The Best of Fiona Kidman's Short Stories

by Fiona Kidman

  Thus they had made a restaurant.

  It was not busy that night early in ’69. He had competition in this little town, so that never, never could he slacken. Nice for Eileen though, who could stay home. He had met her soon after his arrival, and himself not much more than a boy. After they married, there had been one son, whom they loved so much it was beautiful each morning to wake and know he was there. Then another boy came, who was sickly and difficult, not that they loved him any the less for what he couldn’t help. And it was true that in time he came to be a good boy and a hard worker like his parents, but never shining like the first. That one they had lost, under the wheels of a car, on his first bicycle. It seemed like the right time for them both to throw heart and soul into the long talked of business.

  Vlado took on a wine waiter, or rather several in succession for they tended to come and go, and Leonard was the latest, and Valerie, to wait on tables. And now Eileen was pregnant again, at just the wrong time, except that it had to be the right time if there was ever to be a baby again. He would rather work with Eileen but he knew she must rest and, at least, he had staff. Good times and bad. He thought of the big gangling son who was at home with her poring over his science books. He would never work in the restaurant. The father wondered if the other one would have done so, and felt a stab of guilt for the dark one. He would try to love him even harder. Yet would the new one be like the first? He had a vision of a square-cut, blunt face, with blond hair falling straight and silky. A face such as he had seen as he marched across the snow, away from Czechoslovakia. The face of his brothers, and of his first son.

  Valerie was bringing in the first of the evening’s customers. From the kitchen he heard the deferential tone of her voice, and Leonard’s almost servile greeting. This was not something Vlado asked of him, he had learnt it elsewhere. Nevertheless, he knew that it was Leonard’s way of doing his best for him. Through the eye-level slit in the dividing wall between the kitchen and the restaurant, he glanced out and saw that it was the Billingtons.

  Leonard came scuttling out to the back.

  ‘You see who it is?’ he hissed.

  Vlado nodded.

  ‘Is this the first time they’ve been here? Do they usually go to the others?’ Vlado nodded again for each question.

  The ‘others’ were the opposition. Leonard nearly danced with pleasure for Vlado’s sake.

  ‘The Billingtons!’ Then his face assumed a pained expression. ‘If only it was full. If only we had the dance band tonight —!’

  ‘If only tonight we can give them the food and the service equal to that which anywhere they can receive,’ said Vlado, only an inversion of language betraying his nervousness. Nowadays it’s rare, and his peculiarities of speech are a quaintness turned on for occasions, though he is nonetheless genuine for his stylishness. ‘Now go you out Leonard, and see that all is well with them,’ he said.

  But if the Billingtons wished for excellence as their rule, it was not evident tonight. Although they had chosen this restaurant over the more popular and better known one in town, the reason was their desire for privacy.

  Janet Billington’s slim figure collapsed into a chair. She was considered beautiful. Her face was delicate, really too thin, so that her cheek-bones and forehead stood out in extravagant detail, her eyes surrounded by hollows rather than wrinkles, mouth extraordinarily lavish in its tightly constructed surroundings. Her clothes all came from a boutique in Wellington which catered for women of taste who had remained as small as she had in middle years.

  Her husband was a heavily built man, but considered handsome too, going grey with credit and ease. As they sat looking at the menu Valerie had produced for them, they avoided each other’s eyes. Valerie stood waiting.

  Leonard swept out. ‘It’s so nice to see you Mr and Mrs Billington,’ he enthused. They inclined their heads to his homage.

  ‘Get out of it,’ Leonard mouthed at Valerie behind them.

  ‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’ll leave you to it then. I’m here if you want anything. Not far away.’ He backed off, following Valerie who had flounced out to the kitchen.

  When he arrived she was banging pot lids and dishes. Leonard seized a plate from her, and turned accusingly to Vlado.

  But Vlado was not listening. Beside him was a tiny transistor radio and he was bending down beside it. A news broadcast was halfway through. He reached out fumbling for the switch to turn it off. Slowly he straightened up, his eyes fixed at a point somewhere through and beyond the wall in front of him.

  ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’ snarled Valerie.

  ‘You don’t hang over them. You give them a few minutes to make up their mind. How many times have I told you you’re not in the caf now serving oysters and chips?’

  ‘Oh yeah? Only difference here is the oysters are raw. Takes talent to cook ’em.’

  Valerie bared her teeth. Leonard sighed. Valerie was quite passable until she opened her mouth. It was neither beautiful to behold, nor to listen to, and it took him all his time to coax a reasonable reaction to the diners’ orders out of her. If he’d been Vlado he would never have taken her on. Eileen, no doubt. All heart that one, a real worker, but she’d learned good taste the hard way. Valerie with her good looks and hard luck story, would certainly have been one of her mistakes. Whereas he, Leonard, was a different proposition. My word, but they were lucky to have him. Everyone had their bad patches in the cities, no crime in that, because there were plenty of offers trickling back now that the heat was off. A passing problem indeed.

  He decided that he wouldn’t sleep with Valerie. The idea was quite preposterous.

  ‘I’ve been considering,’ she was saying to him, ‘and I’ve thought about your — um — proposition. Yes, I have and it doesn’t appeal.’

  She flicked her hips with disdain at him as she passed on her way out to the Billingtons. Sharp, you had to give her credit for that. You’d think the monkey could read one’s mind.

  As the order was being given, there were more arrivals. Leonard hurried out, as Valerie was occupied. As he was not familiar with the town and had only a small stock of local notables in his repertoire, the latest couple meant nothing to him, though it was obvious that he was expected to recognise them, in a way that the Billingtons had seemed indifferent to. The woman was very blonde and made up so perfectly that the very idea of indifference to anything, least of all her mirror, or the mirror of public opinion, was ridiculous. Her husband was blond too, immaculately tanned, and hair somewhat slicker than was considered fashionable. Reg Billington’s thick greying hair at the other table obviously hadn’t seen oil in years.

  ‘Isn’t there a band tonight?’ asked the woman in a peevish tone.

  ‘I’m so sorry madam,’ said Leonard, treating them to even greater servility than the Billingtons, for at least he recognised the occasion to mock when it was necessary. ‘But we don’t have a band every night. This is one of our quiet nights. We have some excellent records.’

  The woman frowned. ‘What d’you think Errol darling? Sounds deadly dull and hardly a soul here. I did tell you we should have gone to the other place.’

  Errol darling’s eyes flicked over the place.

  ‘The Billingtons are here,’ he murmured.

  A slight flush spread over his wife’s face. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said to Leonard sweetly. ‘Could we have that table there?’ She indicated one a discreet distance from the Billingtons yet angled to face them.

  With a slight bow he led them to the table of their choice and seated them. The Billingtons were ready to give him a wine order. Reg Billington scanned the list and ordered an unpretentious but very good wine, barely raising his eyes as he spoke. It was just what Leonard would have expected him to order, and he was all the more admiring that the man had fulfilled that expectation.

  He passed through the kitchen on his way to the wine cellar. Valerie plucked at his arm.

  ‘I’m busy can’t
you see?’

  ‘Please Leonard!’ There was a note of urgency in her voice. ‘It’s him. Look at him.’

  And Vlado was something to be seen. His face was grey, and his eyes had a glaze over them.

  ‘The Billingtons ordered beef stroganoff, and he hasn’t moved since I gave him the order.’

  Leonard touched his arm. ‘Never mind, Vlado,’ he said. ‘It might only be beef stroganoff, but you make it like a dream. There’s nothing to touch your beef stroganoff. They’ll make you famous just for your stroganoff.’

  Still Vlado did not move. Leonard persisted. ‘Another night they will ask for one of your specials, tonight they will find that your everyday is brilliant.’

  And for once he was being true to himself, and to Vlado too, for though the chef had not trained as some of the country’s other top restaurateurs had done, he had a touch of genius, and Leonard knew it for what it was worth. He had envied true worth in others for too long, not to give it its due in matters such as this. Vlado might still have things to learn, but he was a born master, and therefore Leonard cared for his welfare, for that reason and no other. Next month, maybe even next week, he would be gone, serving someone else — who knew? — but while he was here he had an allegiance to talent. He was loyal to that. Vlado could trust him more than he knew.

  Vlado looked at him with dull eyes. ‘The trouble in my country, it is worse. Bad things, happening they are.’

  Leonard dropped his arm. ‘Beef stroganoff for the Billingtons,’ he said. In silence Vlado reached for the food, mechanically assembling the tender meat, the mushrooms, the sour cream which must go in at the last critical moment. The wine waiter heaved a sigh of relief and continued to the cellar. By the time Valerie had placed the next order and the wine was served to the Billingtons, everything appeared to be under control.

  Valerie, however, was in a fouler temper than before. ‘Bitch,’ she spat towards the dining-room. It was obvious she was referring to the younger of the two couples.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Leonard.

  ‘The Errol Wallaces,’ she said. ‘Would you believe that Yvonne tart out there was in the same class as my sister. Pretends she doesn’t know me now.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame her,’ said Leonard. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Find out for yourself smart aleck.’ She basked in local knowledge.

  ‘Be easier if you told me.’

  ‘Ah shit, the local supermarket tycoon, if you really want to know. His Dad died at the right time, just as there was a deal with a big chain coming up. Copped the lot, and about the same time he got Yvonne up the way. Look at the stuck-up, prissy-mouthed bag, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.’

  ‘Would it in yours?’

  ‘At least I’m careful. She’s not even educated.’

  Leonard raised his eyebrows. Strange what one found in the provinces. He sauntered out to the Wallaces and proffered a wine list.

  Errol Wallace scrutinised it for a long time. ‘Is this your entire selection?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Well I suppose we’ll just have to make the most of it then.’

  ‘What’s the matter darling? Don’t they have anything we like?’ said his wife, in a loud voice. The Billingtons didn’t stir from their conversation.

  ‘It’s a very narrow range,’ said Errol, even more loudly. ‘Still, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.’ He brayed with laughter at this throwaway absurdity. He ordered the most expensive on the list.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Leonard, still obsequious. And away he flitted again. He and Valerie were like the man and woman on the Swiss weather gadgets, he reflected. One in, one out, never both together.

  But then Valerie did come out to the back while he was getting the wine, after she had delivered the stroganoff.

  ‘Got troubles, that lot,’ she remarked.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Marital. They’ve come to settle the divorce.’

  ‘You mean the Wallaces?’

  ‘Nup. The Billingtons.’

  ‘You must have heard wrong.’

  ‘Nup. Don’t like to argue in front of the kids, sorry children,’ she said. ‘Quiet here, that’s what they said. Nice not to have the whole town staring at us.’

  ‘Never. Did you hear that Vlado? What a thing to say.’

  Vlado turned his strained face towards them. His eyes suddenly gleamed with tears. He turned away again.

  ‘Queer these foreigners,’ murmured Valerie. ‘Still I’d be upset too if my best clients only came because nobody else does.’

  ‘Did they like the stroganoff?’ asked Leonard pointedly.

  ‘Don’t reckon they noticed it,’ said Valerie.

  ‘I’ll put a record on.’ Leonard went out to the narrow box of knobs and lights, coaxing it to the palpitating hot gospel of blues. Blue turning purple, purple to black, black on black. Black upon night, creeping under the doors, round the curtains, night engulfing them all; catching them up in another world in which they were all together, yet aloof. Night pushing them this way and that in clusters, forming, falling apart, reshaping.

  Vlado, and the presence felt, of Eileen. Eileen fading. He could hardly remember her face. The state of foreign relations.

  Leonard and Valerie. Leonard wanted Valerie, he didn’t; Valerie didn’t want Leonard, she did. Chopping and changing. Desire replaced by qualifications. Her mouth is too ugly; his grin is too smarmy; she is missing teeth, my tongue slides in imagination into the slimy hollows; he is too pernickety, he would criticise my talents; I am too skinny, she is too buxom, she would laugh at my rib-cage; I would never please him, he is too experienced; I would never please her, she is too experienced …

  Janet and Reg Billington. ‘Better that we come here.’ ‘I loved you,’ she said. ‘I loved you,’ he said. ‘When did you stop?’ ‘I don’t remember. Was it the holiday we had up north?’ ‘The one where you wanted to fish by yourself and I wanted to drink myself silly and lie in the sun?’ ‘It can’t have been, we both went fishing, don’t you remember?’ ‘The children were very small. I was so tired, that was why I wanted to lie around; for the rest you know.’ ‘It must have been in the south.’ ‘No, we both drank and lay in the sun then.’ Were we both tired?’ ‘I think so, I’m not sure. Maybe I was feeling better then, I might have played golf.’ ‘Do you remember when it was then?’ ‘No.’ ‘Nor me.’

  Yvonne and Errol. And Errol has sent the wine back three times now. ‘Look at the sediment …’ Then, ‘like vinegar.’ And the third time, ‘This is not what I ordered, I am perfectly aware that this is not the year that I asked for. I know you fellows change the labels.’ On this third comment, the Billingtons finally noticed they were there. It was impossible not to. Not that they really indicated their awareness of the Wallace’s presence in any discernible way, unless one was watching carefully. It was more Leonard that Yvonne noticed first, leading her eyes over to the Billingtons. His manner becoming insolent. He stared across the room above their heads, with a bored smile beginning to hover at the corners of his mouth. Any moment she was sure Errol would say something to him. She followed his look to see how long he would hold it before her husband reproved him, and then she saw Janet Billington look over at them, attracted by Errol’s voice. She raised one eyebrow at Reg, rather than at Leonard, and let it fall. Yvonne could almost hear it. However delicate the contraction might have been, it reverberated round the restaurant, that fallen eyebrow.

  ‘Let’s try it anyway,’ Yvonne said. ‘It might be quite nice.’

  ‘I have tried it,’ he retorted.

  ‘Is it quite impossible?’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s not what I ordered.’

  ‘I’d like to try some all the same,’ Yvonne murmured, glancing at Leonard.

  ‘I want to see the manager,’ said Errol.

  It was Leonard’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘Tonight Vlado is cooking — perhaps, if you’
d like to come back to the kitchen and see him.’

  ‘No of course he wouldn’t,’ said Yvonne. ‘Please — pour me some wine.’

  Errol had turned the colour of ox-blood. ‘Then pay for it yourself.’

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘Pour some wine please, waiter,’ as Leonard hesitated.

  ‘For you then, sir?’ he asked as the wine filled the glass.

  ‘No thank you.’

  And again Leonard went back to the kitchen.

  ‘It looks as if that will be all for tonight,’ he remarked.

  Valerie sat with her shoes off. It was hard to imagine what she would be like if it was a really busy night.

  Vlado stood rigid beside the bench. The transistor was still playing.

  ‘Fun and games with that lot,’ said Leonard. ‘Even if there are only four of them.’ He peered through the slit. Yvonne Wallace was methodically filling her glass, emptying it, and refilling it with the wine which her husband would not drink. ‘Did you hear me Vlado? I said fun and games.’

  All through that spring on the other side of the world when the ice would be retreating, when the forests relaxed from their grim vigils, when spring meant so much more than it did here, he had heard reports filtering through. The ‘Prague Spring’ they would call it. And he had dreamt of a time when he and Eileen and the dark boy might go back, and just when things seemed truly hopeful and good, Eileen had conceived, and maybe he would have taken another flaxen-haired child home with them too. Some day when the restaurant was flourishing, as he knew it would. The Prague Spring. It was like a rebirth. Significantly so.

  Then had come the invasion. Tanks rumbled into Czechoslovakia one night while the people slept, and in the morning they woke to find themselves surrounded by soldiers, as bewildered as they were, who asked each other, ‘What country are we in?’ That’s how dark the night had been, and the secret. Dubcek was being deceived and betrayed. The people were crawling back underground. Mail became scarce again, just when Vlado was beginning to believe that he had a family after all. Rumours came. Some people had died, many had been arrested. He heard, though it was not confirmed, that one was a brother of his, a baby when he left. Hard to imagine him grown to be a man like him, very young though he would be, but still a man who had grown up and made decisions. Not run away from them either, like he had run, through the forest. But times were different. Different? How different?