County,
Connecticut, by the way she said ‘idee-yuhs’. ‘Most of the neighbourhood
children take the long way round through Alien’s Corners, since that place was
opened. And you won’t catch any of the local clientele going to dine there, no
sir.’
Charlie reached
into the inside pocket of his sport coat and took out his worn leather-covered
notebook. ‘What did you say it was called, this place?’
‘ Le Reposoir ,’ said Harriet, leaning over
Mrs Foss’s shoulder like Long John Silver’s parrot.
‘That’s Le like
in Jerry Lee Lewis; repos like in repossess; oir like in -’
‘Harriet! Table
six!’ boiled Mrs Foss.
‘I’m going,’
Harriet told her, lifting a hand to ward off Mrs Foss’s anger. ‘I’m going.’
‘I have to
apologize for Harriet,’ fussed Mrs Foss. ‘I promised her mother I’d give her a
job waitressing. There was nothing much else she could do.’ She tapped her
forehead. ‘You wouldn’t say deficient, but you wouldn’t say genius.’
Charlie nodded
his head in acknowledgement, and tucked his notebook back into his coat. ‘I
guess it takes all sorts.’
Mrs Foss
pointed towards his coat. ‘You’re not thinking of going to that place, are
you?’
‘Is there any
reason why I shouldn’t?’ ‘I could give you just about a hundred reasons. I know
folks like that from before. I used to run a restaurant on Chartres Street in
New Orleans; Paula Foss’s Red Beans And Rice, that was
the name of the restaurant. I used to know folks like that back in those days. Frenchified, and suave. We used to call them the Celestines.
Private, that’s what they were; but secret’s a better word. Secret.’
Martin said,
‘He’s there again, look.’
Charlie didn’t
understand what Martin meant at first. Then Martin urged him, ‘Out of the
window, lookl’
Mrs Foss
squinted towards the garden. ‘What’s the boy talking about?’
Martin stood
up, and walked stiff-legged over to the wide French windows. The matrons turned
to stare at him. He shielded his eyes with his hand, and peered out into the
rain. Charlie said,
‘Martin?’
‘I saw him,’
said Martin, without turning around. ‘He was by the sundial.’
Mrs Foss
glanced at Charlie, and then went over to stand next to Martin by the window.
‘There’s nobody there, honey. That’s my private garden. Nobody’s allowed in
there.’
Charlie said,
‘Come on, Martin, let’s see what we can do to this
apple pandowdy.’
Martin came
away from the window with obvious reluctance. Charlie thought he was looking
pale. Maybe he was tired, from all of their travelling. Charlie was so used to
driving and eating and eating and driving that it was easy for him to forget
how punishing his daily routine could be. Since they had taken the Major Deegan
Expressway out of New York three days ago, heading north-eastwards, they had
covered well over 700 miles and eaten at nine different hotels and restaurants,
from an over-heated Family Cabin in White Plains with sticky red vinyl
banquettes in the dining room to a pretentious English-style Chop House on the
outskirts of Darien at which every dish had been given a Dickensian name – Mr
Micawber’s Muffins, Steak Dombey and Chicken Copper-field.
Martin said, in
a panicky-suffocated voice, ‘You won’t let it in, Dad, will you?’
Charlie was
ducking his head forward to take his first mouthful of apple. He hesitated,
with his spoon still poised. He hadn’t heard Martin talk like that since he was
tiny.
‘What did you
say?”
Martin glanced
quickly back towards the window. ‘Nothing. It’s okay.’
‘Come on,’
Charlie encouraged him. ‘Eat your dessert.’
Martin slowly
pushed his plate away.
‘You’re not
hungry?’ said Charlie. ‘It’s good. Taste it. It’s just about the best thing
here.’
Martin shook
his head. Charlie watched him for a moment with fatherly concern, then went back to his apple. ‘I hope you’re not pining for
anything, that’s all.’ He