by Luke Horton
Tom told him he would be drinking beer, so not to worry about him at least. And Clara, he said, turning to her, would have a glass or two of wine? — she said she would — so two bottles of Prosecco was probably fine. There was what, seven of us? Bronte’s husband David was here? — he was, Brian confirmed — and, yes, they were licensed as well as BYO, Tom continued, pointing to the sign on the restaurant window, so he could order beers and the rest could drink the wine. And, anyway, it’s just across the road, the bottle shop, so he could always run back over if they needed more.
He looked at his father.
Well, that’s what I’m trying to avoid by meeting you out here and discussing it now, Brian said, his thinning, combed-back hair, once ginger and now almost entirely grey, flapping in the breeze.
But that was the best Tom could manage and, feeling the cold now, he pulled open the door to the restaurant and walked in, and Clara and Brian fell in behind him, chatting about the restaurant, a Greek tavern that they both had heard good things about but not eaten at before.
It was busy inside. A cavernous, beer-hall-like space, the restaurant stretched past arched brickwork thresholds to several rooms beyond, every table crowded with large groups of people shouting across to one another, struggling to make their voices heard above the din. This, Tom registered as both good and bad. It was good in that their table would attract no special attention from other diners; Tom’s was a family of boisterous storytellers. His sisters, especially, would no doubt have stories that were long and complicated, stories that would cause many cries of anguished embarrassment, outrage, uproarious laughter. And, now in their seventies and losing their hearing, Brian and Marianne had only become louder. In a small or quiet space this could add another layer of stress to the evening. On the other hand, of course, a busy, noisy space meant hearing one another would be difficult. This in itself could ruin an evening for Marianne, who for weeks after the dinner would lament how the night was spoiled by the terrible acoustics of the restaurant, while Tom would have to assure her this was not the case, that everyone had had a wonderful time.
Brian and Marianne’s expectations were always too high. They wanted full table involvement in every conversation. They wanted a communal experience of storytelling and good cheer and laughter, and the ways in which this could be sullied were endless. If one person seemed to laugh less than the others, this was a problem; if certain people could only really hear the people near them, this was a problem; and if any kind of misunderstanding or disagreement erupted, no matter how minor, it became the cause of numerous phone calls and discussions, recriminations, confessions, apologies.
The dread of this kind of tortured fallout meant that the pressure to have a good time, to be seen to be having a good time, was intense. It was like a collective madness, everyone coming out exhausted and slightly bewildered that, despite their best efforts, they had got caught up in all that again — that they had taken it all on and had cared so deeply about things that, it was clear as soon as they stepped out into the night, were absurd.
On this night, Tom’s resolve, redoubled now he had seen the state of his father, had been to not speak much, to be on his best mild and agreeable behaviour. To act as nothing more than a passive relayer of information, work as a force of accommodation and appeasement, and to resist all temptation to rise to the occasion, to take bait, to argue a point. Especially that: to not argue a point.
Tom spotted them at the back of the room, at a table so broad and long it looked half-empty with only the four of them, and, as Marianne waved, and then Bronte did also, they made their way over to them. Bronte, David, Tessa, and Marianne were sitting in a row down one side of the table, and Tom and Clara and Brian sat down either side of them, so that they were all on the same side of the table, which got rethought immediately, but was never satisfactorily resolved, and in the end people sat in clumps, one around the end of the table, and the other across from each other further down, so that everyone still felt too far away from the others.
Waiters worked the room. There were three Tom could see in their corner of the restaurant alone, and one appeared immediately by Brian’s side, who Brian didn’t see — he was deep in conversation with Tessa about the best parking in the area — making him start. The waiter, middle-aged, handsome, with slicked-back hair and a crisp white shirt, had a certain flair about him. It was easy to see that he enjoyed the effect his performative gestures had on diners. But, thankfully, there wasn’t too much of that — he was charming and down-to-business in equal measure, and he seemed highly efficient at juggling the orders and demands of the many tables in his area of the room. Tom thought, on the whole, Brian and Marianne would approve of the waiter, and, seeing they were in good hands, felt a flood of gratitude towards the man.
The waiter handed out menus with a flourish and was jokingly firm with Brian about trying the specials tonight, which you could see, he said, on the board here, pointing above and behind them, and over there, pointing to the other side of the room, but he would take them through them in a moment also. That’s when he noticed the esky by Brian’s feet. Brian was halfway through gesturing to it himself, having not paid attention to the waiter at all, and not being able to contain himself any longer about the important business of the esky full of alcohol.
Ah! said the waiter. I see you have brought some bottles of something with you, sir. Fantastic. Would you like me to take them and chill them for you?
I don’t know, Brian said, his eyes large. He seemed overwhelmed by the question. Frozen. He raised his eyebrows further. Then he laughed mechanically. I think we might keep them here, he said, with a flourish of his own, his forefinger raised in the air. So we don’t have to ask someone for them when we want to open another bottle. His smile was self-gratified, but fragile, and soon gone. If that is alright? he said, peering up at the man imploringly, like a schoolboy might at a teacher.
It occurred to Tom that Brian liked his riesling very cold, his sparkling wine, too — at home, they always chilled their glasses — and, with the lid of the esky not quite on, the bottles in the esky would not remain chilled for long in the warm restaurant, and surely this trumped any concern, which was also vaguely insulting to the waiter, he thought, that service would not be able to keep up with their drinking. But he knew not to raise it. He tried to stop paying attention, and, leaning across the table, he asked David a question about the kids and their babysitter and didn’t really hear the reply.
That is no problem, the waiter said, holding up his hands. I would not forget you and your family, but if you prefer, no problem. Let me get these open for you. Are we starting with champagne or wine, sir? Or both?
Perhaps the wine, Brian said, staring at the esky again with incomprehension. And we can open the champagne when we feel like it, he said, finally, looking around the table for a sign and apparently receiving some approval. Yes, we’ll do that, ha-ha! he said, clapping his hands together.
Absolutely, the waiter said, and he returned moments later with a corkscrew for the wine. He poured the wine, negotiating the cramped space expertly and swiftly, put the bottle on the table, and left.
Brilliant! Brian said. Good thing I brought the esky — this place is full. Then he turned to watch the waiter disappear from the room. Anxious little man, isn’t he? All that running around!
He’s anxious, Marianne said into her glass.
Tom relaxed a little after that, and, for a while, the night went well, as he remembered it. They ran out of wine, but they bought another off the menu. And Marianne and Brian were having a good time, laughing loudly at Tessa’s stories about the various fad diets taking hold of the people in her course and about what it was like to date a 5:2 guy, or a keto guy, or, worse yet, a fruitarian. And Marianne and Brian were telling a few of their own, about the old days, about the seventies, when Marianne had lived for a while on a commune. So, he couldn’t remember how it happened exactly. If i
t was that, after the two beers and a glass of Prosecco, he’d relaxed a little too much, or if someone else had started it, and he’d joined in, or if he’d simply heard his father congratulate himself about the esky one too many times and couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his mother about it and his father had caught it. But however it happened, he remembered how his father’s change of tone hushed the table.
What would you have done then, Tom? How would you have handled the situation, do you think? he said, his round face flushed from the wine. His hair was now sitting up in the humid room, as if activated by electricity, and, at the ears, it had lifted and curled, just like Tom’s did in the heat.
Marianne, searching for an inhaler in her bag, was saying something appeasing and disapproving to Brian that Tom could not quite hear, not only because of the noise in the room, but because, in a way, it was only ever noise — her notes of caution like static bouncing off the hard surface of his father. The others continued their conversations, but quietly, respectfully, pretending — for whose sake Tom wasn’t quite sure — that they couldn’t hear what was happening.
You would have sorted everyone else’s drinks for them, would you? Brian continued. Thought of everyone’s preference of drinks and accommodated them? Or maybe just looked after yourself and everyone else could work themselves out? That about it, do you think?
And Tom took the bait, said something sarcastic about how bad it would be if they had to go all the way across the road for more wine. And his father was away, then, saying that Tom had always been like that, thinking only ever of himself, taking everything given to him and offering nothing in return — or something along those lines. Tom couldn’t remember because he had wilfully stopped listening or, if he had heard it, had soon blocked it out.
He didn’t know why he took the bait, why he always did. In part, the sarcastic response was a defence mechanism, a reflex against the shock of it. By deflecting his father’s rising rage, by making a joke of it, he was diminishing it, at least for a moment. But of course, in reality, it only enraged him further. But how else could he respond? Apologise for antagonising him, instantly, every time, hoping to cut him off before he got worked up? Yes, perhaps. But who could do that every time? Who could be forever submissive and apologetic in the face of such a constant threat? The threat of such bewildering rage? And when his father reached his peak, became truly enraged, how was he to respond then? Agree with him? Accept his father’s demolition of his character — that he was the lazy, ungrateful person his father said he was, who had never done anything but what suited him? Again, probably. And yet, if he wanted to survive as a person, this was not possible. He had decided he would no longer be doing that — apologising. He had learnt that it didn’t work, anyway. So this is what he got instead. Flare-ups that upset Marianne and ruined evenings.
But it was over quickly enough, this time. It was smoothed over expertly by the girls, who distracted them both by bringing them each into their own conversations, and, for the rest of the night, everyone simply pretended it hadn’t happened. Tom would have liked to have kept on pretending that, but he couldn’t because the inevitable phone call came from Marianne the next day.
Her condition had deteriorated since then. A night out like that was less likely all the time. Everyone discouraged it; it was too much hard work. They meant hard work for her — or did they? And so, it occurred to Tom now, that night at the tavern might have been the last one. This, despite everything, filled him with sadness. Sadness that took the edge off his nervousness, distracted him from the persistent clamminess of his palms.
Madeleine and Ollie and Jeremy arrived first, then Clara, looking wary and a little dishevelled, but still good in his eyes. It was their last night together, and a certain amount of good cheer was being performed that none of them particularly felt. They had chosen a place on the beach that would accommodate Ollie’s fussiness. He could order five things and graze: fish and chips, pizza, nachos, noodles, anything he wanted. It came to nothing. And they could sit on the beach and look out at the water and drink.
They had fish that was grilled in front of them, and Clara and Madeleine had cocktails one last time, the running joke now being how bad they were. They were absurdly inconsistent, one virtually non-alcoholic, one way too strong, one tasting vaguely of turps, but they had to keep ordering them, their one cocktail each night, most left barely drunk, because they were so cheap, and neither of them drank cocktails at home, and because maybe this would be the one, the one that was perfect.
These, a ‘La Taverna Rose’, named for the restaurant, and a whisky sour, turned out not to be. But that did not stop Clara ordering several others, drinking much more than she had the rest of the holiday. Madeleine joined her, but was less enthusiastic. Clara was talking to Tom, but not a lot. It seemed the thawing the day before, during their trip to Lembongan, was only a brief respite. Back here, she had retreated again. Into the room, into herself. It was as if, in Lembongan, she had escaped it all for a day, and now they were back, she was swamped by it again — whatever it was, exactly. Or, of course, she was faking it at Lembongan, had been stuck with him there and was just playing along, going through the motions — although he hated to think that, and it wasn’t really her style; she would rather shut down than pretend. But the food was fine, they ordered a coconut with a straw in it for Ollie from a man on the beach, and, under candlelight, the scene was lulling and cool. Tom cooled his palms on his bottle of beer.
They had stopped talking about the fogging. For now, it was exhausted as a subject; they were all trying to regain their composure. After the incident, Clara had disappeared for a few hours with Madeleine, but Tom had hardly seen Madeleine and Jeremy since it happened. He and Clara had gone to Lembongan the next day, and he had only seen Jeremy once, briefly, on the path this morning.
Jeremy took the incident seriously in the moments they’d discussed it, and this made Tom try to take it more seriously, too. Jeremy was outraged on behalf of the women and worried about Ollie’s chest — he had been out on a walk when it happened, while Madeleine and Ollie were napping in their room — but he let the topic drop easily enough.
Clara was clearly still shaken by it, but she was consoled by being with the others. She looked beautiful to Tom, across the table. Her freckles had deepened, her version of a tan, and she looked so good on holiday, despite everything, her hair wayward, her shirt open several buttons, probably not by design. Something about all this made her seem quietly powerful, emboldened. As if her moment of vulnerability had only brought out its opposite in her.
Madeleine told them about the play date they’d had that afternoon with Eka’s little boy, Bakti. It seemed a good way to give Ollie a positive experience after the trauma of the fogging, she said, lowering her voice a little, as though Ollie, who was sitting right across from her, wouldn’t hear her if she did this. Something so he didn’t start hating the place or being scared of it, internalise all their stress about it, she said. He’d become very clingy, wanting to be carried all the time.
But he seems fine, she hastened to add, holding Tom’s gaze. There’s no research that suggests it’s worse for children. And she smiled at him, lingeringly, he felt. It was nice, actually, she said, in the end, the play date, although it was a little awkward at first.
Eka didn’t seem to realise Madeleine would be coming with them and had taken Ollie’s hand and started walking off with him, and Madeleine had to insist that she would come, too, and could tell Eka was uncomfortable about it, she wasn’t sure why. To her, it seemed obvious that of course she wasn’t going to let her son be taken off by a woman she hardly knew, to who knows where. But she couldn’t tell whether it was insulting to Eka that she was coming, too — that she had to chaperone her son, make sure everything was okay — or, it occurred to her later, whether Eka was embarrassed perhaps by the way they lived, their home, and didn’t want Madeleine to see it. After a while it was fine, though,
she said. They played just like Ollie would with any other friend, and everyone was very nice. They lived in such poverty, she told them, and the kids had mostly broken toys, no doubt things left behind by hotel guests. She thought it was good for Ollie to see how these people really lived, to see them as people, not just waiters and hawkers on the beach, although he had made friends with some of these, too. One old man always asked after Ollie as he staggered past with his esky full of soft drinks.
Conversation then settled on travelling. They were thinking of their day tomorrow, then flying, and flying with children.
You expect it to be awful, and it is, but then it’s over, Jeremy said.
I spent six hours pacing the aisle on the way over to Australia the first time, Madeleine said, when Ollie was eighteen months old. Six hours staring at those assholes in the cabin with me, thinking, I’m doing this for all of you, so you don’t have a screaming baby in here with you, and they are totally oblivious, even hostile, to this woman hovering around in the aisle.
She looked at Ollie. Do you remember that, darling? she asked, stroking his head, sweeping some of his fringe off his forehead, which bounced immediately back.
I remember watching movies, he said.
Really? Madeleine said. You were very young. What did you watch?
Ollie thought about it, looked around, opened his mouth as if to speak and stopped.
