Growing Up for Beginners

by Claire Calman

  Roger’s heavy tread on the stair. Eleanor shoved her plate of panettone to one side and picked up the potato peeler.

  ‘Happy Christmas, darling!’ She jumped up and went to kiss him.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ He bobbed his head to kiss her. ‘Good Lord, what a vast number of spuds! I thought we were only eight for lunch, not eighty!’ He laughed.

  ‘There’s some panettone, if you’d like, for breakfast?’

  ‘No, no!’ He waved it away with an expression of mock-horror, or possibly actual horror. ‘I can’t understand people wanting to eat cake for breakfast.’ Roger sat down at the table at the other end from the potatoes.

  ‘Well, it’s not really a cake, it’s more like—’

  ‘No, it’s far too rich for me. Perhaps I’ll just have something light – some scrambled eggs, darling. With a bit of smoked salmon on the side. And a single slice of toast. That’ll do me.’ He sat back and picked up yesterday’s paper, which she had left folded by his place setting.

  She suppressed a sigh as she abandoned the potatoes and went to the fridge to get out eggs, milk, and smoked salmon.

  ‘What time are you off to fetch your mum?’

  ‘Not till around ten.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Any coffee?’

  ‘I can make some.’ Honestly. It wouldn’t kill him to get off his arse and make himself a coffee, at least, while she was cooking his bloody eggs. She’d almost bought him a coffee-maker as his Christmas present – one of those ones with the little capsules or pods you slot in and it does it all for you – but she had recalled that some months ago Roger had gone on about how there was no substitute for proper, fresh-brewed coffee and he was certain it couldn’t possibly be in the same league.

  ‘Good, good.’ He peered at her over the top of the paper. ‘Now might be the perfect moment to give you your present.’

  ‘Really?’ She half-turned, while stirring the eggs. ‘Before lunch?’ Roger had always maintained that presents should never be opened until teatime, when one might open them at a leisurely pace while having tea and Christmas cake, a delay that had driven the children near-crazy with bottled-up anticipation when they were little, until Eleanor had hit on the idea of making them outsize Christmas stockings; then she could stuff most of their presents inside and, of course, even Roger had to accept that it was usual to open stockings first thing in the morning.

  ‘You’re going to love it, I know.’ He smiled with a worrying glint.

  Eleanor turned from stirring his eggs and attempted a smile. Her husband’s confidence about what she would and wouldn’t love was often misplaced. She had emailed him, at his request, a few infallible suggestions, including links to the exact part of each website to make it as fuss-free as possible, but sometimes he was determined to go off-piste, as had happened on her birthday.

  ‘I can’t leave the eggs now, though, or they’ll burn.’

  ‘After breakfast then. I can wait for mine till later.’

  ‘Close your eyes, darling!’

  Oh God, that didn’t bode well. She hoped it wasn’t another ruddy hoover, not like three years ago. Or a bloody food processor.

  ‘You can open them now! Dah-dah!’

  ‘Wow!’ He had to be kidding surely? ‘Goodness!’ What the fuck was she supposed to say? It was a Nespresso coffee-maker, not wrapped, but bound with a huge red satin ribbon.

  ‘It’s marvellous.’ Roger patted the box as if it were a much-loved pet. ‘The coffee is excellent and there’s plenty of choice with all the different pods – Colombian, Costa Rican, etc. I was rather sceptical at first, but Alan recently got one for his office so I’ve tested it numerous times and it’s really very superior quality. I defy you to tell the difference between this and fresh-ground beans. And – best of all – there’s no mess! No coffee grounds for you to get all het up about, darling!’

  Was he serious? Perhaps it was just some bizarre, rather expensive joke? Surely not even Roger could be so wrapped up in himself that he had somehow forgotten he was married to a person who didn’t drink coffee?

  ‘Gosh!’ She pretended to study the box. ‘Yes, I had heard they were good. Funnily enough, I had considered getting you one for Christmas but thought you didn’t like them.’

  ‘That would have been funny. I knew you’d be thrilled. I can set it up for you later.’

  Was her face really conveying ‘thrilled’? She was tempted to dash to the mirror in the ground-floor loo to check.

  She flicked the kettle on to make herself a cup of tea, partly so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

  ‘I don’t actually drink coffee, though,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘I think it does mocha. It may even do tea – who knows? It’ll say on the box, I should think. Or in the booklet thingy.’

  Clearly, she was supposed to be grateful that it might do tea, even though she was pretty damn sure that it didn’t. Even if it did, how would that help? Anyone who had known Eleanor for more than five minutes would know that, for her, half the pleasure lay in the ritual of tea-making, the anticipation, the enjoyable delay: warming the pot, spooning in the leaves, the soft clink as she set the strainer on her cup.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Roger’s fork clattered onto the plate.

  ‘Oh, don’t say you’ve gone into a huff about it just because you don’t drink coffee that much yourself? Honestly, Eleanor, don’t be so selfish! It’s not like you at all.’

  ‘I’m not being selfish. It’s just that I don’t drink coffee. Ever. As you know.’

  ‘Nonsense. You do sometimes. I’ve seen you so you can’t deny it. You had a cappuccino in a café that time. When we were on holiday.’

  ‘About once a year, tops. In Italy. If I feel like it.’

  ‘Well, you’d be bound to have it much more often if you had a fancy, posh coffee-maker right here in your own kitchen, wouldn’t you? And it’ll save you washing out the cafetières each time, which you always make such a song and dance about. I was thinking of you.’

  Her shoulders sagged. What was the point?

  ‘Sorry. I’m sure you were. Thank you.’

  ‘Well.’ He sniffed. ‘I suppose I’d best get on and fetch Mum. See you later.’

  A glance at the table settings confirms that, unsurprisingly, Roger had ignored his wife’s suggestions and placed his mother next to her, with Jane on his mother’s other side, thus depriving Eleanor of the one guest she’d most like to talk to and giving her the one she’d like least. Though, to be fair, this was more likely to be due to his own desire to have both his mother and Jane as far away from himself as possible, sitting at the other end of the table. On her other side, she would have her father, at least, though again this was simply because Roger didn’t want him at his end. Freddie, another neighbour, was on Conrad’s other side. Eleanor quickly swapped Jane and Joyce’s name-cards around and hoped that Roger either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t want to make a fuss in front of guests.

  Roger carved. Of course. He was old-fashioned in this respect, believing that there was something inherently wrong about a woman’s carving. In fact, as Eleanor was still attending to things in the kitchen, she was happy to relinquish it to him. Also, she did not like to witness her husband carving. There was something unpleasantly slow and surgical about it that she found disturbing; it had the same deliberate quality as when he excised the final page from one of her novels, so it made her feel sick even to watch him. And he would say, inevitably, ‘Light or dark?’ to each guest, instead of ‘Leg or breast?’ If it were up to her, she would carve plenty of slices of each and place them on a serving platter in the centre of the table for people to help themselves. It would be faster, too. With Roger’s way, the first person was left sitting watching their food go cold while they politely waited for every other person to be served. Also, he always cut off the outer slice and set it to one side to save for himself. Roger liked the skin, and the way the flesh was smooth and perfect beneath it on that slice only, rather
than cut.

  ‘Not quite as good as last year, darling,’ he pronounced on her homemade cranberry sauce, ‘but still superior to the shop-bought product, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s the best I’ve ever had,’ Jane said. ‘It’s all so delicious.’

  ‘What are all these bits in the gravy, Roger?’ his mother hissed, not even slightly lowering her voice. ‘Did she not sieve it?’

  ‘It’s just a bit of onion, Mum. Fish it out for her, will you, darling?’ Roger bellowed at his wife from the other end of the table. He frowned, presumably suddenly noticing that she wasn’t sitting next to his mother after all.

  ‘I always used to run mine through a sieve.’ Joyce turned to Jane. ‘That way, there are no lumps, you see.’

  ‘It’s really very good, you know. Those pieces are caramelised onion – they’re delicious. Do try them.’

  Eleanor smiled at Jane and reached for her wine. God, she’d nearly finished her allotted single glass. She’d meant to spin it out slowly, but every time her mother-in-law spoke, she found herself reaching for her glass. Maybe she could pretend she’d run out of petrol – silly me! – so Roger would have to take his mother back. Or Joyce would have to stay over, which would be awful, but at least then she could have more wine. But Roger would be bound to check, knowing him. He’d never take her word for it.

  ‘Do you know why you cry when you chop onions?’ Conrad asked the table at large. Sometimes her father could be like a twelve-year-old boy, wanting to regale you with facts; it was fine, but didn’t always help the flow of conversation.

  ‘No, do please tell us,’ Jane said.

  ‘If you must,’ Roger added.

  Conrad launched into an explanation of how cutting the onion ruptured the walls of numerous cells, thus releasing a volatile sulphur compound, syn-propanethiol S-oxide, which irritates your eyes, stimulating the lachrymal glands to produce tears to wash away the source of the irritation.

  ‘How very interesting,’ Jane said.

  ‘I always wear my snorkel-mask when I’m cutting onions,’ said Freddie.

  ‘The best thing with gravy is to sieve it,’ Joyce said, pushing her glass towards the wine bottle so that someone would top it up.

  They pulled crackers and read out jokes and, all in all, it was no worse than Eleanor had expected. Oddly, she found she was rather looking forward to clearing up and loading the dishwasher and tackling the pots and pans later on. Roger always stayed well away from the kitchen then, presumably for fear he might be expected to assist in some way. She could turn on the radio and even sing along if Roger were listening to music in the sitting room via his headphones.

  After tea and cake and presents a little later, Roger turned to his mother and said, ‘Well, that really was a very good feed, wasn’t it, Mum?’

  ‘I’ve never been keen on marzipan.’ Joyce’s slice of cake had the marzipan picked off and laid round the rim of her plate like gobbets of unpleasant gristle.

  ‘No, but you liked the cake bit, didn’t you, Mum?’

  ‘I used to make a very good Christmas cake.’

  ‘Yes, you did. I remember it well.’

  ‘I don’t bake now,’ she announced. ‘I’ve not got the facilities. But everyone said that my cake was the best cake they’d ever eaten.’

  ‘It certainly was, Mum.’ Roger rose to his feet, to indicate that the party was now over, at least for his mother. ‘Eleanor’s going to drive you back now, so let’s go and get your coat on, shall we?’

  She slowly shuffled out towards the hallway and Eleanor could hear her saying, ‘Can’t you take me, Roger?’

  ‘I’d love to, Mum, you know I would, but I’m afraid I’ve had a drop too much wine. Better safe than sorry, eh?’

  Eleanor turned to her father.

  ‘I can drop you back first, then take Roger’s mother – if you’re tired, Daddy? It is a long walk.’ She suddenly felt a swell of affection for him, and wished it could just be the two of them. ‘Or come with me while I take her first, then we can talk on the way back to yours?’

  ‘It’s completely the opposite direction,’ Roger pointed out. ‘Mum needs her rest, you know.’

  ‘Isn’t her abode an hour’s drive away?’ Her father’s face was impassive but she knew the prospect of being cooped up in a car with Roger’s mother would seem like the eighth circle of Hell to him.

  ‘Well, yes, but there’ll be barely any traffic. We might well do it faster than that.’

  He dipped to kiss her cheek and whispered a brief sorry in her ear.

  ‘I do need the exercise,’ he said aloud. ‘Thank you very much for lunch. You are a superlative chef, daughter-dear, and it was kind of you to include me.’ Conrad turned to Roger and shook his hand. ‘Roger. Excellent wines. Well chosen.’ And with a wave and a ‘Merry Christmas!’, he was out the door with an annoying spring in his step.

  Eleanor settled her mother-in-law in the passenger seat and fastened her seatbelt for her. She paused a moment, seizing a tiny breath of solitude before the hour ahead. Come on, she tried to rally herself, she’s not that bad. And it is Christmas – try to be kind.

  ‘You know, if you soak the dried fruit in tea overnight then your cake won’t be so dry.’

  ‘Really? I must remember that.’

  ‘Roger prefers a cake that’s nice and moist.’

  ‘Rightio. Good to know.’ She put on her headlights and set off. ‘Let’s have some music.’ Eleanor didn’t wait for a response but put on the music she’d been listening to: Chopin.

  ‘I don’t like classical music.’

  ‘You’re welcome to select something else if you like on the radio. Please, be my guest.’ Eleanor gestured at the controls, knowing that Joyce wouldn’t attempt to tackle anything ‘technical’. Discreetly, she increased the volume slightly on her steering wheel control.

  Joyce sniffed – it must be a family trait – and clasped her handbag more firmly on her lap as if Eleanor might attempt to steal it at any moment.

  ‘Roger says he’s taking you on a luxury cruise. You’re very lucky.’

  ‘Hmm-mm.’

  ‘Yes, you’re certainly a very lucky woman. Roger could have had his pick, you know.’

  ‘Mmm-mm.’

  ‘My husband never took me on a cruise.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Of course I’ve not got the knees for it now. Too many steps.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Soon they would be there, and Eleanor would park and unload her mother-in-law with tremendous patience and care, rather than shoving her out of a moving car as she’d like to. She would escort her inside and then possibly skip back to her car. Yes, she would skip so that Joyce could see her. On the way home, she would have an hour to herself, possibly more if there were traffic, which she had a feeling there might well be, and she would put on something loud – the soundtrack of Oklahoma! or West Side Story, maybe – and sing her heart out.

  Eleanor had nearly finished the clearing up when Roger came in from the sitting room where he’d been sitting with his e-reader, savouring another glass of port.

  ‘Early night tonight, I think, yes?’ He put his hand on her waist and deposited a kiss on the back of her head.

  Their seasonal sex schedule always included some room for manoeuvre in case Eleanor happened to have her period or if they were travelling. They hadn’t ‘made love’ on Eleanor’s birthday for that reason, and had had to delay it until Sunday evening, she remembered, after they’d returned from that weekend in Suffolk. Roger called it ‘making love’, but when he said it, which was not often, Eleanor pictured the words in quotation marks, as if he were repeating some odd expression he had heard elsewhere and was merely reporting it to her for her information.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, Roger removed his trousers and inserted them precisely into his trouser-press: ‘Shall we, then?’ he said. He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it into the laundry hamper in their en-suite bathroom. ‘It all went off rather well today, I th
ought.’

  ‘Mmm, yes it did.’ Suddenly, Eleanor felt slightly sick and shivery and tugged the duvet up higher around her. ‘But I’m rather tired, what with all the cooking and clearing up.’

  ‘Well, just a quick one then.’ He stripped off his underpants and padded back from the bathroom naked except for his black work socks.

  Eleanor flipped back her side of the duvet and got out of bed.

  ‘I must just get some water.’

  ‘You can get it afterwards.’

  ‘I really won’t be a minute.’ She ran downstairs. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and stood by the sink in her bare feet, shivering in her thin, sleeveless nightie. She gulped the water down, then topped it up. Beneath her feet, the tiled floor was hard and cold. She thought for a moment of the sheepskin slippers Roger had given her for her birthday. Very practical really; this floor was always cold, even in the height of summer. She sipped her water and looked into the shiny whiteness of the deep enamel sink. She was very lucky to be married and have a lovely house and a lovely sink. Really very lucky, as Joyce had reminded her. She should be grateful and not always thinking of… imagining… other things, a different kind of life. Not helpful. Not at all. Slowly, she climbed the stairs again and set her water down on her bedside table.

  ‘Oh, sorry, did you want one?’ she said, starting towards the bedroom door at once. ‘I can easily pop down again.’

  ‘No, I have a glass here.’ He patted the bed and Eleanor slid beneath the covers next to him.

  He kissed her closed, dry lips briefly with his own, then gave the smallest of nods to indicate that she might begin. Awkwardly, she twisted towards him and reached down beneath the covers. Roger closed his eyes and sank back against the pillows.

  ‘Lovely. Yes, just like that.’