The Playroom

by Frances Fyfield

  ‘I don’t know yet. Haven’t finished putting the kids down. Can’t think.’ She did not say the call was an intrusion, but her voice implied as much along with apology for her own irritation.

  ‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Monica said, oblivious to the hint. ‘Did you have Katherine’s kids at the weekend, like you said?’

  ‘What? Oh, no, the older one had gone to stay with her grandmother. Another time, I suppose. I was rather relieved, to tell the truth. Place is bedlam as it is. So I haven’t thought of what to wear. It’s only a few people for supper for God’s sake.’

  ‘Well, I just wondered. Do we dress up or down, casual or smart?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean. I’d dress up if I were you. Might prove a point. I will, I suppose, if you do. Besides, when have you ever seen Katherine casual at any kind of party?’

  ‘Right. Out with the shoulder pads, heigh-ho. A total reconstruct in ten minutes. Should we take a present?’

  ‘Yes. For Katherine, not for him. A not very exciting house-plant, I thought.’ Jenny laughed, a guilty sharing of the undertone of malice which went against conscience but was worth the friendship resuming an even keel. If there were any question about division of loyalty, she was Monica’s second and had been anxious about the whole evening. Then she remembered to telephone the American couple who had asked for directions, since last time they had lost themselves on the way, as they would this time, directions or not. For that purpose alone, they set out early.

  Inside the Allendale kitchen, David put the finishing touches to the table. The surface of the wood was covered with an antique linen cloth (they had debated about that, Katherine preferring the texture of the wood but he preferring dignified protection), the cutlery heavy silver, similarly old, bishop’s pattern, and on each elaborate plate setting was a matching linen napkin, white embroidery on white, stiff as sails. In the centre was a round dish of flowers, late blooming garden roses cut short to crowd against each other in a shallow pyramid of red and cream, dark-green foliage spilling on to the cloth. David loathed arrangements which ebbed and swayed, obscuring one person from another like the wispy ferns of restaurants. The lilies Katherine had arranged stood on one side, illuminated by two broad candles which would be placed with the final flourish on the table. The door to the garden stood open, the lawn smelling sweetly of the earlier rain which curtailed the idea of outdoor play since he could not have borne to see high heels sinking in the grass, but in the living room, drinks were ranged in the old and priceless tantalus, bottles gleaming in rows on either side. Katherine stayed there, out of the kitchen, hearing from where she stood the music playing as David worked, compact-disc music lifted from the studio to replace the workaday radio. Jeremy slept. Husband and wife were casually dressed, Katherine down-stated in khaki skirt and blouse with no ornament other than a gold collar, broader than the wedding band on her finger but soft and comfortable, a new gift. She stayed in the drawing room because of the cool and the absence of rich smells, and besides in the living room, her room, she could survey her own work with a modicum of pride. Such high polish there was in here, such a multitude of colours in harmony. Sitting on the extreme edge of the striped sofa, she longed for the oblivion of sleep while her mouth craved soft-boiled eggs and bread soldiers, childish food with heavily sugared tea.

  No such simple fare visible in the kitchen; basic ingredients and pans out of sight as all eight guests arrived with gratifying punctuality. They drank Tanqueray gin laced with minimal tonic and wedges of lemon, Glenfiddich whisky with nothing, Sancerre or dry fino, each couple perversely varying their favourite tipple, all generously administered to accompany smoked oysters on ivory cocktail sticks and tiny rounds of red-roe-covered pastry. While Sebastian Pearson Thorpe fascinated the American wife with his sandy Anglo-Saxon looks and artless public-school accent, Monica, splendid as a peacock in pink and black, made very merry with Jenny’s husband, and Jenny spoke to Colin with similar animation. Both women were ceasing to notice how, in comparison to their hostess, they were somewhat overdressed and forgetting that fact was going to take far more of the white wine. Jenny observed without anxiety the passing of a lingering glance from Colin across the large room, over the bold stripes and colourful cushions she so admired, towards the armchair where Katherine sat, sipping fruit juice, as delicately fragile as David, incongruously perched on the arm, was solid. Monica had taken the second glass before they all moved across the hall to ooh and aah the table: Susan Pearson Thorpe merely her first since they were late: David inconspicuously drank his small, but third whisky. Merely imagining the tension of hosting, from which her own sufferings were always extreme, Jenny allowed a moment’s sympathy. Her eyes were drawn to his hard body: she found it impossible not to imagine him in flagrante, naked as a baby but rampant as a bull, wondered what shape he was, turned away in embarrassment and watched the rest. All of them vaguely familiar from similar occasions, in this house or other houses, weeks or months since, plenty enough acquaintance to justify them all greeting with loud familiarity. As if they were friends. That was the conspiracy. They were bound, seduced and easily persuaded to applaud one another: mutual approval the purpose of the evening with which all present willingly complied. But the small element so vital to such an occasion, a sort of spontaneous burst of relaxation, goodwill or whatever ingredient, was missing. There was in progress during those initial stages, too much of watching and impressing, too many darting eyes.

  By the time all sat at table and the candles were lit, they were noisy perforce and some sense of genuine celebration took over. It was the table itself, so beautiful, an aesthetic appetizer for the food to follow. Each was supplied with a battery of glasses. Small portions of cold artichoke soup, served with a little sherry. ‘No, we did not grow the artichokes,’ David apologizing manfully, ‘did we, darling? I’m afraid to admit this is a tribute to the delicatessen. One simply adds the cream.’ Who is one? Monica wondered: I would have thought Katherine did all the cooking, remembering at the same time he was no mean hand with a pot or pan: even for a lunch of cold roast beef with fresh horseradish sauce. Good God, he might have done it all: so why had she ended up married to Colin, who did so much less and did not always do it well? She felt a little bitter, ate more swiftly than the soup deserved. Susan Pearson Thorpe, far more muted than Jenny remembered, but charming, perfectly charming to the Americans, spooned the creamy mixture into her mouth with what seemed genuine hunger while the rest were more delicate. At the same time she had swallowed the alcoholic accompaniment in a single gulp, looked at the empty glass in mild surprise. David talked about food. In fact, they all talked about food. Sebastian recollected some uncle of his saying that the brandy and cigars formed the more spiritual part of the meal and he was glad to reflect that the two temporal ingredients were bound to be forthcoming, and discussion of grub was bound to cease. Susan and he should do more of this. He ventured a smile in her direction, noticed she was trying so hard part of him melted. The day had not been easy: she might have wished to see herself transformed, but he really did not want her like a Katherine. Depending on this evening’s restraint, he would tell her so.

  ‘You really need to go to the eastern seaboard if you guys really like to eat,’ said the American, eyeing the next course, noting with great approval a dish of sole véronique. ‘If you like fish,’ he added. ‘I just happen to love fish, any kind of fish.’ ‘Especially lobster,’ his wife added. ‘He goes crazy over lobster.’ ‘Have you had any oysters this year?’ said Sebastian so politely he sounded like an advertisement. ‘Season just begun, I believe.’ ‘Oh, oh,’ joked the American wife, ‘fun and games in the shires, I guess. I just couldn’t let him eat oysters. Is it really true, I mean, what they’re supposed to do to you?’ She addressed the question to her host, enjoying herself. David winked roguishly. Katherine cleared plates with delicate and almost noiseless efficiency.

  Schools: they were on to schools. Sebastian liked this better than food or furnishings, bo
th of which might have offended his wife, but he still looked forward to something else. Which schools and where, horses for courses, a loud pun from Monica which made him wince. At least Susan and he were in agreement on this front; knew which paths were surfaced for their children, added them into the conversation. ‘What about Jeanetta?’ Jenny asked, a question over her shoulder in a polite attempt to include monosyllabic Katherine and make her belong. ‘Where will she go?’

  ‘What? Oh . . .’ A plate dropped from her hands and crashed to the floor, followed by a chorus of cheers, sympathies and offers to help. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said David, ‘always happens. Wasn’t a very special plate, no, no, sit down. Darling, can you pass me the serving spoon?’ ‘Will you look at that,’ said Jenny, the wonder again so genuine she was pointing with one finger as if the rest could not see exactly what she saw. Slices of duck, overlapping in a rich circle on a dish, stewed cranberries as centrepiece and the table full of the scent of both. ‘How do you get a duck to behave like that?’ said the American, impressed. ‘My, oh my,’ said his wife, sitting on David’s right as David transferred slices on to plates and she passed them along with the aid of her linen napkin. Katherine fussed with a dish of tiny French beans and a platter of duchesse potatoes which other hands took from hers. On the sideboard by the lilies, a magnificent glass bowl of salad had appeared, radicchio glowing purple, Monica noticed, lifted from the fridge early to remove the chill. The next course settled as they ate the last. Inevitably, the conversation returned to food.

  Where do you buy cranberries, how do you cook like this, where do you get the best fish, poultry, game, questions all smothered in sauce. The compact-disc player had stopped in reverence as mouths filled in preparation for a further round of compliments and questions, leaving one whole minute of masticating silence. Two glasses were empty, the quiet not uncomfortable since all bar Katherine were eating with concentration. Monica began to talk again first, but as David passed round the back of the high-backed chairs with the wine, his hand brushed her shoulder and she forgot what she wanted to say. Colin knew: it was something about the duck, part of an old argument, but he remembered not to speak when his mouth was full. And then into the continuing semi-silence, each of them in turn heard the sound of scratching.

  Colin noticed first and turned his head. Monica looked at him inquiringly, taking the direction of his gaze. Then Jenny and then the American wife. Sebastian took no notice, concentrating on his food, and Susan Pearson Thorpe, finding the whole evening desperate, was raising her glass. The scratching came from beyond the playroom door at the far end of the room, a slight but regular sound, almost like the sawing of wood heard from a distance. Monica thought immediately of the similar sound made by a puppy she once had which would scrape at a door, scrape, scrape, pause to wait for some sort of reply, surprised that the door would not shift, repeat the process, scrape, scrape, sit back on haunches. ‘What on earth is that, David?’ she asked casually, none of them in any sense alarmed, merely curious. ‘Sounds like a dog.’

  He had put down the wine and crossed the room to the compact-disc player, flicked one or two switches so the music recommenced, slightly louder, putting his napkin to his mouth. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said it sounded like a dog. In there.’ He laughed easily. ‘No, no, no. Not a dog. Kittens, actually, for the children. We keep them in the . . .’ he flourished with his hand, still holding the napkin. ‘In the playroom,’ Monica finished for him. She had the habit of finishing sentences for others, a trick Colin loathed. Now he looked at her curiously. He had not known the Allendales had anything designated as a playroom: it was somehow out of character. ‘Kittens!’ The American wife clapped her hands. The sound was friendly but sudden and as she stopped, the same scratching sound was still slightly audible. ‘Oh, I love them, the darlings, can we see? Oh, come on, David, give us a peek.’

  ‘No, not now. They run up the walls, you see . . .’ He began on longer explanations, but the words were not finished. With an indelicate choking sound, Katherine had half risen, pushed herself back from the table, and was suddenly, monstrously sick. She was sitting at one end of the table, opposite David, and the hands, gripping each corner within reach, clutched at the edges, her fingers so white the rings glowed against the cloth, while highly coloured, undigested, viscous food splashed to the floor, the remnants dribbling from her mouth. All of them watched her head thrown forward, the bright-blue eyes staring at the playroom door beyond. Then all eyes turned to the mess on the floor, a solid fluid of brilliant colours. Until David moved, nimble as a fighter round a ring, lifted her bodily out of her chair and lightly flicked his fingers across her cheek. Lacking the brutality of a slap, the effect was the same and she closed her drooping mouth abruptly, beginning to cough. Tears had sprung to her eyes. ‘Shh, darling, shh. It’s all right.’ She leant into him, taking the support of his arms, but rigid. Like a ballerina, Jenny thought later, held tense by a partner in a pas de deux. David flashed his disarming smile on the assembly, who faced the tableau of himself and his wife with varying expressions of horror. ‘Excuse us,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain in a minute. Please, carry on.’ Both left the room. Susan Pearson Thorpe heard them going upstairs, David’s soothing tones floating back.

  ‘Katherine never did like cats,’ she observed. Monica sniffed nervously, slightly comforted by the remark which none could regard as anything but poor taste. It made her want to giggle. She and Jenny quickly found cloths and scooped the mess off the floor, both used to dealing with children, pragmatic while the men looked on, dumbly. All of them had lost appetite, but there was nothing else to do but finish the food. At least the food on the plates. No one would have wanted to ask for more.

  They were all waiting for the return of the host, all privately planning when they should leave.

  ‘Listen,’ said Jenny, ‘I think I should go and help, really.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Monica. ‘I’m sure David knows what to do. It seems to have happened before.’ Colin nodded agreement. Jenny put down her napkin. ‘Well, in that case he can tell me to mind my own business.’ She rose. Monica rose too. ‘I’ll come as well.’ ‘I won’t,’ said Susan, ‘I would be de trop’. They went upstairs, neither sure of where to go, looking inside two rooms before they found the third, signalled by David leaving, pulling the door to behind him. ‘She’s all right,’ he said reassuringly. Jenny pushed past him, suddenly determined. ‘Well could I just say goodnight then? Perhaps a woman could help, you know.’ He hesitated, nodded to let them go in, but hovered at the door. Katherine lay on one side of the double bed, covered with a quilt, one knuckle in her mouth and her eyes open. ‘What is it, Kath, what is it? Better now?’ Jenny murmured as she would to the youngest of her children suffering from a scratch. Katherine was trying to speak, touched Jenny’s hand with the fingers taken from her own mouth, damp with saliva, an unpleasant touch, but the words were incoherent.

  ‘Please,’ said David from the door, ‘please don’t. You’ll only get her excited.’ Monica felt pity rise, along with a tinge of revulsion. ‘I’ve got some valium,’ she said. ‘Would that help?’ David looked at them both as if towards saviours. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘it would. She usually has some, but forgot to get more. She’s pregnant, you see: it does this . . .’

  ‘No valium, then,’ said Jenny firmly. ‘Oh no, the doc says it’s fine . . . It was for me,’ said Monica, fumbling in the handbag which accompanied her everywhere. The news of pregnancy had a strange effect on her, like a slap or a sharp punch. ‘Half of that, then,’ Jenny insisted. ‘She’s only small.’ The eyes on the bed followed their movements, drank water, looking towards Monica in something akin to fear, towards Jenny in a plea she refused to register. The mouth stopped mumbling and swallowed without resisting. After five minutes, they went downstairs, leaving the door open. In the kitchen the men had begun to smoke. They presumed they were not going to reach the spiritual part of the meal.

  David resumed the role of host,
pressed them to eat. She would want this, he said: she was so looking forward, please do. I’m afraid this sometimes happens with Katherine, her nerves. And she is in a certain condition, worries her so, the other two were not easy. Better in the morning. The men nodded wisely, full of sympathy, moved to kindness but feeling their own impotence and their own immunity. Susan Pearson Thorpe was silent, her glass half full but treated with indifference instead of the customary anxiety, while her look expressed extreme puzzlement as if she were working out a sum in her head. They accepted coffee, all of them, black please, without sugar, and were glad to go home. Monica Neill and Colin were breathing evenly as they got into their car, neither able to confess to the other how they had been worried for anything Katherine in extremis might have said. How good, they agreed, is David, what a shame for his birthday, pity. The Pearson Thorpes walked home. Jenny drove, and the Americans got lost en route, following them so far. All couples, still sober and in need of comfort, made love in their different, broadly similar fashions. They tried to forget the scratching and the shining, vomit-filled face in an exercise which lasted from five to thirty minutes, depending on who they were.

  Equally occupied, but with a far greater degree of concentration, Mary Fox arched and crouched over the recumbent form of brown Claud, seeking the solace of sex for longer than all the rest of her sister’s guests put together. They had wasted, after all, one whole hour before she had been convinced of his explanations, Katherine’s total lack of involvement, which she already believed, only established after a very lengthy row. Ending inevitably in bed, him with licence to play until 11.30 in the evening. Claud did not tell the whole truth: Claud never did any more often than she expected and only then on subjects of no personal interest, but the half-truth he told was both recognizable as such and sufficient for her purpose. Wife ill, children ill, holiday postponed: don’t be such a fool, if I’d been with anyone, if would not be anyone so near to you. You know me better than that. While she hardly did, she felt convinced and above everything else in her life, Claud, in all his anonymity, gave her hope. She forgot all her boredom, the sense of desperation which had dogged his absence, made her own version of love like an Amazon. You are thinner, darling, said in admiration: he liked his women skinny, such words easy on her ear, they made love again. The voracity of it all made him slightly relieved to go home and Mary, for once in weeks, relieved to be alone. She smoked a rare cigarette, drank the last of the wine Claud had brought as a peace offering and found herself satisfied, warm and only a trifle broody. Thinking could wait until the morning, tomorrow was not going to feature much by way of work. This was after all the way she liked it best. After they went home, provided she knew they would return. Her sister, misjudged Katherine, came swimming into focus as Mary brushed her teeth, swam out again as she applied her avocado nightcream. All that could also wait until tomorrow.