Читать книгу This Isn’t the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You - Jon McGregor - Страница 18

Vessel

Halton Holegate

She took the tulips from his hands. Let me find something to put those in, she said. His hands were cold. She was surprised that he’d come and she wanted to cover her surprise. She laid the tulips on the kitchen counter and looked around for a pair of scissors. The flower-heads were still tightly closed. The petals were red, with a rim of yellow at the lips. The stems arched, the way that tulip stems always did. She would need a vase tall enough to bear their weight. She picked them up and put them down. She didn’t know where the scissors were. She opened a drawer. She stopped; she’d forgotten to invite him in. He must still be standing on the doorstep, in the snow. She felt the cold air blowing through from the hallway. By the time she got back to him he’d stepped forward as far as the runner and was standing with the door half-closed behind him. Oh come in, of course, come in, she said. You weren’t waiting to be asked were you? He smiled, and shrugged, and snow fell from his shoulders as he crooked up a leg to wrestle off a shoe. She watched. She wanted to brush the snow from him and take his coat, put a hand against his cold cheek. She waited.

She lit the burner and put the kettle on. She wondered what he was doing here. They had a conversation, of sorts, standing there in the kitchen.

‘You didn’t walk, in this weather?’

‘I got the bus. I walked from the end of the village. Where the bus turns.’

‘I’m surprised the bus was running.’

‘I wasn’t sure it would.’

‘And you didn’t think of calling first, to check I’d be here?’

‘I felt like taking a chance. I had the afternoon free.’

‘Well. It is nice to see you. It’s a nice surprise. Tea?’

‘Please. Milk, if you have any.’

She poured the boiling water into a pot and the milk into a jug. She put them on a tray with cups and saucers and the sugar bowl. She carried the tray through to the front room and they sat across from each other while the snow fell past the bright window and the tea steeped and swirled inside the pot.

‘These are nice cups.’

‘Aren’t they? We’ve had them a long time. They were a wedding present.’

‘Really? I don’t remember seeing them before.’

‘Well, no. James never really liked them.’

‘Ah.’

‘So they were put away.’

‘Yes.’

‘But now, I thought, I mean. You know.’

‘Are they French?’

‘Flemish, I think.’

‘They’re very nice.’

‘Yes.’

‘They sit well in your hand, don’t they? They have a nice weight.’

‘Yes. I suppose they do.’

‘I’m sorry. About James.’

‘Yes.’

‘You got my card?’

‘Oh. I don’t think so. No.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. The post hasn’t been what it was, has it?’

‘No, it really hasn’t. Excuse me.’

She’d forgotten to put the tulips in something. She hadn’t even got as far as cutting the stems. She wondered why he’d come today; what was different about today. She opened a drawer. She found the scissors on the side, by the draining board. She cut the twine and the tulips rolled out across the worktop. She looked for the little sachet of plant-food, but of course there wasn’t one. It was just like him, not to have said he was coming. James would never have done such a thing. But neither would James have thought to bring flowers. She cut the ends off the tulip stems, scooping them up and dropping them in the compost-bin. She remembered where the vases were, and that she couldn’t reach them. She didn’t want to clamber up on a stool to fetch one down. She asked him if he minded and he said not at all. Of course, he could reach the top cupboard without even stretching up on his toes. James would have needed to stretch, at least. It was a nice vase he chose. It was the right one: tall enough to support the arching stems, narrow enough to hold them closely, subtle enough not to detract from their colour.

‘Wherever did you find flowers, anyway?’

‘Oh, you know. You can still find these things, if you look.’

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen cut flowers.’

‘You just have to know the right people, that’s all.’

‘And you do.’

‘I manage. You’re still getting milk?’

‘Straight from the farm.’

‘There hasn’t been any in town for a time.’

‘You don’t know the right people for milk, then?’

‘I didn’t. But I’ve got you now, haven’t I?’

She didn’t know about that. She didn’t know about that at all. It seemed somehow presumptuous. He must know there was a limited supply. She didn’t say anything, and he seemed to realise that he’d overstepped the mark because he moved towards the window and started talking about the garden, about how difficult it was to start things off with the snows getting later and later like this. She looked at the back of him while he spoke. How very upright he was, even at his age. He’d always been one of the standing-up-straight sort. Proper. It was certainly nice to see him again. But she didn’t know what he thought he was doing here. She carried the vase of tulips into the front room and set them on the coffee table, where they would best hold the light. He followed her through, slightly unexpectedly, and, standing a little too close, asked whether she’d ever considered taking in paying guests. She told him she didn’t really know about that.

‘You have the space though.’

‘Well, perhaps.’

‘I just rather wondered whether you couldn’t use the extra hands about the place. You know. I realise money’s not quite the thing at the moment, but there could be other forms of payment. Help, you know. Connections.’

‘I’m not sure, really.’