Drowned Sprat and Other Stories

by Stephanie Johnson

  It was the middle daughter, the one who’d had Nigger, who was to come to dinner. Rhonda had put their differences aside in favour of an anguished alliance. This had had to do with Kitchener, whom they both openly believed to be difficult but worth the effort, and biological clocks. It appeared that Susan was unable to have children the normal way. She was thirty-two, and she and Alistair had been through the in-vitro fertilisation programme four times with no success. Whereas Susan previously had wanted to discuss only her mother’s despair at her husband’s betrayal and his second marriage, she now engaged Rhonda in private, esoteric discussions on the female urge to reproduce.

  When he had heard they were coming Kitchener had endeavoured to persuade Rhonda to cancel.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she’d said, not looking at him, ‘Susan and Alistair are very busy, you know that. We mightn’t get another chance for weeks.’

  ‘Invite one of the other girls another night, then,’ he’d said. ‘They’ll come.’

  ‘With all their frightful kids,’ Rhonda responded. ‘I’ve told you before: I’m not going to play Grandma when you’ve never given me a chance to play Mother.’

  Kitchener went out for a dip in the pool where, briefly, he considered submersion of several minutes, long enough to end it all. In the end he forced himself out and lay on the warm tiles staring up at the blue Remuera sky, flecked with gold. Two clouds: one approaching from the east, pure white but for blue-grey fluid borders; and the other gleaming orange, lit by the sunset. The second was the larger, hanging in the apex of the heavens, burning with light and streaming towards the west. The odd thing was that both clouds were shaped like hands: the white one lumpy, thick-fingered; the gold one lithe, slender. He counted its five fingers, admired its narrow surgeon’s wrist, then realised it was dissolving, losing its shape. The white cloud earnestly prodded and buffeted its golden counterpart and they began to merge.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ Rhonda had come out of the house, across the terrace and down the steps.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Are you ill? Clem?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Rhonda tapped her foot behind his prone head. ‘Speak clearly.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’ll be here in half an hour. Maybe you could choose some wine.’

  After a moment he heard her turn, heard the shift of fabric on fabric as her tight skirt rustled on her underwear, her step. She stopped.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asked.

  ‘What a preposterous question.’ Kitchener closed his eyes and wished she’d go away.

  She didn’t straight away. He could hear her breathing, as if she was thinking of something else to say. Fortunately she failed in the quest, sighed heavily and turned back to the kitchen. Kitchener waited until he heard her distant heels on the hard, polished floors of the house, beyond the astro-turf of the terrace, before he hauled himself up. One of his legs had gone numb from lying too long on the tiles. He gave it a hearty slap, which his dull synapses hardly registered, before going to collect his clothes from the pagoda.

  Susan had too much perfume on. Though they were on the terrace it stung his nostrils, offended his keen sense of smell. He may never have had narrow wrists — not as narrow as Vittachi’s, at least not since he was ten years old — but by Christ he could smell the threat of post-operative infection through a plaster cast before it even took hold. Many times he’d smelt heat and pressure, seconds before a patient haemorrhaged. He could tell the difference between the blood of the anaesthetised old and that of the anaesthetised young; he could smell fear and satisfaction. Susan felt his eyes on her and lifted her glass.

  ‘Dad. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Not much,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Had he spoken too quietly? Susan gave him a strange, querying look and answered her husband. Alistair was saying, ‘You should go and get Rhonda out of the kitchen. Tell her to come and have a drink. We haven’t even said hello yet.’

  Susan stood. ‘Yeah. Dinner can wait. We’re all grown-ups here tonight! If the ankle-biters were here we’d have to rush.’ She flashed a look of cold, wounded betrayal at her husband and departed. A wave of scent broke over Kitchener’s head. He took a sip of wine to quell rising nausea.

  ‘Um … Clem … I hope you don’t think I’m out of order, but …’

  Kitchener examined his son-in-law curiously. He was leaning forward, legs apart, twiddling the stem of his wine glass, thumb and forefinger rolling it back and forth. He was embarrassed — was he blushing? Having not really looked at Alistair since he arrived, Kitchener wasn’t sure. Perhaps the man was windburnt. What on earth was he going to say? The atmosphere was leaden, as it had been when two other sons-in-law had told Kitchener they were leaving his daughters. At least this time there were no children and Susan had a well-paid job. The schnauzer would be a problem, though. They both doted on it.

  Alistair cleared his throat. ‘I … um …’ he continued, ‘… think you’ve had enough of that.’ He inclined his head towards Kitchener’s glass.

  Kitchener was baffled. Enough of what? He took a sip and thought on it. Enough of sitting in this particular chair, on this particular terrace, in this house, this suburb, this city, this life? True enough. Tonight, that was true enough.

  Alistair was staring at him. Kitchener met his eyes and smiled. The women’s voices were coming closer.

  ‘You know, I’ve never seen you …’ Alistair spoke in a rush, pausing in peculiar places, ‘like this something. Must’ve happened to make you. Do it you could have rung and put. Us off can I get you a glass of water?’

  ‘Alistair!’ Rhonda came through, smelling of garlic and roses. Behind her, Susan brought a second wave of opposing scent. Alistair stood and kissed Rhonda on the cheek.

  ‘Let’s go through,’ said Rhonda, gesturing towards the dining room. ‘It’s all ready.’

  ‘Have another drink, Dad,’ said Susan sarcastically. ‘Alistair will pour you one.’

  Kitchener caught her withering glance broadside and was wounded by it. It shot into the corner of his eye with a sudden pain. What the devil was going on?

  ‘No, no — I insist! The dinner will spoil.’ Rhonda was using her gay voice, the one she usually reserved for the telephone. ‘Right now!’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ joked Alistair.

  The three of them stood looking down at Kitchener, who sat cradling his wine glass against his chest. He felt oddly paralysed. Three shadows fell across him. Rhonda’s one extended an arm.

  ‘Clem. Will you join us?’

  With a lurch, Kitchener propelled himself up out of his rattan chair. His feet were numb, he failed them, he fell over, flat on his face, knocking over the flimsy table with its two bottles of wine: one red, one white. The two liquids coursed around him, merging, red and white to pink. He felt his shirt soak it up to his skin and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’d had a stroke.

  At least it was a different ward, though he kept his eye out for Vittachi.

  ‘Medical insurance?’ he’d said to Rhonda five years ago. ‘Who needs it? You get just as good care in the public system as you do in the private. You’re panicking, believing the media.’

  And here he was being assessed by bug-eyed, exhausted house surgeons six months out of medical school.

  He gave up trying to talk to Rhonda on her daily visits. She talked to him, though, of how she’d arranged for a live-in nurse to look after him when he came home. She obviously had no knowledge of the many cases of stroke where the sufferer had recovered. He would recover. And there wouldn’t be a nurse. If he couldn’t make his feelings clear verbally, he’d spit on her as soon as he met her. Here came one now, to take his temperature. She shoved the thing in his ear, some electronic contrivance that looked like a gun. At least it spared him the embarrassment the conventional type would afford him — it wouldn’t fall out of his slack mouth. Which
was full of saliva. Kitchener decided against spitting on this nurse. She would no doubt take it personally.

  ‘I’ve got one coming tomorrow,’ Rhonda was saying, ‘for an interview. Alistair came round and helped me move furniture. We’ve put you in the dining room downstairs. It looks very nice, a sort of bedsitting room.’

  Rhonda prattled on about new drapes and rugs, and the Stanley Palmer she’d hung in there for him to look at. Kitchener tweaked up the mobile side of his face to show he was pleased. Poor Rhonda. The sun slanting across his bed was soporific, enervating.

  When he woke Rhonda was gone, and a nurse was rousing him for the evening meal. Purée, thickened with something from a large tin marked Karitane. With one hand she would spoon it in, with the other gently massage his throat to assist swallowing.

  Kitchener wasn’t hungry. He turned his face away, tried to clench his useless jaws. The nurse got a spoonful in, which fell out again. It had been placed too far forward in his mouth. He took a sneaky look at the nurse, who was placidly reloading the spoon. A shadow moved behind her and a familiar voice said, ‘Excuse me, Nurse. I’ll do that if you like.’

  ‘Oh …’ The nurse was uncertain. ‘Are you sure? Doctor …’

  The shadow’s hand tapped something plastic on its chest, a name badge.

  ‘Vittachi.’

  ‘Right. All right, then. You know how …?’

  Vittachi nodded.

  Slowly Kitchener turned his head to look at his supplanter. The nurse stood, handed over the bowl and left to feed someone else. Vittachi put the bowl down on the bedside cabinet.

  ‘You don’t want it, do you?’ he said, sitting on the bed.

  Kitchener couldn’t reply. He looked steadily into Vittachi’s eyes, which were warm, brown, clever. He could see, suddenly, why the man was so liked. There was a compassionate intelligence about him, something unshockable.

  Vittachi waited until the older man looked away, then he said, ‘You know, Mr Kitchener, if things were different I’d ask your opinion on something. A case I have. Spondylolisthetic pelvis in an elderly woman. Associated arthritis and osteoporosis. I don’t know whether to help her or not. She’s seventy-nine.’

  Leave her alone, you chump, thought Kitchener.

  Vittachi was looking at him earnestly. ‘Can you wink?’ he asked.

  In reply Kitchener shuttered his left eye and reopened it.

  ‘Good,’ said Vittachi. ‘One wink says I do, two says I shouldn’t.’

  Kitchener concentrated and gave him two.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Vittachi reached for the bowl. ‘Hungry now?’ he asked.

  The interview with Vittachi had made him feel better, Kitchener realised, as Alistair helped him out of the car and into a wheelchair. It had at least made the rest of his stay in hospital bearable. He’d done some good. He’d saved an old lady a lot of needless pain. Alistair looked again towards the house for the nurse to come, while Rhonda fussed over him with a tartan travelling rug.

  ‘Give her a toot,’ she said.

  Alistair stood up, flicking a gleaming strand of hair out of his blue eyes. A loud horn shattered the air seconds after he passed out of the perimeters of Kitchener’s gaze. Kitchener could hear him breathing, hear him shaking the keys softly in a cupped hand. There was no sound from the house.

  ‘She must be stone deaf,’ said the son-in-law.

  ‘Maybe — she’s certainly no spring chicken!’ said Rhonda, with a giggle.

  ‘Will you be all right? I’ve got to get back.’ Was he looking at his watch?

  ‘Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.’

  Oh, that velvet voice. He hadn’t heard it for a long time. It seemed Rhonda had well and truly risen to the occasion of his illness. When he died she would rise to the occasion again by sitting rigidly in the church, admired by women of her generation for her old-fashioned tearlessness.

  ‘Okay,’ said Alistair. ‘Bye, then.’

  Behind him Kitchener heard a kiss, lips to cheek. Or was it? Rhonda was scenting Alistair’s cheek, taking in a deep breath of air, something she did only when she was kissed on the lips. It was something Kitchener did. She’d discovered the delight of it early in their courtship, and now she did it herself.

  ‘I’ll ring you later,’ from Alistair.

  ‘Thanks, Alistair,’ said Rhonda. She began to push Kitchener up the drive.

  Behind them Alistair’s Alfa Romeo roared backwards into the street.

  ‘Hel-lo!’ yodelled Rhonda, but there was still no response from the house.

  ‘See the terracotta tiles on the ramp?’ Rhonda was puffing at its gentle incline, ‘Alistair designed it to keep in with the style of the house. The railing is custom made.’

  Under the tartan rug Kitchener clenched a fist and released it, clenched it again. It was part of his exercise programme.

  ‘Alistair has been marvellous. I can’t tell you,’ Rhonda went on, ‘just how marvellous he’s been. Don’t be surprised by Susan. I think she’s a tiny bit jealous.’

  The door stood ajar. It was a new door, Kitchener noted — wide enough to fit his chair through, with no step.

  ‘Hel — lo!’ Rhonda yodelled again. The house was hushed, but Kitchener detected something in the air. Five different brands of perfume, the smell of antiseptic, and something else. Baby shampoo. Rhonda flung open the door to what used to be the dining room.

  For a moment the changes in the decor were lost on him: popping up from behind the bed, the chest of drawers, the table, the commode, were myriad cheering faces. There were all the daughters and their children, and sailing towards him came the broad white bust of a nurse. Susan’s eyes were swollen with tears; the nurse’s eyes were hidden behind glasses as thick as bottle bottoms.

  ‘Hello, Mr Kitchener,’ said Sims, coming forward. Or was it Roberts? ‘Welcome home!’

  The Colour of Flesh

  You could have sworn that as you woke, you heard the front door open gently and close, a soft click of the snib and my bare foot on the boards; you woke with the sure knowledge that someone had come into the house — but remembered, in the same instant, that the family had gone out, that you were alone, that it was early Sunday evening and that you had fallen asleep, as you never do, in the middle of the day. Here you were, returned to yourself in an armchair, the late sun boisterous at the window, swirling the dust motes into a column that terminated in a bright disc the size of a dinner plate on the carpet, chaotic with abandoned playing cards, just beside your left foot.

  You got up and went to the kitchen, turned on the radio and after a moment thought nothing more of me, believing instead that you had been dreaming of a visitor, and entertaining yourself with the notion that the visitor was female. You wondered, while you chopped and peeled, if it was someone you knew — your mother, your sister, a friend — and you wished for a moment that the dream had continued so that you could have found out …

  And then you gave your attention to your children, who came in from the park with your husband. They ate, ran riot, were bathed, read to and put to bed — a summer Sunday evening like any other. Early on I got sick of watching you, unacknowledged. In a sulk I leaned into a corner of the dining room, only momentarily encouraged by the fact that you laid the table for one more than your family — she knows, she knows — but halfway to the table you realised, and took the empty plate back to the cupboard. That’s when I gave up, went down to the bedroom and unpacked my vanity case, put on some perfume and waited. By the time you went to bed, yawning and staggering, leaving the husband cast on the couch in full snore, you had forgotten all about me.

  Which is why I had to let you see me. Just for an instant. I heard you come in, sniff the scented air, flick on the light. In the mirror above the dressing table you saw a flash of something flesh-coloured, a soft peach-pink, turning away from the onslaught of the bulb: a narrow, girl’s body, a smudged whip of dark hair swinging around it.

  I watched your tired, sluggish thoughts progress from the
mirror to the wardrobe opposite — was there something hanging over the door, a shirt, a scarf? But you possess nothing peach-coloured, the colour does nothing for you: it took you a moment to remember that. You shook your head like a B-grade Hollywood actor, peeled off your clothes and fell under the duvet.

  Far too prosaic and pragmatic a case for me, I thought.

  In the morning you got the kids off to school, the husband off to work — who thanked you for the back-rub you’d administered to him when he’d finally come to bed, around one in the morning.

  ‘You dreamed it,’ you said, because you hadn’t massaged him at all. ‘When you came in I was fast asleep’ — and as he went out the door he laughed as if you were joking.

  Then you went to work yourself, moved paper, solved problems, dealt with this and that and him and her, collected the kids from after-school care, came home. So stultifyingly boring was it that after only half an hour I flitted off, only momentarily returning during the day to see if there was anything I could do to help you, but I’m no good at that sort of thing: commerce or business — whatever it is you do at your desk. I was much better employed here, baking the cake that gave you such a surprise when you came in. It was a Dolly Varden, in three coloured layers, all decorated with pink icing and sugared flowers, set out on the dining-room table. I’d had time to do a good deal more — asparagus rolls, sausage rolls, sweetcorn in bread cases, smoked mussels on crackers — but hadn’t because I thought you wouldn’t want the children to spoil their dinners. But I thought you’d enjoy the cake.

  You did not, and neither did I enjoy your response. Nor did the younger children. You freaked out and it frightened them. You rang your mother, who has a key to the house. You rang your husband, who was stuck in traffic on his way home.

  ‘Where’d you learn to do that thing with your tongue?’ he asked, immediately he knew it was you — and you had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Look,’ you almost shouted, ‘there’s a cake just suddenly materialised on the dining-room table. And there’s the smell of baking, though nothing’s changed in the kitchen. And last night there was this perfume in our bedroom and I thought I saw —’