Meatloaf in Manhattan

by Robert Power

  ‘Sit down, doll,’ says Brenda, tying an apron around her ample waist. Her hair is dyed strawberry-blonde, but the roots sprout a peppery grey.

  ‘Cuppa tea?’ she says with a kindly smile.

  ‘Yes please,’ says Josef, wiping the raindrops from his glasses with his shirt sleeve.

  ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘Erm …’ he says, thinking hard.

  ‘A bacon sandwich maybe?’ she says helpfully.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ says Josef, finding her kindness difficult to understand.

  The smell of the café is comforting. The ketchup bottle seems welcoming, the red tomato on the label so vibrant, so exotic, so impossibly bright after all the grey of the long prison months.

  ‘Where you heading to?’ says Brenda from the other side of the counter, the rashers sizzling in the pan.

  ‘I have a sister in Moe.’

  ‘Nice to be in the country.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know how to get there?’

  ‘A bus.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she says, buttering the bread. ‘It goes from the depot across the road. Six minutes past the hour. Plenty of stops, but Moe’s the end of the line.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, as she places the tea and sandwich before him, the diamond in her eternity ring sparkling as dazzling as can be. He looks at the food in front of him, instinctively checking to see if anyone has messed with it.

  Later on, standing at the bus stop, a blueberry muffin in his bag for the journey, he waves at Brenda as she cleans the inside of the café window. She waves back and Josef feels an unusual smile forming in the corners of his mouth. ‘Little acts of kindness,’ he thinks.

  He gets to Moe just before dusk. He stands stock-still, waiting outside the bus station with his small plastic bag of possessions. After about ten minutes, Krystyna, his sister, arrives. He follows her along the high street to her small bungalow behind the woodyard. She is nearly as taciturn as Josef, but they get along well enough. He tries to get work in the parks department, but when the supervisor learns of his history he decides that access to sharp tools is a chance he isn’t prepared to take. Krystyna speaks to Stefan, a widower at the Polish Club who owns the supermarket. Next day Josef is given the job of collecting the trolleys from the carpark and sweeping up. Every Saturday, even on the hottest of summer days, he sits in silence with Krystyna in her tiny kitchen and eats fish and chips.

  These days, I play chess whenever I can. I read somewhere that there are more moves on a chessboard than atoms in the universe. I like that idea. Down the years it’s been a real social leveller, an international language. I got lucky and landed a job that takes me all over the world. It’s a long time since I was back in Tottenham. Some say it’s a bad place, but it is what it is and we were happy enough as kids. When people travel they often look out for churches or landmarks. I look out for chessboards.

  Only the other week I was at a bus station in Jayapura in West Papua when I spotted a battered box with a chessboard exterior propping up the sign that showed the bus fares to Sorong, Kako and other anonymous places in the hinterland. I pointed to the board and gestured an opening chess move. The young ticket collector got my meaning. He picked up the box, replacing it with his shoe, opened the clasp and the worn plastic pieces tumbled to the ground. As soon as we set up the knights and castles, bishops and pawns, a crowd gathered. An hour later, in between jumping up to sell bus tickets, he trapped my king, in spite of my cunning rook counter attack that he spotted at the last minute. The crowd clapped and cheered and my conqueror mimicked smoking: a sign for me to buy him a pack of cigarettes as his prize.

  And so it has been, chess running as a seam of silver and onyx through my life and travels. In the deep winter snow of a park in Bishkek I was annihilated by an ancient man in a bizarre hat, who talked to himself constantly and looked like he had come straight from the Gulag. In the sunshine of the Chimanimani mountains on the Zimbabwe and Mozambique border, I battled against the best player in its only secondary school and came out the victor. Wherever and whenever I play chess, I always think of Zorro and the gift he handed to me. That same gift I have now handed on to my own three sons.

  Maria Zawadzki (nee O’Reilly) does not attend her ex-husband’s funeral. She sits in the early autumn sunshine on the terrace of her little bungalow on the clifftops and watches the sailing boats come in and out of the harbour. She did consider going, but decided against it. She reckoned that Zorro might have liked her to go, but on reflection she figured it unwise, what with not having spoken to Josef since the trial some forty years earlier. But she does send a posy of freesias, their favourite flowers when they were newlyweds, and a card. Inside she writes ‘In sympathy, Maria.’ As she sits forward the pain shoots up her back. Of all the wounds she received on that terrible day, this is the one that has stayed with her. She breathes deeply until the pain subsides, then she settles into her deckchair, the warmth of the sun bringing her some comfort. Close to shore she sees a small dinghy bobbing on the waves. The sailors are a man and his wife and their young son. They laugh and whoop as the boat is tossed about in the swell. She watches as they come and go with the rise and fall of the sea. Maria sighs to herself as the sight and sounds of the boat float along the coast. She shifts her position and straightens her back, then closes her eyes and drifts into her mid-morning nap.

  Zorro is one of only three mourners. They occupy the front pew of the echoingly empty crematorium chapel. To Zorro’s left is an older man; to his right, a woman in black. She is short, with grey hair and she sobs quietly into a white handkerchief trimmed with lilac petals. He thinks she might be his aunt, but he doesn’t ask.

  A month after his father’s funeral Zorro sits on his bed, looking at the wall. He’s been staring at the crack in the brickwork for hours. The room is small and bare, but this is of no worry to him. He’s never been one for decoration. He’s happy to spend whole weeks not speaking to a soul, not seeing a thing. Once, five years or so ago, he lay on the same bed for nigh on two months without stirring, except for the chore of relieving himself. That was when he first spotted the crack in the wall. He deepened it by scratching away at it with the end of a spoon and then extended it into a Z.

  It is the dead of night and Zorro awakes with a start. The dream has paid him a visit. Always the same. Always as vivid as the first time he dreamt it all those decades ago. He is in the garden shed with the young kid from down the street.

  ‘Checkmate,’ says Zorro, hitting the boy on the side of the head with a shovel. They begin to wrestle and Zorro pins the weaker boy to the ground. There is a scream. Through the shed window Zorro can see his mother standing in the garden, blood pouring from her gaping mouth. When he looks back down he realises his hands are tight around the boy’s neck. Gradually, the little boy’s face turns purple, but then transforms into that of Zorro’s father. He squeezes tighter and tighter. His father’s eyes close. Then the eyes open with a grin spreading across the face.

  ‘You can’t even kill me,’ says his father, smiling, ‘you can’t even kill me,’ he repeats over and over.

  So Zorro forgets about sleep. He reaches out and feels for the crack in the wall, the shape of the Z. It is still there and that somehow brings him solace.

  Next morning Zorro walks along the long familiar corridor. The man next to him is short and seriously overweight, his every step marked by a sharp intake of breath, a huge bunch of keys jangling from the belt below his belly. He keeps looking up at Zorro as if about to say something, but then he changes his mind. Zorro knows he has an indefinable hold over this younger man. He can sense it in the air, tell it by the shorter man’s uncertainty as to what to say. It’s something Zorro knows well, something that has defined his life. So they walk on in silence.

  ‘Here you are,’ says the short man, glad his vigil is over, ‘home sweet home.’

  Zorro looks him in the eye and notices him tensing up, on his guard. In the corner of the room is Jaso
n, every inch of his skin a jumble of tattoos. He is sitting at the one small table below the window. The heavy door clanks shut and the key turns to the sound of metal on metal.

  ‘Hi Zorro,’ says Jason. ‘Welcome back. How was it in the hole this time?’

  Zorro says nothing. Experience has taught him the value and currency of silence. Best just to look. To hold a gaze. To fix a stare. He barely says a word these days. Not to anyone. Jason is nervous. He never knows how to take this man who can turn in an instant. No warning, no telltale signs of intent. So he moves to safe ground.

  ‘I’ve been studying the board, Zorro. I think I’ve got the move.’

  On the table the chess pieces have been waiting patiently, an end game in sight.

  ‘You may have had thirty days in solitary to think out your next move, Zorro,’ he says, jovially, nervously, ‘but I’ve been staring at the board. I haven’t wasted a second. I think I might have you at last. The student is ready to master the teacher.’

  Zorro sits down opposite his cellmate and reacquaints himself with the pieces on the board. His mind finds a modicum of peace, of focus, of relief. He sees the king and the bishop, the pawn and the rook. Something in the shapes of the chess pieces and the order and the familiarity of the chequered board helps his mind to quieten and settle. Deep in concentration, he is the chess player, unbeaten, despite the battles, the tight corners, the undefendable positions. Jason notices the change in the air and relaxes.

  ‘Your move, Zorro,’ he says.

  THE SHOE LOVERS

  ‘A fox, she said there was a fox in the middle of the road.’ Charlotte Button is crying and shaking at the same time. Henry holds her close, feels her trembling uncontrollably. Over his shoulder he sees Muriel. She is amongst the crowd, amongst the chaos. Their eyes meet. She looks dazed, confused, in total shock. There will be a future, thinks Henry. He pulls Charlotte closer, for fear she will faint. For fear she will blow away.

  Love’s come late to Henry Morden. Not his love of shoes and shoemaking. That came early and has been his enduring purpose and passion. Everyone in the village admires him for his craftsmanship and dedication. No, it is his love for a woman that has surprised them all. Everyone expected him to live out his life as a bachelor, wedded only to his lasts and leather. But that all changed when he met Muriel at his uncle’s retirement party on a rare trip to the city. She was an English teacher in the London school where his Uncle Daniel was Head of Department. Over the last three years the older man and young woman had become close colleagues and dear friends, sharing a deep commitment to literature and a love of teaching.

  At the retirement party Henry and Muriel were seated on the same table for supper. Maybe Uncle Daniel, with both their interests close to his heart, had an inkling they might get on. And get on they did. She loved wearing shoes as much as he loved making them. They both preferred the country to the city. Not so very unusual. But winter over summer? That, they both agreed, was surprising and neither had ever met another who shared such a preference. They talked about books and films and theatre and cooking; of places they’d visited and those they’d like to see.

  ‘Pembrokeshire?’ asked Muriel.

  ‘Amazing,’ enthused Henry. ‘I’ve only got one stretch left to complete the coastal path. Solva to Milford Haven.’

  ‘Already done it,’ said Muriel, slapping the table to emphasise the point.

  In Henry’s speech and mannerisms Muriel recognised the sensibilities of his uncle: a man she’d come to admire immensely. Later in the evening Henry did something rare in his life: he danced. Muriel took him by the hand and led him onto the floor. Before he knew it they were holding each other close. He loved the smell of her hair, the feel of it on his cheek. They swapped phone numbers and the very next day Henry called Muriel.

  ‘I’m in my studio,’ he said, ‘I’m working on a pair of shoes based on an eighteenth century Venetian design. I was just thinking of the lovely blue dress you wore at my uncle’s and how the shoes would be such a match. I could make them for you. As a gift. What do you think?’

  In that instance, Muriel imagined Henry, his long slender fingers and strong hands (that she’d noticed at dinner) shaping the soft leather, creating a thing of great beauty.

  ‘I think …’ she said, ‘… I think I feel like Cinderella.’

  ‘These shoes are leather, not glass,’ he joked, ‘and I can’t imagine you have ugly sisters.’

  ‘No, no sisters. Only an older brother.’

  ‘Is he a prince?’

  ‘No he’s a priest.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’

  And they both laughed again, so new in this excitement and exploration of love.

  It was agreed: they would meet the very next week at Henry’s cottage in the village of Little Appleton. He would fit her for the shoes and she would cook dinner.

  It was the kind of early morning in the village that Amanda Stephenson relished. The sunlight tinkered with the leaves of the copper beech bordering her small garden and the air was still fresh from the night. She was sitting at the table on the patio thinking about the event on Saturday that was to be held in her honour. In front of her was a pot of Earl Grey tea and the china teacup and saucer she always used on Sunday mornings. Sunday morning: her time, free from the bustle and pressures of County Hall and her recent mayorial responsibilities. No fetes today, no duties to perform. She poured the tea and then dropped a slice of lemon into the cup. The sun shone on her face and she stretched her neck to bathe in its warmth. Saturday would be her sixtieth birthday and her fellow councillors and village friends were insisting on a celebration to mark this milestone and also to acknowledge all she’d achieved in village life.

  Born and bred in Little Appleton, Amanda had always been at the pulse of its lifeblood: from the teenage Mid-Summer Queen to eminent solicitor; from parish councillor to her recent election as mayor. When, three months ago, the party in her honour was first mooted, she expressed reluctance. She possessed a natural modesty and humility that was much admired. In time, gentle persuasion and an acceptance of the village’s right to celebrate, won her around. Once, in a conversation with Charlotte Button, who ran the bakery, she let it be known that she admired elegant shoes. When Charlotte told the party committee about this, the decision was simple. Amanda’s cleaning lady (Charlotte’s cousin), was charged with checking her employer’s shoe size. Then Henry, under the strictest of secrecy, was given the commission.

  Muriel fell in love with the village at first site. Driving up to Henry’s cottage she passed by the Farmer’s Arms pub, the baker’s, the butcher’s, the post office (with its original red pillar box on the footpath) and a row of solid stone thatched cottages. It was so quintessentially English to defy parody. She looked at the scrap of paper she balanced on the steering wheel and realised she needed to take the first left after the Three Tuns (the other pub in the village). And there, at the end of a short gravel drive was Dendy’s End, the place where Henry lived and worked and where Muriel felt she might find real happiness. The very thought made her smile to herself as the parked her car next to Henry’s slightly battered, but clearly loved (the chrome shone), Morris Oxford. When Henry came to the door to greet her, he had a small pointed hammer in one hand and a freshly cut red rose in the other.

  ‘I’ll take the rose,’ she said, ‘unless you were expecting Trotsky.’

  He laughed, put the hammer down on the table by the door and swept her up in his arms.

  It wasn’t how either expected it to happen, but the sheer physical passion of their meeting meant they stumbled straight upstairs to bed, where they stayed locked together for the best part of the weekend. Henry did manage to measure Muriel’s feet (just before she left: as late as possible on Sunday evening). And Muriel did cook (scrambled eggs on toast: twice).

  Mayor Stephenson never felt more at ease than in the Council Chamber. The solidity of the oak panelling; the thought of all those (since 1825) who had spoken,
debated, contested and served their community in this room. To her the ‘office’ was a privilege and an honour; her tenure as mayor a pinnacle, of sorts. She listened as her long-time friend and political adversary, Councillor Bradman, spoke in favour of a new bypass that, he acknowledged, would bring lorries and extra traffic across their patch of countryside.

  ‘The economic opportunities …’ she heard him say, but paid little heed knowing the numbers were on her side and the proposal would, not for the first time, be rejected. When the meeting agenda came to ‘other business’ the matter of the party in her honour was raised.

  ‘Come up on Saturday,’ said Henry, ‘everyone will be at the party.’

  ‘The party?’ asked Muriel.

  ‘I told you, for the mayor.’

  ‘Oh, yes … the mayor. I definitely want to meet her. To get a sense of the strong women in the village.’

  ‘And you have much in common … aside from being strong women, I mean.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Muriel. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘The shoes!’ said Henry emphatically.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she laughed. ‘The shoes. We both have you in our service.’

  ‘At your beck and call. At your command. But shush. It’s still top secret. Only a chosen few are in on the mayor’s surprise.’

  In truth, Henry was under pressure. It probably showed in his voice. He’d had it in his mind to have both pairs ready for the weekend. His intention was to present the shoes to the mayor at the party and then later that night, at the right romantic moment, to surprise Muriel with her pair. Then he might even ask her to marry him. And she might even say yes. He had two other commissions on the go, both with urgent deadlines. It might have all been manageable, but he hadn’t counted on his sister Lillian’s latest drama. Always at the worst of times, he thought, the forlorn image of his sister standing in the garden, staring into the distance. He tried to put the scene to the back of his mind. To focus on the present, the here and now.