A Calculated Life

by Anne Charnock

  “Black Menorcas?” said Jayna.

  “I did some research when I got back and it turns out that Black Menorcas are a breed of chicken,” he said, bemused, “originating in Spain. I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe it’s a personal issue. His family might keep chickens or did so in the past,” said Jayna. “Even so, I don’t see why anyone would name a choc-ice after a chicken.”

  “Logic doesn’t always come into it,” said Harry.

  “Well, I’m going back next week and I’m going to ask him,” said Lucas.

  With the Black Menorcas dealt with, Jayna became the focus of attention. An interrogation began on her visit to Benjamin’s.

  “So what was the biggest eye-opener?” said Julie.

  “I hadn’t realized that Benjamin would invite half the street.” She didn’t mean exactly half the street but she’d heard the phrase at work and was fascinated by the use of half the street rather than the whole street, as though half the street paradoxically carried greater emphasis, or was somehow funny. “Rather, I’d imagined the four of us would sit on big sofas in a formal reception room—have a quiet chat before they started the barbecue. But, as it turned out, it was all extremely informal. I chatted in the kitchen with Benjamin’s wife, Evelyn, while we made the salads and dressing.”

  “Making salads? You, Jayna?” said Julie.

  “Evelyn told me what to do. And later, I helped turn the meat on the barbecue.”

  Julie leaned forward. She clearly wanted the details so Jayna obliged. “You have to cook steak at extremely high temperatures. The art is knowing when to remove the meat. A minute too long and it will be too dry.” The group was now fully attentive. “Some guests wanted their steak rare so the secret is to take the meat off sooner than you think; that way if it’s too rare the guest can put the meat back on the barbecue for a couple more minutes.”

  “And was it fun?” asked Lucas.

  “I suppose it was. But it all seemed so much effort for Benjamin and Evelyn: preparing the food, the cooking, serving the guests, clearing up. In fact, the whole event revolved around food. Everyone talked in great detail about the salads—which crops were doing well on the allotment, which were disappointing this season—the availability of specific ingredients, the cut of the meats. I’d no idea it would be such a big issue.”

  “We just go to the canteen, eat whatever is served, and walk away,” said Lucas.

  “Seems a lot of work,” said Harry, unimpressed.

  “Well, their guests did help now and then. One person started to collect dirty plates and others followed suit. One of the men helped to serve drinks. And everyone helped to organize the children—they ate first, but on less expensive cuts of meat.”

  “Why?” asked Lucas, wide-eyed.

  “I really don’t know. I didn’t like to ask. To me, it seemed a double economy because the children ate less anyway.” While on the subject of the children, she described their game playing.

  “The basis of the game might go back a long way,” said Harry. “Maybe there are older, similar games that act as templates, that they repeat and slightly adjust.”

  “Children like activities based on swapping things. And running around is another big thing,” said Julie helpfully.

  “But what about the stealing? That’s what I can’t understand,” said Jayna.

  “If they only steal in a crisis, that’s not so bad. It’s painfully realistic…if you watch the news. That’s down to natural instinct,” said Harry.

  Natural instinct. She was sure she was blushing. And now she recalled another instinct; she’d felt jealous of little Alice Slater. That particular feeling had erupted when Jayna left the Slater home. She’d said goodbye to Benjamin and Evelyn and, as she walked towards the limo, Alice had charged out of the house shouting, “Take this! The umpire always gets a prize.” She handed her a stripped twig. “It’s my best one.” Jayna had stared down at what was, by then, a slightly grubby artifact and said, “Tell me something, Alice, is there anything that still makes you cry?” Alice took her hand as though they were the same age and were about to skip down the street together. “When my friends are nasty to me, I come home crying and my mum says that’s just the way little girls are and they’ll all grow out of it. But if it gets really bad she speaks to their mums and to my teacher. Then teacher has a chat with us all and makes us all say we’re sorry and we shake hands. Then we’re best friends again.”

  Jayna had then stroked Alice’s hair and ventured another question: “Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?”

  It was Alice’s reply to this second question that made her jealous: “I’m only eight years old.”

  So, Alice was a much-loved child, free to play games with no concerns for the future. Jayna, though, surmised a wider narrative. This young girl was unaware that her parents were already watching for the tiniest signs of her natural talents, which they would nurture. And they would assist Alice in realizing her talents as she entered adult life so that, over the subsequent years, the rewards of professional success would fall into her lap as naturally as a fallen branch followed a watercourse to the open seas. She would enjoy some equivalent of her parents’ lovely white and cream home. There would be crisp Mediterranean salads, medium rare steaks, fine wine, and fresh ground coffee. Jayna recalled one of Hester’s sayings, quite puerile now that she considered it: What you’ve never had, you’ll never miss.

  Lucas and Harry were stacking the pudding dishes noisily.

  “Jayna, you will come out with us tomorrow, won’t you? It’s the karaoke semis,” said Julie.

  “I’ll join you later in the afternoon. I have a new assignment for the day.”

  “On a Sunday?” said Harry.

  She could be upfront now. “Olivia wants me to do some research on the enclaves so they’ve arranged for me to visit a member of staff who lives in Enclave W3.”

  “An enclave? Do you really need to go there? You must have all the reports you need,” said Julie.

  “They want me to see it for myself. The reports might be missing something or I might be misinterpreting them. I’ll be escorted around the area for a few hours; should be back sometime around mid-afternoon.”

  “But why on a Sunday?”

  “It’s all very speculative. Nothing may come of it so I volunteered to make the visit outside office hours.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” said Julie, almost indignant.

  “It’s give and take, really. I did have an interesting time at Benjamin’s today. He didn’t have to invite me.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Harry chipped in: “I think I should arrange a trip to the enclaves. If it makes sense for you to go there, it makes even more sense for me to take a look. We have a great deal to say on enclave policies.”

  Jayna wondered if he had any idea how those policies affected the likes of Dave.

  “I’ll be interested to hear how you get on,” Harry added.

  And, as usual for a Saturday evening, they regrouped, taking their drab coffee to their drab common room. On this particular evening, they passed easy conversation about karaoke and Jayna could relax because Julie was always the driver for this topic. Not only did she know the statistics for the most frequently performed karaoke songs but she had also studied their success rates. From the competition results in the UK’s major entertainment zones, Julie could give the statistical chances of success for different songs, depending on the sex of the performer and region of the country. (Some accents just didn’t work with certain songs, Julie had said.) She knew the chances of a less popular song winning to be less than 20 per cent. She worked with the results of quarter- and semi-finalists on the assumption that the tone-deaf and luck-luster competitors had been weeded out by that stage.

  “Julie, why don’t you enter…see how far you can get?” said Lucas. “You’re pretty good.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” he said.<
br />
  “Maybe it wouldn’t be fair.”

  “I don’t see why. It’s not as though you were intended to have a great voice.”

  “I guess not. I expect it’s just an accident.”

  “I don’t think you can call perfect pitch an accident,” said Jayna. “You make it sound as though it’s a problem.”

  “Well, we all know we wouldn’t enter quizzes of any kind. I mean, I’m perfectly comfortable competing with other rest stations but it’s different at the Domes. We can always work out how to do something better than everyone else…Anyway, what would be the point in winning?”

  Which brought that particular conversation to a dead end.

  On the roof again with one shoe on, one shoe off. Over the past week, she’d grabbed every chance to steal away after dinner. It didn’t always work out. She told herself she wanted time alone but if she were honest she’d admit she wanted to watch the apartment block opposite. She spent hours following the movements of people within their private spaces. Straining to hear any arguments, looking for real families. But this was an inner-city apartment block and that meant well-paid singletons living alone or sharing. And, tonight, she recognized they all had the same easy movement that she’d noticed at the Slaters’—the way Evelyn negotiated her way around her home, the way she knew the contents of every kitchen cupboard (and the way Alice knew every weed at the bottom of the garden). She noticed how each resident could walk from one room to another, from the kitchen to the living area, to the bedroom, to the bathroom, without walking through a communal corridor. Not like the rest station at all. They had multiple personal spaces, not to mention private balconies with the ubiquitous potted fig trees.

  It was a hot night. Sliding doors were open in the apartment block and fly screens were drawn closed. Is it inevitable now? She slapped a mosquito dead on her knee. I’m on a path and it’s leading me towards a gaping hole; I’m bound to fall in. But, perhaps I should see it differently. I’m on a path that leads to a mountain, or an escarpment. I’m not heading for a downfall. I’m climbing…away from all the rules and restrictions. I can see it. I’m sitting cross-legged on a grassy ledge high up on the mountainside. It’s dewy and fresh and I’m looking down on everything I’ve left behind.

  She watched two figures leave a balcony. They entered their bedroom, switched on the lights. The lights then dimmed. One of the figures approached the window and shut the blinds.

  She didn’t care about the dangers. An ambulance siren screamed somewhere close by. She crept back to the roof access, retrieved her shoe, and took from her pocket a cheap metal teaspoon that she’d taken from the canteen four days earlier. She held the bowl of the spoon, with her thumb close to the tip, and scraped it hard along the wall as she walked down the stairs. With every three steps, she paused and made a small gouge in the wall. Small flakes of paint and plaster dust dropped to the steps. Whenever she found an old blemish on the wall she worked into it, grinding and enlarging the hole to make a much larger fissure. So satisfying. Her vandalism was carefully measured and was partly disguised because the cream paintwork was similar in tone to the gray plasterwork underneath. This encouraged her to do more. She made her marks at different heights. With a high scratch she saw a wardrobe catching the wall. With a low gouge she saw a chair carelessly man-handled. The scratches at thigh height were the buckles on bags.

  Three flights down she sat on a step, leaned against the wall, and looked up at the stairwell. The dimmed lights still picked out the scars. If only she could add color. Some minutes later she stood and spread her hands across the wall, feeling the marks with her palms and fingertips. She laid her cheek against the cool surface.

  Her room lights had already faded. She let her clothes drop to the floor and crawled into bed naked. She tried to slide into the shallows of sleep but the tap at her sink had developed a drip, at four-second intervals.

  CHAPTER 14

  Toast, scrambled eggs, sausage, and orange juice. Sunday breakfast was her favorite meal of the week. The canteen assistant piled her plate and looked up. “Extra egg?”

  “No thanks.”

  He withheld the plate. “It’s not a proper fry-up, y’know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It should ’av’ bacon, black puddin’, and fried bread as well. But they said it’s too un’ealthy”—he passed the plate to her—“an’ bacon’s way too pricey.”

  “I’m not sure I could eat so much in one meal.”

  “Yer’ve not lived till yer’ve ’ad a proper fry-up.”

  “I expect not.”

  She had arrived early for breakfast and now sat alone. Resting her elbows on the table she massaged the muscles at the back of her neck. Avoiding her friends; the half-truths were making her tense. But what else could she do? She positioned the components of her meal as though banishing uncertainty: a two-centimeter gap between her plate and her knife to the right, fork to the left; her glass, four centimeters from the tip of her knife, with the center point of the glass base sited on the axis of the knife; bread plate positioned to the left of her fork, centers of both plates aligned. And then, she could begin. First, she buttered the toast using three sweeps of her knife, inserting the knife inside the soft interior of the bread to clear the metal surface.

  She’d heard people talk of the holy trinity of food (bread, cheese, and red wine, apparently) but for her there was no better combination than hot buttered toast and room-temperature orange juice. They were made for one another. She indulged in this private reverie while thinking, thinking very hard. What to do about Dave? She tapped the tip of her knife on the table. I definitely need to sort something out.

  There had to be at least one overlooked treasure, she thought, as she pushed open the door of the antiques shop.

  “Hello. Need any help?” A slight woman wearing red, dark hair scraped back.

  “I’m looking for a small birthday gift.” Excellent. No resident Freda; too small an enterprise. Something was bound to be undervalued. That’s how it worked. Antiques shifted from one source to another, from jumble stalls to junk shops, to general antiques dealers, to specialist dealers, and then the auction houses. Just like a food chain: everything progressively consumed by bigger and bigger beasts with larger appetites and tighter niches. But anyone with know-how and tenacity could make money by ferreting around in shops such as this.

  “Does your friend collect anything in particular?”

  “Not really. I’m hoping something will catch my eye.”

  She made a broad sweep of the room anticipating that something would jump out. Her purchase had to be small so she looked to the random collections of objects on horizontal surfaces. Would these objects normally sit together in a home, she wondered? On a small bamboo table by the side of the woman, she saw a pot—simple and matte, almost pewter colored, just twelve centimeters high, a truncated cone with two angular handles attached at the rim and halfway down the slope of the cone. It was an Upchurch pot, hand-thrown, Arts and Crafts, early twentieth century, worth the equivalent of one month’s salary for Dave. She looked at the base. Yes, it was Upchurch but valued correctly, unfortunately.

  She moved around the room recognizing and then rejecting each fairly priced and each over-priced object in turn. There were five potential purchases she had to reject; they were too cumbersome, too fragile or too difficult to sell-on. This was not as easy as she’d imagined. Had she allowed sufficient time? In the corner of the room, farthest from the entrance, she noticed a tangle of jewelry crammed together as though the shop owner conceded that no single item had any particular merit. Jayna poked around among the tacky oddments.

  “I have regulars who always buy a bit of something from that pile. You might find a present there. It’s all costume jewelry but it’s fun.”

  “This is sweet,” said Jayna. Her heartbeat leapt. The brooch, thanks to decades of grime, merged easily with the neighboring tat, but there was no doubt: square, cut corners, with cobalt and white enamel
stripes, a narrow checkerboard border. And, on the reverse, the impressed monogram, WW, just discernible: Wiener Werkstätte. There was little intrinsic value in the enamel or its copper base but Jayna had learnt that the lowliest materials could be transformed into an object of desire. She could see the hand of the designer (she was sure it was Josef Hoffmann) and she imagined him checking the brooch, handling it, turning it over, making sure it matched his intentions. Dave would survive for three months on this. Jayna walked to the counter. “I’ll take it.”

  “I’ll knock a bit off for a new customer.” And she dropped the brooch into a small paper bag.

  “Thanks. I’ll be sure to come again.” She slipped the tiny packet into her pocket. Perfect. Wiener Werkstätte—so easy to miss and so very easy to sell.

  Reaching the edge of the terminal piazza fifteen minutes too early for her shuttle, she sat on the front edge of a bench that was already burning hot from the morning sun. She held the brooch in her pocket and breathed deeply, steadily; impatient now. People criss-crossed around her. Their pace was relaxed and they wore less formal clothing than during the week. As she sizzled in the sunshine, her eyes were drawn to an elderly man standing incongruously at the center of the piazza. He wore a pinstriped suit that would surely have been his most expensive item of clothing at some time in the past. The jacket hung slightly off center, making his shoulders appear inadequate and she imagined how twenty years ago his frame and bulkier muscles would have better matched the suit’s size and former elegance. And with a sharper haircut and polished shoes, he’d have projected the image of a confident, even strutting, corporate executive.

  He removed a bag from his trouser pocket and dropped seeds at his feet. The signal was detected and an army of sparrows and pigeons massed around him. There he stood, unflinching, as the birds clambered over his feet in their frenzy. The simple fact that he dropped the seeds, instead of throwing them a few feet away, marked him out. He let the birds scramble across his shoes; feathers touched the fabric of his shiny suit. It didn’t take much to delineate madness. She felt edgy. And for a few seconds, she re-read the scene before her. No longer was the man demonstrating an act of kindness towards pathetic beggars. No, these birds had merely broken their carefree flight across the metropolis on an impulse. They probably were not even hungry. The solitary male figure needed them far more than they needed him. It was all a matter of perception. Passers-by checked him out. A group of teenagers sneered and, in the next instant, he was banished from their thoughts.