Thicker Than Soup (12 page)

Any hope of an explanation vanished as Sally's shocked face revealed the truth and in that moment his last hopes vanished. He opened his mouth but there were no words. Then he found a voice, one that cracked and broke as it spoke. “I asked you if you would say that he looks like me. It's not a difficult question is it?”

“Well, I don't know. He's got your build, but…”

He couldn't bear it. “But whose blood has he got? Answer me that, whose blood has he got?” It was a surreal bubble where Sammy screamed in a peripheral blur. Sally moved, towards the baby. “No!” he yelled. How dare she turn away when their whole life was shattering around them? He seized her arm, twisting her to face him. “You'll not feed him,” he said through gritted teeth, “you'll answer me. Whose blood does the bastard have?”

Her body seemed to concertina as she collapsed downwards, endorsing his nightmare. He thrust her away, rubbing clean the hand that had touched the woman who'd birthed a bastard and passed it off as his son. “You're not even going to deny it. You're not even going to lie any more. It's true. He's not my child.”

Her words were no more than breath. “How did you know?”

Anger coursed through his body. She asked how he'd seen through her lying façade! She thought she'd been so clever. He took the record card from his pocket and flicked it towards her. “This told me.” He said. “It's on here and you didn't know how to hide it.”

Sally picked the card up and turned it over then opened it and looked again. “I don't know what you mean,” she said. “This doesn't….”

“Look at his blood group. It's ‘O'.”

“I don't understand.”

“Clearly.” He watched her confusion. “Mine's ‘A'.”

“What are you saying? I don't understand.”

“Yours is ‘A'.”

There was glimmer, a dawning. “I…I'm sorry, I…”

Sorry! The word smacked the walls and came back at him, hard. She wanted to apologise! His life was ruined, and she was saying ‘sorry' as though she'd merely forgotten to buy the milk. How little he knew her, he thought. He wanted to go, to be away from there right then. He didn't want to talk to her, to be with her. “I'll take what I need.” He looked down at Sammy who whimpered for comfort and couldn't know that not being his son was breaking his heart. “You'd better feed him. I'll be back for the rest of my things.”

*

It was Valentine's day when he moved from his parents' house to the flat above the restaurant, and hearing from Diane that Sally had gone to live with her mother he returned to claim what he wanted from what had been their home. She'd taken very little; had he been able to afford the mortgage he could have continued to live there – except for the echoes. Within minutes he'd filled a box with books and music and dragged it to the hall. In the kitchen the drab winter morning light reflected the table in the patio door, a reminder of meals like the one on her birthday when he'd first told her about the restaurant, little more than a year ago. A cupboard revealed one – only one – of the two small coffee cups they'd bought in Italy, and his painting of Bath Abbey – an abstraction he'd been pleased with – had disappeared from the wall. In the bedroom their bed, neatly made, chilled him yet the empty dressing table echoed her absence. From the empty wardrobe top he saw she'd taken the old-fashioned blankets and folding the pillows and duvet together, he dropped them next to the door and went to Sammy's room. It was almost empty. The cot, the chair, his few clothes. All gone, except for a small teddy-bear that lay with a discarded teething ring on the carpet. Pressing his head against the cold door frame John breathed in, out, in, and out, until a wave of dizziness passed and then picked up the teddy-bear, adding it to the pile he was taking with him.

Back in the flat he tossed bedding on his bed and flopped on top of it, emotionally drained. What, he wondered, was to be done with the house and remainder of their possessions? He would write – a businesslike letter stating his intention to instruct an agent to clear and sell their house. Sally could communicate through a solicitor. There'd be no need to make contact again.

A knock disturbed his thoughts. “John? Are you there?” It was Julia's voice.

He sighed and grumbled. “Oh, for goodness sake!” Living in the flat was convenient but proximity to work was a nuisance. A definitive line between his privacy and the restaurant was needed, and deciding to instigate it by ignoring the knock he lay quietly until he heard the footsteps recede. “Ha!” It had been easy; he'd won. Removing his shoes he rose from the bed and walked quietly across the floor until he saw, to his frustration, that an envelope had been pushed under the door. He snatched it up and tossed it aside until, within moments, curiosity forced him to open it. Julia wanted a meeting. He read again, disturbed by the formality of the request; they talked regularly and in structured meetings there were always opportunities to speak out. With a cold dread he concluded she intended to give notice. He ran down the stairs.

“You want to talk?” Julia looked apprehensive. “My office, now.”

*

Closing the door behind her he moved to his desk, and waited, silently watching her discomfort and waiting to hear how she would dress and present the news that one of his competitors – no doubt – had enticed her to go to work for them.

“You've read my note.” It wasn't a question.

“It says you want to talk to me. So talk.” John folded his arms across his chest and leaned his chair backwards so that it touched the wall.

“Well, it's all of us.” John waited, surprised. Surely, he thought, all of them couldn't be leaving! “Not just me I mean. I've been asked to talk to you on behalf of everyone.”

She was twisting a ring, nervously, on her finger, waiting for a response, but John was confounded. “What do you mean, ‘on behalf of everyone'?” They'd sent an emissary? Irritation simmered. “Julia, will you please do me the courtesy of telling me what the hell's going on.” She was looking down at the ring, twisting it round and round. “And damn well look at me!”

She jumped. “That's why!” She snapped back. “That's why John. You intimidate people! You …. I. We. We don't want to work like this.” She tugged the neck of her sweater as if to release the red flush that was spreading up and into her face. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that, I wanted to discuss …..”

Intimidate people? What on earth, he wondered, was she talking about? “I don't intimidate people!”

She'd pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her hands. “You've no idea, have you? You're in some dreadful world of your own and you don't see any of us anymore.”

Dreadful world of his own? Intimidate people!

Seemingly encouraged by his open-mouthed silence, she continued. “It used to be fun working here. Even Christmas, despite the hard work, was fun. We worked together, all of us. We're a good team, including you, and we want to keep it that way. You made us a good team; you're our leader. But since Christmas you…. well, you've become intolerant and unfriendly, and we're all walking on eggs. It's not very nice.” Her voice faltered but then recovered. “We know you've had a tough time and we're all very sorry about you and Sally but we're …..”

His hand slapped the desk as, unwilling to listen any more such… babble, he interrupted. “Julia, you've no idea what you're talking about. And it's none of your – or their – damned business.”

“You're wrong!” Julia snapped back. “You've made it our business. We've all made allowances for you but all you do these days is shout or complain.” Taking a deep breath, she started again. “Look John, I just know that if I hadn't seen my little boy for ages I…”

His fingers gripped the edge of the desk and words shot from his mouth. “Well you would wouldn't you. He's
your
child, isn't he!”

As the impact of his words made sense, Julia's confusion gave way to shock and turning away he wished there was some way he could unsay them.

“Sammy's not your child? No! I… I can't believe it. John?”

“Julia, I didn't mean to say that. Please, it's private.” Crumpling into the chair, his hands covered his face and rubbed his eyes as if all that existed could be erased.

“That's why you and Sally…”

“It's private. I don't want to discuss it.” The words ‘intolerant' and ‘unfriendly' reverberated in black hollowness as images of gossiping staff rolled behind his hands. “And it's not general knowledge.” Dropping his hands he snapped, “And if they find out you'll know what ‘intolerant' and ‘unfriendly' really mean. Right?”

Julia's face hardened. “You don't need to threaten me and you've no call to speak to me like that. You may have problems but I'm not a part of them, so if you speak to me like that you must expect me to respond likewise.” Pushing away her chair, she made to leave.

“Sorry Julia.” He grimaced. “Looks like you might have a point, eh? Sit down.” He couldn't afford to alienate her – and he didn't want to. “Please.” But… intolerant! Unfriendly! Unable to face her he turned and looked out of the window. “You're probably right, I haven't been myself recently but in my defence there's been significant provocation.” Outside the resident robin landed on a twig and he envied its liberty. “They say birds are monogamous, don't they.” He didn't want an answer. “If I've been difficult recently,” he began, “I, well I… Look, I need to give this some thought. You can tell everyone that I'll talk to them. Soon. But I need to think.”

Julia's chair scraped the floor and he felt her reassuring hand on his shoulder before she left the office. Beyond the window the bird flew away and he envied it anew.

*

What, he asked himself, could he say to the staff? Julia was right; they were a good team. He'd worked hard to make it so, encouraging ideas and placing himself in the middle of things despite carrying the world of responsibility that gave them their jobs! Unfriendly and Intolerant? Absurd! Absentmindedly he opened a packing box and saw his art books. ‘The Early Impressionists', ‘History of Modern Art', ‘The Romantics'. Stacking them on the floor he picked up ‘20
^th
Century Art'. Kandinsky, Matisse, Braque. It had been a long time since he'd looked at these books; years in fact. They'd been away, out of sight. He placed them in piles around the room; some on a small table, some by the fireplace, others on the top book shelf, and reached again into the box. This time he found his green, hardback sketch-pad. Laying the spine across his hand he let it fall open at his last drawing and found, from just seven or eight weeks previously, Sally and Sammy, his ‘Mother and child'. A scribble that had whiled away long snowy days when they'd been in London. He made to rip the page from the pad but stopped. It was a good sketch; simple and not overdone. Telling himself that given the long absence from drawing it was worth keeping, he turned to the previous page and found Sammy's laughing eyes looking directly into his as they had on the magical Ski Sunday. This time, alone, tears flowed. Sobs racked his body and his heart felt dislocated. How could this baby, not even his child, and whom he'd never see again, cause such heartache?

*

It didn't take long to unpack the boxes, particularly if he didn't find homes for the contents. Surrounded by clothes, books, linen and even more boxes he realised that he'd have to put some of the things away before he unpacked any more. Removing towels, sheets and a pillow from a chair he sat and assembled his thoughts. His limbs and head ached but the conversation with Julia had to be dealt with. Her words still hurt, and affronted, he saw unfairness and ingratitude in their complaint. Being loved by staff was not a priority but he'd nurtured them; encouraging, supporting and being flexible. He hadn't sought thanks, but neither had he expected a unanimous revolt when he wasn't feeling quite so magnanimous. Intolerant! Perhaps some had seen Rick's sacking as intolerant but the damaged picture had been priced at more than a hundred pounds. Sacking him quietly might have been less ‘intimidating' but it had been the final straw in a string of catastrophes and he'd had to go. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, there were times his behaviour might have been perceived as less than friendly but being cheerful when your world had turned upside down was asking a lot. And, he decided, if intolerance was to be ascribed, it could more easily be attributed to them! But resentment, he knew, wouldn't keep the doors open and something had to be done. Groaning at the prospect he found a sheet of paper, sat at the table, and stared at its blankness. He lit a cigarette and thought. Three words appeared on the paper; ‘apology', ‘reasons' ‘unacceptable'. It galled him to have to say he'd behaved unacceptably but he'd do it to pour oil on the troubled waters. Adding ‘thanks for hard work', ‘individuals offended?', ‘tolerance / two way', ‘way forward' he lit a second cigarette.

*

Troubled by dreams that left a crash of memories he got up and began to find homes for clothes and books and pots and pans. By the time dawn broke there was a new, calm orderliness and he wished he could realign the past so easily. Taking the kitchen dishcloth he wiped dust and dirt from the table, the bath, the door, the phone, until, in the smeary glass of the mirror, he saw beyond the heavy grey eyes, unkempt hair and dirty t-shirt to the child he used to be; naïve and vulnerable. Taking up his sketch pad and pencils he sat on the edge of his bed and let his pencil work.

It was done quickly. More than a caricature but less than a portrait, it interpreted the relentless cloak of sadness he wore, and that had, he realised, disrobed itself whilst he'd been drawing. Freed – at least for the time being – from the unforgiving weight of heartache, he inserted a new blade into his Stanley knife and with a lightness of spirit slashed the carpet around the bay window and set up his easel. He found brushes, pigments, white spirit, pencils, and putty rubbers dried into soft grey pebbles. He had an urgency to paint. With masking tape he attached a sheet of textured paper to his easel and unable to find his palette squeezed yellow ochre and dark umber and cadmium on to a plate. His brush loaded, a trail forged across the pristine paper.