Batter
He wondered why she was shouting about cow shit from across the bar. People were watching as she squeezed into the space left between Michael and Conrad. ‘Hi, everyone! Sorry for swearing, Anthony. Promise me you’ll never swear.’ Had she been drinking in her room? ‘The landlord says we have to order now,’ she said, and they all squinted at the chalkboard, carb-heavy, everything with chips and peas. He heard Marnie ask about the fish of the day, as if it might be halibut or langoustine.
‘Cod,’ he said.
‘Okay. Okay, cod and chips, I’ll have that. Why not? Cod ’n’ chips,’ she said, giving it a little northern burr, just enough to make Michael think, Don’t do that. They settled into conversation about all their aches and blisters and only Anthony was quiet, bemused as kids sometimes are when confronted with grown-ups’ pub personas, their voices more strident, performances heightened. He remembered his own parents’ nervous experiments with ‘dinner parties’, listening in with his brother and thinking, Why are they talking like this? Soon the food arrived, everything crisp and brown as autumn leaves, everyone laughing and chatting, and he felt pleased, as if this was somehow his achievement. On his left, he could feel Marnie flirting, her back tense, as if defusing a bomb. ‘“Pharmacist”. When did all the chemists become “pharmacists”?’ she said, her voice too bright. ‘Is that a recent thing?’
‘I think so,’ said Conrad, who had changed into a camouflage hoodie. ‘It’s definitely more common.’
‘Like when the opticians all decided they were optometrists. Is pharmacy an American thing, d’you think? Like trick-or-treat?’
He noted Conrad’s cornered smile, an audience member chosen by a magician. ‘I think it’s just … accurate. I studied pharmacy not chemistry, so …’ Then, to change the subject, ‘What did you study at uni, Marnie?’
‘Oh, I didn’t go.’
‘You didn’t go!’ said Conrad, a little too shocked. ‘Wow. Why not?’
Marnie shrugged. ‘I wasn’t clever enough.’
‘She was clever enough,’ said Cleo, slapping the table. ‘She could have gone, as a mature student.’
‘That’s called an oxymoron,’ said Marnie.
‘I told her there were ways. If Neil hadn’t stopped her—’
‘Neil didn’t stop me. I didn’t want to, that’s all.’
‘That’s a real shame,’ said Conrad.
‘Why is it a shame?’ she said sharply.
‘I don’t know. All those experiences?’
‘I had experiences,’ she said, into her glass. ‘At least I think I did, once, maybe twice. Yep, two experiences, I think. We’ll let this one go, shall we?’
It seemed improbable that she wasn’t clever enough. She was funny, and wasn’t that just another kind of clever? Whether it was the fear of debt, a lack of confidence or exam technique, many of his smartest kids didn’t go, one of his great frustrations as a teacher, and he thought he might say this to her. But he mustn’t be pompous or teacherly and, besides, she’d already turned back to Conrad. What if the mythical Tessa had been sitting in her place? She was a triathlete so there were at least three things they could have discussed. He would have asked, ‘Of the triathlon disciplines, which one is your favourite and which one is the most challenging?’
He was, he realised, devising lines of conversation for someone who wasn’t there. Instead, here was Marnie, and though she inevitably twisted towards Conrad, her leg and bare arm pressed against Michael’s. He thought how nice she looked in her cocktail dress, and as if he’d said this out loud, she turned to him suddenly and asked, ‘How is your pie?’
‘It’s good. I mean, there’s lumps in the gravy.’
‘Lumps of what?’
‘Some kind of granule, like instant coffee, but meaty. Would you like to …?’
‘It’s tempting but I think no.’
He noticed that she had peeled back the batter on her fish, splaying it open to pick out the white flesh. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not eating the batter.’
‘Oh, you’re not meant to eat the batter,’ she said emphatically.
He laughed. ‘Give over!’
‘Give over what?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I read it. The batter’s only there to stop it falling apart in the fryer.’
‘Don’t be daft! Who says that?’
‘They say it. It’s true! The batter’s just a container.’
‘Yeah, like the pastry in a pie. You eat the pastry.’
‘Yes …’
‘Well, then. Batter’s the best bit!’
‘It’s deep-fried flour—’
‘With vinegar and salt!’
‘Is this a northern thing? Are you playing the northern card?’
‘I don’t want to fall out with you over this,’ he said, and she laughed.
‘You’re welcome to it. Please tuck into these succulent brown nuggets of lardy flour.’ They smiled at each other, and after a while, she said, ‘Seriously, though, do I smell of cow shit?’
And he leant towards her and was surprised when she leant in, her head suddenly on his shoulder. The air around her: vinegar and fat, gin and gravy granules and cheap shower gel. ‘You smell very nice,’ he said, meaning it.