One Weekend
written by: Dominic Rivron
Marion and Joe were coming over for the weekend. We do this now and again: we go to them, then they come to us. We take it in turns. Marion is Charlotte’s friend from uni. They share a love of books and cheap wine and like nothing more than talking about one while drinking the other. I think they like to pretend they’re still students, just for a few hours. Joe doesn’t say much at these get-togethers, but, like me, he shares their love of cheap wine.
They arrived about seven. I helped them take their stuff up to the spare room, after which we all gathered together in the living room. I opened a bottle of Chardonnay. We drank and talked. Their journey, they said, had been straightforward and uneventful. Then Charlotte and Marion got down to talking about work (they’re both teachers). Too much paperwork, too many tests for the kids, an inflexible curriculum – all the usual things that got them down. This led to a discussion of work-life balance. Joe didn’t say a lot and I, not having a job, had little to add to the discussion.
Unfortunately, I lost my parents just over a decade ago. I was twenty-something at the time. Obviously, I wish it hadn’t happened, but it did mean I inherited their North London house, the sale of which has provided me with a regular income. I used to work and when I lost my job, I did look around for another, but the income from what Charlotte – with a hint of friendly sarcasm – calls “my investments” (the expression always makes me cringe), is just enough to mean it didn’t really matter if I didn’t find one. After being knocked back a few times, I stopped looking.
Partly because I felt guilty when I saw how hard Charlotte was working and partly for the sake of my own self-respect, I started taking my role around the house more seriously. I guess that’s when I got into cooking. I go to quite a lot of trouble to see that we eat well and I think of having house guests as a real opportunity to test my skills. For the evening meal on Saturday, I planned on making carrot and cashew nut curry, served with raita and mango chutney. For dessert, salted caramel ice cream (a tub of which I’d bought from the supermarket the previous week, especially for the occasion).
We sat up late, talking and drinking, as we usually did. Sometime around midnight, we moved on from the Chardonnay to the single malt. Not long after, conversation became an effort. Late at night, when you’ve had a few drinks, time starts to pass remarkably quickly. I think we went to bed about two.
***
Charlotte rolled over and fell asleep the moment she climbed into bed. I lay awake for a while, leafing through Mollie Katzen’s The Moosewood Cookbook, and thinking how next week I might try her recipe for Eggplant and Almond Enchiladas. I fell asleep briefly, but about four am, there was a huge commotion around the cat flap downstairs, as our cat faced off the cat next door. On waking, I realised I was still holding onto the cookbook and put it down on the floor beside the bed. I then fell asleep and slept through until nine.
***
We got off to a slow start that Saturday morning. The house smelt of toast and hot coffee. Joe went out, briefly, to get a newspaper. He came back with a Guardian. He said he knew he could read it online, but that it just wasn’t the same. He took up residence in the corner of the living room and worked his way through it, holding it up rather like a carapace, I thought, as if he wanted to keep the rest of us at bay.
I asked Marion if they’d had a good night, the way you do, and Marion said Joe had but she’d lain awake for a while. She said she’d spent the time scrolling through social media, though she didn’t know why. It always kept her awake. Everyone she knew shared stuff about wars and terrible things happening. Charlotte put on a Joy Division album: quietly, so as not to interfere with our headaches. After breakfast, I cleaned round the kitchen, wiping up the toast crumbs and putting away the jam and marmalade. Then I went round downstairs, collecting up the various plates, mugs, glasses, and empty bottles I found lying about, and washed up. I put the bottles in the glass recycling. Marion wanted to help, but I politely declined her offer and told her to go and put her feet up. She was the guest, after all.
For lunch, I made us beans on toast. (You can’t beat it: it’s both nutritious and easy to prepare). Afterwards, we visited the falls. It’s something we often do on nice days, as it’s only about five miles away. There’s a car-park in the woods nearby. We all went in our car: Marion and Joe sat in the back. Joe was being rather quiet, I thought. I could see him in my rear-view mirror, resting his head on his arm, looking out of the window. Marion and Charlotte were deep in conversation, talking about the books they’d been reading since they’d last met.
The car-park was almost empty when we got there: there were just a couple of other cars, parked in the corner, under the trees. There was a brief civility contest while we all competed for the right to pay the car-park fee. I won, got out the car, and pushed the coins into the machine. Two hours, just to be on the safe side. A short, woodchip path through a stand of scotch pines connects the car-park to the falls. I could’ve happily lingered there, the smell of resin in my nostrils, and wandered off the path, into the trees. My father used to do that, when I was small. He’d hang back and wander off unnoticed, scampering through the undergrowth, hiding at a point further along the path ready to jump out on us. I resisted the temptation. We’re adults now. Adults don’t do that kind of thing. Unless they have children. It crossed my mind that none of us have children. We’ve talked about it, Charlotte and I, and have agreed we don’t want children yet. Will we ever? Will some impulse that refuses to be gainsaid well up from deep inside one or both of us when we least expect it? Neither Marion nor Joe have said anything about having children. Since they’re good friends of ours, it’s the sort of thing we might be expected to talk about. Perhaps their silence is suggestive, though of what, I’ve no idea.
The path through the woods comes to an end on the riverbank. The smell of resin is replaced with a freshness in the air that I always associate with white water. The valley-floor suddenly drops several metres at this point. The river-bed becomes a limestone outcrop. The river-water flows over it, in a jumble of pools and cataracts. When the water’s low, as it usually is, you can pick your way across the rocks from one side of the river to the other. It’s rather fun. It was low that day and we all stepped out onto the rocks. Charlotte and Marion were still discussing whatever it was they were discussing by then. Joe and I, concentrating on where we were putting our feet, said very little.
‘Oh, fuck!’
We must’ve been about halfway across. Joe’s foot had slipped off a rock. His leg had gone in up to the knee. We all laughed, except Joe. I’m not sure laughing was the right thing to do.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Charlotte. ‘No harm done. We can wash your jeans and trainers and stick them in the tumble dryer. They’ll be dry in no time.’ She sounded very reassuring. It crossed my mind that she’d be good at being a mother, if we ever did have children.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be alright,’ said Joe, doing his best to sound as if he wasn’t bothered that much. ‘It’s a warm day. Honest. I’ll be okay.’ Marion was still giggling. He glared at her. She stopped.
We sat ourselves down on the rocks, which, being in the sun, were hot to the touch, watching the foamy water flowing away downstream. A group of people with an excitable golden retriever – probably from the other cars we’d seen in the car-park – were walking towards us, along the bank. The dog jumped into the river, swam about, then climbed out. The people with it shrieked with laughter and backed away from it as it shook itself.
Marion and Joe were a little way behind us as we walked back through the woods. I could hear them talking quietly, almost in whispers, but it sounded as if they wanted to shout at each other. They were too far away for me to tell what they were saying.
When we got back, Joe and Marion went straight upstairs. Marion came back down a minute or two later with Joe’s jeans and trainers. I showed her how to work our washing machine and we put them in. She said Joe had a headache and was having a lie-down. I asked her if he might want some Paracetamol. She said yes and thanked me. I gave her the box. She filled a glass with water then took it with her back upstairs, along with the Paracetamol. I just had time to say to Charlotte, what do you think’s the matter with Joe, to which she said she didn’t know, when Marion came back down again. I said I really had to get on with the meal. Charlotte and Marion went through to the living room. They took two glasses with them and the bottle of Prosecco I’d been saving for dinner. I put the brown rice on, then set about making the curry. I chopped up the potatoes and carrots. I heated up my old iron skillet and stir-fried the mustard and dill seeds till they popped, then threw in the spices and the vegetables. Next, I chopped the cucumber, took the yogurt from the fridge, and made the raita. Since there was not a lot left to do, apart from waiting for the rice, I tidied round the kitchen, prepared a jug of iced water, and took the ice cream out of the freezer to soften. I then set the table. Once I was sure everything was ready, I went through to the living room to announce dinner. I found the two women talking quietly, together. They stopped talking when I came in. Joe had still not come down. Marion said she’d go upstairs and tell him.
He didn’t come down. Marion said she thought he might be going down with something. Dinner was a subdued affair. Marion, the first to break the silence, mentioned that she and Joe were thinking of going on holiday to Barcelona. Charlotte recommended a café we’d found on the Ramblas when we went there and said they really must go and see the Picassos. When I went out to fetch the ice cream, I could hear them talking in the same subdued tones as I’d heard them talking in the living room, earlier. Again, they stopped talking when I returned.
Neither of them talked much after that. I told them I was thinking of trying out Eggplant and Almond Enchiladas, but neither of them seemed very interested. I tried to steer the conversation back to Spain, suggesting perhaps Charlotte and I should go again. We’d thought of going trekking in Morocco. We could perhaps stop off for a few days in Barcelona, meet up? Marion said the ice cream was very nice, which was nice of her.
It only took me a few minutes to wash up after the meal. I offered to make coffee, but neither Charlotte nor Marion wanted any. Marion turned in as soon as it was socially possible to do so, claiming a headache: she said she could only think she was going down with the same thing as Joe. Charlotte and I were left sitting in the living room. I raised my eyebrows, she shrugged her shoulders.
‘What on earth’s going on?’ I said. I kept my voice down, conscious of the fact that ours is not the most soundproof of houses.
‘I don’t know,’ said Charlotte.
I pulled a face that suggested I wasn’t entirely sure I believed her.
‘Really,’ she said, looking me straight in the eye, but just a little too self-consciously to be convincing.
She’s a decent sort. She stands by her friends. It’s impossible to get gossip out of her, so I pushed her no further. She went and made us both a cup of tea. We sat and watched TV for a while.
***
Next morning, we were woken up about 6.30am by a soft tap on the door. It was Marion. She put her head round the door and told us, in a half-whisper, not to worry ourselves, but they’d have to be getting off. It couldn’t be helped. Something had cropped up at home. The person feeding their cat had sent her a text. She’d call us and explain later (she never did). It was nothing for us to worry about, it wasn’t that serious, but they had to go. She said they’d had a lovely time and thank you. They’d be in touch. She smiled, made a small wave, and withdrew.
What was it all about? I’ve no idea. We didn’t hear from them for a couple of months (or, at least, I didn’t: perhaps Charlotte did, but if she did she said nothing). Then – it being their turn – they invited us over. It was as if nothing at all had happened. We had a great time.
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