Story number 15

Malcolm

“Come along now, Malcolm, stop dithering! Oh, you do dither – and watch where you’re putting them wheels – mind the lady! Oh, hello, Mrs. Kelby, say hello to Mrs. Kelby, Malcolm. Malcolm!”

The walk from their house to the market was a bit above twenty minutes. Malcolm usually said very little. His mother provided all the conversation such as it was. He’d never really been encouraged to speak in all his forty seven years – and when he had tried, it was always wrong; the wrong answer, the wrong tone of voice, often completely the wrong end of the stick. They wound their way towards the busy throng. Malcolm liked the market; there were so many smells and lots of different faces. The people behind the stalls were nice to him; they smiled and sometimes gave him an extra piece of fruit – though, of course his mother would never permit him to eat it while they were right in the public eye. No, he would thrust it into his coat pocket and later smuggle it into his room and eat it secretly between the sheets.

His mother never varied in her choice of stalls and never changed the order in which she went to them. She was very loyal in that way. On the other hand, if somebody served her badly or were simply not up to scratch in her demands for common courtesy, she was quite capable of switching her custom to someone else, “Where my money’s better appreciated”. Malcolm didn’t like scenes. He could still remember one horrible moment when his mother, despite standing, “as plain as the nose on your face” in front of the banana man, had been ignored as two women were served ahead of her. She’d shouted much above reason and Malcolm had just stood there limply behind her, clinging to the shopping trolley and feeling wretched. They bought their bananas from the supermarket nowadays. Of course, they weren’t as good and were much more expensive but his mother had made her point and was sticking to it.

“What do you want for your tea, Malcolm?”

Malcolm was busy observing the thick white veins on a huge cabbage and looking at the ones on his hand in comparison.

“Sorry, mother. What did you say?”

“Oh, never mind you daft h’apeth. We’ll have some nice corn on the cob. You like your corn-on-the cob, don’t you?”

“Actually, mother, I….”

“Course you do, Malcolm! You’ve always liked corn-on-the cob. Now, how about some nice russets? nothing better than a good russet”.

And so the morning progressed and when the trolley was filled fit to bursting, they were free to make their way home again, Malcolm dragging the hand-picked selection behind him.

“What do you say to a muffin, Malcolm, shall we buy a couple of muffins? They’d be nice for the afternoon, wouldn’t they? let’s just pop into “Denton’s”. There we go”.

They’d arrived in front of the dreary bread shop. It was colourless throughout. Everything looked dull and lifeless, but his mother had had a “do” with the people at “Pratt’s” where, “I’ll never set foot in this shop again” had cut Malcolm off forever from all the far superior cakes and buns they provided.

“Mind the step, Malcolm, Oh, what ever are you doing with it? – You’re all cack-handed. Tut! Give it to me! You don’t know where you are half the time, do you?” – and she blustered on as the two of them struggled to heave the trolley up the couple of steps into the shop just at the precise moment that a hefty women was emerging with three French sticks clasped to her large bosom and a fat ugly child glued to her side. Exactly the sort of unnecessary commotion Malcolm hated.

Pilchards on toast. Malcolm hated pilchards on toast but that’s what they’d had for Saturday lunch ever since he could remember.

“Not too much vinegar now, Malcolm. You don’t want your toes to drop off”. He stared at the ‘Sarson’s’ bottle. Had there ever been a Saturday when she hadn’t said that? It was as established a routine as the pilchards themselves. He gave a little tremor.

“Don’t let them get cold, Malcolm” .

Malcolm’s eyes lifted from the “Sarson’s” bottle up to his mother’s.

“Malcolm! Your pilchards. Eat them up while they’re hot”.

He stared back down at the neat little row of shapeless fish mounted on a slice of toasted “Mother’s Pride”.

“Yes, mother”.

It was half past one. It was always half past one when they finished washing up on Saturday. He looked at his mother’s face. Her lips loomed large; they seemed to be filling all the space. He knew exactly what they were going to say. They were unstoppable and yet how he wanted to stop them but, like a repeating dream they must play out to the last syllable.

“Are you going to the library, then?” She said it and he observed every movement of her mouth. It was odious and hateful to him.

“Yes, mother”. Only that. Was that all he could say? He wanted to say so much more. He wanted to shake her, to turn her upside down, pull her from side to side and watch all the words, the rigid meaningless words come tumbling out of her mouth and jumble up altogether on the kitchen floor. Maybe then they could piece them together differently, back to front, up, down, anyway they wanted just as long as they were different. But his own words betrayed him.

“I’ll be back at 4 o’clock”. Why 4 o’clock? Why not five or six? Malcolm pulled on his coat and scarf and let his footsteps take him to the town library.

Miss Davis nodded to him discretely and the tiniest of smiles flickered across her thin lips. He walked straight over to the geology section and began scanning the shelves with his right fore-finger until he reached a large wine coloured book “Exploring Fossils” by P.Merton. He studied the spine for a moment, the gold coloured ‘P’ had almost disappeared and then, with no aforethought whatsoever he turned his back on the bay and presented himself in front of Miss Davis, ‘Have you got anything on French cooking?’

She blinked at him incredulously. "But the geology section is -"    "Yes, I know" he interrupted. ‘I want something on French cooking’.

How thrilling to hear himself say it. "French cooking". It came like a surprise Christmas present or a new exotic fruit at the market. Miss Davis could only point vaguely and just managed to say "Over there, next to the home decorating section".

Malcolm walked across the squeaky polished floor. He felt taller and inside, his stomach was turning – it was all so exciting. At first, it was bewildering, a sea of newness washing in front of him. He reached out his hand and began to scan the titles – his finger landed on an ‘F’. ‘French Provincial Cooking’. Tenderly, he lifted it from the shelf. The first thing he did was to rush to the index. ‘P’ for pastry, paté, peppers, pigeon, pineapple! – No pilchards! This was an excellent start. There were soups of all descriptions – soups indeed! – that didn’t come out of a packet. It didn’t matter that the details washed over him; what mattered was the simple daring of the excursion - food, marvelous food! He leapt from page to page – truffle sauce – whatever that was and something called marinade; salmon that bore no relation to a ‘John West’ Christmas treat; soupy things called fondue and recipes using real alcohol. Each page was a revelation, a sign and the pictures, the wonderful, wonderful pictures; he could hardly contain himself.

“Mr. Parker… Mr. Parker!”

It was Miss Davis at his ear.

“We’re closing now, Mr. Parker. Will you be taking the book?”

“Closing? What time is it, please?”

“Six o’clock, dear”.

“Six o’clock” he repeated the words slowly. “No, Miss Davis. I won’t take the book just now”, and he lovingly replaced it on the shelf.

How could almost four hours have gone by unnoticed? Four whole hours in another world, a truly marvelous world. It was already dark outside. He didn’t think about his mother, or the muffins or anything else. He simply walked home with a glorious glowing secret inside him.

“Wherever have you been? Oh, wherever have you been?” clamoured his mother. “Malcolm, you’ve had me at my wit’s end. How could you do this to me? So thoughtless!”

Malcolm remained motionless.

“Well, it’s too late for the muffins”.

“Muffins’, murmured Malcolm, ‘what muffins?”

“Is it a girl, Malcolm? Is that what it is? Are you seeing some girl? a cheap hussy, no doubt. And don’t try and tell me you’ve fallen in love. Love indeed! Sex raising its ugly head more like. Here, give me your coat”.

Malcolm let his mother pull off his overcoat for him, while she fussed and blathered.

“Now you go through to the front room while I get these corn-on-the-cobs going. You’ve missed the six o’clock news but you’ll still catch the soap”.

He ate them mechanically. The butter oozed a little from the corner of his mouth but he hardly noticed.

“It’s the generation game at eight o’clock. You like that, don’t you, Malcolm?”

But Malcolm appeared not to be listening. He was thinking about rich creamy soups and unheard of dishes with intoxicating foreign names.

“Malcolm, dear, you’re not listening to me. I said” –

“I heard what you said, mother”.

“So why couldn’t you have the decency to answer me? Whatever’s got into you, Malcolm?”

“Mother” he said calmly. “I’m going to bed” – and he slowly stood up and left the room.

“Tuesday”, pronounced Mrs. Parker at breakfast – as if it needed an introduction.

“Riverside walk day – and not a spot of rain”.

Breakfast continued as normal. Mrs. Parker wittered  on and Malcolm kept his customary diffidence only this time, deep within him there was a kindling, and, if she had looked into his eyes, she might have seen an alarming sparkle, a long repressed urge for living that was growing in ardent intensity. The tongue-tied bottled up Malcolm was pushing up to the light. He had no control over it.

At precisely 10.00 a.m. they left the house.

“Do up your top button, Malcolm, that’s a good boy. Shoulders back now, and for goodness sake, pick your feet up – and stop slouching!”

Words, words. They turned the corner and headed down towards the river.

“Walk on the outside, Malcolm, like a gentleman. How many times do I have to tell you?”

They reached the boat house and began walking along the bank. It was cold but there was a brightness about the day; every little leaf, every blade of grass seemed to leap out at him. The river was unusually high on account of the recent heavy rains. Near the bank it made a gurgling sound as it ran through the thick bullrushes.

“Well, look at that, Malcolm. Someone’s left a horrible crisp packet right in the middle of that clump of rushes. Aren’t people awful?”

But Malcolm wasn’t listening. He was already walking on ahead, trailing his hands through the riverside grasses and feeling extraordinarily gay and buoyant. There was music in the air. He had a lightness of step. He’d never in all his life felt so alive and full of expectations.

“Malcolm dear, just give me a hand while I remove that nasty crisp packet. Malcolm, Malcolm! Wherever is the daft boy? I may as well do it myself,”  and she leaned forward with arm outstretched to retrieve the intrusive family size packet of Smith’s crisps.

Just an inch too far. One silly little inch and she lost her balance. She fell headlong into the current and for a few seconds a black mound of astrakhan coat floated like a little island, and then it was gone.

Malcolm stopped suddenly in his tracks. Little birds were chattering. The river was making a delightful sound, a laughing, dancing bubbling sound. He turned round but ahead was only the path and the river. A little beyond he could just see the bright turquoise blue of a crisp packet sticking out of the grass. The world was silent, hushed. He walked back a little further and stopped in front of the crisp packet. It had slipped down the weeds and the water was tugging at it until, in a moment it was snatched away and carried off. Malcolm watched it disappearing into the distance; silence, such rich golden silence.

“Mother?” he whispered. The river stared back at him. He stood for several minutes until he felt the dampness creeping into his toes. Then he pulled up his collar around his neck and, humming very softly to himself, directed his steps towards the town.