'Well,' said Ted.
'This is home,' said Israel, gesturing at the long bare suburban street, no different from suburban streets anywhere else in England, Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland. Telegraph poles, flowerpots, a touch of mock Tudor, front gardens paved over for cars. Not much different, in fact, from Tumdrum.
'What do you think?'
'Hmm,' said Ted. 'I thought it'd be-'
'What?' said Israel.
'The way you santer on…' said Ted.
'Yes?'
'I don't rightly know. I was expecting maybe knights and turrets, and streets paved with gold.'
'Right.'
'Mansions. Rolls-Royces.'
'Okay. Yep. Anyway…Come on,' said Israel. 'Mum'll be delighted to see us.'
He jumped down out of the van, and Ted followed.
He rang the doorbell of his parents' standard suburban semi.
'Mum!' he said, when his mother opened the door.
'You're late,' said his mother. 'Dinner's already on the table.'
'Sorry.'
She leaned forward and kissed him and then looked over his shoulder, past Ted, at the van.
'Is that your van?'
'Yes.'
'You can't leave the van there.'
'Why not?'
'You're blocking the drive.'
'Well, that's okay, isn't it?'
'It would be better if you parked it elsewhere.'
'Why?'
'Just park out of the way, somewhere round the corner.'
'But-' 'Do hurry up, Israel, and do what you're told.' Home?
Definitely.
He felt like a child again already.
7
Israel's mother was not a good cook. It was a myth about Jewish mothers, in Israel's experience: he knew a lot of Jewish mothers who were good eaters, but good cooks? Gloria's mother, for example, had ambitions as a cook, but her meals were always somehow inappropriate, or undone by her own ambition: meals made with a random coulis of this and an inexplicable jus of that; and a Puerto Rican fruit and chicken dish she liked to make, soaked in sherry for two days and garnished with candied fruit and raisins; and stuff she liked to do with braised celery; and weird shiny food; and breakfast soups-all of it just…not a good idea. Israel's mother specialised in half-raw roast chicken dinners-put in too late or taken out too early-and also crispy plasticised ready meals, burnt beyond recognition while she was talking on the phone, overcooked casualties of hasty multi-tasking. In Israel's experience, the only good food in the Armstrong household came direct from the deli counter at the Waitrose in Finchley.
As a welcome-home meal, Israel's mother had prepared her signature dish, paprika chicken, which was basically chicken with a lot of paprika sprinkled over it-one part chicken to one part paprika-and cooked with tomatoes and rice until all the constituent parts had broken down to roughly the same size and consistency and were indistinguishable; you could almost drink Israel's mother's paprika chicken. Israel had eaten this meal probably at least once a week for fifteen years before becoming a vegetarian; if he had to identify a particular dish, a particular meal, that had turned him vegetarian, then it was probably paprika chicken: the sickly smell of it, the oils, the colours. The paprika chicken sat now, liquid and fragrant and oily and orange, centre stage on the Armstrong family dinner table. For Israel, in respect of his status as honorary returning family vegetarian, there was a side dish of glistening fried mushrooms.
'Thank you for having us, Mrs Armstrong,' said Ted.
'Thank you, Mr Carson.'
'Please, call me Ted.'
'If you'll call me Eva,' said Israel's mother.
'Is that an Irish name?' said Ted.
'I don't think so,' said Israel's mother. 'Although my late husband was Irish.'
'Oh,' said Ted.
'So we certainly have something in common,' said Israel's mother, who was clearly in good spirits: she'd lit candles, and there was a tablecloth. The meal felt like a special occasion; a family gathering. Israel was there; his mother; his sister, Deborah; and Ted. Deborah's fiancé would be arriving later.
'Well,' Israel's mother was saying, looking at her watch.
'Ari won't be here till later,' said Deborah.
'So we're just waiting for Gloria,' said Israel's mother.
'I'm sure she won't mind if we start,' said Israel.
'Are you sure?' said Israel's mother. 'I wouldn't want it to get cold.'
'Yes, absolutely.'
'I'll serve, at least,' said Israel's mother. 'She may be here by then.'
Israel had told Gloria what time he'd be arriving, and she said she'd be there. Probably she was busy.
Israel texted her again.
She was not there by the time the food was served.
'So. Shall we?' said Israel's mother, looking at her watch again.
'Let's,' said Israel.
'No sign of Gloria then?'
'She's probably busy.'
'Well, good. First, a toast. To Israel! It's lovely to have you back! And to Mr Carson!'
'Please, call me Ted,' said Ted.
'Ted. Yes,' she said. 'And your lovely dog.' Israel's mother hated dogs. 'What was it he's called?'
'Muhammad,' said Ted.
'How unusual!'
'After the boxer,' said Israel.
'Woof!' said Muhammad.
'Quite!' said Israel's mother. 'Lovely to have you here. We missed you,' she said to Israel, placing a hand on his arm.
'I missed you too, Mum,' said Israel.
'I didn't,' said Israel's sister, Deborah.
'You wouldn't,' said Israel.
'She's joking, Ted,' said Israel's mother. 'They like to tease each other. Of course she missed him.'
'Have you had your hair cut?' said Israel to his sister, sipping his wine.
'Yes, of course I've had my hair cut. You think I'd grow my hair for six months without having it cut?'
'Well, it looks…different,' said Israel.
'And you look like you've been sleeping in a ditch,' said Deborah.
'Thank you,' said Israel.
'Mmm,' said Ted, who was enjoying his first experience of Armstrong paprika chicken. 'Delicious.'
'And what about me?' said Israel's mother.
'Sorry?' said Ted.
'My hair, Israel?'
'Yes,' said Israel. 'Yours is-'
'It's shorter,' said his mother. 'More modern.'
'Is it…?' Israel thought perhaps his mother's hair colour had gone a shade too far towards burgundy.
'There's a touch of colour in it,' she said.
'Right,' said Israel. 'And there's something else…'
'My nails?' said Israel's mother. 'He's very observant. He gets that from my side of the family,' she explained to Ted. 'I've started getting my nails done.' She held up her hands and stretched out her fingers as though about to play a two-octave scale. Her hands were all wrinkly and slightly liver-spotted, but the nails were pure bright white and shiny; like old wine skins stoppered with brand-new plastic corks. 'French polish,' she said.
'I thought that was something to do with furniture,' said Israel.
'Tuh!' said Deborah.
'But they're nice,' said Israel. 'Really nice.'
'Thank you,' said his mother.
'And your eyebrows,' said Deborah.
'Ah, yes, my eyebrows.' Israel's mother raised an already arched eyebrow. 'I go to a woman now that Deborah knows in Swiss Cottage.'
'I thought she needed some updating,' said Deborah.
'Right,' said Israel.
'A woman needs to take more care of herself as she gets older. Isn't that right, Ted?' said Israel's mother.
'Mmm,' said Ted. 'Lovely chicken.'
'After all, I'm only sixty-two. There's plenty more, if you want some.'
Ted looked bemused.
'The chicken?' said Israel's mother.
Ted smiled and graciously accepted another ladleful of paprika chicken.
'Now,' said Israel's mother. 'Just for a quick catch up on all the news, Israel, seeing as you've missed so much while you've been away. Mrs Metzger?'
'Who?'
'Mrs Metzger, of the Metzgers?'
'Oh.'
'She's been in hospital. They cut out half her intestine.'
'Ouch,' said Israel.
'And Mrs Silverman?'
'Sorry?'
'Her husband taught the girls the violin.'