sipping cranberry-vodka punch and looking drunk and not very happy. I am about to speak to her when I see an immense fat man in a coarse, hand-woven suit. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask Mrs Eberhardt.
She whispers enormously, ‘That’s Hans Kroeger.’
‘The movie producer?’
‘Yes,’ she says, hugging herself. ‘Wasn’t it lovely he could be here. Furlong is so pleased.’
Somewhere a tiny bell is ringing. I look up to see Furlong, silver bell in hand, calling the room to silence. ‘I know you must be ready for something to eat,’ he announces with engaging simplicity. ‘Lunch is ready in the dining room as soon as you are.’
It is a large room painted a dull French grey. Half a dozen little tables are draped to the floor in shirred green taffeta – in the centre of each a basket of tiny white flowers.
Close behind me I hear Martin sighing heavily, ‘Jesus.’
‘Shut up,’ I say happily in his ear.
On the buffet table is Sunday lunch. There is a large fresh salmon trimmed with lemon slices and watercress, a pink and beautiful roast of beef being carved by a whitesuited man from the caterers; cut-glass bowls of salad, tiny raw vegetables carved into intricate shapes, buttered rolls, crusty to the touch, fine and soft and patrician within; Mrs Eberhardt’s homemade mayonnaise in a silver shell-shaped dish, cheeses, fruit, stacks of Spode luncheon plates.
We serve ourselves and look about for our name cards on the little tables. I am by the window. There is heavy silver cutlery from Mrs Eberhardt’s side of the family, and a thick, luxurious linen napkin at each place. Furlong circulates between tables with red wine, filling each crystal glass a precise two-thirds full.
Everyone is talking. The room is filled with people eating and talking. Talk drifts from table to table, accumulating, rising, until it reaches the ceiling.
Roger is saying: ‘Of course Canadian culture has to be protected. For God’s sake, you’re dealing with a sensitive plant, almost a nursery plant. And don’t tell me I’m being chauvinistic. I had a year at Harvard, remember. I tell you that if we don’t give grants to our writers now and if we don’t favour our own publishers now, we’re lost, man, we’re just lost.’
Valerie Hyde is saying: ‘Of course women have come a long way, but don’t think for a minute that one or two women in Parliament are going to change a damn thing. Sex is built-in like bones and teeth, and, remember this, Barney, there’s more to sex than cold semen running down your leg.’
Alfred Hyde is saying: ‘Tuesday night we had tickets to The Messiah. The tenor was excellent, the baritone was passable, but the contralto was questionable. The staging was commendable, but I seriously question the lighting technique.’
Ruthie is saying: ‘There’s just no stability to anything. Did you stop to think of just where this salmon comes from? The fisherman who caught this fish is probably sitting down to pork and beans right now. And what happens when all the salmon is gone? And that just might be tomorrow. What do you say to that? There’s just no stability.’
Hans Kroeger is saying: ‘Twenty per cent return on the investment. And that ain’t hay. So don’t give me any shit about bonds.’
A woman across the room is saying: ‘Take Bath Abbey for instance. Have you been to Bath Abbey? No? Well, take any abbey.’
Furlong is saying: ‘In my day we talked about making a contribution. To the country. But that sounds facile, doing something for one’s country. Now don’t you agree that one’s first concern must be to know oneself? Isn’t that what counts?’
Meredith says: ‘I don’t know. I really don’t. Like in Graven Images, first things come first. I’ve started in on it for the third time. Empathy. That’s what it all comes down to. I mean, doesn’t it? Maybe you’re right, but making a contribution still counts. I mean, really, in the end, doesn’t it? Fulfillment, well, fulfillment is sort of selfish if you know what I mean. I don’t know.’
The blonde in green is saying, ‘Anyone from that socio-economic background just never dreams of picking up a book. What I’m saying is this, intelligence is shaped in pre-adolescence. Not the scope of intelligence. Anyone can expand, but the direction. The direction is predetermined.’
A man is saying in a very low voice. ‘Okay, okay, you’ve had enough booze. Lay off.’
Barney Beck is saying: ‘Class. You’re damned right I believe in class. Not because it’s good, hell no, but because it’s there. Just, for instance, take the way kids cool off in the summer. You’ve got the little proletarians splashing in the street hydrant, right? And your middle-class brats running through the lawn sprinklers. Because lawns mean middle class, right? Then your nouveaus. The plastic-lined swimming pool. Cabanas, filter systems, et cetera. Then the aristocrats. You don’t see them, not actually, because they’re at the shore. Wherever the hell the shore is.’
Mrs. Eberhardt is saying: ‘The important thing is to use real lemon and to add the oil one drop at a time, one drop at a time.’
And I, Judith Gill, am spinning: I feel my animal spirit unwind, my party self, that progressive personality that goes from social queries about theatre series to compulsive anecdote swapping. I press for equal time. Stop, I tell myself. Let this topic pass without pulling out your hospital story, your vitamin B complex story, your tennis story, your Lester Pearson snippet. Adjust your eyes. Be tranquil. Stop. I admonish myself, but it’s useless. I feel my next story gathering in my throat, the words pulling together, waiting their chance. Here it is. I’m ready to leap in. ‘Speaking of bananas,’ I say, and I’m off.
Martin, at the next table, is not talking. What is he doing? He is lifting a forkful of roast beef, and slowly, slowly, he is chewing it. What is he doing now?
He is listening.
It was on the first day of the new year that I discovered the reason for Martin’s secret cache of wool; the explanation was delivered so offhandedly and with such an aura of innocence that I furiously cursed my suspicions. What on earth had I expected – that Martin had slipped over the edge into lunacy? That, saddened and trapped at forty-one, he might be having a breakdown? Did I think he nursed a secret vice: knitting instead of tippling? Or perhaps that he had acquired a mistress, a great luscious handicraft addict whose fetish it was to crochet while she was being made love to? Crazy. crazy. I was the one who was crazy.
On New Year’s Day Martin sat talking to his mother and father who had come from Montreal for the weekend. His father is a professor too, himself the son of a professor; he teaches history at McGill. Gill of McGill, he likes to introduce himself to strangers. He is a spare, speckled man, happiest wearing the loose oatmeal cardigans his wife knits for him and soft old jackets, frayed at the pockets and elbows. His habitual stance is kindly (a Franciscan kindness) and speculative; he is what is known in the world as a good man, possessing all the qualities of a Christian with the exception of faith.
The relationship between Martin and his father is such as might exist between exceedingly fond colleagues. Like brothers they flank Martin’s mother, Lala to us, a small woman who except for an unmanageable nest of sparrow-brown, Gibson-girlish hair is attractive and bright, known to her friends in Montreal as
