Clare and Brian turned up together, Ros took the bottle out of Brian’s hands. “Thanks, Brian, decent of you. Get yourself a drink,” she pointed through to the sitting room. “I need Clare’s advice on the dauphinoise.”
“Right-o.” He went one way and Ros and Clare, the other.
“He literally turned up at my house,” said Clare as soon as Brian was out of earshot. “Told me he thought I might want a lift. I didn’t know what to do.”
Ros put the of Merlot on the countertop next to a packet of Loch Fyne salmon. “He probably sniffed his beef,” she nodded toward the Aga.
The kitchen was crooked and sloping; Crosby and Nash got up to greet Clare with tails wagging, and returned to their beds, tucked away on either side of the two-door Aga which had been set in an old fireplace. Wattle and daub had been pulled away from dividing walls that no longer served a purpose in the modern, open-plan design of life which valued light above warmth; some of the wooden framework was left into which nails had been hammered to provide a casual place for aprons and cloth bags. The countertops and cupboards had been laminated in the sixties, the Belfast sink had no draining board and the uneven floor was bare cobbles.
“I feel terrible,” Clare threw her coat into the utility room. It landed on the floor. “Should I ask him to go?”
Ros put her hand on Clare’s arm, “No, no. No harm done. He just can’t keep away from you, can he? Poor old Brian, lost in love. He must be lonely, we’ll set another place.”
“You’re too kind,” said Clare, moving a crackle-glazed platter on the kitchen table slightly to the left.
“Knock-knock,” said Diane, sweeping in. “Evening, my darlings. Ros, take off that apron and give me a job. Where are the girls? They should be helping.”
“Upstairs,” Ros kept her apron on. To Clare, she said, “where’s Nance?”
Clare looked behind her, “Probably mid-text somewhere. You’d think they could wait five minutes. I thought she was following me.”
“She’s probably gone straight up to Moll’s room,” said Ros.
“Smells delicious,” said Diane. “What do you want done with this salmon?” She picked it up and inspected it.
Ros took it out of Diane’s hands. “We’re having gravad lax.” She crouched over the shopping bags which she’d only half-emptied and pulled out a packet of rye bread rounds. “Can you make a little arrangement on each? The sauce is somewhere,” she rootled further and brought out a jar with curly writing on the label. “And dill is up there.” She pointed at the windowsill above the sink. Somewhere between bumping into Brian and finishing her shop she’d given up on vol au vents. She’d spent all afternoon making the dauphinoise. By her second nigiri she hadn’t cared any more that it looked nothing like Nigel Slater’s.
Diane settled down at the table with a pair of scissors. “Such a lovely way to start a meal, I always think. So refreshing.”
Ros put the fresh dill beside her. “It’s for nibbles with drinks. We’re not having a starter.”
“Oh,” said Diane. Ros ignored her. No one ever ate at dinner parties.
“I’ll set another place,” Clare opened drawers and shut them again.
“Is Tessa coming?” said Diane.
“For Brian,” said Clare.
“Cutlery on the left.” Ros pointed at the drawers by the kettle.
“No news is bad news, is it then?” Diane looked around at Clare and Ros. Ros unscrewed the cap of Brian’s wine, and Clare picked out a knife and fork. Diane said, “Don’t worry. I know perfectly well where she is. Peter saw Scott at Rugby.”
With a knife, fork and spoon bunched in her hands, Clare said “Which napkins are you using?”
“I don’t know why it’s such a secret,” continued Diane as she scissored up the smoked salmon. Her usual scarf abandoned for three strings of pearls; she’d adorned her wrists with so many silver bangles they went halfway up her forearms and clanged against the edge of the plate.
“Some things are just private, aren’t they,” said Ros, handing Clare a paper napkin with Happy Christmas scrawled across it.
“Poor Tessa,” said Diane.
“Spanish still got her?” said Brian, appearing suddenly in the kitchen doorway, a glass of whisky in his hand. He filled the small kitchen with tweed.
Ros threw Diane a look. To Brian she said, “What can I get you?”
“Ice,” he swirled his glass.
“Why don’t you go and sit by the fire? Clare will bring you some, won’t you Clare?”
Clare was crouched at the small, wonky dresser trying to lever out a dinner plate from beneath a stack of side plates. She made a face only Ros could see.
Ros took a Thomas the Tank Engine place mat from the dresser drawer above Clare’s head, and ushered Brian through the low kitchen door and into the sitting room of dark beams and leaking windows. The table she used as a desk she’d pulled away from the wall into the centre of the room and levered in the extra leaves to make it big enough. Her mother hadn’t wanted it when she’d downsized to a flat in London. Peter had said she could have it. She’d already lit the candles in the silver candelabra and arranged either side of it a vase of loose flowers, the silver salt and pepper shakers, and a jug of water in case anyone forgot to drink. Eight place settings, each with an Alan Bennet, Talking Heads place mat; she’d found the set in Jubilee Market that day she’d gone shopping with Ben for a present for Cara. Thora Hird, Maggie Smith, Eileen Atkins and Julie Walters, framed by mis-matched silver cutlery, smiled up twice. They’d thought they were perfect, her and Ben, laughing in the dripping rain, trying to keep under the awning, but that birthday had been the night of the final row, and Ros hadn’t even got them out of her bag. Cara wouldn’t have appreciated them, anyway. She’d already lost her sense of humour.
Nine chairs, she added the children’s place mat for Brian and moved the jug to the windowsill to make more room. The sofa was pushed under the window, but two armchairs still faced the fire, Peter was in one of them, Ros shoed Brian into the other. She returned to the kitchen, passing Clare in the doorway with a cup of ice.
“And you’ve not been to see her,” Diane was saying, as Ros came back in.
“Evening all.” Scott arrived with a blast of outside air.
“Scotty!” said Ros.
“How are we all?” He held out a bottle and a card to Ros. “Bottle from me, card from Fred.”
“Oh no, that’s too sweet.”
“He made it for you.”
“That’s too sweet of him,” said Ros again. Blue paper folded in half, a red heart stuck on the front and Happy Birthday Ros written shakily on the inside in green felt tip, she propped it on the windowsill where it fell over.
“No” said Clare coming back in. “Hey Scott.”
“Can I do anything?” said Scott.
“Make us all cocktails,” said Ros. “I’m on nigiris.”
Scott went off in search of Campari and Ros checked the beef.
*
The dauphinoise was stodgy, the Beef Wellington over-cooked, and the salad didn’t really go with any of it, but it didn’t matter. It was her birthday. Who cared? Alcohol took the place of most things, and it did that night; the wine flowed and soon the table was a mass of ashtrays and laughter and rambling anecdotes, mostly from Brian who’d taken the floor with stories of the army.
“Most life-threatening,” he continued, in answer to a question Issy had asked about twenty minutes ago, before she’d got bored and gone to bed, “had to be Iraq. Knew a fella who liked playing chicken.”
“Do you mean like in Rebel Without A Cause?” said Nancy. She and Molly were into James Dean, they thought they’d discovered him. Nancy was small, like Clare, but with auburn curls and Caribbean skin, her mother’s bones, her father’s blood, when Ros had first met her, she’d thought another piece of the jigsaw, but Clare had remained mute. She’d never met anyone so private. Molly had said, maybe she just doesn’t like talking about it, and when Ros had pushed her she’d snapped Nance talks to her dad all the time. It’s fine. Clare’s really cool, and that had put an end to it.
“Not RPGs?” said Ros, grabbing the acronym from the news.
“The enemy’s predictable.” said Brian. “It’s the ones inside the base, you want to watch. Just because he’s wearing the same uniform, doesn’t mean he’s harmless. This fella, he held it against you if you said no. Wasn’t right, to say no.”
“Would you drive towards a cliff?” said Molly.
“At each other,” said Brian. “First one to brake.”
“You’d think you’d want to do something quiet in your spare time,” said Diane.
“Like crocheting,” said Ros, and everyone laughed except Molly who looked annoyed. Ros motioned at Clare to pass the bottle. “Why don’t you two girls get down.”
“Off to smoke pot,” said Peter, after they’d gone.
“I found some in Molly’s room,” said Ros.
“I do hope you took it,” said Diane.
“Obvs.” Ros got up and fetched a little box from behind a book on the shelves. “Who wants to roll?” and everyone laughed again.
Peter and Clare cleared the plates, Ros opened another bottle and Diane stoked the fire.
“What about you then, Scotto?” Brian passed the joint to Peter who handed it straight on to Diane. They were settled again at the table, clean plates, a cheese board and grapes, a plate of oatcakes, more wine. “You must have had a few,” finished Brian, barely covering a belch.
“There was this one time in Harare, I’d just had the Land Rover painted.”
“You did that yourself?” asked Ros.
“We had three of them.”
“A fleet of zebras,” said Ros. “How romantic.”
“Not much romance to getting shot at,” said Scott.
“What about lions?” said Ros.
“They’re not roaming the streets, Ros,” said Peter. “Africa is somewhat more civilised than that.”
“Africa is a continent,” said Ros. “If you must be pedantic.”
“Elephants, though,” continued Scott. “Down south. Got charged a few times.”
“See?” Ros stuck her tongue out at her brother and took the joint from Clare.
“Miss it,” said Scott.
“Do you?” said Clare.
“Expect it was tough on the old bones,” said Brian.
“Kept the bone rattler,” said Scott.
“Can see you for miles,” said Brian.
In each of their minds, Tessa loomed; Tessa perched high on the seat beside Scott, Tessa complaining how uncomfortable it was, Tessa in late summer, peasant sleeves and white jeans, climbing out of the zebra-striped truck.
“Any word from your wife?” said Brian.
“Cake!” shouted Ros. She’d completely forgotten the individual chocolate Rice Crispies she’d bought as a joke. She’d stuck each with a birthday candle.
“Save it for the girls,” said Diane. Peter yawned and Diane patted his knee. “Time for bed, I think.”
“I’m off too,” said Scott, finishing the joint.
Clare carried the untouched cheese board to the kitchen.
“Well, it’s been lovely,” said Brian, slapping both hands on his enormous thighs. “You ready?” he added to Clare as she came back in.
“You can stay here,” said Ros, reaching lazily for her hand. “I’m sure Moll will want Nancy to stay.”
“All girls together,” said Brian. “Come on then, Scotto. Let’s leave them to it.”
“Oh, do leave him, Brian. We’ll get him up,” said Ros.
Scott had fallen asleep in his chair, his arms crossed, his chin tucked to his chest.
“Not sure he should drive,” said Brian.
“I’ll make him coffee,” said Ros, not moving.
“That’d be lovely.” Brian sat down again.
Ros and Clare exchanged glances. Clare said, “You know what, Brian, do you mind? Scott just needs five minutes. We’ll only make him a shot. Not a whole pot, and you know, we’re all a bit knackered, don’t want to make too much noise, the girls’ll be asleep.”
“Girly chat is it?” said Brian, heaving himself up again.
“Something like that.” Clare smiled.
“You make sure he’s fit to be behind a wheel,” he motioned at Scott.
“Of course,” said Ros. She put her feet up on the chair beside her.
After an espresso, and one more smoke for the road, Scott, roused by the door slamming after Brian, was ready to stand up. Ros stood shivering on the front steps as he went through his pockets for his keys. “Will I come and do Freddy’s tea again this week?” There, that Irish syntax she couldn’t help copying whenever she was near him. “That was so sweet of him to make me a card.”
Scott squeezed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes and shook his head to wake himself. “He likes you. He says you make him laugh.”
“You look like you could do with about fifteen nights off.”
“There is that, too.”
“How is she?”
“Oh,” he shook his head again, “you know. It’s hard, places like that, if you’ve never been.”
“This Friday, then? Same time?”
“You’re a sweetheart.” He touched her face. “Happy birthday.”
She closed the door and went upstairs in search of bedding. With a duvet over one arm and a pillow under the other, she took the stairs carefully. He shouldn’t touch her like that. It wasn’t fair. Clare had finished clearing the table and already pushed it against the wall to make room for the sofa bed. She was struggling with the hinge. Ros leaned down beside her, her hands on the ancient frame, she didn’t know how many times she’d caught her fingers.
“Nightcap?” said Clare, as the bed snapped flat.
"In each of their minds, Tessa loomed; Tessa perched high on the seat beside Scott, Tessa complaining how uncomfortable it was, Tessa in late summer, peasant sleeves and white jeans, climbing out of the zebra-striped truck." I love the way that Tessa appears at the dinner in everyone's minds, like Banquo's ghost, haunting the dinner. Wonderful.
I love how Brian gets given Thomas the Tank Engine 😂