Chapter Seven
Brasso
I sat cross-legged on Nan’s carpet, polishing her brass as if I was trying to rub my life out.
Charlotte had just left. I was angry, not with Charlotte – how could anyone be angry with Charlotte? – but with myself. Because of what she had said. Even though it wasn’t true.
“Pie and peas?” Her voice was derisive. It grated. Charlotte didn’t do derisive. “I thought you were meant to be a new broom at the Woolpack, a brilliant young innovative chef, and you’re serving up pie and peas?”
“Only at the rugby club.”
“And at the pub it’s bog-standard dinners, straight out of the freezer and into the oven! You’re not using your skills, Lannie! And you’re living in a hobbit-hole.”
“It’s way better than the tent,” I said. No need to mention the dodgy wiring or the mice. “You wanted me to move out of the tent.”
“Lannie!” Charlotte banged her hand down on the sofa, which exhaled a pale breath of dust. “Don’t be so bloody passive! You’re just taking whatever’s handed to you! You’ve got a big opportunity here, you should be making the most of it.”
I didn’t understand what had got her so annoyed. “Why?”
“Because you’re not a passive person!”
There was no point explaining to her about being dead. No point explaining that I didn’t deserve freedom, and choices, not when I’d made sure that Karl had none. I couldn’t forget the unfamiliar fear on his face... My little brother, so terrified of going to jail, terrified of loneliness and humiliation and long years lost. I pulled threads off Nan’s armchair and let Charlotte rage on.
“For Christ’s sake, Lannie! When Hugh’s gone to all this trouble to find you somewhere – a proper job, a chef’s job – the least you can do is make an effort!”
“I am.”
“Are you? Are you, Lannie? I don’t see it. Remember Hugh after that awful cocaine business? He put it right behind him. He didn’t sit around moping. He got a new job and got on with his life.”
“It’s not the same thing,” I said, but she wasn’t listening.
“And if I’ve got to put up with – oh, hell, damn it, never mind. But you might at least try. You should be creating, not churning out endless bloody lamb shank.”
“What did I ever create at Tzabo?” I demanded. “Apart from the blueberry torte?”
“And the others.”
“Derivative.”
“They were yours. You mustn’t stop creating, Lannie.”
“I am still creating,” I said.
“What, exactly?”
I looked out of the window for inspiration. “Mud pie.”
“Mud Pie.”
“The king of mud pies. Macclesfield Mud Pie. Is the shop okay?”
“It’s doing fine,” she said flatly. “They like the walnut bread and I’m selling more muffins than I can make.”
Muffins? Creative? “Have you had any more letters?”
“Nothing much. Anyway, the police will sort it out.”
My antennae went up. “What do you mean? What’s nothing much?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Charlotte? Have you had another letter?”
“No, it was nothing. It was only a note.”
“What did it say? Was it about me?”
“It was rubbish. It was junk. Just leave it, Lannie.”
“But, Charlotte–”
“Shut up, Lannie! Shut up! It’s you we’re talking about! It’s you I’m worried about!”
Charlotte had never said Shut up before. Charlotte never shouted. Although she soon calmed down, and needlessly apologised, I was left feeling guilty and uneasy. The rats were creeping closer: they were fouling Charlotte’s doorstep, and it was all my fault.
Once she’d gone, I hunted down Nan’s ancient tin of Brasso under the sink. Brasso wasn’t passive.
“She doesn’t get it,” I told Nan, tipping the bottle against the blackened cloth with a pungent stink of ammonia. “This is only a stop-gap. I’m not staying. And what does she expect of me in any case? I’m dead.”
Nan positively did not agree.
“Well, all right, not dead like you, but I might as well be. I feel like I’m dead. I’m dead to Karl, all right. I’m dead inside, Nan, that’s the trouble. I’m just going through the motions. Okay, I’m doing a bit more than that. But you want clean brass or not?”
She did.
“Always trying to do the right thing, that’s my problem. And it just ends up causing trouble.” I sighed. “I’ve never seen Charlotte lose her rag before. She’s always been so calm.”
She’s worried, said Nan.
“I know. At least it’s nothing worse than letters.”
I daresay it could get a whole lot worse, said Nan. But Charlotte wasn’t worried about herself. Charlotte wasn’t as selfish as me.
“Selfish? Selfish? What can I do? I’m stuck here. Anyway, I’m not making the bloody rugby teas out of selfishness, am I? I’m doing them for Brendan and bloody Rhoda.”
Nothing to do with that nice new kitchen, of course. And Frank; he seems happy that you’re there.
“Happy? Frank? Hah! He didn’t even talk to me! Of course the guys at the rugby club are much older friends than I am. They mean much more.”
Rugby rescued him, said Nan, after the motorbike.
That flummoxed me. How had Nan come out with that? I didn’t know about rescue and motorbikes, and I didn’t want to either, not from Nan.
Hanging up the horse-brasses, I started on the fire-irons. I tried to switch my thoughts off. Dead people didn’t need to worry about thinking.
Don’t you believe it, said Nan.
“Bugger off, Nan,” I said, and felt the old lady bridle. So I polished the rest of the brass with extra care, until my fingers felt like fine-grade sandpaper and the parlour, smelling of warm pennies and over-ripe Brie, gleamed like a hundred little glowing suns.