Home Truths Page 7

  Tiptoeing back downstairs, he didn't check which disc He'd pulled out. He'd never been one for the stories; he never had to start a scene from the beginning. He wanted cunts and cocks to fill his screen just as soon as he pressed play; fast forward any kissing or slinky foreplay, just delve in deep to the fucking and sucking. Matt loaded a disc and, with the sitting-room door ajar and the TV volume low, skipped forward until a mêlée of bodies was having sex in his face. Fantastic, he commented under his breath, as a variously pierced woman with a shorn head and spiked dog-collar was simultaneously being double penetrated, wanked upon, and orally stuffed from an incongruously orderly queue of erections.

  Matt masturbated frantically and synchronized his orgasm with a generalized spurting from the remainder of his on-screen cohorts who were not yet spent. Their spunk was gobbled up; Matt had to mop up his from his belly. He didn't realize until He'd done it that He'd used the muslin square his daughter nustled up to, not the sheets of kitchen paper He'd prepared in advance. He was aghast. He put the soiled muslin into a plastic bag, knotted it and then threw it away in the dustbin outside. He wouldn't even want it washed on the hottest cycle. He took his DVD and made his way quietly upstairs, putting it back in the pocket of his Paul Smith suit before going in to check on Cosima. He slipped into bed and lay in the dark, staring at an approximation of the ceiling. He felt utterly empty.

  I've always thought a wank to porn is similar to a curry. The sort of thing one craves, one hungers for. You're absolutely in the mood, so looking forward to it, ravenous to the point of visible drool – poppadams or a smooth little blow-job scene to whet the appetite and get you started, then straight for the glut of hot and spicy. Stuff it in. Gorge. But like a curry, once you've had your fill you really don't want to look at what's left on your plate; so it is with hard-core – once You're done you just don't want to see any more.

  I feel grubby and not nice. I wanked into my baby's muslin. Fen's asleep upstairs while downstairs I'm shooting my load with a bunch of blokes over some really quite ugly woman. Physically I'm relieved, sated. But I feel a bit, I don't know – sad.

  He listened to Fen's breathing, soft and shallow. Turning towards her he spooned lightly against her. The sleep-scent wafted from her neck. Matt closed his eyes.

  My sexy girlfriend who I used to fuck became this amazing vessel who carried and bore my child. But I miss fucking my sexy girlfriend.

  Winter Ice

  ‘Perhaps I'll thaw when spring comes,’ Penny muttered to herself, a gaze at the wide white world beyond her picture windows informing her that she could thus stay exactly as she was for a good couple of months still. Her solitude and grief felt cathartic, they were becoming a way of life though she quietly wondered if they risked becoming a habit that would soon be hard to break. Penny Ericsson may have lived in the States for most of her adult life and though her accent was commendable and she had not left the country for practically thirty years, she displayed a control when it came to expressing emotions that her friends fondly remarked was transparently English.

  ‘Oh honey,’ Marcia once laughed, ‘you fool no one with your rhinestones and your blue jeans and your Chevy and all. You're still an English Rose at heart – and That's because you keep your heart all polite and proper.’

  ‘You mean to say that English women are incapable of expressing their emotions?’ Penny had retorted.

  ‘Heavens no,’ Marcia had said, ‘It's just we guys gush, while you chaps are more, well, sparing. It's genetic, is all. Nothing any of us can do about it. We are who we are. Can't deny that.’

  And yet just recently, Penny felt her all-American friends, with their gushing and their ability to frequently say I love you, now seemed to expect her grief to have lessened. That she ought to feel able to find closure, be ready to move on, and confront a host of other emotional achievements carrying the Oprah Winfrey seal of approval.

  Noni had left her a message, inviting her to see a movie at the Mall.

  ‘I'll not go,’ Penny told herself and justified that it was because she didn't share Noni's taste in film. Really, she didn't want to have to act upbeat and lie that she was doing just fine. But what else to do? What might pass time, occupy a couple of hours of her day which would be otherwise devoted to the futility of missing Bob? Where could she go in her snowbound county on a bright February afternoon and not bump into a soul?

  ‘I could go for an ice cream,’ she said, and she found that the notion was sweet. In fact, she was nearly excited. She'd go in honour of Bob, who had always loved the stuff, and by venturing by herself back to their favourite parlour She'd be simultaneously closer to him while also laying just a little more of him to rest.

  There was only the one road into the mountains, with three communities of decreasing scale placed along it. They'd developed organically but a town planner could not have done better. Nothing was duplicated. Everything was shared. Lester Falls, where Penny lived and the largest town, had the Mall and a cinema and a Pack'n'Save on the outskirts. The smaller Hubbardton's Spring, further along and higher up, had a great fish place, a lively pizzeria, a gallery and a hardware store amongst its amenities. The last village, smallest in population but servicing the wider community no less, was Ridge. There, on Main Street, cosy alongside the bookstore, a small theatre, art supplies and a cheese maker, was Bob's favourite ice-cream parlour, Fountains.

  Supply and demand. Make superior ice cream from the finest ingredients and people will want it, whatever the weather. The parlour wasn't busy, but it was by no means empty and Penny was relieved to see it wasn't patronized solely by brave widows out for day-trips. Recently, when browsing at the Mall, or strolling the nature trail to the panorama, or visiting the library, Penny had passed other women who'd catch her eye and hold her gaze with a searching nod of recognition. Yes, I lost my husband too, you know, they seemed to say. Join the club.

  But I don't want to join your club, Penny would divert her gaze quickly, I'm not ready to be a widow. It's different for me. You wouldn't understand. I don't want to nod knowingly back at you. I don't want to learn to play bridge. I'm not going to buy a little dog to give me a reason to leave the house every day and join communal walks. I'm perfectly content to pop out for an ice cream. By myself.

  ‘You want a taste?’

  Penny looked up. The waitress behind the counter was offering her a pink plastic spoon on which was a furl of ice cream the colour of butter and the texture of suede.

  ‘It's a new flavour. Banudge-Nudge.’

  ‘Banudge-Nudge,’ Penny marvelled at the appetizing name, accepting the sample.

  ‘Banana, double fudge – half fat. Delicious, hey? You want a scoop?’

  Penny glanced swiftly along across the colourful tubs like a pianist travelling the length of a keyboard with a single finger. ‘You know what,’ she said, ‘actually I think I'll sit and have a sundae.’

  ‘You take a load off,’ the woman encouraged her. ‘Menus are on the tables. Juliette'll be right over.’

  Aren't the staff great, Penny thought, they give you long enough with the menu so that You're truly salivating and desperate to order. ‘I'll have Chippy Chippy Bang Bang, please,’ she said, just as soon as she was aware that the waitress hovered, ‘with hot chocolate sauce. And nuts. And Lucky Charms. Hell, why not.’

  The waitress brought over the sundae, perfectly presented in a pretty frosted dish, oozing with sauce and smothered in extras.

  ‘Enjoy,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Penny assured her, ‘thank you very much.’ She sensed the waitress linger, so with the long elegant spoon she dug up a glut of sundae and held it aloft as if to say cheers. Penny experienced a sensory burst that was delicious and exquisitely sweet and intensely painful. She closed her eyes. She closed her eyes to appreciate the taste. She closed her eyes because it hurt, because she suffered from sensitive gums and always seemed to forget the fact where ice cream was concerned. She closed her eyes because she used to bring Bob her
e when ice cream was the only thing he found digestible and that didn't taste metallic from the chemotherapy. That was the sweetest thought, and That's what hurt the most.

  When Penny left, leaving an empty dish and a grateful tip, the waitress Juliette who had served her turned to Gloria behind the counter.

  ‘I recognize her – do you?’

  ‘Not especially,’ Gloria said.

  ‘Sure you do – she used to come in, with her husband I guess. You do remember him. He was sick. They used to sit right there. Sometimes She'd spoon it for him, feed him. Like a child.’

  ‘Hey, I do remember,’ said Gloria, ‘but that was a few months back.’

  ‘Yes. But today she comes in on her own,’ Juliette said.

  ‘You think he died?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Juliette. ‘Sad.’

  Noni invited Penny to the cinema again the following week but Penny thanked her and declined, citing other plans. She took herself back to the ice-cream parlour, which was no less empty though the day was dull and the weather was now too cold to snow.

  ‘Hi,’ said the counter waitress, ‘have a taste.’ The pink spoon, today laden with an ice cream the colour of coal, was passed to Penny.

  ‘Liquorice,’ Penny said, having assessed it with the commitment of a sommelier.

  ‘And?’ said the waitress.

  Penny tasted it again. ‘I'm not sure – there's something. I can't—’

  ‘Raspberry.’

  ‘Raspberry,’ Penny marvelled, ‘and liquorice. Fancy that.’ And she went to the same table She'd sat at the week before. The one in the window, furthest from the table in the corner she used to seat Bob at.

  ‘Hi, I'm Juliette,’ the younger waitress came over to take her order. ‘How are we today? You set?’

  ‘I'm good,’ said Penny, ‘and I'd like a scoop of that liquorice one.’

  ‘You should get a sherbet with that – brings out the flavour.’ Juliette was quite forthright about that. Penny looked up. The girl looked like a confection herself, in her uniform striped the colours of apricot and strawberry, her hair in a high pony-tail, a jaunty little pink-peaked thing on her head, her name in copperplate across it. ‘I'd recommend lychee,’ Juliette said and Penny nodded.

  When Juliette brought the bowl over, Penny took a small taste and nodded her approval. Her gums didn't seem so sensitive today. She didn't have to close her eyes so often. But there again, She'd abstained from hot chocolate sauce or candy toppings. And Bob had not liked liquorice at all. She felt relaxed, as though she needn't scurry away just as soon as she finished. So when the waitress suggested a cup of coffee, Penny accepted.

  ‘Excuse me, ma'am,’ the waitress said after placing the cup and turning the saucer so that the handle was correctly placed. Penny looked up and read the girl's name again. Juliette. Well, Juliette looked a little concerned. ‘I don't mean to – well, Gloria and I, we just. We remember you from the summer, from the fall. You used to come in with the gentleman? He was – he was.’

  How old? Penny thought. Early to mid-twenties, she guessed. Nice-looking in a plain way, perhaps nicer-looking on account of her politeness and her slightly shy sweetness.

  ‘Is he?’ Juliette was bending down a little, as if in a reverential curtsy. ‘Was he?’

  ‘He was my husband,’ Penny told her. ‘He died. Near enough two months ago.’

  ‘Oh I'm so sorry,’ said Juliette, instinctively clutching her heart for emphasis. It touched Penny. It was as if everyone, no matter how little they knew Bob, had been rooting for him to pull through.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Penny. ‘He sure loved this place.’

  Penny returned two days later. Not to avoid any social invitation, nor because she had a craving for ice cream, but because Fountains felt like a nice place and seemed a good space to be. Comfort and warmth. Lovely warm chocolate sauce. Beautiful, pastel-coloured candy. Ice creams whose names brought a smile. Everything sweet. If you licked the blossom-coloured walls or bit the backs of the chairs, you'd probably discover they were made from candy. Everything there was sweet. The staff especially. They were like a personification of some of the ices. Pink Wink. Smile Sweetie.

  When Juliette brought over Honey in Heaven, with chocolate sauce and marshmallows, Penny spooned into it but then spoke before tasting. ‘We were married thirty years nearly,’ she said. She looked up. Juliette didn't seem taken aback by the information, her expression invited Penny to continue. ‘He called me dear. Always did, right from the start. Good morning, dear. Well dear, I'll be off to work now. I'm home, dear. What a nice supper, dear, shall I fix the coffee? It may have sounded formal, but I always heard it as charming and old-fashioned.’ Penny tasted the ice cream. Heavenly indeed. She had two more spoonfuls but Juliette stood beside her, quietly attentive. ‘I guess you wouldn't call us a lovey-dovey couple. But we were a good team.’

  Juliette was shaking her head shyly. ‘I watched you feed him,’ she said very quietly. ‘That's far more beautiful than lovey-dovey. It must be so hard – but I guess It's a blessing that his suffering should be over, that he is at peace.’

  ‘I'm not a superstitious type,’ Penny said, working her spoon busily against the sundae as she spoke, ‘I don't believe in astro-mumbo-jumbo, I pooh-pooh voices from the dead, I don't do karma and yin-yang spirit guides; you know? But when Bob was fading I'd whisper to him, over and over, Find a way, Bob, find a way to be with me. Stay in touch. Send a message. Show me a sign. Promise me?’

  ‘I believe,’ Juliette confided with quiet earnestness, while Penny ate.

  ‘Nothing,’ Penny said gruffly as if disappointed by Juliette's response. ‘I haven't seen any signs, I haven't felt warmth – nothing at all. Just the icy emptiness of being on my own.’ Her hand formed a fist around the spoon, the skin so taut across her knuckles they looked like the snow-sharp mountains outside. ‘There is no blessing,’ she ridiculed. ‘He shouldn't have suffered in the first place. Death is not a good thing. It's very cruel and It's a waste.’ She didn't finish her ice cream and she didn't leave a tip. And she didn't go again the following week.

  But she did return the week after that. And she felt her eyes smart at the bright sweetness of the welcome Juliette gave her. Fountains, she decided, was better than any support group. ‘Hey stranger, you missed out on Chuckle Berry last week. Gloria will give you a taste. You sitting?’

  Penny sat. She managed to make the sundae last an hour and at any opportunity, she passed the time with the waitresses about the weather, or about ice cream. Then she ordered coffee. And a refill. She was obviously lingering but no one, herself included, was quite sure for what.

  ‘My father passed,’ Juliette told her, when she accepted a second refill.

  ‘I'm so sorry,’ Penny said, genuinely shocked. She'd practically forgotten that grief could befall other people. ‘Can you sit awhile?’ Penny asked. Juliette glanced around the parlour, raised her eyebrow at Gloria who gave her a nod. ‘When?’

  ‘Coming up to a year and I need to tell you that I think death is a great thing. He was a rotten drunk and he hurt me and my mom. So I guess I envy you a little,’ Juliette said with a reluctant smile. ‘Not your pain, not the longing that must weave the minutes into the hours and drag your hours into these dark days right now. But I envy you the fact that your loss is so great because your love itself was so great. I never had that.’

  Penny didn't know where to put herself. For the first time she experienced the guilt that she assumed her own friends were feeling. The guilt at one's own good fortune. She put her hand over Juliette's wrist because she was lost for words. She didn't know what to say because recently Bob was all she really talked about. Just then, though, she wasn't actually thinking about him at all.

  Road Kill

  Pip butters toast, Zac is skim-reading the Financial Times and the Today programme drifts sedately through the kitchen; not loud enough to be an active part of breakfast but audible enough to be an integral component in their morning rou
tine. Pip knows to savour these few minutes before Tom breaches the peace.

  And here he is. Hastily dressed for school. His nine-year-old physique spurting in fits and starts; just recently his feet have apparently doubled in length yet the softness of his peachy cheeks remains unchanged from when he was a toddler. His fingernails exhibit the indelible grubbiness commensurate with a boy of his age but the pale pitch of his voice seems so pure and clean. His hair truly has an energy of its own and Tom is not yet of an age to exhibit much interest in styling or even basic control. Consequently, it tufts itself into increasingly haphazard configurations, caused as much by spasmodic keratin production as by the freedom of such deep sleep. Today, it resembles something that the forefathers of punk rock spent hours trying to achieve.

  ‘Happy St David's Day,’ Tom announces. ‘we're doing it in school today.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ Pip declares, ‘It's the mad March hair.’

  Zac looks up from his paper. ‘Or the mad March heir,’ he quips though neither Pip nor Tom cotton on to the pun. It's too early to hear silent ‘h's. It's too early to have to explain, thinks Zac, returning to the pink pages.

  Pip attempts to smooth down Tom's hair with her hand. He shirks away and ruffles up Pip's meddling. ‘Toast?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep,’ Tom says. Zac glances over his paper. ‘Please,’ Tom adds with a sigh.

  ‘Do you want to go through your piece?’ Pip asks.

  Tom looks alarmed. ‘My piece?’

  ‘For assembly this morning? On the patron saints of the British Isles. Aren't you St George?’

  ‘Oh. That. I thought you meant my piece of toast,’ says Tom. ‘Digby says that the dragon is a metaphor. But he doesn't even know what a metaphor is.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘No,’ says Tom, ‘but it sounds boring, like something Miss Balcombe would go on about. And on and on. Yawns-ville.’