Life After Lunch

by Sarah Harrison

  Glyn said, without looking at me, ‘It’s funny, I hardly knew the bloke but I feel as if a piece has gone from the jigsaw.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I suppose we all lose something when someone dies that we like. We acquire a kind of stake in that person’s survival, and when they go part of us goes too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good old Richard,’ said Glyn.

  It was not so much that he’d agreed with me – I had said nothing to agree with – but that he’d articulated what I’d been thinking. Was that symbiosis? I had read so often that a symbiotic relationship was unhealthy, but I wasn’t so sure. I glanced at my husband as he drove. His separateness, his difference was what continually surprised me. We had come together, but our roots were apart. Where we touched and empathized, we became instantly one. It was more mysterious, I thought, looking out of the window, than the typical shorthand of marriage. There was something which defied analysis and eluded understanding. I acknowledged its ineluctable, visceral power over us both.

  Susan rang up later that evening and was entirely herself. I knew that she wouldn’t mention Richard, and she didn’t.

  ‘I’m back!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘We decided against the funeral bakemeats – we didn’t think it appropriate.’

  She sighed gustily. ‘You should have come. I couldn’t make the church.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it was a fair division of labour.’

  ‘It was a nice party – I called Henry from the airport, and he came.’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I saw him.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t there?’

  ‘I dropped by to leave a small present for Simon, and Henry was playing out on the terrace.’

  I could hear the smile in her voice as she said, ‘Wasn’t he wonderful?’

  ‘Wonderful – it made me cry. He was playing one of my favourite tunes.’

  ‘Which is that?’ I told her, and she squeaked appreciatively. ‘You’re a sentimental old fool, Mrs Lewis. Did you get a chance to talk to him?’

  ‘No – he didn’t even see me.’ There was a tiny, dead pause, and I thought we’d been cut off. ‘ Susan?’

  ‘Present.’

  ‘Are you going back – to Crete?’

  ‘Good Lord no, I can’t be bothered. If I ever see another mosaic it’ll be too soon. But we must have lunch, I’ve got a present for you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I know, I know, but that’s the kind of guy I am. Let’s go and guzzle ribs at that Old Orleans place and play havoc with our cholesterol levels.’

  ‘You’re on,’ I said. We fixed the time for next week. When I put the phone down I felt a current of happy anticipation run through me because Susan was back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Old Orleans in Charity Court was a rootin’-tootin’, down-home, good-ol’-boy, have-a-nice-day American mish-mash, broadly Southern in tone. There was piped Cajun music, wood panelling, smoking griddles, hunky cooks with bandannas tied round their heads, waitresses in Li’l Abner dungarees, and framed photographs of the Civil War. The food was as big as all outdoors (one soon cottoned on to the lingo) and calico napkins the size of tablecloths came as standard and were (unless you were very quick and very firm) tied round your neck by a beaming food facilitator. Getting grease on your chin and relish on your fingers was a must. The message was ‘Abandon couth all ye who enter here’ or perhaps, ‘Come on you tight-arsed Brits, and let us show you what real eating’s about’. At any rate, we liked it.

  We always had the gumbo to start with, then the rib platter with potato salad and deep-fried onions. Then we generally said we’d never eat again before changing our minds and having the double chocolate, chocolate-chip ice-cream or its calorific equivalent. We generally kicked off with a gin and tonic and went on to American bottled beer.

  Orders out of the way, Susan produced a parcel, beautifully wrapped in Japanese paper with a blue and gold paper butterfly perched on the outside.

  ‘From me, to you and Isobel,’ she said.

  I stroked the butterfly’s wings with my finger. ‘How lovely … where did you find this?’

  ‘I had it lying around. Now open.’

  I opened it carefully, to preserve the paper and not damage the butterfly. Inside was a picture frame, about eight by ten inches. It was made of carved wood. To begin with I thought the carving, which was dense and elaborate, was of flowers, but on a closer look I could see that it was hands, a profusion of them, clenched in fists, intertwined, outspread, clasped in prayer – hands of all shapes and sizes and textures.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she asked, minding more than she let on. ‘I just happened to spot it.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly like it more,’ I said truthfully, and leaned across to peck her on the cheek, but she was rummaging in her bag for cigarettes. ‘Thank you very, very much.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ She lit up and beamed at me, glass in hand. ‘I knew you’d appreciate the symbolism. As soon as my eye fell on it I thought, that is so Laura.’

  ‘And Isobel,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Yes!’ She put the glass down and took the frame from me. ‘ What I want you to do is this. I want you to have a beautiful picture taken of your children and your grandchildren – none of those unmarried fathers, they don’t count – near Isobel’s white rose. Wouldn’t that be nice?’

  ‘It would,’ I said. ‘I shall definitely do it.’

  ‘I know it’s schmaltzy,’ she went on as though I’d demurred, ‘ but I feel schmaltzy at the moment. And I want to be a good godmother to my only godchild.’

  ‘I absolutely love it.’

  ‘You know what it made me think of?’ she asked. ‘ It reminded me of your life.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s a kind of muddle. An overcrowded, complicated muddle. I mean, look at all the conflicting messages in that carving. There are fights and prayers and hugs and greetings and goodbyes and promises. Whatever is one supposed to make of it?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ I felt a bit crestfallen. ‘What did you make of it?’

  ‘I thought – that’s a pretty thing. Then I looked closely and thought, Jesus, it’s like Hieronymous Bosch. I feared for the sanity – not to mention the eyesight – of the person who made it. Then I stepped back again and thought, it’s a muddle, but it’s all of a piece – just like Laura.’ She handed me back the frame and must have read my expression correctly, because she added, ‘And if you’re wondering how to take that, it’s a compliment.’

  ‘I’m awfully glad you told me.’

  ‘Put it away, put it away,’ she ordered. ‘Here comes the Mississippi sludge.’

  ‘Alrighty …’ said the waitress. ‘Gumbo. Enjoy, ladies!’

  The soup came in great brown, glazed crocks the shape of Ali Baba jars. ‘God, but I adore this stuff.’ Susan closed her eyes and inhaled the steam deeply. ‘ Mm – ambrosian whiff!’

  ‘How was your holiday,’ I asked, ‘ what there was of it?’

  Susan smacked her lips over the first mouthful. ‘Great. The hotel was gracious and crumbling, and the staff were sweet. I don’t think there was a microchip in the place. There was a frog in the swimming-pool.’

  ‘Is that good?’ I asked uncertainly.

  ‘I thought so. I’d much rather have Kermit sharing the pool and ironed linen sheets every day than … whatever the alternative is.’

  ‘You could have both.’

  ‘True, but the fact that they didn’t added greatly to their charm – and coincidentally showed they had their priorities right.’ We wrangled affably about what hotels should and shouldn’t provide until well into the ribs, when I asked, ‘ How’s Simon?’ Susan licked her fingers. ‘How should he be? Sad, lonely.’

  ‘Back at work?’

  ‘He never left. Fiona says the only days he missed were Richard’s death, the day
after, and the one of the funeral.’

  ‘He must be devastated. They had such a good life together.’

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ Susan took a swig from her Budweiser, sliding me a sideways look past the bottle. I shook my head. She removed the bottle from her lips with a slight pop. ‘ I think people are far more devastated when they didn’t have a good life with the person who’s gone.’

  I thought I understood what she meant. ‘ Go on.’

  ‘It’s remorse that sends people into a decline. Even if they don’t recognize it as such. Remorse, and regret about all the things that weren’t right, that they didn’t say or do, that they didn’t bother to put right because they thought they’d have the opportunity in the future, and now that option’s been taken away. So – my theory is, the closer the couple the quicker the recovery.’

  I thought about this. I remembered my grandmother dying, and my grandfather’s subsequent withdrawal from life, a man defeated by grief. Did Susan’s theory mean that their marriage had been sixty years of grim, collusive misery? It was too dreadful to contemplate.

  ‘It’s one way of looking at it,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t allow for the difference in individual responses. Some people are simply more resilient.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ replied Susan. ‘But I have my reputation for sweeping generalizations to consider.’

  She didn’t often send herself up, but when she did she was spot on.

  Having amassed a spot of credit, she continued unabashed. ‘So it follows that Simon will recover well and move on into this new phase of his life with his chin well up. Anyway, I’ve told him to, so wilting is not an option.’

  I felt a pang of sympathy for Simon in the face of this abrasive philosophy. But I also knew that it was not without self-interest. Simon was Susan’s pal, as I was – she needed him to flourish.

  We polished off the ribs, and the platters of sticky red bones, enough to make Verity faint, were borne away. Susan sighed contentedly.

  ‘I shall have a digestive ciggy before choosing a pud …’ She tilted the packet towards me briefly. ‘Sure you won’t?’

  ‘You know perfectly well I never have. Ever.’

  She lit up, squinting wickedly at me through the smoke. ‘I’d accuse you of being tiresomely clean-living only I know different.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I love the autumn,’ she went on, exhaling reflectively in the general direction of the window. ‘I hate the spring. But I love the autumn.’

  ‘We’re still in summer, really,’ I pointed out. I sounded pedantic, but I didn’t mean to be. Usually I, too, liked the autumn, but this year it made me feel uneasy. I dreaded the short days and dark evenings, the hurrying through the cold, the pained coughing of the ancient Morris, the ever-lengthening ‘run-up’ to Christmas … Why it was known as a run-up was beyond me, since it was more like a slow and arduous assault on K2 without oxygen. Everyone would converge on Alderswick Avenue, expecting Glyn and I to work some kind of seasonal magic that would lift them, for the best part of two days, on to another plane of existence, where angels sang and children frolicked and Santa gave everyone exactly what they wanted without incurring the disfavour of the bank manager. We almost always nearly managed it. But the failure of the great family Christmas to be perfect made me feel it was a disaster. One passage of arms, one slammed door, one picky phone call – or no phone call at all – and the dream was soured, and it would feel like my fault. And this year, of all years, I wasn’t sure I could face being the focus of so much expectation.

  ‘… the point is,’ Susan was saying, ‘that September’s the beginning of the academic year. At school we hated it, but now that we’re nearly grown-up we can enjoy sharpening our pencils and cleaning our rubbers. I think this is the time to make good resolutions.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said fervently. ‘ I’m going to be a better person, more hardworking, and more truthful.’

  ‘Ah!’ Susan looked along her finger at me as though it were the barrel of a gun. ‘Let’s define our terms. Do you mean more truthful, or more honest?’

  ‘They’re the same thing.’

  ‘Of course they’re not. Truthful is like priggish little George Washington saying ‘‘I cannot tell a lie’’. Honesty’s a state of mind.’

  ‘That’s ducking the issue,’ I said.

  ‘No, no, no. Look.’ She leaned forward on her folded arms, staring intently into my face. ‘Truthful is when your friend asks, ‘‘Do I look okay?’’ and you say, ‘‘No, you look fat and vulgar and like mutton dressed as lamb.’’ ’

  ‘That’s a death wish!’

  ‘Well, okay, it’s an extreme example, but truthfulness is extreme. Honest is saying, ‘‘ It’s okay but it does nothing for you. You’re wasted in that.’’ See?’

  ‘That’s being tactful.’ She’d blown it now – how many times had she said something like the second and possibly meant the first? ‘It’s a false distinction,’ I insisted. ‘And anyway, we’re straying from the point here. I just want to be an all-round better person.’

  ‘Much too vague,’ said Susan. ‘Too non-specific. You won’t even start, let alone make any progress.’

  ‘Gosh, thanks for the encouragement, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘It’s true though! When it comes to self-improvement, man ageable targets are the thing. Better to say I will only drink gin on a Monday and stick to it, than to take the pledge and be plunged into misery and self-loathing because you get beat.’

  There was no arguing with this. ‘So what’s yours?’

  ‘Simple,’ replied Susan, picking up the dessert menu, ‘I’m going to devote myself to the fun principle. For instance, I’m going to dispense with the usual empty show of unwillingness and go straight for the pecan pie with whipped cream.’

  I jeered. ‘That’s not resolve, that’s complete and utter spine-lessness!’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I’ll have a fudge sundae,’ I said, determined to match her pud for pud.

  ‘See? It’s easy.’

  ‘But it won’t do us any good, quite the reverse.’

  ‘I disagree. Banishing guilt will do us good. As well as having fun, I’m going to take a leaf out of your book, Mrs Lewis, and have lots and lots of commitment-free sex.’

  ‘Who with?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s not very polite!’ she shrieked delightedly. ‘Are you implying that I can’t rustle up a bit of zipless bonking on my own account? How dare you!’ She was in terrifically good spirits.

  ‘What I meant was, has Mr Wonderful showed up?’

  ‘No, but he’s about to. I feel it in my water. He could be right here, now, in this restaurant, scribbling a note for the waiter to bring over.’ We both involuntarily glanced round. ‘Never mind. I’m completely optimistic. He’s out there somewhere – buying socks, clinching deals, sitting in the car wash, hung like a jackass—’ I flinched – ‘ and steadily, inexorably, making his way towards me.’

  ‘Here’s to him.’ I raised my glass.

  The waitress came over. ‘Some dessert for you, ladies.’ She pronounced this as a statement, as though she were serving us as she spoke. She had a pencil tied with blue tape to her belt, and she did something nifty with it, flicking it into the air and catching it. Susan was enchanted.

  ‘You betcha – a double fudge sundae and pecan pie with whipped cream.’

  The girl, a wag, turned to me. ‘And you, ma’am?’

  ‘She’ll have what I’m having,’ said Susan.

  ‘Coming right up.’

  ‘I hope to God she doesn’t take us literally,’ I murmured doubtfully as the girl strode away, ponytail swinging.

  She called our bluff nicely by bringing us each two half-helpings, with a supremely confident ‘There you go – have a good one.’

  Conversation ground to a halt under the sheer weight of food. We were both defeated before we’d cleared our plates. Susan groaned.

  ‘Rememb
er those eating competitions we used to have at school?’

  ‘I do – disgusting.’

  ‘Weren’t they? Because the food was so repulsive. How could we have done it?’

  ‘It all goes to show,’ I said, ‘ the indomitable spirit of the average British schoolgirl.’

  ‘The spirit that built an Empire.’

  ‘The spirit that brought cricket to the world.’

  ‘The bulldog breed.’

  ‘True Brit!’

  ‘Bullshit!’ squeaked Susan. We giggled. We’d had a lot of beer.

  By the time we got up to leave we were feeling very little pain. Perhaps that was why I drew no inference from an exchange we had downstairs in the Ladies. I was leaning across the basin to the mirror, reapplying eyeliner with the meticulous care and steady hand of the nicely tipsy. Susan was still behind closed doors.

  ‘I bet you were astonished to see Henry at the wake,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I was rather. But it was a lovely idea.’

  ‘I’m a terrible old romantic. And you say he didn’t see you?’

  ‘No. He was in a world of his own.’

  Susan’s laugh was drowned by the sound of the lavatory flushing, but as she emerged the broad grin was still on her face.

  ‘You are a funny pair!’

  I laughed with her as she joined me at the mirror. She pushed her glasses up on top of her head and squinted at her reflection.

  ‘That’s another thing,’ she said. ‘ I think I’m going to put on some weight.’

  ‘You mean you intend to?’

  ‘Yes. Today was the first step on the road to my re-invention.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’ I turned round and leaned against the basin, watching her tilt her face this way and that.

  ‘Because it’s bad to be thin as one gets older. It makes a person wrinkly. Very soon I’ll look like a knock-kneed chicken.’