by Monica Ali
CHAPTER TWENTY
THEY’D ENDED UP STUFFED AS USUAL. NONE OF THEM COULD move quite yet. Gabe sat with the others at the dining-room table feeling bloated and flushed. He was warm and weary and irritated and congenial and bemused, bobbing gently in the soup of family. There was plastic holly and plastic mistletoe on the sideboard, a blanket and tablecloth over the table to preserve the mahogany, a double string of Christmas cards along the back wall. ’Twas ever thus.
Nana had swapped her Harvey’s amontillado for her regular Yuletide bottle of Advocaat, which she cradled in her lap as she slept. On the shelf of her mighty bosom there had gathered bits of roast potato, carrots, peas, parsnip and pudding, altogether nearly enough for another lunch. Opposite her, Ted wore a paper crown and nursed a can of Boddington’s, which he said was all that he could face today. They’d filled his plate anyway and it still sat there showing off his skeletal frame. Next to Ted was Jenny, with her fat arms and violent hair. They looked like an illustration in a children’s book, the pair of them, some fable or morality tale. Round from Jenny was Harley, no, Bailey. It was difficult to tell the two apart. They’d dyed their hair crow-black, wore long choppy fringes, pencil-tight jeans, studded belts, lip rings and eyeliner. They seemed to have checked tea towels tied round their necks. Both stroked alcopop bottles with one hand and texted under the table with the other. Perhaps they were texting each other; perhaps texting was their vestigial communication skill.
During lunch Gabriel had tried unsuccessfully to engage them in conversation, though his interest, he had to admit, was more anthropological than avuncular. Bailey looked up now and – for a millisecond – made eye contact. She tugged her fringe over her face.
‘I had a goth phase,’ said Gabriel. ‘When I was your age probably.’
Bailey twisted her narrow shoulders. ‘I’d rather die,’ she said, ‘than be a goth. Seriously, I’d kill myself first.’
‘Baaay-ley,’ said Jenny.
Gabe smiled at Jenny to show she wasn’t to bother. It hadn’t been a bad lunch, he decided. The ingredients weren’t of the best quality, the turkey unavoidably dry (it had been frozen), the vegetables overcooked (for Nana’s teeth), the gravy oversalted (by Jenny), the roast potatoes a little greasy (Dad’s contribution), but Gabe’s chestnut stuffing had turned out a treat, and the bread sauce was perfect and all in all he’d enjoyed it, cooking for the Lightfoot clan.
Harley put his phone on the table. He said, ‘She’s only emo ’cos she’s gone and copied us.’
‘You?’ said Bailey. ‘You? You’re not even emo, you’re a poser.’ She risked a direct glance at Gabe. ‘He only does it for the clothes and that.’
‘Baaay-ley,’ said Jenny.
Ted stood up and shuffled out of the room.
‘What?’ said Bailey. ‘It’s true. I’ve wrote poetry and that since I was, like, twelve. I’ve always been true emo.’ She hugged her matchstick arms across her chest. ‘Emo’s what’s in your heart, not what’s on your back.’
‘Poems?’ said Gabe. ‘What sort of poetry, Bailey?’
‘Like about sad stuff, like pain, and how no one understands us and that.’ She rocked a little in her chair, feeling the pain, presumably, of speaking to these old folk.
‘Oh,’ said Gabe. Then, ‘Wow.’
Harley sniggered under his hair.
‘Shut up,’ said Bailey. ‘Shutupshutupshutupshurrup.’
‘Bailey!’ said Jenny.
Bailey’s lip ring quivered. Her marsupial eyes flashed. ‘Harley’s only emo because he likes getting off with other lads.’
Her brother picked the knife off his plate and pointed it at her. ‘Since when was it, like, emo to be homophobic?’
‘I’m not homophobic. I’m just saying. You’re gay. End of.’ But she went on, with a martyred whine, ‘Stop accusing me of stuff what I’ve never ever said.’
‘Hang on,’ said Gabe. ‘This emo thing – what’s it got to do with getting off with other boys?’
His niece and nephew shrugged. Might as well ask why the earth was round.
‘Sorry,’ said Gabe, ‘but it’s not entirely obvious to me. Isn’t it about music and clothes and …’
‘Attitude,’ said Harley. ‘It’s about—’
Bailey cut him off. ‘Emo girls think it’s hot when an emo boy kisses another emo boy. They do it for attention.’
‘And to explore their sexuality?’ said Gabe.
Bailey sighed. ‘No. They do it to get girls.’
Gabriel looked at Jenny. Jenny burst out laughing. Shrieking, she flung her arms in the air triggering undulations down her stomach and up her chin. ‘Kissing boys,’ she said when she had caught her breath, ‘well, I suppose it beats hitting them. Though it’s one extreme to the other with you, Harley. What will you think of next?’
Nana woke and said, ‘I’ll just get these dishes done.’ Gabe nabbed the bottle of Advocaat off her lap before she tried to stand up. Jenny wheeled the drinks trolley round and helped latch her on, precipitating a landslide of leftovers down her dress.
‘Where’s Dad gone?’ said Jenny. ‘I hope he’s not washing up.’
‘Stop interfering, Mum,’ said Harley.
‘Yeah,’ said Bailey, ‘he can wash up if he wants.’
Jenny looked ready to pop. ‘Get this table cleared,’ she said. ‘You do the washing. You do the drying. And if I find your granddad helping you’re dead meat, both of you.’
They writhed like a couple of black adders, but they did as they were told and began to stack the plates.
Gabriel steered Nana through to the sitting room and just inside the doorway she took one hand off the trolley bar and placed it on Gabriel’s arm.
‘Ooh,’ she said, sounding excited, looking around at the lit-up tree, the decorations on the windowsill, the tinsel over the hearth. ‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘it looks like Christmas, doesn’t it? It looks like Christmas in here.’
‘That’s right, Nana,’ said Gabe. ‘Shall we get you sat in your chair?’
He’d only just got her settled, lifted her feet up on the stool, when Mr Howarth came in with a sprig of mistletoe and kissed her smack on the lips.
‘Now then, Phyllis,’ he said, ‘you’ve done me a power of good there.’
‘Get away,’ said Nana, two pink roses blooming in the white deserts of her cheeks. ‘Go on, before my Albert catches you. Have your guts for garters, that he will.’
While the others watched television, Jenny and Gabriel sat in the dining room.
‘Blimey,’ said Jenny, rubbing her big round knees, ‘I’ve ate that much.’ She undid the broad white belt that had marked some notional boundary between her upper and lower halves. ‘Mind you, I can afford to let myself go, now I’ve got a new fella.’ She slapped her thigh.
‘Good for you,’ said Gabe. It was around Queen’s Speech time. The light was fading, all the shapes in the room darkening now, except for Jenny’s hair which seemed to be getting brighter. It was like watching the old black and white Grundig they had at Astley Street with the contrast turned right up.
‘He’s called Des,’ said Jenny, ‘he’s pushing fifty, two grown-up kids, divorced. What else do you want to know?’
‘Wasn’t the last one called Des?’
‘Den,’ said Jenny. ‘I was with him three years and I’d have thought you’d remember … never mind him, anyway. It’s Des now. He’s in sewage and I can’t say that with a straight face. Nothing stinky, actually, manager’s job over at the works, wears a suit and tie. Lord, I sound like Nana now. My Des goes to work in a shirt and tie, which is more than I can say for some. Well, he’s nothing to set the world on fire, but he’s …’
She pattered on like the rain. Gabe drank his coffee and waited it out.
‘… and he’s not a big drinker, and he’s, you know, solid, and we’re what you’d call compatible, and it’s nice to have someone to settle down with in front of Countdown, who’ll rub your feet and take turns at making a brew, and I know what I want when
it comes to a man these days, because there’s none of that nonsense, is there, when you get to our age …’
None of that nonsense, thought Gabe. She made it sound so easy. Why didn’t he know what he wanted? Why didn’t he want a cup of tea and Countdown? Why did he want Lena instead of compatibility?
‘Anyhow,’ said Jenny. ‘Dad told me the wedding’s off. Spill.’
‘What did he say?’
‘No gory details. I heard there’s this other girl.’
‘That’s it really. I fucked up. Charlie’s called it off.’
‘Oh no you don’t, mister. You don’t get away that easy. Who is she, this girl? Not still seeing her, are you? And I can tell from the look on your face so don’t bother answering that, but tell me everything else and you’re not giving up on Charlie, tell me you’re not, you’re supposed to be marrying the woman, for God’s sake.’
Gabe scratched the back of his head. He lowered his arm and tucked his hand inside his other armpit.
‘You’ve to get rid of this other one first,’ said Jenny, ‘or you don’t stand a chance. Know that, don’t you? Know that?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Gabe.
‘Course it is,’ said Jen. ‘Someone you work with, is it? That why you can’t ditch her?’
‘Someone from work. Yes. It is.’
‘You silly sod. What, some pretty bit of stuff? Juicy young waitress? Don’t be denying anything, Gabriel Lightfoot, I can read you like a book.’
‘Not a waitress,’ said Gabe. ‘Younger, yes.’
‘How old? Or should I say, how young?’
He saw Lena, standing sullen by the window, twisting her earrings, her fingers, her skinny shoulders. He saw her sitting, all angles and awkwardness, on the sofa with her feet pulled up and a sweater stretched over her knees. Christ, how old was she? Not much older than Harley and Bailey. Was she still a teenager? Was she?
He mumbled something.
‘You what?’ said Jenny. ‘Oh, bugger, I’ve broke a nail.’
‘She’s … I don’t know,’ said Gabe.
‘Come off it,’ said Jenny. ‘You dirty old man.’
‘Early twenties,’ said Gabriel. ‘She’s twenty-four.’
Jenny laughed. ‘For a moment there, Gabe, I thought you were going to say eighteen.’
Gabe shook his head. ‘Yeah, right.’ He fiddled with his coffee cup, stuck a teaspoon in the sugar bowl, stirred, spilled some, brushed the sugar aside with his hand. He looked at Jenny, at her pretty eyes, the lovely oval of her face that floated so lightly above her bulging neck and chin. She seemed to be staring out of her body as if from a padded cell, saying, somebody cut me loose.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘And you can stop that right now.’
‘What?’ said Gabe.
‘You’re giving me a look,’ said Jenny, ‘and I know what you’re going to say.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t give me that. “Where did the old Jenny go?” “Remember how it used to be?” Well, I’m sorry, but I’m not a teenager any more. I am what I am, Gabriel. I’m me.’
‘What did I say? I didn’t say anything.’
Jenny sucked on her inhaler. ‘Allergies. Hear me? Hear me wheeze?’
‘You should give up smoking,’ said Gabe.
‘I know. Wish I could. Bloomin’ addict, I am.’ She gasped at the inhaler. ‘You given up again?’
‘Smoke when I feel like it. Now and again.’
‘Take it or leave it, can you, Gabe? My chest shouldn’t sound like that, should it? I’m giving up, definitely. Doctor said I’ve to quit.’
‘Don’t want you getting ill.’
‘I should put a light on. There, that’s better. What are we like, sat in the dark? Who’d look after Dad and Nana? That what you mean?’
‘He ate a lot yesterday,’ said Gabe. ‘I thought maybe he was in remission. But then, today …’
‘I know,’ said Jenny. ‘I know.’
‘Guess what Nana said when I took her through to the sitting room. She said, it looks like Christmas in here.’
Jenny laughed. ‘Poor Nana,’ she said. ‘Found her a nice home, Gabriel. She can go in any time after mid-January.’
‘Does she have to?’
‘No,’ said Jenny, tapping her box of Silk Cut, ‘not if she can come and live with you.’
They smoked hanging out of the dining-room window. ‘Look at the state of us,’ said Jen. ‘Me giving up and you not addicted at all.’
They giggled. Jenny took a long drag and looked beatific. She turned her face to him. ‘So. How’ve you been? You know, Charlie, everything.’
‘Oh, I’m OK. I guess. Not too bad. A bit up …’
‘… and down.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I bet you are. Then there’s Dad, of course.’
‘I don’t know, Jen. There have been occasions when I’ve thought I’m not sort of coping. All the stress. Sometimes I’m kind of racing, pulling all-nighters, then I’m more or less …’
‘… depressed …’ she said, speaking over him.
‘… depressed and it’s hard to get anything done when you’re feeling …’
‘… feeling like that …’
‘… but I’m OK, I’m basically …’
‘… you’re basically OK …’
‘I had this thing, Jenny, I had a …’
‘Did you, love?’
‘Yes. A panic attack.’
‘Oh yes, a panic attack.’
‘And sometimes, you know, I’m just really, really down.’
Gabe flicked his fag butt on to the gravel.
‘But you’re OK.’
‘I’m OK.’ At least he’d felt OK until he started telling Jenny this stuff. He’d been OK yesterday, hadn’t he?
‘It’s all understood much better these days.’
‘What is?’
Jenny closed the window. ‘And there’s not the stigma any more. Lots of creative people have it. Always on telly, in’t it, almost like they’re showing off about it all.’
‘I’m not saying … I’m not …’
‘They do say it runs in families.’
‘Jenny, I’m not bipolar. I’ve just been a bit …’
‘… a bit depressed.’
‘Will you stop doing that, for God’s sake!’
‘What?’
‘Finishing my …’
‘… sentences. Oh, there I go again, can’t even help myself sometimes.’
‘It’s not the same. Not the same as Mum.’
‘OK, Gabe. All right.’
They sat there on the windowsill. Leaning against the glass was colder than leaning out.
Jenny smoothed her hair. She said, ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘No.’
She said, ‘I’ve never been one for pills.’
‘I don’t need any pills.’
‘You know what?’ she said. ‘You’re like those kids at school. Your mum’s in the loony bin. Like I’m accusing you of something bad.’
‘Who at school ever said that? I never heard that once.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Jenny, ‘but I did. You were pretty handy with your fists.’
‘I wouldn’t mind another cigarette.’
‘A little of what you fancy …’
‘… does you good.’
‘See, you’re at it now.’
They opened the window again.
Gabriel watched the way Jenny held her cigarette. He could see Mum in her sometimes.
‘Jenny,’ he said, ‘what about you? You happy? I mean, your life’s OK?’
‘Can’t complain,’ said Jenny. ‘Well, I can. Who can’t?’ She laughed.
‘Because I know you had plans, things you wanted to do with your life and then … other things got in the way.’
‘Things?’ said Jenny. ‘You mean our Harley. He’s not a thing, thank you very much, he’s my son and your nephew, and he’s never been in the way.’
�
�You know what I mean.’
‘Not told you about my promotion, have I? Supervisor, me.’
‘Great. Congratulations. That’s really good.’
She pulled a face. ‘Nah. It’s not really good. It’s still a chicken shed. But it’s all right. You see, Gabe, you said I had things I wanted to do with my life, well, I never did. I wanted a house, I wanted a car, my own money, kids … not quite so soon, maybe. You were the one had something you wanted to do. Most of us, we just go along with things, take whatever comes.’
‘Did I really want Michelin stars?’
‘Like nobody’s business. You were always so clear about everything.’
‘I don’t know, Jen, I don’t know.’
‘I’m telling you.’
‘I’ve been thinking a lot and I look back and I see the way I’ve twisted things up in my mind. It’s like the stars – I’d convinced myself I never wanted them. And then why did I want to cook in the first place? Sometimes I think I only did it to annoy the hell out of Dad.’
‘Don’t be so soft,’ said Jenny. ‘Oh, I’ve brought a lovely ham for our tea, but I’ve gone and left it in the car. I’ll nip out in a sec.’
‘And why did I want to annoy Dad? Because I didn’t understand what was going on with Mum, and I thought he was, you know, mean to her. And I didn’t understand anything, and everything I’ve done has been based on a total lack of understanding, because how can you really want something if you want it for all the wrong reasons? And I don’t even want to think about it. It’s like I’ve pulled a loose thread and the whole bloody jumper’s unravelling now.’
Jenny stared at him. ‘Gabriel,’ she said slowly, ‘will you just get over yourself.’
‘OK,’ said Gabe, ‘OK.’
‘I mean, we’ve enough on our plates with Dad and Nana. Does it matter, exactly why you wanted to be a chef?’
‘No,’ said Gabe. ‘You’re right.’
‘Good,’ said Jenny. ‘Now I’ll go and fetch that ham.’
At the doorway she stopped and rolled round on her heels. ‘Found out about Michael Harrison for you. Trail goes cold about ten years ago, but last anyone’s heard he’s opened his own business over Ormskirk way and he’s married with two kids.’
Gabe smiled. ‘Thanks, Jenny. Thanks for finding out. Know what kind of business it is?’
