Pack of Cards

by Penelope Lively

  The room was small – not more than half a dozen tables, only four of which were occupied – decorated in dark reds and browns with vaguely Edwardian connotations. The cuisine, from the menu, was an uncommitted mixture of continental and Sunday newspaper. My uncle said to the waitress, ‘Three sherries, please, we'll order when my wife comes back.’ He had to repeat himself, the girl being apparently locked in her communion of hatred with the kitchen door. ‘Lucy's taking her time,’ said my uncle, with irritation, looking towards the stairs.

  They had arrived late and my aunt sped at once in the direction of the ladies'. She returned now with an expression of relief, freshly combed and made-up, and dabbed each cheek in turn against mine before she sat down. ‘Lovely to see you, Tim. Do you know, there was a woman in there exactly like Aunt Christie. Do you remember Aunt Christie?’

  ‘Not really, I was only about two when she died.’

  ‘This woman had longer hair. Otherwise she was the spitting image. Fortyish.’

  My uncle handed her the menu. ‘Christie was fifty when she died. Tummy cancer. I've ordered you a sherry, Lucy. Forty-five pence, I may say- disgraceful.’

  ‘It's a rip-off,’ said my aunt, who took pride in modernity of speech. She fished her glasses out of her handbag and studied the menu. ‘I'll have veal with marsala sauce, and avocado to start. Now, we want to hear all your news, Tim.’

  ‘Well,’ I began. ‘I suppose the main thing is that …’

  My uncle interrupted, ‘Does Mark Sadler live in Tunbridge Wells? That's where his father hailed from, I remember.’

  ‘Honestly,’ I said, ‘I hardly know him – it was just that I went to a party of his once, when I was at college, in this street, so I knew where the restaurant was when you suggested meeting here.’

  ‘Sadler?’ said my aunt, putting her glasses away. ‘Did I know him?’ She was as spry as ever, her appearance nicely adjusted to the times; the glasses, at first grannyish, were up-to-the-minute fashion. Her calf and ankle, sticking out from under the dark brown linen tablecloth, were elegant. My uncle, as always, had the extremely clean, slightly over-fed look of a certain kind of upper-class Englishman. He was looking round now, with some impatience, for the waitress. ‘Where's the fellow gone? We want to order.’

  In fact, the sound of raised voices had been clearly audible, for the last five minutes or so, from beyond the swing door. As my uncle spoke, a longish male monologue, rising to a crescendo, was answered by something that resembled the hiss of escaping steam, followed instantly by a noise of breakage. I said, ‘It was a girl, actually. There seems to be …’ At the same moment the door opened and the waitress bounded through, her face contorted. She came to rest at my uncle's elbow, sniffing loudly.

  My uncle said, ‘Ah. Now we want a veal marsala, a cannelloni, and I'll have the duck. And an avocado and two pickled herrings to start with. And the wine-list, please. You wouldn't have known Sadler,’ he went on, to my aunt. ‘It was in the war. But he'd been at school with Jimmy Phillips.’

  ‘I never liked Jimmy Phillips all that much. I hope they hurry up, I'm starving.’

  The waitress had returned to the kitchen, and re-emerged now with two main courses for the table next to ours, at which a pair of young and spruce executives were engaged in competitive discourse. In the confidential light of the red-shaded wall lamps, tears could be seen trickling down her face. My aunt said, ‘That girl's got a filthy cold – I hope she doesn't give it to us.’

  ‘Well’ – my uncle raised his glass – ‘cheers. By the way, thanks very much for that thing you sent us, the er …’

  ‘Article,’ I said.

  ‘That's right. I read it. Very interesting.’

  ‘I'm going to work it up into a book eventually,’ I said, ‘I hope. That was just some preliminary work on sixteenth-century land tenure – what I want to do is develop it into something rather more general on pre-enclosure peasant status and the regional differences in that and in land-holding generally – there's not been a lot done on that and I think the variations, particularly between north and south, are greater than people have thought.’

  ‘Quite,’ said my uncle, ‘I hadn't come across that periodical before, the er …’

  ‘English Historical Review.’

  ‘That's right. Who runs it?’

  ‘I think it's someone called Henderson, at York.’

  My uncle looked thoughtful, but made no comment.

  My aunt said, ‘I always thought it was philosophy you did – I could have sworn. Oh, we met someone from your college the other day – at least he used to be there. Peter Samuels.’

  Peter Samuels was given due attention. We had been waiting for ten minutes or so, with no sign of sustenance. There had been further outbreaks of contention from beyond the swing door, but now a sinister silence. My aunt, fidgeting, said, ‘I want my avocado.’ A moment later, a small dark man wearing a blood-stained apron shot from the kitchens, a tray on his arm, dealt avocado and pickled herrings to our table and two lemon sorbets to the neighbouring one, and retreated once more. The door, swinging open, released a brief spasm of sobbing and the noise of a saucepan boiling over.

  My uncle, dismembering his herring, said, ‘How's that girl? Sarah Axbridge.’

  I had hoped not to talk about Sarah. I said, ‘Well, actually we don't see each other any more.’ My aunt said, ‘Pity. She was very pretty, I thought. I loved that dress she was wearing when we met – I don't suppose you know where she got it?’ She scoured the shell of her avocado, dabbed at her lips with her napkin and went on, ‘Well, anyway, it's a good thing you didn't get married, it would have been much worse breaking up then.’

  There was a loud thump against the kitchen door and the waitress came bursting through, using a brown suitcase as a battering ram. She had taken off her apron and wore a coat over jeans and a T-shirt. In the other hand she carried a fistful of paper carrier bags, which banged against the tables as she stumbled through the restaurant and out of the street door. My aunt, lifting her eyes as far as the perambulant carrier bags, said, ‘That reminds me, I must pop into Selfridges this afternoon. We saw Dottie last week, Tim – she sent you her love.’

  We worked our way through various members of the family – their physical appearance and personal quirks; at least, my aunt and uncle did. There was, by now, a considerable restiveness apparent at the other tables; my uncle, infected, said, ‘I must say this place is very slow.’

  I said, ‘I think there's some kind of trouble in the kitchen.’

  My uncle drummed his fingers on the table irritably. In the ensuing pause I said, ‘I've been getting involved in politics since I last saw you – real grass-roots politics. I'm standing for the local council, going round knocking on doors and all that. What's interesting is that local issues aren't always …’

  ‘Goodness,’ said my aunt. ‘How frightfully energetic of you, Tim. Rupert, do yell for that waitress again.’

  My uncle, thumping peremptorily on the table, said, ‘Bob Chambers should never have recommended this place. I shall mention it next time I see him.’

  ‘Bob Chambers has the most enormous wife,’ said my aunt. ‘She is quite the largest woman I have ever seen. Colossal.’

  My uncle said with mild reproof, ‘Tim hasn't actually met Bob Chambers, Lucy.’

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ said my aunt. ‘Tim knows perfectly well I'm absolutely fascinated by people. I can't help that, can I?’ She stared across the table at my uncle with girlish defiance.

  ‘All right, darling,’ said my uncle amiably. ‘Keep your hair on. I must say if we don't get something to eat soon …’

  There was an inrush of culinary smells, pitched to a somewhat worrying state not far short of burning, as the door swung open again and the – presumably – chef, darted through. He looked round the tables, then at the series of dishes teetering on the tray he balanced along one arm, and gave a kind of moan. Then, shooting over to our table, he said in one gasp, ‘Oneduckcannellonivealm
arsala?’

  ‘What?’ said my uncle. ‘Oh yes, that's right. And some vegetables, I hope. Oh – and we asked for a carafe of red wine. Some time ago,’ he added, severely.

  The man, whose face, one now saw, was incandescent with sweat, was muttering to himself in an indecipherable language as he tipped the lid off another dish, peered into it, and glanced wildly round the room. At the neighbouring table, the executives were in a state of loud complaint.

  ‘I daresay he's foreign,’ said my aunt, inspecting her veal. ‘This looks nice. Try again, Rupert – we want the wine now, not later.’

  My uncle, busy at his duck, repeated the request; it was met with a tour deforce display of suffering, resignation, despair, incredulity and exasperation. My uncle said, ‘Oh, and some butter, please.’ The swing doors spun twice more; the executives departed acrimoniously; somewhere out of sight a telephone rang and rang; the wine, apparently self-propelled, arrived on the table. My uncle, pouring it, said, ‘Now, Tim, you're not telling us a thing about yourself – what are you doing these days?’

  ‘Well, in fact what I was going to tell you is that I've got a job.’

  ‘Oh, super,’ said my aunt. ‘What doing?’

  ‘It's nothing very grand, but I'm very pleased about it. It's a lectureship in history at Liverpool.’

  ‘University?’ said my aunt.

  My uncle, throwing her a severe glance, said, ‘Liverpool. Now isn't that the place Melton is vice-chancellor of?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew him, I suppose?’

  ‘Actually, no. In any case an appointment to a junior lectureship wouldn't be …’

  ‘You should have told me you were after a job at Liverpool,’ said my uncle reprovingly. ‘One of my co-directors is a close friend of Melton's, I happen to know.’

  ‘Is that John Peterson?’ said my aunt. ‘Or Duggie?’

  ‘Duggie.’

  ‘Duggie's not looking well these days. Let me see now – Liverpool? I don't believe I know a soul in Liverpool. Do you think you'll like it there?’

  ‘I really don't know. But they're going to let me do the lecturing course I'd prefer and there are some people in the department interested in the same kind of thing as I am, and I hope …’

  My aunt put her knife and fork down and said in triumph, ‘No, I'm wrong, there's those people we met years ago on holiday in Tossa – Harker, that's right – Paul and Maisie. He was something in shipping, they lived just outside, I think …’

  The theme was developed, with occasional assistance from my uncle, until we had all finished our main course and indeed had sat in front of our empty plates for a considerable time. My uncle, looking at his watch, exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, going on for two. What about a pudding?’

  We were alone in the restaurant now, except for two women deep in confidences and coffee on a shadowy banquette at the far side. For at least the last ten minutes or so there had been such a silence from the kitchen that it seemed possible that we had been abandoned altogether. I said, ‘Perhaps we'd better just help ourselves.’

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ said my uncle. At the same moment the street door opened and the waitress came in, still coated, carrying the same suitcase and paper bags. She was no longer weeping but wore an expression of proud endurance – the bearing of the wronged heroine of Greek drama, immeasurably experienced in suffering. She swept through the room; I found myself shifting my chair to ease her passage, with deference.

  My aunt stared at her. ‘I should think she's a bit late to get a meal, that girl. They'll be closing soon.’

  I said, ‘Actually, she's the waitress.’

  ‘No,’ said my uncle. ‘She's just come in from the street, I saw. The waitress was a chap with a dirty apron, I always remember faces.’

  ‘No, you don't,’ my aunt interjected. ‘Helen Simmonds said you walked straight past her in the street the other day.’

  ‘Oh, come,’ said my uncle, ‘I doubt that very much. In fact, I distinctly recall …’

  Further dissension was forestalled by staccato sounds from the kitchen into which the waitress had vanished, leaving her suitcase in front of the serving-table.

  ‘They are foreigners.’ My aunt cocked an ear. ‘Italian, I'd say. What a racket. Sounds as if someone's being killed.’

  One of the women from the banquette, in search of a bill, opened the serving door; through it, and over her shoulder, I glimpsed a scene of enthusiastic reconciliation – steamy, in every sense. The woman who had opened the door coughed and retreated. I said, ‘No, I don't think that's what they're doing, at least not now.’

  My aunt obtained a menu from the neighbouring table. ‘I fancy raspberry mousse. What about you, Tim?’

  ‘Cheese for me,’ said my uncle. I said I'd have the same. My uncle looked towards the kitchen, rapped on the table, and called ‘Waiter!’

  Nothing happened. My aunt began to say ‘Really, this is …’ The waitress, her coat shed and an apron inadequately arranged on top of her jeans and T-shirt, came tripping through the door, radiant with promise of various kinds. Snatching up a menu, she thrust it between us, at the same time making recommendations of main course dishes, and perhaps the pâté maison for a starter.

  ‘We've had that bit,’ said my aunt crossly. ‘We want a pudding.’ The waitress stared at us with evident disbelief, and reluctantly accepted my uncle's order. The two women on the banquette achieved their bill, though not without also being reoffered the menu. As she returned to the kitchen I glimpsed, for an instant, the chef, arms akimbo, in beaming expectancy. My aunt said, ‘Why do you keep looking through that door, Tim?’

  Our puddings arrived. The waitress, now, exuded an aggressive satisfaction, clearly not related to the food, which bore signs of neglect. My aunt, mercifully, was too preoccupied with recollections of a man she had met who had once known my former girlfriend to notice. In mid-discourse, she interrupted herself for a moment to say, ‘Just one thing, Tim, and you mustn't think I'm getting at you, but you're not going to get too boring and wrapped up in your work, I hope’ – she laid two fingers on my arm and smiled sweetly, to sugar the pill – ‘I mean, I know it's marvellous doing a think-job like that, but you mustn't forget about people, in the end it's people that are interesting. There! That's my lecture said.’

  ‘Don't you know the saying, Lucy?’ said my uncle. ‘History is about chaps; geography is about maps. Chaps are Tim's business.’ He repeated the tag, with satisfaction.

  ‘Real people,’ said my aunt loftily. ‘Well, I suppose we'd better be going.’

  My uncle called for the bill, and paid; there was some confusion, the waitress having apparently no record of our orders. My uncle said, ‘I don't think all that much of this place – a bit run-of-the-mill. Well, Tim, it's been good to hear what you're up to. Give my regards to Melton when you get to Liverpool – we haven't actually met but he'll know my name well through Duggie Hiscocks.’

  Outside, my aunt kissed me warmly. ‘And don't you go shutting yourself up in an ivory tower, Tim – keep in touch with the real world. ‘Bye, now.’

  After they had gone, I remembered that I had left some books in the restaurant. The waitress greeted me with fervour and non-recognition, offering the menu and a table at the window; it was only with difficulty that 1 rescued the books and escaped.

  Help

  HENRY SAID, ‘You'll have to get some help.’ He said it in the quiet, level tone that meant there was to be no discussion, the matter was decided now. But none the less Jenny said, ‘What?’ She said it not because she had not heard, but, like a child, because she did not want to hear.

  ‘You'll have to get some help. I'm tired of this mess.’

  Guiltily, Jenny followed his glance across the smeared table (teak, from Heals, Aunt Mary's wedding present), the children's coats tumbled behind the sofa, the clutter of toys and newspapers in the corner; on the other side of the wall she saw, as though through a glass screen, the ravaged kitchen.

 
; ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I suppose …’ and then, hopefully, ‘I don't think we could really afford it.’

  ‘Why ever not? You make it sound as though we were on the breadline. We're not short of money just now.’

  ‘You have to pay about seventy pence an hour, I think.’

  ‘Rubbish. The cleaners at the office get sixty.’

  ‘I would feel frightfully awkward having someone polishing my floors and things, Henry, I honestly would.’ That was a real objection, but he brushed it aside with a snort.

  The main objection, of course, could not be stated. It was the thought of a daily – or three-mornings-a-week or whatever it was to be – witness to her household disasters. To her failures with the children, to her panics, to her frantic sorties at inappropriate times of day because there was no milk for the baby, no bread, nothing for dinner again. To the fact that she was never quite certain how to work the washing machine, that she was capable of leaving Emma alone in the kitchen with a pan of water boiling on the stove (and had twice done so), that she dithered and forgot and neglected. That, from time to time, that old sinister feeling of fear and desolation came over her and she sat weeping for an hour or so at a time, with the children as mute, uncomprehending spectators. Henry did not know that she occasionally had these brief recurrences of the old trouble; by the time he came home she had pulled herself together, cleaned up her face, and the children (so far …) were too young to tell.

  Henry said, more kindly, ‘She could do the worst chores. Give you time for the rest.’

  And perhaps that was true. Perhaps if there were someone to wash and hoover and do nappies and all that, perhaps then she would be able to keep the shiny things polished as Henry liked, make nicer food, empty ashtrays and plump up cushions before he came home, have clean and ironed shirts ready and available. She said, ‘What do I do?’