Starter For Ten (19 page)

'We've got a telly in London, but he thinks it's wrong in the country. What's that look for?'

'Oh, I was just thinking - three houses, one telly. With most people it's the other way round.'

'No need to get all Socialist Worker, Brian, no one's listening. Boxer shorts, eh?' She's holding my underpants. A mild erotic frisson fills the air between us, and I'm profoundly grateful to Mum for ironing them. 'I had you down as a tanga-briefs man.' I'm trying to work out if this is a good or bad thing, when Alice squeals, 'Oh my God! What's this ...?'

She's found the foil parcel of assorted meats in my bag. I try to snatch it off her.

'Oh, that's just my mum's packing . . .'

'Let me see . . .'

'It's nothing, really.'

'Contraband!' She tugs the parcel open. 'Meat? You've smuggled in your own supply of meat!'

'Mum's worried I won't get enough protein.'

'Give us a bit then - I'm gasping.' She takes a piece of pallid boiled bacon, and flops onto the bed. 'Hmmmm. Bit dry.'

'That's Mum's special recipe. She cooks it overnight, slices it, leaves it on a radiator, then finishes it off with a hairdryer.'

'Well don't let Rose catch you with it. She'll be mortified. Blackbird Cottage is a strictly meat-free zone.'

'So what do Mingus and Coltrane eat?'

'Same as us. Vegetables, muesli, rice, pasta . . .' They feed their dogs pasta. 'What have you got there?'

'Your Christmas present.' I hold out the gift-wrapped LP. 'It's a tennis racket.'

She glances at the postcard, a provocatively romantic Chagall sellotaped to the album. I'd laboured long and hard over the message, and gone through several drafts, before coming up with the eloquent and emotive; 'To Alice, my newest, bestest (sp.?!?) friend, all my love always Brian'. I'm particularly pleased with the way the wryly humorous '(sp.?!?)' comments on the 'bestest friend/love' element without necessarily undermining the sincerity of the emotion, but in the end she doesn't even bother to read it before she starts tearing off the wrapping paper.

'Joni Mitchell! Bluer 'Oh no, you've got it, haven't you?'

'Only about six copies. You were spot on though. I love Joni. I actually lost my virginity listening to Joni Mitchell.'

'Not "Big Yellow Taxi", I hope.'

'Court and Spark actually . . .' I might have guessed. 'How about you?'

'My virginity? Can't remember. It was either Chopin's Funeral March or Geoff Love and His Orchestra Play Big War Themes. "The Dambusters' March", I think. Followed by an eerie silence.'

She laughs and hands it back. 'Sorry. Have you still got the receipt?'

'I think so. Is there something specific I should swap it for?'

'Surprise me. No Kate Bush though, please. I'll let you finish unpacking.'

'When's tea?'

'Dinner's in half an hour.' On the way out she hugs me once again. 'I am so glad you're here. We are going to have so much fun, I promise you.'

After she's gone, I put the newly ironed granddad shirts on wooden hangers, enjoying the feeling of residency and permanence. If I play my cards right, I could actually still be here on New Year's Day. Even the 2nd, or 3rd maybe ...Opening the wardrobe, I half expect to find Narnia.

In the end, protein turns out to be the least of my worries. Dinner is nut-roast. I'd heard about nut-roast, and sort of always thought it was a joke, but here it is, a pile of lukewarm, gritty cake with vegetarian cheese melted on top, my first experience of nuts as something other than a bar snack. It sits on my plate like a worm-cast. I wonder what the dogs are having?

'How's your nut-roast, Brian?'

'Delicious, thank you, Rose.' From somewhere I've picked up the notion that it's polite to use the other person's name a lot - 'yes Rose, no Rose, lovely Rose' - but I think it's making me sound a bit Uriah Heep-y. Best follow it up with a little humour. 'It's my first experience of nuts as something other than a bar snack!'

'Shut your stupid, ugly face and keep your filthy, plebby hands off my beautiful daughter, you unctuous little prick,' says Mr Harbinson. Well, he doesn't say it, but he looks it.

Rose just fingers her perm, and smiles, and asks, 'Okay with those courgettes?'

'Absolutely!' In actual fact I've never eaten a courgette in my life, but just to underline my enthusiasm I pop a forkful of the damp, watery discs into my mouth, and grin idiotically. Like all green vegetables, it tastes of what it is, boiled cellulose, but so keen am I to please Rose that it's all I can do to stop myself rubbing my belly and saying 'hmmmm . . .' I wash the pond-weed taste away with some wine. There's no sign of my carafe, and I assume that it's been taken outside and shot. Or maybe the dogs are having it with their pasta, and some garlic-bread. This wine, though, is so syrupy and warm that it feels as if I should be sipping it from a plastic 5ml spoon.

'Your first time in Suffolk, Brian?'

Tve been once before. On a mountaineering holiday!'

'Really? But isn't it terribly flat?' says Rose.

'I was misinformed!'

Mr Harbinson exhales loudly through his nose.

'I don't understand. Who told you ...?' says Rose.

'Brian's joking, Mum,' says Alice.

'Oh, I see, of course!'

It's clear that I should stop trying to be funny, but have yet to work out what the alternative is. Sensing the need for assistance, Alice turns to me, puts her hand on my arm; 'If you wanted to see something really funny, Brian, you should have been here yesterday.'

'Why, what happened yesterday?'

Rose is blushing. 'Oh Alice, darling, can we keep it to ourselves please?'

'She can tell him,' growls Mr Harbinson.

'But it's so embarrassing! . . .'

'Tell me!' I say, joining in the fun.

'But I feel so foolish,' says Rose.

'Well. . .' says Alice '...we had some friends round, like we always do on Boxing Day, and we were playing charades, and it was my turn, and I was trying to do Last Year At Manenbad for Mummy, and she was getting so frantic and overexcited, and shouting so hard, that her cap popped out and landed right in our next-door neighbour's glass of wine!'

And everyone's laughing, even Mr Harbinson, and the atmosphere is so fun and adult and amusing and irreverent that I say, 'You mean you weren't wearing any underwear?!?'

Everyone is silent.

'I'm sorry?' asks Rose.

'Your cap. When it popped out. How did it get ... past your ...underpants?'

Mr Harbinson puts down his knife and fork, swallows his mouthful, turns to me and says, very slowly, 'Actually, Brian, I think Alice was referring to her mother's dental cap.'

Shortly afterwards, we all gu up to bed.

I'm in the bathroom, splashing my face with cold water, when Alice knocks on the door.

'Hold on two seconds' I say, though I'm not sure why; I'm fully dressed, and there's not much I can do about my appearance in two seconds, short of wrapping a towel round my head.

I open the door, Alice steps in, closes it carefully behind her and says, very slowly and seriously, 'D'you mind if I say something - something personal?'

'Sure, go ahead!' I make a mental calculation, and decide that there's a one-in-three chance that she's going to ask me to make love to her tonight.

'Well ...it's a real mistake to scrub your face hard with a flannel like that. You'll only bleed and spread the infection . . .'

'Oh . . .'

'And you'll scar too.'

'O-kay . . .'

'Now, do you boil-wash your flannels?'

'Well, no . . .'

'Because the flannel's probably part of the problem . . .'

'Right, okay'

'I wouldn't use a flannel at all, if I were you, flannels are absolutely crawling, just water and a basic, non-perfumed soap . . .' How can I get out of this conversation? '...and not necessarily a harsh medicated soap, because they're generally far too astringent . . .' It isn't even a conversation, it's me waiting for her to stop talking. '...And you shouldn't use astringent creams either, they're effective in the short run, but in the long run they just make the sebaceous glands more active . . .' By now I'm eyeing the bathroom window, wondering whether or not to throw myself out of it. Alice must notice this, because she says 'I'm sorry. Do you mind me saying all this?'

'Not at all. You're very knowledgeable though. If "skin care" comes up on University Challenge, we'll be laughing!'

'Oh, I've upset you, haven't I?'

'No, I just don't think there's much I can do about it, that's all. I think it must be the onset of puberty! All the hormones. Any day now I'll start taking an interest in girls!' Alice smiles indulgently, then goes to give me a sisterly kiss goodnight, her eyes momentarily scanning my face, trying to find somewhere safe to land.

Shivering in bed later, lying on my back and waiting for my face to dry so I don't get blood on the pillow, I carefully evaluate my strategy for tomorrow and, after much consideration, decide that my strategy is to be less of a twat. This will not come easily, but it's absolutely vital that she gets to see the Real Me. The problem is, I'm starting to suspect this notion that there's this wise, smart, funny, kind, brave Real Me running around somewhere out there is a bit of a fallacy. Like the Yeti; if no one ever actually sees him properly, why should anyone believe that he actually exists?

QUESTION: A legal writ that demands the appearance of a party in front of a court or judge, the Latin term 'habeas corpus' might be translated as ...?

ANSWER: You should have the body.

When I wake up the next morning I'm so cold that for a moment I think Mr Harbinson must have moved me outside in the night. Why is it that the posher people are, the colder their house? And it's not just the cold, it's the dirt too; the dog hair, the dusty books, the muddy boots, the fridges that reek of sour milk and putrescent cheese and decaying kitchen-garden vegetables. I swear the Harbinsons' fridge has a top-soil. They probably have to mow it in the summer. But maybe that's the definition of true, authentic upper-middle-class status, the ability to be cold and filthy with complete self-confidence. That, and the little washbasins in every bedroom. I splash my face with the icy water, put the copy of Lace back on the bookshelf, and head downstairs.

Radio 4 is broadcasting loudly from hidden speakers, and Alice is lying on the sofa, under a blanket of Blue Peter Dogs, reading.

'Morning!' I say.

'Hiya' she mutters, engrossed in her book.

I squeeze in next to a dog.

'What ya' readin'?' I say in an amusing voice. She shows me the cover. 'One Hundred Years of Solitude - sounds like my sex-life!'

'Sleep well?' she says, when she finally realises that I'm not going to go away.

'Amazingly, thank you.'

'Cold?'

'Oh, only a little.'

'That's because you're used to central heating. It's very bad for you, central heating, numbs the senses . . .'

And as if to underline her point, Mr Harbinson strolls nonchalantly across the living room. He is naked.

'Morning!' he says, nakedly.

'Morning!' Even with my eyes staring fixedly at the top of the fireplace, it's clear that he's either a very hairy man, or is wearing a black, mohair jumpsuit.

'Tea in the pot, Alice?' he says, nudely.

'Help yourself.'

And he bends down beside her, bends down from the waist, and pours himself a cup, then strides upstairs, taking the steps three at a time. When it's finally safe to look, I ask, 'So. Is that. Fairly. Normal. Then?'

'What?'

'The naked-dad thing.'

'Absolutely.'

'Oh.'

'Not shocked are you?' She says, eyes narrowed.

'Well, you know'

'You must have seen your dad naked.'

'Well, not since he died, no.'

'No, of course, I'm sorry, I forgot, but before he died, you must have seen him naked.'

'Well, maybe. But it's not how I choose to remember him.'

'And what about your mum?'

'God, no! So do you go naked in front of your dad then?'

'Only when we're having sex,' says Alice, then clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. 'Of course I do, we all do. We are family after all. God, you're really freaked out, aren't you?

Honestly, Brian, for someone who's meant to be right-on, you're really incredibly square.' For a moment I catch a glimpse of her as Head Girl, malicious and superior. And did she really just call me square? 'Well don't worry, Brian, I keep my clothes on when there are guests around.'

'Oh, please, don't compromise, not for my sake . . .' Alice knows I'm pushing my luck, and smiles wryly. 'What I mean is, I think I could handle it.'

'Hmm. Now I wonder if that's strictly true?' Alice licks the tip of her finger, and turns the page of her book.

Breakfast is toast made from home-baked bread that has the colour, weight, texture and taste of a heavy-loam soil. Radio 4 is broadcasting in the kitchen too. In fact as far as I can tell it's on in every room and is apparently impossible to turn off, like the telescreens in 1984. We chew and listen to the radio, and chew, Alice reading her book throughout. I feel miserable already. Partly it's because I'm the first person to be called 'square' since 1971, but mainly I'm depressed by the mention of Dad. How could she 'forget'? And I despise the way I find myself talking about him in front of other people. I'm sure Dad would have been over the moon to know that this was his fate all along; to be used by his son as raw material for a bunch of shitty, glib one-liners, or self-pitying drunken monologues. The hunt for the Real Me is going badly, and I've not even brushed my teeth yet.

And then we go for a long walk in the snow. You couldn't call the East Anglian countryside spectacular; it's striking, I suppose, in a post-nuclear sort of way, and the view tends to stay pretty much the same no matter how far you walk, which sort of defeats the object really, but at least it's consistent. It's also refreshing to be somewhere that you can't hear Radio 4. Alice takes me by the arm, and I almost forget about the snow ruining my new suede desert boots.

Since I've been at university, I've noticed that people want to talk about the same five major topics: 1) 'My A-level Results' 2) 'My Nervous Breakdown/Eating Disordei' 3) 'My Full Grant' 4) 'Why I'm Actually Relieved I Didn't Get Into Oxbridge' 5) 'My Favourite Books', and this last option is the one we alight on.