A Life Elsewhere Page 7

  Alicia and I are not so young now. Perhaps we waited too late; we should have tried for a family long ago. My father once said Alicia would make the perfect mother. I don’t know why he said that, he just did. I don’t think he ever meant it. It was something for him to say.

  My father was a businessman. He liked gain, accumulation. Who doesn’t? He was a businessman. Of what I cannot say. I never asked. He never told me. That’s the kind of life we lived.

  THE VISITOR

  THEY WERE DRUNK already, the girl and the mother, when the husband came in. The mother whistled and her daughter exhaled. He sighed and hung his jacket on the peg behind the living room door and turned to look at them.

  ‘You’ve made a head start, I see.’ He rubbed his palms together as if he too wanted to get started or perhaps to get warm. ‘There’ll be nothing left by the time they arrive.’

  The girl sat observing him for a time without blinking. His face looked boggy and punched. The paunch was beginning to show beyond his belt and his trousers were too short. She inhaled and seemed to go on inhaling and shook her head from side to side. ‘Damn, I’m gone already,’ she said. She placed her hands on her knees and stood slowly, like an old woman, and wandered into the kitchen. ‘Want something?’ she called.

  ‘Beer!’ her husband called back. ‘Did you get the rest of it?’

  ‘It’s all here. It’s like a pub. You should see it,’ she said. ‘We could charge the neighbours, open up the flat, let them all come in. Mum, you want another?’

  ‘No, dear,’ the mother called from the settee. ‘I’m resting. Maybe in a little while.’

  The husband moved to the kitchen and saw her standing by the unopened fridge, dazed, wondering what to do. She peered at him, thinking, then reached up, brushed a hand against the side of his head. She squeezed his ear lobe between finger and thumb, and kissed him quickly against his powdery lips.

  He opened the fridge and tore a can loose from the pack and opened it above the sink. ‘What’s she doing here, anyway?’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be all right,’ she replied. ‘I thought it would be nice for her. She’s on her own for heaven’s sake. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘She better not start … bickering, that’s all. We’ve got enough on our plate already.’ He gulped his beer and looked at her and tried to kiss her, but she turned quickly away.

  ‘They’ll be here soon. We should get ready,’ she said. ‘Go and keep Mum company. And try to be nice.’

  ‘Don’t need a hand with anything?’ He surveyed the small shadowy kitchen, the glow from the oven, the saucepan leaking puffs of steam.

  ‘No, you go ahead. Sit down. It’s nearly ready anyway. You could change if you want to. Wear your smart jeans or something.’

  He stood, helpless, gazing at his wife in the long wide skirt, the embroidered blouson. She had straightened her hair, pulled it back with a rosewood barrette they had bought on holiday in Malaga. He could hear the movements of the people who lived upstairs, the boy tearing from room to room, the mother’s stilettos on the kitchen floor, the man and his television set.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Go and keep her company. I won’t be long.’

  He took another swig from the can and returned to the living room. His mother-in-law sat in the same position, one stockinged foot against the floor, the other tucked beside her, a quiet cat on the settee. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and grey flannel trousers, trim like her daughter. He fell into the armchair next to her and sighed out loud.

  ‘Long day?’ she said.

  ‘Something like that.’ He raised his eyes. ‘Just tired.’

  She nodded slowly and he glanced at her, then took in the room: the row of travel guides in the bookcase, the magazines on the shelves below, the flowers his wife must have bought earlier that day decorating the mantelpiece and the coffee table. He noticed that everything was tidier now, the television pushed into a corner of the room. His stomach growled from the aroma of the kitchen, the roasting smells.

  ‘Still,’ she said, ‘it’s a living, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah,’ he chuckled. ‘Yeah … Shouldn’t complain.’

  Silence came into the room again, like a draught. The mother tucked her raised foot against her body and drew more into herself. The man closed his eyes.

  ‘Lorna, you want some help in there?’ the mother called.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum. It’s all under control. Won’t be long now.’

  Mother and son-in-law glanced at each other and then their eyes toured the room once more. The mother smiled at nothing and her eyelids drooped for a moment and then she became alert again. The husband finished his beer and moved to the CD rack and began to thumb through the possibilities.

  ‘Anything in particular you want?’ he asked without turning.

  ‘Oh, you … you still have the Nat King Cole? I’d like to listen to that again. Yes, please.’

  ‘Ah, let’s see.’ He played his fingers down the stack of CDs until he reached the floor, then stood up and began again. He paused near the top and withdrew a case and put the disc into the unit. In a moment a woman’s voice spilled into the room – rich, almost masculine, an upbeat tempo, a modern beat.

  ‘What’s this?’ the mother said, twisting her mouth. ‘This isn’t Nat.’

  ‘Can’t find it. Must be in the bedroom somewhere,’ he said, replacing the empty case. ‘You’ll like this. You want something to drink? I’m going to have another.’

  ‘Oh … well,’ she said, beaming, reaching for her empty wine glass. ‘Since you’re having one. It’s a party, isn’t it? Why not?’

  ‘It’s not … ,’ he started. ‘Never mind.’ He took the glass from her and joined his wife in the kitchen. ‘What’s taking you?’ he whispered.

  She shrugged. ‘What time did you say they were coming?’

  ‘They’ll be here, don’t worry,’ the husband said.

  ‘Well, I hope they like lamb or someone’s going to go hungry.’ She snorted, but she did not smile.

  ‘Gerry’ll eat anything. Don’t know about the girlfriend. I’m sure she’s the same. He would have said otherwise. Go easy with him, Lorn – the bloke’s had a hard time.’ He opened another beer and leaned against the sink, watching his wife.

  She looked at him and tutted and put on the oven mitts. The meat whined and crackled. She moved the potatoes to the oven floor and stood up straight, a hand against her brow.

  ‘How long’s that been in there?’ the husband asked.

  ‘Who knows. Now, the vegetables,’ she said. ‘No. Won’t put them on just yet. Maybe when they arrive. What’s her name again?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ he shook his head. ‘He told me. Can’t remember. Something … Russian, Czech? Ari-something. Can’t remember.’

  She brought out the carrots and began to peel and chop, taking occasional sips of wine. He swigged his beer until it was finished, then opened another. She put the carrots on to boil.

  The music moved into the kitchen like a fog. It was snug and tranquil there; they did not want to move away from the juddering pots, the smell of the feast ahead. Then the buzzer screamed. They looked at each other, the husband and wife, the singer’s voice wrapped around them, the whirr of the electric oven.

  The mother called, ‘Someone going to get that?’ And then the buzzer screamed again and the husband went to answer the door.

  ‘Where’s that drink I was promised?’ the mother asked, padding into the kitchen.

  ‘Help yourself if you want, Mum.’

  ‘Who are these people anyway?’

  ‘Shh!’ The daughter pressed a finger against her lips.

  They could hear voices moving along the hallway. The daughter smoothed her flared corduroy skirt, brushing her hands sharply down the front and sides. She smoothed her hair, making sure there were no loose strands.

  ‘Lorna, this is Gerry,’ her husband said. ‘And Agneski. Did I say that right?’


  ‘Yes, it is correct. Agnieszka,’ the girlfriend corrected. She smiled at Lorna and proffered an apple-red cheek.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ Lorna said, turning then to Gerry, thinking he was old, thinking her husband had never mentioned this. She looked at them, the man in his fifties or sixties, the girl either side of twenty-one.

  ‘He left nothing out, I hope – the juicy bits especially.’ Gerry winked. He hooted once and hit the husband on the back, hard, and then the husband laughed too.

  Lorna blinked rapidly. ‘And this is my mother,’ she said. ‘Irene.’

  They shuffled further into the living room and the mother got up and shook hands with the guests and sat down again, stumbling a little, one hand cupped inside the other.

  ‘It’s getting cold out,’ Irene said to no one in particular.

  ‘It is warm here, no?’ Agnieszka said, removing her white quilted jacket.

  ‘Nice and toasty,’ Irene replied. ‘I’m sick and tired of this British weather, aren’t you? Just had enough of it, up to here.’ She patted her hand against her chin.

  ‘Oh,’ Agnieszka said. ‘You are from where? From which country?’

  Irene did a double take, looking closely at the girl. ‘Ealing,’ she said. ‘Born and bred. London. Mum and Dad were from Dominica, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Let me take your coats,’ the husband interrupted. ‘Gerry, Agneski, please sit down. Make yourselves at home.’

  Agnieszka sat next to the mother, pulling her straight black hair to one side, letting it ride over her shoulder, down to her chest. She wore faded blue jeans, sealed against her skin, and an oversized custard-yellow angora sweater. Her lip gloss duelled with the candlelight and the bulb from the standard lamp. She crossed her legs and smiled, allowing one white-booted foot to dangle to and fro. She noticed the husband staring at her.

  Gerry refused to sit. He wandered to the CD rack, examined it, then moved to the bookcase. ‘Ah, Thailand. Yes. I was banged up there, you know. Less said about that the better,’ he barked. He shook the travel guide in the air. ‘Awful prisons. Lovely girls. Delicate. Like puppies.’

  Lorna looked sharply at her husband who was still standing, staring at the girl. ‘Why don’t you offer your guests a drink?’ she said. ‘I’ll check the dinner.’

  ‘Prague – I see you’ve been to all the haunts,’ Gerry turned to the husband. ‘I can tell you a thing or two about the summer of ’99.’ He looked hopefully at the people in the room.

  ‘That was Lorna, actually,’ the husband said. ‘Thailand, Prague, Budapest, Mexico. She’s the traveller, not me.’

  Gerry roared and tapped his pitted red nostrils, rolled his stomach from side to side. ‘Mum’s the word. Don’t you worry about me, old man.’

  The husband dashed into the kitchen to fetch the drinks. Irene’s eyes swivelled, then closed. She seemed to come to again with Gerry’s braying.

  Agnieszka noticed her. ‘You are drinking already?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, oh!’ Irene waved away the question. ‘It’s a party! It’s not every day, is it?’

  ‘You have a party?’ Agnieszka again.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ Gerry looked up. ‘What’s taking him?’ He went into the kitchen to meet the husband and came out clutching a can of beer and a tumbler of whisky with ice.

  ‘There is no glass?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Here you are.’ The husband emerged with a tumbler, followed by his wife.

  ‘Five to ten minutes,’ she announced. ‘Hope you all eat meat.’ She glanced at the girl in her skin-tight jeans, the straight hair that did not seem to end, the satin skin.

  ‘All meat eaters here,’ Gerry said. He fell into the vacant space on the other side of the mother on the settee, letting his feet fly up, then thud against the floorboards. He pushed out his stomach so that his pink shirt threatened to come untucked. He wiped his forehead with a soiled sleeve of his cream suit jacket. ‘I tell you what, old chap. I’m awfully thirsty,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t fix another one of these?’

  The husband fetched another beer and filled Gerry’s tumbler with whisky, forgetting the ice. When he returned the girl was saying, ‘In Oslo, the drinking, it is very expensive.’

  ‘Oh, that’s where you’re from?’ Lorna said, dragging a chair from the dining table, sitting in the centre of things, between Gerry and her husband.

  ‘Oslo? No,’ the girl said.

  There was a silence.

  ‘Oh, I thought you meant you were from Norway. Oslo,’ the wife said. ‘Only, I’ve been there. On holiday.’

  ‘No. I didn’t say it,’ the girl replied.

  Irene coughed and Lorna lowered her eyes to the floor. The radiator pipes began to clank.

  ‘Funny people, the Norwegians,’ Gerry said. He drained his glass as if it contained water. ‘Speak better English than the English. But a very different tribe. All that mountain climbing and fresh air. And then the depravity. I blame the dark winters myself. Nothing else to do, you see.’

  ‘Where else have you been?’ Lorna asked. ‘You seem to have been around.’

  ‘Me? All over the place. Can’t think of anywhere I haven’t been, truth be told. You name it, I’ve been there,’ Gerry said.

  ‘I envy you,’ she said. ‘There are so many places I’d love to see.’

  ‘No – you name it. See if I’ve been there,’ Gerry said, sitting up, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Oh … Oh, well … Let’s see. Well – Chile?’

  ‘No, not yet. Maybe next year. Next.’

  ‘How about Israel?’ the husband said.

  ‘Try another.’

  ‘Dominica.’ The mother crossed her arms and peered at him.

  ‘Oh, look at you. Humiliating me,’ Gerry said. ‘How about another?’ He held up his glass, rotated it between his fingers.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say no either,’ the mother said.

  ‘No, don’t get up.’ Gerry turned to his friend, patting the air. ‘I know where everything is. You just relax. Agi, another?’

  ‘Of course,’ the girl said.

  He returned with the drinks for Irene and Agnieszka, then went back for his own and Lorna’s.

  ‘What a host,’ Irene said. She turned to her son-in-law. ‘You could learn a thing or two from him.’

  Lorna looked quietly at her husband and asked, ‘So, Gerry was at Conductel too?’

  ‘No, no. The place before that. Integrated Acoustics. Gerry was in management,’ her husband said. He turned to Gerry. ‘I was one of the little people. Before you left.’

  ‘Before I was fired!’ Gerry hooted. ‘Don’t beat about the bush, Sonny. Tell it how it is. Given the boot, given my marching orders, told to take a flying fuck. Glad to get shot of the place, truth be told. Don’t know how you could have stuck it all those years, old man.’

  Sonny shrugged. ‘Four years, then I moved on. It wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘And what did you do after that?’ Lorna asked.

  ‘Oh, the third degree. I’m used to this.’ Gerry rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘This and that. A stint at British Steel. Bit over the hill, so no one was really keen to keep me on. The companies got smaller, shadier after that. There was this place in Dubai. Didn’t do a thing. Not a thing. Just sat there playing chess and computer games all day. Plenty of money, though, but things wound up after a month. Government raids. Had to get out on the first flight. Got my travelling done, though: Morocco, New Zealand, Vietnam. Fillies all over the place. Wouldn’t have met Agi otherwise.’ He looked across the mother at the girl.

  ‘It is hot,’ Agnieszka said, pulling at the fibres of her sweater.

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ the mother said. ‘I don’t like the cold at all. Lorna, dear, don’t you think it’s ready by now?’

  ‘Oh!’ Lorna stood and plumped down again. ‘Dizzy,’ she said, then rose slowly and made her way to the kitchen.

  Sonny went to the CD rack to change the music, which had s
topped some time ago.

  ‘I wanted Nat King Cole,’ Irene said to the guests. ‘But he doesn’t have it any more. I gave it to them for Christmas, you know. I bet he threw it away.’

  The girl nodded as if she knew what the mother was talking about, then said, ‘You are living here? Together?’

  ‘Me? No. I’m in Turnpike Lane. Not so far away. Well, not so near, either.’

  ‘And your husband, he is living in Turnpike Place?’

  ‘Oh, no! God forbid,’ Irene cried. ‘I don’t know where he’s living.’ She glanced at Gerry. ‘Probably in Thailand. With a filly.’

  The girl nodded. Frowned. ‘He is living in Thailand? And you, you stay here?’

  Lorna trotted to the table with one mittened hand under the dish of roast potatoes. Sonny rose to help. When all the food was in place the others stood to take their seats.

  ‘My God!’ the girl cried. ‘I am too hot!’ She pulled at her sweater as if she would rend it in two, and threw it to the settee. The husband looked at her, at the cleavage she had kept hidden, the small yellow T-shirt, the horizon of midriff.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, Sonny,’ the mother said. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  Sonny took his place at the head of the table, Agnieszka to his right, his mother-in-law to the left.

  Gerry said, ‘I could eat for England, I’m so hungry.’

  Sonny tried to take this in, but could not fight his eyes scampering to the T-shirt. He squinted. ‘Good Girls Go to Bed,’ he read, ‘Bad Girls Go to Pashka. What’s Pashka?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Pashka.’ He pointed to her chest.

  ‘Oh!’ She grinned. ‘It is club. You know, for dancing?’ She cycled her arms and pouted. Her head swayed from side to side.

  ‘Very good,’ Sonny said. ‘I like that.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Pashka.’

  ‘Why don’t you carve?’ Lorna said. ‘Before it gets cold.’