Read Online A Case of Knives by Candia McWilliam - Free Book Online
Authors: Candia McWilliam
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Americans forking plywood mille-feuilles , at the table on the other side, facing the lacy grey couple, looked uncomfortable.
‘Anne,’ said Cora, and tugged at Anne’s mauve sleeve to pull her to sit down. At the same time, she indicated to her that the old woman was trying to get her attention. The grey-coated woman moved her head very slowly, with its strange hat; it was as though Nefertiti’s bust were being rotated by a rapt Egyptologist. She caught Anne’s eyes with her own and then mouthed, making not even a breath of noise, ‘My husband is blind. Do not make him see the change.’ The silent head rotated back among its pale goffering. Her eyes once more faced the witty, sightless gaze of her companion. Anne ate her ice-cream. I saw Cora looking at her with envy and greed, the face I have seen from time to time on my patients as they watch their visitors eat the grapes they have brought. While there is still that greed, I do not despair of an energy to sustain life. But Cora was not an ill girl, just a vain fit girl who had decided not to eat. When Anne laid down her spoon, Cora seemed relieved, as though she had feared that her own hand, in spite of herself, might lick out to take the sweet brown ice.
Anne raised her head to me and said, ‘I hope you like what I’ve got here,’ and she indicated the thin bag. ‘It’s for Cora.’
She unpacked from this narrow envelope of paper a wool suit. How had it been packed so flat? A white fall of tissue paper, volumes of it, was all about our feet, landing with the sound of flexed wing feathers.
‘It’s a real one of what you’ve got on, and, frankly, I don’t know if it’s as nice, but let’s see, shall we?’ Anne’s voice was barricading itself against a patronising tone. It would not be kept out.
She picked up the jacket and shook it by the shoulders as you might a child who is going to sing his party piece. She looked at it with proprietary pride. Inside the neck was stitched, by two loops of ribbon, a very small gold chain, to take the feather weight of the jacket, during, perhaps, some meal taken in mime with other women clad in sumptuous modesty. The wool of the suit was the blue of a starling in sunlight. Its buttons were as considered as those on an expensive gramophone.
‘It is exactly what I have always wanted,’ said Cora. ‘And now please take it back, or I shall always want more, and never be able to relax with you. When I am very old I shall still be in your debt, and who knows, I may have become wicked in order to satisfy my need for hand-hemming. I’ll be’ – she gave a smirk and blushed, and yet did not stop herself – ‘hooked, on the needle, kind of thing.’
‘Worse things happen, Cora,’ said the serpent Anne to our unfallen Eve.
‘I can’t afford it,’ Cora said, ‘in any sense. I just do not dare to start accepting things.’
‘Very well,’ said my naïve sophisticated friend, ‘but how do we pack it up? You should know,’ she went on, ‘you work in shops.’
I was embarrassed for Anne. Did she honestly not understand about other people and money and the infected bondage of obligation? I think she was innocent on that afternoon, and simply wanted to spoil Cora, and then wanted to hurt her when the girl rejected the gift.
Did we appear, from the outside, to be a family, two parents and their leggy daughter?
‘Who is Angel?’ I asked, trying to save us all from embarrassment, while Cora ineptly folded the blue wool and creased tissue paper. Her face was red, as though she had been hit. I saw the old couple full with years and moderate in their ways and I felt sad for Anne. What could be making her behave in this way? She looked suddenly up as though she heard something. It was twenty past five, when angels pass.
‘Angel is great. She wears weird clothes and she’s wound up in a lot of causes.’ This lazy language was in Cora insolence. She was showing Anne and myself that she was alive and young and
‘Anne,’ said Cora, and tugged at Anne’s mauve sleeve to pull her to sit down. At the same time, she indicated to her that the old woman was trying to get her attention. The grey-coated woman moved her head very slowly, with its strange hat; it was as though Nefertiti’s bust were being rotated by a rapt Egyptologist. She caught Anne’s eyes with her own and then mouthed, making not even a breath of noise, ‘My husband is blind. Do not make him see the change.’ The silent head rotated back among its pale goffering. Her eyes once more faced the witty, sightless gaze of her companion. Anne ate her ice-cream. I saw Cora looking at her with envy and greed, the face I have seen from time to time on my patients as they watch their visitors eat the grapes they have brought. While there is still that greed, I do not despair of an energy to sustain life. But Cora was not an ill girl, just a vain fit girl who had decided not to eat. When Anne laid down her spoon, Cora seemed relieved, as though she had feared that her own hand, in spite of herself, might lick out to take the sweet brown ice.
Anne raised her head to me and said, ‘I hope you like what I’ve got here,’ and she indicated the thin bag. ‘It’s for Cora.’
She unpacked from this narrow envelope of paper a wool suit. How had it been packed so flat? A white fall of tissue paper, volumes of it, was all about our feet, landing with the sound of flexed wing feathers.
‘It’s a real one of what you’ve got on, and, frankly, I don’t know if it’s as nice, but let’s see, shall we?’ Anne’s voice was barricading itself against a patronising tone. It would not be kept out.
She picked up the jacket and shook it by the shoulders as you might a child who is going to sing his party piece. She looked at it with proprietary pride. Inside the neck was stitched, by two loops of ribbon, a very small gold chain, to take the feather weight of the jacket, during, perhaps, some meal taken in mime with other women clad in sumptuous modesty. The wool of the suit was the blue of a starling in sunlight. Its buttons were as considered as those on an expensive gramophone.
‘It is exactly what I have always wanted,’ said Cora. ‘And now please take it back, or I shall always want more, and never be able to relax with you. When I am very old I shall still be in your debt, and who knows, I may have become wicked in order to satisfy my need for hand-hemming. I’ll be’ – she gave a smirk and blushed, and yet did not stop herself – ‘hooked, on the needle, kind of thing.’
‘Worse things happen, Cora,’ said the serpent Anne to our unfallen Eve.
‘I can’t afford it,’ Cora said, ‘in any sense. I just do not dare to start accepting things.’
‘Very well,’ said my naïve sophisticated friend, ‘but how do we pack it up? You should know,’ she went on, ‘you work in shops.’
I was embarrassed for Anne. Did she honestly not understand about other people and money and the infected bondage of obligation? I think she was innocent on that afternoon, and simply wanted to spoil Cora, and then wanted to hurt her when the girl rejected the gift.
Did we appear, from the outside, to be a family, two parents and their leggy daughter?
‘Who is Angel?’ I asked, trying to save us all from embarrassment, while Cora ineptly folded the blue wool and creased tissue paper. Her face was red, as though she had been hit. I saw the old couple full with years and moderate in their ways and I felt sad for Anne. What could be making her behave in this way? She looked suddenly up as though she heard something. It was twenty past five, when angels pass.
‘Angel is great. She wears weird clothes and she’s wound up in a lot of causes.’ This lazy language was in Cora insolence. She was showing Anne and myself that she was alive and young and
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