‘Are you OK, love?’ Vincent asked.
She nodded. ‘But I think I’ll shut my eyes, if you don’t mind.’
‘Yes, go ahead – have a little nap.’
Napping was out of the question, but if she pretended to doze, it might at least ensure a little peace. She felt so dispirited, so tired, she simply didn’t have the energy to argue any more.
She slumped wretchedly against the station wall, close to the departures board. Not that any train was scheduled to depart. New problems had developed on the network, due to the excessive heat, and every train to London was now seriously delayed. She’d been hanging around for over half an hour, but not a single service had yet left. Neil had finally stalked off to commandeer another cab, and even patient Vincent had decided to cut his losses and celebrate his nephew’s birthday in a local Stevenage pub, rather than in Battersea. Gary, of course, had gone rushing off to work the minute he’d leapt from the taxi, tossing a handful of notes on the seat and muttering darkly that he’d probably got the sack already. So here she was, stranded on another station, this time all alone. Fumbling for her purse, she started counted her remaining cash.
She had exactly 63 pence left, after paying for the cab – not even enough to buy a cup of coffee. Jacob would be sipping wine in Lorenzo’s, his fury and impatience increasing exponentially. If only he were the type to listen to the local News, he might hear about the hold-ups, but he was probably deep in some weighty tome about metaphysical poetry or mankind’s spiritual quest. She wandered along the platform in search of a chocolate machine. It was probably the height of folly to splurge her last few coins on a Crunchie or a Twix, instead of keeping them for emergencies, but she was so ravenous she didn’t care. Having inserted a ten and a fifty, she pressed the appropriate button and waited for her chocolate bar. In vain. Even her coins appeared to be lost, swallowed up in the system, with no hope of return. And there was little point complaining about such a trivial matter. The few available railway staff were already being besieged by crowds of frantic passengers, irate at missing meetings, dates, connections.
She suddenly caught sight of herself in the window of the waiting-room, recoiling in distaste. Her ponytail had come undone and her hair was tumbling round her shoulders in total disarray. There were black smudges of mascara underneath her eyes, and her silk blouse was badly creased as well as damp. God knows what Jacob would think. He liked women to be stylish, as he invariably was himself. His own hair was so thick and straight it stayed naturally in place, and his clothes never seemed to crease, let alone discolour in the wash, as hers so often did.
The man beside her was demolishing a sandwich: teeth sinking into the moist brown bread, tongue scooping up the cheese-and-pickle filling. She watched with increasing envy, tempted to snatch the sandwich from him – indeed, even knock him down, to claim the booty for herself. Perhaps it was wrong ever to judge a crime. If one were hungry enough, desperate enough, one could murder for a bite.
She moved away to avoid temptation, her mind returning to the suicide. Had they collected all the fragments of the body? Did someone have to identify their beloved spouse or son, with just those bloody fragments as a guide? And suppose—
‘The delayed 19.07 to London, King’s Cross is now arriving at platform number two. First Capital Connect apologize for any inconvenience caused by the late running of this train …’
Apologize! She was so relived she could kiss the man making the announcement – kiss every single employee of First Capital Connect. As the train rattled into the station, she wove her way towards the front of the platform, trapped in the crush of people jostling to get on. There wasn’t a hope of a seat, but she was elated by the prospect of actually getting to the restaurant before Jacob finally left. She did the calculations in her head. The journey to King’s Cross should take just under half an hour, then fifteen minutes on the tube, followed by a ten-minute walk – six minutes if she jogged. ‘Jacob, wait for me,’ she prayed, uncomfortably aware that expecting him to hang about for a further fifty minutes was perhaps pushing things too far. Yet at least he had the distraction of his book, the solace of his wine, and surely he must have realized by now that some emergency had happened.
At last, she thrust a foot into the carriage, and was pushed further in by the press of people behind. Her leg was jabbed by the corner of someone’s briefcase; someone else elbowed her in the ribs. But, despite the fact she was jostled on all sides, she held her breath, held her ground. However, they couldn’t yet move off, as the doors were blocked by still more obstreperous passengers struggling to squeeze themselves on to the already jam-packed train.
Suddenly, impulsively, she pushed in the other direction, encountering both curses and resistance. But, head down, she fought her way to the doors again, hardly caring if she was badmouthed. She wasn’t going to London, but back to her own room and bed.
Stepping down from the carriage, she sank shakily on to a bench, her mind in utter turmoil. For some incomprehensible reason, all the points that Neil had made were resounding in her head once more, although now with a quite different slant. She had challenged him on every issue, condemned him as a callous brute, yet, all at once, she could see the truth in every word he’d said. Depression was a weapon for controlling other people, an excuse for bad behaviour, a form of aggression, a selfish and indulgent act. Didn’t she witness it with Jacob, on each occasion they met – the fact she must never make demands on him, never give him cause for worry, never even argue with him, let alone remind him that she, too, had a life? His finely tuned nervous system simply couldn’t cope with stress, and since he needed all his resources for his intellectual life, he refused to run the slightest risk of endangering his mental health or suffering a crack-up. It was like a sort of blackmail – do what I want, or I’ll plunge into the abyss.
Of course, she was not allowed low moods – they were his prerogative, as a ‘sensitive’, ‘artistic’ type, living on a ‘higher plane’. Nor could she be a minute late, whatever her predicament. The cheek of the man, to tell her she was disorganized, when all he did was sit at home scribbling the odd poem. He didn’t need a proper job; didn’t have to worry about paying bills or rent, because he lived on his father’s money, in his father’s Chelsea flat. Yet he never thought to help her with the fares, or thank her for her time and trouble in travelling such a distance on top of a full day’s work. And he dared to criticize her clothes, when she could barely afford any decent ones because, ever since the day they’d met, she lavished her money on him. And since she was forced to use the launderette, naturally her things discoloured. She didn’t have the luxury of a washing-machine and tumble-drier – things he assumed as his natural right, along with his collection of precious first editions and his signed Howard Hodgkin prints.
Why had it taken her so long to see him as he really was? Because he was so much older, so much better educated? Or had she been blinded by his romantic looks, his high calling as a poet, his air of brooding melancholy? Fuck melancholy! It was fun, she wanted, for a change – simple, childlike pleasure – and a man who loved her as she was: messy, sweaty, scatty, lowbrow; a man who made the occasional joke, and wouldn’t mind her reading Harry Potter instead of Schopenhauer.
Thrusting her hand inside her bag, she drew out the sculpted eagle’s head. She had swathed it in layers of tissue, wrapped it in expensive birthday paper, tied it with silver ribbon – all in homage to her eagle-poet. But she had been blind in that respect, as well. Eagles might be strong and powerful, but they were also cruel and ruthless, and, in flying high, ran the risk of ignoring lesser species, throttling smaller talents, denying any simple creature its right to life and freedom.
Striding to the platform edge as the train finally pulled out, she hurled the heavy package on to the track. Let it buckle, let it smash – she didn’t give a toss.
OK, she was wasting money on a crazy, reckless scale. She could have sold the sculpture, or given it to someone else. But it was
Jacob’s eagle, so it had to be destroyed. She was better off without it, better off without him. From this day on, she was going to be her self – her crazy, reckless, angry, wilful self – so that never in her life again would she become an eagle’s prey.
Saviour
‘Happy Christmas, dear.’
‘There’s nothing very happy about it.’ Cautiously, Violet opened the door a little wider to allow the woman access.
‘Well, what about this lovely Christmas dinner? That should cheer you up, I’ll put it in the kitchen, shall I?’
‘Yes, please. On the side here.’
‘I’m sorry I’m so late. We’ve been rushed off our feet this morning.’
‘That’s all right.’ It certainly wasn’t all right. The meal had been promised for twelve noon, and she had deliberately cut out breakfast, to economize. It was now almost five to two, and she was feeling weak with hunger.
‘Would you like me to take the lids off?’ The woman’s sharp eyes were roving round the room, lighting on the grease-encrusted hob, the pile of dirty underwear soaking in the sink.
‘I can manage, thank you.’ Violet didn’t want this stranger in her house. The place was in a state – untidy, none too clean – so there was a danger she would be reported to the council. Next thing she’d know, she’d be declared unfit and carted off to a care-home.
‘Well, enjoy it, dear, won’t you.’
Yes, that she did intend. Any change from her usual lunchtime fare – bread and jam, or tinned spaghetti hoops – was welcome in the extreme. They kept offering her Meals-on-Wheels, but you couldn’t be too careful. Once you let people into your home on a regular basis, they’d take it as a licence to snoop; realize that the heating didn’t work, or track down the mouse in the sitting-room, and class it as a health risk rather than a companion. ‘Is there anything to pay?’ she asked, self-consciously aware of her shabby clothes and down-at-heel felt slippers. Lady Bountiful was dressed as if for cocktails, in a smart blue dress and jacket, and high heels
‘No, it’s completely free, my dear – subsidized by St Saviour’s. We’re delivering Christmas dinners to all the elderly housebound in the area, as part of the church’s Community Outreach Project.’
Violet mumbled her thanks, disliking the thought of being subsidized, or, indeed, part of any ‘project’.
‘Don’t thank me,’ the woman smiled. ‘Thank our lovely vicar.’
Lovely or no, the vicar never called and, were he to do so, she wouldn’t thank him anyway. His church bells made a dreadful racket, yet her letters of complaint had been totally ignored.
Even now, the woman seemed in no hurry to leave, and was examining the dingy hall, her gaze lingering on the patch of mould just below the ceiling. ‘Well, God bless you, dear,’ she carolled, finally making for the door at last.
Violet didn’t reply. God kept His distance nowadays. Once, He had been a living, breathing Presence, and she still missed that sense of closeness to a Father.
Shutting the door with a sense of relief, she shuffled her way to the sitting-room, opened the sideboard, and extracted a large dinner plate – one she hadn’t used in decades: bone-china, with pink roses round the rim. Next she found a linen serviette, crumpled but good quality, a tarnished silver napkin-ring, and her best embroidered tablecloth, a little faded and tattered now, as she was. Painstakingly she laid up the small table, using the best cutlery, and adding a crystal wineglass only slightly chipped. There wouldn’t be any wine, of course –– water would have to do. It was the food that was important: all the traditional items she hadn’t tasted in years. No point cooking Christmas dinner just for one, and it was extremely wasteful anyway when everything these days was sold in such huge sizes – puddings for a regiment, turkeys to feed a tribe. You couldn’t even buy a single tangerine. It was either a dozen in a red string bag, or go without.
Returning to the kitchen with the plate, she began prising the plastic lid off the larger of the cartons, feeling a ripple of rare excitement. It was over a year since she’d had a proper meal, and, judging by the wealthy folk who frequented St Saviour’s, this one would be special, something to remember throughout the coming year.
Only after breaking a nail did she finally succeed in opening the container, and stood staring in dismay at two small slices of anaemic turkey breast, swimming in watery gravy, three slimy Brussels sprouts, disintegrating into a grey-green mush, a couple of pallid boiled potatoes and a dab of greyish stuffing. In her mind, she had pictured a whole succulent turkey sizzling on its carving-dish, with legs and wings intact. And rich sausage-meat stuffing, moist with prunes and port. And certainly roast potatoes – plain boiled went with fish. And butter-glazed sprouts, served with tiny chestnuts. And chipolatas beautifully browned and wrapped in bacon rashers. All covered with giblet gravy, simmered for an hour or so with onions and the turkey liver, bay leaves and a bouquet garni. And what had happened to the smells – pungent, heady, spicy smells, always associated with Christmas? She stooped down to sniff the dinner, but there was only a faint aroma of overcooked and slightly bitter sprouts.
Perhaps the pudding would be better – although it took her some time to find out, since the lid on the second carton was still more stubborn than the first. Sucking her bruised thumb, she scrutinized the contents: a pale brown square of what looked like shop-bought cake, sitting in a pool of biliously lurid yellow custard. Surely Christmas puddings should be round? And dark – dark with fruit and rum. It was custard that was pale – custard made with fresh farm eggs and real vanilla pods. And where were the mince pies? Proper Christmas dinner always included pudding and pies, not just one or the other.
Stifling her disappointment, she transferred the meal to the china plate, where it seemed completely dwarfed – a child-sized portion, not rations for an adult. She should have used a tea-plate or a saucer, but if she messed around any longer, the already tepid food would be completely cold. And she couldn’t waste money turning on the oven to heat up one small meal. Besides, she was starving hungry and might actually faint, as she had done, in fact, last week, if she didn’t eat immediately.
However, starving or no, she intended to spin the meal out, make it last as long as possible by chewing every mouthful a minimum of twenty times, The gaping day stretched endlessly ahead, with nothing else to fill it.
Before sitting down, she fetched another jersey from the bedroom. She was already wearing several layers of woollies, but the day was damp as well as cold, and the sitting-room faced north. She also turned the clock-hands back to one o’clock. Christmas dinner at Aunt Augusta’s house was served on the dot of one. She would be up at five, of course, opening her Christmas stocking, and trying to persuade her mother that they should leave for Grove End House the minute they had washed and dressed. She could never wait to get there. The turreted grey-stone mansion, with its extensive grounds and sweep of hills behind, was like something in a fairy-tale, and a world away from their own shabby basement flat.
As she pulled up her chair to the small and rickety card-table, it extended lengthways and widthways into the Grove End dining-table: a magnificent mahogany table that could seat a couple of dozen guests. And her three solitary cards – one from the local Pizza Place, where she had never set foot in her life – had gone forth and multiplied, so that now at least a hundred jostled for space on the mantelpiece. And she herself was no longer the poor relation, but a proper little lady, dressed in her cousin’s party frock, and with staff to wait on her. Would Miss Violet prefer white meat or dark?
‘Both,’ she replied, wriggling in anticipation as Priscilla loaded her plate. You weren’t allowed to start until everyone was served, and you had to hold your fork right, and sit up straight, and not blow your nose on your serviette. The television was playing to itself – some old film in black and white, with people sitting round a festive table. She turned them into Augusta’s friends and family: moneyed types, with swanky clothes, who always forgot her mother’s name and often i
gnored her altogether. Who cared? She was happy just to be here; looked forward to this Christmas dinner for months and months beforehand, crossing off the days on her home-made calendar.
‘Wine for Miss Violet?’ Carter asked. He was standing just behind her chair, holding the bottle of wine, with a white damask cloth folded over his arm.
Excitedly she nodded. She was allowed a tiny drop, enough to turn her water a magical rippling pink. Not that she could drink it yet. You couldn’t so much as touch your glass until Uncle William had finished saying Grace, and he hadn’t even started yet. After what seemed like half an hour, he bowed his head, at last, and recited the peculiar words, which she could never understand because they were in some foreign language.
‘Amen,’ everybody said. She knew what that meant: they could all start tucking in.
She began with the turkey, trying the dark meat first – deliciously bronzed outside – and following it with a mouthful of breast, which was so delicate and moist it slipped down in a trice. Next she cut off a piece of her roast potato, its coating brown and crackly, in contrast to the soft whiteness inside. Her aunt never did the cooking herself, but had very strong opinions on how it should be done. Potatoes, she insisted, must be par-boiled first, then roasted in dripping, to ensure a perfect result. And Brussels sprouts should be glazed with butter and served with tiny chestnuts, to disguise any trace of bitterness, and cooked for exactly fifteen minutes, so that they were neither too hard nor too soft. And, when it came to gravy, short cuts were simple laziness, and the Bisto her own mother used nothing short of a crime.
Violet cut a sprout in half and forked it in, along with a piece of chestnut. The tastes seemed quite exotic, especially as they never had vegetables at home. She moved her pile of stuffing to the very edge of her plate, so that she could eat it on its own; pick out all the different colours and flavours: pale sausage-meat and dark chunks of prune and walnut, morsels of pink bacon and shiny whitish onion slices, glinting shreds of bright orange grated carrot.
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 20