Thicker Than Soup (7 page)

His second day of business began. Anger threatened to boil at a smudged glass, the unsharpened knife, coffee not brewed strong enough, but each time he regulated it, refusing to let it control him. Did he imagine Neil about to speak, and glances that darted away? When Julia asked if he was pleased with the opening night he laughed brilliantly and said it had been a wonderful success. The day passed. Food finished and diners left, until alone again at last, he sat in his office chair – the most comfortable in the restaurant – and turned the tormented fears that had raged blindly the night before into nurtured thoughts and finally intentions that, with the new morning became the decision that was the only one he could live with. Unshaven and unchanged for two days and nights and carrying the stale odours of body and work he returned home.

Standing in the hall and looking up he saw Sally's face, always an open book, looking drawn and apprehensive, and the words he'd practised in the car failed to materialise. She descended the stairs and he read her pain too, and vulnerability, and yes, resentment, and he searched for concern and hoped to find understanding as she said something strangely normal about making tea.

Searching his silence for words he followed her to the kitchen and watched as she gathered cups, teabags, milk, and made tea. He caught her hand. “Sal…” His voice faltered and he started again. “Sally. I'd been looking forward to this Easter more than I can tell you. The restaurant. My dream! But instead, I‘ve been to hell and back. My mind's been taken over. By what was said. And not said. On Friday.” He sat down, mistrusting the strength, or lack of it, in his legs and interrupted her as she began to say something. “No. Sally, let me finish. Please. Otherwise I don't think I can say what I have to.” His eyes were sore and he massaged them with the heel of his thumb. A sentence escaped, “You know that I never wanted to be a father, you know how I feel about….” She was looking at the table and he couldn't read her face. Unless he spoke quickly words would fail him, “but I can't walk away from you. I love you. More than anything. I can't let you do this alone. I need to… to face up to this. It's our baby. Please, Sal, please help me to…to…have this child, to be a father, to be a family. Please…” Tears intruded and he rubbed them away crossly.

Sally was leaning towards him, her forehead resting against his and she was whispering that she loved him and didn't want a baby either and needed, really needed his help to get through what was happening too. Her words shocked him; in his own wretchedness he'd assumed nature delivered delight and joy as preparation for motherhood – or at least he'd not considered otherwise. They were in the same boat! The realisation that Sally needed him gave him strength and with a new tenderness he began for the first time to believe that together, they would manage. It would be nothing like Janine, whose child existed only in thought and namelessly. Amanda. That was her name. He'd held on to the anonymity that her namelessness sustained, allowing his financial support to suppress responsibility. The child would be fifteen or sixteen now and he wondered what she looked like. Janine had been slim, leggy, and though not particularly beautiful her arty, mildly bohemian manner and willingness to sleep with him had made him feel a part of the college scene. She'd been nineteen, he twenty, and consequences were light years away. If he felt anything now it was regret sprinkled lightly with guilt for a life created irresponsibly. But she'd been Janine's child, always, and for the first time he wondered if she – Amanda – ever asked about her father and hoped if she'd been told anything, that Janine had been kind.

*

The bedroom was light and bright with day when a dream that included the incessant ringing of a phone became reality. John opened an eye and saw Sally sleeping beside him and heard the phone continue to ring. It was later than he'd thought, almost ten. With joints stiffened by two nights spent in the restaurant he slid from the bed.

“Goodness me,” his mother's voice said, “You weren't still in bed were you? It's a lovely day!” Unaware of their drama, she was suggesting a walk in the spring sunshine. “We can have lunch out and you can tell us your weekend news.” Momentarily taken aback he realised Frances was referring to the first days of Seagrams, and promising to ring back he returned to Sally's warmth with a still dazed head and a desire to do no more than spend the day with Sally. Edging towards her warmth he stirred a degree of wakefulness and whispered that he didn't want to walk with his parents. She whispered sleepily she was of the same mind. With his body spooned into hers he considered the conundrum of love which, when shared, doubled instead of halved. It was impossible to balance the fury of two nights ago against the bursting love of now when in reality little had changed. He was still going to be a father and though it didn't please him, he'd reshuffled the cards and the joker had lost. Sally needed him. For the first time he would have to care for and support her. That, in itself, was potent.

Sally's voice sounded in his ear. “How long do you think we can we keep this to ourselves?”

He didn't answer for a moment. Who would they tell first? Turning towards her he noticed a vivid yellowish bruise on her shoulder. “Oh my God! How did that happen?” There was only so much he could look after.

*

After the bank holiday it was quiet in the restaurant and John found time to explore the possibility of converting the upstairs flat, which he'd hoped to let, into office space so that the spare bedroom at home could be cleared for the baby. The task, it seemed, was relatively simple. By moving a door so that the smaller bedroom opened from the hallway a slightly smaller, one-bedroom flat could still be let. The perfect tenant, he mused, would be someone who might work in the restaurant. It wouldn't be a bad arrangement and he concluded that such a change would lose little in the way of income.

*

“My, you timed that well.” His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand when he arrived. “I thought I'd get five minutes peace. Ah well. Make yourself a cuppa; the kettle's hot.”

He kissed her on the cheek and dropped a carrier bag on to the table. “Invoices from last week.” He busied himself making a drink.

“Well we knew they were coming so if they're as expected it'll be fine.” Pushing the bag aside she looked at her son meaningfully. “And how are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think you know what I mean. But to remind you, you were not your usual self on Friday. Something was wrong. So, how are you?”

He held up his hands in submission. “Ok, I give in. I never could hide things from you could I? Do you think anyone else noticed?”

Frances gave a wry smile. “I think anyone would have had to be blind to not know something was amiss but many might have put it down to nerves. And you look better today. So?”

“Well….” John paused. They hadn't yet agreed to divulge the pregnancy but in the circumstances there was nothing to be done but tell his mother. “It seems that… I'm going to be a father.”

Frances's cup slipped so that tea slopped over the table. “Goodness! I didn't expect that.” She mopped up then looked John in the eye. “And how does it feel?”

She didn't mention Janine or Amanda but he wondered if, or how often, she thought about them as it occurred to him that Amanda would be a grandchild as much as the baby Sally was expecting. “Not as bad as I thought when I first heard, by accident, just before the opening on Friday. The news did shock me. But we've talked and it's ok. Mostly. I'm fine.”

Frances exhaled. “Then that's all right, isn't it?” she kissed the top of his head. “In fact, it's wonderful. John, I'm so happy. And you know that we'll do anything to help don't you.”

But beyond her joyful words he saw foggy ghosts. “Do you ever wonder about Amanda, Mum?”

The answer didn't come and he was about to say it didn't matter when she spoke. “I'd be lying if I said never. But it was a long time ago, and I don't think about her often. We never knew her, did we?” Her hand covered his. “It's different this time though. Sally and you, you're different. Older. And… together.”

“Oh, Mum. We didn't plan it. And with the restaurant and everything, well, it's not easy. But it'll be ok. Believe me.”

“I hope it will, John, I really do. Dare I ask… if you'll marry?”

“Aha, that old nut.” The question irritated; why should it be assumed that a having a child would change their beliefs? But strangely it had and though he wasn't ready to admit it, it
was
what he now wanted. “Too soon to say.” He changed the subject. “Dad playing golf?” Frances nodded and so John described his idea to turn part of the flat above Seagrams into an office and realised that things were coming together as though having babies happened all the time; a thought he found somewhat unnerving.

*

As the months passed, work left little time to think about pregnancies and babies. A culinary clash with Neil led to his departure and without him it was noticeable that staff meetings became more widely creative. It seemed everyone had aspirations; even young Bob's chocolate fudge cake found its way on to the menu. By June, John had a replacement sous chef and by August the restaurant was paying its way. With the smaller dining room established as a wine bar, not-so-hungry diners relaxed amongst art hung as in the Royal Academy summer exhibition and dreaming of bagging an early work, bought a painting or two. Though the commissions didn't greatly increase his bank balance the sales brought joy to starving artists and did what he'd hoped for – built his reputation.

*

It had been a hot, humid day when, standing in a cool shower before work and dreaming of early evening diners he heard the front door slam. Sally? It was too early. “Is that you, Sal? You ok?”

The shower drowned her words but anger and one word, ‘fired' came through. Pulling a towel round his middle he ran, dripping, down the stairs. “Fired?” It was astonishing news; unbelievable! “Why?”

She was shaking with anger and telling him she'd been made redundant. “Everyone knew except me,” she yelled, “even Andrew!”

Though sick at the prospect of losing her income, her frenzy was his immediate concern. “Calm down, Sally. You'll hurt Hughie.” That absurd name – an amusing fillip during bouts of morning sickness! The name inflamed her; the baby, she spat, didn't have a name, it didn't have anything. She'd paused and said, with added venom, that it should be adopted! The cruellest threat, loaded with need and pain and recrimination was intended to hurt but sympathy and fear for the unborn baby strengthened him. She'd lost her job and it wasn't her fault. “They're morons,” he told her, “they've wanted an excuse for ages. It isn't about the baby.” The words were half true and he'd clung to the true half. She hadn't deserved it; she'd worked hard. She was entitled to be upset. He tried to pull her into his arms. “It's not the end of the world,” he soothed, “we'll manage, we'll sort things out, together.”

“How are we going to pay for all the things the baby will need without my salary? Where's the money going to come from?”

His eye was on the clock. They needed to talk rationally but with time pressing all he could offer was promises. “We'll manage,” he placated. “It's time I started to take a bit more money each month. It's been a good summer.” It was an empty promise but with early diners arriving in less than an hour he was fretting about food and preparations. He tilted her face but she turned away and he watched helplessly as she bit the skin on her thumb in the way she did when she was disturbed.

“Go to work.” She told him she'd ring Diane, and worrying, he left.

*

Driving quickly to recover lost time he tried to think ahead to the evening in front of him but Sally's news resounded. Managing without her income was inconceivable and he wondered how much her payoff was to be. The wheels clipped a kerb and he swore. If Sally could get another job quickly things wouldn't be too bad. Her record was impressive and she was ambitious, but who would employ a woman with a baby? And she'd change; they'd change. He pictured her slumped with tedium but seeing traffic lights on green he told himself if he got through it would be a sign that all would turn out well. He made it, but cheer changed to fear as he steered wide out of the corner and registered the driver's shocked expression as he clipped the side of a Mini.

Cursing a ragged tear in the fibreglass of his wheel arch he crossed the road. “Sorry, mate. My fault completely.”

“You can say that again!” The driver made up for in voice what he lacked in stature. “What the bloody hell were you thinking of?”

“Yeah, I know. Actually I've just had a bit of really bad news, and I'm afraid I was in a hurry. But I was going too fast. Look, I'm very sorry, and yes, it's clearly my fault.”

The man was without an argument. “Well you're bloody crazy to drive like that. You shouldn't be on the road. I hope you've got insurance and stuff.”

With details exchanged, John returned to his car and discovered a flat tyre. By the time he arrived at Seagrams he was fraught and in no mood for humour.

“Morning!” Julia was at the bar. “Overslept?”

Ignoring her witticism he headed for the office, found his car documents and rang the insurance company. A schoolgirl voice wasted his time with a million irritating questions before agreeing to send a form in the post and then he spoke to the garage who, more efficiently, booked the car in for the next morning. Early diners had already arrived in the restaurant and he rushed into searing steak, blackening butter, and pan frying sole as Sally's news continued to tighten its grip on his guts. He knew it was unlikely that she'd find another job, and losing her job meant she'd change. They'd be a family. He didn't know how to be a family. He worked unconsciously until the last diners paid their bills then, oblivious of the clearing up and cleaning going on around him, he slumped into a seat.