Thicker Than Soup (11 page)

Throughout the night and into the next morning the snow continued to fall and John rang his staff to tell them the good news; they had another day's holiday. It was less good news for him; twenty four hours earlier he'd been positive, energised, and eager to start the New Year and now he was frustrated and inanimate. To some extent disappointment was mitigated by the knowledge that closure was at the quietest possible period but the two-for-one promotion would flop and he'd still have to pay his staff. Layering bacon rashers across the grill pan he buttered slices of bread and spread lashings of ketchup. A weekday bacon sandwich was little consolation but it made the day feel better and dulled the ache of tobacco addiction in a way that strong coffee didn't. Forcing his attention towards paperwork he sorted invoices, read letters, and after half-an-hour rang Sally instead. Finding her out and no doubt enjoying herself felt unfair and after the briefest of polite conversations with her mother he returned to his papers. Sally's glossy magazine, bought for her journey to London lay forgotten on the sofa, and he flicked aimlessly through the pages, pausing at a photo spread around the old year's headlines. No-one would be allowed to forget the royal wedding; the same old pictures featured everywhere with Diana looking coy, Diana looking radiant, and so on. And it seemed that being a world leader demanded nerves of steel; where assassination attempts on President Reagan and Pope John Paul had failed, President Sadat of Egypt had been less fortunate. Dangerous work indeed. There were pictures of Bobby Sands and Bob Marley, also dead; who'd remember any of them in years to come, he wondered. But Mark Thatcher's failure to navigate out of the desert had been amusing. A leaflet slipped from the magazine and seeing Cranach's ‘The Fall of Man' on it aroused his curiosity. All evil, it stated, had been brought about by Adam and Eve. Tossing it aside he sighed and forced himself back to his quarterly reports only to realise that the December accounts were still with his mother. How easy procrastination became when time had few demands. And watching snow fall was an unexpectedly calming pleasure.

During the night the snow stopped but arctic air crusted the surfaces and even salted paths and roads froze over. Newscasters spoke gloomily of the infamous winters of ‘63 and '47. It was unlikely that anyone would turn up at the restaurant despite it being Saturday and John stayed at home. By mid afternoon he decided to brave the conditions and walking slowly along the icy pavements he reached the corner shop to find newspapers hadn't arrived and were no longer expected. Taking what appeared to be the last bottle of milk from the fridge and a bag of porridge oats, he added bread, bacon and half a dozen eggs to his basket and went to the till, where he saw the cigarettes. “Ten JPS, please.” Ten, he told himself, weren't as bad as twenty.

Monday morning came and John wandered from the hall to the kitchen and stared out of the window where the small garden, colour-washed with white, inspired a few sketches of hoar crystallised twigs and lace patterned puddles. It had been a while since he'd sketched and with his mind roaming freely Sammy's smiling face appeared. Turning to a fresh page he let his pencil tell the story.

Satisfied at last with the drawings he went back to the hall and stared at the phone. Sally had told him yesterday that they'd been to Camden and the Whitechapel Gallery, and today she planned to go to Portobello Market with Sammy. The house was too quiet without him – them! She was having a good time and all he had to tell her was that he'd walked to the supermarket and got the quarterly report figures he needed over the ‘phone. And watched the snow fall. The next day's meeting, he determined, would go ahead even if he had to walk all the way to Le Goût du Goût.

Noticing a matt film on the picture frames he stretched his cuff over his finger and ran it along the tops, removing dust and nudging them awry. He straightened them and thought of the gallery walls at the restaurant where pleasingly good sales over Christmas had left gaps. Sally had grumbled for months about pictures being stored in Sammy's nursery and with a sense of purpose that banished inertia he bounded up the stairs.

Sammy's cot blankets had been pushed aside and touching the softness of the sheet John was irrationally surprised to find it cold. Straightening the covers he placed a teddy-bear where Sammy might see it and pulled open the curtain to reveal a photo of the three of them. Happy family, he thought, and meant it. A basket, where Sammy's creams and lotions were usually kept looked sadly unused without its usual clutter and picking up the blue clinic card that lay in the bottom, he read the printed label:
Samuel John Lancing Sommers. 14/10/81. Boy.
Inside was his weight table, half filled, and showing that Sammy had grown on each recording. He was thriving. John flipped the card over and saw the immunisation record, dated and initialled up to December, and with empty lines waiting for more. “Poor fellah,” he muttered and dropped it back into basket. He was about to turn away when he noticed;
Blood group: O
. He blinked, and looked again. It stated clearly Sammy's blood group as ‘O'. His own was ‘A' and so was Sally's. The clinic must have made a mistake – but if they had it was a serious one. A letter had arrived a few weeks after Sammy's birth, explaining a heal prick blood test that had screened for genetic diseases; John recalled how he'd wondered if the test could be done for him. The folder labelled ‘Baby' was in the bottom drawer with their files and as yet, it contained few papers. The letter was near the back. Scanning the page he saw it. ‘O'. Sammy was ‘O'. There could be no doubt. The clinic hadn't made a mistake. Something cold, clammy and indescribable clenched his guts. Sammy should be ‘A'. If Sammy was ‘O' then he, John, couldn't be Sammy's father.

Nausea swept over him. Not Sammy's father? His heart thumped. Blood drained from his limbs. Sally? He couldn't believe it. But…. He loved Sally more than anything in the world but was he blind? His legs weakened so that he folded into the chair – where Sally had so recently nursed their (her?) son. Sally? An affair? When? They'd been through a tough time about a year ago, but … Who? Was it still going on? Did he know about Sammy? He read the letter again, searching for rationality; there had to be an innocent explanation. The wrong baby? It happened. They'd given Sally the wrong child! But Sammy eyes were his mother's eyes, and the mouth – that beautiful mouth. He had no doubt that Sammy was Sally's child. But if the same blood sample had been used for the letter and the card…. Yes, that must be it. One had been copied from the other. He checked the dates on the documents. The heal prick had been done at the hospital but the card, two weeks later at the clinic. His fingers tangled his hair and pulled, searching for sense. If Sally had a lover – a thought that offended and tormented him – he couldn't bear it. He'd fought his demons for her. He'd taken on fatherhood. For her he'd feigned delight and suppressed anxiety. He'd done it because he loved her. Then an amazing thing had happened; Sammy had laughed with him and changed him forever. The psychotherapist had once told him that babies were hardwired to be attractive; their survival depended on it. It was knowledge had formed some of his guilt, but when Sammy had laughed at him it was as if he, John, had been reborn. Had Sally made a mockery of all they were and the hopes and promises that were their future?

He lay on the bed and gazed beyond the frosted window until a few hours of fitful sleep relieved torment. Waking after midnight, shivering, he pulled the covers over his clothed body and lay until around five o'clock when, knowing he wouldn't sleep again, he got up and took the stored paintings down the stairs ready to be taken away. Then, without conscious decision, he pulled a holdall from the top of the wardrobe and filled it with clothes and his toiletries.

He drank coffee. And ate toast. And set his mind to his work. Throughout the rest of the morning he reviewed his reports and prepared to meet Alain, determined that this personal angst would not impede business. The quarterly review meetings had become a pleasure since they'd started to meet over lunch, alternating between Seagrams and La Goût de Goût, and an element of friendly competition over food added a frisson to the more serious discussions of John's accounts and Alain's investments.

*

“Bonne Année”. Alain greeted John warmly. “Here we are, nineteen eighty two, the year we all have prosperity, eh?”

John shook Alain's proffered hand and nodded his agreement. “Yes, Happy New Year to you too, and I hope so.”

Alain indicated a table by the window. “I have kept this table for us; it is big enough for talk and big enough for food, non?”

Running a practised eye down the menu John saw with satisfaction that they were still offering some of his dishes. And also, Sole Bonne Femme. Poulet Vèronique. Oeufs Bènèdict. Old favourites, maybe, but old fashioned. He decided on the Daube de Lapin, and scanned the dessert menu whilst Alain considered his choice. “Eve's Pudding!” He chuckled. “You can't have Eve's Pudding in a French restaurant!”

Alain feigned affront. “We can and we do. For us it is also Eve's Pudding you know. You think Adam and Eve were English?”

“I hadn't thought of it but I suppose no, not necessarily. But it's an English pudding! You can't put an English pudding in a French menu!”

Alain threw his hands open in mock derision. “Non? How do you say Tarte Tatin in English, eh, or Crème Caramel? And how about soup? You think this is your word eh? And whilst we are on the subject, how about the word ‘restaurant'? Ha! I think I have you, lock, stock and barrel as you say, in English, I believe?”

Alain was light-hearted but John was irritated. “Even so, Eve's Pudding is English through and through, and this is a French restaurant. All your menus are in French. It looks absurd. Eve's Pudding. I wouldn't have done it.”

“Non?” Alain looked at John. “You have some anger. Why?”

John's eyes fled to the menu. “Don't be ridiculous.” He forced lightness into his voice. “I'll have the Lapin and then Eve's Pudding. I'd better try it.”

Alain appeared to be preoccupied with his menu until he said, “Well, if you want to know, we were influenced by your menus. We decided to try something not French, although I have to admit, it's not what you might call your ‘New World' either. But you haven't answered me. You have anger. What has happened?”

John breathed a long sigh. “Ok. Yes, I'm upset. But it's nothing to do with the restaurant and therefore nothing to do with why I'm here. I prefer to talk business.” He picked up his briefcase and extracting a brown file, handed it over the table. “Here you are. It's looking good.” He briefed Alain on the figures, skewed by Christmas, and agreed with him that the early part of the next quarter would buck what looked like a trend.

“What about promotions? Do you have plans?” asked Alain.

“I was thinking of a wine evening, with a speaker and a special menu. Or a diner's club? What do you think?”

Alain nodded. “They are ideas. But I'm not sure you should diversify too much. You are getting a name for good food, and also for your gallery. Perhaps there is something in a wine evening.”

“That was Julia's idea; she knows a lot about wine and her husband is a buyer.” John mused. “What do you think about having an artist in the bar area, or the small room? A sort of artist in residence. Perhaps sketching some of the diners – with their permission, of course. We could have an artist day each week; say on a Tuesday or Wednesday, when it's quiet.”

“Non, I think the aroma of paint is not good with the food.” They ate their food and continued to discuss possibilities until Alain made a suggestion. “What about a book of your recipes?”

“No.” John spoke sharply. “Definitely not.”

“You are so sure, Jean? Why do you say ‘Non' like this?”

“It's, well, it's…. No. I don't want to. That's all.”

Alain frowned. “John, what is the matter today? You are not yourself.”

John looked away then back again. “Sal…” He coughed, finding it hard to continue. “Sally said she'd do a recipe book. But, well, she won't be doing it now.” His next words appeared. “I think… we're splitting up.”

Alain's eyes opened in amazement. “Splitting up? Non! I can't believe it! What has happened?”

John stared at his square of golden sponge sitting on top of glistening apple. It was the first time he'd voiced leaving Sally and the words echoed in his ears, mocking him. “I guess our Garden of Eden got so boring that she wanted a new apple.” Despite a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he poured crème Anglaise and picked up his spoon. “So, here's your English Eve's Pudding with your French copy of English custard.”

“Of course.” responded Alain. But the banter had disappeared.

*

John lit a cigarette, inhaled, and looked from the hospital letter to Sammy's record card.
Blood Group ‘O'.
Sally's return was imminent and he searched for some rational explanation that would put his world back to normal. She'd be at the station now, and wondering where he was. But he couldn't meet her there. He couldn't deal with this publicly and he couldn't hide it once he saw her so he waited in the home they'd made together. The phone had rung twice and he'd ignored it, sure that it would be her. Screwing his cigarette into the ashtray he folded the letter and put it and the clinic card into his pocket, asking again how it could possibly be wrong and praying that it was.

Then he heard her voice, outside. He could hear her talking to Sammy, hear the key in the lock, the door opening. She was in the room. He couldn't look; couldn't bear to see either the truth in her face, or more lies. She was asking what was wrong, and at last he forced his face towards the woman he'd thought he'd known. She put Sammy, crying and kicking and waving into the carrycot and stood, looking not at Sammy, but at him. Rising from his chair he moved until he could see Sammy. “Looks like me, does he? What do you think?”