There was no air whatsoever coming through the kitchen window, so I opened the back door and, soon as it was open, the cat jumped off the trampoline and came inside, came right in, sniffed at the cupboard under the sink, and looked at us, then sat, as though waiting for something.
‘Is that your cat?’ he said.
‘No. It belongs to the upstairs neighbour.’
‘Why does it come in here?’
‘That’s what cats do.’
‘It stinks,’ he said. ‘Is it neutered? You should tell them upstairs that neutering is a relatively cheap and simple operation.’
‘I will.’
We both looked at the cat, which was panting from the heat.
‘How about you, Dad? How’ve you been?’
‘I could use a bit more help,’ he said. ‘My secretary’s always behind. Things are getting to be too much for us. I’ve been wondering if I should retire.’
‘Maybe you need a new secretary, then.’
‘Don’t be daft, son. I’ve spent too long training her. Anyway, the patients are very fond of her. She keeps teddy bears behind the desk for the kiddies.’
‘That’s good then, Dad,’ I said. ‘If the patients like her, isn’t that more important than paperwork?’
‘You’re right, son. Of course, you’re right.’
The baby in the flat upstairs started howling. I’d had enough.
‘Listen, Dad. I might have a bit of a sleep now, if that’s alright.’
‘Won’t you be waking up again soon?’ he said. ‘When Janice gets home?’
‘That’s not a problem. I’ll go straight back to sleep.’
He stood.
‘I’ll get out of your hair then, will I?’
We faced each other across the table, and he looked at me, and we were breathing in unison. I’d hardly ever seen the look he had in his eyes that morning, as though he was trying to memorise my face, or seeing it for the first time.
And he didn’t want to leave.
‘Listen, Dad. Stay for a bit,’ I said. ‘I can sleep later.’
‘Alright, son. I’ll stay for a bit.’
‘But go into the lounge-room. It’s a bit cooler in there.
I told him to go in ahead of me, that I needed to use the loo and freshen up. I put my head under the cold tap, drenched myself then dried off, and I changed my shirt and got two glasses of orange juice.
Before I went into the lounge-room, I stopped in the hallway to take a breath and from just outside the door I saw my father. He was looking out the window and couldn’t see me and he’d unclenched his jaw, let his mouth hang open and I saw the way he looked in repose, when nobody else was around and he didn’t have his face ready; not strong, and not so sure of himself.
He looked like an older man and I was sure he was thinking about my mother. I sensed it in his face, his slackened mouth and, for a moment, I thought of her, too, and it was the memory that always came first, though I didn’t want it.
A few months before my mother left home, it was a winter’s day, and the three of us were eating lunch in her favourite café. She told the waitress she wanted something that wasn’t on the menu: ‘A large onion sandwich.’
The waitress was still at our table and my father laughed. ‘Precisely how large is a large onion?’ he said.
When the waitress left, my mother stood up.
‘The waitress knew what I meant,’ she said. ‘Everybody else knew what I meant, Richard. What the hell’s wrong with you?’
My father tried to apologise.
‘Oh, pet,’ he said. ‘Don’t feel that way.’
Her coat was hanging on the back of my father’s chair and she needed him to sit forward to get it.
‘Move!’ she said.
He turned round to her, put his hand on her arm, and tried to console her as best he could – as he often did – by holding onto a part of her.
‘I said move!’ she said. ‘You slow, deaf old pig! I need my coat.’
But my father didn’t move quickly enough and she wrenched the coat from behind his back.
‘You’re embarrassing me, Richard,’ she said. ‘Get off my bloody coat!’
I moved into the lounge-room.
‘Sorry I took so long, Dad.’
‘I’ve opened the window and turned on the fan for you,’ he said.
‘Thanks. Here’s some OJ.’
I sat on the end of the settee and he sat in the armchair nearest the door. As we sat, we crossed our legs, left over right, a genetic tic, something the both of us did whenever we sat.
‘I think I’ll call Janice,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask her to bring some milk and ice back with her.’
The phone was warm in my hand and he waited for me to check for messages.
But still there were none. Nothing.
‘She’s on her way home,’ I said.
‘Alright,’ he said. ‘I should be heading off soon anyway.’
But he was going to stay. He was going to wait with me until she came home – or didn’t.
We were silent for a while and we watched a Mornflake truck reversing out of the warehouse and then my father scratched his arm.
‘There might be fleas in here,’ he said, ‘from that cat. Have you been bitten?’
‘No. I haven’t. It was probably a mozzie.’
‘What’s that white stuff in the carpet,’ he said. ‘Those little flecks . . . I thought it might be flea powder.’
‘No, it’s sand,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to get rid of.’
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘A small price to pay for such a nice location.’
We lived less than ten minutes from Bondi Beach and that was part of the reason why we paid so much rent for such a cramped and gloomy flat.
I wanted to move out to the suburbs – just for a few years – to save some money for an air-conditioner, and maybe a trip to Europe, but Janice refused. She said she couldn’t stand the stench of the suburban sticks and so we stayed in our sweat-box, which we couldn’t afford, and bought three fans; four fans, including the busted ceiling fan in the kitchen.
I looked at my father and swirled the orange juice round as though the glass had ice in it.
‘You can check your mobile phone again if you want,’ he said. ‘You look a bit worried, or something.’
‘I’m not worried, Dad. She’ll be here in a minute. And then we’ll have ice and milk, and then I’m going to hit the sack.’
He stood, and it seemed abrupt, sudden, as though he’d heard a bell ringing, an alarm of some sort.
‘Well, I should be going,’ he said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
And that was that.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t better company,’ I said.
‘You’re tired, that’s all. You’ve never liked the heat.’
We stood in the hallway, him with his hands stuffed inside his khaki pockets, and me with my arms folded tight across my chest to hold myself together, but I must’ve looked defensive, as though I was fed up with him.
Although he’d said he was leaving, he didn’t seem like he was ready to go and in this in-between state, this awkward waiting, this not-coming-or-going, he’d usually be the one to make the first move to action, easy, confident and calm.
But he stood stock still, and looked at me, really looked at me, like he’d done in the kitchen. I didn’t want to speak, and I didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t either, so I opened the front door and stepped outside and waited for him to follow.
I was in a bad way then, sweating and hurt, afraid Janice was gone for ever, and though I didn’t want to be left alone, I didn’t know how to be in this state with him watching me, and he didn’t like the idea either. It was embarrassing, I think, that was the root of the problem.
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
‘Goodbye, son. Take care of yourself.’
I’d turned to go back inside when he stepped back onto the porch and took a tight hold of me. He hugged me, long enough for me to feel what went on beneath his chest, and I closed my eyes as he held me, and it went on for a long time and there was no rush from either of us to get it over with, and I held him with the same strength as he held me.
My father let go first, but it wasn’t to be rid of me. And I knew that. He wanted to say something, but didn’t, and he waited, took a deep breath, took hold of my hands; his two hands over mine, like a blanket.
‘I hope you can find a way out of this situation, son. I wish you luck.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘OK, Dad.’
Saying ‘OK’ said nothing. But as I held my breath, and watched him walk down the path, I hoped he realised that I wanted to say more, that I just didn’t know how to take the chance.
He’d know, wouldn’t he, that I was too surprised, that I was too confused to speak, that I wanted to avoid saying the kind of things that might bring my emotions to the boil, and that I was too busy shuddering to let him stay, or say anything more; that I wasn’t angry with him and didn’t want to see the back of him. I hope he knew that morning – that he realised – as he walked down the road – and I watched him all the way to the corner – that I loved him, because I never did get round to saying it.
The Tasting
Regi Claire
The woman seemed young, too well dressed for walking alone on a dusty track under the hot sun. Her skirt and blouse were watery shades of blue, boutique chic like her ethnic bag and the sandals powdered with grit. Her feet were chafed red. Her hair clung to her skin in long, pale waves. When would she finally cut it off? Stopping to wipe her face with a tissue, she took off her sunglasses, her eyes vague and uncertain in the glare. Her mobile, she had just realised, was back at the hotel.
She was lost, and she knew it. To one side of her lay a small settlement of pristine-looking apartment blocks whose lawns gave onto scrub and woodland, to the other a vastness of orchards swathed in sea-green netting, the ground beneath littered with apples and pears prematurely fallen in the brutish heat. Behind her stretched acres and acres of cherry trees. Their fruit had already been picked, with the exception of a crippled old tree, cleaved by lightning perhaps, which bore a crop of sun-shrivelled cherries pecked at by birds and sucked dry by wasps, no good for selling, but as sweet and intoxicating as wine.
Earlier, while passing through the vineyards beyond the cherry orchards, she had caught a glimpse of someone walking a dog, a long distance away. Now she thought she could hear voices from the underwater gloom of the apple trees, bouts of laughter, and she called out, though not too loudly, because the voices had sounded male. Nobody answered. Only a church bell started ringing, far away, the sound sluggish and half molten in the heat, absorbed by the trees just like they seemed to absorb the heat, their leaves when she touched them wilting and paper thin. Glancing over at the settlement, she saw no one, nothing but an empty car park, its tarmac so shiny black it shimmered near white, like the surface of a lake. She passed her tongue over her lips.
All of a sudden, up ahead on the track, two people appeared, a couple holding hands. Despite her sore feet the woman hurried towards them, then addressed them in the local language, hesitantly, aware maybe of her lack of words.
She asked the way to Village E, which she knew had to be there somewhere – she was sure she had heard the church bells. But anything seemed possible in this arid, brittle landscape, under these strange, high skies full of birds of prey that at one point had circled right above her head, their wings casting shadows that had made her shiver.
The couple were very young and probably not a couple at all. The man had one eye half closed and stared at her with the other, his lips moving clumsily to form words she couldn’t understand. The girl, a big formless girl whose face looked more male than female, smiled and there were gaps in her mouth from missing teeth. Letting go of the young man’s hand, she gestured to the woman to follow her as she went down some kind of access ramp towards another part of the settlement, with a big yard in the middle and buildings on three sides. A school? Behind them the man had started shouting, his tongue lolling, his bad eye squinting shut. But he stayed where he was.
When they reached the yard, they turned left, skirting the back of one of the buildings. And suddenly there were voices – and young men seated at several tables on adjacent patios, drinking beer and playing cards. The girl with the missing teeth disappeared through a doorway. The woman waited. Tried to hide from the glances and laughter of the men, who were now staring over at her, mouthing things she couldn’t make out, pointing and waving, leering with thick lips and squinty eyes. Some of them wore T-shirts, others were bare-chested, a glisten of sweat on their skin. The woman crossed her arms over her summer blouse. What was she waiting for? Who? It was like being on the other side for once, in a cage or an enclosure, a freak. When a shaven-headed man, half naked, got to his feet and started towards her, the woman’s muscles tensed and she clutched her bag, ready to run. But he was pushed down into his seat.
A few more minutes passed before the formless girl reappeared. She was no longer smiling. Shrugging her shoulders, perhaps apologetically, she shook her head while behind her a tall bald man in jeans and shirt, his forearms and skull inky with tattoos, stepped out on to the patio. Everyone fell silent. When he opened his mouth, the woman expected more gaps, more thick-lipped vowel sounds. Instead his voice came smoothly, in her own language, and his teeth were perfect: white and shiny.
‘Lost your way, have you?’ He smiled.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I want to go to the wine tasting in Village E. I’m supposed to meet some friends . . . ’
The man strolled over to her, casually touched her long blonde hair with his fingertips, then nodded. ‘Mhm . . . We’ll be able to help you all right, don’t worry.’
The woman retreated a little.
He smiled again and, addressing the young men, said something accompanied by hand signals. They all stood up as one. Like a conductor with his baton, he made them answer him in a chorus of orchestrated noise that started deep down, then slowly ascended, increasing in volume until they seemed to be ululating.
Were they singing to her? The woman felt dizzy all of a sudden, and very tired. Exhausted, really. Someone had placed a chair behind her and she sank down on it, dropping her bag. The ululating was swelling and receding in waves, soothing somehow, and she forgot she had wanted to leave as quickly as possible, to get away away away . . . Her legs had gone heavy, her arms were limp and hanging, her eyelids drooping; all she could see was her skirt rucked up high on her thighs.
She never even caught the moment when her eyes closed. There was silence all around her now as if she was quite alone, adrift once more in the vastness of the orchards, lost in the vineyards that seemed to stretch back to what had always been and always would be – some sort of eternity perhaps, an in-limbo world at best, an agony of crucified shapes at worst.
When the woman awoke, it was dark, with flickerings of subterranean light from a small opening above her and the sound of water, a stream maybe. She was lying on a hard surface, something soft and lumpy under her head: her bag. A blanket had slipped half off her and she instinctively pulled it up to her chin. She cried out, she couldn’t help it.
A door opened and footsteps filled the darkness with echoes. A torch shone into her face. The man with the tattoos smiled down at her, a friendly, reasonable smile, before asking if she was all right; she’d passed out in the yard, too much sun, no doubt, so they’d brought her here to the cellar. He hoped the plank hadn’t been too hard, and would she like something to eat, the wine tasting was about to begin.
‘Thank you,’ the woman said. ‘You’re very kind.’ And although she was still a little dazed, she sat up, blanket around her shoulde
rs, hands clasped around her knees. She could hear bleating outside and the tinkling of bells. There had been no sign of sheep at the pristine settlement, but Village E was a farming village, she knew and, suddenly weepy with relief, she squeezed her eyes shut.
The man’s shoes rapped against the floor as he moved away. ‘Take a look,’ he said. ‘I painted this myself – one of our previous tastings.’
The torch beam was directed at a mural of two countrymen seated at a table, drinking wine by candlelight beneath a window with a sickle moon. Behind them, leaning against a chest-high wine barrel with the lid off, were the shadowy figures of a man and a girl – the girl’s head was tilted back, the man’s body almost covering hers as he held a bottle to her mouth. Next to the mural hung a large photograph of the same two men seated at a table, drinking wine by candlelight beneath a window with the same sickle moon.
‘Not bad,’ the woman said. ‘I like the artistic licence.’
‘What artistic licence?’ the man asked, just as a dog started barking outside, frantically.
She fiddled with a strand of hair. ‘Anyway, would you mind putting the light on, please? And could I have some water?’ The plank was beginning to feel uncomfortable and she groped along its edges to test the floor – cobbles, safe enough. She reached for her bag and stood up, the blanket around her shoulders.
‘There’ll be plenty of water later, believe me,’ the man said. Then he clicked his torch on and off a few times.
The barking stopped abruptly. Light came flooding in as a wide door swung open and the big girl entered, in a dress now and much shapelier, much more feminine-looking than before, followed by a procession of the young men wearing shirts and ties like office clerks or bank managers. Gone were the slack lips and squinty eyes. Had it been the beer and sun dazzle that had caused those?
The newcomers were carrying trays with glasses and loaves of bread; wisps of incense rose from the girl’s hands. Oil lamps were brought and candles whose flames jittered spookily over the vaulted ceiling, the walls and stone pillars, over the trestle tables, chairs, pyramids of wine cases and the massive wooden barrels, some upright and serving as bistro tables, others lying on their side like beached animals. The woman went up to one and tapped it, letting her blanket fall to the floor.
The Best British Short Stories 2013 Page 16