Etiquette for a Dinner Party

by Sue Orr

  The sky was beginning to shift to the grey before dawn. John was startled by the sharpening focus of objects as the light increased. He went to the garden shed, switched on the light and started searching through boxes for garden tools.

  He was amazed they had amassed so many implements — trowels, spray guns, clippers — all covered in dirt from gardens that John could not remember tending. Spiders scattered into the dark recesses of the boxes as he wiped the tools down with a rag and put them in the sports bag.

  He reached for the rake and spade hanging at the back of the shed. The spade caught against a tin of paint on the shelf above him. It tumbled down, crashing noisily against the wall of the shed, and landed open at his feet. A pool of dark blue paint grew around his black, polished office shoes. John watched, mesmerised by the two black atolls in a blue sea.

  He leaned down, untied the shoelaces and stepped out of his shoes. He stepped over the flood of paint and grabbed the heavy sports bag. Sneakers would do.

  The clarity and focus of the early morning stayed with him all day. He thought often about the pleasurable task ahead. He even sketched the Thomas property — how it would look after the blackberries had been cleared, the lawns mowed.

  At four-thirty, he drove to Graham’s house. The street was congested with parked cars, but he found a space nearby. He slung the bag of gardening tools across his shoulder and picked up the spade and rake in his free hand. His pace was brisk and he greeted passers-by with a chirpy good afternoon.

  John stopped for a moment, looked up and down the street. He put the bag down, ran his hands through his hair, and looked again, all around him. He didn’t understand. It was ridiculous to even be thinking it — unbelievable, laughable — but Graham Thomas’s bungalow had disappeared.

  A woman walked towards him. She was holding the hands of two young children.

  ‘He’s got a big school bag, Mum.’ The little girl was staring at John, pointing downwards at the sports bag. ‘Your bag’s bigger than my bag.’

  She spun around on tiny pink plastic shoes, reaching over her shoulder to tap her own school backpack. ‘See? This is my school bag.’

  The girl’s mother stopped too. ‘Are you okay there?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, fine thanks, just fine.’ .

  That night, Linda’s friends came for dinner. She invited them more and more these days. John found the evening pleasant.

  Later on, after the couple had left, she turned on him.

  ‘How dare you?’

  ‘How dare I what?’

  ‘Humiliate me.’

  ‘How did I humiliate you? I hardly said anything all evening.’

  She reached high to put dishes away in the top cupboards.

  ‘People here for dinner, and you’re an hour late. Too late to eat with us. Where were you?’

  Linda closed the cupboard doors and turned towards him, agitated. She picked up the red and white checked tea towel from the kitchen bench and folded it in half. John watched as she smoothed the cotton cloth flat, lining up the edges so they matched perfectly on all four sides. Then she folded it again, into quarters. Again and again, she folded, making sure each time that the edges were even. She pressed down hard with the palms of her hands, until the tea towel was one sixteenth of its normal size.

  John watched the process of folding, reducing, folding again. ‘Christmas paper,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Linda stopped, looked up at John. She was crying.

  ‘Christmas paper around the snow globe. You kept it.’

  She stopped then, and an emotion flickered across her face. Tenderness. John hadn’t seen it in a long time. She took John’s face in her hands, and began to kiss him. John held her face too, felt her lips on his and tried to remember how he should feel. Then she wrenched herself away, stepped back. He opened his eyes, startled.

  Her face was twisted; her mouth turning down in disgust, a deep frown across her forehead. She was still crying, sobbing as she stared at his mouth.

  ‘Dirt,’ she said. She said it again — dirt … DIRT — each time louder, in a higher pitch, until she was screaming, shaking, backing away towards the door. ‘You taste of dirt.’

  John was dumbfounded. She was making no sense at all. But as she turned and ran from the kitchen, he saw that his hands had left two faint, muddy marks on the sides of her face. .

  It was a Tuesday. John was waiting for the bus. He had started taking the bus after Linda suggested he shouldn’t be driving. He’d agreed, thinking of the day he couldn’t find Graham Thomas’s house.

  He was going to see a doctor — it was something Linda had arranged.

  He was about to board when he saw the woman fall down the front steps of her house. The big blue ceramic urn in her arms tumbled to the ground. He stepped out of the queue and the bus left without him.

  The woman was sixty maybe, and reminded him of a barrel; she was that sort of shape.

  ‘Oh … thank you so much,’ she said as he helped her to her feet. She had grazed her knee. ‘I don’t know what happened … my feet just went out from under me.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No no, I’m fine … just so clumsy …’ They looked at the pot. It had not broken, but a piece of the large green plant inside it had snapped and was hanging loosely.

  ‘Where’s this going?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh just right here, at the bottom of the steps.’ She stood on the spot. ‘Here.’ He carried it over to her. ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’

  ‘No problem.’ Together they patted down the soil around the plant. ‘What is it, anyway, a cactus?’

  ‘No, no … it’s an aloe vera. They grow quite big, actually. And you can break pieces off and put them on cuts and wounds. They’re healing plants.’

  ‘That’s lucky then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes it is,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Thank you again.’

  He walked back to the front gate, then turned and looked.

  ‘I think … I hope you don’t mind me saying … but … I think the pot would look better on the other side of the steps. More … I don’t know. More balanced.’

  She limped to join him at the gate; together they assessed the view.

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ she said.

  John was too late for the doctor’s appointment, so he went to the office instead. He worked steadily through the contents of his in-tray. He made detailed notes, then ordered them with tiny page numbers. He stacked the pages in a neat pile.

  He found a note on his desk. It was his handwriting and it had Graham Thomas’s phone number on it. He rang the number, but it was disconnected.

  He sat for a while listening to the rhythmic beeps, and wondered which part of the number he had written down incorrectly. .

  Later that week, he sat on the bus and watched Karori flick by. When the bus pulled up at the city end of Karori Road, he got off.

  He stood for a moment and looked at the villa. It was loved: recently painted a lemon colour, window sills and front door a deep green. Two big bay windows on either side of the door reflected the sky. To the right of the door, on the veranda, were two swan plants in black pots. To the left of the door, a space. He absorbed the imbalance.

  He put his briefcase just inside the fence and walked up the footpath. He hesitated for a moment on the top step, then picked up one of the black pots and carefully placed it on the left-hand side of the door. He walked back down the path and picked up his briefcase. He did not look back at his handiwork — he knew it was good. He started walking to work. .

  After that, things changed for the better. John barely glanced at the New Listings Chart. That’s not to say he wasn’t busy. Oh, he was busy. Flat out. The boss knew this too. She left him to get on with it. The job in hand.

  From time to time, he wouldn’t get in until the afternoon. This was never intentional. But there were mornings when he would walk one, maybe two, kilometres, and catch a bus on another route. Sometimes he would dis
cover he had disembarked and was standing in front of a garden. Sometimes, he was off the bus and standing in front of the garden, and he would think: why? But then he would look again, and see.

  Like the time the flamingos were grouped around the pond, turned away from the water. As if, he thought. As if. His eyes rolled in exasperation, then he turned the birds round, tipping them forward slightly so their bills were close to the pool of water. It was not an easy task — too far forward and they would topple in. But he did his best.

  He was just about to leave when he saw that, in fact, there was not nearly enough water for them. He got the garden hose and filled the pond to the top. He put the hose back neatly, rolled it round the reel down the side of the house. Then he went to work.

  One Friday morning, or possibly afternoon, John arrived at work and a new person was sitting at his desk. She smiled at him and wished him well. His pot plant and his snow globe were on the floor next to the desk. He picked them up and put the globe in his pocket. Then he used his shirt sleeve to rub his name off the New Listings Chart. He could see the boss — a silhouette in the corridor — walking towards him. He smiled at her too, waved out to her, and caught the elevator downstairs.

  In his pocket there was sixty dollars in notes and change. He wanted a map of Wellington, so he went to Whitcoulls. John put the plant on the counter as he sorted through his coins. He brushed away the sprinkling of dirt that settled around the base of the plant.

  ‘That’s a nice plant. Is it a rubber tree?’ asked the woman called Marjorie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied.

  ‘I think it might be a rubber tree,’ said Marjorie. ‘A ficus. That’s the proper name. I don’t usually remember the proper names, but that one’s easy.’

  ‘Ficus,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marjorie. ‘Ficus. Have you just bought it?’ She handed him his map and change.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Would you like it?’

  ‘Pardon me … ?’

  He smiled and said: ‘Have a nice day Marjorie.’

  He sat in the sunshine in a nearby park and unfolded the map. The creases were sharp, dividing the suburbs, bays and hills into even blocks. He spread the map over the wooden seat and looked up, around the city skyline.

  ‘Brooklyn?’ he called out. .

  Aro Street first. John walked from Philosophy House to the steep left-hand turn up Durham Street. His briefcase swung as he surveyed yard after yard. He crossed the road and walked back. At the intersection of Aro Street and Willis Street he paused and put his briefcase on the footpath. He rubbed his eyes, and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Karori had been a challenge, but it was nothing compared to this area. Nothing.

  He worked through the day, standing at each gate and itemising all the features. He then crossed the road, or stood in the middle of it if there was no traffic. That way he gained a panoramic perspective.

  Some of his gardens required very little attention. A pot plant here, a gnome there. One beautiful cottage was crying out for minimalism, its intricate wrought iron archway and stunning climbing roses more than enough. John saw that unfortunately the tenants had crowded the frontage with children’s playthings and tiny pots of plant seedlings. He carefully removed them, one by one, to the footpath outside the property. Back to the middle of the road, where he looked again.

  ‘It’s looking good, really lovely.’ The passer-by was a woman in her early thirties. She wore a long black vinyl coat and her curly dark hair swung around her face. She was pushing a stroller, her baby cocooned in pink crocheted wool.

  ‘Hey thanks. Do you think so?’ He smiled at her, stroking his chin.

  ‘Yeah. Really good. I like things sort of plain too.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He moved on.

  And what was this mess? River stones forming a large circle. They were meant to represent a pond. Black tyres cut in half and stretched out to resemble — what were they meant to resemble? Swans? He couldn’t help it.

  ‘Jesus Christ’ he said aloud. ‘Jeeeesus Christ.’ He walked in circles, then, with delight, pointed to the sky.

  There was a skip across the road. He lifted the swans, one by one, and threw them in it. Much better.

  On he went, into the afternoon, then the evening. At some point it got dark and he lay down in the dirt under a tree in Aro Park and slept. .

  John prefers not to be disturbed as he works. This is not because he is rude; it is just that there is so much to get through. Confused people keep interrupting him, telling him to get off their property. Minutes lost mean delays; he will need to come back later when they are out.

  Oh, he doesn’t mind delays, not much, but his world is growing, growing, and other gardens wait.

  His hair is matted now, growing down past his collar and eyebrows. Layers of gardens are settling on his face. There is a stench if you get close enough. And if you do, and if you look into his eyes, they will not look back at you. They will be looking past you, to the next garden.

  Now and again, as he works his way around the winding streets, he comes across a For Sale sign in a garden. He stops and squints at the sign, at the words describing private havens, expansive views, indoor and outdoor flows. He pulls the sign down, and throws it into the road. Then he sets to work on the property; clearing and cleaning. Whatever is necessary.

  A woman drives by — she is staring at him. Her mouth is hanging open; she is shocked. She slows down, looking for a space to park.

  John has not seen her; he is too busy to bother with passers-by. He finishes another garden and stops for a rest. His hand reaches to his pocket, he touches the snow globe. Then, with his face to the sun and his eyes squeezed shut tight, he cries out. It is a cry of joy.

  ETIQUETTE FOR

  A DINNER PARTY

  The bookkeeper’s wife wanted to host a dinner party. It would not be too large an affair — six guests at the most, she suggested — a small gathering to break the monotony of long winter evenings. She put a red circle around the fifth of August on the calendar on the kitchen wall.

  She was not fond of the calendar. It featured animals in human poses. The photos had been digitally altered: August had a small Russian Blue cat with its green eyes crossed. But it had been a gift to the bookkeeper from their six-year-old daughter, whom he loved more than words could tell, so there was no question of removing it.

  She had been thinking about the dinner for some time. She had frequently been to luncheons for bookkeepers’ wives where invitations to dinner parties were traded. She had always said no (but thank you for asking) as the bookkeeper did not like socialising. It would not be right to accept an invitation in the knowledge that it could not be reciprocated.

  So she was very careful about choosing the right moment to talk to the bookkeeper about her need to host a dinner. She waited until one Sunday evening when he appeared relaxed, more receptive than usual to new ideas.

  He had just put their daughter to bed, snuggled in with her and whispered her a story — a ritual that both delighted and saddened the wife in its exclusive complicity. He came out of the little girl’s bedroom and the wife took a deep breath, then asked. He seemed startled at first by the proposal, but he came round to it remarkably quickly. That might be nice, he said, face flushed, pushing his lank hair back off his forehead. Those were his exact words.

  They had never had a dinner party before. But she felt confident that with more than a month to prepare, the occasion could be a success. The first task was to decide on the guest list.

  The bookkeeper said it would be best to limit the party primarily to other bookkeepers — people he worked with. His wife agreed absolutely that her husband should have someone at the table with whom to share a conversation. She had heard how dinner parties could lapse into unpleasant silences if one or more of the guests felt uncomfortable. She assumed that this could also happen with hosts.

  But more than one bookkeeper, she pointed out, could intimidate other guests; especially those
not as clever with numbers as her husband. So a compromise was reached. The bookkeeper would invite one colleague sophisticated enough in manner and palate to cope with a dinner party.

  Maybe, she suggested, the bookkeeper should choose someone more senior than himself — someone who might look favourably upon promoting him if the dinner went well. He said that he had already considered this idea, and the wife said she thought as much.

  She had her own thoughts on who should come to the dinner party. It had not escaped her attention that their circle of acquaintances was small. In fact it comprised, exclusively, bookkeepers and their wives.

  She would never say so out loud, but in the company of these people she felt as though she was trapped in a cage of tall, thin roman numerals; surrounded by people for whom life was black or white, or red if things were not going well.

  So, to the dinner party guest list of one bookkeeper and wife, thus far, the wife added a second person: her daughter’s school teacher.

  This school teacher loved and nurtured the children in her care. The wife liked the way the teacher laughed with the children when something funny happened. She had tried doing this at home with her daughter — getting a joke ready, practising it, then telling it — but her own giggles always ended up sounding like the canned glee of a television show. Maybe it was because the teacher was so young — twenty, compared to her own forty-three years — and genuinely amused by the same things that could make a child choke on big, deep belly laughs.

  And hadn’t she — the teacher — said to her one day that she would like to discuss her daughter sometime, when the mother had a minute to spare? So yes, the school teacher (and her husband, if she had one) would be invited to dinner.

  The wife asked her the very next day at school, and the teacher said she and her husband, who was a policeman, would be delighted to accept.

  A policeman! thought the wife. The type to respect order: right and wrong. The ideal dinner company for a bookkeeper. Things were working out well.