‘You look tired,’ he added, when she didn’t reply.
‘So do you.’
‘Well, that’s the prerogative of the nearly dead. But you’re young.’
‘You’re not nearly dead.’
‘I feel half so.’
‘Half nearly dead, that doesn’t sound too bad. Sounds quite far from the final snuffing out to me.’
‘Who can say, my dear child, who can say,’ said her father.
They smiled at each other. There was a brief pause. Would they like wine, asked the waiter. Oh they thought they would. A nice bottle of house wine, said her father, looking at the price list with an eyebrow raised. An order was dispatched, and the waiter departed. Then her father got straight back to the bone, gnawing on. For a few seconds she pitied him, this old man, consigned to a house which must be — no matter how much Sarah talked and splashed her skin with floral potions — steeped in the past. At least Rosa was away from all of that, those synecdochical horrors, everything in her mother’s taste. She hardly visited him at all, for reasons of cowardice. He had come to London, a journey of several hours, and she pictured him sitting on the train with the paper, ruination on his weathered cheeks.
She said, ‘How have you been, Dad? How’s your health?’
‘Oh not too bad at all. The doctor says there’s not much to worry about. That’s a vagueness I positively encourage. I don’t want them giving me a sentence. So I see the doctor as seldom as possible, and he stays away from me. He’s told me I can drink a bit, in moderation, and that’s much better. Horrible when you have to eat yoga bars and dry biscuits. Quite takes the pleasure out of things,’ he said. His brow creased and he was smiling very slightly. These things embarrassed him.
‘That’s good,’ she said.
They ruffled their napkins and sipped their drinks. The restaurant was over-lit, and the roof was high above them. It made the place like an airport lounge. It was far too fashionable for her father. Simply a bad choice, thought Rosa. He would have been happy in a pub, with a pint of lager, a steak and kidney pie. He was pawing gently at the tablecloth, brushing crumbs onto the floor. He had been well, he explained. ‘And how is Liam?’
‘He’s getting married, I told you.’
‘Oh yes, when is that?’
‘Friday.’
‘And who’s the bride to be?’
‘Grace, you never met her. I told you all this, Father.’
‘Yes, yes, I remember.’ Of course he remembered. ‘Well, and you’re going to the wedding? Or staying well away?’ He was trying to be jocund. She understood why he adopted this insouciant tone. That particular quagmire was nothing. He had dealt with much worse. He had been ill when her mother died, distraught and abandoned. Of course it had been bad for her, but for her father — her rage and despair were nothing compared to her father’s grief. For some time he been alone, just the neighbours and a few old friends for company. He had his tennis friends and a crowd of local historians. But they could hardly fill the gaping void left by his wife. So Rosa always felt guilty when she saw him because she couldn’t help him, and, still worse, she had started to worry him. For months she had been causing him pain. It was clearly unfair. She should be taking care of him. Honouring him, even.
‘I’m going to stay with friends today,’ said Rosa. ‘There’s no point discussing Liam. I’m pretty much indifferent.’
‘Indifference seems unlikely in this situation,’ said her father.
‘That’s why I qualified it with “pretty much”,’ said Rosa, pertly.
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘How is Sarah?’
‘Oh, she’s very well. She’s redecorated the kitchen. And she likes teaching the neighbours Spanish.’
‘What are you doing now, father? Are you writing things?’
‘No no, not at the moment. But I have an idea. I wanted to write a history of the Avon Gorge, from the first settlers to the Suspension Bridge and then perhaps even to the present day.’
‘That would be interesting,’ said Rosa.
Perhaps it was something about authority. Her father never really had any. Still, here they were, in this smoke-strewn room which Rosa had inexplicably chosen. He had come to see her, finding his way here. Probably he had printed a street map off the Internet, an X marking the spot. He had brought her an article of his to read, a piece on local shipping which had been printed in an obscure journal. He had neatly stapled the pages and put them in a plastic folder. He had stapled the pages and packed them to show her. Oh God, thought Rosa. There was no need to pity him. Her father was fine. On the brink of death, so old his hands trembled when he grasped the handle of a knife, but he was fine. It didn’t work; life simply couldn’t wander along if you assumed everyone was in despair. So she took the folder and said it looked enthralling.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
The rest was undistilled palaver. She palavered on through the menu, musing on the specials, listening to her father talk about the quality of the wine. The table next door laughed uproariously. There were two bald men in suits trading jokes and two women screaming with laughter. The women were dressed in plumage and bright colours, little heels. Virtuously, they had won the coveted plume, and now they were being fed and watered. The men had their ties in their food. Now they all laughed again, and someone to Rosa’s left scraped a chair across the floor. Then a knife clattered on a plate.
‘Loud in here,’ she said. ‘My fault. Bad choice.’
‘Shall we order?’ said her father.
The waiter had arrived. They ordered. They had to raise their voices and as the waiter wrote things down the women laughed again. How polite they were! Or perhaps they are simply happy, thought Rosa. The waiter said, ‘What would you like?’
‘Yes, the pea soup,’ she said.Pea soup, everything is fine, just a nice bowl of pea soup, a bit of conversation with your father, then you’ll go and visit some friends, forget the TEMP, that word that you are investing with unjustifiable significance, as if to compensate you for your failed schemes, and you will return and go into service for Brazier, if she wants you. That’s that, she thought. That is damn well that. Now, on with lunch!
Another couple sat down at an empty table to Rosa’s right. The man bellowed as he sat down. Now they were cornered. Trapped in a crowd of people talking loudly, all of them certain, somehow, of the justice and solidity of their speech.
‘You have to grip life, or it all collapses into chaos,’ said her father.
‘But that’s the question, isn’t it?’ said Rosa. ‘It’s a question of courage.’
‘… Like your sweater,’ said the woman to the man on the next table.
‘Thanks, thanks. I did my seasonal shop.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Courage about what?’ said her father.
‘And Barry said, look, love, why not just leave your knickers here …’ said one of the bald men at the other table. The women screamed.
‘How about jobwise?’ said the man with the nice sweater.
‘Kind of OK. I do need to do more. I’ve applied for two jobs. One at CEA. The other was agency work. But I didn’t get interviews in either.’
‘Bad luck.’
‘I need a sideways move somewhere,’ said the woman.
‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA,’ said the women on the next table.
‘And then I said what’s the fucking problem? And you know what Barry’s like with ten pints down him!’
HA HA HA HA HA HA
‘I wonder,’ her father said, ‘what is behind your … your …’ Then poignant ellipsis. She was meant to fill it.