A Terrible Kindness(36)
Everyone’s on the move, carrying things to the table, pulling things out of cupboards, filling a water jug; adults and teenagers in a melee of movement and noise in a kitchen bigger than the floor plan of his entire flat. Mr Mussey’s hand on his back exerts enough pressure to push him towards the table, a huge, cross-hatched thing that sits in the curve of the generous bay window. Martin has already slid onto the ledge of the bay which is padded with long cushions, indicating for William to join him. Like iron filings, the bodies in the room converge and sit, and all the hustle and bustle becomes an energy focused on the serving bowls. Sitting opposite him on high-backed pine chairs are Imogen and Isobel, Martin’s terrifyingly pretty twin sisters, and Richard. Mr and Mrs Mussey sit at either end and it must be the third brother, Edward, sitting on the other side of Martin.
‘Roast Henrietta and Mabel tonight. God rest their souls,’ Mr Mussey booms, red hair flopping over his brow as he sets to Henrietta or Mabel with a carving knife, with all the latent energy and enthusiasm William has always enjoyed in Martin.
‘Flo, are you sure you don’t want any meat?’ Mrs Mussey says over her shoulder.
William wonders where Flo is going to sit, but she has a coat on and is standing with her back to them, laying a piece of foil over a plate.
‘I’m fine with this, thank you.’ Flo smiles from the back door, the plate balanced in one hand. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Flo,’ the family shout back, some turning, some carrying on with what they’re doing.
‘She goes off meat when we eat something she’s known since it hatched,’ Richard tells William, as Flo closes the door with a waft of cold air. ‘The softest cook in Sussex.’
William assumed Flo was one of the many aunts or godmothers or family friends Martin has talked about. He didn’t know families had cooks. Martin has never mentioned a cook!
Richard and Martin reach across the table and prod their forks into the meat as soon as it flops away from the carcass onto the serving plate, the crispy crinkled skin separating from the flesh as it falls. At home, Evelyn brings his plate to the table, already served. Does he reach out and help himself? Does he wait? Martin saves him by dropping the second two slices he takes onto William’s plate, and proceeds to take two servings of everything, one for William, then one for himself; roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, cauliflower cheese, peas, carrots and gravy – the sort of meal William would have expected at Christmas or a special Sunday lunch.
‘What a sweet boy you are,’ says Mr Mussey to Martin, rubbing his head. ‘Do you see that, darling? He’s actually thinking of someone else.’
‘Just as well.’ Mrs Mussey piles carrots onto her plate. ‘If you don’t dig in quick here, William dear, this lot will strip the table bare before you’ve located your cutlery.’
She has silver-streaked blonde hair that hangs down beyond her shoulders, scruffy and slightly matted, as if it could be home to an exotic bird. She sticks out her bottom lip to blow strands of it away from her face. Her flesh looks firm under her floating floral dress, no mound at her middle. When she leaps up from her seat and strides across the kitchen to get the pepper, he notices her calves flexing and thinks he wouldn’t be surprised were she to hurdle the table.
A few mouthfuls in, William dares to look at Isobel and Imogen. They have inherited their mother’s blonde hair, except theirs is sleek and straight. Their limbs are long and golden and William struggles not to stare; partly because they are stunning and he doesn’t get to look at girls very often, but also because, apart from his father and uncle, they are the first set of identical twins he’s been able to have a good look at. He won’t be able to tell them apart away from the table, where Imogen is opposite Martin and Isobel is opposite him, but as Richard and Martin insult each other, Isobel often meets his eye and smiles easily at him, whereas Imogen seems to avoid it – which is what he’d do if he was being stared at by a stranger. Isobel seems keener to follow the conversation and chip in, whereas Imogen goes for long periods concentrating on her food, occasionally pushing her silky curtain of hair over her shoulder. William also notices how the sisters glance at each other at the same time, raise their eyebrows in exactly the same way, and his favourite bit is when Imogen reaches over and pulls Isobel’s hair out of the way before it trails in the gravy. Isobel carries on as if she’d done it herself. He finds that very satisfying.
He glances at Mr Mussey, who’s watching him with a light smile on his face. William feels himself blush and concentrates on Edward, who is wishing that chickens had four legs. He’s conscious he should join in the conversation; he hasn’t said a word yet. They’ll think he’s an idiot or rude. He promises himself at the next silence, he’ll ask a question. Twice he has taken a breath, but then someone else bursts in and it’s rare that only one person is talking.
Eventually, there’s a significant pause and he says, much too loud and fast, ‘How was the Boxing Day Play?’
After all the over-talking, interrupting, laughing, there’s a united snapping of attention. Everyone’s looking at him and it’s completely silent. He’s said something wrong.
‘Didn’t Martin tell you?’ Imogen eventually says.
He glances at Martin who is grinning with food-filled cheeks.
‘I wanted to surprise him,’ Martin says.