Marion carried the tray of food from the kitchen to the dining room and placed John’s bowl of soup on the place mat before him. The place mats belonged to a set that had been used by the family for years, and the picture on it was of a Scottish mountain called Ben Lomond, which had been close to an area they often visited as children with their parents. The name had such a lovely sad sound to it. Marion imagined herself as a young peasant girl climbing that mournful mount, carrying a basket of eggs to a sickly relative. She would have to pull her shawl tightly around her long black hair to keep off the driving rain. How glad the relative would be to see those eggs, and even gladder to have some company while he ate them!
Marion sat down at her own place mat: Loch Lomond, a lake at dawn and an old man fishing at the edge. She always felt sad for the old man. Did he have anyone to look after him, or did he live alone in some stone croft, worrying about the day when he would be too weak to go down to the lake and catch a fish for his supper? In the background you could see a boat sailing across the waters.
“Do you remember that year you ran away on The Maid of the Mist?” asked Marion.
“What?”
“We were on holiday in Scotland; I was thirteen; you must have been about fifteen. You had an argument with Dad and then stowed away on the ferry that took tourists on trips around the loch.”
John shook his head dismissively.
“No idea what you are talking about, woman.”
How typical of him, thought Marion, he never remembers things. Memories, however, were everywhere for her, firmly glued to each object in the house. The Royal Crown Derby dinner service they ate from evoked childhood meals when the china, now covered with hairline cracks, was creamy and unblemished as the skin of a young girl.
She took a mouthful of brown soup, savoring the familiar dark meaty taste. Almost everything they ate was reheated from either a tin or a packet. For breakfast they had toast with margarine and tea. Lunch was sandwiches or perhaps a pork pie. Evening meal would be something like soup, spaghetti hoops on toast, cheese on toast, or tinned stew with packet mashed potatoes. Sunday dinner was always sliced beef from the supermarket deli with instant gravy. If either of them was hungry between meals, they filled up on biscuits or Mr. Kipling cakes. Marion liked the Bakewell tarts; John preferred the lemon curd pies.
John, of course, prepared food for the visitors himself; she had nothing to do with that, though sometimes he asked her to buy special items from the supermarket, foreign things that she presumed were for them; jars of pickled gherkins, goat’s cheese, and a funny type of spiced sausage called Kolbasa.
“I went over to lunch at Judith’s today,” said Marion, trying to remove a little speck of something floating in her glass of orange cordial with her finger.
“I know, you told me already.” He sighed as if weary at having to bear twice the weight of worthless information.
“Lydia has changed from fashion to film studies.”
John dipped his slice of white bread in the soup and bit off a soggy brown chunk.
“Fashion and film studies, what kind of rubbish is that?”
“Well, I don’t know. I suppose these things must be important if the university goes to the trouble of teaching them.”
“University should be for proper academic subjects like science and maths. Good luck to her trying to get any kind of job, that’s all I can say.”
The speck refused to be caught, so Marion gave up and drank it down instead. As John reached for the salt, the round scar on his wrist caught her eye and she noticed it was made up of several little red lines, were those teeth marks? Had one of them bitten him? What terrible circumstances might have led to such a thing happening? A picture of John down in the cellar with them flashed into her head, but she refused to let it stay for more than a second. No, I’m being silly, it’s just his eczema flaring up again, I must get him some cream, she told herself.
“Judith wants us to cut the tree down. The sycamore.”
“What?”
John’s face went dark with anger. Dad used to get exactly the same expression: “Don’t upset him,” Mother would say, “he’s got that look like he’s ready to murder someone.”
“She says it’s diseased,” said Marion timidly.
“You tell her that tree is on our property and it’s nothing to do with her. You know that I don’t like people interfering with our business, Marion.”
“I’m sorry, love—it’s just I didn’t know what to say to her—so I told her I would ask you about it—”
“Well, the next time she asks, tell her to fuck off.”
Marion flinched as if he had thrown a rock at her. She hated it when John used that kind of language, it didn’t seem right coming from an educated person like him. Then he got up from the table and switched off the TV.
“You know that program you like is on tonight, love—the comedy show,” she said, trying to soften the atmosphere.
John kept his back turned to her.
“The one with the tall skinny woman who makes you laugh.” She felt a sudden need not to spend the evening with only the television for company. Even John in a mood was better than no one at all.
“Why would I want to watch that crap?” said John.
She searched her head for something that would make him stay, but all she could come up with was: “L-last week you said you thought it was funny—when she did that thing—you know—pretending to be a nun.”
Without answering, he left the room; a minute later she heard the cellar door open, then slam shut. Well, she thought, a lump of resentment swelling inside her, I suppose my company just isn’t good enough for him, not compared to what they can offer.
MAID OF THE MIST
Two hours into the drive to Scotland, the Zetland family stopped for lunch. After bolting down his mixed grill, Dad kept looking at his watch and glancing through the restaurant window to check that the car hadn’t vanished, while John ripped up a red-and-white Little Chef napkin, letting the shreds fall onto the floor. The two of them had barely spoken all day. For some reason Marion didn’t fully understand, a form of low-level warfare had been rumbling on between father and son over the last few months, and the forced proximity of the car journey only served to heighten these tensions.
Marion ate her fish and chips slowly, each forkful feeling heavy under the weight of Mother’s gaze.
“A lady never completely clears her plate, you know, Marion,” Mother said, having barely touched the ham salad before her except to stub a couple of cigarettes out in the yolk of the boiled egg.
John rolled up a piece of napkin and flicked it at his sister.
“John!” exclaimed Mother tremulously.
“Time to make a move,” said Dad, scraping his seat loudly as he got up from the table.
Mother insisted that Marion accompany her to the restroom, while Dad and John went out to the car. Marion had to check each cubicle to find a suitable one, then hold Mother’s coat and bag while she “went.” Marion waited outside the cubicle until Mother said, “Marion, I just can’t relax. Run the taps, would you.”
When Mother finally came out, she washed her hands, squeezing the soap, scrubbing and rinsing, no less than three times.
“Did you wash, Marion?”
“Of course.”
“And use soap?”
“Yes. Are you ready now? I bet Dad has the engine running.”
“Just give me a minute, will you!” she said, snatching her bag from her daughter.