The Idea of Perfection (4 page)

Not that she regretted it. Not for a moment. She was perfectly happy, making sure things were all kept nice, and no one could wish for a better husband than Hugh. Then of course there was William, and goodness he kept her busy.

There was absolutely no reason why she should not be as happy as anything.

She turned to the fly-door, waved at the cloud of flies gathered there, and went in on to the sawdust of Superior Meats. Behind her the door slapped back into place and a triumphant fly shot in ahead, up towards the ceiling. Inside the shop it seemed dark after the sunlight and the air was heavy with the thick smell of meat. She glanced up to where the wall of fly-wire that ran from floor to ceiling met the white tongue-and-groove plank ceiling far above. A fan rotated slowly next to a blue insect-light. She could not see the fly that had come in with her, but it would not last long.

On the other side of the fly-wire there was something human in size and shape. In the dim light it could have been either the butcher or a carcase on a hook. She peered, and the shape moved towards her.

Mrs Porcelline!

He always seemed to enjoy saying her name. Somehow, he made the sibilance more noticeable than most people did.

She could see him now, granular behind the fly-wire, turning away from the chopping block, slipping a knife into the holster on his hip, wiping his hands on his blue and white apron.

He always did everything slowly, as if on stage behind his fly-wire. She supposed they taught them at butcher’s school not to hurry, if they wanted to keep their fingers. He finished wiping his hands at last, and came over to the counter. The white laminex between them was cut into two separate benches by the wall of fly-wire coming down from the ceiling. She could see his big bland face, but could not see its expression behind the mesh.

She thought it might be like this, visiting someone in jail. The question was, who was the prisoner? Alfred Chang was at ease in his cage, with a peaceful purple-stamped carcase hanging beside him. It was she herself who felt like the trapped one.

Mrs Porcelline, he said again.

The way he said it, it was a name full of hisses. He stood smiling. She did not know how to break their gaze.

Would he think she was a racist if she looked away?

Her eyes were adjusting so she could see him better now. He was a solid man, brought up on plenty of red meat, though not tall. She could see the black hair, so straight it stuck out stiffly over his collar. She wondered if it would be coarse to the touch, like a dog’s hair, or soft.

Hello, Mr Chang, she said. I’ll have six short-loin chops, please.

There was something about the word
loin
she did not like. Something slightly suggestive. Especially here with Alfred Chang looking at her that way.

She would have very much preferred Woolies in Livingstone, the meat all tidy in little polystyrene trays. So much more hygienic. Coming to Karakarook had been like stepping back thirty years: cutting the meat up separately for each customer, the sawdust on the floor, carcases hanging up for anyone to see.

It made it all rather personal. There was a kind of intimacy about the butcher knowing exactly what you were having for dinner.

Now he went out through the white-painted wooden door at the back and closed it behind him. The first time she had come here, she had given her order and watched him go out through the little door and had stood, shifting from foot to foot, for so long she wondered if he had forgotten her. She had imagined him going out into the backyard and sitting on a tree stump having a smoke.

Now, twelve months and many short-loins later, she knew that the door took him into the cool-room, and that it was best to sit in one of the chairs thoughtfully provided. But sometimes he was gone so long she wondered if he had died in there, or coagulated.

Today he returned quite quickly with a lump of meat and put it on the block, worn into a curve like a wave.

He stood side-on to her and reached into the big tube full of knives hanging from his belt. He brought out one, unhooked the sharpening steel from his belt, and started to strop with lingering movements. She could see the muscles of his shoulders moving under his shirt as he stroked away deliberately at the blade.

He said something, but his voice was swaddled by fly-wire, the space above him, the dim coolness of the shop, the stirred air from the fan.

It was an awkward place to have a conversation. You could talk through the fly-screen, but you had to talk to a face that was grey and fuzzy, like a film out of focus. Or you could both twist down sideways to talk through the small flap at counter-level, where you handed the money in and he handed you the wrapped-up meat.

I beg your pardon?

He put the knife down deliberately on the block, hooked the steel back on his belt as if sheathing a sword, came over to the gauze.

Ever tried the mutton?

He was close enough for her to see his eyes, dark in his smooth face, but she could not tell what sort of expression he had. She realised you could call this being
inscrutable.

Oh, no, she said. No, I never have.

Somehow, she’d got the tone wrong. There was more regret in her voice than was warranted by not ever having tried the mutton.

She went on quickly to cover the sound of it.

Bit tough, isn’t it?

Too late, she heard how tactless that could sound.

She could feel a blush start in the small of her back.

Alfred Chang smoothed a large hand over his laminex counter and smiled down at it.

Up to the butcher, he said. Butcher it right, mutton’s sweet as a nut.

Now he was staring at her through the gauze.

Oh! she said. Yes! I suppose so!

She hated the way she kept on exclaiming and smiling but she did not know what she might do if she stopped. You could hide behind a smile and no one could blame you, or guess what you were thinking. She crinkled up her eyes to show what a lark it all was, but then she remembered that crinkling up your eyes gave you wrinkles.

No one, not even a Chinese butcher, would want her if she had wrinkles.

He had finished wrapping the chops now. She flinched as the hatch flipped up with a bang.

Here you are, Mrs Porcelline.

His eyes dwelt on her, and his voice did a sort of yearning thing. The fly-wire made it hard to be sure, but she thought it was possible that he winked.

The very best there is, Mrs Porcelline. For you.

He hung on to the parcel when she reached into the hatch for it, and for a moment they were joined by the little squashy packet of meat.

It was like holding hands, in a way.

They have a fascination for white women,
she thought, and suppressed the thought.

Finally he let go of the packet and bent to get something from under the counter.

Was hoping you’d come in, Mrs Porcelline, he said in his languorous voice.

Been keeping this for you.

It was like a dirty secret when his big hand came out from the hatch holding a brown paper bag towards her.

Oh! Really! What is it?

She heard her exclamations travel through the meaty air, filling the shop. She had a feeling she was shouting.

When she opened the bag, something cool rolled out against her hand and she gave a little cry of fright, snatching her hand back. The thing was cool and damp and bright red. She thought in shock that it was a tiny heart.
They eat dog,
she thought confusedly.
Dogs’ hearts.

She heard herself go
Urgggh!
It was the sort of noise her mother had made when taken by surprise. She had made it herself in the long-ago stale dusty playgrounds of childhood.
Common.
It was a noise she thought she had long since trained herself out of.

And she could see now that the thing was not a dog’s heart at all. It was only a strawberry.

From my garden, the butcher said.

She hated the way she could not see him properly.

Picked them myself. Six o‘clock this morning.

She smiled at the mesh, where he was a vague square dark shape.

Thank you so very much, she heard herself gush. They’re perfectly marvellous.

They were horrible. They were too big, too solid, too meaty looking. Fleshy, solid, like a heart. Revolting.

Ox-heart, the butcher said, and she was startled.

Pardon? I beg your pardon?

She wondered in panic if she had spoken aloud.

What they’re called, that kind, he said. Ox-heart.

She felt paralysed. He brought his head down to the flap and inserted his big face sideways into it to look up at her, his eyes skewing sideways.

Ox-heart, he said clearly. Heart of ox.

His head stayed there, sideways in the hatch, watching. The hatch was just the size of his big smooth face. She put her own head sideways too. It seemed only polite. She could feel her smile hanging down on one side. It was like being a huge sparrow, head cocked.

They’re so big! she exclaimed. They’re enormous! What enormous things!

She felt as if she had got the hang of the conversation now. They were strawberries. They were not dogs’ hearts, although they were called ox-hearts. But her brain was going very slowly. She could not think of anything to say apart from how big they were.

She held up one of the strawberries and turned it around and around. It was not really all that interesting.

How do you get them so big? I’ve never seen them so big! They’re incredible! So huge! Marvellous!

Suddenly she thought it sounded as if she was actually exclaiming over and over again at the huge and marvellous size of his — well -
organ.

She felt herself starting to sweat.

She was certainly not thinking about his — well —
organ.

And I’m sure they will taste just delicious!

She blushed more and longed for rescue. Where were all those meat-eaters’ wives when you needed them?

She flung her husband into the breach.

Hugh will love them, she said. And so will William. They love strawberries.

The butcher’s large bland face did not move in the flap but his eyes blinked.

Oh, he said. But I picked them for you.

He was watching her, and she thought he was smiling, but with his face sideways it was hard to be sure. She wished the face would go away, the eyes stop looking at her. Smiling away hard, she thought of how she could jam her shopping bag up against the hatch. It would be right up against his face. It would be just the right size to block the face out completely.

Oh, but I’m allergic, you see, she said wildly. To strawberries.

She felt herself flood with heat. He was still just watching. It was as if he had unscrewed his head and wedged it in the hatch. The silence, with him watching, was unbearable.

Only strawberries, she shouted. Lucky really, nothing else. Just strawberries.

She went on piling words in front of his face.

They bring me out in a rash. Well, a terrible rash, really. More like a ...
disease.

The word came out in a hiss.

She was thinking,
Leprosy.

His face recoiled and disappeared from the hatch. She had not meant, of course, that Chinese people gave you leprosy.

Sort of a rough rash, she amended. Like pustules.

She had heard the word, but perhaps it was not quite what she meant. She had not exactly meant
pus.

And itchy, she hurried on. Terribly itchy. Oh, you wouldn’t believe.

Behind the wire she could not see if he believed or not. The flap slapped down and she saw his large hands on the counter smoothing the white paper there, pressing down a dog-eared corner.

Well, he said. I wouldn’t want to bring you out in a rash.

She could not see if he was smiling.

She heard herself giggle explosively.

No, she said, and could not think of what to say next.

Certainly not.

I hope Mr Porcelline doesn’t come out in a rash too, he said. Or William. Do they, Mrs Porcelline?

She rushed in.

Oh no! Mr Porcelline just
loves
strawberries! So does William!

She hated the way he went on just standing, watching as she laboured to find more words.

 

 

She was still smiling hard when she left the shop, and she went on smiling until she was out of sight of his window. The strawberries were cool and damp through the paper of the bag. She went briskly along Parnassus Road holding them casually, smiling at old Mr Anderson standing in the doorway of the Mini-Mart across the road, calling
Hello, how ARE you,
very warmly, to the mother from the school whose name she could never remember, waving to Fiona who was just now, too late to be any use, heading over towards Chang’s. She smiled and waved, and held the bag of strawberries as if they were the least significant thing in the world.

The thing was, Hugh would want to know where she had got them. It would seem a little odd to tell him the butcher had given them to her. Why should the butcher give her strawberries? Why strawberries? Why her?

All things considered, it might be a bit
awkward
if he knew.

Taken all round, it might be better for the strawberries simply to disappear.

But in a little place like Karakarook, where nothing went unobserved, getting rid of a paper bag full of strawberries, the unwanted gift of a Chinese butcher, was not as simple as you might think. If she just put them in the bin at home, Hugh might notice. He was strict about the recycling, and had a way of glancing into the rubbish-bin. It would look odd to have thrown away perfectly good strawberries.

It might even make her look guilty.