THE TABLE

 by Richard Banks                                                  

We bought it in Willards, the big furniture shop that used to be in Walthamstow High Street. We were only window shopping. Our wedding wasn't for another three months, too early to be getting stuff now but the salesman was persuasive, as salesmen often are, and when he offered us a discount and delivery two weeks after the big day how could we say no. It was solid pine, he said, would last a lifetime, and so it did. To tell you the truth we should never have bought it; it was too big. We should have settled for the fold-down, occasional table that Aunty Bess was going to give us. However, the deal was struck and two days after the honeymoon we took delivery of a six-seater kitchen table that, for some reason, or maybe no reason at all, came with seven chairs.

         How all this was to be fitted into the kitchen diner of our small flat became the first challenge of our married life. It was also the cause of our first quarrel. How was a table, seven chairs, plus two armchairs, a settee, cupboard and TV to fit into a room eleven foot by nine? The answer, according to Jenny, was that they couldn't, something had to go, and as usual, she was right. The next day we donated the armchairs back to the charity shop from whence they came and offloaded three of the chairs into the safekeeping of my parents. With the table shifted back against the wall an uninterrupted corridor of floor space opened up allowing us to make the necessary journeys about our flat while at all times maintaining contact with the carpet.        

         Problem over we now established a modus operandi which made full and frequent use of the table. In addition to being the place where we ate our meals, it became, with the addition of a blanket, an ironing board and, without said blanket, a card table, a writing desk and the 'seat of learning' at which I studied for my accountancy exams. In a moment of passion, we even made love on it, an erotic, if bruising, experience that may have resulted in the birth of our first child. The addition of a cot and pram into our limited living space finally persuaded me to commit to a mortgage and we moved into a seven-room semi which not only had a separate kitchen but lounge and dining rooms too. Our table could now stand centre stage, as intended, with all seven chairs around it.

         Over the next three years, two more children were born and their increasingly mobile explorations of the house became an ever-present danger both to themselves and the many floor-standing objects in their way. The solid wood construction of the table presented them with a particular challenge and when Johnny found that head butting its yellow legs was an unequal contest causing damaging to his forehead he enacted his revenge with a metal Matchbox toy that removed a narrow sliver of wood. Not to be outdone, brother Michael inflicted two dents of his own while, four years later, Lizzie first expressed her artistic talents by daubing the tabletop with white paint from an unattended tin of emulsion.

         But at last, the table became what it was intended to be, a place where a family ate together, talked, laughed and occasionally fell out. Other families ate their meals around the TV, not us. Jenny's restaurant extended no further than the table and no one was going to miss out on her cooking. The table also became the place where, at breakfast, letters were opened and the news within, when suitable for inquisitive ears, was shared and discussed. The news was invariably good: invitations to parties, birthday cards, a letter from ERNIE, news of examinations passed and a few that weren't. The kids were clever. Throughout their school days, they worked hard, did well. It was in the genes, I said; with a Mum and Dad like us how could they go wrong, and up to now they haven't.

         Johnny passed his A levels and went to Durham University. He was the first of our brood to venture from home, to be followed by Michael who opted for teacher training at Durham. With Johnny graduated and back at home it was now time for Lizzie to leave for art college. Thank goodness for the summer holidays and the chance to reunite around the table.

         On an August evening with the five of us sipping coffee at the end of dinner, Jenny told us her bad news. It was cancer she said, but so what, they [the hospital] had caught it early, at least early enough. After chemo she would be fine, no one was to fuss. Twelve months later she was in remission and we celebrated with another family meal at which champagne was drunk and never more enjoyed.

         But the times they were a-changing and this was the last time that all five of us would be together. Johnny married and moved to the States, Michael fed up with commuting into London rented a flat in Deptford while Lizzie, on the completion of her course, was offered and accepted a job with the Manchester Arts' Council. It was hard not to be sad but a worse sadness was to come. Jenny's cancer was back and this time there was no stopping it. On the day before the funeral, I had her coffin brought from the undertakers and placed on the table that had been an ever-present
witness to our life together.

         The memories it now stirs are mainly happy ones but no one shouldn't live on memories. Life is about the here and now, which is why I'm giving the table to the young couple down the road. They have memories of their own to make, and good memories require a good table.   

 

 Copyright Richard Banks