Monday Lunch in Fairyland and Other Stories

by Angela Huth

  A hand ruffled his hair. He looked up. Laura was pink and laughing, leaning over the barrier. Her partner backed away, with little swerving movements, knees dipped.

  ‘How about that? Are you all right?’

  ‘Amazing. Gold.’

  ‘Bet you never thought I could do anything like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’ll never again be able to say what do you do all day, will you?’ Gently accusing. ‘I was determined. . . I was determined to surprise you before Christmas.’

  ‘You have.’ Philip felt his icy lips draw back over his teeth into something which he hoped would resemble a smile.

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you. Though I nearly did because I began to think you thought . . .’ She laughed. ‘I’ll just go round a couple more times, then we’ll go home. You look frozen.’

  She swirled away, too daring. Her partner darted forward, stretched out an arm, but she fell. Philip stood up, one hand on the barrier. Against the horrible slur of music, he heard himself laughing. Laura, scrambling up, regaining her poise, laughed with him.

  Philip remained standing, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, his breath regular globules ballooning over the rink. All those secret afternoons, he thought, and his instincts, a little late for once, flashed benevolently towards Crispin. Dear God, he thought, that such an innocent conspiracy should cause such thunder in a reasonable man: may she forgive me, should she ever guess.

  But Laura came off the ice with no sign of ever guessing. Philip met her at the barrier, briefly aware of his own width compared to the svelte shape of her skating partner. He took her arm, kissed her cold cheek, and told her she was an amazing creature: yes, he could hardly believe it. Pleased, she strode off, unusually tall on her skates, to fetch her coat.

  Philip enjoying waiting for her. Still weak from shock, he felt the strength seep gradually back along his blood, and refrained from smiling only for fear of looking foolish. His damned instincts had nearly destroyed him, but recovery was here. When Laura came back he would drive her home: he felt more able to drive, now. She would enjoy recounting the difficulties of carrying out her plot, words tumbling almost into incoherence, as they did when she was excited. When they reached their green and uncracked house, they would resume their normal lives.

  Philip would listen quietly. Knowing the wisdom of occasional silence in marriage, he would admit only one thing: that in all truth he had not guessed she was learning to skate.

  The Friend

  Muriel was very happy surrounded by an organised mess of glue and scissors and photographs. Albums were spread about her wide-winged on the table, and she felt at peace. Janice would be here soon. It was a Thursday night and Janice came over every Thursday night. Tuesdays Muriel went to her house, which she never enjoyed quite as much as having Janice here. She couldn’t be doing things with her hands in Janice’s house while they talked. At home, when she had made the tea and fetched the plate of iced biscuits – she had perfected a shade of green icing which had forced Janice into reluctant praise – she could carry on with her albums, or darning, or whatever, and it didn’t seem impolite.

  There was a noise behind her. Muriel turned to see her neighbour, Gerald, edging his way through the door. He had never been a man to enter a room boldly.

  ‘You’re always leaving the door open like this,’ he said. ‘You’ll have burglars one day.’

  ‘Oh, Gerald, it’s you.’

  ‘I just popped in. Everything tidy, everything trim?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Fine.’

  ‘What are you up to, so busy?’

  Gerald moved to stand behind Muriel. She felt him looking over her shoulder.

  ‘You can see. I’m catching up on my scrapbooks.’

  Gerald peered more closely. Although she didn’t bother to look, Muriel knew his nose would be wrinkled with concentration.

  That’s you and Bob, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘In Ireland. Sneem. We found it years before General de Gaulle. There’s a village near there with all the houses in the main street different colours, like children’s bricks.’

  ‘He didn’t quite come up to your shoulder, did he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bob. Your husband Bob.’

  ‘He wasn’t a tall man,’ said Muriel, after a while.

  ‘He looks quite slight.’

  ‘He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t a big build.’

  ‘You can never tell in a photograph, though, can you? Don’t tell me snaps are true to life. I take a very bad picture myself.’ Gerald pulled up a chair and sat at the table beside Muriel. She didn’t seem much interested.

  ‘Do you?’ she said. ‘Don’t get too close, there’s a dear. You’ll jog.’

  Gerald pointed a finger to another picture.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘That? That’s the first house we had. At least, not the whole house. The house we had a flat in.’

  ‘Looks nice.’

  ‘Wasn’t bad. A bit on the noisy side. Bob never liked noise, what with being at sea so much.’

  ‘Do you mind if I light up?’ Gerald was taking out his pipe before Muriel could answer.

  ‘Not much use if I do, is there? Go on, move over. I’ll murder you if you jog.’

  ‘You’ve got a nice way of putting pictures in,’ Gerald observed, moving very slightly.

  ‘I used to be quite artistic, actually. Bob always said I had a good eye. For colour, and that.’

  ‘I should say you have. What’s that party?’

  ‘Tenth wedding anniversary. That was a lovely dress I had, a mushroom silk. Bob gave me a lovely present that year – a little silver boat brooch. I should have a picture of me wearing that, somewhere.’ She shuffled through a pile of pictures.

  ‘From what you say, it sounds as if he was a good husband.’

  ‘You couldn’t have found a better, though I say it myself. Every little thing, every little detail – he remembered. No, I can’t lay my hands on the picture.’

  ‘He’s been gone, what, five years now?’

  ‘Six. Six in May.’

  ‘But you’re – settled now, aren’t you? Over the worst of it.’

  Muriel sighed.

  ‘I’m happy enough. I have my life.’

  ‘You’re a sensible woman, to my mind. Like you always say, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. Get on with your life. There are other fish.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bit about the fish.’

  ‘Well, there are, you know.’ Gerald sniffed.

  ‘It could never be the same with anyone else. I wouldn’t like to try second best. I’ve plenty to remember to keep me going.’ Muriel plumped her fist on to a close-up of Bob’s face. Gerald let a spiral of evil-smelling smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’ve never found the perfect woman myself,’ he said.

  That was it. Bob was perfect.’

  ‘I gave up looking some years ago, you might say. I thought: if she’s going to come, she’s going to come. No need to go out looking. Had a good face, in his naval cap and that, Bob. Did other women fancy him?’

  Muriel felt her arms flush.

  ‘He’d no more look at another woman than he’d go in the Air Force,’ she said, quite snappy.

  ‘You were lucky, then.’

  ‘I was. That’s just what I realise.’

  ‘You were lucky all round.’ Gerald paused. ‘But it seems to me a pity, sometimes. A waste, your life now.’

  ‘What do you mean? Here, pass me the glue.’

  ‘A good looking woman like you, with all the talents, but no one to spread them on.’

  ‘Get away with you.’ Muriel couldn’t quite contain a smile.

  ‘I mean it. You’ve all the accomplishments a woman could want. You cook a lovely meal.’

  Muriel knew when to be modest.

  ‘Average,’ she admitted.

  ‘Sew, stick in p
ictures better than most, do a vase of flowers like the wedding people.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘No, but I used to sing a little in the choir. And Bob said I had a light hand making pastry.’

  ‘There you are, you see. All the accomplishments.’ Gerald was becoming quite warm, dispensing so much praise. He stood up. ‘Well, I’d better be getting along. I was on my way down for a quick one. Can I tempt you?’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s Thursday. Janice comes Thursdays.’

  ‘Who’s Janice?’

  ‘Janice Sullivan. My friend. She comes over Thursday evenings.’

  ‘Never heard you mention her before. You’re a dark horse.’

  ‘She gets off early, Thursdays. From the beauty parlour. She’s got a nice little business going there. But then anything she turns her hand to she does well. She’s one of those.’

  ‘A beauty parlour?’ Awe in Gerald’s question.

  ‘Oh, she’s quite glamorous. But a good sort for all that. She’d do anything for me – anything. When Bob died, you’d think it was her own husband gone. She was a tower of strength.’

  ‘Is she married, this Janice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah ha.’ Gerald gave a lusty laugh.

  ‘She’s not your type, I can tell you,’ said Muriel.

  ‘Maybe she’s my dreamboat’

  ‘She’s not your type.’

  ‘Who knows? My dreamboat may not turn out to be my type. What’s she like?’

  Muriel thought for a moment, careful to choose the right word.

  ‘Petite,’ she said.

  ‘Raven-haired?’

  ‘Blonde.’

  ‘Interested in the horses?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘Easy-going?’

  ‘Beautiful laugh. You never forget her laugh once you’ve heard it.’

  Gerald laughed again. He wondered whether his own hacking sound might possibly be called memorable, too.

  ‘I must meet this Janice,’ he said.

  ‘Well, she’s due any minute.’

  ‘I might pop back later.’

  ‘Don’t go giving her any of your sauce, will you? Remember, she’s my friend.’

  ‘Would I let you down?’ he asked, indignant, and went to the door. ‘Might see you later.’

  Muriel hoped he would return. She couldn’t abide the smell of his pipe but he was a kind enough creature and it would be nice to bring him together with Janice. Show him off a bit. Mention he was a figure in the racing world. Janice had so much to boast about: there could be no harm in grabbing her own rare chance. Funny she hadn’t thought of it before.

  Moments after Gerald’s departure Janice busded through the door.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ she said, seeing Muriel at the table.

  ‘Oh, Jan, hello.’ Muriel turned away from her photographs.

  ‘And who was the tall dark handsome stranger I just saw leaving your house? Or did my eyes deceive me?’

  ‘That was Gerald.’ Muriel felt an edge of triumph in her smile.

  ‘And who, may I asked, is Gerald?’

  ‘Oh, just a friend.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you mention him before, have I? You are a dark horse.’

  Odd how two people thought of her in the same way, thought Muriel. She had never thought of herself as a secretive person, but maybe they observed in her something she herself had not noticed.

  ‘He stops by sometimes. Lives just down the road. Sit down and make yourself comfortable, Jan, won’t you? I won’t be long till I’ve finished.’

  Janice stumped across the room to stand behind Muriel, just as Gerald had, and look over her shoulder.

  ‘Proper old memory lanes, scrapbooks, aren’t they? You do them very nicely, I must say. Very neat.’ She slipped off her emerald coat with a mock beaver collar, and slung it over an armchair. ‘Has he got his eye on you, then?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This Gerald.’

  ‘Good heavens, no! It’s not like that at all. He just wants someone to talk to.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have sent him away.’ Janice dabbed at the blonde tentacles of her fringe.

  ‘I told him you came Thursdays and we liked our private natter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded, just for once.’ Janice sat down and crossed her plump knees.

  ‘Well, he’s not a ball of fire.’

  Janice sniffed. Then, to remedy the vulgar act with a more refined one, she dabbed her nose with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he fancies you,’ she said.

  Muriel’s steady hand, pushing a snapshot into place, gave a small dart of surprise.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, dropping in and out like that. Men don’t just drop in and out like that unless they have their eye on something, mark my word.’

  ‘Like a cup of tea?’

  Janice stood up bristling, Muriel thought, with funny suspicion.

  ‘I’ll make it,’ she said. ‘I know my way around. Any of the green biscuits?’

  ‘In the tin,’ said Muriel.

  While Janice was in the kitchen Muriel made some attempt at tidying the rubble on the table. Then she took a lipstick from her bag, went to the fireplace and contemplated her image in the speckled mirror. She reddened her mouth with particular care. Janice returned, more quickly than Muriel had anticipated, with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  ‘What, dolling yourself up for a night out?’

  With some guilt, Muriel returned the lipstick to her bag.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Gerald said he might stop in on his way back,’ she said.

  The news made Janice swerve round the low coffee table, and almost drop the tray.

  ‘Ooh, and I haven’t changed either. I came straight from work.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Gerald,’ soothed Muriel. ‘He won’t be expecting something from the Folies Bergère.’

  ‘No, but I don’t want to create a bad impression, do I? Not being your friend.’ She opened her bag, took out powder and lipstick and began to repair her face. Then she sprayed herself from a bottle shaped like the Eiffel Tower. ‘Like a bit? Essence of Paris. Sample offer. I’m very lucky that way. I get all the samples.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Muriel poured the tea. ‘I’ll stick to my lavender water. That’s what Bob always liked best.’

  ‘So he did,’ said Janice.

  ‘Business good this week?’

  Satisfied with her face at last, Janice leant back on the sofa.

  ‘Never better, though I say it myself. They’re all coming in to get their skins back into condition now their suntans have worn off. You should see some of them. Crusty old necks, yellow between the wrinkles. They expect me to do miracles, no less, honestly. Well, I suppose I do do miracles, or they wouldn’t keep coming back, would they?’

  ‘That perfume’s mighty strong,’ replied Muriel, sniffing the air.

  ‘Essence of Paris, as I said. You’d expect a French fragrance to have body, wouldn’t you?’ She laughed a little at her own joke.

  ‘I went to The Sound of Music again last night,’ said Muriel. ‘Fourteenth time.’

  ‘Did you really? Such stamina. My father’s people, you know, came from Walton-on-Thames – same place as Julie Andrews.’

  Muriel had heard this boast so many times before she had run out of comments of awe and amazement. Instead, she scratched at the folds of her neck, which reminded Janice.

  ‘You know what?’ She looked closely at Muriel’s face.

  ‘No? What?’

  ‘I said I’d give you a free facial, any time. Christmas present.’

  Muriel stopped scratching her neck.

  ‘Do you really think I need one?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, I’d say you do and you don’t. Seeing as you’re a friend, I’ll tell you this, truthfully: your skin’s not too bad. It’s not too bad, but it’s a tired
skin. You can tell that a mile off. It needs a spring clean, same as a house. A bit of nourishment, it needs.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Look, I’m telling you the truth. All I’m saying is, a common garden facial would do you a power. You’d come away feeling a different person. Don’t bother with an appointment. Just come in, say who you are, and I’ll fit you in.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Jan.’

  ‘And I’m telling you – don’t take it amiss – your Gerald will notice.’

  ‘He’s not my Gerald.’

  ‘If he’s anything of a man, he’ll notice.’ Janice lifted her cup towards Muriel as if silently drinking her health. ‘Went to a fête yesterday,’ she went on, ‘Winstaple. Lovely afternoon. You meet a nice type of person working for charity, you know. The Honourable Mrs Jolliffe opened it. She knows me quite well, as a matter of fact. To be honest, at one point she came right up to me and addressed me – a little business matter – and then she complimented me on my blue spotted two-piece. And she’s someone who knows the difference between plain smart, and flair. She can tell.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘How was Julie Andrews?’

  Muriel sucked the beautiful green icing off one of her biscuits. Her mind tore itself from the dazzle of Janice’s honourable acquaintance to the pleasure of her own film-going. She had always meant to try to explain to Janice the precise quality of that pleasure.

  ‘It’s always the same, I find,’ she said, ‘coming out of the cinema. When the lights come on you stand up and feel even smaller than when you come in. You realise that life size is very small. But then walking out into the street I always feel that if only someone would come along with a camera, just at that moment, why, I could perform for them just as well as all the people I’d seen on the screen. You know – dance for them, sing for them, do a beautiful tragic scene, cry, anything. I feel quite elated, thinking what I could do.’

  ‘Bob used to talk like that,’ said Janice.

  ‘Only of course nobody ever comes along with a camera, and you wither back into being small again.’ She paused. ‘What do you mean, Bob used to talk like that?’

  ‘Not about films, about the sea.’