Harvest

by Celia Brayfield

  ‘I haven’t seen this article.’ Michael sounded aggrieved, as if he had been the victim of a conspiracy. ‘How long was it?’

  ‘Six pages, maybe – I don’t remember.’ Stem applied himself to his food. Michael’s plate was already empty. He always disposed of food immediately, as if afraid of missing the opportunity to say something important while his mouth was full.

  ‘I think it was eight pages.’ After so many years of dutifully reflecting her lover at twice his natural size, Grace found the temptation to cut him down a little quite irresistible. ‘And a full-page portrait.’

  ‘They’ve done you, surely?’ asked Stern.

  ‘No, never.’ He was looking at Grace now as if she had been worryingly irrational.

  ‘Well, your day will come, I’m sure. These chanterelles are magnificent. A clever man to marry a professional cook.’

  Louisa embarked on a gracious tribute to Jane and the bounty of Les Palombières. There was a sniff from Berenice, who had half-heartedly mangled a leaf of rocket with her fork for ten minutes. Clumsily, Molfetto broke in with a question about Altmark’s recent acquisition of a Russian news film library, and Grace, knowing she had staked her claim, let the men have the field. Two senior waiters reverently served the salmon, each portion deposited in a pool of sorrel sauce.

  Soothed and pleasured by their food, the guests became mellow. The tempo of their talk slowed, the volume lowered, the diligent plying of cutlery was audible. Jane was rejoicing in their happiness. Like this her bright prettiness shone through, but Grace could still identify in her as well the keynote of all Michael’s women, the undertow of grief in all her animation.

  All the old faces around her had aspects of character which had suddenly petrified. As a child she had been scared to make her eyes cross, in case the wind changed and she stayed like that forever; in that way maturity had caught her old associates unawares, freezing ugly faces on them. Moynihan showed pedantry, Donaldson disappointment. They had been men of extraordinary promise, but Michael did not keep men like that about him. He bust their balls in the relentless process of imposing his own vision; now he could use younger men, like Molfetto, the process would seem more natural. Of his old team, the best served their apprenticeship quickly and left him. Moynihan and Donaldson had never been deficient in ability; their weakness had been their loyalty. It was a handicap in Michael’s world. Loyalty had been her weakness also.

  Three figures were walking across the meadow in the sun. When they gained the shade of the trees a young woman in white shorts peeled away from the other two and went to talk to Jane. A dark man and a dark woman who carried a huge fantastically sculptured straw hat walked on towards the centre of the table, watched by the whole company. At a distance the woman was beautiful, tall and slender, wearing a long fluttering dress; there was a peculiar mechanical element in her gait.

  Closer, she was extraordinarily pale, with thick white foundation and heavy black eye makeup. She seemed subdued and withdrawn, and allowed the man to guide her to the table; he was tense, his black eyebrows contracted almost to a line.

  ‘Daddy, darling.’ Languid and histrionic, she draped her arms around Michael’s neck. An expression of annoyance flitted across his face. ‘Oh God, we’re late. How stupid, stupid, stupid of me. Ugh, stupid! I just had to stop for a loo, I forgot to go on the train. How are you? Have we missed everything?’

  So this was Imogen. The child for whom I endured it all, the justification for eight years of my misery, and the untold agony of an unknown number of other women. He was right to worry about her, she looked like a fucked-up kid. Michael was introducing her with every pretence of paternal pride, and Grace watched Stern, flawlessly polite but unable to hide his disapproval. Molfetto was aggressively welcoming, Louisa delighted to be shocked; Berenice began her social smile, but a flicker of amusement took it further than she intended.

  ‘Stephen Bendorf.’ The young man introduced himself, friendly and unfazed that Michael had overlooked him. Then the newcomers made their way to their seats, and the staff started forward to remove empty plates. The next course was quail with a grape salsa and a sauce of verjuice and pink peppercorns.

  Louisa lectured on verjuice. ‘Unripe grapes, so they aren’t pressed but pureed and strained, and then when it’s cooked the acidity becomes wonderfully refreshing so it actually stimulates the palate …’

  Yells came from the children’s end of the table. There were missiles in the air. Sam marched to his father’s side and said, ‘Imi’s throwing food, Daddy.’ Michael seemed not to have heard him, although he leaned forward and tried to catch Jane’s eye – unsuccessfully, because Nick seemed to have her total attention. With Andy, they were absorbed in a deep conversation.

  ‘The sourness is caused by tartaric acid, which some people think actually has a lemon flavour …’ Louisa was in full flood. Confronted by a stony lack of response, the boy walked away. Molfetto again diverted the conversation to Altmark’s affairs, although Stern was responding with less and less interest.

  A few minutes later Grace saw Sam returning, and the smaller children around him in an excited group. Imogen got up, knocking over her chair and almost falling, she had a splash of sorrel sauce on her dress. She urged the boy forward. ‘Go and show Daddy,’ she was urging him. ‘Go on.’

  This time Michael was obliged to pay attention. Sam’s hands were clasped together and held out in front of him. ‘I’ve got a frog, Daddy. All by myself, he’s mine. Look!’

  ‘Not now, Sam. Imogen, can’t you …’

  Deliberately, the boy pushed forward, held his hands over the table and parted his fat fingers one by one. In his palm sat a small bright green frog. For a split second it was still, then it jumped. Berenice Stern screamed. The expression on her face was indescribable.

  ‘Revolting thing!’ She flung up her arms, splay-fingered in horror. Her fork fell and smashed her glass. ‘For God’s sake, do something!’

  ‘Where’s it gone?’ Adult eyes had been too slow to follow the tiny thing. Stern got to his feet, but the width of the table barred him from his frantic wife. Two waiters ran forward, then halted, uncertain of the right etiquette for this emergency.

  ‘It’s down her front,’ Sam said with satisfaction. ‘It’ll probably die there. They can’t get hot, it kills them.’

  ‘Oh, poor little creature! Here, I can save it.’ With the distaste of one about to clear a drain, Imogen plunged her hand down the front of Berenice’s bustier. She nearly fell over doing it. Then she giggled, and began groping clumsily. ‘I can’t find it, there’s so much room in here.’

  ‘Imogen, for God’s sake!’ Michael got to his feet, prepared, if necessary, to pull his daughter away by force.

  ‘Here he is, dear little thing.’ She extracted her closed fist, her knuckles scraping Berenice’s slack skin in a way that looked painful, although the face still registered nothing but extreme distaste. ‘He really wouldn’t have hurt you, you know. Nothing in nature harms you if you treat it right.’

  ‘Imogen, please …’

  The young woman looked at her father with a mild expression of fear. She stepped backwards away from him, whispering into her cupped hands. ‘Come on, little one, that’s enough adventures for today. What a pretty colour you are. It’s OK, Daddy. I’ll just put him back in the long grass.’ Unsteadily, she strolled away. Sam was about to follow until Michael ordered him to apologize and then return to his seat.

  Berenice wiped her face clear of any expression and calmly tugged the top of her dress up, restoring the flesh beneath to its proper position. She patted her throat, stood up, caught her husband’s eye and with a gracious but frozen smile said, ‘I think I need to find a bathroom.’

  Michael began his own apologies, this time with flourishes fit for a matador, and left the table to accompany her to the house. Louisa followed, euphoric with fun.

  The guests remaining at the table were naturally unable to laugh until Stern himself chuckled, pulled hi
s napkin from his shirt front and said, without any detectable humour, ‘My poor wife. She’s had very little experience of reptiles.’

  6. Sunday Continued

  The leaves were turning colours. Very beautiful. Must let the frog go before he cooks in my hand. Wow, what a kickback. Bye-bye froggie. Tell the pond about your great expedition in search of Berenice Stern’s tits. They won’t believe you, but you can tell them anyway.

  It’s nice, this microdot. Clears all the rubbish out of your head, so you can really connect. Trips like this you know you’re a few more atoms in the universe, the energy’s flowing all through you, you can get in touch with the real powerful forces. I wish I had paint, even a pencil, piece of charcoal or something. I could really draw things now. Or write. Poetry. Ages since I did any poetry.

  This wood is so beautiful. Old trees have all this wisdom and it comes out in their leaves, and just drops on you when you stand underneath. Wisdom and goodness. Hundreds of years growing in this beautiful earth, summer after winter, sun after rain. What bliss to lie down on the earth under the old trees and feel their goodness. And the sunlight pouring through, brilliant brilliant rays, particles of light exploding in the air.

  Someone was coming, the earth was shaking with footfalls. Daddy. Whoops, that wasn’t too good. A vicious little face or something in the corner of my mind. Don’t look at it. It’s only Stephen. I love Stephen. Musn’t realize I’m tripping, he’ll get freaked. Pretend I’m just sleepy.

  ‘Imi, are you OK?’ She was sitting under a tree, a cross-legged Ophelia gazing at a leaf she held in one hand. He thought she looked withdrawn, and oddly detached, but every time she was forced into proximity with her family there was a different reaction and this seemed a promising improvement on her usual black sulk.

  ‘Oh sure. I’m fine, I’m just tired. Last night’s catching up with me. It’s nice here, I’m just having a little rest.’ Bother. He was going to hang around. Don’t say too much or he’ll suss.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Really. Is Berenice upset? I was worried about her, I think I really freaked her.’ That’s great, he’ll definitely think I’m OK if I’m saying nice polite things. Nice polite Stephen, it would never occur to him that for some people being nice and polite is totally abnormal.

  ‘She’s gone into the house to have a shower. It was an accident, after all. Sam fooling around. She took it very well.’ He’s going to sit down beside me. Damn, damn. This is not going to be easy.

  ‘Oh great. She was really frightened, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Her husband seems to be cool too, or maybe he’s just not reacting to be polite. Either way, there can’t be much harm done. If you’re really all right I’ll go back now. Do you think it’ll be OK to talk to him?’

  ‘What, that Stern guy? What do you want to talk to him for?’

  ‘I read about him in the Architectural Quarterly. He funded a housing project in South Africa, or one of his companies did. Resettling people from the townships.’

  ‘I don’t get it – why shouldn’t you talk to him?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Your father might think …’

  ‘Oh no, Keith, I don’t think you ought to upset my father. That wouldn’t be nice, would it? I mean, it is his birthday, poor man.’ This is going really well. I’m doing a brilliant job of being me. Old Stephen hasn’t a clue. I’ll give him a good long stare just to underline it all.

  ‘So you think he would …’

  ‘Fuck it – what does he know? The guy’ll probably be knocked out to have somebody actually interested in him. Go on Stephen, I’m OK, really I am. I just can’t handle too much family, that’s all. I just want to chill out over here for a while. That doctor going on and on about eczema and acupuncture and stuff and Jane pretending she cares. Makes me feel sick.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Go on, for fuck’s sake. I’ll just rest here and then I’ll be back.’

  ‘OK then. Catch you later.’

  He was walking away. Excellent. Was old Stephen going to turn into a suit? Maybe all men were suits, some of them just pretended. Now, come on leaves, let’s hear you. Nothing. Her hand was sticky where the frog had been. Maybe she should wash it. The colours had stopped, everything was beautiful.

  Michael was really, really angry. He was sending some people to get rid of her, they were looking for her now. They were coming up all around her, trapping her. Could she hide in the split in the tree trunk? No, she was too fat. Try harder. Oh shit, this was going wrong. She was going to get paranoid. Time to get out of the wood. Faster, faster, they would find her soon.

  Fuck, what is this stuff? This is not a good trip. Better be quick and take the sleepers. Good thing I brought them. Sensible. I’ll never get into bother, I can look after myself. Quick shot of Mr T and I’ll be cool, that’s all it takes. Get to the house now, quickly, quickly.

  Under the trees the party was relaxing. All the small children got down from the table and scattered to play. The adults fell into deep, well-lubricated conversations. Only Nick noticed the tall figure moving erratically towards the house. Periodically, she covered her head with her arms as if she was frightened of something above her in the air. Her hat was still sitting at her place at table. He thought it had considerable personality.

  What was Michael thinking? Did Michael think, in the way most human beings did? After fourteen years with him, Jane was ready to describe her husband’s mental process as a huge, elaborate, multilayered system constantly acquiring and arranging information to support his own omnipotence. Because in all practical senses, he did believe he was God. He was a churchgoer of a kind, Michael. He did better than Easter and Christmas; if Sunday found him at home he would take off for the politician’s church, and it was more than habit or networking. Perhaps he needed to keep in touch with God because otherwise he would have to believe he himself was God, seeing as he created the world, he commanded the world, and no sparrow fell without making the NewsConnect agenda. Anything which did not confirm this was only a faulty communication.

  It was impossible to challenge such a mind. Your reality became a delusion; you yourself were something which upset the natural order, a mutation doomed to swift extinction.

  The celebration continued around her and Jane looked on as if from a distance. It was not tiredness, nor the burden of organizing the day that had numbed her senses. An emotional process of some kind was under way, and all her energy was being diverted to it. Parts of her mind were almost closed down; Nick had asked her questions about the salad and she could not retrieve simple names she had known for years. It was an effort to tell him that she grew her own rocket and all the rest of the herbs in the garden behind the staff cottage.

  They had begun by discussing Emma, a conversation of a kind which, she realized, she had longed to have for many years. She found him extraordinarily receptive; he was distant, a cool scientist of course. In that coolness there was no judgement, and she found herself describing the progress of her child’s condition, the effects of climate or food or emotional factors, so freely that insights she had overlooked were suddenly obvious. He was fascinating on complementary medicine, one of Andy’s favourite subjects. Above all, it was almost intoxicating to find a man so interested in her child’s health.

  Jane noticed that events which ought to have caused pain had simply flowed past her like river water. None of the children had eaten anything except Sam, who must have stuffed the equivalent of two whole loaves into his face before Andy admonished him. Her seating plan had placed Grace and Nick together near her, and Michael had changed it, so now Grace was opposite him. And Imogen, of course, had found a new excuse for an outrage.

  As a hostess, she had duties and carried them out automatically, surprised within herself at what was accomplished. With Louisa absent, she had to make the little speech about Gascony not being a great cheese region, in fact some of the best cheese being made by émigré German hippies; this introduced a board f
eaturing their fresh goat cheese, local soft-rinded ewe’s milk rounds, creamy Roquefort and wedges of hard black-skinned Pyreneen (which she considered inedible, banal and fit for the inescapable faint-hearts who would never outgrow Kraft sandwich slices).

  The hired staff were conferring anxiously. Next came the most challenging course, given the heat: three sorbets, dark red cassis, delicate green Izarra, and pale pink cantaloupe, decorated with frosted red currants and melon flowers. The caterer had frozen the plates overnight to ensure that nothing melted until it was in the mouth. The small children hopefully left their game and returned to the table.

  Clarinet notes bubbled through the convivial air; the musicians had mellowed into Schubert. With empty chairs, people began to move about; Stephen hesitantly took Louisa’s seat, his eye upon Stern. Sadly curious about the man obviously in love with Michael’s neurotic daughter, Grace made an opening in the conversation for him.

  ‘Mr Stern, I was wondering …’ A timid pause, engaging in such a large young man. Stern inclined his head, encouraging. ‘About the Jansendorp project. I’m studying architecture and I was hoping to do my thesis on the development of workforce housing from Bournville to the present day …’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Now, for the first time, the great stone face grew radiant with interest. Stem hardly drew breath before launching into the longest speech he had made all day. ‘Of course, Bournville was one of the developments we studied when we were planning Jansendorp. We realized it was going to be a lot more than a matter of putting roofs over people’s heads; we were going to have to create a community, and doing that was going to be a matter of actually building an integrated social structure into the village …’

  Grace was enraptured. In all her career of interviewing she had found nothing more thrilling than a true passion expounded; the dullest person on the most abstruse topic became mesmeric. Stern was transformed, he was glowing. Questioned by Stephen, he responded with no condescension, quite casually unfurling the majestic intellect he had declined to exhibit when the conversation was only of the media business.