Sixteen Shades of Crazy. Rachel Trezise
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Rhiannon weaved through the tables in the restaurant, winking at people she recognized. ‘Hiiiyyyaaaa,’ she said, wriggling out of her jacket. She sat down next to Gwynnie.
Gwynnie was a big woman with a permanent expression of terror splashed across her face. Nothing in her life had been easy and she expected her cycle of misfortune to persist until the death. Her skin was mottled with anxiety, her bones arthritic with exertion, her mouth quick with over-zealous counsel. Her demeanour was comical, her head constantly bobbing about in a frantic convulsion, gigantic sweat patches under her arms. Ellie often caught herself laughing at Gwynnie when she wasn’t trying to be funny. ‘We can order now,’ she said, waving at Andy’s father. ‘Where’s the waitress, Collin?’
‘Where’s the waitress, Collin?’ Collin said, mimicking his wife’s panicked voice. ‘How the bloody hell should I know, Gwyneth?’
Eating at the Bell & Cabbage was a relatively new experience for the Hughes family. Gwynnie used to cook Sunday dinner in her own kitchen; pork with roast parsnips and fresh vegetables served in her best bone-china tureens. Collin hurtled from the bedroom to the dining table in one fell swoop, his naked stomach riding out on the chair around him. Afterwards, Gwynnie did the washing-up, the pots falling from the draining board with a clang and echoing into the living room, like smites aimed at the girls’ sloth. ‘Shit!’ she’d say, sharp as a blade. At Easter the girls had booked a table for six in the carvery, encouraged by Gwynnie’s resentful sideways glances whenever they talked about steak they’d eaten at the Bell, or salads at fast-food joints. ‘There’s nice,’ she’d say, ‘there’s lovely,’ as if it was lobster bisque at The Dorchester. Her idea of a day out was a ramble through the car-boot sales in North Cornelly, spending her paltry income on labour-saving junk – old bread-makers and sandwich-toasters, stuff most people saw fit for landfill. When the day came, Collin sat in his reclining armchair, his hands crossed over his belly, as if trying to protect it from anything that wasn’t home-cooked. He refused to leave the house. Rhiannon managed to coax Gwynnie into her car, but at the restaurant she sat in the corner weeping, fretting over Collin’s non-attendance, the waitress staring as she set the gravy boat on the doily.
Collin turned up with the carrots, his comb-over hair blown out of place by the wind. He ate his food in obdurate silence, frowning over every mouthful, Rhiannon and Ellie secretly smirking at one another.
Marc put Rhiannon’s wineglass on the table now.
‘Is it clean?’ she said, twisting it in the light from the window. ‘There was some bugger else’s lipstick all over it last week.’ She was wearing a grey sweater with glittery pink writing across the bust. Her face was made up, her eyelids licked with bold blue eye-shadow.
‘Go down the club last night?’ Marc said, pushing the potatoes towards his father.
‘Aye,’ Collin said.
‘Artist any good, Gwyn?’ Rhiannon was playing with her peas, squashing them to a paste with the base of her fork, her wine held to her mouth, her voice echoing in the glass. Gwynnie quickly chewed a fatty morsel of beef, her head bobbling. ‘Two women,’ she said. ‘They were good but I think they were lezzers. They didn’t have no wedding rings.’
Collin stopped eating and glared at his wife. He commonly regarded women with a mixture of bafflement and trepidation. Ellie often caught him purposely avoiding eye contact, the way someone with a phobia of cats avoided a stray tabby. When he was sure she’d turned away, he’d peep furtively at her, as if ensuring she hadn’t moved any closer, or grown any bigger. He hated women. His only pleasure lay in trying to make their lives as miserable as his was.
For Ellie the feeling was mutual. She abhorred the control he had over Andy. He was absent for his childhood, locked in a prison cell for tax evasion. He missed his first word, his first footstep, and because he hadn’t witnessed these developments with his own eyes, he seemed to believe that they had never occurred. He treated Andy like a two-year-old, a fate Marc had somehow managed to avoid. He’d tell him to order the lamb instead of the beef, buy diesel-powered vehicles instead of petrol; put a patio in the garden instead of a lawn. When Andy and Ellie moved into Gwendolyn Street, Ellie asked Andy if they could go shopping for a couple of knick-knacks to make the place look like a home. Collin took it upon himself to play chaperone. Ellie’d been holding an Angelo Cavalli canvas, a beautiful black-and-white photograph of the Flatiron Building, when Collin swooped on her and plucked it out of her hands. ‘Ugly, isn’t it?’ he said, discarding it. ‘What about this?’ He passed her a Claude Monet print, Bridge over a Pool of Water Lilies. ‘Do you like that?’ he said. Ellie concurred, afraid of offending him. So he nodded and put it into their trolley.
When he was sure Gwynnie’d finished her sentence, Collin turned to look at Marc. ‘Heard about this new yobbo in town then, boy? I was talking to old Dai last night. Said he’s been hangin’ round the House, a scruffy lookin’ one.’
‘Are you talking about Johnny?’ Marc said.
A carrot split and fell from Ellie’s fork. It landed in the watery vegetarian gravy, driving a beige-coloured splatter across her plate. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the food. The question mark lingered in the air of the restaurant for a time, utilizing her head as its period. She could feel the weight of Rhiannon’s stare.
‘I don’t know ’is name,’ Collin said. ‘Killed a fella, Dai said.’
‘Killed a fella!’ Marc laughed. ‘Honest Dad, you’re like a pair of washerwomen when you get together. Why do you think anyone who comes from somewhere else is a criminal? He can’t afford to live in Cornwall any more, that’s all. Tourists forcing the cost of living up.’
‘What’s his last name?’ Gwynnie said.
‘Frick,’ Rhiannon said, the word bursting proudly from her lips.
‘Frick?’ Gwynnie said. She shook her head, features quivering. ‘I don’t know of any Frick families round by here.’ Gwynnie knew everyone who lived in Aberalaw, all nine hundred and fifty-one of them. She’d lived there her entire life. She’d never dreamt of moving away from the street in which she grew up, or of doing anything more ambitious than raising her children to be honest and hard-working. She was the kind of woman who’d use the word ‘eccentric’ to describe anyone who’d read a book. But there was a fine line between naivety and ignorance. She’d called the Asian shopkeepers ‘a pair of suicide bombers’ when their grandson won the bonny baby competition in the local paper. Behind Rhiannon’s back, she called her ‘half a darky’.
Andy sighed, bored with the conversation. He obviously had no interest in Johnny. ‘I’ve got some news,’ he said squeezing Ellie’s knee. ‘Me ’n’ Ellie,’ he paused for a moment, deliberately duping Gwynnie into thinking that Ellie was pregnant.
Her mouth fell open; her head leant attentively to the side.
‘We’ve agreed on a date for the wedding, Valentine’s Day 2004.’
Gwynnie started rummaging around in her handbag, pulling out a crumpled tissue. Rhiannon slumped against the back of the bench and studied the fringes of the tablecloth, considering the implications. For a day at least she would not be the centre of attention.
‘When?’ Collin said.
‘February,’ Andy said. ‘February the fourteenth.’
‘Bloody strange time to get married – you should do it in October. A marriage licence is cheaper in October. That’s when me and your mother got married.’
‘Ellie wants a winter wedding,’ Andy said. ‘Don’t you, babe?’
Ellie wanted to plunge her knife under the table and puncture Andy’s hand. Everyone was gawping at her, waiting for her to start gibbering on about bridesmaids’ dresses and seating plans. Her muscles solidified, rooting her to the chair. Her cheeks glowed scarlet. ‘That’s okay isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A winter wedding?’ She smiled self-consciously, the skin of her lips cracking as they stretched