notice!” Viv injuncted drunkenly.
“I’ll do my best, Mum.”
“Christine?”
“What, Mum?”
“Make sure the chicken’s cooked right through, won’t you? All these people coming. You’ve got your reputation to consider.”
Upstairs, Joe was shaving and Ella was sitting on the bathroom floor in her pyjamas, with her thumb in her mouth and Robbie under her arm.
“Didn’t you put her to bed?” exclaimed Christine. “I’ve been downstairs all this time thinking that at least you’d have put them both to bed.”
“You were on the phone!” Joe said, indignant.
Christine folded her arms and looked at him. He was wearing a clean, well-ironed blue shirt and a pair of clean beige canvas trousers. His damp dark hair was slicked back from his face. He looked like the people she sometimes saw through the windows of what she thought of as trendy offices, people who were incomprehensible to her. The room was wet with condensation from the shower. It smelled of toothpaste and deodorant.
“Haven’t you been having yourself a nice little beauty session?” she said.
Joe made perfect paths down his white cheeks with the razor.
“I put Danny down,” he said. “I put him down half an hour ago, while you were on the phone.”
“Well, couldn’t you have done Ella while you were at it? Was that too much to ask? Was that just too much to contemplate?”
“I didn’t see why I should,” said Joe, sticking his chin out pugilistically and running the razor over it.
“What do you mean, you didn’t see why you should?”
; “I didn’t see why I should be up here doing all the work while you’re on the phone.”
“I just happened to be doing all the food as well, for your information. I just happened to be knocking up bloody dinner for eight, while you’re up here beautifying yourself.”
“I don’t understand why you can’t tell them to call back later,” said Joe. “I mean, we’ve got people coming for dinner, and the phone rings twenty minutes before they’re due to arrive, and you settle in for a nice long chat.”
“While you’re up here shaving and hoping that dinner for eight people will just appear by magic on the table, is that it?”
“Why can’t you just say, look, it’d be lovely to talk to you but I’m busy now and I’ll call you in the morning? Instead, it’s half an hour. I hear the phone ring, and I think, right, that’s another half an hour gone.”
“I was talking to Mum,” said Christine.
“Oh well, that really couldn’t wait, could it? That was a real emergency. It’s been at least ten hours since you last talked to her.”
“She was a bit down, that’s all.”
“Whenever I hear you talking to your mother,” Joe said, observing himself in the mirror, “I always know that it’s her because the conversation’s so one-sided. There are these big gaps and then you say something like oh dear, or don’t worry, or I’m sure it’ll be all right in the end. And then there’s another big gap while she talks about herself again. They’re completely one-sided conversations. She never asks about you. She just goes on and on about herself.”
“She can talk about herself if she wants,” said Christine. “What’s so bloody wrong with talking about yourself? At least she keeps in touch. You have to ring your mother to remind her when it’s your birthday. At least Mum is an open, vulnerable person. At least she’s not another selfish, self-satisfied old lady who sits there being disapproving because I have a glass of wine when I’m pregnant.”