All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “Dad!” Andrew and Alisdair shriek, abandoning the football and barreling toward their father, who squats down to embrace them both.

  “You’re home early,” Meg notes, gathering up the baby and going to greet her husband. He stands and kisses her, then takes Ayden and swings him in the air. “Had a meeting cancel,” he explains between Ayden’s joyful screams. “Thought I’d come home and enjoy some of the beautiful day with my family.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Meg murmurs, glancing Susan’s way.

  Susan wonders if Meg knows about that Christmas five years ago, when William (very drunkenly) confessed to Susan that he wished he’d met her first.

  “It all coulda been very different,” he’d slurred, swirling whisky around a glass.

  “William, why don’t I make you some coffee?” she’d suggested.

  He’d never mentioned the conversation again, which made her suspect he didn’t remember it.

  Susan considers slipping away to allow the family their time together. But then William turns and gestures for her to join them.

  “Suze, come on.”

  Susan smiles and heads toward them, pausing only to jam the album back into her bag and kick the whole thing under the kitchen table.

  Chapter Five

  Family Dinner

  By the time Julia and Bernard arrive on Thursday, the movers have been swarming for over an hour, and Moray Place is an Ideal Home obstacle course of chairs you’re not really meant to sit on and mirrors too decorative to use. Susan hovers at the foot of the staircase, afraid that if she moves, she’ll knock over a lamp worth thousands of pounds.

  “Ugh, you did the right thing, flying,” Julia declares, shimmying past four boxes marked “layering china.” “If you ever find yourself considering a drive from London to Edinburgh, Susan, then slap yourself. Hard. Here, I’ve got your … uncle, or whatever.” She thrusts a jar of beige goop toward her sister, holding it only by the very tips of her fingernails.

  “The mother,” Susan corrects, snatching the jar and cradling it. This is precious stuff: the sourdough starter, or “mother,” that her grandfather began the year he opened Elliot’s Edinburgh. He kept it going for decades, regularly feeding it flour and water, and after he died, Susan took it on. It makes the most amazing bread: dense and moist, with a crisp crust.

  “Hallo, Susan, dear,” Bernard greets her, leaning over a low bookshelf for a kiss. “Shame about all the chaos. But it’s all right, this, isn’t it?” He stands back and looks up through the wrap-around staircase to the skylight three floors up, which keeps the hall from feeling gloomy. “We’ll do all right here, don’t you think?”

  “It’s nice, Dad,” Susan agrees.

  “‘Nice,’ she says.” Julia snorts. “There’s gratitude. You know part of the reason we got this place was because I thought you might like the kitchen. You just think it’s ‘nice.’” She sighs as she crosses her arms.

  Bernard gives Susan a “fix this” look she remembers well from her childhood.

  She takes a deep breath, then smiles. “It’s wonderful, Julia. And the kitchen is very … roomy.”

  That seems to appease her. Julia unwinds her arms and begins exploring the rooms, muttering about paint and wallpaper and new throw pillows.

  “Good girl.” Bernard pats Susan on the shoulder, then smiles proudly after his eldest. “She’ll do the place up right. I heard all about her plans on the way up. It’s good for her to stay busy, I think. Idleness does no one any good. So, what’ve you been up to these past few days?”

  “I’ve been at the restaurant mostly.”

  Bernard blinks in such a way that Susan wonders if he forgot they even have a restaurant in Edinburgh. “Ah, right! Of course! Good. Everything shipshape, I assume?”

  “Not quite.” She’s been trying her damnedest to unscramble the books while Dan hovers nearby, sighing loudly and telegraphing annoyance.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll manage to sort it.” Bernard’s examining the crown molding in the hall, then poking his head into the nearest room.

  “And I’ve been spending time with Meg, of course,” Susan adds.

  Bernard drags himself away from the woodwork. “How is little Bambi?” he asks. “Still taking fright at every loud noise?” He chuckles.

  “She’s …” Susan wonders if it’s worthwhile telling Bernard about Meg’s anxiety, which has begun to concern her. She finally settles on, “She seems tense.”

  “Oh?” Bernard has strolled over to the window and stands looking at the quiet street outside. “Well, it’ll be nice for her to have you and Julia around, then. She can talk to you.”

  “And you,” Susan suggests.

  Bernard chuckles softly. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m rubbish at comforting. That was your mother’s—” His shoulders sag, almost imperceptibly, and he clears his throat, still staring out the window.

  Susan joins him and says quietly, “You know what they say about practice making perfect.”

  “Hmm.” Bernard turns his face away from her just a little, and Susan realizes she’d better change the subject.

  “We’ve all been invited to Sunday lunch at Russell and Helen’s.”

  Bernard turns to her, his usual pleasant expression back in place. “Ah! Good! Nice to catch up with family.”

  Julia reappears, rolling her eyes. “Do we have to go? There’s so much to do here and … Russell.” She huffs. “He’s so … Tony Blair-ish.”

  “Now, now, Julia, of course we’ll go. They are family, after all. And if we’re to live here, we really must establish ourselves with the right sort of people. I wonder if Russell knows of a good replacement for Keegan? Surely a man in politics gets a little brightener every now and again? And if we’re meant to be economizing, I feel I shouldn’t be dashing down to London too often.”

  Julia’s eyes slide toward her sister, as if she’s waiting for Susan to explode, but Susan’s smile only tightens a little as she replies, “That’s an excellent plan, Dad.”

  Julia wanders off toward the dining room and kitchen, and Susan joins her father at the window. “It’s a beautiful city, Dad,” she says, her smile returning to a genuine level as the two of them look out. “I don’t know how you were ever able to leave it.”

  “Yes, I suppose it’s all right here. But, well … London.” Bernard sighs, drooping a little at the thought of what he’s left behind.

  Susan pats him on the arm. “It’ll be better here,” she promises. “The festival season is coming. You and Julia will be in your element.”

  Julia’s shriek carries all the way from the kitchen. “Are these brown IKEA mats? Oh, Susan, what am I going to do with you?”

  * * *

  At two o’clock on Sunday, bearing bottles of wine and wearing mostly forced smiles, the Napiers arrive at Russell and Helen’s for lunch. William’s parents live right around the corner from their son and daughter-in-law, in an enormous house the color of digestive biscuits that overlooks Inverleith Park.

  Russell answers their ring with a hearty “Bernie! Girls! Come in, come in!” Red-cheeked, paunchy in the way of well-cared-for middle-aged men, dressed in khaki trousers and a pink windowpane-check shirt with the top button undone, Russell Cox, Member of the Scottish Parliament, is the very picture of upper-middle-class comfort. He speaks in a soft Scottish burr, which he apparently had to learn before he went into politics. Although he was born in Scotland, he went to the kind of schools that rigorously train regional accents right out of their pupils, leaving them all speaking like members of the royal family. But Scottish voters would almost certainly reject anyone with a posh English accent, so now he speaks like, well, a member of the Scottish royal family.

  Russell claps Bernard (who tries not to flinch both at the manhandling and the nickname he never asked for) on the shoulder and bellows over his shoulder, “They’re here!”

  A pair of Labradors gallop in from the kitchen, and Lauren, the twenty-year-old daughter of the house, races dow
n the stairs, shouting, “Hiya!”

  Susan notices that Lauren, as usual, is experimenting with her hair. Last time they’d met, it was a pixie cut, but now it’s grown past her shoulders and is dyed a red so dark it’s nearly purple.

  The dogs launch themselves at the new arrivals, barking and wriggling and wagging. Julia shrinks from the threat of hair or slobber on her pristine silk blouse. Susan hands Julia the tart she brought and diverts the dogs’ attention by kneeling down and scratching them each behind one ear. They both lean into it, groaning in pleasure, and Julia is forgotten.

  Helen Cox—blonde, smiling, fit in the way of well-cared-for middle-aged women—follows the dogs. Wiping damp hands on a floral-patterned tea towel, she leans over the animals to kiss everyone on both cheeks, greeting each with, “You all right?”

  “How was the trip up? Not too bad, I hope?” Russell is asking Bernard, while Lauren raises her voice above the din of parents and pets to tell them all how lucky it is that they came just before the summer got into full swing.

  “You’ll have time to settle in and get to know the city before all the craziness,” she says, hauling the dogs away. “But the Festival! If you want my advice, don’t bother with the International Festival—it’ll be stuffy. Well, there’s one show at the International I’ll go see, but we’ll talk about that later. But the Fringe! It’s amazing! Oh, and I’ve got all sorts of news—Julia, I love your boots!—and I know all about how to get the best tickets. See the free comedy shows, they’re fab—the comedians haven’t gotten all full of themselves yet, you can see it all really raw. Oh, come on, you two!” She begins hauling the dogs away, herding them, with little success, toward the door open to the back garden.

  “Lauren, let them catch their breath, darling,” her mother urges. Glancing past the guests, she brightens, waves, and halloos: “Boys!”

  Susan turns to see William, Margaret, and the boys coming up the front walk. Meg deflates a little at being overlooked, but William shouts back, “Hi, Mum! Dad! Napiers all!” and Andrew and Alisdair tumble through the front door, tangling with the dogs and hurling themselves into their grandmother’s arms.

  “Ah, my little hooligans!” crows Russell, play-boxing with Andrew for a moment before tossing Alisdair in the air.

  “Have you got sweeties?” Alisdair asks his grandmother before even saying hello.

  “Not before lunch,” Meg says, bringing up the rear with an armful of Ayden. “Hi, Jules.” She leans over to kiss her sister, but Julia takes one look at the drooling baby and manages only an awkward one-armed hug that keeps her well clear of bodily fluids.

  “Hey, Megs,” she responds.

  Meg turns expectantly to her father, who smiles fondly and reaches over to tickle the baby under the chin, saying, “You’ve got your hands full there, Meg!”

  “Here,” Susan offers, taking Ayden so Meg can embrace their father without putting his linen jacket at risk of infant slobber.

  Bernard immediately embraces his youngest and kisses her on the cheek. “You look lovely, Bambi, really well.”

  “Oh, thanks, Dad.” Meg’s tone makes it seem as if that’s the best compliment she’s received in a while.

  “In, in, come in, everyone,” Russell urges, herding everyone along into the sitting room, which looks like a headlong collision between William Morris and Cath Kidston. Florals everywhere, not all of them matching. Julia actually blanches at the sight, but Susan rather likes it. The colors are bright, the furniture soft and inviting. And there isn’t a hint of Mole’s Breath gray anywhere.

  “If you don’t mind, I have to see to the roast,” says Helen.

  “I’ll help,” Susan offers, setting Ayden down on the floor and following her and the dogs to the kitchen.

  “You’re a darling,” Helen bends down in front of the Aga and pulls out a beautiful roast beef. The rich smell of it fills the kitchen and, like Pavlov’s dog, Susan’s mouth waters. The actual dogs plunk their bums on the floor in unison, as if they think that, by being good, they’ll be rewarded with the whole joint.

  “You’ll get yours at the end, you two,” Helen says to them without even having to look up. She probes the meat with one finger and nods. “I think that’s ready for its rest.” She moves it to a cutting board, covers it with tinfoil, and leaves it so the juices can redistribute.

  “It smells wonderful, Helen, what do you do to it?” Susan asks.

  “Not much,” Helen admits, now poking around a roasting tin filled with vegetables. “A little oil, salt, pepper, and good, strong mustard. Dijon, not English, but don’t tell anyone,” she adds with a mischievous smile. “I find that sometimes simpler is better. Especially when you start with good ingredients. We’re rather blessed with places to get them, in this neighborhood.” She pushes the vegetables back into the oven and closes the door. “If you haven’t already, you should visit the Sunday farmers’ market. There are wonderful stalls selling meats and fruit and jams. And cakes too, but you’re already an expert there, aren’t you?”

  “Hardly an expert.”

  “Oh, come now.” Helen gestures to the lemon tart Susan brought along. Like the roast, it’s simple and classic, but undeniably delicious. Susan smiles her thanks at the compliment.

  “Here, would you mind chopping these for the salad?” Helen asks, rummaging in the fridge and producing a bunch of radishes and a knobby cucumber.

  “Of course.” Susan fetches a knife and small cutting board and begins chopping away.

  Helen moves to wash her hands and hovers at the window near the sink for a little while, watching her next-door neighbor. The woman’s hacking away at some bushes so venomously that Susan wonders if they’ve personally offended her in some way. Helen shakes her head and sighs. “If she paid as much attention to her marriage as she does to those hedges, maybe Mark wouldn’t have to ‘work late’ quite so often,” she comments.

  Susan isn’t sure what to say to that. Luckily, Andrew and Ali come running in.

  “Mum’s gone upstairs to feed the baby,” Andrew announces.

  “Oh, all right,” says Helen, reaching into a cupboard and retrieving two chocolate biscuits. She hands one to each grandson with the admonition, “Don’t tell your mother!” Both boys nod solemnly, grab their biscuits, and run outside, where they began kicking around a football while cramming the biscuits into their mouths.

  Helen sighs, watching them. “Poor lads. It’s quite a strain on them sometimes, with their mother the way she is.”

  Susan catches Helen’s sideways glance but keeps her face neutral. She’s not about to be forced into taking sides against her sister, despite her concerns about Meg’s hypochondria. Every little thing—a sharp pain, a headache—sets her off. Susan can only imagine what it’s like when one of the boys gets sick. They’re probably on a first-name basis with every nurse at the children’s hospital.

  “You’ve heard about this latest nonsense with the baby, I suppose?” Helen asks, face darkening just at the thought of it.

  “No, what’s that?” Susan asks, setting the vegetables aside.

  Helen pauses, watching the boys a little longer. “Well, I’m not one to gossip,” she finally says. “Let’s go and pick some lettuce while the meat rests, shall we?”

  * * *

  They sit down half an hour later at a table barely large enough to hold all the food. There’s the meat, and a mass of roasted potatoes, carrots, swede, beets, and onions, lavished with rosemary and thyme. Gravy, and mustard, and some sort of hot-pepper jelly that Helen insists is absolutely perfect with beef—“you have to try it! Just a little.”

  “No, no thank you,” Bernard replies, leaning away from it. “I’m prone to heartburn, you know.”

  The salad, and a casserole of green and yellow summer squash topped with crispy breadcrumbs. Crusty bread, sliced tomatoes with basil. (“Bought tomatoes, I’m afraid,” Helen explains apologetically as she sets the plate down. “Mine won’t be ready for a while yet. Too rainy.”)

/>   No rain today; the windows and back door are all open to the patio, to catch the fresh breeze that ripples the lilac bushes, unleashing the flowers’ heady scent.

  Susan understands now why William laughed when she wondered if having three extra people to Sunday lunch might be an imposition.

  “Mum doesn’t know how to cook for fewer than thirty,” he’d answered. “Sometimes I think she secretly believes constituents might come by and need feeding. Bring friends, if you like. Hell, bring strangers—Dad would love it.”

  Russell stands to carve the roast while the rest of the Coxes fall on the dishes, talking over one another while the Napiers sit back, blinking and trying to take it all in.

  “Oh, Susan, you really must try the summer squash—they’re so sweet this year. Here, let me give you some.”

  “—Did you hear that Leonardo DiCaprio’s going to be filming a new movie in Glasgow? A friend of mine’s managed to get a job as an extra and she says she can get me onto the set.”

  “—Andrew, for God’s sake, don’t take all the potatoes. Give some to your brother, will you?”

  “—So I said to him, Bob, we really can’t keep having this discussion week after week after week. Either you’re in favor of making people earn their benefits, or you’re not. We just aren’t in a position, as a country, to tolerate layabouts, now are we? Rare, or medium, Bernie?”

  “What? Oh, well done, if you have it.”

  “We don’t, sorry. Medium it is.”

  A deep pink slab of meat, oozing juices, lands on Bernard’s plate. Julia, sitting beside her father, looks sick.

  “Just salad for me, please,” she whispers.

  “Oh, my dear, you must have a little more than that,” Helen implores.

  “No, no, it’s all right, it’s just—”Julia casts about for an excuse. “Just I’ve recently gone vegan.”

  Half the table actually stops talking. William blinks at her as if she’s just spoken in a foreign language. Russell wonders, “Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”