Black Bread White Beer (9 page)

He never wants that specific tone to reach his ears, her fraudulent hopefulness, because he knows that he will always be looking out for it from then on. Mulling over every aspect of their marriage and reliving the moments when she talked to him in the same way, from reworking a route after the SatNav went bust, to nights in bed when they wanted to try new things before conception bogged them down and made them weary, humping machines, well-dressed sperm and egg-holders.

Forcing themselves to pretend to Liz and Sam is a oneoff. It has to be. Once things return to normal there will be no other reason to lie.

Sam nods towards the leaflet, expecting more praise
about the thick card, better suited to an invitation than a flyer handed out during market day. Bloody awful. Calligraphy-font gilt edging, with an art direction that lends itself better to an advertisement for curtain makers. The Frenchman must have seen him coming.

He knows what comes next, strains of pondering aloud that will rope him into being a glorified paperboy. Spending the afternoon with Sam on the Green, taking advantage of the numbers drawn by the Herald of Spring fair, with its stalls and tombola and mini bouncy castle. Supper will be sung for, and he will be made to campaign hard before transplanting the fight over to Richmond, bending the ears of every affluently conscious juicer and latte sipper, where every sentence ends with ‘not on my doorstep'.

He resists the dogsbody role at every opportunity, but knows this is all part of the son-in-law's contract, to act the servile, agreeable chaiwalla. Whilst other men, those English Lionhearts that chased Claud so persistently in her teens and early twenties, would have embraced the role, he wonders what it is that makes him resist – the rebelliousness in his own nature, or the taken-for-granted way that Sam speaks to him, like a more arrogant Puppa, as if there are no options but his.

‘Don't you want to get started on the washing machine? I heard it was urgent.'

‘Sit down, mate. There's plenty of time for that. Liz's getting a spread sorted. We'll have a bash at it afterwards. You're always in such a hurry, Amal.'

‘Am I?'

‘You are. Being industrious is in your DNA I suppose. You can't build an Empire without it.'

‘Rebuild an Empire, you mean.'

‘I was just making an observation, not getting political.'

He cannot be angry when Sam has his hands raised in surrender, sheepish at the slip of his tongue; though the underlying aura is one of satisfaction, as if his father-inlaw is secretly pleased with himself for speaking his mind. No different to the intent of the leaflets: rant now, apologize later.

Every weekend visit encompasses much of the same. Last Saturday, he was grilled over his thoughts on education, whether the schools in Richmond could compete with the combination of high academic standards and pastoral care offered by the triumvirate of prep schools in the surrounding villages; the assumption being that Sussex was the only viable place to bring up a child. Now the focus is on the safety of the environment, and of Sam's one-man effort to force out all that is pestilent and unsavoury. These debates are set to continue until a baby is held securely in a grandfather's arms – until the next issue comes along needing to be worried about.

In the three weeks since the news, both Liz and Sam appeared to have undergone two contradictory procedures: they are invigorated, and yet they look older – old – as if something in Claud's teasing question ‘are you ready to be grandparents?' has triggered conflict within their bodies.

Their molecular structure has been waiting all this time for an alarm call, and now that it has been triggered, their physiognomy has accelerated them into their third age. His eyes are bright, but the face appears more deeply lined; tufts of hair sprouting from ears and eyebrows look unrulier than before. The hairline itself has further receded, making the sharp side parting look as though it springs as far back as his crown, and the skin across hands and elbows appears looser, although the efforts of the tanning bed do their best to cover it. Most obvious of all is the slackening in his posture, from the curve in his lower back, making his belly protrude, to the newly risen hunch at the base of his neck.

Dad to Grandad in twenty-one days. It is irreversible. Now they have committed so wholeheartedly, their middle-age can only be viewed as past. Grandparents without a grandchild. He and Claud are still capable of any transformation, but Sam, and by extension Liz, Ma and Puppa too, will remain this old, waiting for a child's birth to power them.

Only the secondary development, this new-found energy, will save them; a deep-rooted motor that has given them purpose, battling the ravages of cellular decay. They cannot be protected from heartache, grief for something so small they cannot even put a fitting name to it. But this rediscovered energy will rally them into positive thinking, pushing them back into the thrust of harebrained schemes
such as the opposing of the asylum tribunal centre. Amal hopes that he and Claud can be swept up in the whirlwind. They need these arms around them.

When female company arrives it is not in the numbers they were hoping for. There is only one of them. Amal fiddles with the flyer, glad that he still has it in his hand, hoping that Liz does not register the disappointment on both his and Sam's faces. She is carrying a tray loaded with food, and though she is concentrating on not spilling anything, the flickering in her eyes registers their dissatisfaction, that she is only second billing to the main show in spite of her careful clothing choices, dark jeans and a short white shirt folded at the sleeves, and light make-up. He thinks of how Ma would feel if she were treated the same way and his ears burn with uncensored shame. He only realizes now how Claud is the centre of the house. Everything else is periphery.

‘I was going to set things up in the dining room, but since there's just the three of us, there's no point, really. We can just eat off our laps.'

Panic casts across Sam's face, sharply nipped in the bud by his wife. Familiarity with his impulses. Revenge.

‘She's lying down upstairs. Had a rough night, she said. And I think she was still feeling nauseous from the car.'

‘Been tearing down the B roads have you, Amal? Not looking after my daughter?'

‘Quite the opposite, Sam. It's why it's taken us so long to get down here.'

‘It's nothing to do with speed, Samuel. Her body's all over the place. The smell of a freshly laundered cotton towel could make her feel sick just as much as a car journey. Remember how I was when I was carrying her?'

Lunch is the deli counter's finest decanted into bowls and layered on plates. Aside from the baguette still warm from the oven everything is cold: slices of ham and cheese, boiled eggs, leaf and roasted vegetable salads, and jar upon jar of condiments. There is a leg of lamb in the fridge ready to be roasted should they be persuaded to stay for dinner, but before five in the afternoon Liz makes it a rule to spend as little time as possible on the stove. Life is too short.

Ordinarily, Amal would be playfully whispering to Claud about his yearning for a hot dog or a Pot Noodle over this picnic food, how he would welcome any crap so long as it was hot. Now he silently tucks in, surprising himself by how hungry he actually is. He is free to put it away, singularly focusing on his appetite and forgetting about Claud whilst she sleeps. If Liz and Sam are sharing the same thoughts they do not show it. Emotion is difficult to gauge when the subjects of observation are tugging on French sticks with Polydented teeth. The room is silent
save for slurping, gnawing and the scraping of cutlery against porcelain. They are finally comfortable with each other's company, now that food has filled the spaces they struggle to inhabit with words.

‘Has he been showing you those ridiculous flyers? He was supposed to be taking me to Bruges on the Eurostar next month, but he's the blown the cash on those things.'

‘They'll stand out, that's for sure.'

‘Hand those out in the street and people will think they're being invited to a posh party somewhere. And then they read it . . .'

‘That was the point, darling. Element of surprise. Fool them into a false sense of security and then nab 'em.'

‘You can't hand those out in the street, Samuel. People will think you've gone mad.'

‘And I should do it your way, I suppose. Sit on my backside and let every petty criminal and scrounger flood into our town.'

‘Don't get clever. You might start choking on an olive. Good printer though, Amal. We've used him for a few things now.'

‘She's only saying that because she fancies him.'

‘Who wouldn't? Unattached, good-looking Frenchman in his thirties. He's a dish.'

‘You're making a fool of yourself, Liz.'

‘Half the women in the village are nutty for him. Claud would see the potential if she bumped into him.'

‘Is that so, dear?'

‘Don't make it sound sordid, Samuel. I'm just trying to explain how we share the same taste in men.'

‘Because me and Amal are so much alike?'

‘I was thinking more along the lines of how we both used to like George Michael. Stop teasing the boy, and eat your baguette. Amal, you don't have to go leafleting with him. You're under no obligation. He'll be bored of it himself by next week.'

‘They're flyers, woman. Nothing is being sacrificed.'

‘Just my weekend in Bruges.'

So it is confirmed. He is expected to go canvassing today, before lunch has even settled, the washing machine was simply a front to get them down here. He has fallen for carrots before, the docile working animal that he is, but never something as cumbersome and potentially hernia-giving as this.

‘Is that before or after we shift the washing machine? I'm ready to put my power belt on.'

Sam grapples with a pickled onion and plays dumb. It is left to Liz to put down her sandwich and enlighten him.

‘Don't worry about that now, Amal. I managed to get him to open that tight little wallet of his. Someone from the shop's coming on Tuesday to plumb it in. Didn't he tell you?'

When he goes to check on Claud before walking down to the village with Sam he finds her curled under a blanket
but awake. Her face has softened in her old bedroom. Nothing can trouble her here.

‘They keep sticking their head round the door. Every time I think I'm about to go off I hear those bloody creaky hinges.'

‘Your dad has a new project. I'm going canvassing.'

‘Mum was telling me. Take them both, will you? Get them out of my hair.'

‘What'll you do?'

‘Sleep. Maybe pick at some food. Just fancy some space.'

When she looks at him with that face he cannot deny her anything: marriage, a house that was too expensive for them, a kid.

‘Sure. Anything.'

They are a ten-minute walk from the village, the house tucked into the base of a hill that gives rise to the Downs Way. There should be something oppressive about the valley-like surroundings, where neither man nor concrete structure can tower over nature, but sheltered by rolling chalk uplands, gnarled oaks and thick, wild hedgerows it is pleasing to urban eyes and makes a fine, if challenging walk to the pub at the top end of the Green. Unlike his trail leaders he feels the surge of heat across his cheeks
and a dry, stinging breathlessness after the first few hundred yards uphill.

He is struggling with the Battle canvas which Liz is donating to the tombola. She decided it was eligible less than ten seconds after it was presented.

‘Darling, it's lovely, but would you mind terribly if I donate it to the Herald? They've been at me for weeks and the only other thing I could think of is the pasta machine.'

He is carthorse for father as well as mother. Not only does the canvas's height hamper his vision, but the bulk and weight from the stack of leaflets shoved into his jacket and back packet ensure the inflexibility of every step.