I took the plates into the house. There were Chinese paintings on the walls, long ones with writing down the sides. They weren’t reproductions. Likely they were very old. I remember thinking they fit with everything so well. The presents were set on the table in the middle of the room, which opened out onto the kitchen which opened out onto the hall. It was a beautiful open plan house.
THRE E UP P ER SCHOOL SHORT S TOR I E S
She was just about drunk now. Still full of grace, while the men lolled with heavy eyelids, garrulous and comfortable. No weeds poked through the patio slabs, and the Japanese maple hung handsomely under the varnished fence. The smell of barbecue and red wine hung in the air.
There wasn’t any water near where we lived. We had been planning the trip for a long time before it happened. I guess you remember still images more than whole events and I can still see her loading the car. The water is very cold there, all year round. It freezes in winter and kids skate on it. We were going to go back when it froze. I used to swear like a billiards player. She said it was the Navy in my genes. Smoked too. I swore and smoked my way into that lake, dropping dogends into the grey water. She said it was the first time she’d seen all the stars and she might not have been lying.
The men spoke of rugby and stocks and fingered their giant watches. They were always laughing loudly at something or other. Stag parties, petty misfortune and money. For a while they made sure to turn to me every so often, but with the liquor collapsed blinkered into each other’s company, to leave me alone.
She could ride horses but we were rarely up in the country. When we were I left her at the club and drove to the deer park. I watched the doe scatter and often looked straight into the eyes of a stag. A stag will stare at you for several minutes before moving away.
It was cold now. Leaving wasn’t in me. She was terrible at darts but what else was there to do? From out there you could see a lot of the house. The granite of the kitchen was clean and precise, quietly reflecting the white light from the overhead lamps. They had lined the pans on a rack in size order. The wood shone under Italian furniture. So clean and warm.
2 1 2 J US T I N KUGEL ( YEAR 1 2 )
I guess we had been quite insular for a while. We didn’t have so many friends in the city, at least close friends. Our families were hours away. I guess you remember still images more than whole events and I can still see her loading the car.
Illustration by Alexander McGowan (Year 11)
S o, I guess you’ve just sat down with a cup of coffee, a Starbucks Iced Caffè Americano if I was to take a guess, or, if you’re feeling self-indulgent today, maybe a glass of Chablis … something white probably, after all, you’re not exactly embarking on the erudition of Hardy or Zola, now are you? No, you’ve gone for something from the popular fiction table at the Strand Book Store, 828 Broadway. You’ve chosen some escapism … some light reading … something that allows you to suspend your disbelief and provide you with gratuitous entertainment…
Conversation had faded as the night drew to its conclusion. Hands were shook firmly and men slapped the arms and shoulders of other men. I went out through the side door just as I’d come in. The gravel purred under sports cars I dodged up to the wet pavement. All the hedges were exact. Fags washed into the drain. I looked at the trees, waiting for them to break into blossom.
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