Vinegar Soup

by Miles Gibson

  ‘You don’t want to go,’ said Frank.

  ‘Brilliant!’ screamed Veronica.

  All day they talked and argued as the light failed around them. Towards evening the rain feathered into snow. Gilbert, growing tired and finding Olive in every shadow, returned to the safety of his blanket lair. Veronica warmed a little sweet milk with brandy, for the comfort of it, went to her room and locked the door. Silence pressed down on the old cafe. Frank paced the kitchen for a long time and then, reluctantly, took to his bed. In the frosty darkness he lay awake listening to the cries and whispers of a tropical night. Between his ears the apes barked, panthers coughed, frogs warbled and fireflies throbbed.

  He tried to picture himself standing in the local market at dawn, picking through a pyramid of chrome-yellow fruit, while all around the babble of black faces, the screech of caged parrots, the smell of perfumes, spices and smoke, swirled about him like a magic cloak. He fancied standing at dusk on the hotel veranda, Gilbert and Veronica beside him, watching the sun sink into the mountains as great cats called in the distant forest. Everything pleased and excited him. He was excited by the thought of buying a suitcase, owning a passport and taking flight. He was excited at the prospect of encountering all the fabled creatures of Gilbert’s bestiary. And he was excited because he knew suddenly that he had always been going to Africa with Gilbert and, despite his greatest endeavours to save it, life with Olive at the Hercules Cafe was finished and now he must leave the past behind him. He could not tell if he was running for his life or merely running to escape his death. But he knew he would follow Gilbert.

  He was nearly asleep when he heard the floorboards start to creak, first one and then another, along the length of the corridor. He sat up in bed and fumbled for the light. But before his hand had found the switch he felt a sudden, chilling draught as the door swung open in the dark.

  ‘Who is it?’ he whispered from under the bedclothes.

  ‘I’m freezing,’ growled Veronica. ‘There’s no heat in my room.’

  Frank uncovered his head and spoke to the phantom. ‘Do you want me to fix it for you?’

  ‘No, it can wait until tomorrow,’ she whispered, creeping to the edge of the bed.

  ‘Have you thought about Africa?’ he said.

  ‘You know what I think,’ she said, pulling at the blanket.

  ‘That’s no answer,’ he insisted.

  Veronica said nothing but climbed into bed beside him. She brushed his face with her perfumed pyjamas, wriggled down and curled herself into a knot. ‘If you’re stupid enough to follow Gilbert I suppose I’ll have to go and look after you,’ she whispered. ‘Anyone that stupid shouldn’t be left alone.’

  ‘You’re cold,’ grinned Frank.

  ‘Shut up and go to sleep.’

  The next day Gilbert knocked a table apart and painted FOR SALE on the worn wooden boards. He hammered the sign above the door. The following week the business was sold. To everyone’s amazement the Hercules Cafe was a very desirable property. The man who bought the cafe was a pale youth in a green polyester suit. He had orders to turn the place into a Chunky Chicken Counter. There was a little plastic chicken pinned to the pocket of his polyester jacket. ‘There’s big money in Chunky Chickens,’ he told Gilbert as they signed the forms. ‘Believe me, in twelve months you’re going to find Chunky Chickens all over the country. Everybody loves them and I’m not surprised. We spent five years at Consolidated Chemicals perfecting the colour and flavour.’ He had the face of a very young hamster. His eyes twitched and he had a way of squashing his nose with his thumb whenever he grew excited. He was excited by the thought of Chunky Chickens. ‘Every morsel melts in the mouth. Every bite is beautiful. It’s a shame you’re selling out.’ Gilbert didn’t argue with him. He shuffled through the papers and signed his name. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

  The passports turned out to be more of a problem. Frank had never needed a passport. Veronica claimed she had once owned a passport but thought it might have been stolen. Gilbert’s passport was hopelessly out of date. They sat for photographs in a booth at Woolworth and scribbled out their applications. Frank was given his birth certificate wrapped in a sheet of greaseproof paper. Gilbert sent Veronica to fetch it from the bottom of Olive’s underwear drawer. When it arrived it smelt of lavender. Frank didn’t want to look at it. He folded it into his application and licked down the envelope.

  While they waited for their passports they made carpets from maps and spent the evenings on their hands and knees, searching the corners of Africa.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’ called Frank, one foot in Lagos and the other planted on the shores of Lake Chad. He stared across the borders of Cameroon into the heart of Bilharzia.

  ‘South, south-east, in a town called Plenti,’ said Gilbert, sweeping up through Zaire. ‘It’s somewhere near the Congo border.’

  ‘But there’s nothing there,’ protested Frank, approaching from the Atlantic and cutting through Equatorial Guinea. ‘Everything is green. It’s nothing but forest.’ He met Gilbert in the capital, Batuta, and together they stared at a yard or more of blank green paper.

  ‘There are cannibals in those forests,’ Gilbert said softly. ‘And dwarf elephants and deserted cities and temples without gods and rivers with no names.’

  ‘Plenty of nothing,’ said Veronica from her castle in Gabon.

  ‘There are roads,’ argued Gilbert.

  ‘Three of them,’ said Veronica, picking out the tiny, yellow wriggles.

  ‘Where there are roads there are towns,’ said Gilbert.

  ‘I don’t see any towns,’ admitted Frank.

  ‘We need a proper map,’ said Gilbert. ‘A bigger map with everything marked.’ He was already crawling into Angola, his nose pressed against the paper as if he could smell the jungle.

  ‘We need proper work permits,’ said Veronica, interrupting his reverie.

  Gilbert smiled. He had everything planned to the smallest detail. Nothing had been forgotten. ‘Sam will fix the work permits,’ he said. ‘And as soon as we get the passports I can apply for the visas. You worry about the shots.’

  ‘What shots?’ said Frank.

  ‘Oh, cholera, typhoid, yellow fever,’ said Gilbert. ‘Whatever you fancy.’

  Veronica looked pale. She crawled across Gabon and settled herself in mid-Atlantic. ‘What happens if we don’t have shots?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘You die,’ said Frank.

  ‘I’ll take the chance,’ Veronica said quickly and then, remembering Olive, felt ashamed and bit her tongue.

  ‘You don’t get into Africa,’ corrected Gilbert. ‘You need the paperwork for your passport.’

  ‘I thought you said you knew about passports,’ said Frank.

  ‘I don’t remember having shots,’ scowled Veronica and clutched her arms.

  ‘We can’t do without them,’ said Gilbert gently. ‘But we’ll go together and it won’t seem as bad.’

  So Frank made the arrangements and the following week paid a doctor to fill their arms with dilute diseases. Veronica dragged herself around the house until finally cholera put her to bed. Frank fell victim to yellow fever. Gilbert was the last to surrender; he snorted and steamed like a wounded buffalo, quivering with indignation, until typhoid brought him to his knees. While they nursed each other and cursed the needle another letter arrived from Sam.

  Dear Gilbert,

  So your coming out!! Bring Bovril! Weather good. Temperature eighty plus. Short rains next month. Tell Hank and Veronica that their all ready the talk of the town and Boris plans a special supper. River soup and jungle pudding, (ha ha) Remember the old days?

  ‘Who’s Hank?’ demanded Frank.

  ‘He means you!’ crowed Veronica in delight.

  ‘Who’s Boris?’ asked Frank.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gilbert, scratching his head.

  You ask how will you get here? Listen. Trust me. When you book your flight to Batuta buy an onward ticket for Malab
o (eg). They like to know your leaving as soon as you arrive so a cheap ticket to nowhere (eg) saves a lot of difficult questions. Etc. Then they forget. Good hotels in Batuta. Stay the night…

  ‘eg?’ interrupted Veronica, ‘eg what?’

  ‘Equatorial Guinea,’ explained Gilbert.

  ‘But we want to stay in Bilharzia,’ said Frank innocently.

  ‘We’re going to stay in Bilharzia, you daft bugger. The Malabo tickets are just to make ’em think we’re not planning to stay for ever.’

  ‘So they’ll treat us like regular tourists,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Gilbert, pleased that she had grasped it.

  ‘Because we don’t have any work permits,’ continued Veronica sourly.

  Gilbert sighed and wiped his face with the palm of his hand. His arm felt stiff and the puncture marks burned. ‘Sam said he’d make the arrangements. We can sort it out when we get there,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere without a work permit,’ grumbled Veronica.

  An express train for Bolozo Noire leaves Batuta every day at noon and costs about CFA 3300. Boris says it takes 10 hours. At Bolozo Noire find a driver you can trust (bargain the price or they rob you blind) and he’ll take you on good roads to Bolozo Rouge and as far as Koto and Nkongfanto. Their you’ll stay at a place called Grand Safari Lodge. It’s clean and comfortable. I’ll send someone to meet you. So everything is ready. Boris says will Hank help in the kitchen. I tell him wait until Gilbert helps in the kitchen. Then he’ll learn something, (ha ha) Yours as ever. Don’t forget the Bovril.

  Sam.

  As soon as he found the strength, Gilbert went out and bought three suitcases, large, medium and small. He gave the largest to Frank because he was the youngest, and told him to pack up his life. He gave the second to Veronica and kept the smallest for himself.

  Frank tried to pack everything. But the suitcase bulged and sprang its locks. After hours of pushing and squeezing he was forced to abandon most of his books, the puppet with no head, the robot with the rusty clockwork, Basil the tap-dancing bear and a picture of Wendy from Wobble, a fat girl in a black wig who, in the interests of art, had managed to pull a large measure of her left breast into her own mouth where she sucked on it contentedly. Frank concluded that Basil was too old for travel and Wendy wasn’t dressed for it. The suitcase closed with a snap.

  Veronica, who had arrived at the Hercules Cafe with all she possessed in a canvas satchel, filled her suitcase with an inch to spare. Since the funeral she had hung up her uniform in favour of cheap printed frocks, loose squares of cotton with holes cut out for the arms and head. Her favourite resembled a white flag decorated with raspberries. She wore these frocks with a small elasticated belt that sported some sort of fancy buckle, although Frank never caught much more than a glimpse beneath her army overcoat. She continued to stagger and strut in a variety of high-heeled shoes but wore them now with knitted socks to help against the cold. She packed everything in tissue paper and wrote her name on the suitcase.

  Gilbert was reluctant to pack anything but jars of precious Bovril. He claimed there was nothing he wanted to save and grumbled when they bullied him.

  ‘The past chains you down, drags at your ankles. It’s different for someone like Frank. He’s young. But when you reach my age there’s so much behind you and it gets so heavy you find you can’t move your feet. I don’t want it,’ he barked. ‘I can’t afford it.’ But finally they persuaded him to pack a few clothes, his shaving tackle and toothbrush.

  When the task was complete Veronica was sent into the snow with Olive’s few possessions and told to come back without them. They amounted to nothing more than a box of old rags, the new dressing gown with the soup-stained collar, shoes, a few postcards, an empty autograph book and a bag of knitting she hadn’t finished. Veronica went out in the morning and returned at dusk with a bunch of early daffodils which they placed in a jug beside Olive’s bed.

  Part Two

  And Away

  10

  What’s happening?’ whispered Veronica. She was strapped into an armchair with her satchel clutched between her knees. It was not yet dawn. A wind howling over the city. The black sky churned with ice and rain. The lights flickered. The floor rumbled beneath the armchair. Veronica grabbed Gilbert’s arm.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gilbert. ‘Try a treacle toffee.’ He rummaged through his pockets until he found a bag of melted toffee lumps. He tried to separate the lumps but found the toffee was glued to his hands.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ asked Veronica anxiously, turning to Frank.

  Frank pressed his nose against the window and saw the ghost of his face staring back at him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The engines roared until the rivets rattled. Veronica moaned and closed her eyes. The armchairs gave a shudder, the aircraft lurched and catapulted into the sky.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Frank.

  ‘Christ!’ said Veronica.

  Gilbert sucked his fingers and smiled. They were free. Breakfast in Paris. Sunset over Africa. Why had he waited? All those precious, wasted years. God bless Sam Pilchard. Clear the tables. Here we come!

  The aircraft thundered into the clouds. There was a grinding noise as the landing gear retracted and locked into the fuselage. The satchel fell through Veronica’s knees.

  ‘Can you see anything now?’ she inquired miserably, turning her face into Frank’s shoulder and trying to hide her eyes.

  ‘It’s getting light,’ he reported with his face squashed against the window. His reflection faded. The darkness was blowing away like smoke. The world tilted. The engines went quiet. The aircraft filled with sunlight.

  ‘Take off your coat,’ said Gilbert. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’ He stretched his legs and yawned.

  ‘I think I’ll wait,’ said Veronica gingerly. She wasn’t convinced they would stay aloft. She stared at the cabin ceiling, concentrating, helping it hang in thin air. When she closed her eyes, relaxed for a moment, she saw the aircraft falling, bodies burning, wax dripping from melted wings.

  ‘You look terrible,’ said Frank, staring at her for the first time.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered. ‘I always look like this when I’m pulled from a warm bed in the middle of the night, driven out to nowhere and shot from a cannon.’

  ‘Curl up and try to sleep,’ said Gilbert, squeezing her hand. ‘When you wake up we’ll be in Paris.’

  Veronica nodded, crouched down in her seat and closed her eyes. Wreckage scattered over the city. Engines, wheels and blazing armchairs. Suitcase bombs exploding on houses. The sky raining corpses. Men and women falling in flames. False teeth. Wallets. Wedding rings. Shoes found with feet inside them.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said Frank.

  ‘They’ll feed us on the next flight,’ promised Gilbert, picking toffee from his fingernails.

  Frank returned to the window. They had left the cafe under cover of darkness, locked the doors and thrown away the key. And now, for the first time in his life, sitting above the clouds, the sun on his face and the sound of thunder in his ears, he found he had lost tomorrow. The thought of the future defeated him. He began poking at the seat pocket in front of him, pulled out a copy of the flight magazine and thumbed the pages. He found the safety instructions and spent several minutes on the use of oxygen masks. He counted the doors and felt for his life jacket with his feet.

  ‘These seats are a bit of a squash,’ muttered Gilbert, rubbing his knees. ‘It’s not like the old days. Imperial Airways. There was room to move around in a flying-boat. They had promenade decks and proper old-fashioned picnic hampers and waiters to serve the coffee.’

  Frank smiled. He peered under his elbow and found an ashtray, flicked it open and shut, open and shut, absurdly pleased with the discovery.

  ‘I’
m hot,’ complained Veronica, wiping her face.

  Frank stared at the ceiling, reached up and wrenched a plastic nozzle. He was rewarded by a thin draught that ruffled his hair.

  Veronica groaned and rolled her eyes.

  ‘Do you feel sick?’ asked Gilbert, frowning, holding her face in his hands.

  Veronica nodded.

  Frank turned to his magazine.

  Toilet areas. Toilets are located on each aircraft as follows:

  Concorde: One at the front, three in the middle of the aircraft.

  747: One on the upper deck, two at the back of the first class cabin, four in the middle of the aircraft and six at the back.

  737 and Trident: One at the front of the aircraft, two at the back.

  Super One-eleven: Two at the back.

  757: Two at the front, two between the centre and rear cabins.

  748: One at the back.

  Please be patient if there is a queue…

  ‘I’m going to die,’ groaned Veronica and belched mournfully.

  ‘Wait for another few minutes,’ urged Gilbert as the aircraft roared and dropped through the clouds.

  Charles de Gaulle airport was wrapped in a fog of fine rain.

  They helped Veronica into transit and tried to revive her with strong, black coffee.

  ‘OK?’ said Frank.

  ‘Fine,’ said Veronica, searching her satchel. ‘It’s nothing. I felt queer but I think it’s gone.’ She pulled a lipstick from the satchel, grinned morosely at a little mirror and spent a long time painting her mouth.

  ‘I thought you were going to faint,’ said Frank. ‘You looked dreadful. What was it? Why were you so frightened? Nothing went wrong.’

  ‘I wasn’t frightened,’ growled Veronica. ‘I felt sick.’

  ‘There was no reason to be frightened. It’s safer than crossing the street. I’m not frightened. I loved it,’ prattled Frank. He pulled his passport from a pocket and admired it in silence for a few moments. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing you can do about it. I mean, if there’s a crash you won’t know anything. It’s all over in a few seconds. So it’s silly to sit there and worry…’