Кен Бруен - A Fifth of Bruen - Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“Miserable old goat,” she thought... he’d probably have some yarn about a dead wife and sweet cakes... and yet. She said,

“Don’t be silly, nobody’s beyond a bit of sweetness.”

The near wisdom of this hung between them. She selected an éclair, her absolute favourite. Cutting carefully, she saved the cream, which galloped to the side and popped a wedge.

“Ah bliss...” she thought, “all of heaven”... and double bonus, felt the softness meet like joy against the roof of her mouth. A shot of coffee and she knew true contentment. He looked directly at her.

“When are you due?”

Astonished, she nearly forgot the cakes.

“How can you tell... do I show?”

“No, no... it’s the bloom, you have... a radiance.”

Her English mind searched for an English word to catch her reaction.

“CHUFFED”...

Yes... exactly that. A proper description.

“Have you children?” she asked.

“No. No, I don’t. A woman once told me I wasn’t responsible enough for such a grace.”

Cora was appalled.

“Damn cheek... you don’t believe that do you?... surely not?”

He thought about it.

“I hope not,” he answered.

A silence fell. Cora finished the éclair. A second one was winking for her attention. She thought that might be greedy but oh... it looked lonely without its mate... weren’t they better in pairs?

“Excuse me, dear, but I must to the Gents...”

When he returned, he didn’t sit but stood straight as if he was going to recite. He said,

“My dear, please indulge the whim of an old man. I paid for your coffee... and TWO éclairs.

(They both smiled.)

“I’d be so pleased if you’d eat the partner remaining. I wish you and the baby a whole mountain of light. I always thought that babies dream... do you think they do?”

Cora didn’t know.

“I dunno,” she said, “what on earth could they dream about?”

“Exactly... that’s it... I’d say they dream of angels.”

After he’d gone, Cora sliced the second éclair and with deep relish, ate it. Was it possibly more delicious? A smudge of chocolate lit her upper lip. Even had she known, it’s doubtful she’d have cared. A hint of a lullaby was coursing out from her heart. Gently and slowly, words of childhood began to trickle from her mouth. As she hummed, she wondered if she’d risk another coffee.

“The cruelest lies are often told in silence.”

Mary fretted.

When would be the best moment for the gift?

She didn’t look fifty-five. Her face retained the fresh Irish expectantly. After thirty-five years of marriage she expected precious little. Up close her face showed the lines of disappointment. Not many got close, not anymore.

She’d retained most of her figure, not through vanity but disillusionment. A steady diet. Dark rinsed hair highlit blue eyes. A mouth built to smile... didn’t, at least not often.

Charles was ten years older. Wiser, too, to hear him tell it. Tall, he used his height as a weapon, of sneak intimidation. Completely bald, he polished the pate with gusto. “VIRILITY” and he spelt it.

Wide grey eyes lulled you to interpretations of kindness. Till he spoke. A voice fuelled on contempt wiped the impression. Their thirty-fifth anniversary. He’d chosen the restaurant for its hauteur. Belittlement was the main course and ensured its success.

Dressed in dark blue pin-stripe, Charles surveyed the room with glee.

“Class,” he said, “No yobbos.”

Mary didn’t answer. He was accustomed to an audience, not a participant.

“Snob-appeal,” she thought.

His tie established his status as a Tory outrider.

A waiter appeared, greeting-less.

Charles commanded,

   — No starters.

   — Chicken Maryland for me.

   — the fish for my wife.

   — side order of

      sauté mushrooms

      jacket potatoes

      celery sticks

      broccoli and carrots.

“The chicken is fresh?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. A carafe of the house plonk... and mineral water for my wife. MALVERN... none of that French rubbish.

“Your face is unfamiliar to me.”

“I’m new, sir.”

“Well, chop chop, the food won’t arrive of its own volition.”

The waiter withdrew.

Mary was mortified, not a new experience but always raw. She longed to say something. Instead, she took the package from her bag and shyly placed it before him. Her heart was pounding. It was beautifully wrapped in black and gold paper. A tiny ribbon enhanced its appeal.

“What’s this?”

“A little surprise for the occasion.”

He frowned, and said, “I hope you haven’t been playing silly buggers... wasting money again.”

She flushed, and said, “Go on dear, open it now.”

Sighing, he crudely tore it open. A thin gold watch fell on the table.

“I have a watch,” he said.

Something rattled near her heart.

“But Charles, this is special, it’s a dress watch... and... I had it inscribed.”

He looked at the back. It read “TI AMOR.”

“Spanish is it... of some significance I suppose?”

“Italian, dear... it’s Italian... it says... well am... that I care about you.”

“Stuff and nonsense... here put the damned thing away before the new chappie brings the grub. I declare, where you pick up those silly notions. AND, marked like that, it lowers the pre-sale value.”

“It’s not marked, it’s inscribed.”

“Same thing,” he said, and pushed it at her.

She lifted it gently and let it rest a moment in her lap. Then she let it slip to the floor, using her right heel, she began to grind down.

The food arrived.

Charles set to... and drank noisily. He’d eaten half when he set down his fork and loudly summoned the waiter.

“Yes sir, is everything to your satisfaction... and madam?”

“New... you said.”

“Y... es... sir.”

“What does this look like to you... go on... have a good look.”

“Chicken, sire... Chicken Maryland.”

Mary’s stomach churned.

“Well, pigs might fly, not only does it look like CHICKEN, it damned well tastes like it.”

“I’m not sure I understand the problem sir.”

“Remarkable... he doesn’t understand, from one of the Grammar schools I shouldn’t wonder. I ordered liver.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“LIVER... are you dense as well as deaf... what did I order dear?”

Mary couldn’t answer.

“Cat got your tongue, woman?... TELL him what I ordered.”

“I’m not sure, Charles... I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You weren’t WHAT!” and he banged the table.

Mary reached over quickly and grabbed the remains of the chicken. With a small yelp, she flung it out across the restaurant. All eyes turned.

“See...,” she said, “... mebbe it’s bacon... or some breed of bird. But liver, no, I don’t think so darling... You’re right as usual.”

Violence! Don’t talk to me about bloody violence. Brady’s roar shook the customer who had innocently commented on urban crime. Brady was nigh 6’5” in height and close on 200 pounds. Built to be a publican. At 50 years of age he radiated menace. Almost bald, this added to his aura of force. He had mean eyes and they meant exactly that. The nose was misshapen through nature and brawling. A generous mouth covered teeth dominated by a gold filling. The gold flashed frequently but merriment almost never.

Brady was obsessed by crime. He gave directions accordingly. “Want the nearest tube?... two muggings from here... the bus stop... a rape away.” A farmed portrait of Ruth Ellis was enshrined at the centre of the bar. “See here,” Brady would say, “now there’s British justice for you.” Nobody was sure if he meant this as approval or not. Alice, his wife, may have known but she’d fled some years ago. “The missis... oh I’ve her buried in the back,” he’d say. Undoubtedly, such a fate awaited her if he were to catch up with her. But she’d run fast... and far.