by Anne Kennedy
Finally we got to the book, and I’m pleased to say, took it in turns to speak—no one dominated, it was all very civilised as you might expect from such a nice group of women. They mostly talked about whether they believed or didn’t believe the events of the book (whose title I can’t remember and whose author I can’t remember). Lydia said she believed it when the protagonist hid the man. Deb said she didn’t believe it when the protagonist hid the man. Charlene said she believed it when the protagonist ripped the costume she’d previously mended; it showed agency. Liz said she didn’t believe it when the protagonist ripped the costume. (Mandy was in the kitchen making tea, the wine being long gone.) The discussion was vibrant, with agreement and disagreement, with furrowing of brows and laughter. When they laughed, their combined teeth all in a row looked like someone’s collection of crockery. This was Cook Blub heaven.
I felt at a slight disadvantage not having read the book; alienated is probably too strong a word, but I did get the teensiest bit sick of what was believable and what wasn’t believable, so I went out onto the fire escape to have a smoke and check my messages. I tweeted, Thanks Book Club, you gals are kick-ass! #ilovebookbuddies #bookclubrocks. @fringefestdweller retweeted my tweet, and also @heartwriter (this was before the big debacle). I replied, Thanks for the RTs @fringefestdweller & @heartwriter. I knew they’d be jealous as hell. I looked out at the city. To the west, the sky had a streak of red through it. The air was still, which is eerie for Wellington. I hoped this unusually clement weather wasn’t signalling some kind of catastrophe. As I rolled my joint, I ruminated on the discussion about the novel, and it occurred to me that we all want to believe in something at all costs, even if it isn’t true. I looked out again at the sky and the red streak had gone, died—night had come on.
When I got back inside everyone was hoeing into the banana cake and gearing up for a democratic vote on what we’d read next. Now here’s something interesting. I thought the others would vote for some chick-lit novel with a picture of a half-dressed woman who’d got into a lot of romantic bother walking away from the camera; or even chick-with-dick lit, something by Nick Hornby or Jonathan Franzen. I was prepared for this, even looking forward to it. Lo and behold, Liz reminded everyone that the next Cook Blub meeting was Classics Night. The only question was ‘Which classic?’ and this was causing a Mexican wave to ripple through the kink in the L-shaped couch.
I was pleased, because I personally had a few classic novels up my sleeve that I’d never got around to reading (or, in one case, rereading). I recited this list to Cook Blub: War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, The Idiot, Moby Dick, Clarissa, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Remembrance of Things Past, The Scarlet Letter, The Scarlet Pimpernel, The Red and the Black, Silas Marner, Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, The Iliad, The Odyssey, Ulysses, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, The Glass Bead Game, The Tin Drum, Les Misérables, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Far from the Madding Crowd, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Jude the Obscure, The Ice Shelf, Nausea, The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, The Pearl, Of Mice and Men, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Midnight’s Children, Leaves of the Banyan Tree, A Passage to India, A Room with a View, Howard’s End, Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Brave New World, Madame Bovary, Tristram Shandy, Don Quixote, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, Catch 22, The Trial, The Metamorphosis, The Castle, Wide Sargasso Sea, Heart of Darkness, Mrs Dalloway, To the Lighthouse, The Invisible Man, The Bell Jar, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Great Gatsby, Tender is the Night, Tom Jones, The Moonstone, The Lord of the Flies, Middlemarch, The Sound and the Fury, As I Lay Dying, Beloved, The Canterbury Tales, Candide, The Portrait of a Lady, Lolita, The Magic Mountain, To Kill a Mockingbird, Vanity Fair, Barry Lyndon, Robinson Crusoe, Dead Souls, and a few others.
I posited each one in turn, but it gives me no pleasure to report that Cook Blub greeted each suggestion with a ‘No’, which was at first a murmur but got exponentially louder with each iteration, thus: (x = [classic novel], y = No).² Repeated many times, it sounded like a list poem I’d once read in a verse novel about a young woman giant, which went, ‘[Classic book ending in ‘o’]? No.’ And by the end the ‘Nos’ were very loud indeed.
As nobody had yet suggested another classic novel, I began to think the members of Cook Blub didn’t know of any. But then there was a development. Liz, brushing cake crumbs from her fingers, announced—duh duh dah—Frankenstein. It seemed that this particular classic novel was vastly superior to the classic novels I’d been putting forward, because it got an immediate and heartfelt ‘Yes’ from the Cook Blub members, a ‘Yes’ that could’ve been heard, like a rugby try, all over the neighbourhood of Mount Victoria. Feeling pleased with themselves, the Cook Blub members once again revealed their respective sets of teeth. I could only attribute the enthusiastic response to Frankenstein—the *only* classic novel *not* on my list—to the fact it’d been chosen prior to my arrival at Cook Blub. Which turned out to be the case.
There’s worse. A brief discussion ensued in which I couldn’t possibly take part because it was about Frankenstein, and here’s the really interesting thing. It became apparent that the other members of Cook Blub—a nicer group of women you’d never meet—had not only chosen Frankenstein earlier, they’d already read it. Lydia even happened to have a copy handy, pulling it from her red leather tote, which might tell you something about the premeditation that went into choosing Cook Blub books (and her handbag budget). I now suspected that the book about the clothes mender had been pre-read, and it dawned on me crushingly that *all* the books chosen for Cook Blub had been read by the members, perhaps recently, perhaps years before, I don’t know; thus they were relieved of the chore of reading a new book in the next two weeks and were free to get on with Jack, Chloe, the current boyfriend, their jobs, and being on maternity leave from teaching high-school English. I, it seemed, was the only member of Cook Blub who had not read Frankenstein, which I thought grossly unfair.
However, I am not one to rock the boat, so I accepted the decision in good grace. And as the members dribbled down the fire escape, I chalked up to experience my first Cook Blub meeting.
The next day I was lolling on the couch—to be honest, there wasn’t a heck of a lot to *do* at Mandy’s. My natural habitat is a big house full of interesting people whom you have raves with at the kitchen table. Not Mandy’s scene, so yeah, on this long day, one of many long days, for want of anything better, I picked up Mandy’s copy of Frankenstein and applied myself to the blurb on the back. I’m sorry to say, apart from being the teensiest bit annoyed that I’d had no say in the choosing of this book and that the others had already read it, my abhorrence was immediate and physical. Shudders ran up and down my spine at the notion of a monstrous creature who lumbers about decrying his existence and destroying things and people. When I opened the book, it was even worse: the sight of the letters with their baggage of serifs, all in creepy black-and-white and bearing the lode of the monster, was too much for me at this point. I returned the book to the coffee table.
As the fortnight limped along (Mandy in her dressing gown by eight each night) and I still couldn’t find it in myself to approach Frankenstein, I decided the best course of action was to read one of the classic novels on my own list. And yes, I was fully aware of Rule Number Two, but I was confident I’d be able to do something about changing it in my capacity as newest Cook Blub member. Having overturned Rule Number 1, I seemed to be the new broom. I perused my list, summoning my existing knowledge. Like knowledge of the Kardashians, it’s hard to avoid at least a cursory acquaintance with the plotlines of classic novels. But here, unfortunately, was where I came unstuck. With mounting horror, I read that monsters in some shape or form populated many of the novels on my list, whether it was Moby Dick, Mr Hyde, Casaubon, Blanche Ingram, Bill Sikes, Uriah Heep, Alec d’Urberville, O’Brien, Milo Minderbi
nder, Inspector Javert, Robert Lovelace, Mr Kurtz, and so on and so on. Monstrous villains abounded. I began crossing off all the novels stalked by monsters, and my list shrank with each departing creature. Finally, as I struck a line through The Grapes of Wrath (the evil dustbowl was unthinkable), and with Classics Night looming, I had only one book, or at least a draft of a book, left.
*
When Cook Blub reconvened we sat companionably once again on the L-shaped couch (I didn’t mind my little stool), drinking wine, eating salmon canapés (Deb) and guacamole (Liz), which were very nice, and after an interminable time of small talk, we prepared to unveil Frankenstein. I wasn’t looking forward to this, but there would be other Cook Blub nights.
Charlene began by saying that she believed it when Frankenstein-the-scientist created Frankenstein-the-monster (like a peasant he took his master’s name), and she liked his agency. Oh yes, said the others, they believed it utterly. Deb said she believed that Frankenstein-the-monster was capable of horrific deeds, and the others all chimed Yes, they believed it, too. It was very believable. Lydia asked if everyone believed it when he murdered Frankenstein-the-scientist’s younger brother William? They did, they all believed it. Did they believe it when Poor Justine Moritz, the maid, was wrongly accused of the murder, a set-up by Frankenstein-the-monster, and condemned to death? Yes, they did, they all believed it. Did they believe it when Justine didn’t even seem to mind that she was falsely condemned to death but saw it as part of her duties as a maid? They did, they believed it, even though ‘on Wednesday I am to be hanged’ was not very Bridget Jones Diary. Did they believe it when Frankenstein-the-monster demanded a girlfriend because he was so lonely? They did, they did. Did they believe it when Frankenstein-the-scientist refused to provide this because otherwise there would be no end to monsters? They did. Did they believe it when Frankenstein-the-monster escaped over the ice with Frankenstein-the-scientist in hot pursuit because he was worried about the damage Frankenstein-the-monster would do? Yes, yes, they did believe this. Did they believe it when Frankenstein-the-scientist died and Frankenstein-the-monster blubbed over his death? They did believe it. They believed every word.
Mandy reappeared from the kitchen—where she always seemed to hang out—and hovered uncertainly with a tray of tea. ‘I believed it when he lies down and seeks shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season.’ Here she blinked and turned her head as if listening to some mysterious source, and finished, ‘But, moreso, from the barbarity of man.’ There was a silence while Mandy put down the tea, then the others rushed to congratulate her on her phenomenal memory.
I must’ve looked blank because Liz said, in a school-marmish tone to tell the truth, ‘It’s a quote from the book.’ Mandy half smiled at her own cleverness, which was just a little sickening.
‘Woohoo,’ I said.
Eight eyes on the L-shaped couch—a nicer group of women you’d never meet—trained on me. Mandy said diffidently, ‘Um, you did agree to read the book, Janice, remember?’ Charlene and Deb made room for her and she sat down quickly, almost disappearing into the join of the couch. I felt *slightly* as if they were all in a row facing me.
I think it was Charlene who asked in a big voice, ‘Janice, did you read Frankenstein?’ Charlene would not get a role in In My Father’s Den.
Lydia commented, ‘It looks like Janice has broken Rule Number Two.’ Someone thanked Lydia for hitting the nail on the head.
There was a bit of a clamour, the gist of it about my membership of Cook Blub, but also Mandy had just made the tea and someone had got milk out of the fridge and poured it into all the cups, but it was from my fridge and it had been put there by someone at the last Cook Blub meeting two weeks earlier, and now there was the foulest smell of rotten dairy and everyone was covering their noses and running about the room trying to escape the smell and someone opened the fire-escape door and Mandy ferried the cups to the kitchen to tip them out but tripped with her tray and grey spoilt milk flew all over the floor and the couch and there was a great argy-bargy.
When things had quietened, and everyone was sitting down again although parts of the couch were unavailable, I explained how I had not been able to bring myself to read Frankenstein. I told them how keenly I was affected by the idea of the creator, the monster, the monster’s destruction and his loneliness. It all seemed so abjectly awful. By this time I was pouring out my heart. I told everyone that I had reread The Ice Shelf (draft) instead. I expected this news to be greeted with congratulations (after all, I had not wasted my fortnight’s reading), and I gave a synopsis of the book.
The row on the couch were silent, none of their teeth visible.
Finally, Deb furrowed her brow and said, ‘It seems that the protagonist of this book—’
‘The Ice Shelf,’ I furnished.
‘Whatever,’ said Deb. ‘It seems like she is a monster.’
The other agreed raggedly. Yes, I believe that, I believe that, I believe that, they said one after the other. Something travelled slowly down inside my chest, like the New Year ball drop in Times Square.
Then it was all over and they began to clunk down the fire escape. Mandy appeared from the kitchen looking forlorn and desperate at the sight of the departing backs, and she called out urgently, ‘We forgot to choose a book for next time!’ Which halted them in their tracks, because this authoritative tone was unlike Mandy, and they poked their heads back in the glass doors like a nodding bunch of roses.
‘Please don’t go before we choose a book,’ said Mandy, pink and weak now she had their attention.
It was then that I made my last serious challenge to the policies of Cook Blub, to Rule Number Three. I suggested we read Utter and Terrible Destruction. (The forty-nine-page problem seemed obsolete now.) I handed copies through the door to the assembled.
Charlene’s drawn breath could be felt rather than heard. ‘There is a policy,’ she said in her librarian voice, ‘that Book Club does not read books by its members.’
They meant me, because who else in Cook Blub had written a book?
Then they all got going with their opinions, with their different shapes and sizes clustering in the doorway. Deb was strident on policy, Lydia on precedent, and Liz said Chloe was so cute the other day. I admired their passion, but the fact remained, I was in Cook Blub, now, and Cook Blub had changed. Mandy said it looked like there was not actually going to be a book chosen this time, which would be a big shame. No one listened to her, and I felt the teensiest bit sorry about that. They all left quickly, clattering down the fire escape. During this stampede (I was reminded of the getaways in the Book of Exodus and The Grapes of Wrath), a copy of Frankenstein came sailing through the doorway and hit Mandy on the head. I’d never seen her so enraged. She cried out, ‘Was that necessary?’
From down below Deb could be heard saying, ‘I’m texting Jack,’ and Liz replying, ‘So fucking what?’ and Charlene saying, ‘We’re sick to the back teeth of fucking Jack.’
Mandy stood on the pink rug holding her head. I moved to the couch now I had the opportunity, collecting the thrown copy of Frankenstein on the way. We looked at each other and listened to the women argue into the night. I must say, even though Cook Blub was quite marvellous, I was feeling a little bit off them, and I planned to talk to Mandy about us starting our own group, just us, which we could have 24/7.
However, things were soon to be taken out of my hands. One night during the week, Mandy came into my bedroom in her dressing gown and milled about. Finally she said, twisting her face, ‘Janice, I have something to tell you. I hope you won’t be upset.’ I said of course I wouldn’t. Mandy said, ‘No really, not fly off the handle or anything,’ and I said, ‘Mandy, have you ever known me to do that, just spit it out.’
Mandy told me the news: Cook Blub had voted to get rid of me. Of course, that wasn’t the term she used. It was more of a *not a good fit, discontinue my membership* sort of thing. She meant I could go get fucked.
‘I�
��m really really sorry, Janice,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t me, it was the others.’
I said fine, whatever. I didn’t mind, really I didn’t. In fact, I’d never really wanted to belong to Cook Blub in the first place. Ah well, it was an experiment that didn’t work out. I bear absolutely no malice to the members of Cook Blub, a nicer group of women you’d never meet, and in fact I want to thank each and every one of them—Charlene, Deb, Lydia, Liz, and yes, Mandy—for their candour. It wasn’t working, me being a writer and them not, them being middle class and me not, and they said so. It was a brave and strong thing to do. Also, if I hadn’t had the experience of being shunned by a group of very nice women, I wouldn’t have built up the sense of isolation necessary to be a writer. Thank you, Cook Blub, very very much indeed.
I should add, to show there were absolutely no hard feelings, that the very next day the latest Landfall arrived in the mail and Mandy had a poem in it. She opened it right in front of me in the living room where I was sitting with my laptop trying to write, and I didn’t mind the interruption. I congratulated her mightily, because I’m full of admiration for Mandy. I tweeted straight away: Woot woot! Congrats to my dear friend @mandycoot <3 <3 <3 and added the link, and a few minutes later, when Mandy was sitting on the couch hunched over her phone, she replied, Thanks @Janiceawriter xxxx. We looked at each other across the pink rug.
