“MY father has a BMW? It’s silver? He says it’s a great piece of engine … engineering?”
I was sitting across from flaxen-haired little Miss Jane Stewart Elliot.
A lot of people, young or old, can’t make simple statements any more without turning them into sing-song questions with a rising inflection at the end. I don’t know how this syndrome started, but certainly it was a habit among a lot of bureaucrats at meetings I’d attended. It seemed as if they thought saying things this way added emphasis. To me, it just sounded stupid and indicated uncertainty.
“Oh really?”
“Uh-huh. He gave mummy the Miata as part of the settlement? For the divorce? He said it was just a cheap Jam-pan-ese car, but she didn’t want a BMW?”
I glanced over at Sandy who was helping Isabelle pull herself closer to her place at the dining room table. Between us we’d managed to shepherd Isabelle through to the dining room for the occasion. Sandy rolled her eyes at me, then headed into the kitchen.
Before we were interrupted by the call about the fire, Sandy had been talking about Jane and her father. The parents shared custody, and it seemed to be working out more or less. The father, named Dave, had married the colleague who had been the cause of the divorce in the first place.
During her university work abroad, Sandy had been able to fly back fairly regularly to Canada, taking her custody turns in her flat in London, Ontario, which she had now given up. She and Dave were going to try longer periods of alternating custody as Jane grew older. Sandy would have her for the coming summer in Ottawa, helped out by day-camp facilities at the university and a housekeeper/babysitter once Sandy secured her own living quarters.
Jane was to finish her current school year in Ottawa and was understandably unhappy about leaving her little friends in London. Like all parents in this situation, Sandy was concerned how the arrangements would affect Jane.
“My father’s an engineer? That’s why he knows the BMW is so good? Although he’s thinking of a Mercedes Bents?”
“Oh really?”
“He makes a lot of money? Prob … prolly more than you?”
The little twit was no doubt right, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing. The father sounded easy to dislike. A selfish, smug jerk driving a poseur’s car.
“Does he have a hands-free cell phone, too?”
I caught Isabelle’s warning glance from across the table.
“Oh yes, of course he does. And a very big house in London? I have my own bathroom there?”
Sandy brought in the casserole at that point and started dishing it out at the table. Somehow she’d found some impressive china and cutlery in Isabelle’s boxes. There were crystal glasses for the wine, linen serviettes, and flowers in a vase in the centre of the mahogany table. I poured wine for the adults and lit the candles as Sandy passed the dishes around.
Sandy’s casserole was very good, and I only just managed to prevent myself from wolfing it down in about two minutes flat. Isabelle and Sandy were chatting idly about household matters and how Angela would help out with extra hours now that little Jane was on the scene temporarily. I was simply content to sit at a formal table enjoying a good meal with female company as a change from sardines on toast or other bachelor meals alone in my flat.
Then the shriller female voice started up again.
“Are you in trouble with the police? Mummy says you prolly have to talk to them?”
Sandy intervened.
“Now, Jane, I explained that Mr. Anderson’s business was set on fire. Bad people did this for some reason. It’s not Mr. Anderson’s fault. All I said was that Isabelle told me the police will ask Mr. Anderson and all his workers questions to find out who could have done it. No one’s blaming Mr. Anderson and he’s certainly not in trouble with the police. Now hurry up and finish your dinner.”
Sandy gave me an apologetic look and I smiled reassuringly back at her.
Jane turned her attention back to her plate. She used cutlery well, didn’t speak with her mouth full, didn’t kick her shoes against the chair rails incessantly, or pick her nose. Nor did she fidget like some kids were prone to do until mercifully released from the table to the television set.
I quite liked children, and tended to talk to them as if they were adults on the principle that no one should be patronized whatever their sex, age, size, or station in life. On the other hand, it seemed to me that many children were out of control and acting up all the time. Exhausted parents, both earning incomes, might be partly to blame, I thought. It was probably just as well Liz and I had been childless. I’m not sure either of us would have had the patience.
“Can I please be excused?”
“Yes, Jane.”
She slid off the chair, then turned to me once more.
“Mummy likes you, but I don’t? You have big ears?”
Sandy got up very quickly, grabbing Jane’s chubby arm.
“You say you’re sorry to Mr. Anderson right now, young lady. And you know better than to say such things.”
“I’m sorry?”
The child’s eyes were glistening with tears now, but other than that she didn’t look very sorry at all.
Sandy took her away to her temporary bedroom upstairs.
“I like wee children, Conn,” Isabelle said to me from across the table. “Preferably parboiled.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Barbecued could work, but I suppose you’d need to marinate the little limbs overnight first.”
“Aye, perhaps in red wine. One of the lighter burgundies would be nice.”
“Well … she’s just a kid. And not happy to be uprooted, which isn’t surprising.”
“In my day, couples stayed taegether no matter what. The bairns suffer otherwise. That one is very spoiled by the father, I’m thinking,” Isabelle sighed.
Sandy came back to the table. She looked distraught.
“I’m very sorry, Conn. She’s not usually that impolite. It was a long train ride yesterday and I expect she’s tired and disoriented.”
“Please, Sandy, don’t worry about it. And she’s right; I do have big ears that stick out. It was great for my parents at Halloween when I was a kid. They didn’t have to spend much money on costumes. I just wore a little suit, slicked back my hair, and went out as Prince Charles.”
This seemed to strike the right note and we moved on to other topics.
Later, I helped Sandy with the dishes. Isabelle didn’t have a dishwashing machine. We were standing very close to each other as I washed and she dried the china, cutlery, and glasses. We weren’t speaking. There didn’t seem to be any need. When I’d placed the last pot into the draining board, she handed me the dishtowel. I dried my hands and put it down. We were looking at each other, face to face. I didn’t move, just looked into her eyes. Her scent was light and subtle. She had freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“Mummy, the light in my bedroom isn’t working? I want to read my book?”