Etiquette for a Dinner Party (17 page)

John had arranged to call in on Graham Thomas the next day, on his way home from work. He parked outside the address written on the piece of paper in his pocket, and sat for a moment looking at the place.

The white bungalow was set back from the road, in a garden overgrown with weeds. Blackberry bushes grew along both sides of the house and climbed high towards the windows, like massive dark earmuffs. A broken concrete path started at the gate and tapered off near the front door.

A demolition job.

He knocked at the door. It was a still evening, past twilight. John heard floorboards inside creaking under the weight of slow, heavy footsteps. The door handle turned, and an old man opened the door, inching a walking frame out of the way.

John was shocked at the age of Graham Thomas — he was at least eighty. Who had he been thinking of the night before, when he had fingered the index card and chatted on about the weather and house prices?

'Graham — good to see you again,' he said. They shook hands and went inside.

John waited in a little room next to the kitchen while Graham made coffee. He sat on a plump sofa upholstered in dark red velvet. It would have been a beauty in its day, but now the velvet was shiny and threadbare, stuffing seeping out. The rolled armrests had been worn smooth over the years. There was a matching armchair in one corner of the room and, between the armchair and the sofa, a black and chrome tea trolley. A silver frame held a black and white wedding photo; Graham and Mrs Thomas, John assumed.

'So, what do you think, John?' Graham interrupted his thoughts, his walking frame filling the doorway. His keen blue eyes watched John from under thick grey eyebrows. They curled upwards at the ends, reminding John of an owl.

'You've got a fine property here, Graham, a real classic.'

'Could you get those mugs for me? One I can manage, but not two.' Graham moved slowly backwards on the frame, letting John pass.

John was happy to check out the kitchen without Graham looking over his shoulder. The old latch cupboards were painted eggshell-blue, and the bench top was scratched stainless steel, with two old faucets over a sink. The left-hand one dripped slowly, reliably. The stove was an old Shacklock, with electric elements that sat at an awkward slant.

The kitchen was clean, but there it was — the smell of sodden, rotting timber. John knew, without opening cupboard doors, that water pipes were leaking; the whole unit was probably on the point of collapse.

Ripe for redevelopment — an investment opportunity, build your dream home or subdivide for townhouses. John had the brochure written.

Graham had settled in the armchair, and John set the mugs down between them.

'The place is in good condition for its age.'

'I do my best, though it's becoming more of a struggle on my own.'

'How often do you get someone in?' John looked around again. The house was clean — no cobwebs or dust.

Graham took a sip of his coffee before he spoke. 'Get someone in? Do you mean home help? No . . . no, I manage by myself.'

John looked at the walking frame, then at Graham's face. The old man was smiling, chin high, proud of his independence.

'It's not easy, I give you that. The inside's fine, but the outside . . .'

'You'd be entitled to help, I imagine. Do you have family around?'

Graham put his mug down, manoeuvred himself in the chair. He had great strength in his upper body; John wondered whether he had been a labourer, or perhaps a farmer.

'No, there's no one but me. Elsie's gone, of course. We had a child, Jennifer. But we lost her, when she was a baby.'

'I'm so sorry to hear that.'

As John spoke, Graham's face changed.

The room was cold; John hadn't noticed at first. Then it came again, the beginning of the tingle — the sweat across the back of his neck. John closed his eyes, willed the nausea away. When he opened them again, Graham was staring hard at him.

'Forgive me John. I'm repeating myself. I've already told you all about it. At the Rotary dinner.'

John looked down at his shoes. He waited for the recollection to come, the distinct picture of him and Graham chatting on at the dinner. They must have talked for a long time, for Graham to have shared so much with him. He looked up once more at the elderly man, then down again.

Come on, he thought. For God's sake. Come on.

'You don't remember meeting me, do you? We talked all evening — ate a meal together — and you don't remember.' Graham's words were flat now — a toneless ringing that filled John's head.

John thought about lying, but he couldn't reach deep enough into the panic and nausea and drag the necessary patter up through the fog in his head.

'You have no idea who I am. Is that right? You ring me up, chat chat chat, you come here and talk to me as though we are friends, and . . . and you don't know who I am?'

John sat forward, his knees apart, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped in front of him. His head sank to his chest. He had humiliated himself — that was bad enough — but he had also embarrassed Graham. John looked up again, met his stare.

'No, I'm sorry. I don't know who you are.'

Graham sat forward in his chair, his back straight, and lifted his chin. He put his mug on the tea trolley and reached forward with both hands, taking the walking frame in his grip.

'Don't get up Graham. I'll see myself out. I apologise, I've not been well and . . . I'm sorry.'

John searched for the words to describe his condition. But the description, like the problem itself, presented itself as a heavy, choking haze lacking a specific form.

A year ago. That's when John had first noticed the changes in Linda. At first, he thought nothing of it, but as time passed he started to worry about her. About the state of her health.

She had lost her sparkle, her enthusiasm for life. John put this down to the ageing process, the demands of raising a family. But then it started — the changes in her speech patterns.

The first occasion was a Friday. It was late at night, they were driving home from the movies. Linda had seemed distracted; she had turned away from John, staring out the side window. Then, out of the blue, she'd turned to him and said: 'We need a new car.'

John hadn't answered — what could he say? Their old car was fine, running smoothly, still passing a warrant of fitness every six months. A new car would be nice, but they couldn't afford it. Even with her working, they couldn't manage it. She knew that, and John was annoyed with her for bringing it up.

Next — and John hadn't noticed the problem at the time — it was: 'We need a new washing machine.' The old one had broken down again, and the repair man had suggested it was time to replace it.

It was the third moment that caught his attention, highlighted her problem.

'We need to pay these bills, John.'

She'd been sitting at the dining room table for hours, surrounded by paper, a calculator to one side, tapping and sighing in a way that John found annoying.

'We need to pay these bills, John.'

John had looked up from the newspaper, looked at her hard. It took his breath away, the realisation that she had starting speaking in lists.

After that, the lists grew quickly. It didn't matter what the final few words were — John hardly noticed them — the sentences always started the same way.

'We need . . .'

'We need new furniture, John.'

'We need new cutlery, John.'

'We need to sort ourselves out, John.'

Eventually, he sat down with her and told her about his concerns. He suggested she seek help, but she refused to listen. She stood up, threw her hands in the air and walked away. .

Putting things right was so desperately needed, John thought, the day after his visit to Graham Thomas's house. Putting things right — the things he could control — would contain the other foggy place, where he thrashed around wildly like a drowning child.

He was sitting in his office thinking about things. He picked up the snow globe, shook it hard, watched the tiny pieces of grey glitter swirl around the boy and settle at his feet. The liquid inside was clear; John wondered what it was. Not water, he thought; it was too thick to be water.

First, he rang Linda, suggested she arrange a family dinner. They would eat together, at home. Just the four of them. They would talk about the day, laugh together, possibly plan an outing. He could picture how it would be — the type of dinner that families on television had, with warm laughter and gentle ribbing.

'When?' she asked.

'When what?'

'When do you want to have this family dinner?' She sounded tired.

'You decide,' he said. 'Any night. You decide, and I'll be there. I'll come home early, and we'll eat together. Just us . . . all of us.'

Then he rang Graham Thomas.

'Hello John.' The familiar voice carried no resentment. 'Are you feeling better?'

No sarcasm or scorn.

'I am, actually. Thank you for asking.'

'That's good news.'

There was a pause, then John pushed on.

'Graham. Look. First, apologies. What can I say?' John waited, hopeful for an understanding sigh, some sign he should keep talking. Nothing. 'Forget about me selling your house. I mean, sell it, if you want. But that's not why I'm ringing.'

John imagined the old man on the other end of the line holding the phone to his ear, his frame in front of him. He could picture Graham so clearly now.

'You see, I wondered . . . well, would you like a hand cleaning the place up a bit? The outside I mean. I could come by tomorrow, after work, and we could make a start.' John heard a scraping sound down the line; the sound of the walking frame moving on the wooden floor. He pictured Graham slowly rearranging himself in his chair, thinking about the offer. Looking for the hook.

'Then, at least if you do decide to sell, it will be tidy.'

Silence.

'Graham, are you there?'

'Yes, yes I'm here. Why not, eh? Why not give the old girl a spruce-up?' .

John got up early next day to organise himself for the work at the Thomas property. He found his son's cricket bag in the hall cupboard and tipped the sports gear onto the floor. He didn't know whether his son still played the game. He could not recall any recent mention of cricket in the household. He took the empty bag and tiptoed outside, quietly closing the door behind him.

The sky was beginning to shift to the grey before dawn. John was startled by the sharpening focus of objects as the light increased. He went to the garden shed, switched on the light and started searching through boxes for garden tools.

He was amazed they had amassed so many implements — trowels, spray guns, clippers — all covered in dirt from gardens that John could not remember tending. Spiders scattered into the dark recesses of the boxes as he wiped the tools down with a rag and put them in the sports bag.

He reached for the rake and spade hanging at the back of the shed. The spade caught against a tin of paint on the shelf above him. It tumbled down, crashing noisily against the wall of the shed, and landed open at his feet. A pool of dark blue paint grew around his black, polished office shoes. John watched, mesmerised by the two black atolls in a blue sea.