no dinner suits in ‘HUGE’. I didn’t care what I looked like (I wasn’t trying to chat up Chanteleer) but I did care that I felt uncomfortable. Anything with buttons made me feel tight.
‘Somebody will take your coat when we get there,’ Lootie said, which led me to ask why I was wearing a coat at all. She declined to answer.
We stepped up to the foyer and knocked. Lootie gave me the once-over, brushing off my shoulders. No oneanswered, so Lootie waited, then knocked again. We could hear voices, a man and a woman. ‘The door,’ a second male said. ‘Go, go…’ This was Chanteleer, I think. Lootie looked at me. ‘They have company,’ she said, surprised. I was glad if they did, I wouldn’t have to try so hard.
Somewhere a door slammed. There were more voices. A man and a woman. A few minutes later Chanteleer opened the door. ‘Oh!’ he said, his bow tie crooked, his hair uncombed.
‘Are we early?’ Lootie asked.
‘No, no. Not at all.’ Clearly he was lying. We had interrupted something. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I was in my study. Writing.’ Another lie. He had a scotch glass in his hand. Only the ice remained.
‘I thought I heard company,’ Lootie said.
‘Company? No! You are our company.’ Lootie glanced at me. ‘Come through,’ he said, sweeping us before him, ‘come through. Mother is in her drawing room. Mother…’
The hall was dark, the walls stained-timber panelling. Every few metres, on the right and only slightly above my head, a light fitting protruded. Each held a single incandescent bulb in the shape of a flame, some lit, some flickering, one dead. We walked on a maroon carpet, threadbare in places. High-backed dining chairs were placed intermittently along the left-hand side, protruding awkwardly. These were a cause for muttered apology, if one was prone to apologising to furniture. Being Charlie Bloome (loser), I suffered from this affliction.
We shuffled along, Lootie first, then me, Chanteleer behind, his finger in my back, stiff, insistent. ‘A little further,’ he said.
There were rooms to the right and to the left, some doors shut, several open. I glanced in (so far as the gloom would allow), surprised at the bareness of the place, the lack of furnishings, of any degree of permanence. In one room I saw a solitary occasional table standing askew, in another an armchair, its back to the door, in another a pile of books on the floor. None of these spaces appeared inhabited. All was in a state of flux.
‘Still settling in?’ I ventured.
Chanteleer said ‘Um,’ dangerously close to my left ear. I quickened my step.
‘Next on the left,’ he said, and Lootie stopped before an open door. I came up behind her, Chanteleer behind me. I was struck by the cloying scent of eau de cologne. That smell of old lady’s handbag. I knew it from my mother’s clients. Chanteleer said, ‘Mother…’
In a corner, a parchment-shaded reading lamp cast an insipid glow. Beneath the lamp was a square of purple carpet and a chair, the same as the straight-back dining chairs I had apologised to in the hall. And on that chair, her pink-slippered feet crossed on the carpet, sat the mother. I recognised her from the garden party. Her head was bent, reading a book. A Bible, I could see. ‘This is Alice, from that school,’ Chanteleer said, pushing past us to enter the room. ‘And…’
‘Charlie,’ I said. ‘Charlie Bloome.’
The woman looked up. Bird-like. Alert.
‘I was reading the book of Jeremiah,’ she said looking directly at me. ‘Do you know the prophet says that the human heart is wicked and deceitful above all things?’
‘Mother…’ Chanteleer began, embarrassed, but the old woman went on.
‘If that is true,’ she continued, ‘why did God make us?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ I shrugged, making the goofy face.
‘And why,’ she persisted leaning forward to stare even more closely, ‘why does it say that our hearts devise wicked imaginings?’
I felt my
‘Somebody will take your coat when we get there,’ Lootie said, which led me to ask why I was wearing a coat at all. She declined to answer.
We stepped up to the foyer and knocked. Lootie gave me the once-over, brushing off my shoulders. No oneanswered, so Lootie waited, then knocked again. We could hear voices, a man and a woman. ‘The door,’ a second male said. ‘Go, go…’ This was Chanteleer, I think. Lootie looked at me. ‘They have company,’ she said, surprised. I was glad if they did, I wouldn’t have to try so hard.
Somewhere a door slammed. There were more voices. A man and a woman. A few minutes later Chanteleer opened the door. ‘Oh!’ he said, his bow tie crooked, his hair uncombed.
‘Are we early?’ Lootie asked.
‘No, no. Not at all.’ Clearly he was lying. We had interrupted something. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I was in my study. Writing.’ Another lie. He had a scotch glass in his hand. Only the ice remained.
‘I thought I heard company,’ Lootie said.
‘Company? No! You are our company.’ Lootie glanced at me. ‘Come through,’ he said, sweeping us before him, ‘come through. Mother is in her drawing room. Mother…’
The hall was dark, the walls stained-timber panelling. Every few metres, on the right and only slightly above my head, a light fitting protruded. Each held a single incandescent bulb in the shape of a flame, some lit, some flickering, one dead. We walked on a maroon carpet, threadbare in places. High-backed dining chairs were placed intermittently along the left-hand side, protruding awkwardly. These were a cause for muttered apology, if one was prone to apologising to furniture. Being Charlie Bloome (loser), I suffered from this affliction.
We shuffled along, Lootie first, then me, Chanteleer behind, his finger in my back, stiff, insistent. ‘A little further,’ he said.
There were rooms to the right and to the left, some doors shut, several open. I glanced in (so far as the gloom would allow), surprised at the bareness of the place, the lack of furnishings, of any degree of permanence. In one room I saw a solitary occasional table standing askew, in another an armchair, its back to the door, in another a pile of books on the floor. None of these spaces appeared inhabited. All was in a state of flux.
‘Still settling in?’ I ventured.
Chanteleer said ‘Um,’ dangerously close to my left ear. I quickened my step.
‘Next on the left,’ he said, and Lootie stopped before an open door. I came up behind her, Chanteleer behind me. I was struck by the cloying scent of eau de cologne. That smell of old lady’s handbag. I knew it from my mother’s clients. Chanteleer said, ‘Mother…’
In a corner, a parchment-shaded reading lamp cast an insipid glow. Beneath the lamp was a square of purple carpet and a chair, the same as the straight-back dining chairs I had apologised to in the hall. And on that chair, her pink-slippered feet crossed on the carpet, sat the mother. I recognised her from the garden party. Her head was bent, reading a book. A Bible, I could see. ‘This is Alice, from that school,’ Chanteleer said, pushing past us to enter the room. ‘And…’
‘Charlie,’ I said. ‘Charlie Bloome.’
The woman looked up. Bird-like. Alert.
‘I was reading the book of Jeremiah,’ she said looking directly at me. ‘Do you know the prophet says that the human heart is wicked and deceitful above all things?’
‘Mother…’ Chanteleer began, embarrassed, but the old woman went on.
‘If that is true,’ she continued, ‘why did God make us?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ I shrugged, making the goofy face.
‘And why,’ she persisted leaning forward to stare even more closely, ‘why does it say that our hearts devise wicked imaginings?’
I felt my
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