Mavis Gallant - Home Truths

“I make a lot of work for Meg,” Mr. Reeve said to Sarah. “The breakfasts — breakfast every day, you know — and she is the one who looks after the Christmas cards. Marriage has been a bind for her. She did a marvellous job with evacuees in the war. And poor old Meg loathed kids, still does. You’ll never hear her say so. I’ve never known Meg to complain.”

Mrs. Reeve had not waited for her husband to die before starting her widow’s diet of tea and toast and jam and gin (the bottle was there, by the toaster, along with a can of orange juice). Sarah knew about this, for not only was her father a widower but they had often spent summers with a widowed aunt. The Reeves seemed like her father and her aunt grown elderly and distorted. Mrs. Reeve now unwrapped a chocolate bar, which caused a fit of snorting and jostling on the sofa. “No chockie bits for boys with bad manners,” she said, feeding them just the same. Yes, there she sat, a widow with two dogs for company. Mr. Reeve, delicately buttering and eating the toast meant for Sarah, murmured that when he did go he did not want poor Meg to have any fuss. He seemed to be planning his own modest gravestone; in a heightened moment of telepathy Sarah was sure she could see it too. To Sarah, the tall old man had already ceased to be. He was not Mr. Reeve, Roy’s friend and landlord, but an ectoplasmic impression of somebody like him, leaning forward, lips slightly parted, lifting a piece of toast that was caving in like a hammock with a weight of strawberry jam. Panic was in the room, but only Sarah felt it. She had been better off, safer, perhaps happier even, up in Grenoble, trying not to yawn over “Tout m’afflige, et me nuit, et conspire à me nuire.” What was she doing here, indoors, on this glowing day, with these two snivelly dogs and these gluttonous old persons? She turned swiftly, hearing Roy, and in her heart she said, in a quavering spoiled child’s voice, “I want to go home.” (How many outings had she ruined for her father. How many picnics, circuses, puppet shows, boat rides. From how many attempted holidays had he been fetched back with a telegram from whichever relation had been trying to hold Sarah down for a week. The strong brass chords of “I want my own life” had always been followed by this dismal piping.)

Roy poured their coffee into pottery mugs and his eyes met Sarah’s. His said, Yes, these are the Reeves. They don’t matter. I only want one thing, and that’s to get back to where we were a few hours ago.

So they were to be conspirators: she liked that.

The Reeves had now done with chewing, feeding, swallowing, and brushing crumbs, and began placing Sarah. Who was she? Sarah Holmes, a little transatlantic pickup, a student slumming round for a summer? What had she studied? Sociology, psychology, and some economics, she told them.

“Sounds Labour” was Mr. Reeve’s comment.

She simplified her story and mentioned the thesis. “Urban and Regional Studies of the Less Privileged in British Columbia,” as far as Mr. Reeve was concerned, contained only one reassuring word, and that was “British.” Being the youngest in the room, Sarah felt like the daughter of the house. She piled cups and plates on one of the trays and took them out to the kitchen. The Reeves were not the sort of people who would ever bother to whisper: she heard that she was “a little on the tall side” and that her proportions made Roy seem slight and small, “like a bloody dago.” Her hair was too long; the fringe on her forehead looked sparse and pasted down with soap. She also heard that she had a cast in one eye, which she did not believe.

“One can’t accuse her of oversmartness,” said Mrs. Reeve.

Roy, whose low voice had carrying qualities, said, “No, Meg. Sarah’s jeans are as faded, as baggy, as those brown corduroys of yours. However, owing to Sarah’s splendid and enviable shape, hers are not nearly so large across the beam end.” This provoked two laughs — a cackle from Jack Sprat and a long three-note moo from his wife.

“Well, Roy,” said Tim Reeve, “all I can say is, you amaze me. How do you bring it off?”

“What about me?” said Sarah to herself. “How do I bring it off?”

“At least she’s had sense enough not to come tramping around in high-heeled shoes, like some of our visitors,” said Mrs. Reeve — her last word for the moment.

Roy warned Sarah what lunch — the good old fry-up — would be. A large black pan the Reeves had brought to France from England when they emigrated because of taxes and Labour would be dragged out of the oven; its partner, a jam jar of bacon fat, stratified in a wide extent of suety whites, had its permanent place on top of the stove. The lowest, or Ur, line of fat marked the very first fry-up in France. A few spoonfuls of this grease, releasing blue smoke, received tomatoes, more bacon, eggs, sausages, cold boiled potatoes. To get the proper sausages they had to go to a shop that imported them, in Monte Carlo. This was no distance, but the Reeves’ car had been paid for by Tim, and he was mean about it. He belonged to a generation that had been in awe of batteries: each time the ignition was turned on, he thought the car’s lifeblood was seeping away. When he became too stingy with the car, then Meg would not let him look at television: the set was hers. She would push it on its wheeled table over bumpy rugs into their bedroom and put a chair against the door.

Roy was a sharp mimic and he took a slightly feminine pleasure in mocking his closest friends. Sarah lay on her elbow on the bed as she had lain on the beach and thought that if he was disloyal to the Reeves then he was all the more loyal to her. They had been told to come back for lunch around three; this long day was in itself like a whole summer. She said, “It sounds like a movie. Are they happy?”

“Oh, blissful,” he answered, surprised, and perhaps with a trace of reproval. It was as if he were very young and she had asked an intimate question about his father and mother.

The lunch Roy had described was exactly the meal they were given. She watched him stolidly eating eggs fried to a kind of plastic lace, and covering everything with mustard to damp out the taste of grease. When Meg opened the door to the kitchen she was followed by a blue haze. Tim noticed Sarah’s look — she had wondered if something was burning — and said, “Next time you’re here that’s where we’ll eat. It’s what we like. We like our kitchen.”

“Today we are honoring Sarah,” said Meg Reeve, as though baiting Roy.

“So you should,” he said. It was the only attempt at sparring; they were all much too fed and comfortable. Tim, who had been to Monte Carlo, had brought back another symbol of their roots, the Hovis loaf. They talked about his shopping, and the things they liked doing — gambling a little, smuggling from Italy for sport. One thing they never did was look at the Mediterranean. It was not an interesting sea. It had no tides. “I do hope you aren’t going to bother with it,” said Tim to Sarah. It seemed to be their private measure for a guest — that and coming round in the wrong clothes.

The temperature in full sun outside the sitting-room window was thirty-three degrees centigrade. “What does it mean?” said Sarah. Nobody knew. Tim said that 16 °C was the same thing as 61°F but that nothing else corresponded. For instance, 33 °C could not possibly be 33°F — No, it felt like a lot more.

After the trial weekend Sarah wrote to her father, “I am in this interesting old one-room guesthouse that belongs to an elderly couple here. It is in their garden. They only let reliable people stay in it.” She added, “Don’t worry, I’m working.” If she concealed information she did not exactly lie: she thought she was working. Instead of French civilization taught in airless classrooms she would study expatriates at first hand. She decided to record the trivia first — how visitors of any sort were a catastrophe, how a message from old friends staying at Nice brought Tim back from the telephone wearing the look of someone whose deepest feelings have been raked over.