Six at the Table Read online

  Mum had still only eaten a third of her meal. The rest of us were finished. In awkward silence, with nothing else to do, we watched her eat. She felt pressure – from us, from herself, from some impossible ideal of the mother and wife she should be – to get our dessert ready. We couldn’t possibly be left waiting. And so she attempted to eat the remainder of her dinner and get dessert at the same time. She rushed around, removing the pudding from the oven to let it cool a little, filling the kettle with water to make tea, and snatching bites of her food.

  Suddenly, there was a small gargling sound. It was a wet, shaky noise, and it was getting louder. I’d heard this noise before. I turned to look at Mum. She was leaning over the sink. Her face and neck were a deep red and there were purple blotches on her cheeks. She was choking. She kept her back to us but her struggle was visible through her stiffened torso and down into her rigid arms and hands as she clawed the edge of the sink.

  I was frozen to the spot. I looked at Dad. He didn’t seem concerned enough. Even though this had happened many times before, it filled me with fresh horror each time. I didn’t think it was right that Dad sat at the table, still, with a detached look on his face, even if they had just had an argument.

  Then Mum made a most terrible hacking noise from the back of her throat.

  ‘Dad!’ I pleaded, but it was too late. Catherine was on her feet and jumped across the kitchen to Mum, still shaking over the sink.

  ‘D’you wanna drink of water?’ she asked in an almost nurse-like tone.

  Mum shook her head. I could see tears at the corner of her eyes. She pointed to her back; she wanted to be hit.

  Catherine started gently, but with increasing force, she walloped Mum between the shoulder blades. No one else in the room made a sound as Catherine dealt blow after blow.

  Then there was a loud cough full of air, followed by a plop, as a piece of gristle from the ham landed in the dish water in the sink. Just as quickly as it had started, it ended. Mum’s back began to relax as she at last caught her breath. She took a glass of water from Catherine and wiped her eyes.

  ‘You okay?’ Dad feebly asked.

  Mum turned around and gave him a look that said it all. ‘No thanks to you.’

  She sat down at the table and in silence Catherine gathered our plates and piled them by the sink. She carried over the dish of rice pudding and our dessert bowls and placed them in front of Mum, who methodically served out five equal portions. Then she stood up and, with her back to us, started to wash the dishes.

  Epilogue

  I open the door and greet them with a wide smile. They beam back in return. Dad puts his walking stick in front of him and hoists himself into the hallway. Mum steps in gingerly after him. I help them take off their coats and direct them into the kitchen. Before we move from the hall, Mum hands over a bottle of chilled white wine and a freshly baked, still warm apple tart. The sugar has only been dusted on it moments before; it has not yet dissolved into the golden pastry. ‘That’s just a little something for yourselves,’ she says. It smells sweet and buttery. I will put it aside for later.

  We enter the kitchen and as soon as Dad is seated, I plonk the baby into his arms. She nuzzles against his big belly and gurgles and coos happily. The two of them openly relish each other’s company, placed as they are at the two extreme ends of our family’s lifecycle. I place a plastic bowl of mashed vegetables in front of Dad and ask him to feed her.

  I offer wine to Mum and place a glass of fizzy orange at Dad’s elbow. Then I finish the potatoes and take the beef and Guinness stew – always a popular dish – out of the oven for a final stir. Everything is ready. But there is enough time for me to sit down and relax for a few moments before serving dinner. I try to talk to Mum but she and Dad are completely occupied with their little granddaughter. Maybe when we’re at the table we’ll get to chat.

  I serve up this heart-warming and utterly satisfying meal that I know will please three generations of my family’s taste buds – I even add a little to the baby’s bowl. I leave only a smear of mashed potato and a trickle of the gravy from the stew on my plate. I look around the table and each plate is as clean as mine. I am happy in my role now, sandwiched as I am between my parents and my child. I stand and gather the dirty plates and return to the kitchen to get the dessert. Chocolate and pear pudding – made with Mum and Dad’s sweet tooth in mind. I bring the dessert to the table and serve it under my parents’ eager gaze. I scoop some soft ice cream on the side. Silence descends on the table. I smile, sip my wine and drink it all in.