The Cookbook of Common Prayer

by Francesca Haig

  I tell Mum, when we’re at the bookshop one Friday.

  ‘I think I’ll be Edward, from now on.’

  She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again.

  ‘For high school, next year – you know.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Okay. Right.’

  Since then, she and Dad and Sylvie are trying really hard, and they’re getting better at it, even though right now it feels like my name is Teddy-I-Mean-Edward. Papabee forgets, of course, but he forgets everyone’s names anyway, so I don’t mind.

  I know being Edward will be pretty much the same as being Teddy. But it’s the rhyming that made me decide. I remember when Mum or Dad used to call for us, on the beach at the Neck: Dougie! Sylvie! Teddy! And Mum shouting our names that day we almost drowned. All of our names rhyming.

  I’m Edward now. Edward doesn’t rhyme with anything except itself.

  Sylvie

  Sue comes into Dougie’s room. I’m sitting on his bed, reading.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she says, seeing my copy of Ulysses. ‘They’ve got you reading that?’

  ‘It’s for school. It’s not on the syllabus, but Mrs Lewin said I should read it. She reckons I need to be pushed, academically.’

  ‘Pushed? Ulysses is enough to push anyone right over the edge. Here,’ she gestures impatiently. ‘Pass it over.’

  I give it to her, and she flicks through to the end, brows drawn close together as she concentrates. When she finds what she’s looking for, she presses her hand down on those final pages. Then, with quick, decisive movements, she begins to tear out the rest.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I yell.

  She doesn’t stop. ‘Saving you a lot of time. Most of this,’ she says, nodding down at the pages massing on the bed and slipping onto the floor, ‘you don’t need. A man wandering around, being a tosser, and thinking he’s being profound. Don’t punish yourself with reading this just to impress your teachers. Or your parents.

  ‘But this bit,’ she taps the final pages, which she’s still shielding with her right hand while her left hand rips methodically, ‘that’s the only bit you need. Molly’s soliloquy. You could spend weeks reading the whole bloody thing, and I guarantee that this would still be the only bit you’d remember afterwards. It’s the bit that matters.’

  She holds out the hollowed book, just two hard covers, folded loosely around the few pages that remain at the back. ‘Done.’

  I start laughing, and more of the ripped-out pages fall from the bed. Sue’s grinning too, as she tosses the book on the bed.

  ‘There you go,’ she says.

  The covers flop open like two hands fallen from prayer.

  I read Molly’s soliloquy three times in a row, right away.

  I want to read all the books, and love them, and rip them up. I want all of it. I’m greedy for all the words that I’ve denied myself for so long.

  Nothing has its own power, but the price is too high. Cordelia, dead as any of them in the end, for all her virtue, and for all the purity of her silence. The Fool, too, just disappears.

  I read Molly’s soliloquy and I want Yes. Not the dutiful Yes of the good girl, the good daughter, the good student. The desiring Yes of wanting, for myself.

  And if I’m to be the girl that books built, then I’ll take Molly’s Yes over Cordelia’s Nothing. But I won’t take Molly Bloom’s ending for the ending of my own story. I want to find new books – ones that weren’t given to me by adults; ones that weren’t written by men. I want to find more words, and make new ones – new forms of Yes and More and Everything.

  Gill

  Sylvie told us about Gabe’s father. For weeks, I couldn’t say his name at all. Gabe smashed the glass in the frame that held his photo.

  Because Papa J will never be here to answer for what he’s done, we turned our anger at ourselves, and how we’d failed her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ I begged her. ‘We would have believed you.’

  She says she couldn’t. And if I’m to show her that I will always believe her, I have to start by believing what she’s telling me now. I have to trust that she was telling the truth all along, when she said, ‘It’s not about you.’

  There are habits that take a long time to break. Putting mail for Sylvie on the hallway dresser, to take in next time I go to the hospital. Automatically scanning Campbell St for parking spaces whenever I drive down it, even though there’s no reason for me to go to the hospital any more. Setting the table for three, because for so long it’s been just me, Teddy, and Papabee. But now Gabe and Sylvie are here too and, on good days, Sylvie’s even starting to eat at the table with the rest of us.

  You never know which discharge from hospital is going to be the final one. You only realise later – when it’s been two and a half months, and Sylvie’s weight’s been stable, and at our weekly appointment Louise says, ‘I think we might just play it by ear from now on – cancel the standing appointment and just get in touch as and when, no? You know what to watch out for.’

  Sylvie’s spending less time weighing her food and more time debating politics over the SBS news with Gabe every night. Her friend Esra has been coming over, as well as Ella. I find an open tab on the laptop, a student forum about the best universities for Journalism and Politics courses. And at last, at last, I let myself believe that this isn’t finite. That perhaps this isn’t just a respite between hospital admissions, but that it might actually be real.

  Sue calls. ‘Work talk, not gossip,’ she says. ‘We’ve had an offer.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ I say, waiting. It’s late October; all the broadsheets and long-lead magazines will already be planning their Christmas food supplements. I haven’t been writing so much, since Sylvie and Gabe came home, but it’s time to get back into it, the daily work of proper writing.

  ‘Is it The Australian?’ I ask. ‘I was thinking something about vegan Christmas meals. You know: Turning the Tables on Turkey, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Not for the newspapers. For the book.’

  ‘The book?’ I sound stupid, even to myself.

  ‘The Cookbook of Common Prayer.’

  ‘That’s not a real book.’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you when I sent it out on sub. Didn’t want to get your hopes up. But they’ve gone for it. Peregrine are really keen – they’ve put a good offer on the table. They’re talking about making it a lead title for next spring.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘They are,’ she says. ‘And they’re offering six figures, Gill. More money than your Seasons books put together.’

  She’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t have any words, so she continues.

  ‘They say they want to market it as part-memoir, partrecipe book.’

  ‘It wasn’t even really meant to be a book at all.’

  ‘I know. And if the recipes were crap, I’d say it’s just a gimmick, and you should’ve kept it in the drawer. But they’re not – they’re really good. Sylvie was the one who told me to give them a proper go. She asked me, Have you actually cooked them? Even the ones that seem crazy – they taste perfect.’

  ‘I don’t know. I wrote it for myself, really. Is it going to be any use to anyone else?’

  I can picture her rolling her eyes. ‘Peregrine obviously think so. I say: who cares? Take the money.’ She pauses. ‘It won’t bring Dougie back. And it won’t even fix bloody Sylvie, though it’ll pay for more therapy – and I’m not just talking about her.’

  ‘We’re still going twice a week to family therapy with her,’ I say. ‘And I’m seeing that guy, too. The therapist.’

  ‘The scratchy-tissue guy? Good. So see him more, then. Plus, the money’ll buy you time to write the next two books. Or to not write them, and sit in your study and cry, if that’s what you need.’

  I don’t think that’s what I need, any more. I want to get back to writing. I’m already thinking about figs, and Christmas recipes. Something about mulled wine pudding.<
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  Gabe

  On weekends, Sylvie and I go for long walks along the Cornelian Bay foreshore with the dog. Sometimes we stop on a bench and talk, or don’t talk, for a while. SausageDog brings us sticks, and we throw them, and he looks at us mournfully and ignores them.

  Sylvie doesn’t want to talk much to me about Papa J. I understand, although I’m relieved that she’s talking about it with her doctors. I do my best to hide my anger and my guilt; I don’t always succeed.

  ‘I hate him,’ I say to her, wrestling a stick from the dog.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she says. ‘And I do. That’s why it’s complicated.’

  She doesn’t want to talk about it beyond that, and we won’t push her. As for my own anger at my father, it’s no good to Sylvie, who deserves her own anger, and her own answers.

  Sylvie and Teddy – Edward, I mean, though I get it wrong more often than I get it right – are helping us plan something for Dougie. Not a funeral – too late for that – but some kind of memorial service. Sylvie wants to write a speech, though she’s not sure if she’ll be up to reading it herself, so Sue’s going to read it for her. Gill and I will give a brief speech, too. Ella wants to read a Jane Kenyon poem. Nathan and some of Dougie’s other friends are choosing the music. I’ve emailed Rosa to tell her that she’s welcome. If she comes, she might even want to give a speech. It’s up to her. I haven’t heard back yet.

  Teddy’s organising a slide-show on the computer: photos from through the years. Dougie as a scrunch-faced baby, fresh into the world. Dougie, Sylve and baby Teddy on the balcony; Dougie at six, in just his undies, laughing. Dougie as a boy, knees scabby, leaning over a Tintin book. Dougie with his huge rucksack at the airport, walking away from us.

  Gill

  November brings an early heatwave. There’s a fire on the road to the airport; smoke in every breath. It’s been thirty-five degrees all day, and even in the evening the heat hasn’t dropped. A storm’s coming in, heavy grey cloud massing over the mountain.

  I hear the crack when the first pod explodes, pinging into the French doors. I’ve seen the wisteria pods burst before, but never like this – all at once. The heat and the moisture from the storm must have set them off, and they crack in a frenzy. The seed pods are big – six inches, the largest of them, and hard, despite their velveted surface. They twist open with a percussive crack, firing their seeds wide, and landing, broken, with a clatter.

  ‘Come out here,’ I shout to Gabe. Teddy (sorry – Edward) and Sylvie come too, to see what’s going on.

  The pods are going off like popcorn. Some of the seeds hit the glass doors; others land on the table or scud along the paving stones. It drives SausageDog berserk, leaping in the air to snatch at the falling pods, and chasing the seeds that skitter along the ground. We’re laughing, mouths open, hands up to shield our eyes.

  I hold one of the seeds in my hand. Perfectly round, light as a communion wafer.

  Another snap. ‘Jesus,’ Sylvie says, ‘it could take an eye out,’ and although we flinch each time a crack comes, there’s no question of leaving. We keep waiting for it to end, and it keeps coming: every twenty seconds, another crack. The magic of broken things.

  We go to the Neck to scatter the ashes. We haven’t been back there since that day the kids almost drowned.

  ‘Are you sure you want to?’ Gabe asks. ‘It doesn’t have to be the Neck. There are other places Dougie loved.’

  ‘No,’ Sylvie and Teddy say together. It has to be there, for the same reason that Teddy went there that day, and for the same reason that Sylvie knew where to find him. It’s always been the Neck.

  We drive down in convoy with Sue and her family. For dinner I cook mussels, and send Ella and Sylvie to the fish and chip shop for chips, now Ella has her licence. Nathan’s here too, but seems to spend most of the time inside, on the phone to his boyfriend. Ella and Sylvie are sharing the upstairs room just like old days, though there’s less giggling now. After dinner, they climb to the top of the water tank and lie there talking.

  Sue sits beside me on the sun-bleached wooden bench. We’re so quiet I can hear the tonic fizzing in my glass, and Sylvie and Ella’s distant voices. Gabe, Nathan and Dan are playing cricket on the driveway, an upturned cardboard box as the stumps. In the hammock, Papabee and Teddy – Edward, I mean – are reading, top to toe.

  A gull is flying from the west, dragging the sunset across the sky. I look around at all of us – my family, smaller than I wanted, but bigger than I realised. And I don’t know what it is to pray, but it must be something like this: a kind of noticing. Seeing the line of ants, a row of stitches on the dirt near my bare feet. Hearing the silence of the water from beyond the gum trees. Letting the world be enough.

  Mussels for the day before you scatter your son’s ashes

  Use as many mussels as your children have gathered from the beach. Rinse the mussels of sand, and de-beard them, yanking off any gritty chunks of seaweed.

  Roughly chop two onions. (Better: ask somebody else to do it for you. There’s no greater act of love than willingly chopping onions for someone.) Toss a lump of butter and a big glug of olive oil in a deep-sided pan, and soften the onion over a low temperature, with four cloves of garlic, thinly sliced so that they look like slivered almonds. When the onion is translucent and barely beginning to turn golden, pour in a glass of white wine (nothing fancy – use whatever’s left over).

  When the wine has finished its initial heady sizzle, add the mussels, and put a lid on the pan. Leave for a few minutes, stirring occasionally.

  (Meanwhile, if you found any wild samphire on the rocks, blanch a greedy handful quickly. No need to salt the water – samphire brings its own salt.)

  If there are any mussels that haven’t opened, don’t force them. Just put them aside.

  Take the mussels off the heat and stir through a whole tub of pouring cream. Season with black pepper (lots) and salt (only if you must). Top with a handful of roughly chopped parsley and (if you fancy it) de-seeded red chillies.

  Eat barefoot, at an outside table, with toasted ciabatta to dunk in the boozy, creamy sauce. Or (best of all), eat with a bag of chips from the chippy down the road, bundled in paper already turning see-through with grease.

  Lick your fingers.

  Gill

  In the morning, we go down to the beach with the ashes: me, Gabe, Sylvie, Teddy, and Papabee. No cormorant today – just seagulls, threaded on the string of the horizon. The November sun makes the sea sharp with light. A gusty wind is scudding clouds across the sky.

  Gabe passes me the box. We open it together.

  Edward

  We each get a turn with the box. When it’s my go, I tip some of the ashes out and the wind chucks them back at me, white dust all over my jeans. Mum and Dad laugh and Sylvie screams and I brush it frantically, slapping at my jeans, my hands all chalky.

  I shake my hands. Even though it’s kind of gross, I don’t actually mind. Part of me quite likes the idea that there might be a bit of Dougie rubbed into the seams of my jeans, or stuck under my nails.

  Sylvie goes next, turning her back to the wind so that when she shakes the box, the ashes fly away and it looks like smoke. Dad helps Papabee sprinkle a bit too. Then Mum and Dad take the box and shake it together, the very last bits.

  Today’s Dougie’s birthday – he would have been twenty.

  ‘What do you think he’d make of this?’ Dad says.

  Sylvie tugs at a bit of hair that’s blown across her mouth. ‘He’d say: this is the shittest birthday present ever.’

  ‘Language,’ says Dad, but he’s smiling, and his hand’s on Mum’s shoulder.

  ‘Will Dougie be joining us?’ Papabee asks.

  ‘No,’ Mum says, putting her hand in Papabee’s. ‘He won’t be, Dad. Dougie died.’

  Gabe

  Afterwards, Sylvie and Edward swim. I take three steps in, and then four, feeling the sand shifting underfoot, the persuasive tug of the tide. My children are in the
waves beyond me.

  And if I cannot forgive the water, I can at least step into it.

  I follow them.

  Sylvie

  Everything changes. Nothing changes. There will always be secrets. There are words that I’ve whispered to Teddy that I might not say again, to anybody. There’s still a place for silence.

  I let the water reach my waist. My body’s stronger now – a body for doing things. For reading books, for pulling myself up to the top of the water tank. For dragging my brother from the waves.

  I lean back, letting the water take my weight. Far above me, a gull makes its hoarse prophecy. I close my eyes, and I am not afraid. This water has its appetites. But I have my own.

  Acknowledgements

  My agent and friend, the inimitable Juliet Mushens, has had faith in my writing even when I didn’t. This novel has benefitted greatly from her patience and wisdom.

  The wonderful team at Allen & Unwin UK has given me the best possible home for this story. Particular thanks to my brilliant editor Kate Ballard, for her insight, generosity, and enthusiasm.

  I’m grateful for the diligence and care of my copyeditor, Nicky Lovick, and my proofreader, Sarah Chatwin. Any remaining errors are, of course, my own.

  For her understanding and support, thanks to Clara Haig-White.

  For perceptive feedback and encouragement, thanks to Peter, Alan and Sally Haig, Tony Johnson, and Andrew North. Particular thanks to Alan Haig for attention to detail to a degree that was extraordinary, and only occasionally annoying.

  For fruitful discussions about Lear, Cordelia and nothing-ness, thanks to Margaret Ellis.