Feeding Strawberries to Pigs

by Gerry Rose

  She left work earlier than usual and drove to the Fulham road. Giles was an easy man to please. His love of Italian olives, cheese, wine and fresh pasta would be easily satisfied by visiting his favourite shop. She parked in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital’s underground car park it was more expensive than finding a meter. She felt sure the health service would put the money to better use than the local council. She passed a group of patients attached to drips who stood by the revolving door dragging deeply on their cigarettes. The chill of the late September day would not be good for them, but they looked as though they had far greater concerns than a mild autumn breeze. She was reminded of the days when she used to smoke, just one of a series of things that Bernadette had introduced her to-all bad of course.

  Back at the apartment Christina unpacked her purchases with the excitement of knowing that Giles would think Christmas, New Year and Easter had arrived on the same day. He was easily pleased but she was aware that she had probably spent more on this one meal for two than her mother ever spent on a week’s family shopping. She could imagine what her mother would say if she was here now. Well she wasn’t here or likely to be invited back after the rude comments she had made about the apartment.

  ‘Sure it’s very white. Don’t things get dirty quickly? All this white is sure to do your eyesight no good.’

  Christina opened the first bottle of Chianti, she had been careful to choose labels she recognised, they had spent enough time in Tuscany over the last few years for Giles to be on first name terms with many of the growers in the Classico region. The wine’s bouquet reminded her of those lazy sunny days lying by the pool, sun kissed and comfortable in Giles’ undemanding presence. She put the olives, caramelised onions and artichoke hearts into white bowls and wrapped the olive and anchovy focaccia in foil, ready to be warmed in the oven, then she grated the parmigiano reggiano. It was to be a simple meal-the way Giles liked things, uncomplicated but containing the best ingredients. The pappardelle with mixed wild mushrooms was simple to prepare. They would have plenty of time to talk. She unwrapped the special cheeses which Giles much preferred to dessert, he would be particularly pleased that she managed to get some of his favourite ricotta.

  She had just finished laying the table when Giles arrived. She heard him come in immediately stow his squash racket in the hall cupboard and empty his sports bag into the laundry basket in the utility room.

  ‘Mmm something smells delicious! Are you spoiling me?’

  Giles entered looking relaxed and clean after his game of squash and sauna. Christina kissed his cheek and breathed in the heady scent of his aftershave. Giles was a man whose looks had improved with age, maturity had added distinction to his bland features, just as it had robbed some of his contemporaries of their clean good looks which had been based on sexy eyes and blonde hair. Giles approved of the wine and poured them both a large glass. They rarely drank during the week and Giles smiled to himself and felt a stirring which he felt sure predicted a night of love making. He had learned to accept over the years that he must allow Christina to take the initiative in their sex life. Although it didn’t happen very often he knew that when it did he was rarely disappointed. They sometimes went months without making love, only to have this followed by months when Christina seemed insatiable. He had never discovered why this should be, but he just felt grateful that after twenty-four years of making love to the same woman, he could feel the way he did tonight, just imagining the night ahead.

  They sat on the matching white sofas opposite each other, holding their glasses carefully both not wanting to spill any wine on the pristine covers. Silences between them were usually quite comfortable. Christina’s outer calm belied her inner struggle to find the right words to explain her fears. Giles always hated long winded stories and explanations, she would have to be brief and concise if she was going to keep his attention and convince him that he should take her seriously.

  ‘Giles, have you ever regretted that we never had children?’

  Giles gave her one of his looks which she knew meant-‘Oh you want to talk serious stuff.’

  ‘Christina what has brought this on? We haven’t had this conversation for a few years now.’

  There had been a time early on in their relationship when they had even toyed with the idea of letting nature take its course. Christina had been careful not to leave such things to something as messy and unpredictable as nature.

  ‘Oh just thinking about families in general, Giles.’

  ‘Have your sisters been on the ‘phone again? I suppose it’s getting near to the annual pilgrimage to visit your mother. Will you go with them this year? You ought to she’s getting on a bit you know.’

  ‘I know, but no, they haven’t. Well at least Angela and Frances haven’t. But I have felt for the last few weeks now that I am being watched.’

  Giles stared at her and with a look of quiet consternation said, ‘absolute nonsense. Is dinner ready?’

  ‘It will only take a few minutes. I’m being serious you know, I feel as if I’m being watched.’

  ‘I think you’ve being watching too many James Bond repeats on the box, Chrissy.’

  Christina felt patronised and knew that Giles only had eyes and mind for food tonight. And if he thought she was going to oblige his other fantasies he was going to be disappointed.

  They sat at the table and shared out the artichokes, caramelised onions and olives. Giles cut chunks of bread marvelling at its freshness. He told Christina about his squash game in minute detail, unaware and unconcerned that she was obviously not paying attention to a single word. Christina had little appetite, the strongly smelling onions seemed to compete with the aroma of the artichokes making the earlier feeling of nausea return. She nibbled at a small piece of bread having carefully removed the olives and anchovies first. The pasta left Giles speechless and Christina was too deep in thought to notice or care.

  Later having cleared up Christina left Giles to watch the news. She was asleep or at least gave every illusion of being asleep by the time Giles came to bed.

  Christina waited until Giles left the apartment on Saturday morning and waited and watched as he loaded his golf clubs into the boot of his Jaguar.

  Dear Giles she thought, so predictable so reliable. She waited ten minutes before going upstairs and raising the loft hatch, retrieving the retractable ladder and climbing up into the loft space. She flicked on the light and grimaced as she saw the cobwebs that lay like a fine silk mesh over the old suitcases and boxes that were piled up on either side of the hatch. There was the faint aroma of cypress and she remembered that Giles had gone to a lot of trouble storing his father’s old army uniform in special moth proof bags, whilst she had thrown things into boxes and suitcases with little care whether they survived, but not brave enough to throw them away.

  She sat on the floor in the space between their respective piles of property. She reached for a box that Giles had neatly labelled ‘Photographs-babyhood up to starting secondary school 1942-1953. Inside she found leather bound albums of black and white photographs attached to the pages by silver photographs corners. A neat hand had annotated them, ‘Giles, Crystal Palace aged two’, ‘Giles, Brighton beach 1947’, ‘Giles, first day Croydon Grammar.’ There were photos of the family taken at the zoo and birthdays and Christmas which featured smiling aunts and bespectacled cousins. The stuff of most people’s lives, some may even say a record of a rather ordinary, mundane life. She carefully replaced the albums and closed the box.

  She had to search through a succession of her boxes containing work papers, cuttings and invoices before she found an old manila envelope that contained her past. She poured its contents onto the floor in front of her and felt her chest tighten as the dust rose and the memories replayed.

  One rather creased photograph stood out. It was of her and Bernadette standing outside what was their first home-Meesons Camp. She shuddered, but looked closely at the photograph hoping that it would reveal something to sh
ow her that what had happened was predictable. The photograph showed an attractive girl, of about eleven with blonde curly hair and big eyes. She was looking directly at the camera with her arms around her younger, plainer sister in what looked like an embrace. On closer inspection and in Christina’s heart she knew that in reality, she Maureen, as she was then was being restrained, not hugged.

  Another was a family photo taken at the new house, the date scribbled in pencil on the back said 1956. It showed Bernadette a sultry teenager draped on the arm of one end of the sofa, whilst she sat wedged between her parents, looking timid next to a beaming toddler-Frances and baby Angela sitting on her mother’s knee smiling a big gummy smile. She remembers that divan sofa, part of a three piece suite bought on hire purchase. To her ten year old’s eye the red ‘bobbly’ fabric had at first given the room a majestic feel, but her mother had spoiled that by covering it in antimacassars which had masses of sprigged shamrocks embroidered on them. Her mother had said the sofa was designed to be used as a guest bed. The thought of guests sounded exotic and exciting but none ever came and this had felt like a betrayal even then.

  She looked closer as if it could reveal answers to the questions that flew around her head. She had no memory of posing for this photograph, yet the photograph proved that the event took place. Christina stared at Bernadette and felt stricken again by a deep seated feeling of panic, she must not let this person enter her life again. She scooped up the photographs and put them back into the envelope. She wished she could throw it away, but she still found its contents both repelling and fascinating. The telephone rang and she decided to let it go on to answer phone. As she climbed down the ladder she heard part of the message that was being recorded.

  ‘I wish to speak to Maureen Collins most urgently please…’

  Christina froze on the ladder her hands gripped the sides so tightly that her knuckles went very white. Her legs shook involuntarily and her mouth felt suddenly dry. She didn’t recognise the voice but felt sure it had something to do with Bernadette. Her hands gripped the ladder, and she felt the same paralysis that she had experienced in the hall yesterday. She was aware of what she was doing, but was powerless to control it. She felt like she was in a deep, water filled quarry and the ladder was her only means of escape. But she could not move and she knew that soon the water would rise and drown her.

  CHAPTER 2

  Frances put the ‘phone down and sighed heavily. She walked into the kitchen ignoring the abandoned bowls of breakfast cereal. She opened the fridge but could not ignore the photograph that she had stuck on the front of it. It was a truly repulsive image, it showed her in her bathing suit in the pool with Celeste on their summer holiday last year. She didn’t know why the photograph had triggered the desire to diet, she often felt she had been born fat, but the few baby photographs that she had seen did not support this theory. She often wondered if she had had no choice but to become fat.

  The salad box bulged with celery, lettuce, cucumber and tomatoes. She grimaced and shut the door, she kept her eyes closed as she felt for the cupboard and only opened them when she felt confident that the next thing she would see was chocolate.

  She had always loved chocolate. Her happiest childhood memories always contained a bar of the new Galaxy chocolate or a box of Maltesers. Bernadette and chocolate would be forever linked in her memory. She remembered John Whitaker one of Bernadette’s first conquests, he’d lived in a detached house on the road that Bernadette and Maureen, as she was then, had walked along on their way to the Convent School. She had told Frances that one morning he had stood by his front gate and called out to them as they passed. He had said that he was doing Art A’ level and wanted to draw Bernadette. Things like that were always happening to Bernadette. Maureen had gone along with her the first few times so Mammy and Daddy would not get suspicious. But one day Maureen refused and Bernadette said she had to come. When Bernadette said you had to do something you did it –or else. She thought about that time a lot, a time when Bernadette was such a large part of their lives. It must have been around 1959, she would have been about six or seven. It seemed like only yesterday, still so vivid, so real. Sitting in the bedroom that Bernadette shared with Maureen watching her get dressed.

  ‘As soon as I’m dressed we’ll be off Frances. You’re not going to be naughty today are you?’

  ‘Where we going then?’

  ‘Our little secret- you like chocolate now don’t you.’

  ‘Course, everyone in the whole wide world likes chocolate.’

  ‘Course they do and it’s not often they see the bar you’re going to get.’

  ‘Yippee. Why are you doing that?’

  ‘Oh I’m making Hairy Mary smell beautiful.’

  ‘I don’t have hairs there.’

  ‘Not at the moment but one day you will.’

  ‘And then I’ll have to puts perfume on them too.’

  Frances remembered walking up the road proud to be with her glamorous sister. Bernadette, blonde, slim and of course what she recognised now –sexy. Her mother of course couldn’t handle it. To anyone born in Ireland when the Church was still so powerful, sex was the dirtiest word of them all. Her mother didn’t know the half of it. And her father? He must have had a good idea of what she got up to. He used to follow them all. She remembered seeing him on his bike watching her from the road, whilst she played with friends at the recreation ground. No one had the power to stop Bernadette from being herself.

  John Whittaker lived in the kind of house that their mother would have loved. Not ostentatious, just respectable, large and clean. John was the kind of boy that took his circumstances for granted. Frances remembered that she had noticed the fitted hall carpet first. It had muted colours and was soft underfoot. John barely looked at her, they were ushered in immediately and John’s hands seemed drawn by magnetic force to Bernadette’s body.

  ‘Hang on John let’s get Frances settled first.’

  She was taken into a enormous sitting room where a large grey three piece seat seemed to dominate the room. There was an odd cupboard in the corner which held dainty glasses and bottles. On one shelf stood a display of glass animals she was drawn to it and stood staring at glass deer, cats and horses. Bernadette pulled her away and made her sit on the sofa; she remembered that it was so big that her legs stuck out in front of her. It was then that John gave her the biggest bar of chocolate she had ever seen.

  ‘It’s almost as big as you.’ he said.

  Frances liked his voice, he didn’t speak like the boys on their estate. She could understand him.

  ‘Thank you very much’ she said.

  ‘God, Bernadette your sister has an Irish accent.’

  She didn’t remember what Bernadette’s reply was because they went upstairs to ‘do art’ or so they told her. She supposed she probably did have an Irish accent when she was four. She never had been to nursery and was not allowed to play with the other children on the estate. Many years later she found out that Bernadette and Maureen had been sent to elocution classes. Her sisters were made to teach Frances and Angela how to speak with English accents.

  When they got home, Frances remembered feeling nervous at first, she had hated lying to her parents pretending that Bernadette had taken her to the swings. The promise that she would be given more chocolate everytime they visited John’s house, made her willing to lie about anything. The next time she went it was an enormous box of Maltesers. She lost count of days and times she went, as that period of her life was just measured in chocolate.

  The ‘phone call had irritated her, and left her with a nagging sense of guilt. Her mother always had a knack for making her feel guilty. As usual her mother had managed to bring Bernadette into the conversation. How she had been convinced that she had seen her yesterday. She’d tried to jolly her mother along comparing her sightings of Bernadette to those of fans of Elvis, who are convinced he is alive and well. But her mother had said that comparing Bernadette to a dead man was tac
tless. Tact- as if her mother knew anything about tact. The sound that tearing the chocolate wrapper made was satisfying; the smoothness of the chocolate and its familiar sweet smell was comforting. How could anything so delicious be bad for you? She suddenly had an image of the last time she made love with Dave flash into her head. She was reminded of two ridiculous Tellytubbies doing what Tellytubbies were never meant to do and she found herself laughing out loud. Sex or chocolate? No contest.

  Her mother had asked her how much weight she had lost.

  ‘Only two pounds? Well I s’pose Rome wasn’t built in a day and even though you were never as pretty as the others, won’t you look better once the weight is off.’

  She wished she had told her mother about Bernadette at the time. There were lots of things her mother did not know about Bernadette. It was years later before Frances finally worked out what Bernadette and John were really up to, and why they had both laughed when she had asked to see John’s paintings. Her parents like many immigrants had seen education as the only way that the next generation could acquire the status and wealth that they had been unable to accumulate. But, Bernadette knew that her looks and body were more of an asset than her brain and she was diligent in her pursuit of opportunities that would allow her to use her talents, in return for the best rewards.

  All Frances had to show for the deception was the love of chocolate. Maureen or Christina as she prefers to be called had the looks and the brains, but a heart of ice and Angela? Earnest Angela, the baby of the family and the peacemaker. Once considered the golden girl because she had been the first person in the family to go to University and because she had married a public school boy was now turning out to be a disappointment too. Frances looked down and was surprised to see that she had just two squares of chocolate left. Chocolate bars, like wine bottles were definitely getting smaller. Those bars at John Whittaker’s seemed to go on and on. She used to synchronise her chewing with the rhythm of the sounds that came from John Whittaker’s bedroom.