The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday

If she took Friday off in its entirety, then she could spend the morning on the next issue of the Review, which always seemed to be due at the printer’s sooner than she imagined, and then she could have lunch with Stella Moncrieff. Edward Mendelson’s lecture was at four, and she could skip the reception in order to get back to the house to spend time with Charlie, and to get the meal ready. Looked at in this way, Friday simply did not leave time to work at the delicatessen.

She beckoned Eddie over to the table where she was dealing with the olives. She discreetly closed the jar containing the anchovy fillets: even the smell of them could make Eddie nauseated, or so he claimed.

The young man looked at her quickly before his eyes slid away. It was like that with him; there would be a bit of progress, he would become more confident, and then suddenly he would regress, back to awkwardness and reserve. This time, she thought, the reason is that five hundred pounds; he thinks I am going to ask him about it.

“Eddie,” she said, “I want to talk to you about Friday.”

His eyes still remained fixed on the floor.

“Look at me, Eddie,” she said. “You should look at people when they talk to you.” I sound like a schoolmarm, she thought.

He raised his eyes, held her gaze for the briefest of moments, and then looked away again.

Isabel sighed. “Friday. I’m going to be very busy this Friday.”

“It’s always busy on Fridays,” said Eddie. “Almost as bad as Saturday. Some people start their weekend on Friday, you see.”

His observation hardly made it easier for her. But she had made up her mind; and if Eddie could cope by himself on a Friday, then he should be able to cope at any time. She explained what she had in mind. “You’ll be all right,” she said. “And you can have the number of my mobile phone. I’ll switch it on just for you. If anything crops up and you need my advice, then just phone me.” She paused. “Except during the lecture I’m going to.”

A flicker passed over his face—anxiety, she thought, doubt. But then he shrugged. “All right. Will you be here on Saturday?”

“Of course. It’s just Friday that’s the problem. And thank you, Eddie.”

There was silence.

Isabel reached out and touched him on the forearm. “Listen, that money, that five hundred pounds. It’s a gift from me to you. I’m not thinking about it, but I can tell you are.”

He looked up at her now; his lower lip was trembling. ”I wasn’t thinking about it.”

She did not want to contradict him; he was so vulnerable, so uncertain of himself. But if people always avoided engaging with him, then she wondered whether he would ever make any progress; some boils needed to be lanced. And so she said, quite gently, “You were, Eddie. I think you were.”

He looked at her resentfully. “I know what I’m thinking. What gives you the idea that you can tell me what I’m thinking, when I’m not…” His words trailed away, and suddenly, without any warning, he began to sob. He reached down and brought the bottom of his apron up to wipe at his eyes. She thought for a moment that he was going to blow his nose on it—and he obviously thought so too, as he hesitated, but did not.

He began to turn away, but she reached out and took hold of him. “You told me that you were in trouble, and you obviously are. Why not tell me?”

He began to get control of his sobbing. “I lied to you. I’m not in trouble. I lied to you to get the money.”

This took a moment to sink in. His anguish, it seemed, was caused not by some nameless bit of trouble into which he had got himself, but by his guilt over having lied to her. In a curious way this made Isabel feel relieved: she might not be able to sort out any trouble into which he had strayed, but she could grant him expiation of his guilt. She could forgive the deception; that would be easy—a matter of a few words.

“All right,” she said. “You lied to me to get me to give you money. But now you’ve confessed. You’ve told me about it, and that means I can say that it doesn’t matter, that I forgive you.” She watched him. His hands, which had been shaking, were still. He was listening very carefully, she could tell.

“And I really do forgive you. I mean what I say. It’s all right.”

He looked up. “You don’t mind?”

“Don’t mind? Of course I mind—or minded. Nobody likes to be lied to. Especially by somebody they know. Somebody they thought of as a friend. So I did mind…did. Not now. That’s what forgiving somebody is all about. You say, I minded, but now it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s rubbed out.”

“Well, I’m sorry I lied.”

She still held him, but she felt his arm move slightly; he wanted to get away. He would have to learn about apology. “So now you’re apologising to me?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

She shook her head. “That’s not a full apology, Eddie. You can’t just say sorry. You have to say something about why you did what you did. Then you say sorry.”

“I wanted the money.”

No, that would not do. “Why?”

He did not speak for a while. A customer had entered the delicatessen and was peering at a display of dried pasta. Eddie watched him; he mistrusted customers until he knew them well; there were too many shoplifters, he said.

Isabel dropped her voice. “We can still talk. Why did you need that five hundred pounds?”

Eddie turned to her. “My father’s got this hip, see. It’s really painful. They can give him one of these new ones, you know those metal hips they put in. But they can’t do it for a year. They say that there’s…”