by Sean Thomas
— No
— No, Miss Reardon?
— No
Stefan’s smile:
— So it’s not true to say that on the evening of – Consulting a notebook pushed across the desk by the junior, Stefan nods, looks over, looks hard – March twenty-third, you asked for sex, full intercourse … with the defendant?
— … No
— In Rebecca Jessel’s house?
— … – Swallowing dryly – No
— And it’s also not true to say that on the afternoon of … March thirtieth … you offered oral sex to the defendant?
— No
— In the street. On Haverstock Hill? In North London?
— No
— Are you completely sure, Miss Reardon?
— Yes
— I advise you of the oath you took this morning
— I know …
— Miss Reardon?
Murphy is breathing out, exhaling too quickly. She is buttoning and unbuttoning the bottom button of her sensible black jacket. She is saying:
— None of it. It’s all rubbish. It’s total crap
— Really?
— … Yes!
— So it’s not true to say that you were in love with the defendant?
— … As if
— And that you were annoyed with him when he rejected you
— Jesus no
— Because … because he told you he was in love with Miss Jessel?
— That’s just … drivel. Totally. Christ!
— Miss Reardon … when the prosecutrix … when Miss Jessel came to you that evening, when she said … – Stefan glances down, pretends to read his notebook; then he looks up and his face is all boyish and smiling – ‘I don’t know what constitutes rape, but I think Patrick raped me …’ – Still smiling – Weren’t you in a way angry at Patrick, but not because he’d – Stefan loads his tone with more quotation marks – … raped … your friend, but because you’d thought that he and Rebecca had broken up, and you were entertaining hopes of your own as a result? And that hearing they were still an item consequently made you angry? – Sly lawyerly smile – And jealous?
Murphy looks back defiantly, almost arrogantly:
— No!
— You were angry, weren’t you?
— Nope!
— You were in love with the defendant, correct?
— God! No!
— But because you were in love with him you felt betrayed
— No way …
— Which is why you encouraged her to make this accusation
— No, no no I jus
— No further questions M’Lord
Stefan sits down; silently and precisely he sits down, leaving Murphy trying to stare, and shut her mouth. Murphy’s face is almost white. The court is looking at her, regarding her with the pitiless curiosity afforded by the audience for an actress who has forgotten her lines. Dumb, face down, Murphy fiddles with the bottom button on her sensible black jacket. She looks very alone, very forlorn, and at a loss, until some new woman Patrick has not seen before steps up behind Murphy and gently clasps the witness by the padded shoulder. At the touch Murphy starts, turns and nods. From his angle in the dock Patrick sees that Murphy’s usually confident face looks stressed, unhappy, almost teary, and so, despite his glee and happiness at the way Murphy’s evidence fell flat, Patrick feels a huge surge of pity for his old friend, for Smurf, for the best friend of his girlfriend: as she is escorted in near tears out of the court; as the judge looks up and sighs and says to everyone:
— I think we might adjourn for lunch here
16
— It’s called a … Seder
— A what?
Necking his mobile Patrick pulls down the cab window to feel the cold April air on his face. The air is too cold. Sliding up the window he listens as Joe repeats:
— A what?
Patrick, louder:
— Say-der …
— Der!
— It’s a kind of Jewish Christmas
— Right
— Rebecca wants me to get to know her parents better … you see
— Oh yes
— Joe just clean the fucking flat will you
As Joe falls quiet, fails to answer, Patrick looks out the cab window at the speeding evening lights: thinking of their strange sadness. The wistful blueness of the Swiss Cottage cinema lights. The endless flow of regretful red brake lights.
Joe comes back with:
— What’s it like then?
— What? Hoovering?
— Sex with a Jewish girl
Patrick wonders what to say to this. He wonders if he has perhaps been wittering on about the Jews too much, to provoke a question like this. Vague, tired, drained and worried, exhausted by what’s happening and not happening at work, Patrick watches the back of the cabby’s head. The cabby’s head bounces each time the cabby swears. Unable to resist his favourite subject, Patrick leans slightly forward and says into his mobile phone:
— I think they like sex … in a different way
— Jews?
— Yes
— How?
— Well … – Waiting, thinking, deciding, saying – Put it like this. Have you ever … fucked a bird … who wanted it …
He stops. Joe’s phone voice sounds eager:
— Go on?
— Well, who wanted a … a …
— A tapir?
— No, a …
— A crayon shoved up her arse? A shag in front of The Railway Children?
— Nooo. I mean. Like … Who wanted it rough … I mean – Patrick looks out of the window at the city, the city. Patrick says … – Have you ever fucked a girl who wanted you to hit her with a tennis racquet? Who wanted you to spank her with a tennis racquet while you’re wearing her dad’s dressing gown?
Patch stops. Joe says:
— Who hasn’t?
Patrick laughs. Joe sounds like he’s laughing. Patrick says:
— No, truly, have you ever been with a girl who liked it violent?
— How violent?
— Very fucking violent
— Mebbes. Mebbes – Joe’s voice is indistinct; then distinct – Y’know Patch man. I’m worried about you
— Unh?
— You’re obsessed
— As if
— You are, mate, you’re obsessed. You’re acting weird … Last night you were blathering on about the Jews for three hours, when you were pissed in the club
— Really …
— Yes, you were mate, you kept saying weird stuff
— But I
— As I remember man – Joe’s voice, even over the mobile, has a sardonic tinge – You were particularly keen on the fact that people used to get done for bestiality if they fucked Jews. In the Middle Ages. Remember saying that?
Patrick goes quiet. Joe also goes quiet, as if he has pulled his own phone away and is thinking; then Joe comes back louder and says:
— So. Get a grip. You’ll lose the club if you don’t concentrate. Man, you’ll lose everything – Getting louder – That club is everything you worked for, everything you wanted, get a hold
Patrick sits back, thinks about his club: all those students with their stupid haircuts and overtrendy trainers and absurd arguments about guest lists. Patrick considers all those free beers he’s given away to friends he’s never liked. Or met.
Patrick:
— Fuck the club. Who cares. S’not her fault anyway – Vehement – You really reckon Rebecca is the reason the label’s in trouble? Not the council trying to close us down?
Joe comes back, undaunted:
— Yep … I do. Last night you were meant to be managing the place – A breath, then – And you were so fucked all you could do was go on about her. About her tits. About tits. And Jews. Jewish tits
Patrick thinks, says:
— You know Catholics worship a Jewess?
Joe’s voice has disappeared, again.
>
New litter, new buses, New Finchley Road. Slowly the cab slides alongside a going-nowhere bus; confused, wondrous, Patrick looks into the interior of the bus. From the lamplit and hollow interior the people in the bus stare out at him, with that special vacant melancholy public-transport stare. Returning to his mobile Patrick hears Joe come back into signal and say:
— Do you really want me to clean the gaff?
— Yes!
— But the duster’s broken …
— Joe … Stop smoking. Clean
— Can’t find the carpet …
— It’s under the pizza boxes, Joe, just do it, will you? – Slightly angry now – I’ve got too much other shit on my mind to worry about … cobwebs
— Sure, I will … OK?
The bus left behind, the taxi swerves right and round; Patrick is pitched to the side. Regaining his position, Patrick says:
— Anyway, Joe, what I said about the Jews last night … just forget it
A brief pause. Then a longer pause … Patrick tries again:
— I didn’t mean it … what I meant was … Joe? Joe??
But Joe has gone. Pocketing his phone Patrick sighs, wanly, vaguely, somehow relieved to have such a good friend in Joe. Despite.
The cab is turning: is entering the suburb, the ghetto. For a few minutes they slow past increasingly big, old, judiciously brickworked houses; then, on a whim, feeling like a walk, Patrick leans and taps the partition and says it’s OK I’ll get out here. On the pavement he turns, and starts walking the streets, these neat, dark, chilly, expensive, unique, privet-hedged streets.
The evening is cold. Tiny new leaves of limes and sycamores are shivering in the windy lamplight. Shiny new cars in every drive make Patrick think of the cold face of his Jewess: the Catholic goddess.
The what? Is Joe correct? Is he obsessing?
Trying not to obsess, to be so … cunt-struck, Patrick clutches close the flowers he has got for Rebecca’s mum as he walks down the haute suburban side streets, down some more suburban avenues. As he goes he looks at the doors, counting the doors with the little angled Jewish thingies attached to the doorways. With some effort Patrick tries to compute the Jewish proportion of the population of Hampstead Garden Suburb by the number of little angled Jewish thingies on the front doorjambs. Failing in this, Patrick tries to remember when he first became aware of Jews. Did he have Jewish friends as a kid without even realising they were Jewish? That kid at primary school, David Samuels, he must have been Jewish, right?
And then he is there. He has reached the Jessel house, indicated by the big wooden door with the cold new shiny BMW in front, and the angled Jewish thingy attached to the doorjamb.
The bell? The bell.
At the second bell-press the door widens to reveal Rebecca looking beautiful and young. Rebecca’s blonde hair is blonded further by the bright yellow hall lights behind. Her shoulders are slim in a new sexy dress. Immediately Patrick feels an urge to stoop and kiss the delicate structure of her lovely, St Paul’s-educated collarbone. But Rebecca stops him with a lifted hand, and says:
— What’s that?
Innocent:
— What?
— That
She is indicating his chest.
— Oh – Patrick says, looking down his shirtfront, making a shocked face and a surprised noise, as if he is surprised to see the large crucifix dangling conspicuously there – Oh. Yeah. That
— Thanks. You never wear a crucifix
— But I do sometimes
— Your idea of a joke? Perhaps?
— No, I …
— Patrick! Darling! Hello!!
Too late. Rebecca’s mum has appeared. Looking suspicious, and affronted, Rebecca rolls her eyes and steps back and glances across as Patrick walks into the house. Where Rebecca’s mum is waiting.
Angled and polite Patrick leans and kisses the offered cheek of his pseudo mother-in-law and simultaneously hands over the flowers he’s been too tightly clutching for an hour. Gracious and sweet Rebecca’s mother takes the flowers and smiles ably in return; then Mrs Jessel tells Patrick to come through now as they’re starting. Wheeling around Patrick stares at Rebecca who smiles in a well thank you for at least doing that with the flowers smile. On seeing his girlfriend’s smile Patrick’s heart pains him with a tiny sadness. Then Patrick smiles and grins and laughs and reaches for Rebecca with a comehereandletmefu
Before the two of them can kiss properly a loud laughing shout from the end of the hall drags them back into society. Via a large open door they walk into a space where a big dining table is already surrounded by lots of Jewish-looking people: some in skullcaps, some in new frocks, some in pious smiles, some in silence turning to look at the crucifix dangling conspicuously from Patrick’s shirtfront. For perhaps the first time in his life Patrick gets a pang of conscience, an agenbite at his own arch, insulting mischievousness. For the briefest of moments Patrick conjectures on how his deliberately offensive joke might actually be quite offensive to these good kind intriguing millionaires who invite him in to their lovely big Hampstead house.
OK, behave. Like a good son-in-law, Patrick shakes Rebecca’s dad’s soft-ringed hand. Then Rebecca’s dad invites Patrick to sit down at his allotted chair at the end of table, which Patrick does. On doing this, Patrick notices however that he is far away from the important people, from Rebecca’s parents. For a second the rebel yell stirs in his heart, but then he calms himself: the entire scene is too lively and interesting for Patrick to get chippy. Big candles are flickering; old people chattering; gold bangles are rattling on over-tanned arms. Patrick has never seen so many shiny new Rolexes. Girls with long noses and dressed hair are sitting next to boys with hair as black as the girls’ lovely eyes. Patrick thinks of scenes from Schindler’s List; under the table Patrick surreptitiously squeezes the thigh of his girlfriend under that lovely new dress. Happily Patrick speculates how Rebecca’s thighs will have that smell of new clothes when he licks them in about …
how long? How long will this weirdness last? Alert, intrigued, Patrick listens as the rabbi at the end of the table stands and intones some weird Jewish words. At this signal, everybody around the table has fallen quiet, is trying to be quiet and interested. The quavery-voiced Cohen at the end of the table, who is standing between Rebecca’s mum and Rebecca’s dad (who are both looking proud, bored, and a bit drunk (already?), is intoning:
— Barry shay mischvah mischvah barry shay barry barry
Or, at least, something like that. As Patrick stares blankly at the rabbi, Rebecca’s dad gets up and explains in his polished and pukka, but perceptibly unEnglish accent:
— To all the guests we have here today for our Seder, we say welcome. We hope you will join with us in celebrating the Passover, the Haggidim – Mister Jessel is standing up properly now, is using a big barbecue match to ostentatiously light one of the enormous candles at the top of the table – In praising God we say that all life is sacred. With every holy light we kindle …
Rebecca’s father blows out the match; proudly contemplates the candle flame. Beside him, Rebecca’s mum looks on approvingly. Directly in front of Patrick a large-breasted Jewish matron is leaning forward to gaze respectfully and interestedly up the table at the goings-on; Patrick wonders if the woman is really doing it just so Patrick can get a better look at her cleavage. It is certainly impressive.
— We praise you our God, sovereign of Existence
— When can we have a sodding drink?
— Now we drink the first cup of wine
From nowhere a hired waiter has appeared. The waiter leans around Patrick and splashes red wine in Patrick’s glass. Obedient and thirsty, Patrick stands and drains the wine in a single slug with everybody else. Then he sits back down.
— Now, after symbolically washing our hands, we dip the greens in the salt water to symbolise Karpas, Rebirth and Renewal
Shrugging, smiling, going with the flow, Patrick picks up his sprig of rocket, and lo
oks around at other people for guidance. Other people are dunking the sprig of greenery in the little cup of water set before every plate, and eating the consequently wet bit of green stuff; Patrick does the same.
— In the spring, the season of rebirth and renewal, on the Festival of Pesah, we read from the Song of Songs
Munching the rocket; scoping the tits; thinking about wine, Patrick listens:
— Arise my beloved, my fair one, And come away
Mouth tasting of rocket; hand warm on Rebecca’s thigh; eyes full of the ageing but still-just-fuckable Jewish matron opposite, Patrick tries to be quiet and dutiful and a conceivable son-in-law, taking in the scene as the ritual progresses, as the dinner unfolds in all its weirdness. He sits down and listens, he stands and listens, he listens and drinks. Then he gets bored. At least, Patrick thinks, Christmas only takes two days. But this? Munching herbs, Patrick wonders if they really ate rocket in Mosaic Egypt. He whispers this in Rebecca’s ear. Rebecca replies, but Patrick cannot understand her whisper. It is slurred: they are all getting drunk: all of them. As Patrick scans the table he checks out the other participants: some of them are now overtly lolling about the table. Perhaps this is not surprising, Patrick thinks: they have ritually consumed at least five cups of wine, not forgetting a couple more illicit refills; together they have celebrated the Plagues of Egypt, the Manna in the Desert, the Dominance of Hollywood …
— On this Festival of Pesah, preserve us in Life
Half famished, Patrick leans to the food that is being passed down the table. Quickly he fills his stomach with smoked salmon, and goulash. Soon he feels a warmth spread through himself: he feels glowy, warm, kind, altruistic. Surfing a wave of fellow feeling, Patrick decides he likes it all, likes the house, likes Rebecca’s mum, the goulash. Patrick especially likes the youth of his girlfriend sitting next to him. Yes, Patrick thinks: this could be him. This could be his new family; his new home; his new life. He could fit in. He is one of them. He might buy a skullcap.
