Thicker Than Soup (8 page)

Julia rested against her elbows on the bar and watched him. “If I told you the till is very full would it make you feel better?”

John looked up. “Sorry?”

“You're in a world of your own tonight! I was saying that we've had a good night. For a Thursday.”

“Oh.” John blinked. “Oh. Yes, thanks. Great.”

“There you are; all ready for the safe.” She dropped the money bag and till roll on the table in front of him. “You look like you've got the world and his dad on your shoulders this evening.”

“Thanks.” He took the cash bag. “Yeah,” he sighed, “I think I have.”

“You seem distracted.”

The easy warmth that melted customers worked its magic on him. “Coffee before you go?”

“Sure. And I tell you what, I'll make it too.”

By the time she returned John was nursing a large scotch. “Something to chase the coffee down?” he offered, indicating his own glass.

She shook her head. “No thanks. Erm… driving?”

Her disapproval was gently damning. “Yeah. I suppose I am.” John pushed the glass away. “One accident a day's enough. Better go good, huh?”

“Ah” said Julia. “That's what this is about. You've had an accident?”

John sighed. “I guess you could say that. Yeah. Indeed. An accident. That's what I've had.” He laughed without humour and they chatted for a while. About wine.

*

As the months progressed the restaurant flourished. Reservations were made days and even weeks in advance and customers were being turned away at weekends. A novice teacher moved into the flat and supplemented the waiting staff when they were busy and a trainee chef covered weekend nights too. And Sally's unexpected availability lessened the paperwork burden until, one October afternoon as he wiped a sleeve across his forehead and tried to marry orders with invoices, the phone rang. “Seagrams. John speaking.”

Sally's voice sounded calm and in control, and though he'd thought himself ready the shock was astonishing. Standing quickly, his chair shot backwards and papers fluttered to the floor. “I'm on my way. Now.” He made to replace the receiver then raised it again. “You ok?”

“Yes, I'm fine. Don't panic; there's plenty of time. Please drive carefully.”

Plan Birth Day went into action. He called Alain to instigate the promised replacement chef, pushed a note under the door of the teacher tenant-cum-waiter, cleared the stairs in three leaps and told the staff, “It's on its way!” A cheer sent him on his way; they were on their own and knew what to do.

*

On reflection, the lead up to and the birth rolled like frames in a film. Sally in monotone, grasping her huge belly dramatically and groaning as she struggled out of the car at the hospital. He, walking behind a wheelchair whilst she protested it was ridiculous. Someone – a nurse – had escorted him from her room and believing himself about to be excluded from the birth he'd protested weakly. But they'd given him paper robes, paper shoes and a silly hat and there was no escape. He'd looked ludicrous and Sally had laughed, briefly before a spasm of pain gripped her and fear gripped him. He'd held her hand, praying she knew what to do and then walked round the bed. Her medical chart said she had the same ‘A' blood group as he had; it had – irrationally – pleased him. They'd been alone a lot and once he'd had to find the nurse who'd told them calmly that everything was going well then left again, and he'd wished she'd stayed as in her absence he didn't feel any better for her assurances.

Later the same nurse returned and instructed Sally to inhale through a mask. It seemed to calm her and he'd wondered if he could inhale the gas too but she returned before he'd had the courage and brought a midwife who'd instructed Sally to breathe or pant. He'd found himself breathing and panting too and was pleased to be at the head end where he'd tried to look useful mopping Sally's forehead with a damp cloth and holding her hand. Eventually the midwife had commanded Sally to push and to his amazement a screwed up face appeared, then a tiny red, mucus-smeared baby slid into the midwife's waiting hands. It didn't move and for a moment he'd feared it was dead then the mouth opened and a mewling sound sent him staggering against the wall. He'd felt faint and looked at Sally whose face, so recently haggard, suddenly radiated with joy. She'd said they had a son without looking at him and an ominous wave had washed over him; this helpless baby, his own child, felt like a threat.

Sally switched the Christmas tree lights on and off and on again, chuckling as her son's tiny mouth and eyes popped open in amazement. She didn't much like having lights on the rubber tree plant but their brightness cheered the late afternoon dusk on what was the shortest – and possibly coldest – day of the year. She sat by the window and tucked a blanket round them both, sharing warmth in Sammy's rhythmic suckling until the central heating clock would click into action. Outside, street lamps shone haloes into icy air and an elderly couple walked slowly by. What errand or pleasure sent them out in this bitterest of afternoons, she wondered, when anyone who could stay indoors would justifiably do so? She watched them pass, cheered by their arm-in-arm affection and dismissing the possibility that the icy pavements may have compelled their togetherness.

The street appeared poised, as if waiting for something to happen. All the world's a stage, she thought, and the men and women, players. She wanted to be a player. This bit-part she'd landed was dispiritingly dreary. Her beautiful son asked so little and John had a starring role at his restaurant. Diane had her Kitchen. But she missed her spotlight.

“A few more days and we'll go to Grandma and Grandpa's for Christmas,” she told Sammy, “and then Daddy will have his holiday and we'll have a happy time.” The week after New Year, when John was closing the restaurant, glowed like a beacon in the darkness. “Yes Mr Sammy Sommers,” she kissed his sweet-smelling cheek, “and after that, we'll go to see Granny in London too. We'll go to Whitechapel Gallery; nobody minds babies there. We'll have to go to church with Granny but we don't mind that do we? Will you be quiet?” Sammy kicked his legs. “You will? What a good boy. Yes, we'll have a nice time.” He'd finished feeding and wrapping him warmly in his carrycot she curled the blanket round herself, picked up the newspaper folded at the cryptic crossword and examined the blank squares. “Hmmm…Suitcase ricocheted round the station. Seven letters, third letter a ‘g'. Ah, Bagshot!”

*

Sally's eyes drooped as she struggled to understand why the entire book of short stories seemed to be a passage of Rose's and her stepmother Flo's lives. She flicked back a few pages then put aside the book and switched on the TV. Sammy lifted a hand in protest then settled again as she turned down the volume. Moira Stuart reported a disease that had claimed the lives of seventy five men in America was being blamed for the death of a London man. Distracted by the newscaster's arching eyebrows she yawned, and noticing the book she'd bought John for Christmas lying on the table for all to see, jumped up. It was a valuable facsimile of an old American book of cookery that had cost more than she'd intended to spend, and she was sure he'd love it. Then she remembered a whimsical piece she'd read in her magazine, describing the essential elements of a date as entertainment, food and affection. Over time, it said, the latter replaced the former, but on no account could food ever be omitted. She'd intended to show it to John, but now she snipped it out and slipped it inside the book before wrapping it in carefully smoothed paper she'd saved from the previous year.

Returning to Alice Munroe she warned Rose not to marry Patrick. “Don't, Rose,” she whispered, “You've got your scholarship; you can do what you want.” John teased her about talking to herself, but she'd always done it. It slowed thinking and helped her work things through. But recent self conversations had been tedious. “I'll get my coat so we can go and keep warm in the library,” was all well and good but it lacked direction, and though talking to Sammy might appear more acceptable, telling him that another job rejection letter had arrived didn't make her feel any better. “I've got to
do
something,” she said, aloud.

*

Diane's New Year's Eve party was the highlight of her Christmas, and though it meant Sammy had to go too, she wasn't going to miss it. “Shall I take him upstairs?” she asked, unwrapping her sleepy bundle.

Diane pulled the hood from Sammy's face. “Aah. Who's a warm little bunny?”

“Bunny? You should see his elephant legs; he's a greedy boy!” Sally shrugged her coat from her shoulders.

“He takes after his Daddy then, don't you?” Diane cooed into his face. “Who's a bootiful boy.” She stroked his soft dark hair and caught the hand that lifted upwards. “You want to come to me do you?” She took him from Sally and started up the stairs. “I'll put pillows round him in the middle of our bed. You go on in.”

African music played to an almost empty room as most of the guests congregated in the kitchen. Catching Malik's eye she nodded at the bottle of wine he held aloft and eased round chattering drinkers. “Miriam Makeba?”

Malik grinned. “Sure is. Recorded live in Conakry. I was there.”

“Yeah? Wow. Did you ever meet her?” They chatted about Makeba and Guinea Conakry and then Senegal until Malik told her Diane had instructed him to look after people's glasses so he better had. Joining a small group who were debating the army's involvement in Northern Ireland she listened to their increasingly voluble views until she saw a group of Diane's old colleagues and joined them, laughing with the others as Carol explained the calendar they'd made as a parting gift for Angie. They'd mounted photos of various men Angie had admired over the years, and rolling her eyes, Carol added, “We could have put several on every page!”

“Dish of the day, it was!” Angie chortled. “A hunk on every page.”

It was good to be in the middle of it all again; Sally felt alive. One of the drivers she recognised as Gerry tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to dance, then she joined a group of women she vaguely knew who danced together. She talked to friends of Malik's, to people she knew and people she didn't and when John arrived at almost two the party was swinging.

“A drink to toast the New Year?” When he shook his head she held out her glass. “Just a sip. A welcome to 1982.” But his exhaustion flattened her wine cheered warmth and she pulled on her coat, tucked the blanket round Sammy and said her thanks and farewells to her friends.

“What a great party.” Still full of energy she recounted the evening as John drove. “Everyone was singing at midnight, bursting balloons and poppers – I'm amazed Sammy slept through the noise.” Seeing his last dregs of concentration were focusing on the short drive home she became silent. “I'll try not to disturb you if Sammy wakes; you look just about done in.” She squeezed his arm. “But you had a good night?”

John smiled weakly. “Thanks. Yeah, fantastic night, in turnover. But it's been hard work. I need a week of nothing and I'm looking forward to it.”

Her heart sank. The vision that had sustained her throughout the last month threatened to evaporate and she recalled how that very morning she'd shaken a clean sheet over their bed and felt her life mirrored in its downward glide. Inactivity was suffocating and now the forthcoming week was threatened too. She bit the skin at the side of her thumbnail and sighed.

“That's a big sigh. Everything ok?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine.”

“Sammy ok?”

“Yes. He's fine too. Everything's fine. No, I was yawning, not sighing.”

“Good.” His hand patted her leg. “Talk to me, eh? I need something to keep me awake ‘til I get us home.”

She chattered again about the evening, telling him she'd wished he could have been there too, and how Sammy had woken around eleven and wowed them all with smiles. “He looked at Malik and just smiled” she chuckled, “even though Malik didn't do anything. I'm glad you're home next week – he'll be smiling at his Daddy too.”

“Well, I'll try and co-ordinate sleep patterns so that I can catch a few. It should be easy; we both want the same things; sleep and food. Oh, and of course, a few cuddles. That's my resolution for 1982; get more sleep.”

She put her hand over John's and as if cued, a resolution came to mind; she could compile John's recipes into a book. She had a typewriter and time in abundance and Diane could do food photography. Here was sanity! She'd think about it, plan it, then delight John with a draft that he would find irresistible. “Happy New Year my love.” She squeezed his hand.

“Yeah.” He yawned. “You too.”

*

A few hours later Sally woke with a start; she'd overslept and hadn't heard Sammy's cry for his five o'clock feed. She ran, and found him pink-faced in his cot, sleeping soundly after his previous evening's first solid food – a piece of rusk. She placed a finger in his hand and relished the feel of the soft, tiny fingers that curled around hers. “Hello little one. Welcome to 1982,” she whispered.

*

It was three more days before John came down to breakfast at a normal time, looking relaxed and, thought Sally, like the John she used to know. Picking up the newspaper he asked, “Coffee?”

“Aha, back to normal,” she teased and gave Sammy to him. “Post?”

“For you.” He passed her a blue airmail envelope. “It's from Pakistan; there's an address on the back.” Jiggling Sammy on his knee he sang, “Sammy's a little Paki boy.”

“Don't call him that!” She'd been called ‘Paki' at school and it hadn't been nice.

“Well, he is. It's ok.”

“He's not Paki. He's part Pakistani. Like me. Don't say Paki. It's horrid.” Indignation dissolved as she watched the two darkly tousled heads bobbing together as John sang ‘Sammy's my little Pakistani boy' and Sammy blinked in confusion.

John sat Sammy on his lap. “Any chance of toast?”

“Lost your legs?” She'd been about to open her letter. “No, don't move – I can feed two babies.”

“No wonder I love you.” John helped himself to Sally's slice of toast, catching Sammy's attention. “You'll be asking for toast before long, won't you? Well you can't have it. Not yet. You're already too fat for your carrycot. You're a very big little boy.”

“He's all right for a while.” John was right; Sammy
was
getting too big for the carrycot. “He can sleep in it when I go to Mum's next week then I'll look around for a second-hand travel cot.” She'd picked up the airmail letter and turned it over. “Oh! It's from my grandmother in Lahore. She doesn't write often; I wonder why she's written.” She ran the point of a vegetable knife carefully along the flap releasing a number of ten dollar notes that fell to the floor. “Oh my goodness! She's sent some money!”

John picked up the dollars and examined them. “Did you tell her about Sammy?”

“Well, yes, I sent a card. Wait, let me read her letter. Her writing isn't very clear.” She read for a moment or two and confirmed that the money was indeed, for Sammy. “She says she's happy to hear about the baby and pleased we've named him Samuel after my father and grandfather. She'd like to see him but she's over seventy and couldn't come to England. However, if I'd like to travel to Pakistan I'll be welcomed.” She paused. “I guess she means you too, though I think she'd find it hard to understand why we're not married. She's very Christian. And probably old fashioned too.”

John handed the dollars to Sally. “Well maybe you should use the dollars for one of those travel cot things. There might even be some spare.”

“Sure.” She was still studying the letter. “My cousin Jai got married last year and also has a baby, a daughter called Ipsita.” She looked up. “It's strange to think that Sammy and Ipsita are related; their lives will be so different.” She folded the letter. “I wish I'd known my cousins. I used to hear about Jai and his sister Aamina when Dad was alive. There were more letters then.” She pushed the letter into her pocket, wondering if they'd have been friends.

Suddenly John slapped the table, hard, causing Sally to jump and Sammy's bottom lip to tremble. “Whoops, sorry little fellah.” He continued excitedly. “Let's go to Pakistan! We could save some money, get married, and honeymoon in Pakistan.” He sank to one knee. “Not quite what I'd have planned, me holding the baby and all but would you do me the honour etc, etc?”

Despite his humour Sally knew the proposal wasn't a joke. Marriage had been raised several times and so far, she'd managed to side-step it. To start with, pregnancy had been a good reason, and then it had been too soon after Sammy's birth. Then their finances were too insecure. On each occasion he'd accepted the reasoning but each time her doubts about Sammy's paternity deepened the pit. She searched for the man in the boy and the boy in the man and told herself that the dark hair and solid, stocky body were John's, and that when Sammy's blue eyes changed colour they'd be green. But marrying John cemented permanence of a deceit that was a deceit too far.

Her mind raced for a convincing rejection as she played to his theatre. “Why sirrr, this be unexpected.” With her head on one side she appeared to consider her answer. “Can a girl be bowled over by a man ‘olding a baby?” She twisted a long curl round her finger. “An ‘oneymoon, y'say? Well, it be an attractive offer; I'll ‘ave to give it some thought. D'you have anything else to offer? Maybe a gold ingot or two?”

“O'll be werking on it m'dear.”Country John responded and then sat back on the chair. “But seriously Sal, we could do it y'know, if we work it out.”

Relieved to have again bought time Sally hid behind laughter. “Well let's see how things go shall we?”

*

A postcard on her mother's sideboard gave Sally another idea; printed postcards could be offered for sale at the restaurant, not only to market the art, but also for sale in their own right. It was a good idea, she decided, cheaper to produce and possibly even better than the cookery book. She turned the card over and saw it was more than a year old, testimony to the fact that her mother threw nothing away. Replacing the card she sat in the rocking chair that had been as much her favourite as her father's, now without the cotton antimacassars that had protected it from her father's oiled hair. It was the chair she and her brother had fought over until their father's voice had chastised them and made them sit on the settee silently for what seemed like an eternal five minutes. She remembered the day her parents had brought the furniture home, proud of their purchase, saying it was a cottage suite and a bargain. In adolescent superiority she'd announced grandly that she'd have preferred something contemporary and her father had laughed and said to her mother, “Did you hear that? ‘Contemporary' no less. What would we do with ‘contemporary'?” He was right of course, the pink fringed lampshades were old fashioned even then but had complemented the wallpaper roses. Over time the faded fringing on the shades drooped and the faded wallpaper roses disappeared behind magnolia emulsion. But an eclectic mix of cheaply framed Indian art, English landscapes and Christian imagery had tolerated time alongside crocheted doilies and embroidered cloths that were as comforting as the gentle rhythm of the rocking chair. A modern television now stood on top of an old radiogram and next to it, protected from dust with one of the embroidered cloths, was a video recorder. Her mother loved to watch films. That very morning they'd been persuaded by a picture of Mel Gibson to take home ‘Gallipoli' from the rental shop in the High Street and later, once Sammy was settled, they'd watch it together.