Etiquette for a Dinner Party Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  FRIDAY LUNCH

  VELOCITY

  THE DEATH OF MRS HARRISON

  LOOK, MA, NO HANDS!

  THINGS TO SEE AND DO IN CHICAGO

  GYPSY DAY

  THE HANGI

  LIFELINE

  THE ITALY STAR

  SUSTENANCE

  ETIQUETTE FOR A DINNER PARTY

  HOW WOMEN BEHAVE WHEN MEN ARE LOSING THEIR WIVES

  THE STORIES OF FRANK SARGESON

  FEE SIMPLE

  A MATTER OF FAITH

  JUDITH

  BAGGAGE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Etiquette for a

  Dinner Party

  Sue Orr

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 978 1869792176

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  The assistance of Creative New Zealand is gratefully acknowledged by the publisher.

  National Library of New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Sue Orr, 1962—

  Etiquette for a dinner party / Sue Orr.

  ISBN: 978 1869792176

  Version 1.0

  I. Title.

  NZ823.3—dc 22

  For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz

  A VINTAGE BOOK published by Random House New Zealand

  18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand

  Random House International, Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA, United Kingdom; Random House Australia Pty Ltd, Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney 2060, Australia; Random House South Africa Pty Ltd, Isle of Houghton, Corner Boundary Road and Carse O’Gowrie, Houghton 2198, South Africa; Random House Publishers India Private Ltd, 301 World Trade Tower, Hotel Intercontinental Grand Complex, Barakhamba Lane, New Delhi 110 001, India

  First published 2008

  © 2008 Sue Orr

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Design: Anna Seabrook

  Cover illustration: Graeme Wilcox, from gettyimages

  Cover design: Sarah Laing

  Author photograph: Wendy Hay, North Shore Photography

  Sue Orr is a graduate of Bill Manhire’s creative writing programme at Victoria University in Wellington. She has been a journalist and editor, and spent two years as Governor-General Dame Silvia Cartwright’s speechwriter. She has worked in England and France, where two of her three children were born. She now lives with her family in Auckland.

  For Callum, Noah, Helena and Adrian

  FRIDAY LUNCH

  Shirley Cooper would say that Alan is a man of simple tastes. Go on, ask her. She will tell you, with absolute certainty: ‘Oh, he loves his meat and veg, my Alan. Sausages. And a nice piece of steak, of course, when it’s on special.’

  She will then go on: ‘Middle of winter, he loves a lamb casserole. Well, there’s nothing like it, is there, in the middle of winter.’

  Shirley will stare you down, daring you to suggest there is something like it, in the middle of winter. She will touch the permed grey hair framing her brittle face, her chin will lift, ever so slightly. This is what she does when she is sure of her facts — married-for-forty-three-years sure.

  She will not take her eyes off you, all the same. Do you know something that she does not?

  ‘He’s not so keen on fish, but he will eat it … you know, if we’re out somewhere and there’s nothing normal on offer. But no. Generally, he won’t eat foreign food, not at all.’

  Well, you did ask. .

  Alan drives a taxi — a white Holden Commodore — for Auckland City Cabs. He has done this for forty-five years; though not always for Auckland City Cabs. It is an immaculate vehicle: exterior polished, driver’s seat pushed right back to accommodate Alan’s long and generous frame. There are separate compartments for all his documentation — licences, credit card slips, complaint forms, pens and business cards. Alan can reach for what he needs, without taking his eyes off the road.

  Every morning at seven o’clock he reverses his office, as he calls it, down their concrete driveway and onto Te Atatu Road. Even at that hour the road is bumper-to-bumper busy. In the early days he would inch out respectfully: lurching, stopping, lurching; cautiously claiming space as it was offered up. But not now. Now he does it all in one smooth motion. Down comes the driver’s window, out comes the arm. He flaps it like a bird soaring — up down, up down, bringing the traffic to a halt.

  He says he is getting on, that there are not enough years left now to be giving way. Shirley does not know what has made him so impatient in recent times. He was always a courteous driver. But lately he’s been behaving like a boy racer, as though someone has a stopwatch on him. She puts this down to men and old age.

  She can’t bring herself to watch the morning road ritual, but she listens from inside the house to the squeal of brakes and the honking of horns. Any day now, she thinks. Any time now she will hear the sound of a crash: impact crunch, breaking glass, expensive silence. She does not like the waiting. She does not like having to plan for something that may or may not happen.

  Today is the last Friday in April. Alan takes the motorway towards the city, tuning in to talkback radio as he swings from lane to lane. There are beautiful views along this road — the curves of the harbour bridge trace the lines of Rangitoto Island. Alan never looks at them. He knows that Shirley does not like the way he curses the scenery, but it’s to blame for the sluggish pace of campervans specifically, traffic congestion in general. And she doesn’t have to drive in it, does she? She has never driven. Shirley has always relied on Alan for the driving.

  He takes the St Lukes turnoff and starts the snaking journey south to the airport. He switches off his radio, resisting the temptation to pick up quick fares around the suburbs. He will take only one fare today, from the airport. He would like it to be a good one. .

  Ask Shirley about their first date, her and Alan. I dare you. Ask her how the big night went. She will tell you all about it, oh yes. Just like it was yesterday.

  ‘Well,’ she’ll say. She is not pausing for effect. This is how Shirley tells a story. In her own good time.

  ‘It was 1963, and I was still living at home with Mum and Dad. We met, me and Alan, when he gave me a ride home from the hospital one night, after my late shift. I’d just paid the fare, and when he handed me the change, he asked me would I like to go out with him sometime.

  ‘He wasn’t exactly handsome, but there was something about him. I don’t know … he looked like he was kind, if you know what I mean. I suppose, thinking about it now, he looked like someone you could trust. So I wrote my name and address and telephone number on the back of a piece of paper and I gave it to him.’

  Shirley is not one for skipping details. There’s no choice, I’m sorry, but to bear with he
r.

  ‘Of course I never made any promises that I would go out with him. But then when I got home, I mentioned it, and Mum and Dad knew him. Not him, exactly, but his family. They’d come from the same part of England as Mum … near Leicester. So when he rang, I said yes, yes I would go out with him.

  ‘He arrived on time to pick me up, and gosh he looked lovely.’ Shirley’s face will be bright now, flushed teenage pink. ‘He scrubbed up well, I must say.

  ‘And anyway. He came in, met Mum and Dad, he was so polite. Then he walked me outside to his car — actually his first taxi. I had my new frock on, and a stole. We had stoles then, before people got worked up about fur. It was a beautiful dark blue Ford Zephyr. That’s the only time he’s gone for Fords and not Holdens. And off we went.

  ‘Well. Here was me thinking we were off someplace fancy to eat, maybe, even …’ — and she’ll lean forward towards you, knobbly index finger pointing your way, pale, watery eyes hungry, gleaming — ‘maybe that brand new steakhouse, in town, in Wellesley Street.’

  Then, she will sit back in her chair.

  ‘But no. We were off to some other God-forsaken place for tea. Speaking of which, would you like a cup?’

  As I said, you can’t hurry Shirley when she’s telling a story. .

  In Mount Albert, Alan takes a left turn into a quiet street and stops outside Giuseppe’s Deli.

  The tiny shop has three little outside café tables, each with a green, white and red tablecloth and two stainless steel chairs. On one side of the deli is a Japanese restaurant, on the other an Indian spice shop. The pungent scents of cumin and soy come at Alan as he steps out of the car.

  He stands before the deli window and stares. It is crammed with other-world food. Bulbous loaves of white-dusted bread frame a collage that, he sees, is an Italian landscape. Across the top are clouds — fat yellow pasta pillows packed with gorgonzola, ricotta, spinach, chicken and beef. Rolling green hills of heavy whole artichokes give way to fields of green and white strands of tagliatelle. Alan reads the little rectangular ticket planted in the middle of one pasture, and smiles. ‘Paglia e Fieno: Straw and Hay Pasta (Tuscany).’ A walking track of red-speckled pink borlotti beans meanders through the vista, shrinking and disappearing into the hills.

  Fluffy bocconcini cheese sheep graze across the bottom of the picture. Alan looks closely and sees their mouths are purple shiny olives. If he is not mistaken, they are Greek — fat kalamatas, the very best. The fields are fenced with rows of tiny bottles of balsamic vinegar and olive oil. He pushes open the deli door.

  ‘Ah — Alan, is so good to see you again.’ Giuseppe’s wife Sylvie is tall and slender, fiftyish. Her hair is jet black, swept away from her face in a way that reminds Alan of a wave.

  There are one or two light strands running through it, but they look silver, not grey. She wears tiny gold crucifix earrings that match her necklace. She walks round from behind the counter, and kisses Alan on his cheeks.

  ‘It’s already one month? I can’t believe it. Where does the time go? What I make for you today?’

  Now she is bustling underneath the stainless steel counter, pulling out large clear plastic containers, lining them up in a row on the bench top.

  ‘Pasta, please Sylvie. One gorgonzola, one amaretti tortellini. And pomodoro sauce, please. And, Sylvie, tell me. Where did you find those beautiful fat olives in the window?’

  Alan is smiling, shyly teasing her.

  She leans forward, rose-painted fingernail to her lips. ‘Shhh … no … of course they are kalamata. The Italian olives are good for oil, but not for eating. But you must tell no one.’

  ‘Alright,’ he whispers, delighted to be involved in a conspiracy. ‘I won’t. But plenty of pasta, okay?’

  His eyes search the shelves behind her as they talk, but he does not see what he wants.

  ‘Do you have any pannetone?’

  She smiles. ‘You and your sweet teeth, Signor Alan. Yes, for you I have pannetone.’ She disappears out the back of the shop, and returns with a small cardboard box. She opens it proudly. ‘My last one.’

  He admires the small, perfect, fruit cake.

  ‘Thank you. Ciao for now Sylvie.’

  ‘Ciao Alan — buon appetito …’ .

  … buon appetito and benvenuti and salute and so many other strange warm words bounce around him as he sits down at a table with brand new friends that he has known forever tonight. His last fare for the evening and how could he say no when he is hungry and exhausted and they have said: come, come on in, eat and drink with us, it is the Italian way? And there is music coming from the corner of the tiny little restaurant that he thought was a house from the street, but how would he know? He has only been a taxi driver for two months. Aberto from the taxi is sitting next to him and piling food onto a plate in front of him; food he has never seen before but it smells so, so good … and there is Aberto’s mother or aunty or someone older on the other side of him who asks who is this red-haired man my boys have brought to the table? But in another language, so he knows what she says only because voices from everywhere are translating for him. And then someone fills his glass with burning rough red wine again (or is it again again? He is not sure how many agains there have been now) and says salute! salute signor taxi driver and everyone, yes everyone drinks to him and he does too and somewhere, in the fog of wine and warmth and food that breathes, he thinks: this is how a meal can be, a celebration of life. The evening goes on, and on, and at some time or another (who knows?) the aunty, or is it the mother, says to Aberto: take this boy home, this new friend with a taxi. And she grabs him and kisses him one two three times on the cheeks and says: you come back soon okay? Come and eat with us again … and Aberto somehow gets him safely to Te Atatu and in the morning he is sick from the wine but full too of something new …

  He really needs to concentrate on the road, because he has arrived at the airport, and he doesn’t remember driving there. .

  The woman at the front of the queue is thirty, he guesses, and wears jeans and a blue, long-sleeved tee-shirt. She carries only a small red handbag. The absence of luggage is a good sign — a big fare downtown for a meeting, or lunch, Alan thinks. She squints into the sun as the taxi pulls up beside her.

  ‘Hi there — the city please? Newmarket?’

  ‘No problem.’ Ladies’ lunch, he decides.

  Alan watches her in the rear-view mirror as he drives. He analyses her, rectangle by rectangle. She wears no makeup but her face shines and her eyes are brown and bright.

  ‘Could we drive through Mangere Bridge?’ she asks. She is staring out the window, smiling. Alan indicates and turns off at Bader Drive.

  ‘Mum and Dad lived here years ago, just two streets over,’ she says.

  ‘Is that right?’ Alan is not sure about this woman now; what to make of her.

  ‘They were Irish, from Belfast. Must have been wonderful, turning up here. Imagine it.’ She is leaning forward, craning for a glimpse of the side streets.

  ‘It must have been a huge change for them.’ Then he realises what it is about her. She is not judging poverty; she sees difference. Alan feels a sudden kindness towards her, a connection that he does not understand. ‘Do you want to have a quick look at their place?’

  ‘Yes, I would like that. Very much.’

  Alan turns off the main road and drives down shabby streets. Many of the lawns are jungles — stripped car wrecks peer through the undergrowth like starving African predators. The windows frame grubby net curtains knotted halfway down: angry fists to the world. Alan drives slowly, already regretting his offer. But she asks him to stop outside a tidy brick bungalow with beautiful gardens. A new black fence sits close to the footpath. He is relieved for her that it is a nice place.

  ‘This is it,’ she says, stepping out of the taxi. For a moment, he thinks she is going to knock on the door, but she just stands, arms crossed, and takes it in. Then she walks a little further, stopping outside another house a few doors do
wn. She stares hard at this house too, but Alan cannot read the expression on her face.

  ‘Dad would’ve been pleased it’s looking good,’ she says, returning to the car.

  There is the sound of Pacific Island music, a strong languid beat with layers of guitar and song over the top. It comes from nearby, but it is hard to say where. All the houses have their windows and doors wide open, life within pulsating.

  ‘He would have loved those sounds,’ she says. ‘He once said he had lived two lives. One in black and white in Ireland, and one in full colour, here in Auckland.’

  The car door slams shut again. ‘I asked him once, which place was home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, he said both. He said you can live your life in different ways, and who’s to say which way is the best?’

  ‘So, do they come back to visit, your mum and dad?’

  ‘No. They’re both dead now, they’ve been gone five years or so. Mum died first, then Dad just a couple of months later. Funny how that happens.’

  She is silent as Alan starts his car and pulls back out into the road. Then she speaks again, quietly. ‘He had an affair, my dad. He and Mum were married for fifty years, and they were happy to the end. But I know he had a thing going for years with his neighbour. She was Samoan, and there’s Dad all the way from Ireland. And Mum never knew. Imagine it. Back in those days.’

  Alan doesn’t know what to say. He has the feeling that the woman is thinking out loud, that an answer is not required.

  He drives through the suburbs towards the city centre and watches his passenger relax back into the seat. Her name is Jennifer, she tells Alan, and she has flown up from Wellington to meet an old friend who is visiting from overseas. They will have lunch and spend the afternoon together, then she will catch a plane back in the early evening in time to put two pre-schoolers to bed. She is overwhelmed now by the extravagance of it all.

  ‘I just couldn’t believe it — first I hear she’s coming over from the States, and next thing a ticket arrives for me. And I’m saying to John — that’s my husband — “Jeepers, flying to Auckland for lunch”.’