by Isla Dewar
May sat opposite him, folded her hands on her lap, and also looked pale.
Harry said, ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I think we’re done for. The sky has fallen.’
‘Our solicitor phoned. I’m going to be charged.’
‘What with?’ exclaimed May.
‘You know what with. Selling dodgy cars. Turning back the mileage. Fiddling the books. God knows what else.’
‘What will happen to you?’
‘I’ll get bail till the case comes up. Then a huge fine. Prison, perhaps. Won’t be able to sell cars again. Then there’s the earnings I didn’t declare. A fine for that, too. Huge fine. And we’ve no money. I’ve had to close this place down. Told everyone this morning.’
‘Well, it looks like the tax man is doing a job on us,’ said May. ‘Frank came round and told me they want to know where I got the cash to start the restaurant.’
Harry sighed. He pulled some coins from his pocket, threw them on the desk along with a five pound note from his wallet. ‘This is what I’m reduced to.’
May said she was the same. ‘The electric and the phone will be cut off soon enough. It’s not right. We only turned back the clocks a little and covered some rust. Nothing much.’
‘We’ve been doing it for years and years. It’s a bit more than nothing much.’
‘The cars were lovely. All shiny. People drove out of the back lot happy. And maybe we didn’t declare all the money we made. But what did we do with it? We started a restaurant. Employed people to fix the building. And now we employ people to serve and prepare the food. We’re contributing to society. We’re making people happy. And that fifty thousand we kept from the government didn’t go to building nuclear bombs, so that should make people happy, too. I’ll say it again, we’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘It’s against the law to keep the facts of your earnings from the taxman. Simple as that.’
‘Well, the law’s wrong,’ May said. ‘People should get to keep the money they earn.’
Harry put his head in his hands. He felt sick. His life was filled with dread. He dreaded going to prison. He dreaded the scandal that would follow when the truth of his back lot activities came out. Mostly, he dreaded sitting in court watching May giving evidence in the dock. She’d be wearing a pink suit and all her jewellery. She’d be smelling of Chanel. No, she’d be reeking of Chanel; wafts of it would drift to the far reaches of the courtroom. Her face would be overly made up. She’d repeat what she’d just said, boldly admitting her guilt. Oh, how delighted the prosecutor would be.
He decided he’d have none of that circus. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to court. I’ll think of something.’
Slightly reassured, May drove to the restaurant. Lunch was over. Nell, Karen and Sylvie were sitting at a table discussing Rutherford’s In The City.
‘I’ve got it planned,’ Nell was saying. ‘I know exactly what it will be like. Plain white walls with huge posters in thin black frames. Wooden tables with a checked or crisp white cloth, lights hanging from the ceiling and a simple menu. It’ll be classy but not so classy as to frighten off people who don’t often eat out.’
Sylvie said it sounded lovely.
May breezed past thinking they sounded like a bunch of silly schoolgirls and noting how puffed Nell’s face looked. If she’s coming down with the flu, she shouldn’t be here.
Annie was in the kitchen ferociously chopping onions. May always marvelled at the speed Annie worked up; the knife was a blur. ‘You could cut your fingers off doing that,’ she said.
‘Always chop like this,’ Annie said, ‘My mother taught me.’
May asked how the lunches went.
‘Only a couple of tables. People passing by stopped for a bite to eat. Only three reservations tonight.’
‘We won’t be making our fortunes anytime soon,’ said May. ‘What happened? We used to have a full house every night.’
Annie said it was the way of things. ‘People are curious about a new place and give it a try. It takes time to build up some regulars.’
Actually, she thought the empty tables had a lot to do with the article that appeared in the local paper a few weeks ago. Miranda Cartwright-Jones wrote a regular column called ‘Where to Go at the Weekend’, recommending new restaurants, exhibitions and plays. This time, there had been an extra section – ‘Where Not to Go. Ever’ – and the only restaurant mentioned was Rutherford’s. She’d mentioned being berated for not eating her Chicken Kiev and being refused pudding. It was like being loomed over by a bullying school dinner lady. The décor is hideous. And the chef apparently embarrasses the diners with a song. Perhaps she thinks music eases the digestion of her absurdly heavy food. So, don’t go to Rutherford’s, life’s too short for misery you actually have to pay for.
Plainly May hadn’t seen this review and Annie had no intention of mentioning it to her. Instead she said, ‘Give it time. Maybe a year.’
I don’t have a year, May thought. She opened a bottle of wine, poured a glass and sat watching the wonder of Annie’s chopping and mulling over her suspicion that Alistair was the one who had betrayed her. The more she thought about it, the likelier it seemed. After all, he did know everything about her business, and he’d told the family he wanted no more to do with it.
‘I need to be seen as a fit and proper person,’ he’d said. ‘And some of the things that are going on at the back lot are not what a fit and proper person would do.’
I’m a fit and proper person, thought May. There has never been a fitter or properer person than me. She finished her drink and started work, preparing the dough for the small parsley and rosemary dumplings she would put in her stew, which was tonight’s special.
Annie stopped what she was doing when she heard what May was making. ‘Stew? People coming out to eat want something fancy, not stew. That’s what they’d have at home.’
‘It’s got wine in,’ said May, ‘and it’s good hearty food. That’s what people want. It’ll make them happy. That’s my job, making people happy.’
Annie sighed and continued her chopping.
May gazed down into her pot. Scents of garlic, onions and browning meat steamed up to her, bringing memories of stews past. They always reminded her of cold days. Her children coming home, blowing on their fingers, noses red, complaining about the chill outside. She’d stand in the kitchen chopping vegetables – celery, carrots and peppers – adding them to the pot, watching them mix with oil and the vegetables already in there and as she did, listening to Alistair and Johnny playing in the living room. They’d mock fight, speculate about their teachers, film heroes and pop stars, and then sit on the floor side-by-side, watching television. Sometimes she’d slip away from her cooking to watch them. She’d never known she could love so much.
Harry always accused her of preferring Johnny, but this wasn’t true. She knew Alistair would be all right. The people who go through their childhood being a little overshadowed by a brother or sister usually found a way to make their voices heard. Alistair was bright, he had a strong sense of right and wrong, he knew what he wanted. Offered a choice – a toy or a book, an apple or a pear, a biscuit or a cake – Alistair never had any trouble deciding what to pick. It was always the book, the pear and the cake. Johnny always hesitated, watched what Alistair did, and then copied him. May decided that the people who were fussed over, and told they were good-looking never thought to fight to have their voices heard. It barely crossed their minds that they had a voice.
And Alistair had always instinctively known all the things Johnny had to be taught: not to cry when you lose a game; offer a plate of cakes to the guests first; don’t sulk; be brave when you’ve fallen and skinned your knee; always say please and thank you.
And now Alistair had phoned the Inland Revenue and told them about her secret cash. He’d decided it was the honest thing to do. How could he? How could he betray his own mother and see his family ruined? It was heartbreaking. My b
oy, May thought, my lovely, lovely boy hates me. Slow tears slid down her face, dropped into the pot, mixed with the browning meat and melting vegetables. This would be a sad and salty stew. She must remember to watch the seasoning.
It wasn’t a good evening for Rutherford’s. Only three tables were taken. May grouped them close to one another, hoping this would make the place look busier. It made the diners self-conscious. They spoke in whispers and left as soon as they could. Nobody lingered and nobody ordered May’s stew.
‘They don’t know what they’re missing,’ she complained. She shrugged on her mink coat over her chef’s whites. ‘I’m going home. I’m tired.’
She breezed through the empty dining room, noting that Nell was lounging behind the bar with nothing to do. Daydreaming as always. Oh, she couldn’t be bothered with her company tonight. Let the girl make her own way home. She patted the red piano in passing, saying goodbye to it. She’d miss it. She went to the cash register, opened it and sighed. The takings weren’t good: about twenty pounds in cash and a cheque. She took ten pounds and the cheque, shouted, ‘Goodnight all,’ and left.
Harry was in the kitchen when she arrived home. He had the contents of the dread drawer spread on the table in front of him. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first?’
‘The good news.’
‘The good news is things have got so bad, they can’t get any worse.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ said May. She looked round, ‘Where’s Johnny?’
‘Haven’t seen him since I got in. I thought he’d gone to bed and I let him sleep. Lying in bed in hospital is tiring.’
‘Let him sleep. Best thing.’
Harry waved his hand over the letters on the table. ‘Oh boy, are we in trouble. You were meant to go see the Inland Revenue, but because you didn’t open the letter, you didn’t know to go. I’ve been hit with a huge back payment, but because I didn’t open the letter, I didn’t pay it. No matter, I couldn’t have paid it anyway. Fact is, sweetheart, I don’t think I can talk my way out of this.’
May slumped on the chair opposite him.
‘The sheriff’s officers are coming to requisition our possessions and sell everything off,’ Harry told her.
‘I hate this. It’s all worry. I feel like I’m walking through black. Everything black. Can’t think. Can’t eat. My stomach’s a mass of nerves and all I feel is dread. I dread the phone ringing. I dread the sound of mail dropping through the letterbox. I dread the knocking on the front door. The shame of it. After all our hard work, we’ll be back to having nothing.’
Harry took her hand. ‘But wasn’t it grand? Didn’t we have fun? It was a rollercoaster. And we will rise again. You can’t keep a Rutherford down.’
‘But my things. My furniture, my handbags, my shoes.’
Harry leaned over and put his face close to hers. ‘We’ll get more. We’ll get better things.’
May was surprised. ‘You don’t seem bothered at all.’
Harry leaned back, hands behind his head, and told her it was a challenge. ‘Us against them. It’s an opportunity. We’re starting over and we can do anything. We’ve proved that.’
May pointed out that bankrupt people couldn’t start their own business. ‘We’ll be homeless. Penniless.’
‘We’ll be free. No furniture to dust. No bills to pay, because we can’t pay them. It’s a fresh start. Think about it. Daydream. Just let your mind go. We’ve got no ties. The boys are all grown up. We can do whatever we want. What’s your secret wish? A wee B&B in the Highlands? We could breed horses.’
‘No, we couldn’t. I don’t like horses. Besides, we’ve got no money!’
Harry flapped his hand at her. ‘Ach. You’ve got to learn not to take poverty so seriously. It’s temporary. C’mon, what’s your dream? Something exotic, I hope. Something with glitz and sparkle and exciting.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Whisper it.’
May took a deep breath. ‘Well, what I like best about having a restaurant is singing. I’m not so fond of the cooking as I thought I’d be, but standing at the piano and singing is a treat. What I’d like to do is have a bar with lots of booze and chat and no food except nibbles.’
Harry thought that sounded good. ‘Pity about the no money, though.’
Suddenly May smiled, ‘Well …’
Chapter Twenty-four
Left in the Lurch
It took some time for Nell to realise that May wasn’t going to drive her home. The woman had breezed past her with hardly a glance, stroked the piano, helped herself to some money and shouted goodnight. Thinking she’d come back, Nell stood staring at the door. Bloody hell, she thought, I’ll have to get the bus. Bummer. She’d been planning to tell May about Alistair and Carol. She’d been sure May would have given her good advice. May was a woman of the world. She’d know what to do.
A voice rose from the kitchen. Annie waltzed out, moving between the tables singing ‘Magic Moments’. She saw Nell watching her, and stopped, embarrassed. ‘I thought you’d left with May.’
Nell shook her head. ‘You sound happy.’
Annie said she’d just had a little burst of happiness. ‘Just came over me and I had to sing.’
Nell asked what had brought this burst of happiness on.
Annie shrugged and told Nell there was nothing wrong with feeling happy for happiness’ sake. ‘Mind you, I’d be happier if I got paid.’
‘You haven’t been paid?’ Nell was surprised.
‘No, not for a few weeks,’ said Annie. ‘May promised me a big bonus if I’d stay with her through this sticky patch. Have you been paid?’
‘Yes,’ Nell told her. ‘May told me she’d put it into my bank account.’
‘But you haven’t checked?’ said Annie.
Nell shook her head. It hadn’t occurred to her to check.
‘Well, I’d get myself to the bank as soon as possible and find out,’ Annie advised. Changing the subject, she asked why May hadn’t given her a lift back to town. ‘Left you in the lurch, has she?’
Nell said she did seem to have forgotten her.
‘She’s got a lot on her mind these days.’
‘Has she?’ This surprised Nell.
‘She has,’ said Annie. She looked at her watch. ‘You better go, the last bus leaves in ten minutes.’
On the bus to town, Nell reviewed her troubles. Trundling through the dark, all she could see in the window was her own reflection: a face contorted with worry. She had been trying not to think about her troubles. But here, alone on a bus, it was no longer possible to push them out of her mind.
Flashbacks of the moment she’d seen Alistair and Carol lying entwined on the sofa kept coming to her. She relived the moment, imagining what she ought to have done. Running away – sneaking off into the night terrified of confrontation – seemed foolish now. She should have challenged them. ‘And just how long has this been going on?’ she should have said. Or, ‘You are welcome to each other. You deserve one another, you cheats.’ Pointing at Alistair, ‘You no longer have a loving wife.’ And to Carol, ‘You don’t know the meaning of friendship.’ Then, she’d have left, head held high, dignity intact. In this imagining she was wearing a smart black suit with a high collar white blouse, though she did not possess any such clothes. As she left, without turning back, Alistair and Carol would watch her filled with guilt and humiliation. Then, they’d argue, each blaming the other for what had happened. Their relationship would flounder. They’d part. And they’d both come to her begging forgiveness, which she may or may not grant. She hadn’t yet conjured up this part of her daydream.
‘What are you going to do?’ her mother had asked this morning.
Nell had said she didn’t know. ‘Divorce, I suppose.’
‘You can’t do that. People in this family don’t get divorced. Once you’re married, that’s it, happy or not. You’ve made your vows and you stick to them – richer or poorer, in sickness and health. That’s the deal. You go to Alistair, you tell
him you forgive him, you get Carol out of that flat and you and him start afresh. That’s what you do.’
‘Perhaps.’ She’d had a feeling her mother’s tactics wouldn’t work. She knew Alistair. He wouldn’t be tempted into a swift fling with his wife’s best friend. No, this was serious. He’d want a divorce.
The bus trundled on. In the seat in front of Nell, two young girls were discussing the Beatles. Paul was cute, Ringo funny, John deep and probably difficult. ‘You’d go out with him, but George is the one you’d marry. He’s reliable,’ said one.
Her friend agreed. ‘You couldn’t take John home to meet your mum, but Paul would be OK. My mum would like him.’
Nell remembered how she and Carol had similar conversations about Buddy Holly. She’d had a fantasy that he’d turn up walking along the street where she lived and as he passed her, he’d smile. She’d smile shyly back. He’d ask if she lived round here. She’d point to her house. He’d nod and say it was homely, and that she was just the kind of girl he was looking for: down-to-earth and not interested in his wealth or fame. She’d tell him it was the person inside who interested her.
She sometimes fantasised about famous actors coming to Rutherford’s and being attracted by her simple charms. She could get whisked off to live in Hollywood in a fabulous house with a swimming pool and a white phone by the bed. It could happen.
Divorce, she thought, wasn’t such a scandalous thing really. There had been a divorced woman lived across the road when she was young. Mrs Morton. She’d worn stiletto heels and pencil thin skirts. She’d worked at the make-up counter in a big store and drove a pink car. Eventually she’d married a rich man and had moved into a huge house in the country. It’s not all bad, Nell thought.
If she divorced, she’d rent a small flat with two rooms and a kitchen near the West End; not that she’d use the kitchen much as she’d be working. She’d be an experienced, sophisticated woman. She’d have affairs. Not that many, and just with worldly wise stylish men who’d lean against the bedroom wall drinking whisky, watching her dress as she got ready to go out to a fashionable restaurant for dinner. They’d have witty grown-up conversations about life and art. Perhaps, one day, she’d remarry, but she’d always retain an air of mystery and quiet drama. She’d be a woman who’d experienced tragedy. And survived.
