The Road Home

by Rose Tremain

  “Yes? They’re nice and soft, that’s why.”

  “Comforting, they are, I suppose. Crumble to mush in yer mouth. But there was always mice in that house, scuttling round after the cookie crumbs. And she wouldn’t set traps. Said there was too much cruelty in the world without her adding to it. Alley cats used to creep in the back door, sniffin’ the vermin, but me ma would shoo them away. It was how she was.”

  “When did she die, Christy?”

  “Long ago. She wasn’t even fifty. Just ate her biscuits and closed her eyes . . .”

  Though Lev was tired, he didn’t want to move from the table. To lie in his bunk and be haunted by all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours: the mere thought of this made him feel empty, lost. “Tell me more about your ma,” he said.

  Christy rubbed his eyes. “Well,” he said, “what can I tell you? She was the daughter of a pig man in County Limerick. Know where that is?”

  “No.”

  “In the southwest of Ireland. Beautiful as anywhere on earth, but poor as ninepence. A drunk, he was, me granddad. Champion pisser. ‘Pig man’ in more ways than one. Used the strap on all his children. Makes me sick to think of it. And she was a beauty, my mother. Ella Slane. Wouldn’t believe it, to look at me, would you? But she was. Eyes the color of scabious flowers. Know what those are?”

  “No.”

  “Wild things, like blue daisies, growin’ about the meadows. Elizabeth Taylor had eyes that color. Swear I can remember sitting on her knee—me ma’s, I mean, not Elizabeth Taylor’s—staring up at those scabious eyes. But what’s life going to be like if you can’t get away from all those poor places?”

  Lev nodded, his thoughts wandering to Auror, to its low houses, its yards full of scratching animals, its potholed roads.

  “She did get away, though,” Christy went on. “She married Jimmy Slane, me pa, who worked for the postal service. Step up from the pigs, that was indeed. He had a uniform and the promise of a pension.”

  “They went to Dublin?”

  “Yes. They got out of Limerick. Used to ask me ma if she missed it, that green countryside, but she always said no, it wasn’t green in her mind, it was black.”

  “It was black?”

  “I think it was the darkness of night she must have been thinkin’ about. Or the peat bogs in winter. Or God knows what other ugly business. The thing with your parents is, they keep coming out with stuff you can’t make head nor tail of, and then they die and you’re left with a lifetime of wondering.”

  “Yes,” said Lev, “or, like my father, they say stupid words. And you think, How could he believe that? I have arguments with him in my mind. Still I have them.”

  “Do you? Well, I don’t argue with Ella Slane, bless her. I just remember her scabious-blue eyes and think, What a waste . . .”

  “What happened in Dublin?”

  “Well, they scrimped a house from offa the council list, where I grew up. Small place with no heating. That’s where the mice always frolicked about. Ella worked in a laundry. Told me her hair had once been straight, but gradually, it went curly, in all that laundry steam. And gradually, another thing started happening: me pa started drinking. He lost his job as a postie and then everything began going down the long slide, includin’ trying to rearrange his son’s face every now and then. I know it’s not an oil painting. It’s a face that could do with some readjustment, you might say. But that killed Ella. I swear it was that. To see that start happening all over again . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “But it’s in the family, see? The drink is in the family on both sides, and that means it’s in me blood. It’s why I’m so prone. But in all honest-to-God truth, I never once laid a hand on Frankie.”

  Christy got up and went to the window and looked out on the sodium darkness of Belisha Road. He lit a cigarette. After a few moments, he turned round and said, “You know something, Lev?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well. This was a bad day for you. Shite twenty-four hours. And I’m sorry for it all. But for me it was pretty good. I mean, I have to say it was exceptional, really. When I got that boiler going for Jasmina— and it was a wreck of a heatin’ system—I had this sudden feeling of . . . euphoria. Know what I mean? Complete fuckin’ eejit joy! And I thought, Jesus, Christy Slane, maybe after all you can quit the booze and get back to work. I thought that for the first time in months. Because, you know, I like that plumbing work. I’ve never not liked it. I can get a hard-on looking at a nice run of compression fittings. I’m not jokin’.”

  “That’s good, Christy. Very good.”

  “Yes, it’s good. Suddenly I want to get back on me feet. I do. I think you’ve taught me a thing or two about starting over. I know I’ve got it in me—somewhere—to do it.”

  “You have . . .”

  “You know what she said to me, Jasmina, she said, ‘You’ve saved my life, Mr. Slane!’ That’s when I got that euphoria thingummy.”

  G. K. Ashe was waiting in the kitchen for Lev when he arrived at the restaurant at 3:30. Waldo was there, making puddings, and the air was scented with lemon and chocolate, but Waldo didn’t look up when Lev came in and there was a dead quietness in the place.

  G.K., who had been leaning against the vegetable chiller, was wearing a black T-shirt, cream chinos, and cream-and-red suede sneakers. His arms were folded across his chest. His hair, untamed by the chef’s hat, looked wild and boyish, but his face was solemn.

  “Okay, Lev,” he said. “Let’s go through into the restaurant and sit down.”

  It was almost dark in there, with the window blinds pulled down on a gray afternoon. They sat where the chefs always sat, at the big table at the back, near the bar. Lev began to reach for a cigarette and G.K. said, “Sure. Smoke if you want to.”

  “No. It’s okay, Chef.”

  “No, go on. Here’s an ashtray. But it’s killing you, I expect you know that?”

  Lev fumbled with his Rizla paper. His hands shook. He said, “This kill me, that I was late yesterday, Chef. Well, more than late. But I can explain —”

  “Listen,” said G.K., cutting him off, “I have some respect for you. In fact, I have a lot of respect for the way you’ve worked here. You’ve worked well and I think you could go on in this industry, because you’re not afraid to get in the hours and you’re as nosy as a ferret; you watch how things get done. And there’s no substitute for that; it’s how people get on in this circus. But I’ve got to get straight to the bottom line, Lev. I’m letting you go.”

  Lev looked up. Had he heard correctly? Had he understood? Did “letting go” mean what he dreaded it meant?

  “I’m sorry about it,” G.K. went on. “No bullshit. I really am. As I say, I have no complaint about your work.”

  “For yesterday, Chef . . . I can explain . . . please . . .”

  “Don’t make it hard for me. I’m not changing my mind.”

  “I had a bad experience, I lost my wallet, I was ill —”

  “It’s not only about yesterday, Lev. It’s about mess.”

  “Please, Chef?”

  “I can’t run this kitchen if there’s mess around me. I can’t have muckiness of any kind. This is a small space—like a ship. And I have to keep it shipshape or it’ll fall apart. And you and Sophie—that messes it up big-time. You see? I have to put the business first.”

  Lev was silent. The cigarette he’d managed to roll was droopy and thin, almost not worth lighting. Yet he lit it now, with his shaking hand, pulled hard on it for the comfort of the nicotine.

  “I’d already got a sniff of what was happening,” G.K. went on. “I felt the vibes. But now I’ve got it storyboarded, right? Frame by frame. I made Sophie tell me the whole thing, including what’s happened with Preece. And to keep the two of you in this kitchen with all this mess going on is professional catastrophe. It’s the most damaging stuff I could envisage. So I’m sorry, Lev. I know it’s tough on you. I’ve got no choice.”

  Lev looked u
p at G.K. Emboldened by something in the man’s face, an expression almost sorrowful, Lev said quietly, “Chef, this was my best job in my life. Truly, I am happy in this kitchen. More happy than I can tell you. Especially now I am doing veg prep. Always, I try to keep ahead of the orders, have everything ready for the chefs . . .”

  “I know,” said G.K. “It actually cuts me up to get rid of a good man, if that’s any comfort to you. But what can I do? I can’t have emotional stuff going on in my kitchen. I’m not running an agony column. You’ve got to understand this, Lev, and just accept it and move on.”

  Move on.

  Lev looked past the bar into the kitchen, where Waldo was rolling out pastry. Beyond Waldo, he could see his old station, the two-point-five meters of steel draining top. A feeling of protective love, as fierce as any he’d ever felt for a particular place, choked him. If the cabinets and the hot plates, the burners and the salamanders, the ovens and the fridges, the plate racks and the sinks, the dishwashers and the steel hooks and the tea towels had all belonged to him, he couldn’t have felt more sorrowful to part from them. To his embarrassment, tears welled in his eyes.

  “Listen,” said G.K., “I’m going to be generous. I’m not known for my generosity, but I feel you’ve earned it. I’ve put together a package for you.”

  “Oh, please, Chef, give me one more chance.”

  “It’s over, Lev. I’m sorry, but that’s it. The decision’s made. Now listen, right? I’m giving you a week’s wages and a bonus of a hundred pounds. Total of three hundred eighty. I think that’s pretty magnanimous. And I’ve done you a written reference. Here.”

  G.K. took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Lev. Lev stared at it, tears blinding him to what it said. He saw the signature G. K. Ashe at the bottom of the page and knew, at the edge of his understanding, that he was being given something of value. But at this moment all was desolation.

  As calmly as he could, trying to choke back the sorrow, Lev said, “Chef, please, if you could only change your mind and give me one chance, I promise . . . I swear on my life, I will not be any different from how I was. I will do my work as best as I can do. If you want, I shall not talk to Sophie. We can be like strangers. If you will only let me work . . .”

  G.K. shook his head. Ran a hand through his wild hair. “Can’t be done, Lev,” he said. “It’s you or Sophie. And I’m not being pushed into letting Sophie go. She’s too well connected.”

  Lev stared helplessly. His thin cigarette dropped a sliver of gray ash onto the white tablecloth. He felt icy cold, as though he were being thrown into the sea.

  G.K. waited. Lev wiped his eyes. From the pocket of his cream chinos, G.K. took out a bulky envelope and handed it to Lev. “Here’s the money,” he said. “You know what the margins are like in this business, so I think you’ll agree it’s more than fair.”

  Then he stood up. He held out his hand to Lev and Lev forced himself to take it.

  “Good luck,” said G.K. “Use your ferret eyes. Stay tuned.”

  Lev sat on the rough grass of Parliament Hill and stared up at the kites, like mattresses, buzzing, swooping in the luminous green evening sky. Now and again his eyes flicked downward to the kite fliers, so intent on the task of keeping these wild things aloft. Mostly they were men, with small children running and bouncing near them, and Lev thought, This is what men love to do, snatch the toys from the kids, to become children themselves, to experience it again, that time when the world moves slowly, when love can be given to a dancing object in the sky . . .

  He smoked and did arithmetic in his head. Felt the air cool and darken round him. It was still only April. The kite fliers went home. The tall trees in the far stand looked black against the declining sun. He could hear birds still singing in the last light.

  Of the £380 G.K. had given him, he owed £90 to Christy for rent, or £180, if he included next week. He was already a week behind with money to Ina, which meant he had to send at least £40 to her.

  If he paid Christy the full amount and sent only £30 to Ina, this would leave him with £170, to last him for the whole, uncertain stretch of the future; £160, if he sent Ina £40. Then there was the question of his debt to Lydia. He knew he’d despise himself if he didn’t make some effort to start paying this off. But how much could he spare? Could he risk sending Lydia £50 and leave himself with just £110?

  These sums were simple, but Lev’s mind kept redoing them, altering them here and there each time, to get more favorable answers. He knew, for instance, that Christy would accept £90, leaving him with £270, if he sent Ina £40 and “forgot” about paying anything to Lydia until he’d found another job. If he sent Ina nothing, this £270 rose to £310, which sounded much more reassuring. But no . . . there was a mistake somewhere. The very least he could pay Christy was £90, and £90 from £380 was £290.

  He was £20 out . . .

  A familiar sound woke him out of the ache of his money reverie: his mobile ringing. He took it out of his pocket and stared at the tiny lit screen, now the only light in the near-darkness of his part of the Heath. He half hoped to see Sophie’s name there, but knew this hope was vain. The caller was Vitas.

  “Vitas,” said Lev. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m good,” said Vitas’s distant-sounding, reedy voice. “I’m in Suffolk. We’re picking salad. Then, in a couple of weeks, we move on to asparagus. It’s nice here, Lev. Got a caravan, rent-free, sharing with Jacek, my friend from Glic.”

  “Okay. I’m glad. I’m glad it’s working out . . .”

  “We’re a small team, mostly from our country. But there are a couple of Chinese boys, too. Illegals, but no one cares. Sonny and Jimmy Ming.”

  “Sonny and Jimmy Ming?”

  “That’s what we call them. They probably have proper Chinese names, but no one bothers saying them. Their English is hilarious. Keeps us all entertained. And our boss, Midge, isn’t a bad guy. Fat as a hog, but far nicer to us than that G.K. shithead. So, how is the bastard?”

  Lev was silent. He was getting cold now. He could hear the trees sighing. He stood up and began to walk across the grass toward Highgate Hill.

  “Lev? You there?”

  “Yes. Lost reception for a moment. What did you say?”

  “I asked how G.K. was.”

  “Well, Vitas . . . I’m not there anymore. G.K. had to let me go.”

  “Let you go? Sacked you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? You worked like a fucking slave in that place. You did five people’s jobs.”

  “I know. G.K. had his reasons. Too long to explain to you. I guess I’ll start looking for another job tomorrow.”

  “Shit. You don’t deserve that. You were . . . you were . . . kind to me. What a sadist. I hate him. What’re you going to do?”

  “Dunno. Stay in the catering trade, if I can.”

  “Why do that? It’s just a hierarchical nightmare. It’s like the time of landlords and serfs at home. Why don’t you get on a train and come down here? I’ll talk to Midge. There’s space in the Mings’ caravan. And we’re in the open air. It’s green countryside. And there’s a farm dog called Whiskey. He’s a mutt, but he’s nice. He comes out with us sometimes and just follows along behind the rig.”

  “How much are you paid, Vitas?”

  “Minimum wage. But, like I said, no rent. And we buy our food cheap at the co-op. And Midge gives us free potatoes.”

  “Free potatoes? That’s good.”

  “Yeah. Better than stinking London, I’m telling you. You should come.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  Lev walked slowly home, past the deserted tennis courts and the beds of roses, all weeded and tidy for the day when their petals opened. Found he was making a picture in his mind of Vitas’s life, living in the middle of a field, frying potatoes on a single-burner stove, staring down lines of lettuces translucent in the dawn.

  Back in Belisha Road, Lev heated a tin of beans and ate thes
e ravenously, with a spoon; then he lay down in his room, propped his head up with the faded giraffe pillows, and began to read Hamlet.

  It wasn’t that he really wanted to struggle with it, endure the difficulty of it. He began to read as a kind of atonement for his treatment of Lydia.

  He opened the paperback. Didn’t glance at Lydia’s inscription, or at any of the learned introductions. Hurried on to Act One, Scene 1.

  Who’s there?

  Right. Well, he understood the first line. It struck him as a thrilling way to begin a play. Who’s there? The notes in the back of the book explained to Lev that these characters, Bernardo and so on, were soldiers, keeping watch on a platform, a place where guns stood. So, okay, it was a guard’s nervy utterance. But wasn’t it—also—the question he kept asking himself: Who’s there in my life? For me or against me. Who’s left? Who’s yet to come?

  He returned to the soldiers. Couldn’t imagine them yet, so long ago, in Denmark. Only remembered how, in Baryn and in other cities, he used to stare at the faces of army personnel. Always, they looked right past your stare, kept their faraway gaze, apparently seeing some orderly vista of which you formed no part. He’d both feared and pitied them. Their hats were stiff and round, like boxes of chocolates. They clutched their old Kalashnikovs to their chests.

  . . . ’tis bitter cold,

  And I am sick at heart.

  Lev liked this, too. For this was how the soldiers struck you when you’d passed by, when you were out of the orbit of their expressionless faces: this was the afterthought, that they were freezing in their lonely sentry posts, in their desolate walking up and down. And didn’t Rudi once say, as they passed two boy conscripts guarding some ministerial blockhouse in Glic, “They look heartsick. Like they were weaned from the tit too soon.”

  Enter Ghost.

  Lev saw this instruction waiting on the right-hand side of the page, skipped some stuff he didn’t understand to get there.