Etiquette for a Dinner Party (26 page)

'I'm in telecommunications,' says Ernest.

Their entrée plates have been cleared. He reaches for the wine bottle and pours them each another glass. There are others in the restaurant now and he is comforted by the low hum of conversation. Clare is pushing tiny breadcrumbs together with her fingernail. They form a little mountain in front of her. Ernest sees that her tears have gone. He is relieved that she has pulled herself together. As he puts the bottle down, he sees it again. Just out of the corner of his eye, shapes shift inside her bag. He knows this cannot be happening. Perhaps Clare moved it with her foot? Yes, that must be it. He looks straight at the bag: again, it is still.

'Oh? What sort of tele . . . ?'

'I only ticked companionship, you know.' Ernest blurts it out. He says it loudly, and as the words tumble out he feels his face burn again.

She frowns, still smiling. 'Pardon me?'

'On the form, at the agency. The boxes. The one I ticked was companionship.'

She reaches across the table and takes his hand. She holds it, waits while Ernest closes his eyes then opens them.

'I'm so sorry,' he says. 'How rude of me . . .'

'That's okay Ernest,' she says. 'I ticked companionship too.' .

Ernest and Esme took two of the bags on their honeymoon — the identical pair, second to largest. Esme, for whom the destination was a surprise, was worried that there would not be room for souvenirs. But they spent the week in a little country cottage not far from town, and the contents of their bags upon return were identical to those they took away.

They settled down to the routines of life in their modest home. Ernest returned to the telephone exchange. Esme, who had been caring for an elderly aunt before they married, continued to visit her each day.

Ernest's job, perfect for his sonorous BBC enunciation, did not pay well enough for far-away trips. The bags remained in the cupboard under the stairs. Esme rolled her eyes when he talked about them. She walked out of the room when he suggested they save for another little trip to the country.

One day he was spring-cleaning, accumulating quite a pile of things on the floor beside him. There were photo albums and soft toys that they had treasured in their respective childhoods. There were birthday cards, jigsaw puzzles, their marriage certificate and the manual for Ernest's first car, with a set of spare keys still taped to the inside cover.

Ernest gathered the pile and carried it to the cupboard under the stairs. He was about to deposit everything in the far corner when it occurred to him that the suitcases would be perfect storage units. Being solid and secure, they would repel dampness and deter vermin. He pulled out the biggest bag and put the keepsakes inside.

Over time, he returned to the bag to pop something or another inside. Their first joint electricity account (Esme misinterpreted this for sentimentality, but he pointed out that invoices of this kind must be kept for a certain number of years, lest the taxation authorities wish to see them). Other bills and receipts made their way into the big bag, along with wedding anniversary gifts and birthday cake candles.

Esme seemed resentful, at first, at this use of these fine suitcases. But after a time she also started to store things inside them. Soon the biggest bag was full. As they had no trip planned, they started to fill the next two bags. .

The restaurant is full now, the air alive with conversation and the clatter of cutlery. Ernest is relieved when the waiter sets their food down before them. He cannot believe he has made such a mess of the evening. Another hour, at the most, he thinks. Another hour and it will be over.

He picks up his knife and fork and cuts into the fish on his plate. It is perfectly cooked, delicious, and he tries to remember how long it has been since he shared a meal with someone else. He looks up and Clare is chewing her food, smiling at him.

He remembers they are supposed to be sharing information. 'What do you do, Clare?'

Clare puts her knife and fork down, and dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

'I'm a cartographer.'

'Is that what brought you to New Zealand?'

There. He's done it. He has spoken the words necessary to carry them through the rest of the evening in a civilised manner. Ernest is relieved — no, more than relieved — he is proud to have achieved this. Not long now, and they can say their goodbyes.

Clare continues with her story. In spite of his resolve, his pique at the misleading information on the agency form, Ernest finds himself listening..

Esme was, irrefutably, enamoured with the sound of Ernest. But his physical presence provoked in her feelings of ambivalence which, over a period of time, turned to disdain.

She had wrongly assumed his cultured tone was the harbinger of hidden family wealth. Ernest, in turn, compensated for his lack of means the only way he knew how — by talking. From the moment he woke, till he left the house for work, he chatted on to her. How did she sleep? Was she well? He was well, he told the responding silence, more than well, he was happy to be alive, ecstatic to be sharing his life with her.

What did she have planned for the day? Have a good day, Esme . . . how was your day, Esme? Are you tired? Are you ill? Can I fix you some dinner? On and on he talked, whether or not she was listening. He even had little conversations with her when she wasn't there. He pleaded and wheedled, thankful that the deep pitch of his voice disguised his desperation to make her happy.

Ernest arrived home from work one day and Esme had gone. He
walked from room to room, looking at empty corners and the outlines of her
favourite ornaments on dusty shelves. The evidence of her presence in his
life had already taken on a past tense.

He could not accurately recall the exact events of the days that followed. He remembered telephoning work to say he was ill. Eventually he dragged himself from bed and sat in his pyjamas on the back steps of the house. It was approximately one week after Esme had left. It was sunny and warm. Ernest drank black tea, unable to lift his face to the sun.

At some point, he thought of the suitcases. He put the cup down on the cold concrete step, shuffled back inside the house and opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs. It was cold in the little room and he shivered. The suitcases were still there. Ernest lifted the biggest one, expecting it to be light and empty, but it was heavy in his hands. The only bag missing was the little vanity case. It was empty, and Ernest had no use for it. But it left a gap in his luggage set. .

'You don't mind, do you Ernest?'

'Mind what?' Ernest has pushed his plate to one side. The fish is cold. He is no longer hungry.

'Mind me talking, like this. It's so nice, to have someone to talk to.'

Ernest doesn't mind. She has talked now for how long? He has no idea. He keeps a wary eye on her bag but there is no further movement. It is as though it too has settled, drawn into her story. He has given up wondering about the bag, for now anyway.

'No,' he says. 'Go on. Please, go on.'

Clare is crying again as she talks about her son. Ernest leans across the table and wipes the tears away from her cheeks with his thumbs. He wonders at the beauty of his hand doing this, at how right this feels. As he pulls back, he touches a tear on his own face. This is what it is, he thinks. Listening. Talking and listening. It is the exchanging of gifts.

Clare, it seems, is done with talking. 'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I'm so sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted . . .'

Ernest calls the waiter over. 'Could we see the dessert menus please?'

He looks at this woman, at this Clare Bentworth who has asked him to listen. Then he begins.

'My wife and I had a lovely set of suitcases given to us as a wedding gift . . .'

For the things I learned when I started writing this book, thank you William Brandt. For the immeasurable support and advice along the way, thank you to the Victoria University 2006 Creative Writing MA class of Craig Cliff, Gigi Fenster, Tom Fitzsimons, Emma Gallagher, Anna Horsley, Kate Mahoney, Mary McPherson, Lucy Orbell and Abby Stewart. For inspirational tutoring and wise counsel, thank you Bill Manhire, and for all your help and encouragement, thank you Katie Hardwick-Smith, Clare Moleta and June McCabe. Thank you Paula Green for seeing me to the finish line. For publishing this book and continuing to support my writing, thank you Harriet Allan and Vintage (Random House). For everything, thank you Adrian and my parents, Gorrie and Bill Scott.

'The Stories of Frank Sargeson' was first published in
The New Zealand Listener
,
October 27–November 2, 2007.

'Etiquette for a Dinner Party' was first published in
Sport 35
, 2007 (VUP).

'Velocity' was first published in
The Best New Zealand Fiction Volume Four
, edited by Fiona Farrell 2007 (Vintage).

'How Women Behave When Men Are Losing Their Wives' was first published on the electronic journal Turbine 06.

'Lifeline' was the winner of the New Zealand Society of Authors' Auckland Short Story Competition 2007.

The manuscript for this book was the recipient of the New Zealand Society of Authors' 2007 Lilian Ida Smith Award. I gratefully acknowledge this assistance in completing
Etiquette for a Dinner Party.