Beyond Black: A Novel

equipment,” she said. “I’m sure it must be possible to cut out these blips and twitters.”

“Shh,” Alison said. “Oh dear, Colette.”

AITKENSIDE: Here, Morris, you don’t get a good gherkin these days. Not like you used to get. Where would you go for a good gherkin?

MORRIS: You don’t get a good pickled onion. You don’t get a good pickled onion like we used to get after the war.

“It’s Morris.”

“If you say so.”

“Can’t you hear him? Maybe his course is finished. But he shouldn’t be back.” Al turned to Colette, tears in her eyes. “He should have moved on, higher. That’s what happens. That’s what always happens.”

“I don’t know.” Colette threw her bag down. “You said yourself, you get these cross-recordings from the year before last. Maybe it’s old.”

“Maybe.”

“What’s he saying? Is he threatening you?”

“No, he’s talking about pickles.”

AITKENSIDE: You don’t get a mutton pie. Whatever happened to mutton? You never see it.

MORRIS: When you go on the station for a samwidge you can’t get ham, you can’t get a sheet of pink ham and some hot mustard like you used to get, they want to go stuffing it with all this green stuff—lettuce—and lettuce is for girls.

AITKENSIDE: It’s all wog food, pansy food, you can’t get a nice pickled egg like you used to get.

MORRIS: Could have some fun with a pickled egg, see a pickled egg and Bob Fox he would start up without fail. Pass it round, lads, he’d say, and when MacArthur comes in you just drop it on the table, say aye-aye, MacArthur, have you lost something, old son? I seen MacArthur turn pale. I seen him nearly drop in his tracks—

AITKENSIDE: I seen him clap his hand to his empty socket—

MORRIS: And Bob Fox, cool as you like take up his fork and stab the little fucker then squeeze it up in his fingers—

AITKENSIDE:—all wobbling—

MORRIS:—and take a bite. Tee-hee. I wonder what happened to Bob Fox?

AITKENSIDE: Used to knock on the window, didn’t he? Tap-tap, tap-tap . That was Bob.

Towards dawn, Colette came down and found Al standing in the kitchen. The cutlery drawer was open, and Al was staring down into it.

“Al?” she said softly.

She saw with distaste that Al had not bothered to tie up her housecoat; it flapped back at either side to show her round belly and shadowy triangle of pubic hair. She looked up, registered Colette, and slowly, as if half asleep, pulled the thin cotton wrap across her; it fell open again as her fingers fumbled for the ties.

“What are you looking for?” Colette said.

“A spoon.”

“There’s a drawer full of spoons!”

“No, a particular spoon,” Al insisted. “Or perhaps a fork. A fork would do.”

“I should have known you’d be down here, eating.”

“I feel I’ve done something, Colette. Something terrible. But I don’t know what.”

“If you must eat something, you’re allowed a slice of cheese.” Colette opened the door of the dishwasher and began to take out yesterday’s crockery. “Done something terrible? What sort of thing?”

Alison picked out a spoon. “This one.”

“Not cornflakes, please! Unless you want to undo all the good work. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“I will,” Al said, without conviction. She moved away, the spoon still in her hand, then turned, and handed it to Colette. “I can’t think what I did,” she said. “I can’t quite place it.”

A shaft of rosy sunlight lay across the window ledge, and an engine purred as an early Beatty backed out of his garage. “Cover yourself up, Al,” Colette said. “Oh, come here, let me.” She took hold of the housecoat, wrapped it across Al, and tied a firm double bow. “You don’t look well. Do you want me to cancel your morning clients?”

“No. Let them be.”

“I’ll bring you some green tea at eight-thirty.”

Al moved slowly towards the stairs. “I can’t wait.”

Colette opened the cutlery drawer and slotted the spoon among its fellows. She brooded. She’s probably hungry, considering she sicked up all the party snacks. Which she shouldn’t have been eating anyway. Maybe I should have let her have some cereal. But who is this diet for? It’s not for my sake. It’s for her sake. Without me behind her, she goes right off the rails.

She stacked some saucers into the cupboard, tip-tap, tip-tap. Did Al have to look so naked? But fat people do. Laid open to the morning shadows, Al’s white belly had seemed like an offering, something yielded up; a sacrifice. The sight had embarrassed Colette. Colette disliked her for it.

The summer heat took its toll on Al. In the week that followed, she lay awake through the nights. In the heat of the day her thighs chafed when she walked, and her feet brimmed over the straps of her sandals.

“Stop moaning!” Colette said, “We’re all suffering.”