Midwinter Break

by Bernard Maclaverty

  Before they went into the place of robust stews Gerry noticed a supermarket next door. In the restaurant their coats were taken and they were shown to a warm table well away from the icy draught of the door. The waiter brought menus and served a basket of bread with little wrapped packs of butter. Gerry lifted a butter square and pointed to his heart. Fluttered his other hand a little.

  ‘Margarine?’ said the waiter. Gerry nodded.

  ‘You’re not usually so fastidious,’ said Stella.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  The waiter brought some small tubs of a brand of margarine unknown to them. The packaging was covered with green hills and yellow fields and blue sky.

  ‘The very thing,’ Gerry said and lifted one. Stella looked at him. He told her what he was going to do, excused himself and went in search of the toilet. He found it in a corridor behind the front desk. But he didn’t go in right away – he went next door to the small supermarket and bought a half-bottle of whiskey – some awful make he had never encountered before. Tyrone Superior, probably made in Bulgaria or somewhere. He’d have taken anything – Dunphy’s or Crested Ten or Redbreast, even Scotch – just so long as it came in a flat half-bottle that fitted his pocket. There was no queue and no language problems. The only faint lift of an eyebrow came when Gerry produced a high-denomination note from the back of his wallet. The whole exercise was so easy that he paused – made a stop gesture with the flat of his blackened hand and went back and grabbed a second half-bottle. Better safe than sorry. The girl at the till looked at him askance but he smiled to reassure her. Was she looking at his sore chin? His strangely painted palm? Had this man been in a drunken brawl? Why was he wandering the icy streets without an overcoat and with a wallet full of high-denomination notes? Should she phone the police? She swept his second purchase through and gave him his change from the whole transaction. He slipped the first bottle into the right-hand pocket of his jacket, the second into the left. He was nothing if not a well-balanced individual. He patted down the pocket flaps. When he’d bought the jacket he had thought them unfashionable but Stella had assured him that pocket flaps would come back in again. Now he was glad of them. He put his shoulders back and headed next door to the restaurant toilet.

  For all its boasting of robust stews it was quite a sophisticated place. A cinemascope mirror was surrounded by pearly bulbs like in an actor’s dressing room. It filled the wall above a series of elegant wash-hand basins. He paused to look at himself. Touched his sticking-out hair. There was a mark coming up on his chin and he touched it to see if it was tender. It was.

  He raised his eyes to look at himself. It was letting the side down, buying two. He saw his image in the mirror shrug. What’s done cannot be undone, it seemed to say.

  He took the margarine tub from his trouser pocket. It was hard to open. He had to bend the tab and peel back the plastic skin to get at the contents. When he did, the little yellow plop was pleasingly shaped, like a four-leaf clover. He hooked it out with his finger and applied it to the hand that had been stained. He made washing movements, watched his hands glisten and twist in the light – like some sort of polyunsaturated Pontius Pilate. The remaining traces of the black sheen seemed to melt away. He pressed the hot-water tap with his elbow and rinsed his hands. The grey and yellow gloop disappeared in a swirl down the plughole. Then he soaped his hands and did it all again. He felt proud of himself. The affected hand was now as clean as a whistle. And smelled only of soap. And he had two Traveller’s Friends – companions, you might say, with their reassuring weight, stowed in his pockets. All within about four minutes.

  On his way back into the dining room Gerry saw Stella through the glass doors. She had her elbows on the table, looking down almost as if crestfallen. And it struck him as so unusual that he paused before pushing open the door. What was this aloneness? Her natural state was to relate to people. At parties she entered the room and joined the first person she came across. At the same party Gerry would move around talking to different sets of people, joking here and there, listening as hard as he could without cupping his hand behind his ear. An hour or so later he would look back and Stella would be engrossed and still talking to the same person she’d started off with. She found all people equally interesting and seemed unable to reject anyone. Gerry accused her of being a ‘bore magnet’.

  ‘It’s because I listen,’ she said.

  ‘It always ends up an unscheduled Ailment Hour.’

  ‘How could it not, with hypochondriacs like you around?’ she said. Here she was in a restaurant in Amsterdam, sitting by herself, staring down at the place setting in front of her, looking like she was on the verge of tears. Maybe she knew.

  Now that he was back they ordered, and when the waiter left them Gerry tried to tell her of the success he’d had with the margarine. He showed his clean hand. She couldn’t care less. Nor was she impressed by how little time it had all taken. There was silence between them.

  ‘Gerry – I want to talk about something.’

  ‘Fire away. Have you ordered the wine?’

  ‘Yes. The Tempranillo looks good.’

  When the waiter brought the wine Gerry dispensed with the tasting ritual. He filled both glasses and left the bottle on the table.

  ‘Dank ya,’ said Stella.

  ‘Good man,’ said Gerry. The waiter smiled and backed away. ‘When I was going down in the bath all I could think of was “a gong shower” for some reason.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something to do with the noise I made hitting the enamel. Were you not with me at the gong shower?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Gerry lifted his drink and held it out for a toast. Stella chinged his glass.

  ‘It was Leamington Spa. A fair on the green – on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘I was probably at Mass.’

  ‘Alternative peace kinda stuff. The Warwickshire Badger Group. Indian head massage, tattoos. And gong showers. I’m sure I’ve told you this.’

  Stella shook her head. No.

  ‘Unless I’ve forgotten,’ she said.

  ‘There was a bearded hippie and his woman kneeling, waving people into their tent. And there’s this big brass gong – like the one in the films – with the half-naked guy. Twentieth Century Fox? Gaumont?’

  ‘Rank,’ she said.

  ‘It was Rank – definitely J. Arthur. And they get a woman customer and sit her on a chair in front of the gong and the hippie begins to make it vibrate by beating the hell out of it.’ Gerry began demonstrating with both hands. ‘It’s roaring like a jet plane. Goes on for ages and ages. Then fades – the guy’s arms must have given up – and your woman emerges, washed with sound. And pays her money.’ Gerry put on an American accent. ‘I could literally feel the negativity leaving my body, said Martha.’

  ‘They use ultrasound to clean jewellery. Shakes all the atomic dirt particles off,’ Stella said. ‘Rings come out pinging clean.’

  ‘Well, so did your woman. I think she had to say one Our Father, three Hail Marys and a Glory Be to complete the ritual.’

  Stella seemed irked, looked away from him. Gerry lifted the bottle and filled his glass again. Stella wiped her mouth on her serviette and leaned forward.

  ‘I want to talk about that place we saw this morning,’ she said and looked down at her hands. ‘We’re not getting any younger. I find I’m at a loose end – aimless. There’s no role for me. The one grandchild is in Canada and it doesn’t sound like there’ll be any more.’

  ‘Och, you never know . . .’

  ‘That’s not the point – hear me out.’ She stopped and turned the knife in front of her to face inwards. ‘I want to do something better. In what time’s left to me.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, is there?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘I thought for a second you’d planned this whole trip to break bad news to me.’

  ‘No.’ She smiled at his concern and continued. ‘The
last time I was in Amsterdam – all those years ago – I heard about that place . . .’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Where we were this morning – the Beguine place – whatever way you pronounce it. Begheenov. The talk was that it was a good place for women who wanted to live a religious life. And I wanted to talk to them about it. Wondered if there were any other places like it. Closer to home.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Are you listening?’ she said. ‘Because this is important.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Not a convent. But a religious community. Not seclusion. Women can have a place of their own to live but they don’t have to take a vow of poverty or anything. That’s what they said.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I don’t know what’s going on here.’

  ‘I made an appointment for Monday with the Spiritual Director – or whatever she’s called . . .’

  A young Asian flower seller came into the restaurant and began to move between the tables. He came to Gerry and laid out his wares across his forearm. Small cellophane-wrapped red roses. Gerry shook his head. Stella looked up and smiled.

  ‘No, thank you.’ The boy returned her smile and continued moving among the tables.

  ‘He doesn’t ask old men eating by themselves,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Who would they give it to?’ said Stella. ‘If they bought one.’

  As she spoke she was failing to meet his eye and that was not like her.

  ‘I’ve been marking time,’ she went on. ‘The family is raised – the work’s done. That can’t be it, can it? There’s ten or twenty years left over, as it were. We’ve cut the cloth of our lives wrongly. It doesn’t fit. I have, at least – but I don’t know about you.’

  Gerry shrugged. Then it struck him she was being ironic. She didn’t say anything more for a while.

  ‘I’m confused,’ he said. He challenged her to look at him directly. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘We believe different things.’ Still she looked at the tablecloth.

  ‘We’ve always known that.’

  ‘But now things are different. I have a sense of drift. I want to do something with the time I’ve left. Other than watch you drink.’

  ‘Am I anywhere in your storyboard?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Stella was definitely asleep. Her book was too close to her face. Gerry stood and moved it to the bedside table – and on the way back dipped into the right-hand pocket of his jacket, which he’d hung in the wardrobe. He produced a half-bottle and went into the bathroom, closed the door. What had she been talking about? He coughed to cover the snap of the screw-cap opening and poured a drink. His image in the mirror showed him the bruise was darkening. Back in the bedroom he sat down with his drink.

  Her breathing from the pillow continued to be long and slow. She wasn’t usually that outspoken. Now he looked into his glass and saw that it was empty. That was quick. He refilled and topped up with water.

  He’d nearly been caught out in the lift. When it had jerked to a halt at the third floor there’d been a sound from his pockets – somewhere between a glug and a gurgle. But partially smothered by his raincoat. And he’d wondered if she’d heard. If she had, he could not think of a good excuse. What was that noise, Gerry?

  Shrug. How would I know?

  Sitting in the hotel room now, relaxed, he could think of excuses. He could have blamed the noise on brake fluid. She’d no idea how anything mechanical functioned. Overhead waste pipes? He could have blamed it on borborygmi – tummy rumbles, to you and me. The singular was borborygmus so the plural was appropriate. From two sources. But Stella hadn’t remarked on the noise, hadn’t said anything except, ‘I’m looking forward to my bed.’ Did she really mean he wasn’t in her storyboard? How could that be? What would he do? He took another drink and was about to set the glass back on the table but reneged. He reached out for the blank pad beside the phone and used it as a shock absorber. Silence when he put it down. But he knew the next time he lifted it there would be a wet ring on the phone pad. A shining zero.

  The sounds from the bed changed. Now she was definitely moving into deep sleep. There had been something different about her tonight in the restaurant. Distant. Other. He didn’t know whether it was his fault or not. He just saw her as if from afar. Like someone he did not fully know.

  The only time he’d felt something like this recently was at Christmas, when he’d accompanied her to midnight Mass. He didn’t like the thought of her walking the dark streets alone at one o’clock in the morning. Normally on Christmas Day she rose early and went to church by herself.

  He knew the whole Mass drill from childhood. But he also knew that things had changed. Settled in the pew beside her, he was comfortable not to be involved. The church was mock Gothic – like thousands of Victorian churches all over the country – built by some clone of Pugin’s. Pointed arches parading up and down both sides of the nave – the altar like an iced wedding cake. As a child he’d been made to look towards the altar. His mother would scold if he looked anywhere else. So he stared intensely at whoever was in front of him. The backs of grown-ups’ heads. The mark of a man’s hat on his hair, the pattern and colours of a woman’s headscarf.

  He poured himself another whiskey.

  ‘A small one. A nightcap,’ he whispered. ‘Just a smidgen.’ Lots of water. To render it harmless. What was the point of this remembering? He was trying to get to a place but had forgotten the destination. Why was he back at Christmas? It was something to do with seeing Stella differently. Seeing her as if he didn’t know her well. Then he remembered. The priest’s microphone voice saying, ‘Let us offer each other a sign of peace.’

  After he’d kissed Stella and shaken the hands of strangers around him, Stella had whispered, ‘Sister Francis and I are Eucharistic ministers tonight.’

  She had left him and walked up the side aisle. A nun joined her at the main altar and the priest gave them both communion. Then it was the people’s turn. Occasionally through the moving crowd Gerry saw Stella on the altar dispensing hosts from a gold chalice. Beside her, Sister Francis was doing the same thing. Stella was above those who approached her, stooping a little, to give them the host. Each time her shoulders rounded, Gerry thought of her as old. He was seeing her as someone he didn’t fully know.

  When communion finished, Stella returned to her seat, knelt and put her face in her hands. The choir began ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. Then he heard a sound – a shuddering intake of breath. She was fretting about something. All this only a couple of weeks ago. Probably about being separated from their son and grandson at that time of year. But if she was, he did not want to intrude. She took one hand away from her face and produced a hanky and blew her nose. Did her eye condition prevent her weeping? Was she beyond actual tears?

  ‘Are you all right?’ But she turned away from him, as if he had no right to see her in grief.

  The Tyrone Superior was anything but. However, it was getting the job done.

  On their way home from midnight Mass they walked quickly to warm themselves. When they came to the hill she eased her arm through his. She pulled against him a little. ‘What’s the hurry?’ she said. ‘We’ve neither chick nor child waiting for us.’

  Gerry slowed.

  ‘I just want to get out of the cold. Get some central heating in,’ he said. ‘Feel any better?’ She smiled a tight-lipped kind of response. ‘Tell me again – about the eye thing.’

  ‘There’s no lack of tears, God knows. It’s just that they’re of such poor quality. According to the doctor.’

  ‘Poor-quality tears . . .?’ he said.

  Gerry waited to hear the cause of her crying but she offered nothing.

  They had to watch out for slippery patches underfoot and there was fog in the air. Cones of light beamed down from lamp-posts. Their own breath showed in front of their faces.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a . . .’ Gerry paused, trying to remember the word �
�� ‘a giver outer of communion.’

  ‘I have been for a couple of years now. Eucharistic minister is the title you’re looking for.’

  There was a silence. Gerry shrugged.

  ‘You want me to keep you informed about such things?’ said Stella.

  ‘I just didn’t know.’

  ‘They asked me and I said yes. I wanted to help in any way I could.’

  ‘It’s a kind of honour, I suppose.’ Gerry squeezed her hand with his elbow. ‘I’m proud of you even though I don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Don’t say another thing, Gerry. It’s Christmas and I feel good.’

  The streets were lined with parked cars, their tops and windscreens whitened with frost. Some people had pinioned newspapers beneath their wipers. In their own street they took to walking in the middle of the road where cars’ tyres had darkened the frost.

  ‘It’s really strange stuff, frost,’ Gerry said. ‘It falls straight down, like rain – like the opposite of shadow – white, not black.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to argue.’

  Inside, the flat was full of warmth and Christmas smells. The pudding had been boiled, the gravy stock had been made with giblets, a potted hyacinth sweetened the hallway.

  ‘A drink?’ said Gerry.

  She produced some ham sandwiches wrapped in cling film which she’d made in the afternoon. Gerry poured her sherry and an Islay malt for himself. Stella raised her glass and they toasted.

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘This arrived today,’ she said, handing him an envelope. ‘Not your real present. You’ll get that in the morning. This one’s for both of us.’ He ran his thumb beneath the flap. ‘The tickets for Amsterdam,’ she said, before he could remove them from the envelope.

  ‘You could have booked online,’ he said. ‘Saved a couple of quid.’

  ‘I wanted to be sure – so I got the travel agent to do it.’

  ‘And put them in the Christmas post?’

  Stella smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. He came back with a tiny unlabelled parcel, glinting with Sellotape.