The Waitress

by Melissa Nathan

  She rounded the circle again, muttering uselessly to herself.

  After her fourth round-trip, she phoned home on the hands-free.

  “I’m on a roundabout,” she shouted.

  “Well done!” cried her father cheerfully.

  “I can’t get off it.”

  “I’ll get your mother.”

  It only took Deanna two roundabout trips to get to the phone, by which time Katie was starting to get giddy and a bit depressed.

  “What are the exits?” Deanna asked calmly.

  “I’m just coming up to them again…” said Katie, slowing down accordingly. She read them all off to her mother.

  “Hmm,” Deanna said thoughtfully. “That’s odd.”

  “Why?” Katie’s voice trembled. “Am I on the wrong roundabout?”

  “Ah! Just as I thought. You want the third exit. How misleading.”

  The never-ending road.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “I’m not going to end up in Birmingham?”

  “Sweetheart,” said her mother. “Would I ever send you to Birmingham?”

  “Right, I’m indicating now.”

  “Good girl.”

  “I’m going off the roundabout.”

  “Good girl!”

  Almost immediately she drove past another sign, and this one now mentioned, bottom of its list, the location she needed.

  “It’s right!” she cried. “You were right! I’m going the right way!”

  By the end of the journey, her entire family had been navigating her from home via one phone line and three extensions. It had not been a smooth process. Deanna had shouted at Katie’s pregnant sister, her brother had said “Bugger” while his parents were on the line and, horrifyingly, her father had said “Bollocks” while all of them were on the line. The shock waves of silence that reverberated down the phone after that almost caused Katie to miss another turning.

  “Darling,” she heard her mother’s voice cut through the silence, “are you still there?”

  “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

  “Bea?” Deanna asked Katie’s older sister. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” said Bea, “but I might have lost the baby.”

  “That’s not funny,” said Deanna. “Cliffie? Are you still there?”

  “God yes,” came the voice of their younger brother. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “Sydney?” said Deanna. “Are you still there? Or would you like to go and calm down?”

  “No I would bloody well not like to go and calm down,” came the voice of Katie’s father.

  When she finally heard the comforting sound of gravel crunching under her car’s wheels and saw the warm lights of the family front room through the topiary, Katie almost wept with relief.

  Deanna came to the door followed by her two golden retrievers. Katie stepped out of the car, her leg muscles doing a Bambi, and within minutes everyone was feeling much better. The journey hadn’t caused any permanent damage to the Simmonds family—at least nothing a swift round of whisky and some group therapy couldn’t sort out.

  Later, her mother and sister joined her in the cozy cliché kitchen, complete with Aga, oak table and dresser, while she ate her re-heated dinner. Meanwhile her father, brother and brother-in-law caught the latest rugby scores on the news.

  “They’re going to the pub to watch the rugby in the morning, so we can have a nice catch-up then,” said Deanna.

  “I hope they’re back for Sunday lunch,” said Bea.

  “Oh, Mum, I won’t be staying long after lunch,” said Katie.

  “Why?”

  “I have a date.”

  Bea and Deanna were all ears.

  “He’s called Dan.”

  “And?”

  “No, Dan.”

  She finished off her apple and rhubarb crumble with hot custard. “He’s ex-Oxford, he’s made enough money in the city to start his own business and he’s got a crinkle in his cheek when he smiles.”

  “What did he study at Oxford?” asked Deanna.

  “What color eyes?” asked Bea.

  “What time are you going?” asked Deanna.

  “How tall?”

  Katie took a deep breath. “The date’s at eight, so considering how long it took me to get here, I’ll probably have to leave in about half an hour. Blue eyes, about six-foot tall, don’t know what he studied.”

  The conversation was interrupted by The Men appearing. Deanna leapt up to attend their needs, whether it be making a pot of tea, washing up a glass or fetching a home-made cookie from the pantry.

  As Katie watched her family with an affectionately critical eye, she couldn’t help but wonder how her sister, the arbiter of taste, the queen of aesthetics, could ever have married Maurice. Maurice didn’t really have a face, he had a chin with optional extras, and the older he got, the more colonial his chin became. It had already taken over his neck and looked set to march triumphantly onward to his ears. Katie wondered if her sister would wake up one day and discover that it had annexed his entire head.

  To her mind, what must have made things rather painful for Bea was that Maurice’s mother was a rare beauty, with a neatness in the chin area not found in any of her husband’s ancestors’ portraits, and Katie could only wonder how Bea, competitive in all things womanly, felt about having this much to live up to. The only hope was that her children—the first of which was already a neat little bulge under Bea’s Jaeger cashmere—would, if it had to take after anyone from Maurice’s family, take after his mother. They’d all find out in three months’ time.

  “How’s it going sis?” asked Cliffie, taking one of Deanna’s home-made spiced cookies and eating it in one. “Recovered from the journey yet?”

  Katie yawned her yes.

  “Someone’s a sleepyhead,” nodded Sydney, her father. “I think it’s time for bed.”

  Katie dragged her feet up the wide, shallow staircase to her small, neat attic bedroom, unchanged since she left for college and beyond, all those years ago. Blue-and-white check wallpaper and matching curtains set off the single bed with its Princess-and-the-Pea-style headboard. She felt instantly soothed by the room’s delicate tranquillity, a quality she’d never been aware of as she grew up. After leaving her clothes on the blue-and-white-check corner armchair she slipped into the cool sheets and turned off her blue-and-white-check bedside lamp. She closed her eyes, and tried to squeeze in some snapshot moments of last week’s party before sleep tiptoed in to snatch her away.

  Downstairs, Bea and Maurice got themselves comfy in their bed in Bea’s old bedroom. It had been four years after her eldest daughter’s wedding before Deanna had finally replaced Bea’s bed and Maurice stopped having to use the old put-you-up. Deanna had said she’d never got round to it, but the fact was that a mere wedding license and year-long pre-nuptual preparations had not suddenly made her and Sydney able to deal with the fact that their daughter was officially no longer a virgin.

  After Bea and Maurice had spent their third entire Christmas season with Maurice’s family, Bea had finally admitted to her parents that Maurice just couldn’t bear the thought of having to sleep in “that bed” during “what was meant to be a holiday.” Deanna had finally capitulated. She bought an Emperor-size bed; a bed big enough for them never to know they were in it together. How their daughter and son-in-law spent their nights under their roof was obviously their business, but Deanna and Sydney certainly spent their nights sleeping easier knowing that it was physically possible for Bea to be sleeping on the opposite side of the bedroom to her husband.

  Cliffie’s room had never had to change. At twenty-one, he had yet to leave home, and everyone knew he wouldn’t. He had a very nice local job and was content to stay cosseted by the heat and comfort of the family fire.

  Spartacus and Hector, the family’s retrievers, settled down in the porch off the kitchen, whiffling against the Wellingtons, and the grandfather clock’s chimes echoed softly in the dead
of night. Outside, November’s night brought a frost that traced gossamer patterns over the Simmonds’ rambling back-garden, and silence fell, soft as a Walt Disney fairy, dense as the night-sky, all over Glossop.

  At seven the next morning, Katie woke to the smell of sizzling bacon and frying eggs, the sound of hot water clunking its way through the house’s old radiators and the sensation of being cushioned in a comfort zone so soft she thought she was floating. She lay still, savoring the moment, letting her eyes adjust to her room with the morning’s light casting new angles and corners to it. When she heard the dogs’ excited barking she knew The Men must be on their way out, which meant she hadn’t missed too much of the day. She waited until the prospect of leaving her bed metamorphosed from an unbearable one of cold discomfort, to a pleasant one of hot breakfast, family gossip and a clean body. The process took fifteen minutes, by which time she could hear Bea’s bath running. She knew that her mother would already be dressed, having breakfasted all the men and Bea, and would now be waiting for her.

  She gingerly grasped the duvet, slowly moving it away from her, leaving her with nothing but fleece pajamas protecting her against the elements. She waited for the cold but the temperature change was painless. She sat up, swung her legs out of bed, wriggled her toes in the old thick-pile carpet and stood up. She padded over to her wooden-framed, double-glazed attic window and opened her curtains. Hazy winter sunlight streamed into her room, showing up the dancing dust particles and making the frost outside look all the more magical.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, her mother sat at the head of the long oak table, dogs at her feet, teapot, butter dish and milk jug in front of her on the table, Telegraph open beside them. She beamed up at her daughter.

  “Aha!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “You’re up!” She walked to the fridge. “There’s a fresh pot just made,” she said, bending down to take out bacon and eggs. Katie knew there was no point telling her mother not to make her breakfast. It would be like telling the dogs not to wag their tails. She poured herself a cup of tea, topped up her mother’s, flicked through the paper and watched her mother prepare breakfast, complete with buttered mushrooms and grilled tomatoes. Deny it though she might, being looked after could be incredibly nice sometimes.

  As she finished her breakfast, Katie realized she was waiting for two little words to jar the morning’s ease. She knew Bea wouldn’t be too much longer upstairs and this might be the only opportunity her mother had to quiz her all weekend. She finished her breakfast and waited patiently. Her mother had earned the right to voice the words; breakfast was perfect.

  “So,” asked Deanna, taking the plate to the sink. Katie could almost see the two words forming at the back of her mother’s throat. “How’s work?”

  “Fine.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  With her back to her daughter, Deanna squashed the suds against the plate.

  “Anything interesting happen recently?”

  Katie considered this. “We had a woman in with a beard the other day.”

  Her mother’s back curved toward the sink and Katie couldn’t work out if this was because she was putting elbow grease into the washing up or crying. “Hm.”

  “Unless it was a man with breasts of course.”

  No response.

  “And a blind man hit Alec in the shin with his stick.”

  Her mother turned round, Marigolds dripping on the tiled floor, fringe in her eyes.

  They stared at each other across the kitchen.

  “And that’s interesting, is it, Katherine?”

  Katie shook her head resignedly. “No,” she said. “Not really. But it was funny.”

  Deanna took off her gloves, left them on the draining board and came and sat at the table.

  “Darling,” she said, patting her hair out of her eyes, “I am seriously worried.”

  “Mm.”

  “This is not something you can keep putting off.”

  “I’m not putting it off.”

  “It’s bad enough you can’t commit to a man, but at least try and commit to a job. You need direction.”

  Katie counted to ten. “Well, we all know I’ve got a lousy sense of direction,” she said.

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Deanna tartly.

  There was a pause.

  “You need a career,” she clarified.

  “You didn’t.”

  “I certainly did, young lady,” scoffed Deanna. “I brought up a family of three. Like Bea probably will. But you’re different. Can you imagine marrying someone like Maurice?”

  “God, no.”

  “Katherine.”

  “Sorry.”

  “All you have to do is decide. Great-Aunt Edna is just waiting for the word.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. But the point is she’s determined to give you her money only when you decide what you truly want to do. Not a moment before. She’s so rigidly principled that she complete refuses to take our advice and give it to you sooner rather than later.”

  “Good. Well perhaps you could take a leaf out of her book.”

  “Oh for goodness sake, Katie,” shouted Deanna, leaning forward over the table. “Don’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  “She’s an old woman.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “She may die before she changes her will.”

  “Why does she need to change her will?”

  “Because,” sighed Deanna, “at the moment she’s leaving small amounts to loads of people she doesn’t really care about. But as soon as she hears from you, she’ll change her will and give you everything.”

  “What, and take money out of other people’s hands?” asked Katie. “Why would I want her to do that?”

  “Because these are people who will hardly remember her,” said Deanna fiercely, “and the amounts are not enough to remotely transform their lives. Whereas if she changes her will, your life will be dramatically improved. But,” she pointed out, “she cannot change her will if she’s dead.”

  “Well,” retorted Katie. “That’ll give her something to live for.”

  Deanna sat back in her chair. “You’re just like her,” she muttered. “Mad.”

  “Thank you.”

  Deanna shut her eyes. “It’s your future, Katie.”

  “So why can’t she just put it in a trust fund for me?”

  “I will pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “That’s good of you,” said Katie, contrite.

  “Your Great-Aunt Edna has always been…eccentric, shall we say, and it matters to her that she’s not just giving you money to squander. She thinks if you have a trust fund you won’t become self-sufficient, you’ll become spoilt. She wants you to find a career. Although she probably had no idea it would take you quite this long to find one.”

  “Mum, I can’t decide my future because a weird old lady might die.”

  “Katie!”

  “Sorry.”

  “That money is not to be sniffed at. You’re incredibly lucky that she’s picked you.”

  “Am I?”

  “Of course you are,” exclaimed Deanna.

  Katie sighed. “I don’t know. If I didn’t have this Damocles sword hanging over me—”

  “Damocles sword!” Deanna exploded. “Seventy thousand pounds and you call it—”

  “Yes but it comes with such strings attached. At least Bea and Cliffie know they’ll get her antiques and will be able to do what they want with them.”

  Deanna snorted. “I doubt it. Those antiques of hers are incredibly precious and I bet there’ll be some disclaimer in the will about what they do with them. Anyway, she’s making it tough for your own sake.”

  “If you choose to give, you give for the sake of giving…”

  Deanna shook her head firmly. “No,” she said. “She’s just ahead of her time and knows what’s best. Her mother was marching for votes for
the likes of you.”

  “I know, I know.” Katie had heard it all before.

  “I hope you’ll be visiting her before lunch.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good.”

  They heard Bea thump down the stairs, moaning with the temporary added weight and internal discomfort.

  “Fresh cup?” asked Deanna.

  “Ooh lovely,” said Katie.

  Bea walked into the kitchen.

  “Cup of tea?” asked Deanna brightly.

  Bea wasn’t fooled. “You’re not discussing it again, are you?”

  “Of course we are,” sighed Deanna.

  “It’s what I come home for,” sang Katie. “I long for these discussions.”

  “If only you could decide—” said Deanna.

  “Actually, I have decided,” Katie interrupted.

  Her mother perked up considerably. “You could have said something.”

  “I’m going to be an educational psychologist,” announced Katie, “I think.” There was silence. “And guess what?” she continued. “It only takes four more years’ training. I’ve even got the right degree.” There was more silence. “Any more tea in the pot?”

  The three women stared at each other.

  “Don’t you want to do something nice?” Deanna asked eventually. “How about a nice job in publishing? You could get yourself a lovely little flat in Fulham—”

  “I don’t want a lovely little flat in Fulham—”

  “—or Chelsea. How about working for Sothebys?”

  “Mu-um.”

  “Breda Witherspoon’s daughter Vanessa started off as a receptionist at that big publishing house”—Deanna ignored Katie’s head dropping on to the table—“the one that started eating up all the little ones, and now she’s Children’s Books editor for one of the companies they bought. She’s so happy. And she earns a lovely little salary. Breda’s so pleased; it means she’s self-sufficient but can’t afford luxuries so still needs a man.”

  Katie started humming quietly into the wood of the table.

  “Barbara Maythorpe’s daughter Sandra,” continued Deanna, louder, “has a lovely little job at Sotheby’s, where she has to look after a place when Sotheby’s go in and stock-take after someone wealthy’s snuffed it. She says it’s absolutely fascinating. Absolutely adores it.”