Untouchable Things by Tara Guha Read Free Book Online Page B

having a clear-out and now that Catherine was in a place of her own, surely she could take some of her stuff away, which they’d kindly been storing for her but was now rather cluttering the place up. She knew she would leave a little less of a person, some of her newly expanded horizon cordoned off. So Michael had come for moral support. And Seth had so kindly lent his car.
    …I believe Mr Gardner lent you his car that weekend, Mr Stanley?
    Not me, he lent it to Catherine. She was nervous of pranging it so I drove.
    Nice car, was it?
    A Jaguar: what else would Seth drive? Pale blue, an extension of the April sky, shimmering in front of Catherine’s front door like a mirage.
    If you like that sort of thing.
    And you don’t, of course, Mr Stanley.
    So just because I’m a man I’m some sort of petrolhead? You lot are all the same. I’ve never owned a car, nor do I want to.
    But it didn’t take him long to start enjoying it. The give of the leather around his thighs, the purr of the motor, the responsiveness of the wheel. He felt Seth all around them, the cool, woody scent of his aftershave still hanging in the air, the driver’s seat still weighted and warm. And his laughter, as Michael put his foot down in the fast lane and felt the engine kick…
    So you drove out of the goodness of your heart to help an old friend. You and Catherine Jarret were at university together?
    Yes. Nottingham.
    He found her in the practice rooms one day playing the Schubert B flat sonata. A skittish little Maths stowaway, scared of being chucked back into a sea of algebra. Not like his fellow music students, pissheads with a sense of entitlement inversely proportional to their talent.
    And your friendship remained… platonic?
    Yes. Believe it or not, a man and a woman can have a friendship without… sex coming into it. Catherine and I, we look out for each other.
    I see. Was there anything noteworthy about the weekend? Perhaps something connected to Mr Gardner and the loan of the car?
    All that springs to mind, quite frankly, is Catherine’s mother, making sure the neighbours got a good look at the Jag.
    Pouring out cups of tea for him and put-downs for her daughter. ‘Don’t you ever want to wear colour, darling? You’ll never stand out from the crowd in neutrals.’
    We packed up Catherine’s stuff and left the next day.
    It was an insight into her home life, though. He was even privy to a family argument, when Catherine discovered they’d sold her old piano. A proper middle-class argument, where nobody swore and people clenched their jaws instead of their fists. Wine was produced over tea, dinner as they called it, whereupon Sylvia Jarret’s merciless hospitality became open flirtation. Catherine stared at her strawberry gateau, her face reflecting its colour, while her dad tried in vain to cork the wine. Poor chap. He’d been a musician, first violin for the CBSO, until Mrs Jarret had put her foot down and insisted he did something more ambitious. Apparently the subject was off-limits now.
    Later, all tucked up in Catherine’s sister’s old room, staring at posters of black-clad rock bands and, bizzarely, Boris Becker, Michael thought about meals in his own family home. Meat, potatoes and two veg, delivered onto a scrubbed table at five on the dot or else there was trouble. No conversation he could recall, unless the meat was overcooked. Then I wouldn’t feed this to the fuckin’ dog , a meal shoved in the bin, a slammed door and his mother’s face pulled taut like the skin of a drum. I don’t know what you’re staring at. Finish your carrots, else there’s no pudding.
    There was no love that he could remember. He and his brother and sister were fed and clothed in a cramped but pristine home environment. There was no connection between them all. They rolled around each other like different-sized marbles on a tray. Thank God for his Walkman, drowning out the arguments between his parents when his dad had stayed too late