Chapter 3
Savouring the anticipation, I indulged in a few preliminary grunts and groans before lowering myself into the inviting warmth of the bathtub."
While it may seem trite, there are times when the obvious merits utterance: when I feel muddled or discouraged, I find that tending to my hygiene or tidying up my surroundings can be quite beneficial. An uncluttered, pleasant-smelling environment does wonders for one's sense of well-being.
For me, the bathroom in our house has always been a kind of refuge, a lovely, inviting and habitable place to loiter. My parents had it rebuilt a year or so after we first moved to this house. I remembered how for a while, the house had been full of catalogues and brochures for bathroom fittings.
The primary draw was the bathtub which verged on the immense. It was wide and shallow, wide enough to accommodate two, provided they were affectionate about it. Although I am not unusually tall, I have to fold my knees at least a little to fit in most baths. At our house, however, I can stretch my legs and lounge in comfort. On the windowsill, above the tub, my mother kept a handful of houseplants with sprawling leaves that cascaded down towards the rim of the bathtub. Outside the door, a cupboard bulged with enough linen for three generations of our family.
I lay back in the tub basking in the still novel sensation of having no pressing task to attend to. As I became accustomed to the water's temperature, I tried to will myself into a state of drowsy contentment. There were no examinations to cram for, no essays to complete — nothing in the world to worry about. By rights, I should have been humming contentedly and frolicking like a carefree child.
Instead, I found myself absentmindedly submerging a yellow duck and watching as it popped back up to the surface — an act that, admittedly, wasn't unlike a toddler. "Good grief Fayard!" I grumbled aloud. "Pull yourself together!"
At Aunt Broni's, I had remained somewhat distracted though, fortunately, without causing embarrassment. Lunch had been fine but I was so preoccupied and lost in my thoughts that I might as well have eaten sawdust for all the good it did me. Once we had returned home, I announced my intention to soak in the bath, hoping to soothe my nerves.
In the tub, I gradually sank deeper until the water covered my head. After a moment of submerged bliss, I resurfaced, pushing wet hair away from my face.
My feelings for Enide were a fraught quandary — a dilemma that occupied my mind incessantly. Enide had grown into a beautiful young woman but there was more to it than looks. I knew Enide. There was nothing affected or fake with her, no hint of artifice or falsity in her character. She was genuine — she knew who she was.
I wasn't concerned about the reasons I found Enide attractive. If anything, I needed to account for not realising it long ago. The complication arose from our relationship, which was far too valuable to chance lightly. For me, there had always been something more to our bond than just friendship. Enide and I were like family, despite our lack of blood ties. Perhaps it was this familiarity that had led me to take her for granted for so long.
Questions spun in my mind like a whirlpool. Would Enide be receptive? What would happen if we quarrelled? Would it cause strife among our families? How would I broach the subject? What if Enide was involved with someone else?
I found that last thought instantly repulsive. "My gawd," I groaned to myself. "I really am in trouble."
And yet, I could not stop contemplating tossing a grenade into the midst of all this. What would Enide make of it? Even heart-shaped grenades are generally not met with enthusiasm. The whole ruddy caper was rife with peril.
I took another dip under the suds and stayed under. The inability to breathe was strangely soothing.
Eventually, I re-surfaced, recalling something my Uncle Stegnas had said. He told me his philosophy of life was simple — rise in the morning and retire at night. In between times, he tried to occupy himself as best he could.
At the time, I had been perplexed by his words, unable to decide if he was being vacuous or, in some baffling way, mystical and insightful. Looking back, I believe I know what he was trying to tell me. In the end, there is a limit to how much you can ponder and mull things over. Facing it — that's the way to get through. Facing it and muddling through — the best you can.
- - - - - - - -
Later that evening, Enide called on the telephone. Back at her house, she'd mentioned wanting to arrange something with Andra for tomorrow. It turned out Enide had now spoken with Andra and asked if I could join them. I'm certain she knew I had little else planned, but she still sounded rather chuffed when I confirmed I could. I decided that hearing delight in Enide's voice was a rather delightful thing.
We spoke a little more about what we would do tomorrow but otherwise, the conversation did not last for long and we bid each other good night.
- - - - - - - -
The following morning, I had a few essential breakfast items in the making as Mother descended the stairs. I still didn't know where things were in the kitchen and the endeavour had become a minor ordeal until she arrived. Mirrla joined us shortly after. As they sat sipping their coffee, I bustled around the kitchen and caused a racket. Their hair had become mussed up during the night but the effect was more pronounced on my mother. It made her seem smaller and younger somehow as if she and Mirrla were a pair of bleary-eyed sisters.
These were the small, domestic moments that I had missed the most. Unfortunately, the tranquil chatter and drowsy mood didn't last long. Mirrla had to be in school while Mother had her work to attend to. They began to crack on with their preparations as soon as breakfast was done. I had made plans with my mother to drop her and Mirrla off, allowing me to use the car for the rest of the day.
With Mirrla out of earshot, Mother impressed upon me that I should be on my best behaviour with Andra. From the way she spoke, I gathered she knew Andra's family fairly well. Earnell is not a large town, so I wasn't especially surprised.
"Now remember Rody, when dealing with this kind of situation, it is essential to approach with tact, finesse, and delicacy," she instructed as I nodded along.
"I'll pack everything," I groaned, hoping to bring the consultation to a close.
Later, after an early lunch, I went up to tackle the difficult task of dressing for my appointment. The agonies of those deliberations needn't be recounted in detail, though I will say that the issue rested delicately on the choice between the dove-coloured, the light blue and the mauve shirt. Afterwards, I got into the car and drove to town.
Remond's Cafe was near the centre of town, on Oakfield Road, a leafy street branching off the high street. It was sandwiched between an elaborately ill-lit dress shop and the more cheery frontage of a childrenswear store.
Inside, the cafe had a cosy and intimate ambience. The walls were painted a warm, buttery yellow and were adorned with photographs. A cluster of upholstered booths ran along one side but there were also tables and chairs. A bar with a marble countertop ran the length of the cafe. A woman behind the counter smiled as I entered and the whiff of fresh coffee and dough wafted about invitingly. I took a magazine from the front and asked the woman to wait for my companion to join me before taking our order.
I sat in one of the booths and flipped open the magazine. It was a local publication, filled mostly with adverts for small businesses and nearby events. As I browsed the first few pages, it dawned on me that my memories of my hometown were from the perspective of a child. I knew the stores which sold fishing gear, the sweet shops, the ice cream parlours and the stationery stores. I knew the town's fields and encircling countryside. But I was unfamiliar with the grown-up, adult side of my hometown. The parts that had concerned a thirteen-year-old boy were known to me, but those weren't the things that would interest me now. The thought brought a tinge of sadness. It was as if I was an outcast who could no longer relate to the place of his birth.
"I don't care if lavender is the latest thing — it's tacky!" an amused-sounding voice observed.
Andra looked down at me with a grin. I hadn't noticed her arriving. I glanced down reflexively at the open magazine, trying to discern what she was talking about. On the page adjacent to the one I had been reading, a gaudy full-colour advert promoted the dubious virtues of lavender-tinted tableware for weddings.
"It is rather hideous," I agreed. "It's supposed to be a wedding, not a child's party," I added and stood to greet Andra.
Andra laughed and gave me a friendly hug. "Hello, Fayard," she said.
"Hello, Andra," I replied, imitating her chirpy tone.
