They didn’t say goodbye or even the mandatory London “see ya later.” Frank felt for the book in his jacket. Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair. He knew it almost by heart... it had a poetic bleakness that chilled his heart. It was, he felt, what he’d feel if he ever lost Cathy. She’d asked him if his eye ever roved, and he’d fallen back on the old Paul Newman adage,
“Why settle for hamburger when I’ve steak at home.”
He’d always remember the smile she’d given.
“Good answer, Frank. No... it’s a great answer. How do you think I’d be if you had yourself a floosie?”
“A floosie?”
“Well, if the word’s good enough for John Steinbeck, I don’t see why you should have trouble with it. So... answer the question... carefully.”
“Am... I don’t think you’d be... what’s the word?... compassionate.”
The fire had lit her eyes.
“I’d burn her house to the ground first. What do you think, I’d sit home knitting?”
“And then?”
“Oh, then I’d cut your balls off.”
And that ended that chat.
“Try the fava,” said Frank, “it’s split-pea pulse.”
They were celebrating their news with a meal in a Greek restaurant.
Cathy asked,
“What Rev... ith... o — ICEFTEDES... or indeed... let me try to say this O.K.... SPAN... A... KO... RIZZO.”
“That’s good, so’s your pronunciation. That first job is Chickpea Rissoles, and the other is spinach rice... you might like briam, it’s a kind of vegetable stew.”
“Why, cos I’m Irish? Is it on meself or are they a tad obsessed with chickpeas?”
A Greek in traditional costume played bouzouki and Cathy gave him a look.
“Jaysus, I hope that fella won’t be twanging while we’re trying to eat.”
The waiter brought hot pita bread and Tzazitzi dip. He recommended they try the Sporiakopittas, spinach pastries, and put two glasses of ouzo before them.
They drank.
She said,
“Ah, paint off a gate... will you want to know, Frank, if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“No... I’d prefer not to know.”
“Me too. There’s a test they can do... to see if anything’s wrong with the baby...”
She looked down at her hands and added slowly,
“You know... if there’s anything wrong... they can terminate.”
She’d begun to wring her serviette. These were the old-fashioned kind. It wound her fingers like a shroud.
“Good Lord, no. I mean... no.”
She smiled and reached over, touched his hand.
“Thanks Frank. So what’s a sheftalia or kleftiko? I dunno about eating them, but it’s fairly fulfilling just trying to say them.”
“Right, now the first is rolled minced pork sausages with onions I think, and the other lad is very tender meat on the bone. Here, dip the bread in this melitzzanos. It’s an aubergine dip.”
“Gee, Frank, I love it when you talk dirty. I’d say you’d prefer to have a boy, would you? Don’t men want heirs and stuff like that.”
“A boy! He’d probably grow up and kick the daylights outa me. Mind you, I’ll be over seventy... not that that’s any protection nowadays. In fact, it seems near obligatory. I’d have to learn the names of football teams too. God, I don’t even know who Gasgoine is married to.”
“He isn’t.”
“See... my point exactly.”
The months of the pregnancy, Frank held his breath. He thought if he relaxed, something would go wrong. If the gods saw you weren’t in good form, they seemed less inclined to send trouble. As if they didn’t need to grab your attention. Frank suddenly noticed other pregnant women and wanted to give them smiles of encouragement. But such behaviour in London could get you nicked or married. It would certainly get you noticed and that’s the worst thing.
Cathy seemed to develop like a character from an American soap. All the clichéd things. She blossomed, bloomed and never looked better. Physical discomfort was at a minimum. The hospital visits for the scan were terrifying, she went convinced they’d find something amiss, and she feared her terror would communicate itself to the baby. But all continued well.
Her mother rang with dietary suggestions and tips on where to buy baby clothes. Jim’s drinking increased and his wife left. He took to ringing Frank and leaving odd messages. His favourite was the advice given to politicians about to make their first speech.
Heinz, the dog, suspected treachery. They were too nice. He could live with “the edge” stuff. You never knew if a clout or a biscuit was following. The Russian roulette of it appealed. But a continuous diet of care and consideration made him highly suspicious. They were either:
A) out of their minds,
OR
B) about to disappear.
B) he could handle as humans were easy to track, they needed so many things. A) he’d always considered, but this constant blandness was driving him to distraction. He considered running away, but humans always looked in the wrong places. Ulterior motives played a large part with them and he could never grasp the concept. Getting away with outrageous behaviour was useless if it happened all the time.
No, something was in the air and he knew it bode ill for him. All he could do was stay vigilant and be ready when it happened. Cathy was being downright pleasant and even fed him tidbits from her plate. Frank looked on with an idiot smile, and Heinz knew this couldn’t last. Hard times were coming, but he couldn’t figure from where. If he knew anything of human behaviour, it was that they were never consistent. Meanwhile, he’d test them to the limit and see what shook free.
Cathy bought a book of names. As she sifted through them, she said to Frank,
“Jim left another message. He said if monkeys are so free of stress and worries, how come they’re in cages?”
“He’s deep, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s a wanker is what he is... so, any boys’ names you’re keen about?”
“Jim?”
“I thought Sebastian would be nice, it has a sort of majesty.”
“Jeez, Cathy, no way, they’d murder him in the playground... I say ‘Sebastian.’”
Cathy put the book down.
“Frank, are you going to be objectionable all evening. I mean, don’t feel you have to give me any help.”
“Well, there was the guy who named his son after all the players in the Arsenal squad.”
“This is a suggestion?”
“And fading rock stars, didn’t they call their kids names like ‘Dandelion’ and ‘Root-beer’... I’ll be honest with you, Cathy, I have some sort of block when I try to think of boys’ names. Maybe I’m afraid to tempt fate, or deep down I’m hoping it’s a girl.”
Cathy sighed.
“Well, girls’ names then. Can you give me some of those.”
“I’m sort of partial to Rachel.”
“Didn’t you have a thing with a Rachel?”
“Hardly that. I went out... once, with a Rachel, maybe twice.”
“Scratch that, Buster, it’s Dandelion before bloody Rachel.”
“Now who’s being awkward.”
No progress was made and finally Cathy flung the book aside. Frank picked it up, asking,
“Who writes these friggin’ books?”
The author was Serena Cole... and Frank looked at Cathy. She smiled and nodded. Only later did the horrible thought cross her mind that maybe it was the surname he meant.