Come to Harm

by Catriona McPherson

  She looked up as the shop door opened and Malcolm Poole sidled in.

  “Malcolm, good morning,” she called out, safe and powerful behind the counter. He looked up in surprise and then smiled, coming towards her in an awkward route around the obstacles of copy machines and racks of costumes.

  “Malcolm, can I ask you a question, please?”

  “Anything.”

  “What would you do if you read in the newspaper that tomatoes gave you cancer?”

  “I’m not that keen on tomatoes,” he said.

  “Or how about this one?” said Keiko. “If extraterrestrials contacted you, would you call the police, a priest, or a doctor? Or the army?” she added.

  “Is this a joke?” asked Malcolm. “Oh, okay.” She watched him, her pen hovering ready to record his answer. “If extraterrestrials contacted me, I would … um … I would see what they wanted, I suppose. Get to know them.” He stopped and dropped his head under Keiko’s stare.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That was most helpful.”

  “Is that how you do it?” Malcolm said. “You ask a real-life question first and then you do your special ones?”

  “N—” Keiko began, then checked herself. “I’m not supposed to reveal my methods,” she said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Just some copies,” he said slowly, bending one arm in towards his body and plucking some papers from inside his jacket. He laid them on the counter and smoothed across them twice with both hands. “I want these made into wee flyers. A5, I think it is.” Keiko slid down off her stool and took them over to the machine, Malcolm drawing up beside her just as the first sheet curled out and she held it up to show him.

  “That’s perfect,” he said, with such animation that she looked to see what was on the paper; she had thought at first glance it was just a list of products and prices. “You get it?” he asked, and she looked again as the next sheet glided out. “We do these freezer packs. A Lean Selection—loin chops, chicken breasts, and that; and a Busy Pick—stir-frying, minute steaks, all ready-marinated. But the budget packs have never sold well. And I think it’s the name: Cheap Cuts.” He edged closer to Keiko to watch the flyers emerging. “So—here’s the genius—I’m relaunching it, but I’m calling it the Hearty Appetite—good big rolled cuts for slow cooking, nothing expensive, sausages—nice big thick ones to go in a casserole. And I thought I’d put in one different thing each time, with a recipe. Oxtail maybe, or tripe. Try to get people interested again. You see, the way I’m thinking, if people think they’re buying a budget pack it makes them feel poor and that makes them feel sad, but if they buy a Hearty Pack with my old-time recipe revivals they’ll still be saving the money but they’ll feel happy about it. It’s all about getting people over the door, really. Youngsters, I mean. Kids that weren’t brought up to go to the butchers. Once they’re in the shop I can talk them round to anything—even tripe!—but it’s getting them started. If I can just get them started, I’m laughing. And they’ll be the better for it, get them off all those pizzas and God knows what.”

  He bent over slightly to look up into Keiko’s face as she rolled the sheets up and snapped a rubber band around them.

  “That’s very kind,” she said. “What’s tripe?”

  “Sheep’s stomach lining,” said Malcolm, “Delicious, really tender. You cook it slowly in milk and onions and it comes out like a kind of rich, creamy soup you eat with buttered bread.” Keiko felt her face twist and she swallowed hard. “It’s lovely,” he said. “The butcher does all the cleaning and the first cooking in the shop, so all the stomach contents and juices are gone by the time you …” He stopped.

  “I don’t have a freezer,” offered Keiko.

  “Don’t forget we’re having you for lunch tomorrow,” Malcolm said.

  _____

  She hadn’t forgotten. Of course, she hadn’t. She had already bought a box of mint chocolates and a potted chrysanthemum to take with her. Fancy’s advice.

  “A bottle of spirits would be a scandal, see? Might as well take a five-quid baggie. Wine is like saying their own might not be worth drinking. Flowers are a bit too swanky, but a plant—better value and more boring—is fine. Chocolates are a tough call. Anything in a flat box with a ribbon is showing off, anything in a stand-up box, likes of Celebrations or that, is thumbing your nose at them. Safest bet is something minty—not nice enough to be a proper treat, but kind of saying it’s a posh meal like you’d have mints after.”

  “Are you joking?” said Keiko. “Thank God Rosa took me out to the chippy.”

  “Yeah, just as well you’ve got me as a Sherpa.”

  “Eh?”

  “Don’t say eh. And don’t say God. Or chippy. What’s happened to you? If your English goes up the spout, who d’you think’s gonna get the blame? Muggins here.”

  “Muggins?”

  “Don’t say that either.”

  “So many rules,” said Keiko, rolling her eyes. “No one told me hostess gifts in Britain were such a minefield.” She threw teabags into two mugs and poured over water from the kettle.

  “This ain’t Britain,” Fancy said. “This is small-town east-coast Scotland. Cue the banjo music. You’re in lonely country now.”

  “You are joking, aren’t you?” Keiko said. “This is a safe place really?”

  “What you on about?” Fancy said, rummaging in Keiko’s cupboard for a packet of biscuits. “You’re not making much of dent in this lot, are you?”

  “They brought more,” Keiko said. “I’m on about …” She didn’t want to mention Tash again after the atmosphere last time. Fancy had denied it, but Keiko knew better. But she didn’t have to mention Tash because that’s not all it was. “Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Glendinning?”

  “From the newsagents? Course I do. He’s got a belly like a beach ball, she’s got a face like a smacked arse. Why?”

  “They said something I can’t get out of my head.”

  “Oh?” said Fancy.

  “They called me this one. But I thought the Traders had never sponsored a student before. So how can I be this one? It smells fishy.”

  Fancy sniffed. “Something does,” she agreed. “No offence, Keeks, but you should get yourself over to McKendrick’s and get a sink trap. Your drain’s minging.”

  “It’s been like that since I got here,” Keiko said.

  “Probably something in U-bend,” Fancy said. “If you get something hard stuck, it clogs like nobody’s business. You need to get Malcolm or Murray up and see.”

  “Murray,” said Keiko, then flushed as Fancy arched an eyebrow. “Malcolm wouldn’t fit under the sink.”

  “Good point,” Fancy said. “You forget once you’re used to him.”

  Sunday, 27 October

  She made her way towards the Pooles’ house at noon with the mints and chrysanthemum, passing the Bridge Hotel, crossing the street of big houses, through the street of small houses with chain-link fences and cars parked at the kerb, onto a quiet curving road where bungalows were set on green cushions of lawn that rose plumply from the pavement’s edge. Where is everyone? she wondered. It was a pleasant autumn day, but the streets were deserted. Where were all the people?

  A few at church; a few more at golf; many still in bed or at least in dressing gowns, with the Sunday papers almost read and the third pot of coffee brewing. And upstairs at the ironmongers five of them were sitting round a table, no armchairs and crystal glasses of wine this morning, big decisions to be made today.

  “Is it my imagination,” Mr. McKendrick was saying, “or am I still sensing cold feet here?”

  Kenny Imperiolo, Etta McLuskie, Sandra Dessing, and Iain Ballantyne looked at one another, waiting for someone to speak first. At last, Sandra shook her head.

  Mr. McKendrick saw the shake and pounced. “Good,” he said. “Maybe you can talk round this lot, t
hen.”

  “It’s just …” Sandra began. “We do see, of course. And we do all feel the same way you do. We’re Painchton folk. And we agreed we had to do something. To get fresh … whatever. It’s just that …”

  “Keeping up with the cover story isn’t easy,” said Iain Ballantyne. His hand shook a little as he fiddled with his pen.

  Mr. McKendrick noticed but his expression showed nothing. “I wouldn’t say cover story,” he said. “I’d say what we told the open meeting was for general consumption in the meantime. But come the hour, come the day, they’ll all be invited to the party. There’s plenty for everyone.”

  The silence in the room lasted even longer this time and was only broken when Mr. McKendrick spoke again. “And as to confidentiality,” he said, “it’s Etta it’s weighing on. The rest of us just need to hold firm.”

  Etta McLuskie turned and looked out through the net curtains to the bay window above the Pooles’.

  “Is Grace coming?” she asked. “I’d be happier to hear from her own lips that she’s still with us.”

  “She’s busy today,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Making Keiko Sunday lunch.”

  _____

  A figure, garbled by the frosted glass, came towards the door and opened it. Murray. He started to hold out both hands towards her but then stepped aside, smoothing his hair back, gesturing for her to come in. Mrs. Poole was standing at the back of the hall, silhouetted in a doorway by harsh kitchen light and looking strange without her overall. She said hello and then went back to her cooking with a distracted glance over her shoulder. Murray led the way into the living room, where Malcolm was halfway across the thick carpet towards the door.

  He stopped as they entered and turned back. “You found us okay, then,” he said, his voice seeming more muted than ever, as if soaked up by the room, by the plush upholstery, textured wallpaper and velvety rugs, thick drapes hanging snugly ceiling to floor, creamy net muffling the window.

  Keiko sat down in one of the bulbous armchairs, sliding herself backwards until she rested against its cushions with her feet off the floor, and looked between the two brothers, smiling what she hoped was a friendly smile. Malcolm had settled into another chair and sat back, his head cradled, his feet firmly planted and a hand clasping each of the arms.

  Murray perched on the sofa, making no impression on its muscular cushions, his head bowed under the lea of the headrest. “So,” he said. “Wild weekend so far? Ready for more?”

  “It’s good to see you here at last,” said Malcolm. “We’ve left it too long.”

  “Not at all, please don’t mention it,” said Keiko. “It hasn’t been a time for visiting.”

  Malcolm glanced towards the fireplace, where framed photographs were arranged, and in the lull that followed, Keiko went to look at them. There were studio portraits of babies and little boys, a wedding photograph of a young Mrs. Poole in a bushy veil and tight dress, and a black-and-white picture of Mr. Poole, half-hidden by a spray of freesia. He was in a suit and tie, with Mrs. McLuskie’s chain of office around his neck and he must have been a huge man, since the chain that reached to Etta McLuskie’s waist was stretched wide across his suit shoulders and rested between his lapels.

  He explained Malcolm, Keiko mused, but not Murray. Except that the face in the picture, when she looked closer, was an unsettling mixture; the peaked hair and lifted eyebrow of Murray along with the high plane of cheek and long stretch of jowl of Malcolm. It was as though the shadow of each of their faces lay in his wherever she was not looking, and when she shifted her gaze to catch it, it shied away again.

  Beginning to wonder if she was being rude, she turned back to the room. Both boys were staring at her. Both looked away as Mrs. Poole come in with a tray of glasses. Keiko picked up the chrysanthemum and chocolates and went towards her.

  “Just a … a wee something,” Keiko said.

  “Have a cheesy biscuit,” said Mrs. Poole over her shoulder, as she went back to the kitchen. “Have a Twiglet.”

  Keiko sat back down, alternately sipping and nibbling. Murray went back to his perch. Malcolm heaved himself up and came towards the table, bent over with a sigh, and swiped a glass up off the tray. He raised the glass to Keiko and emptied it into his mouth.

  “Time to carve,” he said, “and make the gravy,” and started moving towards the kitchen.

  Murray tucked his feet up and wrapped his arms around his legs. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “Of course,” said Keiko. “Thanks for asking me.”

  “I didn’t. I wouldn’t,” Murray said. “But I’ll take care of you now you’re here.” She smiled uncertainly at him. He shuffled closer to her and set his chin on his knees. “So,” he said. “What can you tell me about tea now? Have you been doing your homework?”

  Keiko laughed and bent her head. She had indeed spent a good few hours scouring websites and explaining it to herself in the bathroom mirror.

  “First of all,” she told him, “you must appreciate that the tea ceremony is not really about drinking tea …”

  She was still laying out specks of detail when Mrs. Poole put her head round the door to summon them to lunch.

  Rich smells were wafting from the kitchen and Keiko stopped dead in the dining room doorway, making Murray walk into her back. He steadied himself with a hand on her shoulder then left it resting there.

  “It’s not …” she began, then swallowed and started again. “I mean—have you made milk and stomach soup?”

  Malcolm looked back at her for a moment before understanding spread over him. “Oh, tripe!” he said. “No, tripe’s not really a Sunday lunch kind of—”

  “God almighty, Malcolm,” said Murray, moving his hand down around Keiko’s shoulder to hold the top of her arm. “Jesus Christ!”

  Keiko went to her seat with her head bowed, but when Mrs. Poole set a wide plate of dough-coloured liquid down in front of her, she could not help herself turning to check.

  “Cream of mushroom,” Malcolm said, and she looked quickly down again, shaking out her napkin.

  When Keiko and Murray were halfway through their soup, Malcolm placed his hands flat on the table and got to his feet, taking his empty plate away. After a moment the door swung wide and he came back in, carrying a dish at shoulder height, gazing at it as he paced towards the table and set it down. On it lay a squat roll of meat, bulging between laced strings, one end sliced thickly and fanned out in glistening slabs. Waves of steam curled off it, rising to settle on the glass droplets of the centre light, turning them misty. Murray left and came back with a tray of vegetable dishes and then slid into his seat to wait in silence with the women until Malcolm returned from a second trip. He put a long, shallow jug down at Keiko’s side and waved his hand over it, scooping billows of steam towards her face.

  “Gravy,” he said and padded around the table to his chair. Keiko nodded towards the plate of meat.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Loin,” said Malcolm. “I boned and rolled it myself. Listen to this.” He picked up a spoon and tapped the meat three times. It made a spitting, rattling sound like a well-wrapped parcel. Malcolm beamed and tapped it again. “Crackling, see? Crisp as anything. Mind and don’t pour your gravy on it.” He slid a knife under one of the slices and lifted it towards to Keiko’s plate, stretching right across the table, his face bunching between his shoulders, holding the slice of meat steady on the blade with one pudgy finger.

  Keiko thanked him.

  “Crackling’s another word for skin,” Murray said. “You don’t have to eat it. You don’t have to eat any of it if you don’t want to.”

  Keiko looked at Mrs. Poole and Malcolm, then back at Murray again. “It all looks lovely,” she said.

  Mrs. Poole served herself with meat and gravy, potatoes and vegetables, and began to eat staring straight ahead. Murray, working with the
delicacy of a watchmaker, excised the rim of fat and crackling from his one thin slice of meat. Malcolm, just as intent, loaded potato onto the back of his full fork and ran it round the edge of plate like a shovel until it was soused in gravy, then he lifted it to his mouth with his eyes shining.

  When lunch was over, Murray took Keiko out into the back garden. She picked her way around its edge and looked at the last of the flowers in the neat strips of earth, feeling one cheek almost tingle under his gaze. Mrs. Poole, standing at the sink in the kitchen, watched her until the window steamed over and then bent her head to the full basin and began to work at the dishes with firm scouring strokes.

  “What are these called?” Keiko asked, pointing to a cluster of pale fleshy-leafed plants with seed heads floating above them. Murray shrugged.

  Malcolm opened the back door and stepped down onto the path. Leaning against the wall, he bunched his arms up in front of his face with his hands cupped and a second later a puff of smoke flared.

  “It’s a sedum,” he said, taking a skinny cigar from his mouth and nodding towards the plant. He must have been watching them, seen her pointing. The sweet smoke drifted just as far as Keiko before it dispersed, and she leaned forward slightly to catch more of it. “Butterflies love them,” Malcolm added.

  Keiko turned to share her smile with Murray, but he waved a hand in front of his face to blow the smoke away. Her smile faded.

  “Dad used to be driven demented with the caterpillars in his lettuce,” Malcolm went on, “but he loved the butterflies so much he wouldn’t rip out the sedum.”

  “He sounds like a lovely man when you speak about him,” Keiko said.

  Murray turned right round and looked over the fence into the garden next door.

  “Of course, it’s no problem now,” said Malcolm. “We don’t grow any veg now.” He pointed towards a patch of grass that Keiko could see was greener than the rest.