Before and After

by Lockington, Laura

  I wasn’t quite at that stage, but I needed something courageous. Let’s not forget that the minor woes of life are real and painful, and we all deserve something nestling in our stomachs that fortifies as well as nourishes us.

  I knew the very thing I needed.

  Golden Eggs.

  Nothing so comforting as a plate full of these little treasures, and accompanied by a glass of champagne they will reach beyond the cockles of your heart to cheer you on any occasion. They have the added advantage of being loaded with an item of consumption which falls into ‘the scarcity theory of value’. Caviar. And if you’re one of those people who question if caviar is really worth it, consider this. The sturgeon, one of the oldest animals on this planet, produces these rare, exotic, delicate eggs in a habitat that hasn’t changed for over a hundred million years. The fish, which can grow to enormous lengths, has a nose, or snout, that roots for food in the sea bed. Then when harvested, the skill and ancient knowledge of the process of salting is a staggering feat. And a hideously expensive mistake, if things go wrong. So. On the whole, I think the answer is yes. It most definitely is worth it. Caviar is graded, by the way, according to the size of the grains, beluga being the biggest, then ossetra, then sevruga. I always order ossetra malassol which means lightly salted. Luckily for me I had added this to the Ambles shopping list. I do so like knowing that there’s a little treat waiting for me, should I feel the need for it, don’t you?

  Anyway, Golden Eggs.

  Peel and split lengthwise as many hard (but not too hard) boiled free range eggs as you think you and your appetite can handle.

  Scoop out the yolks and mash them with a more than generous helping of caviar. Stuff this mixture back into the whites, and top with a dollop of crème fraiche into which you have mixed some finely diced onion. Gently squeeze some lemon juice over them and then dust with cayenne pepper.

  There is a certain sort of frivolous elegance about this dish which lightens the heart, I promise. Just try it next time you are feeling in the need of an M.F.

  I had just assembled this spectacular treat on a tray and was in the very act of gently popping a cork of one of Archie’s rather wonderful bottles of champagne when the kitchen door slowly opened. I turned my head and saw Archie slowly enter his kitchen like an uninvited guest at a cocktail party.

  Damn.

  Solitary M.F’s are by far the best. And sharing Golden Eggs with anyone is a bit of a bore.

  Still, I hid my annoyance well and smiled as pleasantly as I could. It spoke volumes for the changes wrought in Archie that he didn’t immediately start making proprietarily noises about his champagne in his kitchen, I suppose.

  He glanced at the tempting tray and gave a little sigh.

  “Feeling peckish, hmm?”

  “Not at all,” I replied tartly, “I thought I’d take this to the homeless shelter at the end of the road.”

  “What? Is there one?” Archie said staring incredulously at what tramps ate these days.

  “You really wouldn’t know would you?” I said, taking pity on him. “No, there isn’t. I was being facetious, not something that needs to be encouraged and I apologise for it. I was taking this to my bed, to nibble on. One way and another I’ve had a very trying sort of day. “

  “Oh.”

  “As you have too, I’m sure. Did you manage to sleep at all?” I added.

  “Of sorts.”

  We regarded one another in silence, broken only by the slight flapping of some plastic sheeting caught in the draught of the open door.

  “Well, fetch yourself a glass and those two very crisp apples, James Grieve if I’m not mistaken, and the hunk of Roquefort cheese which you’ll be able to find by the judicious use of your nose, and come and join me, if you’d like.” I said, moving around Archie who was seemingly glued to the floor.

  “What?”

  “Come and join me. It’s far too cold in here and bed’s the only place I really enjoy caviar.”

  I heard Archie stumble around the kitchen and then dutifully follow me up the stairs.

  I slid between the blankets and invitingly flipped the satin eiderdown open for Archie, who was on my heels clutching the loot from the kitchen. He looked hesitantly at the sight of the bed, but like a horse shy of its box he eventually got there, after ensuring that his dressing gown was suitably closed and giving the belt a manly tug.

  “There. Not so very dangerous, is it?” I said, making room for the tray between us. I propped myself comfortably against the headboard with a sensible amount of pillows and motioned for Archie to pour the champagne. He raised his glass and I handed him one of the caviar-laden egg halves.

  A small moan of greed escaped his lips and I smiled approvingly at him. Archie licked his lips and reached for another egg half.

  “Remarkably good,” he commented.

  I picked up my champagne glass and raised it towards Archie. What should we drink to? I couldn’t think of anything, or rather all the things I could think of were perhaps a little to taxing for an M.F. so I reverted to my usual clear-eyed salutation – absent friends.

  Archie absent-mindedly took a sip from his glass and sighed with satisfaction.

  “Feeling a little better Archie dear?” I asked, plumping a pillow into a more comfortable form of padding beneath my back.

  “Mmm, so so,” Archie replied, doing the same with his recalcitrant pillows. He looked around the room, his room, with the eyes of a stranger. It seemed that he had been exiled from his kingdom for some while now. I was just about to spread some of the king of cheese onto a slice of apple when there was a shy gazelle like knocking at the door. It had to be Sylvia. I glanced over at Archie, who was gazing at the door with something approaching horror. I gave him a comforting pat on the arm.

  “Do come in Sylvia, we’re having an M.F!” I called as the door swung open.

  Sylvia was wearing what I can only describe as a peignoir. Pale pink and beige chiffon draped to the floor in a very fair imitation of a transvestite’s idea of Hollywood glamour circa 1940. I wondered if Candy from Brighton had sent it to her, or possibly she’d been persuaded into buying it on one of her trips around the shops with John Taylor. Whoever had bought it with her ( I would bet all my marbles that she hadn’t shopped solo), it was a remarkable step up from her usual nightwear of cotton Marks and Spencer’s. Archie obviously thought so too from the look of hopeful anticipation on his face.

  Sylvia’s silent stare slid past Archie and alighted on me. She didn’t find it at all odd that her husband and myself were sitting up in her bed quaffing bubbly. She seemed only mildly disconcerted that I wasn’t alone. But with consummate good manners (the thing I genuinely adored about the Ambles) she stepped into the breach.

  “Oh, what fun. A midnight feast! It’s like being back in the upper fifth.”

  She smiled at us and I nudged Archie under the covers to get him to respond in the right manner.

  “What? Yes, rather. Do join us,” he said.

  “Yes, do Sylvia,” I joined in, throwing back the covers and moving over so that she could join us.

  Sylvia slid shyly under the covers and I re-arranged the pillows. Archie handed her a glass of fizz and I solicitously gave her some apple and cheese. All that could be heard for a while was the discreet noises of the middle class supping and nibbling. I balanced the plate that held the caviar eggs on my lap and watched as Sylvia and Archie both reached for the last one.

  “Oh, sorry. No, do have it please,” Sylvia said apologetically.

  “No, I insist,” Archie replied with old world gallantry oozing from his voice.

  “Oh, no…well, if you’re sure…”

  “No, please…”

  There followed several very tedious moments of middle class, polite tussling. I could bear it no longer and swiftly picked the egg up myself, sliding it into my open mouth. There was a moment’s silence as I lay sandwiched between husband and wife.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, this is cosy
, isn’t it?” I said.

  Rule Number Twenty Three

  “Three is a mystical number in many cultures. In India three monkeys on a rooftop can foretell financial reward. A full-moon three nights running in Japan leads to a spike in the national birth-rate. Yes, three is a truly vital number. Particularly when the constituent numerals are 2 plus 1.”

  The night passed pleasantly enough, I suppose, although threesomes are grossly over estimated in my opinion. Besides, Archie and Sylvia had very little experience, and I find instruction in sexual etiquette and behaviour very wearing indeed. I quite see the attraction of a nun-like state of celibacy to tell you the truth, so much better for the mind and soul, not to mention the complexion. What? You don’t believe me? Well, all I can say is, go and take a good look at the peerless skin of the sisters at the Carmelite convent in Rome. Divine. Simply divine. Of course, unlike their sisters in Britain, who aren’t allowed any form of skin care (the work of the devil and if not that, then far too worldly at the very least) the Italian faction slather on a particularly efficacious unguent of rose petals and glycerine. I think they make it themselves, from the walled flower and herb garden that surrounds them. They don’t sell it of course. That would be going too far, even for the Latino lot, who as a rule are inordinately fond of taking silver from the secular sector.

  I glanced back at Archie and Sylvia who were asleep in my bed. They were both either side of the mattress, with a gapingly wide blank space between them, where I had slept. Naturellement.

  Sylvia lay like the good school girl she had been, neatly, breathing softly, her back to her husband. Archie was curled away from her, facing the door, his breathing heavier. Stubble was starting to show on his normally clean shaven face and his hair was in need of a trim. Even in his sleep there were the beginnings of a furrowed line on his brow, and the faint puckerings of worry were etched around his closed eyes. It was quite delightful to see the changes that I’d wrought in such a short period of time. A man giving up his past always looks the worst for wear initially, then improves. With women, ‘tis the other way round.

  I fastidiously bathed and dressed and left them dreaming of – of who knows what? Flying? Bankruptcy? Infidelity? The usual stuff of which the matter of dreams is composed, I assume. My dreams are far more vivid than the Ambles could possibly imagine, although I suppose that they might be considered nightmares by some. I find them refreshingly lurid. Perhaps with me gone they would sleepily turn towards one another. God knows they hadn’t last night. At the risk of sounding un petit peu crude I was worn out although, to be fair, I am fairly demanding and am a firm believer that if you are going to do something you may as well do it properly. No point at all in being lily-livered about things, and bed is no place at all for the faint hearted. Dear me, no. The amount of cajolery I’d had to employ was almost unbelievable. Anyone would think that I wasn’t desirable. I know. Unthinkable, isn’t it?

  I carefully placed a black velvet hat on my head, making sure that my hair was covered before I left the room. (I may as well tell you that my hair has a very unforgiving way of letting the world know that I’ve spent a night not alone. It curled and twirled, twisted and knotted, positively writhing over my scalp, in a dishevelled sensual life of its own.)

  I found Bella in the kitchen, disconsolately kneading dough, her eyes watering from something or other. No onions were visible so I assumed she was crying. I tried to judge by the tear quality if it was a monthly attack of the vapours that young girls such as Bella are prone to – in which case, I would strongly advise anyone suffering from this to keep handy the universal cure, and take a strong swig of sloe gin – or was it a genuine sorrow?

  I decided on the former and resolved to not to mention it, but casually poured Bella a swig of the sloe gin which I always keep close to me into a glass.

  “There dear, whatever it is, this will make it better,” I said soothingly, in a head prefect no nonsense way.

  Bella thanked me wordlessly and took the medicine like the trusting soul that she is. Perhaps this wasn’t the time to give her a lecture on checking for arsenic in her glass. It did occur to me to do so, but I managed to curb myself. To be fair, I think that particular practice has disappeared from fashion. Still, you can never be too careful.

  “Oh Flora, mummy isn’t in her room and daddy isn’t in his. I went to wake them with some tea and their beds haven’t even been slept in!”

  I laughed.

  “Bella dear, is that all? Don’t worry, your parents and I enjoyed a midnight feast in my room last night and then we all fell asleep.”

  Bella’s credulous bovine eyes blinked wateringly and trustingly at me with relief.

  No, poor little bird, the adults haven’t flown the nest leaving you all alone. I won’t let that happen to you, I promise, I thought to myself, realising that Bella was, in many respects like a fledgling. She wouldn’t last too long in the great wide blue yonder alone.

  She laughed with relief.

  “Oh, that’s alright then. What did you eat?” She asked greedily.

  I explained to Bella the delights of Golden Eggs and her eyes widened with surprise.

  “Goodness. Mummy loves caviar, well, so does daddy of course. And then they just fell asleep?”

  I nodded and turned away from her, remembering their curiously shy fumblings. I could only hope that after last night’s instructions Archie had improved somewhat, and that Sylvia was due many years of happiness from him. He had certainly expressed surprise at some of the extremely elementary lessons that I had given. Back to basics, really. Of course, most Englishmen of his class and age knew very little about the art of love-making, preferring the rough and tumble of the locker room than the arduous contortions of the marital double bed. But still.

  I turned back to Bella to ask her how her tattoo was.

  “Oh, much better, thank you Flora. Would you like to see?”

  I declined the offer and told her that I was going to take Marmaduke for a brisk walk and then return for some breakfast. Clipping Marmaduke’s lead to his collar I paused briefly in the gloomy, rubble filled hall to take stock of the house. It was coming along a treat, as my grandmother might have said. Evidence of damp, rising or otherwise, and a wall that was suspected of harbouring some form of rot as well as the rumoured subsidence, held only in abeyance by the threat of a Building Regulator –whoever that was - had brought most of the building proceedings to a halt for a while. The whole of the ground floor had an air of suspended animation about it, as if it was waiting for the master to return, to bring it to life. Even the neatly-tended gardens were starting to look unkempt. Jack hadn’t attended for more than a few days to the day-to-day jobs that are needed, even in winter, to keep a garden ship shape.

  I stepped out of the door and picked my way through the maze of builders materials that were stacked under the portico, Marmaduke followed me, trying to get ahead doubtless so that he could show off his masterful lead technique to the pretty little poodle next door.

  A quick turn in the fresh air was needed to quell the lurking headache pulsating over my eyes. Nothing so common as a hangover, thank you very much - I can quaff bubbles till the cows come home and not feel so much as a twinge - No, this was more a clearing-away-the-cobweb stroll. I strode along, mentally chiding myself for dawdling with the Ambles. Yes, yes, I’d accomplished much of course, but I really needed to move on. It was a matter of trust of course, and that was lacking so much nowadays, I find. My resolve to end the Amble’s fate was strengthened when I saw that Fiachra had arrived and was enjoying some bready thing that Bella had lovingly prepared.

  He eyed me with a mixture of anxious and fearful attraction, but managed to look as cocky as ever, whilst eating unappealingly with his mouth gaping open. Bella was gazing adoringly at him and only managed to tear herself away from his attentions when I had to ask, quite sharply, for my breakfast.

  “Oh, of course, sorry Flora, I was –“

  “Yes, Bella dear, a blind
man would be able to see what you were so busy doing. It used to be called mooning - but I believe that’s something quite different nowadays - or making sheep’s eyes. Now then, hop to it, as quick as you like. I’m unaccountably peckish today.”

  Bella sloped off to do my bidding and I took the opportunity of making one of those life changing decisions for her. I gazed steadily at Fiachra who continued chomping away. Although, after a few seconds of intense scrutiny from me, he did stop and managed to return my gaze quite steadily.

  “Six tonight. The Plumbers Arms. Time for our little chat over a pint of the black stuff,” I said evenly.

  He may have been surprised, but covered it quite well. A knowing smile slowly spread across his face.

  “Right you are then miss, six it is.”

  “Wonderful. I’m so looking forward to it. Now then, I simply mustn’t keep you from your work.” I motioned slightly with my head towards the hallway and he jumped slightly but took the hint. There was soon the sound of desultory banging, which all builders do, to prove that they are actually alive and worth the massive amount of money that you are paying them by the hour.

  “Are your parents up?” I asked Bella.

  “Oh yes, mummy’s gone out with John Taylor to look at carved screens I think, and daddy’s in the bath.”

  Hmm. Not quite a honeymoon breakfast then.

  I supped my solitary meal alone at the kitchen table whilst leafing through the holiday brochures that I’d retrieved from Sylvia’s room. On impulse I dialled the number on the front of the brochure and booked a holiday for two on one of the far flung, hideously hot, insect-infested islands that cold Europeans mistake so commonly for paradise. The departure date was for two weeks’ time. I carefully reeled off the well-remembered numbers on Archie’s credit card to the disembodied voice on the other end of the line and congratulated myself on a job well done, yet again. Archie and Sylvia might not like the hot weather but I was sure that Bella and her Irish swain would. And if they didn’t – well, a small break for two can always be filled, can’t it?