Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

Mr Taylor’s youngest brother was grinning at Danny. ‘I’m Alex,’ he said, holding out his hand from behind his mother. Danny took it; the grip this time was firm and it was Danny who let go first. Alex winked at him and then put an arm around his mother’s shoulders. ‘I’m dying for a drink,’ he announced. ‘What would you like, Mother?’

‘A G and T, of course, Alex.’ She turned towards Mrs Taylor but didn’t look at her. ‘I hope you have Bombay Sapphire.’

If Mrs Taylor’s face were to freeze at that moment, thought Danny, if the wind were to change, then Mrs Taylor’s face would be forever on the cusp of a pain so extreme that it seemed about to burst and like a plate landing on a hard floor, smashing and splintering and exploding into a million pieces. He looked away, embarrassed by such obvious misery.

In one swift feline drop, the old woman sat on the arm of an armchair; a graceful stretch and her bag was on the floor; another sudden turn and one leg was folded over the other. Danny could not believe how clear and taut and smooth her legs were under the pale silk stockings: no veins, no flab, no scars, they were not old legs at all. He had to look away, the old woman had seen him looking.

‘So, are we having a drink or not?’

‘Mother, I am so sorry. We only have Beefeater in the house at the moment.’ Mrs Taylor’s voice was a screech.

‘Oh, Samantha, and you know it’s my birthday!’ The old woman snapped her fingers and Alex was immediately at her side.

‘What can I do for you, Mother?’

‘Do you mind driving into town, darling?’

‘Of course not.’

Danny sensed that the youngest brother had just won something, and that every other adult there had lost.

‘If you can’t manage a gin for me, Samantha, could you manage a nip of whiskey? But something more palatable than your usual Johnnie Walker Black. A single malt, but a good one, it has to be a good one.’

Danny looked up and the old woman was staring straight at him.

It took till the first course for him to understand. She held the money. That was why they were all scared of her, why all the children were on their best behaviour, why the siblings didn’t bicker. Just before they all sat at the dining table — polished white plates, gleaming silver cutlery, all set and arranged by two women from the peninsula who scurried in and out of the kitchen, preparing, cooking, serving, refusing to look Danny in the eye, to look anyone in the eye — Virginia, a university friend of Emma’s, arrived. Virginia was seated next to Danny, but ignored him. She kept asking questions of the grandmother. ‘Emma tells me you practised law in London just after World War Two. That must have been extremely fascinating.’

The old woman dabbed a spot of soup from the corner of her mouth, took a sip of her wine and scowled at her niece. Emma was looking down at the napkin across her knees. Swiftly Danny unfolded his own napkin, forgotten at the side of his plate. He draped it over his lap.

‘London was devastated by the war. I think that only the obtuse describe the experience as fascinating .’

Ob-tuse. She said it with a soft breath caressing the second vowel. Ob-teuse . Danny’s lips silently moved and played with the new word.

Virginia’s thick-lensed glasses made her eyes appear bulbous, reminding Danny of the bulging eyes of snapper lying on blocks of ice at the Preston Market; they always made him feel that the last knowledge they had gleaned just before death was of desperate futility. Virginia seemed desperate too, like everybody else at the table, even Martin, who was silent apart from Yes, please and Thank you and It’s lovely . Danny didn’t feel desperate and he didn’t know why Virginia seemed so eager to please. She wasn’t going to get any money from the old woman.

‘Of course, it must have been so upsetting to see the effects of all that bombing and poverty. Still, how brave of you to go overseas and find work when everything would have been so topsy-turvy.’

‘I always think carrot soup needs a more full-bodied stock.’ The old woman put down her spoon, placed her hands together as if in prayer, and rested her chin on them. She peered across the table at Virginia. ‘There was nothing brave about it. I was recently married, my husband had just been appointed to a senior role at the London branch of the company, and we lived in a mews off the bloody High Street in Kensington. Real courage is leaving your home when you have nothing — no money, no contacts. That is real courage and that is real freedom.’

Virginia was floundering for a response when the old woman turned to Danny. ‘Like your mother. Martin tells me she is from Greece. Which part of Greece is she from, my dear?’

Next to Danny, Virginia slumped back in her seat.

‘Crete.’

He suddenly had the attention of everyone at the table. He hated it, wanted to escape out to the turquoise-flecked sea just visible through the trees. He spooned some soup into his mouth and the slurp of it sounded gross to his ear. The napkin fell between his legs. There was an ocean seething in his ears.

The old woman chuckled. ‘You eat like a Cretan.’

He wanted to throw the soup in her face, all over her plastic fucking gargoyle face.

It was exhausting being at the table, having to take note of where everyone was placing their drink, having to follow which piece of cutlery to use for each course, and having to remind himself not to put his elbows on the table. He watched and he followed, but he was always the first to finish his course — it seemed to take an age for the others to lift that final spoonful to their lips, and he had to tell himself not to fidget, to stay still.

By dessert, all the adults were drunk and the grandmother had been forgotten. Even Martin had drunk a glass of red wine with his meal. Danny was shocked. Martin’s cheeks were flushed — you could tell just by looking at him that alcohol was a poison. Danny refused a glass. He was finishing the last of his blueberry pie when Emma came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. She leaned down to whisper, ‘My grandmother would like you to sit with her. Let’s swap places.’ He swallowed, stood, and then, remembering how Alex had waited behind his mother until she was seated, held the chair out for Emma. He took his glass of water and sat down next to the old woman.

‘Have you been to Crete?’

Danny shook his head. He was pretending to be attentive to whatever the old lady was saying to him, but beneath the table he was slowly raising and dropping his heels, pushing against the toes of his shoes so he could feel the muscle pull, then contract.

The old woman’s hands were gnarled and white; the skin wasn’t plastic there, the skin was dying. ‘My dear, you must go. Chania is a fabulous town, truly delightful. Was your mother born on the island?’

‘No. She was born here.’ He heard how the ‘h’ had dropped off the last word. So he mouthed it to himself, He-ere .

‘Ah, so it is your grandparents who migrated. Do you know which part of Crete they are from?’

Again, he just shook his head. He didn’t want to tell her that he hadn’t seen his papou and giagia since he was six, that his mother just got exhausted from the fighting and the screaming. It just never stops, it never stops, he remembered her howling, and how scared he had been to hear it. His father had held her and said, You don’t ever have to see them again. We’re leaving . He remembered that his grandfather’s hands were enormous and that the old man wouldn’t give him a hug. He also recalled his grandmother’s hands, could only remember them with a coating of flour, like phantom gloves. He would not say any of that to the old woman sitting next to him. She had no right to any of it, none of it was for sale. You are better, he told himself, you are faster, you are stronger. You are better than all of them.