Authors: Kathryn Joyce
Thicker Than Soup (6 page)
It was what she wanted to hear. “Thanks Andrew.”
“I mean it Sally. Times are tough and I watch my own back these days too.”
*
At the next management meeting Sally's formal announcement that she intended to take six weeks maternity leave during October and November was greeted with silence from the old stalwarts but as it wasn't contested. All she had to do, thought Sally determinedly, was to show them! Everything was falling into place even if, she thought, it felt like a conspiracy.
*
On a hot day in early August Sally sat at her desk feeling grotesque and wiped moisture from her face. Beyond the open window drone bees made drowsy by heat encouraged somnolence as bruise coloured clouds pondered the storm they threatened. When the phone rang she welcomed the distraction. It was Lawrence's secretary informing her that he would like to see her in his office at four o'clock. With less than ten minutes warning she resented the arrogant assumption that she had nothing more important to do and knowing it was unlikely to be important increased her resentment. Sighing, she finished signing the weekly payroll cash requisitions, touched up her lipstick and locked her office.
*
“Ah, Sally.” Lawrence indicated an armchair next to a coffee table. “Do come in and take a seat.” James was sitting in another of the chairs and as she sat he asked his father if he should stay.
“Oh, stay, by all means. I think it's good practice to have a third person to oversee the discussion, you know, that sort of thing. ” He turned to Sally. “That's correct isn't it?”
She looked from Lawrence to James then back to Lawrence. “We need a third party?”
James answered. “Oh, I think it's the thing in these situations isn't it? You would know of course, being the expert.”
Alarm bells sounded. She'd expected to advise on a contractual issue or similar, but what she was hearing implied something personal. “If it's necessary for a third party to be here â for my benefit â I have the right to say who the third party should be.”
James rose with a conceit that confirmed her fears. “I'll say goodbye then.” He was a man used to getting his own way.
*
At her request Andrew was summoned and over a cup of untouched coffee Lawrence informed her that the Board had reached an unfortunate but unavoidable decision; due to reduced staff numbers a Director of Personnel at Board level was superfluous and as they had a Personnel Manager already in post the function was to be restructured. Her role was redundant and sadly they were going to have to let her go. Generous compensation and augmentation of her pension on top of her statutory allowance were hers, plus of course, she'd receive three months pay in lieu of notice, tax free under the circumstances. She should leave immediately and consider herself on garden leave until the end of the notice period. And they would, of course, be happy to provide a reference to a future employer if asked, and they wished her well for the future.
She heard the words with mounting disbelief. There'd been no discussions about restructuring her department. This was due to her pregnancy. And James. She was being paid off!
“Did you know about this?” Andrew's face disclosed that he had indeed, known, and she gained some satisfaction from his discomfort. “So you've cooked it up between you.”
Lawrence began to speak. “My⦔
But Sally was coldly furious. “You condescended to put a woman on your board, but a pregnant woman, well that's too much of a challenge isn't it! This isn't redundancy, this is dismissal. And it's unfair dismissal.” Standing up she smoothed her top over the seven month bump and walked proudly to the door. “You haven't heard the last of this. I am, after all, the Employment Law expert here.”
She went to the Executive Ladies â its very existence an anathema to the Board â where she knew no one would follow her and addressed the dark, flush-stained face in the mirror. “They've used what you've taught them and they've won. You're finished.” The emptiness of her farewell comment hit and she gripped the sink in furious and helpless frustration. “Damn, damn, damn.” Swallowing disgust, she splashed cool water over her face.
*
Her office contained little of personal value. A pen, a glass paperweight â a present from Andrew one Christmas â and a packet of tissues. Taking the paperweight she re-locked the door, dropped the payroll requisition on Paula's desk (it wasn't her fault) and walked out of the building, tossing her keys and paperweight in the car-park bin. It was a small victory.
*
Slamming the door, she kicked her shoes fiercely so that they ricocheted across the corner of the hall.
“Sal? You ok? “
Finding John still at home was a surprise. “Apart from being fired from my job, I'm fine!” She marched into the sitting room and stared at the window. She didn't want John to be home; she wanted to think, to work things out. Before she had to tell him that their future had just skidded round another hairpin bend.
“Fired from your job?” John appeared in the doorway, hair tousled, feet wet, and clutching a towel round his middle. “Why?”
“They've dressed it up. Redundancy! But we all know it's because of this!” She pointed at her stomach. “Everyone knew; including Andrew! You know who your friends are when the chips are down.”
John came towards her. “Calm down, Sally. You'll hurt Hughie.”
“It's not called Hughie!” She hated that he'd given the unborn child a name, especially that ridiculous name. “It's not any bloody thing! I don't want this bloody baby. You don't want it either. You know what? The only people who are pleased are your parents and my mother. Well, they can have it. With pleasure.” She stabbed a finger at the bump. “All those years of hard work ended with this! There're three million people unemployed out there, who's going to give me a job when I'm tied to a baby? It'll be years, decades, before anyone takes me seriously again.” She knew she was ranting but at least it drowned John's useless comforting words. She didn't want his platitudes; she wanted the clock to go back. “Y'know what I think? I think we should get it adopted.” She saw her comment hurt â as intended â and shrugged his arm from her shoulders. “How are we going to pay for all the things the baby will need without my salary? Where's the money going to come from?” As her father had when her parents had argued about money, John started to offer solutions; things would work out, he said. It hadn't been her father's fault they'd been poor but she'd hated it. And now she hated John. She didn't want his solutions. “Go to work, John. You're going to be late.” She backed away as he moved towards her. “I'm fine. Go to work. We'll talk tomorrow. I'll call Diane and see if she'll come over.”
It was enough. John looked relieved and made to leave. “But if you need me you'll ring me? Ok?”
Nodding resignedly she sighed with relief as he left. She felt dull, tired, and fat. And she'd been fired. John didn't understand; he'd got Seagrams, and he was a man. She didn't want his attempts to placate, she wanted understanding. And sympathy. And not to have to face two more months of inactivity before this baby would take over her life.
*
Inactivity was something Sally wasn't very good at, as gleaming windows, dust-free skirting boards, and orderly kitchen cupboards testified to. Even the spider plant glowed with health. The cycle of time-filling activity, rather than dulling her thoughts, became meditatively rhythmic and set her mind on the road to the future. As soon as the baby was old enough new, increasingly impressive CVs would be ready to be sent to a growing list of prospective employers.
In this way, though tiring, housework had been unexpectedly rewarding. But with only days before her baby was due to be born, it was just tiring. Everything was. Resting on one side and then the other it was impossible to find a comfortable position. She'd woken early that morning feeling energetic and had cleaned out the airing cupboard. Sheets and towels had been shaken, re-folded and re-stacked, and after John had gone to work, she'd re-organised it again so that the soft towelling nappies had a home. Now, with the baby unusually active it was impossible to rest. Heaving herself to her feet she moved towards the bathroom feeling like a Spanish galleon gathering sail when suddenly water gushed down her legs. Grateful that John wasn't there to see the embarrassment of her having wet herself she tossed a towel to the floor and padded it with her foot when a shockingly painful tightness gripped her belly. There'd been feelings of tightness over the past few weeks but not like this â this hurt! Then she realised. This was what they'd said could happen when labour started. Her waters had broken and that was a contraction.
A call to the maternity unit confirmed the baby was probably on its way and, advised to not rush but come in directly, she called Seagrams. John's voice was less calm, but he assured her he would drive carefully.
*
They'd hardly set off for the hospital when another, stronger, contraction brought a gasp of pain causing John to brake sharply and pull over to the side of the road. “Don't stop!” She bit her lip and counted her breath; 1-2-3 in, and 1-2-3 out until the worst of it passed. “It's not too bad â I just feelâ¦very constipated!” Half laughing she urged him on. “Get me there, but safely please.”
At the hospital her protests that she could walk went unheeded and directed by a nurse, John pushed the wheelchair along disinfected corridors echoing with infections and infirmities and into a small room where another contraction distracted dark thoughts. “It's only minutes since the last one,” she gasped. “John, stay with me. Promise me you won't leave?”
The nurse patted her hand. “You're fine, lovey. We'll look after you. Put this on and get yourself into bed. I'll be back in a âmo'.” She turned to John. “Come with me, Dad.”
“No, er, I'm staying with her.”
She raised an eyebrow at his stained chef tunic. “Sure you are, but not like that.”
Sally watched him leave with dismay then looked anxiously at her surroundings. A high, plastic sheeted bed surrounded by hostile looking screens, trolleys and a crane-like hoist countered all that she'd naively expected to be natural about childbirth, and as she began to nervously remove her clothes, tears threatened.
“Not in bed yet? Here, you need to get into this.” An oversized, back-to-front shirt-like robe was shaken and held for her to slot over her arms. Tapes secured a minimal degree of dignity and clinching it behind her she got on the bed and pulling the cold cotton cover over herself, turned her face gratefully into the pillows.
The nurse busied herself straightening the sheets. “There. Midwife'll be here soon. You'll be fine.” She folded away Sally's clothes. “And look, here's your husband.”
Encased from head to toe in various green garments, John looked uncomfortable and self-conscious, and to Sally's relief didn't correct the nurse's assumption that she was his wife. And she was extremely grateful to have him back. “Ha! You look like a clown!”
“Wait till you see my tricks,” he said, “you'll split your sides.”
An hour passed slowly. She gripped John's hand and as each contraction stalled conversation, they became silent. Despite advice she'd heard and read, nothing could have prepared her for this. It was awful. And the birth would be the truth. She glanced at John and prayed the baby would resemble him. Or her. Or anybody but James. She'd hated the pregnancy, and feared her attitude might have affected the foetus. Tormented by fears of deformity she closed her eyes. She'd once told Diane of her worries and been told she was being ridiculous, but now the demons gathered in readiness. Another contraction took hold and she swore to herself. No matter what it was like, no matter who it looked like, she didn't care so long as this would end. She tried to breathe; 1-2-3 in, 1-2-3 out, but agony took the breath away and sent John rushing for the nurse.
“Lovely,” the nurse told them. “Five centimetres. We're well on the way.”
“How much longer before the baby will be born?” gasped Sally.
“Oh, a while yet.” The nurse dabbed her forehead and told her not to worry. “Don't be afraid to use this.” She handed Sally a mask with a tube running from it. “Gas and air. It'll help you to relax.” She turned to John. “If I'm not back when she wants to start pushing, press this.” Indicating a button on the end of a lead, she left them alone.
“Push?” John asked. “What does she mean?”
“I don't know.” She thought about the things she'd read and slipped the mask over her face. “I've read about it. I think I'll know when it happens.” Even to herself her voice sounded distant.
When âpushing' gained meaning, gas and air merged with pain and time until, before long, the midwife held a blood and mucus streaked baby for her to see. Its tiny first cry of life brought a gasp of amazement, and when the squirming baby was laid across her chest all the qualms, fears and misgivings vanished in a rush of euphoria. Transformed from the anguish of minutes earlier she felt elation fill her and touching the soft cheek of her child in wonder, she counted. Ten fingers, two hands, ten toes, two feet, a tiny curl of manhood, and a mop of unruly dark hair that stood on end in the way John's did after a bath.
“It's a boy,” she whispered, transfixed by the tiny perfection that was her child. “We've got a son.”
With a mind not yet clouded by the approaching storms of paternity, John opened an eye and squinted at the radio clock. Nine twenty-eight. One day, he promised himself, he'd not set the clock and would trust his mental alarm, honed as it was to remarkable precision and which, on workdays, invariably woke him minutes before the alarm clock.
It was the first working day of the week when his restaurant would open, and the first full working day for his new team. The enormity of the reality still awed him; it really was quite astonishing that he, John ânobody', was about to be somebody! It had to succeed. The need started at his solar plexus, extended through his chest and knotted his neck. He breathed deeply and reminded himself that though starting a business during the worst recession for fifty years was risky the silver lining was that builders, plumbers, electricians and decorators had been available so that the refit had been completed below budget and on time. Suppliers had been keen to curry business too, encouraging him with discounts, whilst out-of-work kitchen and waiting staff were eager to find jobs. These were good omens. He tossed aside the quilt and leapt from the bed, eager to start the day.
John Lennon's voice floated
Imagine
from the bedroom radio and John sang along as he admired his more slender profile in the mirror-glazed wall. “Food,” he sometimes quipped, “is not only my bread and butter, it's my jam too.” The reality was that his work as a chef made food easy and sport difficult. Unsocial hours meant unsocial activities and though gyms were open during the day he didn't like the idea of them at all. All those Kevin Keegans and Henry Coopers tossing towels and flexing muscles as they splashed their perfumes! Sucking in his breath he commended himself that, in the hard work of Seagrams, he'd reduced his belly to no more than a slight paunch, unlike Sally, he'd noticed, who seemed to have gained a few extra pounds testing so many of his delicious new dishes.
*
Wrapping the lead around the drill and tucking the plug into the cable, he placed it with the stack of paintings next to the front door and returned to the spare bedroom for the last picture; the large panel that leaned against the wall. All the paintings were intended for Seagrams âgallery' but this one was different. It had been commissioned after he'd discovered art student, Roly, whose work spoke of Rothko. When Roly had told him he liked the relationships between primary and secondary colours John had felt a shiver of destiny and the immediate bond led to this painting that for John, represented the Seagrams dream. The semi opaque dark red rectangle floated like a heat haze over yellow and dark blue so that greens, purples and oranges hovered between the planes. It would be the last thing he hung. The other paintings would cover the walls but this would be unveiled at the celebration evening and, unlike all the others, it was not for sale.
Driving time was thinking time and John planned the day in his head. Firstly he needed Neil, his new sous chef, to understand the recipe for the mussel salad. Sally had suggested a switch; croutons for olives, and having tested it on his parents a few days previously he'd found the contrast of crunch and sharp saltiness worked well. Neil, like several others had started early and turned their hands to things that had never been discussed during interviews. The previous day Neil had cleaned windows and fixed window blinds, and today John intended to pass him the job of organising an engineer for the recalcitrant freezer and chasing up the clothing order. And later in the day the first team meeting would take place, with some staff meeting for the first time. Julia, for example, had been interviewed only last week. In his quest to persuade Diane to take the front of house role John had left it late and then despaired at finding the right person until Alain had come to the rescue with the wife of a wine merchant friend. She was, he'd said, passionate about food and wine though having a six-year old might pose a problem. Not pretty in the conventional sense, Julia's boyish physique and unfashionable short straight hair gave her a gamin look that, along with a presence that emanated confidence, John found to be inexplicably engaging. She'd impressed him with enthusiastic suggestions for New World wines and an au-pair and he'd offered her the job on the spot. That she'd accepted immediately had pleased him greatly; a woman in the role was symbolic of his New World style â phrasing, he felt, that had a ring of modernity. It was âafter' Seagrams, as they said in the art world.
Arriving at the same time as Neil, John commandeered his services to offload the paintings from his car. “What do you reckon?” He held up a monochrome still life depicting a simple, almost transparent wine glass behind opaque black grapes set against a pale grey background.
Neil took the painting from him. “It's good. The reflection on that glass and the drop of water on that grape look real.” He placed it next to an unframed canvas with dark, spider-like paint bursting from one corner. “That one though, what's that supposed to be? Anyone could do that. My kids could do it.”
John smiled. He'd enjoyed painting abstracts at college and engaging with abstract art. “If you don't like that, wait to see what I'm putting opposite the entrance. You'll hate it,” he said.
“It's your place.” Neil shrugged and followed him into the kitchen. “What time's the staff meeting?”
Telling him two-thirty, John headed for the cupboard-size room he used as an office. The final self-addressed envelopes he'd sent out with invitations to the celebration dinner sat on the desk, alongside another envelope with the embossed name Keith Floyd on it. He opened it quickly. It had been a bold move to invite Floyd, but seeing the expected refusal brought a pang of regret. The audacious Floyd at his opening night would have been a catch but consoling himself that he had at least replied, he opened the other envelopes. Most were acceptances and he grinned happily, ticking names against his master list until a polite cough made him turn. It was Julia, holding a bottle of wine.
“Hello! Didn't expect to see you 'til this afternoon.”
Julia moved into the room. “Hope you don't mind me dropping in but I wanted to get this chilled. I think you should taste it.” She held out the green glass bottle. “New Zealand, Sauvignon Blanc. Perfect for your mussel dish and wonderful with salmon too. It has a taste of gooseberries and lemons and I have to say, it's quite delicious.”
John's eyes widened. “Wow, you don't waste time, do you?” He pointed towards the wine store. “You know where to find the chiller.” He watched her walk away. “Er, you going now?” he asked.
She turned. “I don't have to be anywhere this morning.”
“It'll save time if you want to check the wine delivery against the order and log it into the wine store.”
“Sure! That's a great idea.”
When later John found the bar ready for business he congratulated himself; he'd been right to employ her.
By afternoon the restaurant was almost functional and as two-thirty approached his team gathered in the small dining room. John looked into expectant eyes. These were his staff and it was terrific. The dream was happening.
*
A few days later he stood next to Sally, and even though he'd been there in the afternoon, he was unprepared for the effect of this first real entrance. His first night was about to happen and he see-sawed between elation and terror. Alain had insisted on a formal dress code but at the last minute he'd exchanged his hired tuxedo for the same uniform the waiting staff would be wearing; black Levi 501's and dark blue open neck shirt with the Seagrams Rothko-style logo forming the breast pocket. It was, he decided, the appropriate attire for the evening.
“John, it's wonderful.”
Sally looked stunning in her low-cut crimson cocktail dress and strappy stilettos but the Rothkoesque panel directly opposite demanded his attention. The colours looked less translucent in artificial light but still levitated, hovering slightly from the surface of the wall. He scanned the room, approving each table with its blue iris that replicated reflections of the long droplights in the glasses and cutlery. High seats against the bar invited drinkers and along the walls spotlights lifted paintings from shadows. Turning back to his painting, he walked forwards until he stood inches from the surface and let his fingers brush the surface. A label, similar to those below other pictures, explained nothing ; âUntitled. Not for Sale.' Picking up a white gauzy cloth and pulling a chair to the front of the picture he climbed up and draped the face of the painting. Then taking a deep breath, he stepped down and replaced the chair to its table. Suddenly he was nervous that everything would go terribly wrong and he glanced quickly at Sally. She and this painting were his luck; he inhaled the spirit of both and went to the kitchen.
“Everything ok?” he asked no-one in particular. Looking around he saw trays of cooked mussels taken recently from the fridge. Shirley rinsed salt from aubergines and Neil trimmed Portabella mushrooms. Behind Neil were the portioned chickens and pears to be roasted. Red wine waited to be combined with cooking juices and Bob, the young but keen kitchen hand, was immersed to the elbows in cold water and spinach. The glass door of the dessert fridge screened New York cheesecakes chilling above handmade chocolates and mini jugs each with raspberry coulli and dark chocolate sauce waiting to be placed on dessert plates. The menu for this night had been chosen to surprise and delight, a meal that would be memorable beyond the evening, enthuse and impress guests so that they would remember him, tell others about his food, and return again and again. Predictable dishes would not to be found in this establishment.
Julia was filling trays with champagne flutes. “Thought you were coming dressed as a penguin?” she laughed.
“Couldn't do it,” he responded. “Here, let me help.” Picking up some bottles he backed through the swing door into the dining room where, to his happy surprise, Sally was hugging Diane. There'd never been quite the right moment to discuss Diane's presence that evening and hearing Sally demand champagne because they had things to celebrate was a great relief. “Hey, you two. It's been too long!” He twisted the wire on a cork and winked at Diane. “If that dress is a bit on the tight side, it's my fault; too much of a good thing!”
*
Whether it was Diane's words or Sally's expression that triggered his horror he wasn't sure, but too shocked to speak he let Sally guide him, stunned, into the small dining room.
“Sally?” At last words came. “Tell me it isn't true.”
She didn't reply; she didn't need to. A cage closed, trapping every âNo!' in his world in his head. Light dimmed as the red of her dress filled his vision and his clenched knuckles cracked as he fought with them to not hit. Crunch! He thumped the door. And ran. To the safe haven where the searing heat of the flames, the slicing blade of the knife, and the furious frenzy of effort captured the violence of his rage and absorbed it into the energy of cooking.
*
The next morning Sally's face was the last thing he remembered distinctly. The rest of the evening was a haze of half-memories that, when he tried to recall them in sequence, were disordered and disjointed. There'd been quizzical looks from Neil and Julia â probably when he downed whisky in the kitchen â and he'd dropped a pan of roasted pears. People and happenings and emotions tripped over each other; his bruised knuckles must have been before the desserts but it seemed later and the speech must have been after Alain had insisted he greet his guests. When had Sally come into the kitchen? He recalled applause after his speech and the unveiling of his canvas to reveal flat, lifeless patches of muddy colour. The evening had lasted forever and been over in an instant.
When everyone had left he'd locked himself in with a bottle of whisky, and in darkness spared by a thumbnail of moonlight he'd assessed the day that had started with him as King and ended with him⦠âno better than he ought to be'. The phrase was Sally's mother's. Sally, in her red dress, glowing radiantly. Unless some wonderfully fortunate misfortune struck, Sally would have a child who, like him, shouldn't be. In the dark recesses of his mind fat rats of self-doubt scurried and lines from a poem of Larkin's that they'd read at school and loved because it gave them permission to use âthat word', mocked. But behind schoolboy sniggers the truth of the poem had resonated and though he couldn't recall the lines he recalled the conviction. Kids were not for him.
Through the night he'd drunk whisky to drown the fug-grey days and slow motion nights that had followed Janine's pregnancy, and quaked at the prospect of well intentioned white coats when death would have been preferable.
By the time dawn broke and the whisky had failed to do its job he replaced the stopper. He knew he couldn't walk away this time; Sally wasn't Janine and he wasn't that John. But a child would change things. Forever. The bright future of yesterday had shattered and dawn brought only the fear of the dreaded black dog that would wipe out his dreams before they'd started. A business, full of risk and uncertainty, had get-out clauses. And if it all went wrong, you could start again. But there were no get-out clauses with a child. You couldn't sell off tears, tantrums, teenage rebellions. You couldn't buy extra love, extra support when it ran low. You couldn't change your mind after a few years, as his own mother had. He'd been almost two when she'd given him away. Swallowing to push down the lump that had curled into his chest he thought of the life he'd dared to hope he would share with Sally, unshackled by the ties of children and poverty. His beliefs were as strong and compelling as they'd ever been. He hadn't changed. The fear was that he would have to.
His eyes were gritty, his tongue furred and dry. Stretching stiff legs and aching back he eased himself from the floor. He'd not felt cold in the night but now he shivered and his limbs, heavy as if drugged, dragged to the bathroom. The remaining whisky flowed down the sink and filling a glass with clean cold water he drank the sweet freshness.