by Roberta Kray
Or almost everyone’s.
As I turn, it’s to find Johnny staring blatantly at my chest.
‘That’s very pretty,’ he says.
I glare back at him. ‘Pardon me?’
A thin curl touches the edge of his lips. ‘Your locket,’ he explains. ‘It’s very charming. Was it a present?’
I could swear the level of his gaze was a good three inches lower but I lift my fingers automatically to touch the silver locket with its two tiny diamonds. It is pretty, possibly the loveliest gift that Marc has ever bought me, but there’s something in Johnny’s tone, in his voice, that suggests this is more than a passing compliment. Yet, when I look into his eyes, I have never met a colder, more assessing gaze.
‘Yes,’ I reply shortly.
I glance around, but there seems no immediate escape from this unwelcome attention. Dee and Carl are listening to Marc, Melanie is preening, and Jim, filling his glass again, is pursuing his ongoing love affair with the bottle.
Undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm, Johnny continues: ‘It suits you. Do you like jewellery?’ Then he gives a low laugh. ‘Of course you do. All women love jewellery. It’s in the genes. And especially diamonds.’
Now maybe it’s only the fact that Johnny unnerves me, that I’m a touch on edge, but I get the distinct impression that the ensuing silence is not a natural break in the conversation. All heads are suddenly turned towards us. There’s a feeling of suspense as if breath is being held, as if a pause button has been depressed. The only sound in the room comes from the television, a faint chorus of carols heralding the eternal joy of Christmas Day.
It’s disconcerting to find yourself in the spotlight for no discernible reason. I smile uneasily, glancing from face to face. I’m about to go on the offensive, to ask what’s wrong, when as quickly as it arrived, the moment passes, action is resumed, and talk begins again. I look back at Johnny. His grey eyes are still impassive but his mouth breaks slowly into a thin knowing smile. And now I experience the opposite, but equally disturbing, sensation of being completely in the dark.
Just to add to this feeling of disquiet, Dee jumps up abruptly and declares: ‘Well, the dinner’s not going to make itself.’ Sounding flustered, she makes hastily for the door.
Glad of an excuse to escape, I rise as well. ‘Let me give you a hand.’
I’m not usually so enthusiastic when it comes to domestic chores but I would rather peel five thousand potatoes than remain another second in Mr Frank’s company. He makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Dee seems unenthusiastic about the offer. Either she is trying to avoid me or, just as likely, is aware of my lack of culinary skills. ‘It’s all right, Simone. You stay and have a drink. I can manage. There’s only—’
‘No, no. I’m sure there’s something I can do,’ I insist, breezing past her to the kitchen. Although once I get there it becomes immediately clear that there is in fact very little to do. Dee has obviously been slaving away since dawn and multiple saucepans, already filled with prepared vegetables, sit waiting on the hob. I feel a flash of guilt that we’ve been lazing around upstairs all morning.
‘I only need to baste the turkey,’ she explains, putting on the gloves and opening the oven door. She’s got that snappy irritable edge to her voice again. ‘Why don’t you go and make yourself comfortable.’
‘Mm, that smells good,’ I reply, blatantly ignoring her suggestion. And it’s true that a delicious aroma is pervading the air. It’s been a while since breakfast and I peek in at the browning turkey hoping that this year, unlike last, we might actually get to eat it. As she spoons over the juices, I wonder what I can do to make myself useful and thus justify my continued absence from the living room. Noticing a small heap of dirty pots sitting beside the sink I leap on them with a previously unknown alacrity. ‘I might as well get these out of the way.’
But no sooner have I started to run the water than Dee foils my masterful plan by saying: ‘Oh, just dump those in the dishwasher.’ She closes the oven door, wipes her brow and checks her watch. ‘Another half-hour should do it.’
I’m about to resign myself to a further thirty minutes of agonizing small talk when, glory of glories, Melanie appears at the door with an opened bottle of red wine in one hand and three glasses balanced precariously in the other. ‘I thought the workers could do with some refreshment,’ she announces brightly. I instantly revise my bad opinion of her.
‘Lovely,’ I reply, sitting down at the table. ‘That’s a great idea.’
Even Dee seems marginally cheered by the interruption, pulling out a chair and almost cracking a smile.
Melanie does the honours, generously filling the glasses and then passing round a pack of cigarettes. Breaking my resolution yet again, I accept one. Well, there’s no reason to fight it; resolutions are for New Year’s Eve and not for any time before.
‘Happy Christmas!’ we toast simultaneously.
For the next fifteen minutes, there’s an amiable flow of chatter about presents given and received, a showing off of watches, lockets and bracelets, followed by a few nightmare recollections of past inappropriate gifts of exotic lingerie. With the contents of the bottle rapidly disappearing, there’s an inversely proportionate rise in laughter. Whatever happened earlier begins to fade and waver round the edges, its sharpness gradually dissolving into something less defined.
Did I imagine that peculiar silence?
‘Just look at us,’ Melanie comments with her childlike giggle, ‘we’re all in the kitchen while they’re talking football and waiting for their dinner. How 1950s is that?’
I smile back at her. ‘So much for progress.’
Lifting her baby blue eyes, she stridently proclaims: ‘Oh, men are no good! If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that if you want anything doing, do it yourself.’ She tilts her head, throws back her long blonde hair, and smiles at Dee. ‘No offence to Carl, of course.’
‘None taken,’ she says, rising to her feet to prod the potatoes and sprouts.
As soon as she’s out of earshot Melanie grins, leans forward and whispers conspiratorially: ‘I suppose Marc’s the same?’
‘He has his moments.’
‘But you get on pretty well, don’t you?’
And suddenly, despite the effect of the wine, I feel a resurgent need for caution. As innocent as she appears, I can’t quite bring myself to trust her. It’s as if she’s angling for something. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask disingenuously, keeping my tone light.
She looks at me and laughs, showing her pearly white teeth. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean anything. I’m sure Marc’s the perfect husband.’
‘Well, I doubt if any man qualifies for that particular status.’
She’s about to continue with the cross-examination when the timer on the oven stridently erupts into a more than welcome ring.
It’s impossible to say exactly how or when the trouble started. At first everything went smoothly. We gathered round the large dining table, resplendent in its starched green linen cloth, and took our places: Jim at the head, Dee to his left, then Marc, and myself, Johnny opposite me, and Melanie and Carl to his left. This was possibly the first mistake. Had Carl been seated anywhere but next to his father it might never have happened, but despite Dee’s clearly stated invitation that Johnny should take the chair beside Jim, he ambled down to the other end of the table and said, ‘No, no, this is fine.’
‘But I thought if you sat—’
‘Gosh, Dee, this all looks so beautiful,’ Melanie enthused squeakily, interrupting her objection and thus giving Johnny the opportunity to slide into his chosen place. ‘Where did you get those plates? They’re absolutely gorgeous.’
Personally, I’d have preferred it if Dee had got her way but apart from tipping up his chair and forcibly ejecting him there didn’t seem much I could do. With his napkin already untwisted and placed over his knee, territory had been irretrievably established.
I couldn’t und
erstand why he’d been so adamant in his choice of position. Why didn’t he simply take the place that had been allocated? Maybe he liked the idea of the extra space, some elbow room to his right; maybe after prison he preferred not to feel crowded. But although this reason seemed entirely logical I couldn’t quite believe it. I’d already formed the opinion, rightly or wrongly, that almost everything Johnny did had an ulterior motive.
‘Don’t you think, Simone?’
I glanced up at the sound of my name. ‘Sorry?’
Johnny, disconcertingly aware that I hadn’t been paying attention, explained: ‘Melanie was just asking whether you thought women were more predisposed towards loyalty than men?’
I stared from him to her, amazed. God, in the light of recent events this was the last thing we should be discussing. Had the girl got no tact? And he wasn’t any better. I replied: ‘No, not especially,’ and then rapidly changing tack said, ‘But hey, Melanie, I’ve been meaning to ask, where did you get that fabulous dress?’ Not the most skilful of subject changes but the best I could manage at short notice.
Carl, in his usual charming manner, couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘There’s women for you. All they ever think about is clothes.’
‘You can talk, honey,’ Melanie retorted, ‘you spend longer in front of the mirror than I do.’ Then as she embarked on a long story about the garment and its designer origins, all I had to do was sit back and nod.
I stole a quick glance round the table. The atmosphere was less chilly than earlier and although there wasn’t exactly a heat wave in progress the temperature had risen to a few degrees above freezing.
Jim carved the turkey and the food was distributed, praised and heartily consumed. The conversation flowed, along with the wine, and for a while, as the six white candles flickered in the half-light and the crystal glasses sparkled, all was perfect harmony. Had a passer-by chanced to wander off the road, scale the wall and come to press his face against the window, he would have thought himself witnessing a touching Christmas scene of mutual love and affection.
And then it all kicked off.
Looking back, I couldn’t say who started it. There had been one comment, seemingly innocuous, and another. Then a question, a retort, a jibe. The first voice I really registered was Jim’s.
‘If you’ve got something to say, why don’t you just say it?’
Carl put his elbows on the table and glared at him. ‘You know what I mean. Why don’t you just come clean, be fucking honest for once.’
‘That’s rich coming from you.’
Dee, her cheeks flushed pink, interjected: ‘Stop it! Both of you. Can’t we have one day when . . .’
But already it was too late. I gritted my teeth and waited for the worst. Like a runaway train the wheels had been set in motion and nothing was going to stop it now.
‘At least I’m not a fucking cheat. We all know what you did with that slut.’
In the ensuing silence, the only sound was the faint wheezy hissing of Jim’s breath. Inches apart, they held each other’s gaze, two prize bulls waiting to charge. Beyond the table the room had grown much darker and their faces, contorted by anger, were thrown into fiendish relief by the stuttering candlelight.
God, this was going to end in disaster.
‘You fucking shit,’ Jim almost spat.
‘What’s the matter, Dad? Not man enough to admit it?’ Daring him, challenging, taunting.
Melanie laid a restraining hand on Carl’s arm. ‘Hey, honey!’
He almost slapped her away and she withdrew with the hurt expression of a child who has been unfairly punished. I felt sorry for her. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s never to interfere in a Buckley row.
Carl continued to goad. ‘Come on. If you’re man enough to do it, then you’re man enough to—’
‘Stop it!’ Dee insisted again, more loudly and forcibly than before. ‘I’ve had enough. Do you hear me? This stops right now.’
And she might have had some small chance of putting on the brakes if Marc hadn’t chosen that moment to stand up, hurl his fork down with a clatter, and walk out of the room without a word. A few seconds later the front door closed with an almighty slam. I couldn’t blame him for taking off but he could have had the decency to wait for me; it was a bit late now to try and follow in his wake.
Dee turned to Jim. ‘You see what you’ve done?’
‘Me?’ he snarled, with what could be claimed to be righteous indignation. ‘I’m not the one who started this.’
I considered excusing myself and escaping upstairs but then on second thoughts decided that might only exacerbate the situation. There was still a slim chance that Dee might be able to regain control. Sadly, the futility of this hope soon became apparent as, rather than smothering the flames, she proceeded to pour petrol on them instead.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ she barked, ‘nothing’s ever your fault, is it?’
‘Did I say that?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘You don’t have to. It’s not what you say, it’s what you do. I mean, what do you expect, hanging round those girls every night with your tongue hanging out like some sex-starved puppy? Haven’t you got any dignity?’ And then, just to rub salt in the wound, she added: ‘You’re old enough to be their bloody grandfather.’
‘Jesus,’ he murmured, shaking his head.
But at least he let it rest there, turning away to pour himself another glass of wine. And that might have been the end of it if Dee hadn’t persisted.
‘Don’t you bloody dare ignore me!’
At which Carl sniggered and the rage reappeared in Jim’s eyes. As if steadying his nerves he took a long drink, replenished his glass, and prepared for round two.
‘That wouldn’t be easy with you screaming in my ear.’
Carl took the opportunity to stick his oar in again. ‘Oh yes, I’m sure you’d prefer it if she just kept quiet. That would suit you right down to the fucking ground.’
Jim slowly turned his gaze on him. ‘Shut your mouth. This has fuck all to do with you.’ His voice had the low and forcibly restrained quality of a man about to break.
Regretting that I hadn’t taken the opportunity to do a runner, I wondered if there was any possibility of distracting them. An explosion was clearly imminent and although I knew there was nothing I could do to prevent it, my brain still embarked on a ludicrous series of diversions. Perhaps I could launch myself out of the window, faint or start to scream. All I had to do was open my mouth and—
‘That’s right,’ Dee said, ‘have a go at him. That’s you all over, isn’t it? Forget about taking responsibility for your own actions and just blame someone else.’
Jim stared silently back at her.
His silence was more worrying than his words. Glancing up, I caught Melanie’s eye and we exchanged a look of alarm. Johnny was staring down at his plate. His face was pale and grey and serious. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, I might almost have felt sorry for him.
‘What, cat got your tongue?’ Dee took a sip of wine and glared. ‘Or are you feeling too guilty to answer?’
Jim gave a brief humourless laugh. ‘What have I got to feel guilty about?’
‘You need to ask that?’
‘Yeah, right,’ Carl echoed, ‘you need to ask that?’
‘I’ve told you before,’ Jim said, losing his cool and grasping him by the shoulder, ‘this has nothing to do with you.’
Dee leaned over the table and grabbed his hand. ‘Leave him alone,’ she screeched.
He twisted away. ‘Get off.’
‘You get off.’
There was an ungainly scuffle, an undignified scrabbling and slapping of arms and wrists. Like a playground fight, it rapidly descended into a series of juvenile taunts and retorts. It wasn’t just embarrassing to watch but to listen to as well. Reaching the end of my tether, I finally snapped and said as firmly and calmly as I could: ‘What the hell are you doing?’
I’d like to claim that the silence that
followed was thoughtful, maybe even shocked, but in fact it served only as a brief respite. As I opened my mouth to continue the highly reasoned protest their maddened faces turned as one to glare at me and, recalling my own excellent advice about never getting involved, I wisely shut it again.
Before the dust had even begun to settle, they’d resumed their positions and were at it again. Defeated, I raised my shoulders in a shrug. What was the point of even trying? Mediation clearly wasn’t my forte. I could do balances, accounts and VAT. I could add up and subtract. But I couldn’t do the Buckleys.
As if I hadn’t ever spoken, Dee said to Jim: ‘How do you think it makes me feel, hearing all that stuff?’
‘It’s not down to me. It’s not my fucking fault if you listen to gossip. You don’t have to believe it.’
She gave a mocking laugh. ‘I’m your wife, for Christ’s sake.’
His face dissolved into a scowl. Assaulting his liver with yet another glass of wine, he muttered through red-stained lips, ‘When it suits you.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You know what it means,’ Jim said, staring intently down at the table. His hands, lying on the cloth, curled tighter and tighter until the knuckles showed white.
‘No,’ she insisted, her teeth bared in anger, ‘why don’t you tell me? Why don’t you tell everyone? Come on, we’re all waiting.’
‘He hasn’t got the guts,’ Carl goaded, sitting back and folding his arms.
And all my instincts told me to go, to leave right then, to sprint as fast as I could towards the closest available exit, but my arms and legs were heavy as lead. I’d hit that point where the train was hurtling down and I was completely paralysed.
Jim slowly raised his head and stared at her. I could tell he hadn’t quite made up his mind, that the retort hovering on his lips might still remain unspoken. It wasn’t too late. His fingers flexed and stretched as if they alone could reach a compromise. Caution battled with his mounting rage but was inevitably vanquished. His voice when he spoke was soft and controlled but filled with bitterness. ‘Isn’t there a saying about people in glass houses . . .’