Thicker Than Soup (24 page)

Just below where he'd found the card lay his flimsy pink birth certificate, its creases beginning to disintegrate with age, and below that and less shabby, was his adoption certificate. The certificates revealed his birth name as Jonathan William. Frances and Michael had changed it to John when they'd ‘made him their own'. But this wasn't what interested him. He read the birth certificate even though he knew the entry by heart. He'd been born at Bowthorpe Maternity Hospital, in Wisbech, on 28
^th
October, 1948, in the County of the Isle of Ely. He'd looked it up; it was in Cambridgeshire now. Blue-black schoolroom handwriting recorded his father as Jack William Crowson, a policeman, and his mother as Gillian Crowson, both of 28 Church Road, Leverington. There could be very few reasons why a woman, married to the father, would give her child away. He'd often wondered if his father had agreed to the adoption, and if so, what he had believed to be the reason. The Wisbech telephone directory had shown a number of Crowsons; six of them with the initial ‘J'. It wasn't too many to ring, but starting a conversation with, “Hello, I'm your long lost son” was inconceivable. Refolding the certificate carefully he replaced it in its dark box and, as he had many times before, promised himself that one day he'd find his father who he was sure was innocent or who must have been deceived into agreeing to the adoption.

*

“Reel …, and turn …, and cast …, all lead down…” On a platform that looked like the best efforts of a village hall stage, two red cheeked musicians fiddled energetically whilst a third squeezed an accordion and a fourth man called the dance steps. Neither the caller nor the music could be much heard above the rowdy hilarity of dancers who skipped and stumbled through a Cornish reel. Barn dancing had been Lisa's idea, but from the centre of the chaos he was heartened that it was to be only a minor part of the birthday celebration. A disco would follow, and though perhaps less memorable, familiar flailing would be less challenging.

John ‘led down', then noticed Lisa signalling wildly from the head of his row, and realised he'd missed the ‘cast'. Next to Lisa, Diane was holding her sides as she laughed helplessly at a bemused Malik who faced the wrong way. Someone shoved him back towards Lisa and as he scurried back the caller shouted, “and lead down.” He gave up. It was time for a drink.

From the bar he watched his guests cavort through something called a Devon jig. He enjoyed parties but he avoided dancing whenever possible. It felt unnatural to shuffle and sway clumsily, especially whilst around him, other people seemed to move rhythmically.

As the jig progressed he looked around at the barn. It was sound and in reasonable repair for its age, but turning it into a restaurant was a bigger project than the others had been. They'd already been restaurants and alterations had been minor compared with this project. He was under no illusions; there was a lot to do. A central, open plan kitchen was an unusual concept and had Alain not found a group of investors who specialised in restaurant refurbishments and who'd been impressed by his successes, it might never have got off the ground. Now, after months of preparation, planning, and finding ways through the plethora of regulations about everything from kitchen extraction to vehicle access, it was moving toward reality. The virgin space was a new canvas waiting for its first brush stroke; the digger, that would start work on Monday morning.

Lisa was walking towards the bar, her Sally-like curls bouncing round grey eyes and an elongated face that belonged to no-one but Lisa. “Drink?” he asked.

“A very long Bacardi and coke please. With lots of ice. That was hot work.”

Her piano player's fingers caught his wrist as he turned to order the drink. “Hey! You haven't put your ring on.”

The gold signet ring had been her birthday gift and it was a nice ring, but it symbolised Lisa's dreams of an engagement. And rather than attracting the proposal she'd hoped for, it repelled him. “Sorry. I forgot it. I'm not used to wearing a ring. Don't worry; it's safe. It's in the box.”

“John!”

“What?”

“It's to wear! I thought you would have worn it, especially tonight.” Lisa's mouth, turned down at the corners, gave her face an El Greco quality. “I thought you'd be pleased with it.”

“I forgot,” he lied, “come on, cheer up; it's a party.” She pouted and said something that he failed to hear as the disco started. “Can't hear you,” he mouthed, and pointed to where Diane and Malik sat with a group of friends. “Let's go over there.”

Diane moved her chair to allow another into the circle, and John sat next to her. She'd recently relocated her business to a small industrial unit outside Frome where she employed five staff and now also, her husband Malik. He asked her how it was going.

“Good. Yes, good, thanks. We're working on a supermarket project – can't tell you which one – but it's a biggy. English food for English freezers. Things like shepherd's pie, faggots, and… get this; chicken curry!”

“Chicken curry?”

“Sure! We Brits love our curries; have done for centuries. Did you know that the English have been eating it since the middle of the eighteenth century? It's practically a national dish!”

“Pull the other one!” But his scepticism wavered as he considered the salmon tikka currently selling well in Bristol.

“Actually…” John could almost see the cogs clicking an idea into place. “Do you fancy creating a tikka recipe? Something along the lines of that salmon thing you cooked last week, but that could be frozen?” His creative ‘genius', as she put it, could be marketed.

“Flatterer!” He joked, but as an idea it had something.

Lisa leaned across the table. “Come on you two! Stop talking about work.” Her piano fingers held forth an empty glass. “Let's have another drink. This is supposed to be a party.”

The interruption irritated him. “When work is so dull that it can't be talked about, I'll be looking for something else to do.” He turned back to Diane and carried on with the conversation. “You're doing some interesting stuff; I'll give it some thought. I'll call you. Soon.” Lisa was sulking. “It seems it's my round….”

He ordered himself a whisky and watched the dancers shaking and shimmying as coloured lights synchronised with Lionel Richie's voice. It was hard not to watch Sandy, who'd arrived unexpectedly with Alex. She was dancing with Frick, who like John, was finding it difficult not to ogle the svelte body that moulded itself to the music. Her sequined black dress flashed and sparkled in the lights, and the once red, spiky hair was now a jet black, glossy crop that complemented the dress. The music changed seamlessly and Sandy revolved, arms aloft and hips swaying. Half way round her kohl rimmed eyes caught his and he saw the words she was singing along to;
‘I'm working my way back to you, babe.
'' It had been almost a year since they'd last, to mutual satisfaction, renewed their friendship and he'd been surprised when he'd seen Alex arrive with her. When Alex had explained his wife was looking after their sick daughter John had assured him he didn't mind in the least that he'd brought Sandy and had returned a conspiratory flick of tongue against her cheek with true pleasure. Glancing at Lisa first he raised his glass to Sandy. It hadn't been difficult keeping her a secret as their occasional brief dalliances merged into his conveniently flexible work. But, inviting though the words of her song were, meeting Sandy over the next few days would be difficult. He inclined his head slightly and watched Sandy tell a disappointed Frick that their dance was over and walk to the bar.

“Hi.” She turned to the bartender. “Small Harp, please.”

“Hi yourself. You're looking as desirable as ever.”

“You too.” Sandy rolled her eyes suggestively. “Not bad for forty.”

At thirty eight, Sandy wasn't much younger, but, he told himself wryly, there weren't many women like Sandy. “How long are you here for?” Her answer of four more days was pleasing. “You fancy doing something tomorrow evening?”

“I do.”

Her directness was refreshing. “I'll cook; at my new flat.” Somehow, he'd make sure he was free. He scrawled ‘
Flat 2, 4, Cavendish Crescent, Bath
' on a scrap of paper. “It's on the right, past the golf course. Eight o'clock?”

Lisa came to the bar, her eyes expressing distaste and disapproval as Sandy moved away. “Friend of yours?”

“She's Alex's sister-in-law. I haven't seen her in ages.”

Sandy had pulled Alex to his feet and was leading him towards the dance floor where, to his dismay, she turned and winked at him. Lisa's voice was carefully casual but her eyes had narrowed. “Well, she looks very pleased to have reacquainted herself. You wrote something down for her?”

“I gave her the address for the Bristol restaurant. Is there something wrong with that?” Indignation at the cross examination almost justified his lie.

Lisa examined her nails. “If I misread the look she just gave you, why are you angry?”

“I'm not angry!” He'd raised his voice. Taking a deep breath, he forced calmness. “Lisa, this is my birthday party, it's not the place for an argument. She's an old friend, that's all. Let's chill. Do you want another drink?”

The moment passed, but it cemented his decision. He would end the… liaison. It had suited his lifestyle, and having separate homes had preserved his freedom, but it was never going to be the kind of relationship that Lisa – or he – was looking for. She'd reminded him of Sally, but, he admitted ruefully, only when she walked away. Sally's beauty had been deeper. Sally had taught him to love; to accept and be able to give love, and with her, he'd learned to believe in himself. She'd truly been his ‘other half'. He could never have shared the John who'd cried over his son or the John whose confidence hovered behind a façade with Lisa. Lisa said she loved him, but it didn't inspire him. After Sally he'd resolved to never get involved again which, he thought, was why he'd been with Lisa for so long.

That night he feigned sleep as Lisa curled into his back and hooked a leg over his. The clock marked the hours as he contemplated tears and recriminations over breakfast, and noted that it might be provident to use the old coffee pot and juice glasses. Perhaps, he thought, he should write her a letter? Dear Lisa. Dear? Eventually sleep obliged and when he awoke, a letter wasn't even a memory.

With bleary hangover eyes the subdued breakfast mood didn't seem out of place. Tested and tasting words, he looked for the right moment until, with a surge of adrenalin, he let go. “Lisa, I need to talk to you.” His hands clasped below the table and he took a deep breath “I've been thinking.”

Lisa waited. “You've been thinking?”

“We've been together for quite a long time, and….” Lisa's eyes began to shine and he realised with horror that she thought he was about to propose. Words fell over themselves in the hurry to be out. “It's not working anymore. I think we should stop seeing each other.” He grabbed his coffee mug. “We're not right for each other. We want different things from life.” It was true; what he wanted was what he had with Sandy; no ties or lies. Lisa had paled. “It's not fair on you… us… continuing as we are.” He took the signet ring box from his pocket. “You'd better have this back. It's not for me. You deserve someone who wants a life with you. I'm sorry, Lisa, but that's not me.” There. He'd said it. It was out.

“You're dumping me?” Lisa blinked, her eyes full of disbelief. “I don't understand. Why? What's wrong?”

“Oh Lisa.” He spoke calmly, even sympathetically. She'd done nothing wrong. “It's not working anymore. I'm not what you want me to be.”

“But I love you.” She reached a hand towards him. “We've been together for four years. We've had good times; it can't just finish. Talk to me, John. What's the matter?”

“Lisa, I'm sorry. I can't make the promises you want from me. Your sister is getting married and it's clear that you want the same thing. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact you deserve it. But that's not for me, Lisa. It's better you find someone who wants those things too.”

“What do you know about what I want if you won't talk with me? I don't understand. Talk to me, John. Please.” An empty silence seemed to reverberate. Then a thought replaced confusion. “Last night! It's that woman. You're seeing her.” John started to deny the accusation but Lisa had jumped up. “This isn't about me, about what I want. It's about what you want. You're lying.” His protest went unheard. “You're a loser, John Sommers, a bloody loser. You're forty, and you're still Jack the Bloody Lad. You need to grow up!” It gave him a little satisfaction that he'd been right to use the old pots for breakfast as Lisa slammed her coffee mug on the table and the handle snapped off. “You know what? You're right. I do deserve better than you. And it won't be hard to find!”

Her chair crashed on to its back and he righted it before following her to the bedroom. Electric rollers slammed into a bag. “Lisa. It doesn't have to be like this. I'm sorry it's not working. You haven't done anything wrong. Neither have I. It's just not going where either of us want it to.” Shoes from the previous evening were screwed into the dress and hurled into the bag. He started to say they could still be friends but the words stuck as he realised he'd never felt they had been. With nothing more to say he left her to finish packing her things until, minutes later, he heard the door slam. Weak with relief he sat with closed eyes, counting slowly to calm his breathing, and then rang Diane to suggest she might comfort her cousin. Lisa's cigarettes were still on the table, and next to them, the signet ring. He picked up the cigarettes. It had been a week since he'd had a cigarette. He took one from the pack and lit it. The ring could be posted.