Come to Harm

by Catriona McPherson

  “Where is Fancy?” said Keiko, looking around too. Apart from herself and Craig, no one else too young for turquoise ruffles was here.

  Mr. McKendrick cleared his throat.

  “I don’t suppose evenings out are a regular feature, what with having to pay a babysitter,” said a thin woman in pleated peach satin, walking up to join them. She wore a heavy chain over her shoulders, reaching to her waist where it met in a buckle the size of a tea plate. It must be worth a fortune if it’s real gold, Keiko thought, but she could not translate this into anything sayable, so contented herself with trying to look impressed.

  “Go and sit down, Mrs. Mac,” said Craig, “Take the weight off your neck.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at him then turned to Keiko. “I’m Mrs. Andrew McLuskie, my dear, the Provost, and on behalf of the whole of the burgh I’d like to—”

  “Traders’ Association,” said Mr. McKendrick.

  “I am the Provost of the—”

  “A courtesy title, Etta.”

  “—ancient and royal Burgh of Painch—”

  “Plenty time for all that later,” said Mr. McKendrick. “We’re here to eat.”

  The room was set up as if for a summit meeting: one large U-shaped table whose two arms ended about ten feet apart in front of the fireplace. Mr. McKendrick ushered Keiko into a seat at one of these ends, gestured to Craig to sit beside her, pushed her chair in, shook out her napkin, and then settled himself at the end of the other arm. Mrs. McLuskie and Mrs. Poole—Keiko hadn’t noticed her before—faced each other at his left and right sides. The other place next to Keiko was empty, and she could see Mr. McKendrick twisting around, scanning the room, until the door opened again. He raised his arm to the figure in the doorway and motioned to the empty seat with a flick of his hand.

  Keiko felt a tug of familiarity as he came towards her. He was a boy of Craig’s age, she guessed—a young man really—slight and dark, dressed in a nylon sweater that zipped up under the chin and clung like a diving suit to his stringy figure. She heard her mother saying, Tchah! Only good for the stock pot. The young man inclined his head towards her as he sat, showing a widow’s peak in his slicked-back hair.

  “Go on then, pal,” said Craig to the boy, pointing at Keiko. “Guess who this is.”

  The boy pretended to scrutinize her, looking first at the half-eaten pastry straw in her hand and then closely at her mouth. Keiko tried to brush her napkin over her lips without blotting off her lipstick.

  “I give up,” he said.

  “Keiko, Murray. Murray, Keiko,” said Craig.

  “Ah, Murray Poole,” said Keiko. “Now I’ve met the whole family!”

  “You must be thrilled,” Murray Poole said. His voice was as soft as his brother’s, but sibilant rather than muffled. “So,” he said, “how are you finding it?”

  Keiko shook her head slightly and leaned towards him.

  “What do you think of Painchton?” he said, very slowly and rather loud.

  “Extremely friendly,” said Keiko, just as loud and slow. Craig laughed and Murray smiled too after a moment, keeping his eyes on her as he leant back to let a waitress put a plate of soup in front of him.

  “Not too far out?” he said.

  Keiko thanked the waitress for her own plate and then turned back.

  “Far out?” she said, thinking of California hippies and looking at Mr. and Mrs. Sangster seated directly behind Murray on the other wing of the table, waving their fingers at her as they caught her eye.

  “Too far from the bright lights, big city,” said Murray even slower than before.

  Keiko wondered if he was speaking pidgin English, if he was mocking her. Do not imagine trouble Keko-chan, her mother would say. Can’t see it? Call it a flower. She turned very deliberately to Craig.

  “What is it you study?” she said.

  “Business and economics,” said Craig

  “So then today, in the shop? You were practising?”

  Murray snorted. “Tax dodge, isn’t it?” he said.

  Craig put his fingertips into his beer and pretended to flick it at Murray, who frowned and flinched away. Keiko though she understood then; this mocking was friendliness. She had heard it called banter although she had never fully grasped it.

  “And you are a butcher?” she said, turning to Murray.

  “So what’s your PhD all about?” Craig said. “I must have read the sponsorship form when Uncle Jimmy had them, but … which one was yours again?”

  Keiko looked from one to the other. Murray was smoothing stripes into the condensation on his water glass with one careful finger. Craig was looking intently at her, forward in his seat as though desperate to hear her answer. No banter now.

  She tried to remember the beginning of the speech she had practised for all those hours on the plane. It seemed like weeks ago.

  “Actually,” she said, “I’ve changed my proposal a little from the version I sent initially. I hope,” she lowered her voice, “I hope Mr. McKendrick won’t mind.”

  “Couldn’t tell the difference if one was green and one was his granny,” said Craig.

  Keiko let out a sigh. “Well,” she said, “I’m still interested in nutritionism as new folklore. Feeding Belief was the title I sent.” Both boys looked back at her blankly. “But I’m less interested in the content than the movement of the knowledge itself now. In dense networks.” More blank looks. “My new title is Hot Gossip: the mechanics of construing common knowledge in social groups.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Murray. “You’re kidding.”

  Craig swung back on his chair and let out a hoot of high-pitched laughter that made his uncle look over and subject them all to a stare. “You’ve come to the right place then,” he said.

  “I don’t understand,” said Keiko.

  “I hope you two are being good hosts to our new arrival,” said Mr. McKendrick, appearing suddenly at Keiko’s shoulder and making her jump.

  “She’s told us about the new research topic,” said Craig. “Hot gossip.”

  “Food,” corrected Mr. McKendrick.

  “Oh yes, health scares and food fads—excellent material,” Keiko said.

  “Scares and fads?” said Mr. McKendrick. “That’s not what I understood. We take our heritage very seriously here in Painchton. And we’re not the gossiping sort at all. A secret is safe in this town, that I assure you.”

  The waitress came to clear her plate and give her a new one, so Keiko had time to calm herself before she spoke again.

  “Let me assure you,” she said, “I’m an experimental psychologist. I work in lab conditions with controlled stimuli and cohorts of subjects all very carefully chosen. I’m not an anthropologist. I’m not interested in grubbing around in anyone’s—” Except she had a flash of herself on her knees, in front of the radiator, trying to catch hold of the envelope with the tips of her fingers.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. McKendrick said and went back to his seat where his own new plate was waiting.

  “Is that right then?” said Murray when he was gone. It seemed that he was looking at her properly for the first time. “I thought psychology was all about …”

  “Lying on a couch crying about your mum,” said Craig.

  “No,” said Keiko. Then she smiled. “Not absolutely all of it. My interest is in the hardwiring and the circuits. It’s mostly quite dull.”

  Craig began to nod until he stopped himself, but Murray was gazing at her.

  “It sounds pretty cool, if you ask me,” he said. He bent his head close to hers, so close that she could smell the fruity shampoo he must have just used. “I’d still keep it quiet though. Not the food stuff—no worries there—but about the gossip anyway. ” He winked at her and sat up again.

  _____

  Keiko ate steadily but without making muc
h of a dent in her plate of dinner.

  “What is Yorkshire pudding?” she asked after a while, starting to lift a corner of it out of the gravy to examine it more closely. But Mrs. McLuskie was watching her, so instead she folded another pad of it onto her fork and ate it, smiling.

  The waitress, when she returned, looked down at Keiko’s plate in sorrow.

  “You should have called me over, honey,” she said, shaking her head and stroking Keiko’s shoulder. “I could have got you an omelette.”

  “No, it was delicious,” said Keiko, “but just so much.” She looked up and down the table for corroboration, but saw an empty plate with a neatly meshed knife and fork at each place.

  “It’s a skill,” said Craig. “Like sword swallowing. Takes years of practice.”

  “I’ll make a doggy bag,” said the waitress.

  “Lovely,” said Keiko, not sure what she was agreeing to. She lay back in her chair and sipped water but noticed the others beginning to stir.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we will now adjourn to the Bridge for the remaining courses,” said Mr. McKendrick. He wiped his mouth firmly with his napkin, folded it by his plate, then drew out a handkerchief and wiped the rest of his face and neck. Mrs. McLuskie picked up her chain from the back of her chair where she had laid it while she ate and draped it back over her shoulders.

  Keiko lost Craig and Murray in the crowd and was swept up into a group of women, little Mrs. Watson among them, on the way down the stairs. She hesitated at the bottom, but the others carried on right out into the street.

  “Well, I think it’s a good idea,” said an old lady to nobody in particular. “A breath of fresh air and a chance to stretch your legs. Well done, James.”

  “Fart break, in other words,” said Mrs. Watson under her breath, making Keiko giggle.

  “A piece of nonsense, if you ask me,” said someone else. “It’s not a competition.”

  They crossed the road in a straggling crocodile towards the Bridge. There were fairy lights in the flower baskets now, winking off and on. Mr. McKendrick sprang ahead and swept the door open.

  “Where are we, James?” asked Mrs. McLuskie.

  “In the Keeper’s, Etta. Just go straight through.”

  Along a narrow corridor with double doors at the end, held open by two waiters in burgundy jackets, Keiko could see another room laid for dinner, another U-shaped table covered in glasses and candles, flowers and silver. She turned to Mrs. Watson in a panic.

  “Dinner again?”

  “Pudding, my darling,” said Mrs. Watson.

  Mr. McKendrick’s seating plan didn’t survive the change of scene. Although she could see his arm above the heads of the crowd and the flicking gesture as he tried to direct people to one place or another, everyone seemed ready just to drop down into the nearest space, Keiko still with her group of old ladies and Murray and Craig nowhere to be seen, until she caught sight of the side of Murray’s head at the far end of the table, when he tilted back on his chair and tossed his hair out of his eyes.

  So … more Yorkshire pudding, more plates of roasted meat. Some ancient barbaric feasting ritual, obviously. But how many times would they do it in one night? And what was the etiquette? Was it better to turn down their generosity or to crawl under the table to vomit? Keiko swallowed hard as the waiter approached, carrying a dish piled high with some kind of soft, pale substance dotted with dark buttons. Mashed potato? Olives? She looked closer: ice-cream and berries of some kind, pastry underneath.

  “Dessert?” she said. “Just dessert?”

  “Aye. Pudding,” Mrs. Watson said.

  Keiko, reckless with relief, didn’t refuse when the waiter returned with a tall jug, but just watched him pour a coating of yellow cream over the tower on her plate until the berries were gone and the bowl was filled to the brim and close to overflowing. She picked up her spoon.

  “Stop!” A woman was standing beside her chair with her hand up. She was wearing a dark purple garment with wide sleeves and made a dramatic figure. “Keiko, don’t eat that.”

  The room had gone quiet.

  “What the—” said Mr. McKendrick’s voice.

  “I can’t believe you people,” the woman said. Her face was flushed and her chest rose and fell rapidly. “This is criminal.”

  “What is it?” said Keiko, peering hard at the berries and then looking around the room.

  “Cream,” said the woman, her voice trembling. “And ice cream. And probably butter pastry too. Dairy.”

  “For the love of Mike,” someone said.

  “How many times did I tell you?” the woman shouted. “Japanese people can’t eat dairy. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Oh,” said Keiko, and she tried hard not to smile. “How thoughtful, but I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m fine.”

  “But I thought it was all Japanese people,” said the woman, crestfallen now.

  “Not all,” said Keiko. “Not me. But thank you.”

  “I’m sorry about that, pet,” said Mrs. Sangster, drilling a look at Keiko’s saviour as she went back to her seat. “She doesn’t come from Painchton.”

  “Pamela Shand.”

  “With the gift shop.”

  “Glasgow.”

  “We don’t go in for all that here.”

  “All what?” Keiko said, looking up. She was spooning the pudding into her mouth as fast as she could, not even following the voices as they came at her.

  “Intolerances and what have you.”

  “We’re old-fashioned here.”

  “Eat what’s put in front of you and be thankful.”

  “Never did me any harm.”

  Mrs. Sangster leaned forward and stroked Keiko’s hair, smoothing it back from her face, cupping her cheek in one warm palm. “You must come to supper with us as soon as soon can be and let me show you,” she said. The waiter whisked away her cleared plate and substituted another clean one. “Roast, glazed ham I’ll make. I’m noted for my glazed ham.”

  Keiko nodded, swallowing.

  “We were supposed to take turns,” Mrs. McLuskie called over, hearing this. “Once we find out which evening Keiko prefers. And I’ve got a goose.”

  “Crying out loud, Etta,” said Mrs. Watson. “She’s not here on a catering course. She’s a psychiatrist.”

  “Psychologist,” said Keiko, but quietly, remembering what Craig had said to her.

  “I thought it was physics,” someone added, a large woman wearing the same dress as Mrs. McLuskie, but in a different colour and without the provost’s chain.

  “She needs building up, whatever she is,” said Mrs. Sangster. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you waste away, pet.” She gave Keiko one last pinch and sat back, picking up her own spoon again.

  Keiko looked down at her plate and then looked away. “Is Mrs. McMaster here?” she asked, thinking that conversation would give her a break from eating. “I would so like to meet her.”

  “Where is Pet tonight?” said Mrs. Watson, looking round.

  “Off at one of her foster care meetings,” said Mrs. McLuskie.

  “No!” said Mrs. Watson. “She’s not at that again. She swore she’d never let herself in for more of that heartbreak.”

  “Heartbreak?” said Keiko. “Fancy?”

  “Aye, well her too at the time,” said the woman who thought Keiko was in physics. “But at least she came back. Not like the other one.”

  “Tash,” said another woman Keiko didn’t know, very well-groomed and wearing a mask of make-up.

  “Tash!” said the larger version of Mrs. McLuskie, as if the word was impolite in some way.

  The well-groomed woman frowned.

  “Now, how do they organise fostering in Japan?” said Mrs. Watson after a hurried look at both of them.

  “Well,” said Keiko, “familie
s are more … Not so … I’m not sure.” Then, to get a break from talking, she had to eat again. Cheese and crackers this time, with Pamela Shand glowering. When the cheese was cleared, she hid mint chocolates in her bag, passed on the coffee, choked on the whisky, and eventually climbed the stairs to her flat again, holding her stomach in both hands.

  She had forgotten about for you as the evening wore on and seeing it again as she slipped off her shoes, she groaned. Put it in the trash, Malcolm had said, so she picked it up and folded it into a paper plane, looking around for a wastebasket to fire it into. Just as she had told herself it would, the glue on the flap cracked and gave way. She hesitated for a second, then flattened the envelope again and lifted the flap open. Inside, there was a sheet of paper folded in half. She could poke it apart with a finger and see what was written there without even taking it out. She snapped on the overhead light, held the envelope up to it and squinted inside.

  I know what you did. I saw you. I will tell them all

  Keiko smacked her hands together to close it up again. For a moment she stood quite still, listening to the echo of the smack in the empty air. Then very slowly she turned to the shelf above the radiator and inserted one corner of the envelope behind it, wiggling it back and forward until it was almost all gone. She let go, heard it drop down, heard the tap of one edge hitting the plastic sheet, and leaned back against the front door again.

  She was facing straight along the corridor into the living room and across to the dark windows on the other side of the street. She was standing here in bright electric light, against fresh white paint, with a big bay window and a wide open door between her and the outside. Anyone could have seen what she just did.

  Then she shook herself and tutted, told herself not to be silly. No one was watching.

  seven

  It was in the basket on the back of the door, hand delivered, hours before the post was due, the direction—for you—clearly visible through the wire. The dog had grown out of letter-chewing now, but they kept the basket because it was easier on the lumbar discs not to bend down to the floor every morning, even if clumsy morning fingers sometimes fumbled at the catch trying to open it. It took several attempts that day, and then several more to get hold of the loose edge on the flap in shaking fingers and tear it open.