The Point (5 page)

The originals are in the archives, she said, but it’s hard to get to see them because they’re so fragile and people are afraid of light ruining them, they’re kept in darkness and even if they’re put on exhibition the lighting is so dim you can hardly see them.

Flora’s fingers fluttered over the pages as though these were the fragile paintings, not to be touched.

Laurel remembered the drawings when she looked at the restaurant, though it wasn’t the gold of the silk they were drawn on she saw at this hour but pewter, the silvery colour of the lake and the glass, the flashes of indigo that were the colour of the sky in a storm, the whole thing cool and severe and beautiful. In each facet of the octagon were lofty leadlight doors with fanlights, arched and paned, and the roof had the same round Art Deco arches.

The kitchen was a long shaft that pierced the octagon on its only unglazed wall and extended on this, the side away from the lake, in a long rectangular block of offices and facilities and on the other repeated on a smaller scale the octagon shape of the room. There were no curtains, the intricate yet austere shapes of the windows and walls wouldn’t have worked with the bunchiness of curtains, but it wasn’t cold, because of double-glazing. When the weather was bleak and the room with so much night-filled glass might have seemed chilly there were fires lit in three fireplaces set on the facets of that piercing wall, and the reflections of the flames against the outside dark were mysterious and quite cheerful. Don’t you just love Mahony’s work, said Flora; it’s so strict, so uncompromising; she inspires me.

Laurel had worked in some amazing restaurants, but never in one so idiosyncratically beautiful as this.

She walked round the building, just casting an eye over it, making sure there were no cobwebs in the corners of the windows, no greasy marks or dust on the panes. Flora spent a lot of money on this orderliness, and in turn charged her customers; it needed to work. And it did; Laurel’s inspection was a ritual rather than necessary. Almost a meditation before the evening ahead.

She stood near the back door of the kitchen and looked at the green slopes spreading away from the restaurant. A bunch of kids was walking idly across the grass. One of them had a baseball bat swinging from his hand. Another looked familiar: she worked out that he was the brother of Oscar’s friend, Hamish. What was his name … Chad. Nice to see him off for a game with friends. Oscar was a worry but nothing like Chad, and that was just what she knew about the boy. There’d be a great deal more she didn’t. Even Oscar thought he was awful, though that might be because he was a little brother. Good to see them involved in a bit of sport. The sun shone low over the slope, there were shadows and that particular yellow quality of light on grass that seems to hang in a splendid long hazy moment of leisure, when you can believe that games have rules and losing doesn’t matter. Not something that Laurel often had faith in. The boys straggled across the grass, tussling with one another, their voices loud but the words lost. The boy with the bat tossing it and twirling it like the staff of the conductor of a marching band.

Back inside she checked the reservations book. The restaurant was full. A lot of regulars. Hugh Todhunter, the barrister who’s defending in a murder case that’s all over the papers every day. Marilyn Ferucci, who people are saying will be the next arts minister when the present sickly incumbent dies. She’s bringing a party of eight, the maximum allowed, and that at only one table, in the corner by the kitchen furthest from the front door, otherwise the restaurant gets too noisy, even though the dull indigo carpet is thick as the fleece of a sheep. Dr Glancy, at his usual table. Sir Billy Snape, who’s made a fortune in ice-cream, a table for two. It usually is, a different young woman each time. Sir Billy likes to tell people that he began with a barrow that he pushed himself and an oilskin bag of dry ice, moving on to a van and now his present ice-cream empire. He calls himself the emperor of ice-cream. And of course it is all a long time ago, when knighthoods could be had for money in the right place. And Queensland a good place for ice-cream.

There are a couple of people whose names she doesn’t know. Two senators, in separate parties. A name that seemed familiar, but not very, that she worked out was the new ambassador for Brazil, remembering an article in the newspaper at the weekend. Dr Prelec, the orthopaedic surgeon, a party of four and a discreet birthday dessert ordered. Marina Ravel, who owns the dress shop called Alchemy, whose designer clothes Flora often wears. Not in the restaurant, when it’s always a white tee-shirt and the regulation fine black check trousers. A spotless white tee-shirt, because she keeps a pile of them in the linen cupboard, laundered with the linen tablecloths and napkins.

Terry Feldman, the lobbyist, the third time this week. Laurel has never been sure what being a lobbyist means, but she’s noticed that he can walk round the restaurant and know everyone, with an intimacy that she is almost sure irritates people, but that somehow they value. Clay Brent, who runs a firm called Travelations; Travel with a Difference, he says with a wink and a leer like a bad actor in old-time music hall. His hands hover, never touching her, but the possibility manifest. Yet he never brings a woman who is a friend. If you could choose who you had in your restaurant, thinks Laurel, you wouldn’t have him. But of course you can’t. He is a good customer, coming often, bringing several business colleagues, usually Asian, ordering French champagne.

There’s an interesting booking, made with much fuss by a personal assistant: the Italian ambassador, the Italian minister for culture and a director of the gallery. Something afoot there.

And there’s a booking for two, in the name of C. Sturgeon. Laurel knows that Cherry Sturgeon is the alias the local restaurant critic uses, not when she writes but to book. So it’s their turn again. She closes the book, and goes to tell Flora, who won’t care but will want to know.

The light over the lake is low, with that silvery intensity that draws brightness into itself and leaves the world dim. The restaurant is shadowed, with an occasional glimmer on a glass or a piece of cutlery. It is a stage waiting to come to life when the actors step on to it.

Jerome Glancy often comes to The Point to eat. It isn’t far from his house in Barton, which is also his office; he can walk. He always sits at the same table, and mostly alone. He brings a book, and the light for just that spot is turned up a little so he can see to read, which he does while waiting for the food, not eating it. Sometimes he dines with someone, usually a woman, sometimes the same one several times running, but more often he is alone. He usually knows a number of the other diners, mostly because they are clients of his. His computer consultancy is very highly regarded.

Hello Jerry, murmurs Terry Feldman, and to his companion, I don’t think you know Jerry Glancy. Willy Morecombe, he says. Jerome has never heard the treasurer called Willy before. If you need a genius with a computer Jerry’s your man, says Terry. His voice is so soft you have to strain to hear, lean forward, pay attention.

Oh, I think we’ve got a few of those of our own, says Morecombe in a cool voice.

Wait’ll you try Jerry, says Terry.

Jerome might appear to be reading his book but often it’s just his eyes resting on the page. His seat in the restaurant is like a whispering gallery; quite soft conversations can be heard from across the room. And of course nobody realises this – or maybe they do, maybe this table is in demand for its eavesdropping qualities. A couple of times Jerome has dropped in for a drink at the bar, which is a scattering of thirties leather tub chairs, not so comfortable you’d want to sit in them for too long, and looked to see if anybody else is appreciating the acoustics, but it’s always been a couple in animated conversation, two gay men with ears only for themselves, a man and woman young and starry enough for honeymooners, two middle-aged women with a lot to laugh about, Morecombe with someone he recognised as a new backbencher. Maybe you had to sit there on your own and be still to overhear. And not many people dine on their own, nobody does, really.

Tonight he can hear Godblot, the magistrate, talking to a young woman, tall and slim, glamorously dressed and restless, as well she might be since he is famous for collecting pretty women. She seems to be called Titania.

The problem is the public service, Godblot is saying. It’s in the shape of a mushroom. Big bulge at the top, skinny stalk underneath.

Jerome hears the girl mutter, Like a mushroom cloud, but Godblot takes no notice, or more like doesn’t hear, he’s a great selflistener.

Whereas it should be in the shape of a Christmas tree. Leave it to me, I’d pretty soon get it into the shape of a Christmas tree.

With coloured lights, and a star on top?

Why not. You want a star, and you want him on top.

All pronouns carefully intended, says Titania.

It occurs to Jerome that this woman is considerably brighter than the magistrate’s usual candidates, and that a Christmas tree is supported on quite a thin stalk too.

Of course, Godblot goes on, the best thing would be to give someone like Lindsay Fox however many squillions and let him get on with running the country.

But the country isn’t a business …

There you go. That’s the mistake everyone makes. That’s what’s wrong with it, not running it like a business. Making a profit.

And what about the community, the society … what about the people?

A good boss cares about his people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against childcare, that kind of thing, paid holidays. A good boss knows happy workers are productive workers.

It would be a dictatorship.

You shouldn’t be scared of words, Titania my love. Any decent business is a dictatorship. That’s why it works.

What about freedom?

You work for Paddy Lyon. He’s a Labor man, he has his agendas. Are you free?

He’s not running a totalitarian state.

It’s all words, you know. Just words. Bogey words. Placebo words.

No, she says. We have to pay attention to the words, we have to know what they mean and make sure they mean what we mean them to mean. Otherwise we’re a doomed society.

Oh Tit-tit-tania, says Godblot. You can see him wanting to say, you are so pretty when you’re indignant; instead his beaming at her says it for him. The girl’s lips curl. Jerome wonders if she is finding the price of a Godblot meal rather high.

Bruno is their waiter tonight. He’s a muscular young man, not very tall, who’s trying to get into NIDA, and meanwhile making a good waiter. He knows that even if he does get into NIDA and become an actor waiting will still stand him in good stead. When he comes to take their order the magistrate says, in quite a sharp voice, Tania, have you decided? and Jerome guesses that Titania is his little joke. He’s famous for his little jokes on the bench, often to do with the young people who come up before him for petty crimes
going out and getting real jobs.

I see Flora’s doing the black pudding tonight, says Godblot. Would that be the one she makes out of her own blood?

I’m afraid not, sir, says Bruno.

Oh, no point in having that then. The sweetbreads, I think. And the tripe for you?

Yes, I think so, I like the sound of it.

You Labor people. Working-class and never lose it.

I doubt there’s anything very working-class about the tripe at The Point, says Tania.

It’s peasant food, says Godblot. Not one of the ritzier parts of the animal.

Only to begin with, says Tania.

That’s right, says Bruno. And to begin?

The oysters, I think. Rockefeller, it’s with … ?

Spinach, says Bruno, and champagne.

Sixties revival, says Godblot. You should be here when she does chicken Kiev. Quite a little revelation.

When Will Morecombe goes to the lavatory Terry Feldman does a bit of working the room. He pauses by Jerry’s table, says, Might be worth keeping an eye, I hear there’s a bit of outsourcing going on.

The thing about Terry is he loves his job. Can’t help doing it, all the time.

When Bruno comes to take his order Jerome asks him about the tripe. On the menu, written by hand each day, it simply says
tripe
.

It’s a bit of a wonder, says Bruno. She starts off with that Lyonnais dish, fireman’s apron, but she does it in a very delicate batter, and there’s just a little touch of star anise in the flavouring. You have to forget anything you ever knew about tripe when you eat it.

Well, I’d better have it. I’m not usually a fan of tripe, but I do believe Flora can convert anybody to anything. Pity about the black pudding, but can’t have both.

There’s a consommé that’s pretty amazing, says Bruno, a little broth of smoked salmon, and there’s saffron, and a wisp of pastry floating over it. Delicate but rich.

Bruno makes up for the taciturnity of the menu, but it’s all his own work.

The sommelier comes to discuss the wine choices, bringing a glass of champagne. The Point bought its cellar from a grand Melbourne restaurant that went out of business, and George keeps it going. There are plenty of decent old reds to have with the tripe. And with the consommé? A glass of sherry perhaps, he has an old one, very dry, very fine. Or an old Hunter riesling that has developed beautifully.