The Light of Amsterdam (9 page)

When she arrived back home Richard wasn't there and she assumed that he was out locking up for the evening. The house felt empty and still. She told herself that she should find him and say that she'd enjoyed her first visit, describe how plush everything was and let him know that his money had been well spent. So she dropped her sports bag in the utility room in front of the washing machine and headed out the back door and along the floodlit passageway that linked their home to the garden centre. She passed the huge polythene tunnel frosted by the whiteness of the light. From inside, the red glow of heaters looked like the eyes of animals peering out at her. In the third one there was a light on and she saw her husband's giant silhouette thrown against the skin of the tunnel, his arm raised and moving as if he was conducting some invisible orchestra, but although she strained to catch his voice she heard nothing but the hum of electricity and the far-off sound of passing traffic. She squirmed through the plastic flap and saw him standing with a rolled-up catalogue in his hand and heard the laughter from the two girls who were sitting at the table potting up seedlings. For a second, lost in the sound of his laughter, he didn't register her presence but then followed the gaze of the two Polish girls to where she stood watching. The girls lowered their eyes to their work again as if they were servants in the presence of their mistress. They should be going home by now, if the small terraced house that five of them squeezed into could be called home. She had tried to brighten it for them and felt a little better about it in that they only charged them a very nominal rent. There were so many stories about exploitation and she was determined that no one would ever have grounds to level that accusation at them. They were reliable workers and for the most part good girls but they never stayed long, the realities she supposed never quite matching up to their dreams.

‘These girls should be going home,' she said, hoping that her face had been drained of some of its redness. ‘I can drive them.'

‘It's all right,' he said, dropping the catalogue to his side. ‘They've just been finishing off some stuff and I said they could have their tea with us. We can send out for some Chinese if you like.'

‘It's all right, I'll make something,' she said, wondering why his capacity for generous gestures usually entailed more work for her. ‘I'll stick something in the oven, but it'll be nothing too wonderful, girls.'

‘Thank you, Mrs James, but please don't go to any trouble,' Anka said and Celina nodded her agreement.

‘It's
OK
, girls. It'll be about half an hour.' She was about to turn away.

‘So how did it go?' he said, but he shouldn't have done it in front of them because it felt as if it should be something only they shared.

‘Good,' she answered. ‘I'll tell you later. I'll get the tea on.'

‘Do you need any help?' he asked, stepping towards her for the first time and both of them knowing that his offer was only a polite gesture.

‘No,' she said, looking at him just long enough to tell him that he should have asked her first before the invitation was given, and as she walked back to the house she strained to hear if there was any more laughter but there was only the frosted silence of the night.

She didn't begrudge two girls far from home a hot meal but felt a little resentment that her husband would get the credit for it and in the minds of the girls the kindness would be his. Emptying her new sportsgear into the washing machine she hoped he wouldn't talk about the gym over the meal and imagined the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Anka and the equally slim Celina with her hennaed bob of hair and almond eyes looking at her the way women do with each other, weighing her up, evaluating her strengths and weaknesses. She threw some chicken breasts into the oven, opened some pasta and searched in the cupboard for a jar of good-quality sauce which she hoped would disguise the basic nature of the meal. She remembered the sound of their laughter and felt again her exclusion. What was the joke? Why did they stop laughing when she entered as if she was the schoolteacher returning to the classroom who expected to find only quiet work?

The central heating had come on a couple of hours earlier and with the heat of the oven the whole house seemed too warm. Perhaps the thermostat was set too high. She bent over the sink and splashed her face with cold water then set the table, momentarily confused as to whether to use the very best plates and cutlery or the workaday set, but decided on her second-best set because it was important to make a good impression, even if the meal was unspectacular. She wondered what proper Polish food was like – there were some shelves in the supermarket set aside for it and in the library there was even a new section with Polish books. Perhaps they could have gone to Krakow for the weekend instead of Amsterdam but at least they'd been once before and would know their way about a bit. And the hotel looked nice. She had looked it up secretly on the internet and was impressed by what she saw. She didn't understand why he still insisted on using a travel agent to book everything when she could do it in a matter of minutes. But then he didn't trust the internet and still refused to use it for banking, talking about it as if it was a television screen which anyone could switch on and watch the same thing as you. She'd tried to persuade him but with no success and so she'd never even bothered to tell him that they were having broadband. If she was truthful with herself she would have had to admit that her knowledge gave her a sense of advantage, a skill that he didn't have, and there was a frequent playful satisfaction when she was able to supply him with some piece of information that had eluded him, or find a price for something he was thinking of buying. It even pleased her to see him eat a meal, oblivious to the fact that its ingredients were part of a grocery delivery she had ordered online.

He came in the back door, the two girls hesitating a little until she invited them in with an exaggerated sweep of her arm. They smiled self-consciously and still loitered at the door until she showed them where to sit. She was about to offer them a cold drink when she saw him opening a bottle of wine and rummaging in the wrong cupboard for glasses. She pointed to the right one with her fork and then declined the offer, worried that her face would flush again.

‘There you go, girls,' he said as he handed them the too-full glasses. ‘It's good to be in the heat.'

‘It's not really that cold for this time of year,' Anka said.

‘Colder at home?' he asked.

‘Much colder,' she said, sipping her wine and then licking the taste from her lips.

There was a silence that extended slightly too long and she tried to think of something to say. ‘It doesn't feel like Christmas,' she offered but the words led nowhere and she turned back to the cooker.

‘You'll be looking forward to getting back home,' he said, holding his glass towards them as if he was offering a toast.

‘Yes, it will be good to see our families again,' Celina said. ‘Will you see your family?'

‘Judith is coming from France but Adam and Colin have their own children now so they'll spend Christmas Day in their own homes and we'll meet up on Boxing Day.'

‘That will be nice,' Celina said, holding her glass close to her cheek. ‘Why do they call it Boxing Day?'

‘I don't know,' he said, looking towards her for help but she didn't know either. ‘Maybe because that's the day families get fed up spending so much time together and begin to fight.'

She would Google it later. It seemed a bit stupid not knowing about their own customs. He was drinking his wine too quickly and suddenly she realised that he was nervous. Why should he be? She turned and looked at the two girls, wondering which one he found the most attractive. It was probably Anka, she decided. She was more conventionally pretty than Celina and as she smiled at both of them she noticed that the blue of her eyes was light and washed-out, almost the colour of faded denim, and she imagined she saw a sadness there as if some hoped-for happiness had slowly leached away.

‘What were you all laughing at earlier?' she asked, half-turning as she continued to stir the pasta. There was no immediate answer and she saw them looking at each other in confusion. Perhaps they laughed together so often that it wasn't possible to remember. Perhaps it was something secret and private that they didn't want to share. About her and the gym?

‘I don't remember,' he said and because she didn't believe him she reminded him that he was driving afterwards and like a child he immediately set the glass down. ‘Do you remember, girls?'

‘You told us about the man who bought his wife an iron for Christmas with petrol tokens and she hit him with it,' Anka said.

What age was she? She couldn't remember although the information was on the computer in the office. Twenty-eight perhaps. Young but not young. By that age she was married and a second child on the way. She tried to imagine herself living in a foreign country, earning not very much money, but couldn't do so and using a pair of oven gloves opened the cooker door to inspect the chicken. A rush of heat enveloped her and she pulled her head back for a second before lifting out the baking tray.

‘Do you need any help?' Celina offered but she thanked her and said everything was fine. Testing the chicken with a fork she decided that it was almost cooked and added the contents of the sauce jar. No time for marinades, no time for anything sophisticated. She opened a salad bag and emptied it into a bowl and remembered to put out a bottle of salad dressing and some leftover coleslaw. The phone in their home office rang and Richard rolled his eyes before going to answer it.

‘Don't be long,' she told him, ‘I'm almost ready to serve.'

Anka said something to Celina in Polish and it made her nervous. She wished now she had taken a glass of wine. The sadness in Anka's eyes worried her. Perhaps she would try to find happiness in some way that she wouldn't normally do, perhaps she would clutch at straws, disorientated by loneliness and the strangeness of where she found herself. She wanted to turn and tell her that it wouldn't make her happy, that she should think of going home and starting her own family, that it was time she found a man to spend her life with. For a second the words half-formed but then they blurred and she knew if she were to speak they would tumble out in a confusion that might be misunderstood and, even worse, offend, and she would not offend even a woman she thought might sleep with her husband. She tried to focus only on serving the meal. Making the plates look as good as possible.

‘It's not much, girls,' she said as she laid the plates, but they contradicted her and told her it looked lovely and for a second she was pleased by what seemed like the sincerity of their gratitude.

‘It was a rep,' Richard said, returning from the call. ‘Think they could find a more convenient time to ring.'

‘I suppose they think they're sure to get you,' she said, setting his plate on the table and then stepping back to blow a thin stream of air against her face.

‘Looks great,' he said. ‘Eat up, girls.'

She watched them start to eat and for a second she had no appetite, thought of excusing herself, but just when she felt she was no longer needed he stood up and pulled back her chair in invitation. She lifted her plate and was reminded that he had always been kind to her. Kind and generous. The kindness was quiet and unfussy but a constant on which she had always relied and never taken for granted. What right had she now to imagine it would dry up and torment herself with doubts about what went on inside his head? She glanced at him to see if he was looking at the girls but he seemed focused on his food and for a while they all ate in silence until someone succumbed to the need for speech and they chatted about inconsequential things.

She pushed her own food unenthusiastically around the plate but was pleased to see the pleasure with which everyone else was eating. She would have to go on a diet again if this gym thing was to be seen to produce any tangible effect.

‘So you're going to Amsterdam,' Celina said, looking at her over the top of the wine glass.

‘Yes, just for the weekend,' she answered, not quite sure why she thought the news shouldn't have been shared so soon.

‘Very nice,' Celina said, setting her glass back on the table. Her nails were short but had a thin dark rim where she had pressed them into compost. ‘I would like to go to Amsterdam.'

‘It's a beautiful city,' she told her. ‘We've been once before.'

‘And did you see the girls sitting in the windows?' Celina asked, giggling until Anka glanced at her companion like an older sister.

She shook her head and stared at her plate to hide her embarrassment, then Anka said something quietly in Polish and the silence suddenly stretched and strained.

‘No we didn't see that,' Richard said, coming to her aid, ‘and what I remember was visiting museums and flower markets. And the trams. Nearly getting knocked down by a tram. You didn't know where to look. Trams and bicycles flying at you from everywhere.' He poured some wine into the girls' glasses and glad of the excuse she got up from the table, found herself a glass and held it out to her husband.

‘Just half a glass,' she insisted and then as if giving him the opportunity to drink some more asked, ‘Would you like me to drive the girls home afterwards?'