NEW
TIMES NOW
by Richard Banks
I
was, my mother once told me, a reluctant baby in no hurry to leave the warmth
and safety of her womb. That may explain
why I have always preferred a bath to a shower. Why rush what should be a
pleasure, a chance to savour again that untroubled time before the uncertain
transition to a strange and unknown world.
Thirty-six years on, the good times
have far outweighed the bad. I have been fortunate, unaffected by war, disease , or famine. My life has been unremarkable, often dull, but the quiet certainty
to which I have become accustomed is something I value above everything else.
Jenny is in the kitchen, the engine
room she calls it, cooking dinner, her still slim figure almost hidden by the
steam rising from several saucepans on the hob. It’s pasta night, as it is
every Friday. What could be better than bucatini or spaghetti with a glass or
two of Chianti? In our lounge/diner Lucy and Kate are examining the presents
under the Christmas tree squeezing the ones with their names on, guessing what
is hidden beneath the brightly coloured wrapping paper. When they were younger
they would sometimes open a particularly intriguing parcel before attempting to
reinstate its covering. Now they understand that the unwrapping of presents
must wait until Christmas morning and never before the ringing of my alarm
clock.
They should be setting the table but as
usual, they have forgotten, distracted by the lure of more interesting things.
Jenny peers through the serving hatch and with feigned annoyance expresses
surprise that nothing has been done. But within minutes everything is done,
Lucy fetches the tablecloth from the linen cupboard and spreads it unevenly over
the dining table while Kate takes spoons and forks from the cutlery drawer and,
with studied concentration, places them on the tablecloth. She knows that the
forks must always go on the left which is the same side as her writing hand.
She is seven now, her sister six, babies no more. They sit up at the table as
Jenny brings in their meals.
Six o’clock tea is a good time,
especially on a Friday, and this Friday is no ordinary Friday, tomorrow is Christmas Day. Jenny raises her
glass. “Bon Appetite,” she says and the girls do the same with their tumblers
of lemonade. I smile but say nothing. Now is a time for eating, conversation is
for later, but for once it is not long in coming.
Kate clears her plate and discards her
spoon with a clatter onto the center of her plate. “What is happening tomorrow?”
she asks.
Jenny explains for the seventh or
eighth time that Father Christmas will come, as he always does, and that once
she and Lucy are washed and dressed they will be allowed to open all their
presents.
“And then,” Jenny continues, “as a
special treat we are all going with Uncle Ben to a lovely restaurant for
Christmas lunch.”
Kate pushes out her lips in sullen
displeasure. “Why can’t we have dinner here?”
She looks towards me as though seeking
my intervention but since the ending of our marriage there is nothing I can do
or say. This is her mother’s call and for a while, at least, she will decide
what is best for herself and the girls. I am sad but wish no sadness for them.
No, I must not be sad. It is Christmas Eve and once again I am able to share
the warmth of their company in a friendly familiar place.
Jenny wards off further discussion on
the subject of Christmas lunch by saying that it has been booked, so of course
they are going. They should be pleased that Uncle Ben has invited them to such
a posh restaurant. She adds, somewhat unconvincingly, that there is no more
food in the house and that if they don’t go to the restaurant they will have
nothing to eat all day.
“Is there no ice cream?” asks Lucy, her
face a picture of despair.
Jenny concedes that there might still
be some ice cream left and departs to the kitchen to find it. She returns with
dessert bowls, spoons, and a tub of Caramel Swirl. It is their favourite dessert
and thoughts of Christmas lunch are temporarily forgotten. As they finish,
Jenny turns on the television; a distraction is needed and instantly provided
by a Christmas edition of the Simpsons. I watch it with the girls while Jenny
clears the table and loads the dishwasher in the kitchen. She peers through the
serving hatch and seeing them absorbed in the adventures of Bart and Lisa
quietly makes a phone call on her mobile. I resist the temptation to move
closer to the serving hatch and eavesdrop on the conversation taking place.
There is no point, I know who she is talking to, and the words they are
speaking I should not be hearing; better to watch the Simpsons with the two
little girls sitting in front of me on the carpet. The program ends and Kate
switches channels until she finds another cartoon. Jenny returns to the lounge
and sits down beside me on the settee. She studies the TV guide and informs the
girls that ‘Strictly’ will soon be starting and that once it is finished they
must get ready for bed. Tonight is the final. For six weeks the various
contestants have battled it out until only two couples remain. The presenter is
not unlike Jenny; she is wearing a white dress. Automatically my eyes turn
towards the photograph of our wedding on the wall above the fireplace, but it
is gone replaced by one of her and the girls. The snapshot of me in the hall
still remains but is seldom noticed. In time it too will disappear into the
cupboard under the stairs, out of sight and largely out of mind.
Am I angry? No. This is the way it has
to be. What is done is done and can’t be undone. Memories that give no pleasure
must be forgotten, discarded. Life is about today and tomorrow, never the past.
Jenny knows this. Her future and that of the girls is uncertain but she is
determined that through the choices she makes all will be well.
Will one of those choices be Ben? Only
time will tell. They have been dating for only three months, but if he were to
propose what would she say? He is charming, reasonably good-looking, and
apparently not short of money. Let’s hope there is more to him than that.
‘Strictly’ comes to a triumphant end
and Jenny switches off the TV. Having quelled the usual protests she ushers the
girls upstairs into the bathroom where they clean their teeth and change into their
pyjamas. Once they would run back to me for hugs and kisses but now they go
straight to their beds. Jenny reads them a story and they settle down beneath
their duvets determined to fall asleep before Santa calls. She returns to the
lounge and pours herself another glass of wine. She is pensive, lost in
thought, she tries to read but turns only two pages of a chic lit novel. We sit
in silence not wanting to turn on the television lest it disturbs the girls.
We have much to say to each other, but
nothing that can be spoken. I want to tell her that it’s OK, that I understand,
life changes, so must she. Would she say the same to me? I think she would. So
why do I linger? Is it that we never said goodbye or am I, yet again, the
reluctant baby? One year after the accident that ended my life I should be
away, but the warmth and comfort of much loved people in a familiar place has
more attraction than the unknown place beyond.
Jenny peers into the girls’ bedroom and
finds them asleep. There are Christmas stockings to fill, clothes to be ironed,
an extra present to wrap and label. At eleven thirty she turns off the lounge
light and departs for bed. Tomorrow she will be woken by the sound of my alarm
clock and the excited cries of our children. By then I will be gone. Where I am
bound I don’t know, only that it is a new beginning, that death, like birth, is
a part of life and that in life I may be born again. On Christmas Eve I am
filled with hope.
Copyright Richard Banks
