An Evening of Long Goodbyes (43 page)

‘What friend?’

‘Oh, that fellow. The postman, Macavity the Mystery Cat, or whatever his name is.’

I experienced a familiar sinking feeling. ‘He’s no friend of mine,’ I said.

‘That is infuriating,’ Mother said again. ‘I shall have to look into it. Well, anyway, it’s Thursday night at eight sharp, black tie – I
mean
black tie, Charles, it is a formal occasion, so none of your comedy dicky bows, if you please –’

‘But what
is
it?’ I broke in. ‘You still haven’t told me what it –’

‘
Telsinor
,’ her voice crackling down the line like an ancient gramophone recording. ‘I’ve said it three or four times, it’s to officially launch the partnership with the Centre. Nothing overly grand, a dozen or so guests. However, Mr O’Boyle has very kindly agreed to attend in person, so it will be an opportunity for us to thank him for all his generosity.’

‘Oh,’ I said unenthusiastically. I didn’t see what point there was dragging me along, and I was about to say as much when Mother beat me to it. ‘I should add, Charles, that I had misgivings about inviting you. Grave misgivings, in fact. I had hoped, naively perhaps, that your stint at the Civil Service might teach you a thing or two about responsibility and pulling one’s weight. But to judge by the incidents at the premiere that has not been the case.’

‘What incidents? You can’t blame me for any of th—’

‘The Golem business, Charles, that’s your little hobbyhorse, isn’t it? But anyway, I don’t intend to discuss the matter now, other than to say that what took place that night was inexcusable. You are a grown man living under your own roof, however, and if you insist on ignoring your Higher Power and taking the slippery slope to perdition that is your business. It is no longer my place to intervene. What I will not tolerate is the deleterious effect you are having on your sister. You know quite well that she has had difficulties, and yet you continue to fill her head with romantic nonsense. But no matter –’ raising her voice to drown out my protestations of innocence of any kind of influence over any aspect of Bel’s life – ‘no matter, I decided I would invite you anyway, because I wanted to show Mr O’Boyle our gratitude not only as a theatre but as a
family
. Because this affects us personally, Charles. As you know, they are pledging a significant sum towards the renovation of the house. More importantly, it seems that they are willing to make a commitment to clear all arrears outstanding and secure it financially for the foreseeable future, meaning that the house will remain in the family name into the next century. Whether we
deserve
it or not is another question, of course. Nevertheless, I want the whole family to be there to commemorate the occasion, even those black sheep who seem to prefer to skulk about the peripheries. Also,’ she added judiciously, ‘what I have just said notwithstanding, I thought you ought to see your sister before she leaves.’

A jolt passed up my arm. ‘Before she what?’ I shook the handset as the connection descended again into fizzing. ‘Before she
what
?’

‘—cially
keen
on it,’ she resurfaced, ‘nevertheless it seems a matter of simple good manners as much as of maturity. Please stop whatting me, Charles, it’s most annoying –’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ I burbled, ‘but what was that you said? About Bel leaving?’

‘Yes, leaving,’ Mother said impatiently. ‘Honestly, doesn’t anything reach you in your little cocoon out there? She’s going to Yalta for six months with the Kiddon girl. Some sort of a Chekhov masterclass. You know Bel and Chekhov.’

My mind felt like it had been dropped into a hornets’ nest, with far too many questions to sort into any kind of coherent order. ‘What?’ I said faintly.

‘Yalta, Charles, it’s in Russia. She’s been planning it for weeks. You see this is what happens when you cut yourself off –’

‘But
when
is she – I mean to say – when?’

‘Friday, I told you, that’s why we’re having the dinner Thursday night. A sort of a double celebration.’

Blood roared in my ears: I sank to my haunches and leaned against the door. ‘The Kiddon girl had some friend at the opening night of
Ramp
,’ Mother was saying. ‘She approached Bel shortly afterwards and offered her a place on this excursion, although don’t ask me why, after that performance…’

‘For six
months
?’ I whispered. ‘In
Russia
?’

‘I know, it’s costing an absolute fortune. I did have my doubts, especially as the girl seems barely capable of tying her shoelaces at the moment without it turning into a German opera. But the hope is that a few months in her own company might give her time to pull herself together and perhaps even rejoin us here on Planet Earth. And the Kiddon girl assures me that these people are quite reputable, it’s quite prestigious, in fact –’

‘Who?’ I said.

‘This body, I believe it’s called the Knipper Foundation –’

‘No, no, the – Kiddon, who is this Kiddon girl you keep talking about?’

‘You know her, Charles, Kiddon – what is her name? Jessica. She was in school with Bel. Her father is some sort of a noise at Deloitte and Touche.’

‘Well, I’ve never heard of her,’ I said. ‘And if you ask me the whole thing sounds quite preposterous, letting Bel go flimmering off around Russia with some perfect stranger –’

‘She’s not a stranger, Charles, I’ve spoken to her on the telephone myself and she seems a very sensible and level-headed girl who will I hope be a
good
influence on your sister,’ putting just enough stress on the word to make her meaning clear. ‘Please don’t be difficult about this. I do think it’s for the best.’ She paused. ‘She hasn’t been very happy here lately,’ she said.

‘But wasn’t she going to tell me?’ My voice was giving way on me now. ‘I mean, wasn’t she even going to say goodbye?’

‘I don’t know, Charles,’ Mother said wearily. ‘Why must you pester me with these questions? If you’d simply RSVP like everybody else it would save us all a lot of trouble. Now are you coming to the dinner or aren’t you?’

‘Well, yes, obviously, but –’

‘Good. Eight sharp, remember.’ Mother’s voice acquired a metallic echo as the reception began to break up. ‘
Formal
, Charles. And bring a guest. Candida Olé tells me Patsy’s back from her voyages, it might be nice if you –’ There was a far-off crash and the line went completely silent.

To the casual observer it might have appeared that I was overreacting. But I
knew
Bel – I was the only one who did; I was the only one who could comprehend what a gesture like this meant. Yalta, for heaven’s sake! Who on earth ever went to Yalta? No, I could read between the lines. This was her fresh start, and she was making it alone; and even if she did come back in six months – six
months
! – she would not be coming back to us.

The rest of that evening is something of a blur. I have a vague recollection of going to the petrol station and buying four or five bottles of the abhorrent German Riesling, after polishing off that Bulgarian Cabernet; I have a sketchy image of me sitting cross-legged on the living-room floor in the wee hours of the morning, drinking the last dregs of some sort of unspeakable wine-in-a-carton I had found under the kitchen sink, presumably intended for famines or droughts or that kind of emergency situation, weeping deliriously as I went through her suitcase: spreading her clothes out over the carpet, tipping the contents of her little make-up bag on to the table – lipstick, vaporizer of Chanel something-or-other, crumpled tissue, the Telsinor phone everyone had been given, coins, the beads of a broken bracelet, and at the very bottom the silver disc she’d taken to wearing lately, winking at me in all of its childlike, ineffable simpleness, as if it held the answer to everything…

But it’s quite possible I just imagined it; and the next thing I knew it was eleven thirty-eight on a Wednesday morning and I was standing with shaking hands by the conveyor belt, which had just come to a halt.

Everyone was looking at me, expecting that I had jammed up the frosting machine again; to me, too, this seemed like the most plausible explanation. But I hadn’t. The machines had just stopped. And Mr Appleseed, now that we cast about for him, was nowhere to be seen. We took off our gloves, shrugged and muttered. Then the tannoy squawked and a voice boomed into the room, summoning us to the Bread-Cutting Zone for a meeting.

This caused even more of a stir. A meeting? We had never had a meeting before. I hadn’t even known there was a tannoy. It was rather exciting – a meeting, just like real workers! Chests swelled and voices bubbled in excitement as we filed through the double-doors.

‘Maybe they’re giving us a pay rise,’ Bobo said.

‘Maybe they’re putting in a new vending-machine,’ said gingery Arvids, ‘with proper snacks in it, and not just slices of bread.’

By the time we arrived, the Bread-Cutting Zone was already crowded with overalled figures – including, I saw to my surprise, C-shift, who weren’t supposed to start work for another six hours. The Daves, the two drug-addled teenagers who ran this section, were standing by a column, looking on with more than their usual degree of befuddlement. The sweaty bread-mixers were there, hands covered in dough; the raisin-and-poppy-seed people; the lank-haired girls from the washing-hall, even the men from Zone T, pumpernickel-bread division, who shrouded their work in a Masonic secrecy and who frankly we all found a little odd.

The hall was abuzz. Gossip and rumour climbed the walls and bounced from the corrugated roof. At the top of the room, plastic boxes had been arranged into a kind of dais: the great slicing machines stood solemnly on either side, their blades held motionlessly aloft, giving them the air of acolytes at some mystical ceremony. Just as the chatter reached a peak, there was a scuffling, booming noise. Instantly a hush fell. Mr Appleseed had appeared on the dais. He was staring out at us in his customary cloven-hoofed posture, tapping a microphone. By his side was a metal device about the size of a smallish filing cabinet, with a spindly, claw-like appendage extending from the top. ‘Vending-machine,’ I heard Arvids murmur next to me, but his voice was faint and discordant in the suddenly charged silence.

‘Gentlemen,’ Mr Appleseed croaked, ‘and ladies. Thank you for your attendance. Today is an auspicious day in the history of Mr Dough. The company is about to take a great leap forward, and we are very privileged to be here to witness it.’ Here and there low voices could be heard translating for those whose English wasn’t up to scratch.

‘You have all worked hard today,’ he continued, ‘just as you do every day. You might not think I see it, or appreciate it, but I do. And I know I speak not only for myself but for the entire board of Northwestern BioHoldings Group plc and its shareholders when I commend you for your dedication and your spirit. Mr Dough is not always the easiest environment to work in. The dust, the great heat – the conditions here are far from ideal, as has been pointed out to me in no uncertain terms.’

At this a few people turned to grin at me or give me friendly punches on the shoulder, which in my fragile condition I did not appreciate.

‘It is not a job for the weak-willed or the delicate. One might say that in a perfect world no one would have to do jobs as tough as yours are. It is unquestionably a job for men, or, in some cases, women.’ He silenced a burst of applause with a raised hand. ‘But today, with the help of science, I am proud to tell you that we are one step closer to that perfect world.’ To another round of applause, this one scattered and rather muted, he stepped behind the metal apparatus and pressed a button. Lights blinked and the arm began to whir through the air. ‘Meet BZD2348,’ said Mr Appleseed. ‘This particular model has been primed to perform all the tasks currently undertaken by the Yule Log Division. Observe.’ He placed an unfrosted loaf on to a tray protruding from one end of the machine. There was a grinding noise as the machine swallowed it up, a series of clanks, and then, mere seconds later, it spat it out again – not only sugared on top but neatly packaged in the festive Yule Log box. The machine’s arm lowered. It hummed obsequiously. ‘Marvellous,’ chuckled Mr Appleseed. ‘What this in essence means is that thanks to top-of-the-range German technology, a single device can do all the work of, in this case, five Latvians and Fuckface – but at four times the speed and a fraction of the cost.’

A couple of stray handclaps rose and reverberated through the lofty chamber. Suddenly a gap seemed to have emerged between the six of us and the rest of the crowd. People were giving us funny looks, a mixture of sympathy, fear, and poorly disguised relief.

‘Other models can be fitted out for baguettes, soda bread, pasties, and what have you,’ Mr Appleseed called out, drawing the audience back to him. ‘By the end of the month, we hope to have Mr Dough converted into a fully automated factory.’ There was a palpable drop in pressure as three hundred people drew their breath. ‘The installation begins today,’ Mr Appleseed went on. ‘As of this afternoon, Mr Dough will be closed, and will remain closed until such time as the changeover is complete. So it remains only for me to thank you again for your months, and in some cases years, of dedicated service, and to wish you the very best for the future.’ He looked down at us, as if surprised to see that we were still standing there. ‘That is all.’

No one spoke. No one moved.

‘What!’ I exclaimed.

‘Fuckface? You have a question?’

‘You mean to say you’re firing us? All of us?’

‘I’m glad you asked me that, Fuckface. It’s important that we’re all completely clear about this. The answer is that no, it is not correct to say we are firing you. Your employer is and remains the recruitment agency that leased you out to us. So a more constructive way to look at it would be to say that the agency has completed its contract with Mr Dough. And you can all take pride in a job well done. I should add that anyone with a suitable qualification in IT is more than welcome to submit their CV for consideration for positions in our new Robot Programming Division. Are there any more questions? No? Good.’ He stepped down from the platform and, the machine trundling behind him, left by a door at the back.