by Isla Dewar
An hour later, she’d finished her drink and didn’t want to order another. She wanted to be out of here and at home, back in her comfort zone. She planned never to leave it again. The waiter and a man in a suit – the manager, Sophie thought – were talking, and every few moments they’d turn to look at her. Soon, they’d ask her to either order a meal or leave.
She signalled the waiter over, told him her friend must have mistaken the day and paid for her drink. Now came the humiliating trek to the door. Head up, eyes on the world beyond the window, she made her way past the other diners – shamed woman passing.
Outside, she stopped looked up at the sky and welcomed the chill night air on her face. ‘Car and home,’ she said. ‘And don’t tell anyone about this.’ She thought Martha might laugh, or, even worse, be overly sympathetic. Such treatment usually made her cry.
On the other side of the road a group of girls were surging along the pavement arm in arm singing ‘Satisfaction’. And just above that noise, she heard someone calling her name. She turned; saw Duncan running towards her, waving. ‘Bastard,’ she said and started to run for her car.
She was aware of being, yet again, the object of derision. People were stopping to stare. It wasn’t often two people of a certain age were seen hurtling along the pavement, the one behind shouting, ‘Stop, Sophie. I can explain.’ The one in front shouting back, ‘Leave me alone. I never want to see you again. Bastard.’ But she ran. Not very quickly, though. Her knees were no longer built for speed and her shoes made walking tricky. So running in them was dangerous. From the other side of the road came the sound of clapping and cheering. The teenage girls stopped their chorus to cheer her on, chanting, ‘Sophie. Sophie.’
Well, she supposed she did look comical. She was teetering as fast as she could, handbag banging against her thigh, puffing and wheezing. She stopped, leant against a shop door and fought for breath. She glanced back at her tormentor. He was a few yards behind her, bent double, also gasping for breath. He looked up at her, held out his hand. ‘Please, Sophie. I need to talk to you.’
The teenage girls switched allegiance, ‘Give him a break, Sophie. Be a pal, Sophie,’ they hollered. The cry was rolling along the street, lights went on at windows, people came to the window of the restaurant Sophie had just fled to see what was going on.
‘All right,’ she called, ‘I’ll talk to you.’ She waited till Duncan reached her and they both stood, facing one another, panting.
‘I need to get to my car,’ said Sophie. ‘I need to sit down.’
‘Good idea,’ Duncan agreed.
They walked slowly together. Lights in the flats above them went out. They didn’t speak. Right now speaking wasn’t easy.
At last Duncan, patting his heaving chest, said he was sorry. ‘I got caught up. I didn’t realise the time. I ran all the way here.’
Sophie snorted, ‘Huh.’ She was angry with him for keeping her waiting, and even angrier with him for not being Martin. ‘I have never been so embarrassed in my life,’ she said. ‘I was sitting there alone waiting for you and everyone was looking at me. They all thought I’d been stood up.’
‘Well, you weren’t. I’m here.’ He smiled a reassuring smile and patted her hand. A small patronising gesture that enraged her.
‘You’re too late. I waited and waited. It was awful. It was lonely sitting there by myself surrounded by couples smiling and laughing. Even the couples who were eating in complete silence were having a better time than me.’ Words were not enough; she had to let him know the depth of her fury and punched him on the shoulder. ‘You didn’t even book.’
Frowning, but not really in pain – it had been an ineffectual punch – he told her he didn’t always book. ‘I eat there regularly. At least once a week. Let’s go back. We’ll order risotto and have a lovely time.’
‘No. I’m never going into that place again. Never.’
‘Well, let’s go somewhere else. I know some fabulous places.’
She was tempted. She didn’t want to go home early. Martha would comment on it and ask questions. Sophie knew the truth would come out. She was a terrible liar. She avoided eye contact. She squirmed, coughed and sometimes even blushed. Her voice went slightly out of control, going up an octave, as the lies got deeper and thicker. No, she couldn’t face Martha’s interrogation. She’d go somewhere fabulous with Duncan. ‘OK.’ She started the car. ‘Tell me where to go.’
He directed her through a maze of dark canyon streets she didn’t know and thought she wouldn’t want to know. ‘Where are we?’
‘This is my world. I’m a wanderer. This is where I roam at nights.’
‘Why on earth do you do that?’
‘There are all kinds here. Life in the raw. This is where the drunkards roll. I am a watcher in the wings.’
‘Romantic drivel,’ scoffed Sophie. She was hunched over the steering wheel peering ahead and battling her rattling emotions – fury over her long wait in the restaurant, fear, curiosity and a deep longing to be at safe at home.
‘No, really,’ said Duncan. ‘Thieves, whores and students live here.’
‘And a fair amount of normal ordinary folk living decent lives,’ said Sophie. And, reflecting on what Duncan had just said, ‘Students? You class students alongside thieves and whores?’
‘Well, in time they’ll be doctors, lawyers, teachers, historians, whatever. But for the moment, they’re poor, living far from home, sometimes in dubious localities and seeing life from a new angle. So, they can count as outsiders.’
Sophie said, ‘Rubbish.’
Duncan didn’t say anything. He shifted in his seat and sulked. Here was a man who didn’t like to be contradicted. Shame on you, Sophie thought, a bit of argument is good for the soul.
She thought herself to be an expert arguer. A master, Martin, had taught her. In the first months of their marriage all their arguments had been about arguing. He loved the verbal wrestling. She hated it. ‘Argue with me,’ Martin would say. ‘Fight for your point of view. Don’t just stand there nodding your head and looking bovine.’
They’d been debating the colour of new curtains at the time. He’d wanted plain. She fancied striped.
‘Bovine. How dare you. I’m not bovine. What a thing to say just because I disagree with you about curtains. You’re the rudest man in the world.’
‘That’s the way. Go for it. Disagree with me. Say what you think.’
‘I think the striped would set off the room wonderfully. The plain is boring.’
She’d won. Two years later Martin had admitted she was right. The blue and grey stripes were subtle and, dammit, tasteful. By then they had turned their arguments into an art form. They disagreed about politics, films, books, where to put up shelves, how to cook an omelette and how to bring up their daughter. Sometimes Sophie worried they argued too much, enjoyed it too much. It could replace sex. But it didn’t. It usually led to sex. They didn’t settle their differences in bed. They celebrated them.
Duncan told her to turn left and park where she could find a space. ‘We’re here.’
She found a space behind a row of taxis and looked around. The street was narrow, badly lit and busy. People, shapeless bundles wrapped against the night, moved to and from a small restaurant across the road.
‘I’m looking forward to this,’ said Duncan. ‘I hope you’re hungry because the portions here are huge.’ He spread his arms, this huge.
The air was heavy with kitchen smells – hot fat, vinegar, a thick hint of garlic and onions. Chuck Berry boomed. When Sophie spoke she had to shout. ‘This place is intriguing. But it must be awful to live in this street.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about the residents. They’re all . . .’
‘Thieves, junkies, whores, drunkards and students,’ said Sophie.
‘Exactly.’
Tonight’s menu was scrawled on a blackboard in the window – spag bol, salt in bocca, fish and chips, pie and chips. No salad. Puddings of the night – bread and bu
tter, vanilla ice with amaretto.
‘No salad,’ said Sophie. ‘What does that mean?’
‘They don’t do salad.’
‘I don’t think that’s anything to crow about.’
‘It’s reassuring. It’s good to know you won’t find any unwanted greenery on your plate. It’s what makes this place such a delight.’
‘It’s men who come here, then?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Men don’t get lettuce.’
‘What is there to get about lettuce? What’s the point of it? But yes, it’s mostly men who eat here – taxi drivers, truckers, off-duty police, that sort of thing.’
‘This is where you’ve brought me? I don’t think I want to go in. It’ll be noisy and probably filthy.’
‘Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. You’ll love it.’ He barged ahead of her and into the restaurant.
Alone in the street Sophie considered what to do. She wanted to go home but had no idea of the way back. Besides there was a large group of men all in dark clothing and bawling incomprehensibly to one another coming towards her. She followed Duncan inside.
It was noisy; wreaths of cigarette smoke swirled blue over the heads of the diners who at first glance seemed to be all male. The clamour came to Sophie in layers of shouting; people had to bawl at one another to be heard. To be heard over one table’s bawling people nearby had to bawl louder. So the cacophony swelled.
Duncan was already at a table in the corner. He waved to Sophie and pointed to the empty chair across from him indicating that she should hurry before it was snatched away.
He rubbed his hands together as she sat down. ‘Isn’t this grand? Don’t you love it?’
She pointed to her ears, shouted that she couldn’t hear him.
He leaned over the table and said, ‘The food here is to die for.’
‘It had better be to make up for the noise.’
‘It’s passion,’ said Duncan. ‘This place has it in spade-loads. What do you fancy?’
‘Salt in bocca. Is that saltimbocca?’
‘Yes. Great choice. I’m having a pie. The pies here are splendid.’
He picked up a grease-splattered card with the number eighteen on it. ‘I have to go to the counter with this and make the order. They don’t wait on tables. That’s part of the appeal. You feel involved.’
The kitchen was behind the counter, open to the diners’ view. Five people clattered about, yelling at one another as they chopped, rattled pans on flaming cookers and skilfully slid food onto plates. A thin, grey-haired woman shook huge wire baskets about in a large deep-fat fryer. Every so often she’d yell a number, ‘Twenty-two,’ and someone would get up from the relevant table, go to the counter and collect their meal. It was pandemonium.
While Duncan was at the counter ordering their food Sophie gazed round the room. She guessed this was where people came to eat rather than dine. There were no trimmings here. The eaters looked like they had just finished work or were on their way to start a night shift. They ate quickly and left.
In the far corner, near the window, sat a large group of young people. Hippies, Sophie supposed. They were flamboyantly dressed and spoke very loudly. One man, bearded with a thick mane of dark hair, kept glancing across at her. He was flicking his cigarette ash into an ashtray, and then he’d quickly look at her. She couldn’t imagine why. Perhaps he wondered why she was here. She certainly didn’t belong.
Duncan returned. ‘Ordered. Got you vanilla ice with amaretto for pudding.’
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I never knew this place existed. What’s it called?’
‘Jelly’s. The owners are Jessie and Louis. She’s Scottish, he’s Italian – it’s a combination of their names. They split the cooking. She does the deep-fried things. He does the Italian stuff. It’s all very good. We’ll come again when it’s risotto.’ He put his thumb and finger into a circle and raised it to her, making a kissing sound. ‘The risotto is to die for.’
Not wanting to say she wasn’t sure if she wanted to come again, and start a discussion as to why not – the racket was too loud for discussion – she smiled.
‘Didn’t order coffee,’ said Duncan. ‘Thought we might go to my place for that. It’s quieter there.’
No, no, no, she thought. Can’t do that. There might be an attempt at modern kissing. He might want to get me into bed. She squirmed at the idea. It was too embarrassing to contemplate. She shook her head. ‘I have to get home. Early night and all that. I have a busy day tomorrow.’
‘Oh well, another time,’ said Duncan.
Sophie nodded but thought, never.
The flamboyant people were leaving. A scraping of chairs on wooden floor, heaving on of coats and laughter. They moved to the door. The man who’d been sneaking peeks at her opened it and held it as the crowd went out, all of them talking loudly, too lost in the important business of being young to notice any of the other people here. The man who held the door open didn’t join in with the laughter. He seemed weary. Aware, perhaps, of being a little too old to even play at being young, he looked down at his feet as his friends bustled past him into the night. Then, he looked over to Sophie. He didn’t glance. He stared.
Sophie stared back. Looked hard at the face beneath the beard.
The man joined his friends outside. Sophie saw him jerk his thumb in the opposite direction from the one they were taking. ‘Think I’ll split,’ she heard him say. He walked off, hands deep in his pockets, head bowed.
And something stirred in Sophie’s memory. Slowly the features of the face beneath the beard slipped into place. She stood, pointed and shouted, ‘My God. That was Jamie.’
16
This Is No Time for Stew
Bacon roll time, Charlie stared into the middle distance and played a slow finger-drum solo on his knee.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Martha.
‘Thinking,’ Charlie told her. ‘Raking through the dark muddle in my brain, looking for decisions.’
‘About?’
‘Everything. My life. You. Bernice Stokes. Like the outfit, by the way.’
‘I’m going for arty. What have you decided about me?’
‘Don’t know, haven’t decided. It suits you, the red shirt thing and black T-shirt. Better than the lies you tell with the Miss Perfect Secretary clothes.’
‘Lies?’
‘Yes, lies.’
‘You mean I’m masquerading as a perfect efficient secretary by wearing a smart, clean outfit.’
‘You are presenting yourself to the world as a calm, organised, efficient human being when you are as bewildered, upset and disappointed as the rest of us. Of course, people wear disguises these days.’
He chewed his bacon roll, musing about modern disguises. ‘You get dyed-blonde women who wear skimpy clothes and sunglasses and pretend they’re mysterious and vulnerable because they think that will win them fabulous friends. Or maybe they’re just hiding the fact that they think they’re stupid. And men in suits who want to look high-powered and affluent when they’re not. And there are weekend hippies who dress to look young and free from Friday night till Sunday evening. On Monday they go back to their safe nine-to-five office job.’ He turned to Martha. ‘Everyone’s at it, dressing to fool.’
‘My efficient clothes are to tell the world I’m managing. What do your clothes say about you? You mostly wear black and grey.’
‘That says I’m coming to terms with who I am and who I’m not.’
‘You have settled for not being a famous jazz trumpeter.’
‘No. That would be abandoning a daydream. Not doing that. I have settled for being someone who is unsettled about reaching forty.’ He finished his coffee. ‘I think we better go and show Bernice yesterday’s photos.’
He gathered the cups and plates and took them to the kitchen. Martha put the guard in front of the fire before joining Charlie in the kitchen to dry the dishes. ‘How do you mean we? I wasn’t hired to go out and see peop
le. I’m the secretary, I answer the phone and type stuff.’
‘I’ve been thinking of promoting you. You’re to be my assistant.’
‘Does that mean I get a rise?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Better hours? More holidays? An office of my own?’
‘No. No. And there’s no room for a separate office. So no to that, too.’
She finished drying the cups and stood back as Charlie put them away in the cupboard. ‘So what’s the point of my promotion? What’s in it for me?’
‘You get to come with me out into the world to meet the worried and lonely people I deal with. It will make you compassionate, and hearing other people’s stories will take your mind off your own story.’ He took the dishtowel from her hand, folded it and placed it neatly on the counter beside his coffee machine. ‘Let’s go. We’ll take Murphy. You drive.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You only promoted me so I’d drive you about.’
‘How shrewd you are.’
He went into the kitchen, checked the gas was off. That done, he made sure his record player was off and then went back to the kitchen to check, once more, that the gas was off. ‘Right, let’s go.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Office keys, car keys, house keys.’ He nodded to Martha. ‘All set?’