The Lemon Table (17 page)

What do I keep in my refrigerator, you ask? My purse, if you must know, my address book, my correspondence, and a copy of my will. (Fire.)

Family still united? Yours? Any more children? I see you are doing your Modern Father stuff well. George V used to bathe his children, Q. Mary didn’t.

V. best wishes, and succès fou to you,

Sylvia

14 October 1987

Merci, charmant Monsieur, for the food parcel. Alas, the combination of the GPO & the Sgt-Major meant that the croissants were not as fresh as when they left you. I insisted on having a General Distribution of this Lease Lend, so all the deafs and mads got half each. “Poddon? Poddon? Wozzit? Wozzit?” They prefer floppy triangles of white bread toast with Golden Shred. If I pushed the leftovers through the letter-box for Dominic—still in window—do you think Warden wd have me gated? Sorry only postcard, arm not good. Best wishes, Sylvia

10 December 1987

Barnes comes at about chest level, Brookner you have to get on the floor. I do think her “Look at Me” is a beautiful piece of tragic writing, unlike “King Lear” which I have just read for the 1st time. Apart from some purple patches, plot and characterization total balderdash. Emperor’s clothes paradigm (word I’ve just learnt from crossword). Only postcard—Arm. V. best wishes, Sylvia

14 January 1989

Dear Julian,

(Yes! Old Winstanley), Please forgive more senile garrulity. Also state of handwriting, which wd shame Nanny.

Fascinating telly of lion-cubs trying to eat porc-épic (why épic?—Larousse says corruption of porcospino which is obvious but why not épine instead of épic?). I am not really attracted to the hedgehog—I had a cattle grid at my cottage into which hedgehogs constantly fell. I found lifting them out by hand was the simplest way, but they are vermin-ridden and have inexpressive eyes, rather mean.

Foolish and senile of me to go on about your children when you say you have none. Plse forgive. Of course you make things up in your stories.

As I am eighty-four and still have an excellent memory I know it is inevitable that coincidences should occur, e.g. parrots, French scholars, etc. But then the Famous Art Person. And a month ago, I learned that my great-niece Hortense Barret is to go to university to read agricultural science. (We had Forestry in our day. Did you have Foresters? Earnest young men with leather patches on their elbows who lived in colonies near Parks Road and went off together for Field Work?) So the same week I am reading a book about hydrangeas and learn that the Hortensia may have been named after a young woman called Hortense Barret who went on the Bougainville expedition with the botanist Commerson. Enquiries reveal that there were however many generations between them, in and out of marriage, names changing, but the line was direct. What do you make of that? And why had I chosen to read a book about hydrangeas? I own neither pot-plant nor window-box nowadays. So you see, one can’t attribute all this to Great Age and Good Memory. It is as if a Mind from outside—not my own unconscious mind—were saying, “Take note of this: we have our eyes upon you.” I am agnostic, I may say, though could accept the hypothesis of a “guide” or “surveillant,” even a Guardian Angel.

If so, what about it? I am only telling you that I get this impression of a constant dig-in-the-ribs. “Watch it!” and this I find of signal use to me. May not be your pigeon at all. To me it provides evidence of educational intent from Higher Mind. How is it done? Search me!

As I am on the psychic belt I notice how evolution in the understanding of the Mind is progressing almost at the speed of technology: ectoplasm as much dated as rushlights.

Mrs. Galloway—she of the fridge lock and the green sprites—“passed on” as the Warden likes to say. Everything passes here. Pass the marmalade, she passed such a remark, Did it Pass? they ask one another of their troublesome bowel movements. What do you think will happen to the little green flashes, I asked one dinner-time. Ds & Ms considered topic and eventually concluded that they probably passed on too.

Amitiés, sentiments distingués, etc.,

Sylvia W.

17 January 1989

I suppose, if you are Mad, and you die, & there is an Explanation waiting, they have to make you unmad first before you can understand it. Or do you think being Mad is just another veil of consciousness around our present world which has nothing to do with any other one?

Do not conclude from Cathedral postcard that I have stopped Thinking own Thoughts. “Vegetable Mould and Earthworms” in all probability. But perhaps not.

S.W.

19 January 1989

So Mr. Novelist Barnes,

If I asked you “What is life?,” you would probably reply, in so many words, that it is all just a coincidence.

So, the question remains, What sort of coincidence?

S.W.

3rd April 1989

Dear Mr. Barnes,

Thank you for your letter of 22nd March. I regret to inform you that Miss Winstanley passed on two months ago. She fell and broke her hip on the way to the post-box, and despite the best efforts of the hospital, complications set in. She was a lovely lady, and certainly the life and soul of the party around Pilcher House. She will be long remembered and much missed.

If you require any further information, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Yours faithfully,

J. Smyles (Warden)

10th April 1989

Dear Mr. Barnes,

Thank you for your letter of the 5th inst.

In clearing out Miss Winstanley’s room, we found a number of items of value in the refrigerator. There was also a small packet of letters but because they had been placed in the freezing compartment and then the fridge had been unfortunately switched off for defrosting they had suffered much damage. Although the printed letterhead was still legible we thought it might be distressing to the person to receive them back in this condition so regrettably we disposed of them. Perhaps this is what you were referring to.

We still miss Miss Winstanley very much. She was a lovely lady, and certainly the life and soul of the party around Pilcher House during her time here.

Yours faithfully,

J. Smyles (Warden)

Appetite

H
e has his good days. Of course, he has his bad days, too, but let’s not think about them for the moment.

On his good days, I read to him. I read from one of his favourites:
The Joy of Cooking, The Constance Spry Recipe Book, Margaret Costa’s Four Seasons Cookery
. They may not always work, but they’re the most reliable, and I’ve learnt what he prefers and what to avoid. Elizabeth David’s no use, and he hates the modern celebrity chefs. “Ponces,” he shouts: “Ponces with quiffs!” He doesn’t like TV cooks either. “Look at those cheap clowns,” he’ll say, even though I’m just reading to him.

I once tried
Bon Viveur’s London 1954
on him, and was that a mistake. The doctors warned me that over-excitement was bad for him. But that’s not much to tell me, is it? All the wisdom they’ve given me over the last years can be boiled down to this: we don’t really know what causes it, we don’t know how best to treat it, he’ll have his good days and his bad days, don’t over-excite him. Oh yes, and it is of course incurable.

He’ll sit in his chair, in his pyjamas, with his dressing-gown on, shaved as well as I can do him, and with his feet tucked fully into his slippers. He isn’t one of those men who wear down the backs of their slippers and turn them into espadrilles. He’s always been very proper. So he sits with his feet together, heels in his slippers, waiting for me to open the book. I used to do this at random, but it caused problems. On the other hand, he doesn’t want me to go straight to what he likes. I have to seem to stumble across it.

So I’ll open
The Joy of Cooking
at page 422, say, and read out “Lamb Forestière or Mock Venison.” Just the title, not the recipe. I won’t look up for a response, but I’ll be aware of him. Then “Braised Leg of Lamb,” then “Braised Lamb Shanks or Trotters,” then “Lamb Stew or Navarin Printanier.” Nothing—but nothing is what I expect. Then “Irish Stew,” and I’ll sense him lift his head slightly. “Four to six servings,” I’ll respond. “This famous stew is not browned. Cut into 1½ inch cubes: 1½ lbs lamb or mutton.”

“Can’t get mutton nowadays,” he’ll say.

And for a moment I’ll be happy. Only a moment, but that’s better than not at all, isn’t it?

Then I’ll continue. Onions, potatoes, peel and slice, heavy pan, salt and pepper, bay leaf, finely chopped parsley, water or stock.

“Stock,” he’ll say.

“Stock,” I’ll repeat. Bring to boil. Cover closely. Two and a half hours, shake the pot periodically. All moisture absorbed.

“That’s it,” he’ll agree. “All moisture absorbed.” He says it slowly, making it sound like a piece of philosophy.

He was always proper, as I say. Some people pointed the finger when we first met; jokes about doctors and nurses. But it wasn’t like that. Besides, eight hours a day walking back and forth to reception, mixing amalgam and holding the saliva drain may be a turn-on to some people but it used to give me a bad back. And I didn’t think he was interested. And I didn’t think I was interested either.

Pork Tenderloin with Mushrooms and Olives. Pork Chops Baked in Sour Cream. Braised Pork Chops Creole. Braised Devilled Pork Chops. Braised Pork Chops with Fruit.

“With fruit,” he’ll repeat, making his face into a funny snarl, pushing out his lower lip. “Foreign muck!”

He doesn’t mean it, of course. Or he didn’t mean it. Or he wouldn’t have meant it. Whichever one’s correct. I remember my sister Faith asking me when I first went to work for him what he was like, and I said, “Well, I suppose he’s a cosmopolitan gentleman.” And she giggled, and I said, “I don’t mean he’s Jewish.” I just meant that he travelled, and went to conferences, and had new ideas like playing music or having nice pictures on the wall and that day’s newspapers in the waiting-room instead of yesterday’s. He also used to make notes after the patient had left: not just on the treatment, but on what they’d talked about. So that the next time they could continue the conversation. Everyone does this nowadays, but he was one of the first. So when he says Foreign Muck and makes a face he doesn’t really mean it.

He was married already, and we worked together, so people made assumptions. But it wasn’t like you think. He had terrible guilt about the marriage breaking up. And contrary to what She always said and the world believed, we didn’t have an affair. I was the impatient one, I don’t mind admitting. I even thought he was a bit repressed. But he said to me one day, “Viv, I want to have a long affair with you. After we’re married.” Isn’t that romantic? Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard? And there wasn’t anything wrong with him when push came to shove, in case you’re wondering.

When I first started reading to him, it wasn’t like it is now, with him just repeating a word or two, or making a comment. I’d only have to hit the right phrase, like egg croquettes or braised tongue or fish curry or mushrooms à la grecque, and he’d be off. No knowing how long. And the things he’d remember. Once, I’d barely got started on Chou-fleur Toscana (“Prepare the cauliflower in the French way and blanch for 7 minutes”) when he was up and running. He remembered the colour of the tablecloth, the way the ice-bucket was clipped to the table, the waiter’s lisp, the fritto misto of vegetables, the rose-seller, and the paper cylinders of sugar that came with the coffee. He remembered that the church on the other side of the piazza was being prepared for a fashionable wedding, that the Italian Prime Minister was trying to form his fourth government in a period of sixteen months, and that I’d taken off my shoes and run my toes up his bare calf. He remembered all that, and because he did, I did too, at least for a while. Later it got rubbed out, or I wasn’t sure if I trusted it, or believed it anymore. That’s one of the troubles with this.

No, there wasn’t any hanky-panky in the surgery, that’s for sure. He was always, as I say, proper. Even after I knew he was interested. And he knew I was interested. He always insisted we keep things separate. In the surgery, in the waiting-room, we were colleagues and we’d only talk about work. Early on, I made a comment, about dinner the previous night or something. Not that there was a patient present, but he just froze me out. Asked me for some X-rays I knew he didn’t need. That was how it was, until he’d locked up for the night. Liked to keep things separate, you see.

Of course, all that was a long time ago. He’s been retired for ten years now, and we’ve had separate beds for the last seven. Which was more his choice than mine. He said I kicked out in my sleep, and that when he woke up he liked to listen to the World Service. I suppose I didn’t mind too much, because by this time we were only companionable, if you know what I mean.

So you can imagine the surprise, one night, when I was tucking him up—this was shortly after I started reading to him—and he said, just like that, “Come in with me.”

“You’re a sweetie,” I said, but not taking any notice.

“Come in with me,” he repeated. “Please.” And he gave me a look—one of those looks from years before.

“I’m not … ready,” I said. I didn’t mean it like in the old days, I meant that I wasn’t prepared, in other ways. All sorts of ways. Who would be, after such a time?

“Go on, turn out the light and take your clothes off.”

Well, you can imagine what I thought. I assumed it must be something to do with the drugs. But then I wondered, maybe not, maybe it’s because of what I’ve been reading to him, and the way the past’s been coming back, and perhaps this moment, this hour, this day is for him suddenly like it was back then. And the idea that it might be just melted me. I wasn’t in any right sort of state—I wasn’t wanting him—it doesn’t work like that, but I couldn’t not. So I turned out the light and stood there in the dark taking off my clothes, and I could hear him listening if you know what I mean. And
that
was sort of exciting, this listening silence, and finally I took a breath and untucked the covers and got in beside him.