“Hello?” I say. “Hello?”
But there is only a dull beep, and the screen tells me to pay a minimum of €2. Even if I had a €2 coin, I wouldn’t know who to call or what to say to them. I replace the phone in its cradle quickly—someone might call with a message and the line shouldn’t be busy.
I TURN ON my computer to research how to get a new word into a dictionary. If I could invent a new word and get it going a bit in the world, speaking might come a whole lot easier. I read: “…the process of adding any new word, or a new sense of an existing word, is long and painstaking, and depends on the accumulation of a large body of published (preferably printed) citations showing the word in actual use over a period of at least ten years…”
I may not have a decade to work on squeezing my new word into print, and “painstaking” has too many harsh consonants, so I give up on this. If it was a simple process, I’d like to introduce positive versions of negative words: “thinkable, bridled, gusted” and “gruntled” would all be put into use without their nasty uns and dises. I would also ask the dictionary to spell “coax” as “coaccs,” because the half-looped “C”s are softer than the harsh intersecting lines of the “X.” I would request that a new letter be introduced: an “N” added to an “M” in words with a double “M,” so that an “M” and a half—a triple horseshoe shape—would replace “MM.” And, while I was on the subject, I’d throw in a request for the letter “K” to be abolished. I feel it’s ugly and overused, when a good “C” or a double “CC” would do nicely. (I would like to write a book without using the letter “K,” but then it would just be a “boo.”)
Now I move onto my job search. After keeping Lemonfish alive for so long, I should be qualified for some kind of goldfish care position. I type “Goldfish” into the search box, but all that comes up is a sales-and-marketing position in Goldfish Marketing. Much as I like Lemonfish, I don’t think I could find fulltime employment in talking up his good points. Next, I search for “Reader.” An ad for “Psychics, Tarot and Angel Card Readers” comes up. The job description states that “Good Computer Skills are necessary and Experience in Tarot is vital.” It seems strange that “Psychic Abilities” are not under “Skills,” and that “Computer Skills” are placed ahead of “Tarot Experience.” Even stranger is the industry category the job is placed in: “Miscellaneous, Call Centre/Customer Service, Sales.” There must be no category for magic. I scour each category looking for something suitable. A company is seeking an experienced beef slaughter and deboning operative. I think I’d like to be an operative of something; it sounds meaningful. An ad appears for courses in manual metal arc welding or oxy-acetylene welding. I would like to be able to say I’m a welder. It sounds substantial and useful, and being an elder with a “W,” it sounds wise.
A sudden, shrill noise jolts me and sends me into my standing position, but I don’t know where to rush to. The screen on the house phone flashes; someone is calling me! I pick up the receiver.
“This is Vivian speaking. Who is calling?”
“Hi, I’m Peter, I wonder if you have a few minutes to answer some questions about your service provider?”
Peter sounds like someone who would have his lunch eaten at his desk by 10 a.m.
“I’m very busy, Peter, but I can spare a couple of minutes.”
“Great, thanks. Firstly, what age bracket do you fall into?”
He lists chunks of numbers, and I picture my age in curly brackets {}, then straight brackets [], then circle brackets (), all of which look like the start and finish of something.
“I can’t put my age in a bracket like that,” I say, “I’d be frozen in that age group on your survey forever.”
A silence falls on the other end, but it’s more of a rise than a fall; it rises through the receiver and pinches my earlobes.
“Also, I say, what exactly do you mean by years?”
“Sorry?”
“Have you ever thought about a place where a year is not 365 days?”
“No.”
His sentences are shrinking, he can barely tap out the consonants.
“Have you ever thought: what if we all got together and decided that we wouldn’t let May turn into June just yet, that we’d hold onto May for another couple of days?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“Or if we decided to double up on December and skip January altogether—January’s a right sulk of a month, it has far too many days.”
“Indeed. Can you tell me what Internet provider you’re with?”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“Eircom, Imagine, UPC, Magnet…”
“UPC.”
“And what’s your mobile provider?”
“UPC.”
“UPC isn’t a mobile provider.”
“Oh. Eircom?”
“Okay.”
He asks lots of multiple choice questions with four answers about things I have never thought of, things I know nothing about, and I choose the third option for each one. Surely I will be right one-quarter of the time.
“Right,” he says, “what do you use your phone for most?”
“Sending messages to Penelope.”
“Okay, anything else?”
“Sending messages to my sister, but she rarely replies.”
There is a strange noise on the other end of the line, some ways between a gurgle and a choke. I fear this survey could go on until winter.
“Peter,” I say, “do you ever go to fancy-dress parties?”
“What?”
“I was just wondering if I could come along sometime. I’ve never been to a fancy-dress party, but if I did go, I’d dress up as a migraine. What do you dress up as?”
There’s a silence, and Peter’s voice, when it comes, is full of knots.
“Right, I think we’re done here, thanks for your time.”
“Wait,” I say, “you haven’t told me your favourite costume,” but he rattles through a paragraph about confidentiality and how this information will be used, and then he unplugs his voice and hangs up. I press the phone hard into my ear. I think I can hear the sea in the distance, in a crackle and hiss beyond the beep. Peter might not have invited me to a fancy-dress party, but I have the sea in my ear and my words for the day spoken and it’s not yet midday.
20
I WAKE IN a lunge, grasping at the air in front of me. In my dream, there was a wall, a solid grey wall that would not budge when I shoved against it, and I was held back not just by the wall, but by something pulling me from behind. Now the wall is gone, however, and I’m sat in the bed with a low dismal feeling that there’s a ferocious amount of work to be done. Oh yes, my sister is coming, with her husband and children. For dinner, I said I would cook them dinner. They will produce whole continents of words between them, but few will be directed at me, so they don’t count. I get out of bed and put on my great-aunt’s tweed skirt suit with a white frilly blouse underneath. Then I pull on two pairs of tan tights to cover the gap between skirt and ankle, and lace up my great-aunt’s grey, thick-soled shoes. The skirt is loose, so I find a hair elastic in a drawer, gather up the excess fabric at the waist and tie it. The jacket has padded shoulders that stand out stiffly from my body, and the knotted ball of waist material bulges into the jacket but no matter; I am dressed up for visitors. I eat breakfast standing up because I’m sure that’s what busy career women in suits do. Then I gather up my shopping bags and walk to the butcher’s. The butcher is a fat man with a red meaty head that I’m glad of—it wouldn’t do if he looked like fish or lentils. When I enter the shop he nudges the young lad beside him, and the pair of them look me up and down as if my outfit is not quite the thing.
“Your arms aren’t folded,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“In photographs of butchers, their arms are always folded, like this.”
I fold my arms across my chest. The men look from me to each other and back to me. They have no answers, it falls to me
to kill the silence.
“I would like some meat,” I say.
“Well, you’re in the right place, then,” the butcher says, and they both snigger.
“I’m cooking dinner for five people, what would you suggest?”
He points to a large creamy hunk of flesh with red peeking out from the top, like a paper cone with a sweet red jelly treat inside. “I’ve a lovely leg of lamb there—three hours in the oven and you’re good to go.”
“I won’t be going anywhere,” I say. “I’m hosting today, but I’ll take it.”
I’m pleased the process has been so simple. One piece of meat is simpler than finicking with five smaller pieces. The lamb costs more than I spend on my weekly shop, but I hand over the money as if I do this all the time. It’s heavy, so heavy that I wonder how a chunk this big could be less than a quarter of a baby sheep. I leave the butchers and walk to the fruit-and-vegetable shop. I want to ask if the shop could be called a producery, but the lady behind the till looks short on temper.
“Hello,” I say, “what kind of vegetables would I cook with a leg of lamb?”
“Potatoes, peas, and carrots,” she says.
“Okay.”
I scoop up those items in my arms and bring them to the till. “It’s my first dinner party,” I say, “I want it to be special.”
“What are you doing for dessert?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.”
I don’t know why; my head is usually in the pudding before I even think about the main course.
“Do children eat dessert?” I ask.
She laughs, a scratching raucous laugh that could scrape chips of paintwork off the walls.
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
I force a laugh, but it sounds like it came from a bottle. I pay for the vegetables and cross the road to the bakery. The glass shelves display mounds of pastries and cakes and buns. There are: chocolate eclairs, coffee slices, custard slices, tiffin slices, meringues, fancies, cupcakes, fairy cakes, chocolate biscuit cake, gingerbread men, cream doughnuts and other spongy cakes, in muted colours that I don’t recognise. There are also large cakes: black forest gateaux, lemon drizzle cake, lemon cream cake, coffee cake, chocolate fudge cake, fruit cake and tea bracks.
I don’t know in which direction my niece’s and nephew’s sweet teeth veer, so I buy two of every bun and walk home with cardboard boxes dangling by twine from my fingers, sticking out a ways on either side of me like I’m peddling cardboard boxes. When I get home, I put the cakes on the table and the lamb on a baking tray in the oven.
“Goodbye,” I say to the lamb, and I wave.
It feels like waving goodbye to a child at the school gates who will be killed in school later that day. When it comes out it will look completely different, so it really is goodbye forever. The butcher didn’t say what temperature to cook it at, and I don’t want to poison my guests with half-cooked meat, so I turn the oven to the highest setting and close the door. I put the potatoes in one pot and the vegetables in another and cook them in a boiling fury. Then I lay the table for five people. I am so wiped clean by all this grocery shopping and boiling and roasting, I feel like I could start anew. I tuck my nose under the collar of my blouse. It smells a little like the butcher shop under here: a dull meaty thud of a smell. If my guests get a whiff, they’ll think it’s uncooked lamb. I’m not sure what to do with myself while the food is cooking so I take out my notebook and pen and start a list of conversation topics:
1. The Children
2. Politics
3. Penelope
4. Holidays
There’s something on the list for everybody. I take some sticky tape from the drawer, cut a piece, stand on a chair, and stick the list to the wall near the clock. Then I sit and watch the oven, but I don’t know what I should be watching for. Food cooks in such a silent, devious way; I wish it screamed when it started to burn.
THE BLEAT OF the doorbell surprises me out of my sitting. I turn my face into a smile and tug myself out of the chair to open the door.
“Welcome,” I say, “do come in.”
My sister is wearing a red top and a purple skirt: she looks like mixed berries. I’d like to pour yoghurt over her head. Her husband, Pat, is wearing khaki, even though he’s not in the army or the jungle.
Lucy and Oisin have mashed their faces into their parents’ legs.
“Children, I have cake!” I squeak, because people talk in high voices around children. Oisin’s face unfurls from my sister’s leg.
“Cake?”
Vivian looks as if she’s dropped her toast butter-side down.
“Don’t mention cake until they’ve eaten their dinner,” she hisses.
Oh no. The children have already gone into the kitchen and spotted the plates of cakes. I run after them and grab the plates and put them in the cupboards. They both start to cry.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “we’re having lamb—you know, Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.”
I sing but I only scrape the high notes, so I clear my throat to start again. Oisin’s eyes grow large and he looks from me to my sister, who silences me with a fierce stare.
“Don’t worry, kids,” she says, “we’re not eating any little lambs.”
Pat is staring at the books on the shelves as if the secret of the universe was written on the spines.
“Tell it to me when you find it,” I say.
“Tell what to you?”
“The secret of the universe.”
He eyes my sister past my head. My words are the wrong sort, so I close my mouth and go to check on the meat. I wrap a dishcloth around my right hand, open the oven door and pull out the tray. The lamb has shrunk, wizened brown and hard: this is some brand of fleshy alchemy. I put it on a plate, then I scoop out the potatoes and carrots and peas—they’re as soft as the lamb is hard—and put them dripping and soggy onto plates. I bring the plates to the table. Vivian and Pat stare at the meat like it’s alive but it’s the opposite of alive; it’s even deader than it was earlier. I start hacking at the meat with a sharp knife. The going is tough, so I saw the knife into the joint in an L-shape and pull out chunks with my hands. I divide these chunks among the plates until the bone is left bare like a pale truncheon. Then I spoon out a mush of potatoes and vegetables onto each plate and set the plates in front of each person. Oisin is sitting in the chair opposite my list.
“Oisin, that’s my seat.”
I tip his chair forward a little.
“Aaagghh!” he screams, a sound that can’t occur in nature.
“Vivian, can’t you just let him stay there?”
My sister is hissing at me again, what a snake she is.
“I need to see the clock,” I say, “it’s important.”
I tip Oisin all the way forward until his small head cracks like a soft-boiled egg on the edge of the table. Now the screams are three-dimensional: they reach great heights and stretch great lengths and span large breadths; they suck the air out of the room and fling it back, giving back less and less with each scream so the air gets tauter and leaner and meaner. My sister rubs the child’s head and makes soft murmurs, but at least he’s on her lap now and not on my chair. I sit down and look at my plate; it’s an assault of a meal. When the screams die down to a whimper and Oisin has scuttled over to the chair beside his father, I clap my hands three times.
“Eat up,” I say, “it doesn’t look like much but maybe it will taste alright.”
Pat mutters something and Vivian elbows him and says, “Come on, kids, eat up.”
I lean forward and squint at my list of conversation topics. “How are the children?” I ask Vivian.
She smiles—her first real smile since she came—and empties packets of stories onto the table, stopping every now and then to say, “Isn’t that right, Lucy?” or “Do you remember that, Oisin?” I try to eat, but the meat is leathery and I can’t progress beyond chewing. If I swallowed, there would be meat-shaped bulges in
my throat like a rat in the gullet of a snake. I look around the table. Pat picks at the meal with his fork but doesn’t bring the fork to his mouth. The children haven’t touched theirs, and Vivian is talking so much she isn’t eating. I lean and squint for the next conversation topic.
“Pat,” I say, but it must be too loud or too sudden because he jumps in his chair, “Pat, do you believe in politics?”
He leans forward, “That’s an interesting question, Vivian. I suppose politics is a necessary…”
He continues talking as I pile all the uneaten food onto my plate, gather the plates and put them in the sink. Then I bring the plates of cakes to the table. Oisin reaches out to take one, but my sister holds his wrist.
“Vivian, can you bring over some plates, please?”
“Oh no,” I say. That would be needless washing-up. “The table is clean enough to eat off.”
I reach in and take an eclair, and the children grab a bun each and stuff them in their mouths, grab and stuff again. My sister’s forehead puckers into a frown, and she hisses a fffff of a breath between her lip and teeth. Pat is still talking about politics in a low-grade background hum. I listen for every third word and try to make new sentences from them: “negotiations…constituency…forward…votes…”
“Where did you get the suit, Vivian?” my sister asks.
“It’s Great-Aunt Maud’s,” I say. “Do you like it?”
“It makes you look like a—”
Pat leaps in.
“—like a lady, Vivian, you look lovely.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I stand up and do a small twirl, and I keep twirling faster and faster like a whirling dervish. I point one arm to the ceiling and another to the floor and twirl as fast as my feet will let me. Beyond the swish and tap of my feet on the tiles I feel a terrible silence, a vacuum of a silence that threatens to pull me into it. I slow to a halt, and meet eight wide eyes.
Eggshells Page 18