pointers to his Possible Christmas Movements. But I know without doubt that any enquiry about Possible Christmas Movements will elicit a cavalcade of diatribes about personal space and its importance in parent/child duty related negotiations (followed by a long period of non-contact as penance). Therefore I must accept that this is simply yet another symptom of my involuntary log-on spasm also, as I’m generally very mindful of filial sensitivities.
Early evening - bleak and cheerless time of early winter afternoon, during which all hope seems lost; all optimism pointless. Must beware of getting SAD – should I book a low season week in Benalmadena, perhaps?
Dad won in both the chutney and the jam categories, and his lemon cheese came a respectable fourth in Miscellaneous Preserves (respectable because this, he told me, was his second only venture into the world of curds). We celebrated by sitting in the warm, dusky kitchen and eating an entire whisked sponge.
‘The secret,’ he told me, ‘where lemons are concerned, is to look out for the ones with the really thin skins and to keep a tight rein on the temperature.’
All of which looked like becoming uncomfortably pertinent when Phil’s car pulled up outside some moments later.
He hadn’t called. And it had already struck me that whatever he’d been up to on Friday night it wasn’t simply a case of him drinking. Phil drank, but only in the most social of settings, and even then, only in small, straight sided glasses. Him being drunk then, was not actually about drinking, but more likely about wanting to be drunk. For which he must have had a reason. And if it was a reason he felt disinclined to share with me, then it must have been about me. Or, more precisely, about someone else. Though we’d only been seeing each other for a while, I’d known Phil, in a chit chat at parties kind of way, for ages. And as far as I knew (God, how little I did know), he really only drank when he was unhappy. As the security light illuminated his slim form on the driveway, I had the uncomfortable sensation that whatever manoeuvres I’d had in mind about ending things, I was about to be beaten to it.
‘How Haworth?’ I sang as I answered the door. (Bizarrely, some part of my brain seemed to think that a jocular tone was required.)
‘Oh,’ he said, wrong footed, as he wiped his feet rhythmically. ‘Oh, er. Small, dark, atmospheric. Um.’
He hovered in the hall while I entirely neglected to usher him anywhere - busy as I was with the diversionary tactic of straightening the ruck in the doormat. Phil had never really become truly comfortable in our house; never taken his shoes off or made himself tea, for instance. I’d taken this to be more about having two proprietorial young males (and latterly, an aged one too) prowling around than about not actually feeling comfortable - Phil was always sensitive to proprietaries - but seeing him now, I decided it wasn’t about that at all. There were, it suddenly seemed, other forces at work. His eyes were the colour of sticky toffee pudding; dark lashed and intense, and quite his best feature. Looking back, I could now see it was the eyes that had swung it. The carpet, tonight though, was the chief beneficiary.
‘And so on ,’ I repeated, for no good reason. ‘Kitchen? Cake?’ I started moving down the hall, but was immediately aware that he wasn’t following. I turned around.
‘Charlie, I need to talk to you,’ he said quietly.
I said ‘Ah!’ (Why, exactly?) then, ‘It’s okay. Dad’s watching Your Favourite Hymns .’ I beckoned to the kitchen. ‘And Ben’s at Francesca’s.’
Seemingly satisfied that we wouldn’t be interrupted by requests for cheese strings or cups of tea or throat lozenges, he followed me in and perched himself up on the stool by the fridge. Where he sat and said nothing for a good fifteen seconds, having decided, I presumed, that my ‘ah!’ was indicative of the fact that I already knew
Early evening - bleak and cheerless time of early winter afternoon, during which all hope seems lost; all optimism pointless. Must beware of getting SAD – should I book a low season week in Benalmadena, perhaps?
Dad won in both the chutney and the jam categories, and his lemon cheese came a respectable fourth in Miscellaneous Preserves (respectable because this, he told me, was his second only venture into the world of curds). We celebrated by sitting in the warm, dusky kitchen and eating an entire whisked sponge.
‘The secret,’ he told me, ‘where lemons are concerned, is to look out for the ones with the really thin skins and to keep a tight rein on the temperature.’
All of which looked like becoming uncomfortably pertinent when Phil’s car pulled up outside some moments later.
He hadn’t called. And it had already struck me that whatever he’d been up to on Friday night it wasn’t simply a case of him drinking. Phil drank, but only in the most social of settings, and even then, only in small, straight sided glasses. Him being drunk then, was not actually about drinking, but more likely about wanting to be drunk. For which he must have had a reason. And if it was a reason he felt disinclined to share with me, then it must have been about me. Or, more precisely, about someone else. Though we’d only been seeing each other for a while, I’d known Phil, in a chit chat at parties kind of way, for ages. And as far as I knew (God, how little I did know), he really only drank when he was unhappy. As the security light illuminated his slim form on the driveway, I had the uncomfortable sensation that whatever manoeuvres I’d had in mind about ending things, I was about to be beaten to it.
‘How Haworth?’ I sang as I answered the door. (Bizarrely, some part of my brain seemed to think that a jocular tone was required.)
‘Oh,’ he said, wrong footed, as he wiped his feet rhythmically. ‘Oh, er. Small, dark, atmospheric. Um.’
He hovered in the hall while I entirely neglected to usher him anywhere - busy as I was with the diversionary tactic of straightening the ruck in the doormat. Phil had never really become truly comfortable in our house; never taken his shoes off or made himself tea, for instance. I’d taken this to be more about having two proprietorial young males (and latterly, an aged one too) prowling around than about not actually feeling comfortable - Phil was always sensitive to proprietaries - but seeing him now, I decided it wasn’t about that at all. There were, it suddenly seemed, other forces at work. His eyes were the colour of sticky toffee pudding; dark lashed and intense, and quite his best feature. Looking back, I could now see it was the eyes that had swung it. The carpet, tonight though, was the chief beneficiary.
‘And so on ,’ I repeated, for no good reason. ‘Kitchen? Cake?’ I started moving down the hall, but was immediately aware that he wasn’t following. I turned around.
‘Charlie, I need to talk to you,’ he said quietly.
I said ‘Ah!’ (Why, exactly?) then, ‘It’s okay. Dad’s watching Your Favourite Hymns .’ I beckoned to the kitchen. ‘And Ben’s at Francesca’s.’
Seemingly satisfied that we wouldn’t be interrupted by requests for cheese strings or cups of tea or throat lozenges, he followed me in and perched himself up on the stool by the fridge. Where he sat and said nothing for a good fifteen seconds, having decided, I presumed, that my ‘ah!’ was indicative of the fact that I already knew
Similar Books
