by Tim Lott
And so she casts the bad thought out and replaces it with the more comfortable notion that Charlie is only thinking of her in the end. But the thought chafes with her somehow; if not a total lie, it does not feel completely true. Yet she puts this down to a failing in her own character, a lack of the goodness she feels she somehow expects herself naturally to possess.
Maureen regards the microwave anxiously. It all seems perfectly straightforward; too straightforward. Quite unbelievable in fact. You put the bird in, pressed a couple of buttons and the whole thing would be done in twenty minutes.
The turkey just about fits into the small box of an oven. She rehearses what Charlie has told her – it cooks from the inside, through jiggling the atoms or what-not, so it keeps all the juices sealed in. This makes it better than ever.
It was terribly expensive, this gadget, she knew, and this reassured her that the meal would be successful. It was very generous of Charlie to buy it for her, and she is grateful for the amount of time it would clearly save for her so that she could get on with other activities.
But what activities? The truth increasingly presses down on her that, without the labours of her life, she is at a loss. They do not satisfy her; in fact, she dislikes them much more than she would ever be prepared to admit to Charlie. But they stopped a hole, held back a flood. Now, all the accumulation of time-saving devices brings to the fore a long-suppressed conundrum. What to do with the time after it is deposited into her ever-swelling account? This, it seems to her, is the puzzle of her middle years.
She is no women’s libber – this is the phrase she uses to herself, women’s libber, borrowed from Charlie – but she feels that there must be a place to escape to, not just a place to escape from.
Working at Divine Creations has surprised her. Marie-Rose thinks she is good at her job, sings her praises loudly. Maureen enjoys the neatness of the columns, the quietly mounting figures tallying so elegantly with one another. Income, outgoings, a world under control. Marie-Rose thinks she should train as some sort of accountant. There are evening classes, postal courses. Publicly, Maureen pooh-poohs the idea, it seems way out of her reach. Secretly, she covets the prospect. The money Marie-Rose pays her feels different to her touch from that which Charlie gives her. Although she considers all income as belonging to the marriage, she keeps the banknotes in a different place from those he has earned.
Tentatively, she rotates the circular plastic knob on the fascia of the microwave and it begins emitting a soft hum. A pale light gleams reassuringly within. Perhaps it will be OK. She turns away to concentrate on the vegetables. Lorraine is helping peel some carrots, her eyes bunched up with blank concentration.
How you and Tommy getting along? says Maureen.
All men are the same, says Lorraine. Bloody great kids.
All women are the same too, says Robert following his voice into the room. Give ‘em a fast ride on a motorbike and they melt like half a pound of Anchor. All that power between the legs.
Lorraine laughs.
You’re filthy, you are.
Robert, peel a few of those sprouts, will you?
Robert picks up a knife, positions himself next to Lorraine and begins cutting at the pile of Brussels sprouts. Maureen checks through the serving hatch; Charlie is deep in conversation with Tommy.
You didn’t tell your dad where you got the money for the bike, did you?
Nah. I think he thinks I nicked it.
He can think what he likes, so long as he doesn’t think what he ought not to think.
What are you talking about, Mo? says Lorraine. The waist of her jeans is touching Robert’s hip.
Charlie doesn’t approve of me giving Robert money. Says he’s got to learn to stand on his own two feet.
You paid for the bike?
Sort of I promised I’d give him a pound for every pound he earned himself He worked hard for that bike.
I bloody did, says Robert. I was running two jobs. Security guard and removals man. Try telling Dad, though. He thinks I’m a layabout from top to bottom.
I can’t see you as a security guard, Rob, says Lorraine.
Actually, I quite like it. I like the uniform and that. And people listen to what you got to say. It’s all right. Better than working in removals.
Why don’t you tell your dad?
He wants me to be a bloody brain surgeon or something, doesn’t he? Or a doctor. Some mate of his at work’s got a son who’s a doctor. I’m supposed to be impressed.
The potatoes and parsnips are already roasting. The arrival of the microwaved bird is imminent. Maureen is unnerved by the lack of aroma, of roast flesh; it must all be confined within the white box. The humming remains soft, but now it sounds threatening. She can smell the potatoes and parsnips in the oven. Peas, carrots and sprouts are in saucepans ready to be boiled. Robert adds the last of the sprouts. A hostess trolley is parked and ready. She checks the LCD clock on top of the fridge. She checks the time remaining on the microwave dial. Everything is perhaps going according to plan. Robert notices Maureen’s worried expression.
Don’t worry, Mum. It’ll be fine.
Course it will, Mo, says Lorraine. I’ll finish putting the crackers out.
Maureen helps herself to a second glass of Van Huyten Cherry Brandy. She is not meant to mix it with the Tryptophan that she takes for her nerves, but Christmas cancels all bets. Anyway, her nerves are playing up. She doesn’t trust the turkey, which means, on a deeper level, that she doesn’t trust her husband to make it all right. It is this deeper thought that leads her to the second glass. She lights a rare cigarette to accompany it, adding to the fug and heat that fill the room. She is suddenly exhausted.
It is twenty minutes before Maureen feels ready to make the announcement. She puts her head through the hanging plastic strips and speaks in a singsong voice.
Come and get it.
Brought out in advance, steaming bowls of vegetables: sprouts, peas, parsnips, potatoes, carrots. Charlie sits at the head of the table, Maureen’s chair is empty at the other end. Tommy sits next to Lorraine and is rubbing her thigh with wide, circular strokes. His face, purpled by lust and drink, is the colour of an erection. Charlie, having dropped his Christmas cracker, is aware of the gradual progress of Tommy’s hand towards Lorraine’s groin after he stoops to retrieve it. He experiences a bolt of envy. In order to disguise or diffuse it, he rises to give Maureen a hand. Lorraine has undone three buttons of her blouse and her cleavage plunges towards a moist heaven. Robert sits opposite Tommy and Lorraine, drinking a glass of Carling Black Label. His eyes stray towards Lorraine’s cleavage. They all await the centrepiece, the turkey.
Charlie goes into the kitchen. Maureen is standing over the bird, not moving. Steam rises from it. It is faun in colour rather than brown, but otherwise it looks to all intents normal, although the aroma is not as pungent and enticing as Charlie would expect.
I told you it would be all right, says Charlie, cupping his arm around his wife’s waist. He still seeks forgiveness for his earlier transgression.
I hope so, she says shakily.
She inserts a skewer violently into a point between the breast and backbone. Charlie flinches. Clear liquid oozes. This encourages her. She nods to Charlie to take it through, while she brings in hot plates on the trolley. It is her best set, Avalon by Hostess, decorated with large orange and yellow flowers.
Charlie enters the dining room carrying the large but slightly anaemic-looking bird. He sets it in the middle of the table. Maureen emerges from the kitchen looking flustered but with a happy smile on her face. The mixture of tranquillizers and alcohol is successful even though it says on the bottle not to mix the two.
Amazing. It only took twenty minutes, says Charlie.
What model you say it was? says Tommy, slurring slightly. He and Charlie have both been drinking heavily.
Creda 40131.
You should try one of the Japanese ones. Yeah
Lorraine’s breasts tug at the
fourth button. Robert’s mouth is slightly open.
Charlie nods, tries to concentrate.
Mitsubishi. It’s got an automatic wave-circulating system, says Tommy.
What’s its golf handicap? says Robert.
Tommy ignores him.
No, but not trying to be funny. You need that. To cook evenly
Looks delicious, says Robert, his eyes remaining firmly on Lorraine’s cleavage.
Nice and juicy, says Lorraine, again glancing up at Robert.
It’s a bit pale, says Maureen.
It’s the method, says Charlie. Microwaves don’t change the colour so much.
You can’t judge a book by its cover, says Lorraine.
You sure it’s fucking dead, Charlie? says Tommy, grinning wolfishly. Looks like it’s going to jump up and do a runner any fucking moment.
Lorraine slowly licks her lips. Robert drops his knife. Charlie ignores all this, concentrating on slicing the turkey, while Maureen dishes out the plates and the guests help themselves to vegetables. For the slicing, he has an electric carving knife that does much to drown out further conversation. The flesh cleaves. Charlie feels confident about the bird, despite its sickly appearance. They have followed the instructions exactly.
The meat falls off the bone. Plates are passed in turn to Charlie and he layers the meat on to each one. No one starts to eat until he’s finished. Maureen is seated now. They all have wine, glasses of pale Vinho Verde.
Before we start, says Charlie, a toast to Maureen for the wonderful meal.
Maureen.
Maureen.
Mum.
Maureen blushes.
Come on. It’ll get cold.
Robert takes a bite of the turkey first. His expression freezes, is unreadable. Maureen takes a bite. She almost has to spit it out, so hot is the meat. But the strange thing is that alongside the heat there is cold. It is both uncooked and overcooked. The meat is tough, almost to the point of inedibility. Maureen tries to keep her face from falling.
It’s… says Robert. But then stops. He looks to his Uncle Tom for help.
Tommy chews determinedly on the turgid meat. He nods at Maureen encouragingly, though not quite able to speak the required lie.
It’s horrible, mutters Maureen.
Course it’s not, says Charlie.
He wishes desperately now that he had spent the extra £30 on the automatic wave-circulating system. He helps himself to a large quantity of breast meat, then makes a performance of taking a large chunk. Recognizing its inedibility immediately, he nevertheless manages a broad smile.
Outstanding. You’d never get that much flavour in an ordinary roast.
Lorraine says nothing, but is manifestly not touching her meat. Maureen takes a sip of the wine that is in front of her. She readjusts her face into an expression of cheerful indifference.
No. It’s horrible. Never mind.
She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a large plastic bowl and begins picking up the plates one by one and scraping the meat into it.
Charlie looks outraged.
Jesus God Almighty, Maureen, I tell you it’s OK. Don’t take mine.
Come on, Charlie, give me your plate.
No. It was a top-of-the-range oven and it worked just fine. It cost £250.
Dad, it doesn’t matter.
Robert hands his plate to Maureen. Taking their cue, Tommy and Lorraine do the same.
This is the best turkey I’ve ever tasted, insists Charlie, and forces another forkful into his mouth.
Maureen returns to the kitchen, where she stands, breathing heavily. Although disappointed by the failure of the turkey, the kick of the tranquillizers keeps her functioning. But she has no idea what to do now. Then Tommy appears at the door. He enfolds Maureen within his enormous bulk.
Don’t you worry, Mo. It’s only food. Not your fault, is it? You needed one with… a microwave with… never fucking mind. Anyway, I’ve got a solution. There’s a fucking monster handy Gandhi I know around here. We’ll have Christmas lunch Bombay style!
I don’t know, Tommy…
Come on. What you fancy? Three alarm or four alarm. They can’t make ‘em hot enough for me. You cheer up. You put your feet up. Tommy’ll sort it all out.
He turns his back, affixes the fake beard, then turns to Maureen again.
I’m fucking Santa after all, ain’t I?
Half an hour later, the living-room table is covered with foil canisters, poppadoms, chutneys and naan breads. The smell of spices and chutneys fills the room. Robert, Lorraine, Maureen and Tommy pile their plates high, but Charlie, who has insisted throughout that the turkey is perfectly fine, sits there with an empty plate, having finished his Christmas dinner alone.
This is delicious, mutters Robert through a mouthful of lamb korma.
Fucking ought to be. I bunged the cook an extra tenner to do us something special. These guys know their stuff, I’m telling you. Christ, this vindaloo is almost too hot for me. Fan fucking tastic. How’s your tikka masala, Mo?
It’s good, actually. Very tasty. She feels herself brightening up, feels a swell of gratitude towards her brother-in-law.
Best curry house in west London, I swear. Pass us three of those poppadoms, Lolly.
Charlie sits staring at his plate.
I’m going to get some more turkey.
You really should try this bhuna ghosht, says Lorraine. It’s marvellous.
The turkey’s fine. I’m going to have some more.
Charlie disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate defiantly piled with slices of sweating turkey, fresh from a reheating in the microwave. Tommy looks at Robert, raises an eyebrow. Robert nods in acknowledgement of his father’s stubbornness.
So, I hear you got a job, Tommy says to Maureen. His eyelids droop.
Not exactly, says Charlie.
What do you mean? says Maureen.
The booze and pills are wearing off. She feels irritable, provoked, cheated of her proper laurels for preparing the Christmas dinner. Her cracker motto raises no laughs.
I only mean it’s part-time.
Does that make it not a job? says Maureen sharply.
All right, says Charlie. It’s a job, then.
It’s nice to keep yourself busy. Now that ‘trouble’ here has flown the coop, says Lorraine. She winks at Robert.
It’s not ‘keeping busy’. It’s a job, says Maureen. Book-keeping.
Cash business? says Tommy.
Hairdresser’s, says Maureen. Divine Creations.
Perfect cash business. I bet you get to use your imagination. I bet you tell more stories than fucking Jackanory.
Maureen smiles conspiratorially.
Maureen wouldn’t do anything like that, would you? says Charlie. She doesn’t go in for that kind of thing.
Ah, bollocks, says Tommy. No flies on our Mo, are there, Mo?
Well… you know. I try to be flexible.
I had mine done at Sassoon last week, says Lorraine. What do you think, Robert?
It’s all right, says Robert, not meeting Lorraine’s eye.
Very nice, says Charlie.
What about mine? says Maureen.
What? says Charlie.
I had mine done last week and you didn’t have a word to say about it.
You have to pay for quality, grunts Tommy, helping himself to the last peshwari naan. He keeps one hand on Lorraine’s groin.
You still knocking yourself out cheap? says Robert, picking at his fingernails.
Cheap? says Tommy.
He takes his hand off Lorraine’s groin, flexes the fingers.
Nothing cheap about me, says Tommy. My rate’s £30 a day. That’s what you have to pay for a craftsman.
Charlie snorts.
I was hoping you could help me sort out my house a little bit.
Nothing I wouldn’t do for my favourite nephew, even if he is a ginger little poof. What sort of place is it?
It’s a suite at th
e Hilton, says Charlie.
It’s a squat, says Robert.
Sounds quite romantic, says Lorraine.
It’s a dosshouse, says Charlie.
You’ve never even been there, says Robert.
You’ve never invited me, says Charlie.
There is an uneasy silence. Charlie holds out a cracker to his brother.
Come on, Tommy.
Tommy hesitates, then pulls. The paper separates without a bang. The crackers were cheap, from North End Road market.
Look what I saved, says Robert.
He holds out the turkey wishbone to Lorraine. Lorraine puts her little finger in it and pulls. She gets the smaller part.
Make a wish, says Lorraine.
Robert squeezes his eyes tight closed, pauses a few seconds, then opens them again.
What did you wish? says Lorraine.
I’m not telling you, says Robert mysteriously.
It has to be a secret, doesn’t it? says Maureen, chucking Robert under the chin. Or it won’t come true.
Robert twists his face away.
I’m not a kid any more.
You’re all grown up big and strong, says Lorraine.
How’s the toy choo-choos, Charlie? says Tommy.
They’re not toys, says Charlie. Shall we have some Christmas pudding?
Dad had to get rid of them, says Robert.
What? says Tommy.
Council says they’re a fire risk.
Fucking council, says Tommy.
I don’t know how you put up with it, says Lorraine. She is correcting her lipstick with the aid of a pocket mirror. To have your own front door…
We’ve got our own front door, says Maureen.
Yeah. Same colour as all the others. Can’t change so much as the letter box. Look, I’m not trying to be snooty. All I’m saying is, it’s nice to have your own.
We don’t like the debt, says Maureen. Do we, Charlie? We’re just old fuddy-duddies.
That’s right, says Robert. Mr and Mrs Keep Your Nose Clean and Steady As You Go.
Slow and steady wins the race, says Maureen.
Charlie feels a hotness inside him. He notes that Tommy’s hand is back on Lorraine’s lap. His other hand strokes her Sassooned hair. The Kawasaki and the Astra are outside, shaming him with their newness, their naked expense. Tommy and Lorraine will drive home to their own house. He fumes at having had to dismantle his railway. The microwave lacks an automatic wave system for the protons. The turkey is foul. It is his fault. But Tommy sorted it all out, Tommy is the hero of the hour. When he speaks, it is with a thought at the back of his head that seems to have arrived from nowhere.