‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Give me a minute, would you?’
‘Of course. Are you OK? You look. A bit.’
He peered into my face, blinking hammily, and I saw that he, too, was drunk.
‘I’m fine, just a second.’
He left me and I went through to the end, no longer reading, just clearing out. And then I saw that I had a message. A mail.
I opened it and found it was from Kay, another receptionist from the surgery. A woman I had sat beside for years but knew next to nothing about, save how she took her tea; a woman after my own heart. A journalist had been in touch, she wrote, asking all sorts of questions. She hadn’t said a thing, mind, but thought that I should know.
I rose, walked back to the loo and threw up and up, till there was nothing left; running the tap to drown out the noise.
When I came in Paul asked did I still want to look? But I told him no.
Lauren returned with clamour and fuss and some story about ice-cream. I joined them in the kitchen, dried some pans, and said I needed home for the dog. Peter offered to walk me.
Outside it was darkening, a yellowing moon, a thick wet cold. We talked vaguely as we went and he saw me all the way inside. We made our brief goodbyes.
The dog scratched madly at the kitchen door, and when I let him out he almost knocked me down. I knelt to him while
he nudged and whined, and breathed in the hot leather of his ears. When he was finished, I removed my coat and looked in a mirror. A silty rim of mascara had settled beneath my eyes. I wiped my mouth and took a long drink straight from the tap. Then played my message, two days old. Two days it had lain patient inside the black box of my machine.
‘Margaret. It’s Chris here. Chris Kent. Call me, please. It’s important,’ and a number. His voice higher and thinner, due to anger or age, I didn’t know. It had been twenty-eight years.
It was him. I had struggled with this knowledge two full days.
I felt powerful and afraid, like a child who believes it can pull a plane out of the sky with its look. As though my own dread had given him life, summoned him to me, in some horrible inversion of a wish.
I listened one more time, and pressed delete.
If he wanted me, he would come. There was only the present, and the present was Anja. I would keep my eyes down.
24
A little context. Chris and I. The day he threw me out. August 25th, 1984.
A hot hot day, and flies, everywhere. A weird infestation that summer, and all that anyone talked about; the women at least. Tiny flies, smaller than the house fly, which vanished with the rain but always came back.
I had woken dry-mouthed and woozy; pretty standard for that time. Chris long gone and the bedroom full of a buttercup sun that lay on me heavily, slowing things down. My daughter by my side, still asleep; three years old, her dark hair in a sweaty curl at her ear, an affront to Chris’s blondeness that we joked about. Colouring from my mother’s side, coarse and outdoorsy, which I hoped meant she’d be tough. But her skin was pale; shaded to blue at points, the veins at her temple and wrist so close to the surface they made me shudder. I watched the pulse in her eyelid, for a moment, as she slept.
Dinner at home for eight. I lay back and closed my eyes.
Later I got up for the bathroom. Flies hung suspended in loose groups, in the doorway, in the shower; wheeling at my approach. I flicked on the long tube of light above the mirror and saw tens, maybe hundreds, crammed into the space between the bulb and its casing. Up close they boiled gently, clambering across each other, going nowhere. My stomach tumbled, and I reached for the spray, but the smell of it made my head hurt, and what a job to clean. A tight twist of tea towel shoved the length of the unit, nudging the desiccated bodies along until they rolled out the other end. And there were always more. I left them as they were.
By lunchtime I’d done that thing that women do, and maybe men, for all I know. Convinced myself that today will be the day that makes the difference. A clean slate, a new leaf. If only I try hard enough, all else will follow. To say that I was hopeful would be an overstatement, but there was the possibility of hope. A tealight of hope, not so much that tonight would make him happy – Chris was a man who asked for very little – but more that I could eke something out of it for myself. Lean back at its close and feel part of things, instead of fidget and twitch, sitting on my hands to stop myself from yanking out the tablecloth.
First, the menu. It seemed important to get this right. I pulled a chair across to the back door and sat there shoeless, smoking; Capital on the radio, the little one pushing herself across the grass in a plastic car and an early Delia and a couple of Good Housekeeping Guides, optimistic gifts from our mothers, heavy on my lap. I read about the principles of the supper party – a cosy and informal affair, relaxed, no fuss – and liked the sound of it. Smoked-salmon roulade and duck and blackcurrant sauce were my choices.
I went to Sainsbury’s with the buggy and a basket and kept to the role, in lipstick and tights. Received my approval and enjoyed it; saw others’ pleasure at the sight of a mother, well organised and smiling, still beautiful, and determined to be that person.
Back home and I defy a soul not to enjoy the assembly of a smoked-salmon roulade:
First, beat the cream cheese with the mayonnaise and lemon zest. Chill in the refrigerator for thirty minutes.
I lacked the relevant tool, so skinned the lemon with a potato peeler and chopped it as best I could, supplemented with a squirt of juice.
Lay out your salmon and spread the mixture over it. One and a half tablespoons per slice.
Sprinkle evenly with dill.
On top, add a layer of chopped prawns. Press down carefully. Then plenty of fresh ground black pepper.
Roll the slices starting at one short end and place seam down on a plate.
I had to read that twice.
Cover and chill.
Half an hour before you serve, cut each roll, on the diagonal, into eight neat slices.
Tip: Use a very sharp knife and a sawing action. Dip the knife into lukewarm water between each slice so that it cuts clean and neat.
This works.
Fan the slices out attractively, slightly overlapping. Add a garnish of lemon twists and sprigs of dill.
Serve at room temperature.
In between all of this were the ducks, poor things; eight of them, with puffed out chests and newborn ribs. Pounding them with a mallet and scoring the skin made my head swim; I was squeamish back then, but would lose patience with that person now. The sauce I shudder to recount. Blackcurrant, cassis and butter, separating slowly in its boat on the side.
Chris was around and about, smiling at it all out of the side of his face. A few holes of golf, and home; a kiss for his daughter. A run to the dry cleaner’s – he liked to look after his uniform himself – and to pick up the booze. Content, humming, apart.
What do I remember of her that day? ‘Row row row your boat’, which my mum had taught her the week before. Cauliflower cheese for lunch. The way she talked to herself as she played and stopped when I drew near. No apology or regret but still, she stopped. Later, I heard her plinking away on the piano, and crept in to watch. Her posture pulled me up.
In her stiff straight back and the tip of her head, her look straight down her nose, I saw myself. I felt that I had a clear view, as if in a mirror, for the very first time and I mean that; these were the days before everything was photographed. There was my hauteur, my chill, and I wondered when this had happened and understood briefly why people seemed to like me less these days.
I left her, honestly, thinking only of myself.
The day got hotter. I closed the doors and windows, covered the fruit, and sprayed. Ten minutes later I went round with a duster and hoovered up all the crispy little corpses.
I thought to arrange the dining room, but struggled to imagine what supper party might mean for the table.
There were fresh flowers that Chris had picke
d up. Calla lilies, the big ones with no smell. Bright red thistles, dyed, surely, and heliconia – the lobster claws – which I loathed but he thought romantic. They are pollinated by hummingbirds and the occasional bat, he told me; nonetheless, they remain ugly.
I took the flowers to the kitchen, sawed off their ends, a job in itself, and split them into three small jugs. Spaced them down the table. Got rid of the placemats and candelabra. Pulled in two coffee tables and lamps. Quite pleased with the effect. Chris appeared: ‘No cloth?’
My mother phoned.
‘How are all the preparations going?’ she asked slow and clear, her tone set for an audience.
‘Fine thanks, Mum,’ I said.
‘What are you cooking?’ Big spaces between the words.
‘Smoked-salmon roulade and duck and blackcurrant.’
‘Ooh. Smoked-salmon roulade and duck and blackcurrant.’
A noise from somewhere behind her. She gave a snort.
‘Who’s that? Aunty Bettie? What does she say?’
‘You’re not to worry about your Aunt Bet.’
‘What does she say?’
‘She says you’d be better off with a pork chop.’
We laughed together, forty-five miles apart.
‘I’ve got to get on. I’ll call you in the morning.’
She was talking to her sisters before the phone met its cradle.
It was too hot for a bath, so I freshened up with a flannel and put rollers in the bottom and front of my hair. I could hear Chris reading a bedtime story.
He sees a bonfire smoking
Pigeons in the sky
His mother cleaning windows
A dog going by.
I knew she liked to see me, all dressed up, or perhaps I liked to show her, but I’d need to rush, they were almost done.
It was a slippery dress in purple blue that slid over my head in one slick move. Boxy, high-necked, tight at the wrist, with big gold buttons running up the front. A play on the power suit, I see now. At the time I imagined myself Diana in it. So fine that the hem caught on a calf, a missed prickle of hair. I shook myself, and it dropped down into place. I felt like a girl under its swish as I moved to the doorway, but Chris was there with his finger to his lips.
I pushed past him and went in. Sleep had plumped her but I saw a fist clench once, and again, so maybe there was time. I stroked that hand, her cheek, her eyelid though I knew it was selfish. She made no response. I whispered her a message and left, full of her. Went to the kitchen and drank my first Martini of the night, mixed by Chris, the proper way.
‘You’ll find a pilot knows his cocktails,’ he told me once, and that much was true.
The first was the best, as always, and on an empty stomach too. It took me inside myself and I buzzed around, all fiddle and primp; called through to Chris to put some music on. He liked the old stuff and so did I, at that point of the evening, at least.
I did my make-up last in the hall where the light was best.
I watched my face before I began; observed my pupils shrink in the last blast of sun – a bit in love with myself, I’ll admit, that was the Martini – and did my thing, which was subtle, and led to an overall effect of gloss and shine. Nothing you could put your finger on, a look that worked by contrast, for Jan and Moira would be made up from the paintbox.
Moira read it as a rebuke: ‘I wish I could be more like you,’ she told me every time, at a certain point of the night.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t know, really. Natural. But I don’t think Tony would be so keen.’
She was a nice person, stunned by the demands of her two young sons. Thin-skinned and always tipped into glum by the evening’s end.
‘Buck up, Roo,’ Tony would call across when he saw her droop, but he never came over.
We could usually talk her round.
I was ready and wanted them to get there so I could have my second drink and suddenly they had.
Chris opened the door to the six of them.
‘Look, we’re all here!’ A rising hilarity. The Franks had given the Millers a lift, and Jan and Ian’s cab pulled up at the very same minute. They seemed amazed at the coincidence, and I felt the edges of my good mood shrivel.
‘Come in! Come in!’ I pretended, and we all went through to the lounge; candlelit as I’d moved out the lamps.
‘Ooh. How atmospheric!’ said Moira, and gave a tremble.
‘I love coming here!’ said Sue on receipt of her Martini, a bridge of cocktail stick across it, spearing two olives.
Jan refused hers and Chris mixed her a Campari instead.
Our territories were marked out in snacks; two separate clusters at each end of the room.
We ladies gathered at the piano and picked from a mound of pastry clubs, spades and diamonds. I watched Chris wince as Sue put her drink straight down onto the wood. I moved it, when I got the chance, onto the runner that I’d laid there for the job.
The men stood by the window, looking outwards as they talked. They finished their nibbles and Chris went off for more, coming back with a bowl of crisps to show he still had the common touch. He brought the bags of salt with him and tipped them on in careful sprinkles that made him look a clown.
Good old Sue passed back and forth, for handfuls, and to fill us in on the subjects of their chat. Business, in general. The miners’ strike. The condition of the golf course. We rolled our eyes, and discussed the royal baby (born the following month – Harry – I watched them leave hospital on the TV). The flies. A mutual acquaintance’s awful birth.
‘Food any time soon, Mags? We’re starving over here,’ Chris called.
He was playing it bluff and manly, unusual for him, but I did my bit.
‘Of course. Of course,’ I said, and trotted off.
‘Can we help at all?’ said the ladies, as one.
‘No no no. You enjoy yourselves. Nothing to do. Just give me a second.’
The salmon lay sweating under cling film. A small group of flies had found their way in and drowned in cream cheese but I dug them out with the end of a nail and smoothed flat the grooves I’d made with a fingertip.
Everyone came through and I stomached the praise. We ate the roulade with packet Melba toast and an oily white wine and picked the lemon rind from between our teeth discreetly.
‘Swap round, swap round!’ I cried as I cleared the table – a trick I’d learnt from Jan – and went out for the ducklings.
She appeared in the doorway as I fried them off in two pans as the recipe required.
‘Here, I’ll do this one,’ she offered, and took a handle, giving it an abrupt shake which dislodged the flesh that had just begun to stick.
‘See?’ she said. ‘And perhaps a bit more butter.’
She took a fish slice and pressed down on each breast for extra sizzle.
I did as I was told. We both stepped back to save our faces and the front of our frocks.
‘That’s a lovely dress,’ I said, just as I thought the opposite.
‘Thanks. I got it down the boutique.’
‘It suits you,’ I told her, which was true.
Her looks – and she had them – were rather small scale. China teeth, a narrow nose, children’s ears. Her neck was long and tight, a visible cord of ligament running its length, but I knew she thought it a good feature from the way she styled her hair, curved out and away, lacquered stiff, and through her choice of neckline, square tonight. She laid her hand across her collarbone as she stood. As a habit, I felt it showed stress. Still the yellow of her outfit worked with her colouring, dark and pale with plain chocolate eyes. She had split nails that she complained of during kitchen chats, worn very long and accurately painted. She travelled in a fug of Giorgio by Giorgio Beverly Hills.
‘That’s them,’ Jan told me and the duck went in the oven for a final fifteen minutes.
‘What else?’ she asked.
‘Shit, I’ve forgotten the potatoes,’ I said and I had,
completely.
There was supposed to be galettes, but I hadn’t read on far enough to even find out what they were.
I felt genuinely surprised and tried to think back, but the booze had obscured the earlier part of the day.
Jan looked at me, amazed, and released a slip of giggle.
‘Maggie! How about rice?’
‘I’m not sure. I think so. Look in there, behind you.’
She boiled it up in time for the duck, made a curious garnish with two carrots, a spring onion and some thoughtfully stationed peppercorns and gave me an exaggerated wink as we carried it in.
The duck was bloody as intended and I ate it in a rush, drenched in sauce.
The conversation flowed. The men teased, the ladies bridled for effect and each burst of amusement got louder till I excused myself. I took the plates through and scraped them with the radio on low. Bobbed around the kitchen, taking my time.
I got back to the end of David describing the economy – his prerogative as bank manager. The jerk of a shoulder that he could suppress in calmer moments had sprung into life. Sue listened intent and nodded seriously as he spoke, one hand on the back of his chair. Her lipstick had travelled to the right of her mouth but it didn’t shame her, somehow, as it would have the rest of us, perhaps because she wouldn’t have cared if she’d known.
Chris and Tony, so similar I wanted to say so. Pilots to the bone; neat in cashmere V-necks and pressed shirts and their pretence at deference. Then Chris shook a wrist, jangling his watch, which told me he wasn’t listening. Ian was rather drunk and holding himself very still in denial of it. He looked on with both hands gripping the table. Every little while he gave the smallest list, overcorrecting every time.
I’d have liked to have known him better, Ian. He was a salesman, in the print, I think, which didn’t seem to provide the rich seam of anecdote that their brand of male friendship called for. Still he held his own, earned a good wage and beat them all at golf, which appeared to count for something. But he always seemed at a distance, and I thought I heard a faint chord of unease in him, which made him interesting to me.
In My House Page 12