Not Quite Nice

by Celia Imrie

  Most people were too busy staring at Zoe’s new strangely stretched face, now in an expression of perpetual astonishment, or searching her visage to see whether they could recognise any remaining traces of the pre-Switzerland Zoe, to listen to any of the words that came out of her swollen trout-pout mouth.

  The local view was that the burglaries were being done by kids or teenagers. The police took a low-profile outlook on the crimes too.

  ‘Albanians on day-trips from Italy,’ they said. ‘Perhaps tourists? Or petty crooks, coming over for the day from Marseille.’

  A man had been reported, on a couple of occasions, lurking in the streets of Bellevue-Sur-Mer, peering through windows and letterboxes. His unkempt, straggly long hair and unshaven face had attracted attention, not to mention the fact that his clothes were rather dirty.

  ‘A clochard!’ exclaimed the local businessmen indignantly. ‘A tramp!’

  The tramp had not been seen in Bellevue-Sur-Mer for a few weeks, but the gendarmerie had received calls about his presence in many towns and villages along the coast from Cannes to Cap d’Ail. But, so far, he had never been discovered in the act of anything more sinister than walking about looking intently at houses, so no action had been taken.

  Theresa made the occasional phone call to Imogen, but had learned to brace herself and never to dial before taking a deep breath, sitting down and pouring herself a glass of wine. She went on inviting, while Imogen went on sneering. Despite the hurtful comments, Theresa loved her flat more and more. She had no regrets about leaving Highgate and moving to Bellevue-Sur-Mer.

  Theresa was really enjoying the whole process of the Cookery Club now. She was sitting at her table early one morning, totting up the figures, when she realised that since the first session the numbers had doubled and if any more people turned up she would have to start doing two sessions a week as there would not be enough room in the flat to accommodate them all. She brought out her calculator and after a few minutes tapping in numbers she could see that from her calculations, she would have repaid the loan for the boiler by Easter. She put the accounts aside and started working out the necessary ingredients for tonight’s session when Brian came in from outside.

  ‘Another flat taken,’ he said, pulling off his jacket. ‘I really am looking, Theresa, but every time I see a suitable place by the time I get to the agent the place is gone. I was this close today.’ He held up his finger and thumb with a fraction of air between them.

  ‘Oh, Brian, don’t be silly,’ said Theresa. ‘You can stay as long as you like. You’re always so helpful around the house and you make very good tea.’

  ‘Is that a hint?’ asked Brian, moving towards the kettle.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Theresa, shuffling her papers into some order. ‘Look at the time. I’ve got to dash out for tonight’s stuff.’

  ‘The Huit-à-8? I wouldn’t. I passed it on my way down. That tramp’s been prowling round outside, shouting obscenities at everyone going in and out. The police are there, taking statements.’

  ‘Really?’ said Theresa. ‘I thought they said he wasn’t dangerous?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Brian filled the teapot with hot water and rinsed it out. ‘Look how many places have been burgled lately.’

  Theresa crossed her fingers. ‘I know. It makes one feel so nervous when there are shady characters lurking round the place. But anyhow I’m heading into town for the market,’ said Theresa. ‘The produce is much fresher and I need a huge box of watercress. I’m making soup.’

  ‘Yum,’ said Brian.

  Naturally, that night at the Cookery Club, the tramp was the main subject of conversation.

  ‘I hope he’s not burgling us all while we’re in here,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s hardly worth losing all your valuables for a bowl of home-made soup and a glass of plonk.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll be all right.’ Brian beamed. He seemed pretty certain. ‘So do we leave this watercress in the iced water, Theresa, or just rinse it?’

  ‘They’re watching him, Zoe,’ said Ted. ‘If he tries anything, the gendarmes will be all over that clochard, like flies round . . .’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Theresa, putting a hand up. ‘Not while we’re talking food.’ She peered at the work top in front of Sally. ‘You’re very behind . . .’

  ‘Well, they will,’ said Sally, hacking into an onion and throwing the pieces into an oiled frying pan. ‘Jolly good thing too. I know, I know. I won’t be a minute.’

  Theresa looked around for some spare space to put down her board, and shifted the answering machine along. She noticed its little red light was blinking. In the rush of getting things ready she hadn’t bothered to check it between getting in from town and the first people arriving.

  Ah well, she thought, there’s nothing so desperate that can’t wait an hour or so. Anyhow, everyone she knew was here in the room, so it was probably only a wrong number or someone asking if she wanted double-glazing.

  ‘Mine’s all ready,’ said Carol. ‘I’m absolutely ravenous. Can we get on?’

  ‘Put a sock in it, 57,’ said Ted, lifting his bowl of ingredients high above his head, like a champion. ‘Even a Neanderthal like me is ready.’

  ‘Everybody, leave the ingredients in the ice bowl.’ Theresa tried to bring the club back to order. ‘Now, folks, as I only have one blender, we’re going to have to stagger the next process. So, in the meanwhile, let whoever isn’t at the blender, sit at the table and enjoy a verre du vin. Perhaps Ted and Jessica could pulverise first?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ said Sally, briskly stirring in her chopped watercress, and starting humming the chorus of ‘Love and Marriage’.

  Faith knocked over a glass of water and Zoe rooted about in her bag, pulling out an English newspaper, which she spread over the table to soak it up.

  ‘How surprising,’ said Faith. ‘I didn’t imagine you to be one of those nostalgic Brits, Zoe, who like to keep in touch with the homeland.’

  ‘The Daily Muckraker?’ snapped Zoe. ‘I occasionally buy the vile, right-wing rag to remind me why I’m so happy here and why I never want to go back to Blighty and live among all those smug, self-righteous, finger-pointing prigs and prudes.’

  Jessica’s eyes flickered. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Hey, Sal?’ Ted called across the counter. ‘Did you manage to sell the folks’ old place back in Pom-land?’

  ‘Yes. I told you, Ted, didn’t I? A few months ago.’

  ‘Yowser,’ grinned Ted. ‘So you must be worth a few quid, then. Like to take me on a holiday somewhere?’

  Sally flicked a piece of onion at him. ‘Always worth a try,’ he laughed.

  ‘I’m buying another place out here with it, Ted. You know that was always the plan. Anyway, the money’s all gone now.’

  She exchanged a look with Faith. The deal between them was still a secret. Sally gave Faith a wink. Faith blushed a little.

  Sally started singing a chorus of Madness’s ‘Our House’.

  ‘I thought that the police had collared that tramp,’ said Faith, in a voice loud enough to drown out Sally. For the Cookery Club, Faith was now partnered with Brian, leaving Theresa free to perform the demonstrations.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Zoe. ‘The ruddy bastard was out there swearing at the top of his voice and the girl in the shop said that so many people complained that the police had carted the little fucker away in a van.’

  ‘Good thing too,’ said Ted, placing his hand in the small of Jessica’s back to steer her across to the cooking counter. ‘If I’d been the boys in blue I’d have bagged that sundowner weeks ago.’

  Faith turned to Ted and asked why he had earlier said 57 in the middle of a sentence.

  ‘Is it code?’ she asked.

  He jerked his head towards Carol.

  ‘My mate, 57. Before she married David there, she was maiden named Heinz. Am I right or wrong?’

  ‘Oh!’ Carol rolled her eyes. ‘Who cares?’
>
  ‘The Heinz?’ asked Faith. ‘Heinz of Pennsylvania?’

  Carol shrugged.

  ‘How did I not know that?’ said Zoe.

  Brian smiled, and bent low over his chopping board.

  ‘You don’t have children do you, Carol,’ asked Faith.

  Carol shuddered. ‘Allergic, I’m afraid.’

  David took a deep breath.

  ‘You cannot be allergic to children, Carol,’ he said. ‘You’re just not adult enough to take on the responsibility.’

  Carol rolled her eyes and said flatly: ‘Joke!’

  ‘That’s a lovely painting on the wall, Theresa,’ said Faith out of nowhere.

  ‘My mother left it to me,’ she said. ‘It’s a Dufy.’

  ‘It’s sweet,’ said Faith.

  ‘Do you know, Theresa,’ William called across the kitchen, ‘we come here week after week, and I have never yet asked you where you found this fabulous glass table?’

  ‘I thought I’d told you weeks ago,’ yelled Theresa. ‘I adore it. It was from that furniture cave down near the port.’

  ‘The one near the flea market?’ asked William.

  ‘You must go there,’ said Theresa, as she helped Jessica pour her mixture into the blender. ‘It’s a treasure house.’

  ‘Didn’t you know? It’s been shut down,’ said William.

  ‘No?’ said Theresa, scraping the last pieces into the jug.

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied William. ‘The owner was a crook.’

  Theresa couldn’t help catching eyes with Benjamin, who looked immediately at the floor.

  ‘My glass is empty,’ he said, adjusting his bow tie. ‘Carol, dear, be a poppet and pass me the red.’

  When Benjamin looked up again Theresa caught the fleeting glance, which was more of a glare, ordering her to drop the subject of both the table and the furniture cave instantly.

  Theresa pressed the button on the blender, successfully drowning out any further opportunity at conversation for anybody in the room.

  Once they had all pulverised their cooked ingredients, they stood round the table pouring the finished product into jars to take home for later, while Theresa served up a large tureen of the soup, so that they could all gather round and eat it.

  Just as the last bowl had been filled with steaming green soup and they all reached out for a spoonful of cream and a sprinkle of paprika and piment d’Espelette, there was a hammering on Theresa’s front door.

  ‘Oh no,’ murmured Theresa, immediately imagining Sian standing at the other side of the door with a raised axe.

  Ted and Carol obviously thought the same thing, for he ducked down under the table, while she rose from her seat and took a few steps towards the door, before Theresa stopped her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Carol,’ she said. ‘This time I can handle it.’

  The hammering continued.

  ‘Calm down,’ said Theresa, rubbing her hands down her apron, before reaching for the latch.

  She took a deep breath and opened up.

  Standing on the step was a gendarme.

  ‘Je cherche Madame Connor,’ he said. ‘Elle est ici?’

  Sally’s face blanched as, hearing her name, she rose and moved slowly towards the open door.

  ‘I’m Sally Connor.’ She spoke to the policeman in French. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

  The policeman burst out laughing and stepped aside.

  From behind him stepped a tramp – a tall man with long matted hair, a straggling beard and ragged clothing. From where she stood Sally could smell him. It was not pleasant.

  ‘Eez zat ’er?’ said the gendarme to the tramp, who nodded. He turned back to Sally and said: ‘Madame Connor, je vous presente un cadeau. I ’ave a present for you.’

  The tramp smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. He rushed towards the open door, as Sally staggered away from him.

  ‘Thank God’ said the tramp, in perfect English. ‘I’ve been searching for you for ever.’ He put out his arms and took another step towards Sally, who now stood still, agog, with her mouth open in surprise.

  ‘Mum? It’s me. Tom.’

  When the gendarme had left and Sally had scooped up her son and taken him away home, the Cookery Club meeting continued.

  No one spoke for a considerable time. They stood staring at each other, pop-eyed.

  Inevitably it was Zoe who broke the ice.

  ‘I’ve always said there are two mistakes no one ever admits to, and one is having had children.’

  There was a long pause, till Jessica asked what the second was.

  Zoe gave an insouciant shrug. ‘Having a sex-change operation, of course.’

  ‘Do you really think he’s the burglar?’ said Carol briskly.

  ‘In my humble opinion thieving bastards are lower than a snake’s belly,’ growled Ted.

  ‘Scum of the earth,’ said David.

  ‘Piece of shit,’ said Brian.

  ‘He certainly smelled like a sewer,’ said Zoe, laughing. ‘It is funny really when you think how pristine Sally always is.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a good reason behind it all,’ said Theresa, as she poured wine into every glass. ‘Bon appétit, mes amis.’

  As they quietly supped they all heard footsteps again, coming up the path.

  Everyone held their breath, each imagining it would be Sally back with explanations.

  There was a sharp rap on the door.

  ‘Uh oh!’ Ted winced, knowing that that was not Sally’s knock. ‘Please not chapter two.’

  ‘But of which problem?’ Theresa wiped her mouth and stood, ready for the fray.

  ‘Let me,’ said Brian, moving briskly towards the door and opening it. ‘Hello,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Can I help you?’

  Everyone knew from his tone that, whoever stood behind the door, it was no one he knew. Theresa came up beside him and peered out into the dark, at the outline of a person in the gloom.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mother,’ snapped the woman in the shadows of the doorstep. ‘It’s me. Imogen. The children are tired and hungry, would you kindly get this man out of the way so that we can come in?’

  WATERCRESS SOUP

  Ingredients

  1 small onion – chopped

  Bunch watercress – stalks removed

  Handful of spinach

  Butter

  Salt and pepper

  Ice

  Cream or crème fraiche

  Paprika and/or piment d’Espelette

  Method

  Gently fry the onion in the butter till translucent.

  Bring up the heat and add the watercress and spinach and cook till it wilts.

  Add 2 cups of boiling water, salt and pepper and boil for a couple of minutes.

  Pour mixture into bowl containing ice cubes to stop cooking and retain green colour

  Put into a liquidiser and whizz till smooth

  Reheat in saucepan, season to taste and serve.

  Put a daub of cream on top and sprinkle with paprika or piment d’Espelette.

  15

  Sally sat outside the bathroom, firing questions at Tom while he took a long shower.

  ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t ring me or email me?’

  ‘I told you, Mum, I was robbed. I kept in touch with you until I couldn’t. I managed to get all the way from Jaipur to Stuttgart, on the train, without a mishap. I came safely through Pakistan, Iran, Turkey, Romania, sometimes on real rattle-buckets and cattle-trucks. Then I fell asleep on a fancy commuter train from Germany to Zurich and while I was snoring in the warmth some bastard ran off with my case.’

  ‘But you could still have phoned me, Tom.’

  ‘Well, yes, I could have done then, but I wanted it to be a surprise.’

  Sally could hear him splashing about, before he turned the shower taps off.

  ‘I was so looking forward to seeing you. How was I to know I’d get mugged in Genoa?’

  ‘Mugged?’

  ‘I was waiting at some
horrid little station under the principal terminus, trying to get a late local train to Ventimiglia and a vile gang of kids held a knife to me while they took my coat, my wallet, my trainers, my phone, my tickets, everything and scarpered. Your address, your phone number, your email, it was all on that phone.’

  ‘Have you got enough towels?’ Sally asked, pulling another one from the linen cupboard behind her and fluffing it up. ‘I still don’t understand how you ended up here, swearing at people, Tom? It’s just not like you to be abusive.’

  ‘I wasn’t swearing.’

  ‘You were. Everyone heard you. It was the talk of the town.’

  ‘I was calling your name.’

  Sally hesitated before replying. Was her son all right in the head, after his tribulations?

  ‘Work it out,’ he yelled through the door. ‘The policeman explained it to me. It’s very rude apparently. But I don’t speak French, so I don’t know.’

  ‘Sally? Sally? Sally?’ repeated Sally.

  ‘I don’t call you Sally. You’re my mum.’

  ‘You were calling out “mum”?’ Sally tried out saying the word to herself a few times.

  ‘Nooooo,’ said Tom. ‘I was yelling Madame Connor. Slowly, with a pause. Madame. Connor. I just wanted someone to say “Oh yes, I know her; she lives over there or up the road.”’

  ‘Madame Connor? Madame Connor?’ repeated Sally.

  Then it dawned on her. The French shoppers had thought Tom was saying Connard, or even Con, both of which were pretty racy words, certainly not spoken in polite society or yelled at women coming out of shops. The ladies must have thought he was calling them Lady Motherfucker, Mrs C--t! It had never entered Sally’s mind before, but in France her name was a liability. She couldn’t help but laugh.