Kebabs

Matthew looked at the plate in front of him, and grimaced.

Marcie thanked the foreign waiter for her shish kebabs, and looked at Matthew, surprised. ’Isn’t that what you wanted ...?’

’Oh, yes,’ he replied, laughing suddenly, ’this is exactly what I wanted!’

She didn’t know what to say next, and sipped nervously at her Matteus Rosé. He sat there, grinning foolishly at the plate, tapping his fingers on the table. She felt a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment, and couldn’t stop herself glancing around at the other customers, to see if anyone was watching them. She leaned towards him, and whispered, ’Well? Aren’t we going to eat ...?’

’Sorry,’ he lied, and picked up one of the kebabs. ’It’s just ... it’s just that ...’ And he picked up a fork with his right hand, preparing to separate the lumps of meat from the steel skewer. ’It’s just that it reminded me of something.’

Another heavy pause, as he froze, motionless, staring at the accused. He almost frightened her, with his heavy beard, and intense, dark eyes peering over a hook nose, like a bird of prey. She refused to say anything, though, and started, discretely, to slice a piece of lamb from her plate, and raise it to her lips.

’My life.’

She was no longer impressed by his dramatic moments.

’My life.’ And he slowly, deliberately, slid the first piece of grilled meat, dripping fat, onto his plate. ’My life...’ And a piece of red pepper, bawdily shining, red, in the neon of the cheap kebab house, fell unceremoniously onto the white plate. Another lump of gristly meat. ’My life!’ And he looked up at Marcie, laughing, now, like an idiot. ’My life ...! See ...?!’

She quickly looked around, blushing as she met the amused look of the couple nearest to them, and then lowered her eyes to her own plate, raising her nearly-empty glass to her lips, again. ’Don’t be so ... If you don’t want to eat, we can leave,’ she said, hurriedly. ’It was your idea to come here – not mine.’ And she drained the glass.

’Sorry,’ he lied again, ’I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

’I’m not embarrassed,’ she said, without thinking. ’Look, though.’ And he slid another couple of pieces of his life from the skewer. ’See?! There go the summer of seventy-one, and my first term at Sheffield ... see?! Sorry.’ He put down the three-quarter-denuded skewer, and attacked the pale, juicy meat. He glanced across at Marcie, and reached for the dumpy, green bottle, to refill her glass.

’Thanks. It’s very good, isn’t it?’

’It’s always the same, at least. Always know what you’re letting yourself in for, with Matty’s rosy. Ha ha! "Matty’s Rosy"! Always know what you’re ... sorry.’ He drained his glass, and held it up to the light. Satisfied, he concentrated on refilling the glass, replacing the bottle between them, and taking another healthy draught of the paraffin-coloured liquid. ’Let’s take the bottle with us. I’ll hide it under my jacket. Then you can stick a candle in it, and put it on your table. Let the wax run down it. Change the colour of the candle. See the different colours of wax build up on the fat bits of the bottle.’

’Oh, what a nice idea!’ she beamed at him, delighted that he’d thought of such a romantic gesture.

’Very original,’ he muttered, finishing off the mixture of peppers and under-cooked meat.

There was another embarrassed pause, hanging over the table, while they concentrated self-consciously on their plates.

He picked up the second skewer, contemplating it with the mixture of academic frown and grimace of distaste which warned her to expect another of his disconcerting pronouncements. She hurriedly reached for the security of her glass, biting her lip, as she realised that the gin she’d accepted in the Cricketers before the meal, should have cautioned her against accepting a second glass of wine. She was still very self conscious about how they looked, together, even though she knew perfectly well that she wore her nearly-forty better than he managed his under-thirty. Everyone said she didn’t look her age, and couldn’t believe she had two grown-up children. She’d kept her figure well, and took pride in her sense of fashion. Matthew had made one of his typical comments about her red lipstick, and eye shadow, but how could he be expected to understand such things?

’And these are the women in my life!’ he announced, mischievously.

’Oh.’

He began his slow, sadistic operation of deskewering the lumps of meat and yellow and red pepper skins.

’Linda.’ A long pause. ’Then there was ... Mary.’ Another lump, ignominiously abandoned on the greasy plate. He continued, in silence, while Marcie fought to keep calm, blinking back two anarchic, hot tears. She kept her head lowered, so that her shoulder-length hair shielded her face, while she struggled to eat the now-repellent kebab.

’Don’t you want to know who these are ... or were, rather?’

’No.’

’Then there was ... the Chinese girl. I was never sure what her real name was... And then ...’ Matthew looked across the table, and was suddenly filled with something. A different feeling. Shame? Disgust? Tenderness? No need to label it. ’... And then there was Marcie.’

She glanced at him, noticing the slight change in his voice, and smiled fleetingly at his crooked grin. She hurriedly looked away, again, and found the glass, half-empty, in her hand. ’And who’s after Marcie ...’ She said, flatly, finishing off the wine.

He paused, smiling, before reaching across to lay his hair-backed hand on hers – small, white, long-fingered – on the table. ’Who’s after Marcie ...?!’ And he laughed, normally, now, squeezing her hand warmly, below his own. ’They’re all after Marcie! And I’m the lucky bloke who’s sitting here, holding her hand ... and treating her badly, again

Her relief flowed out of her, as she breathed a great sigh, passing her free hand over her eyes, forgetting about the eye-shadow, and smiling back at him. ’You can be so I guess I just don’t understand you ... but you don’t mean to hurt me, do you ... ’

‘No, I don’t mean to hurt you,’ he repeated, uneasily. What was the point in hurting Marcie? She was right. She’d said, ’We need each other: at least, we can help each other to get through, for a while, perhaps...’ the first night they’d spent together, and those words had burnt into him. Not for their profundity, but for their tired honesty.