Life Is A Cake

Life Is A Cake by Neil McCall

Rich sprawled languidly over the armchair as he usually did and fixed
me with the kind of pitying look reserved for less intelligent younger
brothers, whilst young Steph hung on his every word:
"Life is a cake, Luke," he explained, "and you need to grab yourself a
good slice before everyone else does or it's just crumbs."
This was, of course, the exclusive fee-paying grammar school talking;
at my comprehensive such philosophising would have been met with a
blank stare or, more likely, a punch in the cakehole, as it were. But
Rich had passed the entrance exam to a higher world where beating up
other paying customers was frowned upon, so he had developed a style of
verbal bullying, a horrid mix of sarcasm, condescension and scathing
humiliation which, providing it was not directed towards themselves,
was approved of as creative thinking by the grammar school
masters.
He might have added that, in our family, love was a cake too and that
it was unequally shared out. For Rich was as ruthless as a young cuckoo
in carving out his own enormous wedge, and had discovered how to use
his charm and cunning to become Mum's favourite at an early age. When
Steph then came along, she quickly saw where the land lay and adopted a
similar strategy with the male parent to become a real Daddy's Girl. I,
of course, was the thick one of the family, destined to disappoint from
an early age, and I think that at some stage I gave up trying to
impress and settled for mere survival. Rich and Steph went on to
university and into careers where they could keep an eye on the main
chance, Rich into fund management and Steph into a sort of jumped-up
secretaryship; she's far too gifted to be a P.A. or Girl Friday or
whatever the latest term is, but it brings her into close proximity to
her target species, namely men of wealth and power. Meanwhile I'm also
in management of a sort; I'm produce manager for the local supermarket,
which brings me into close proximity to a lot of people I could well do
without. Except for Ros, who's been the find of my life.
I first noticed Ros a few months ago when she started coming into the
supermarket during commuter hour, the hectic period between five and
six when the town centre workers stream out of the local railway
station and realise they've nothing to eat for tea. She's noticeable in
that she's both very beautiful and very black, for there weren't a
large number of Afro-Caribbeans in our suburb. I always made sure I was
on the produce aisle at this time, so I saw her most evenings and would
point out reductions and special offers, the way I would for any other
customer, which in her case was rather patronising as it turns out
she's far cleverer than me and quite capable of working out a good deal
by herself. But she always smiled nicely and thanked me. Anyway, a
couple of months ago I went into town on my day off, deliberately
caught the commuter train home and "happened" to find a seat opposite
Ros; we chatted and, as we emerged from the station, I asked her out.
And she said yes! To be honest, I didn't think I'd have much chance and
would probably never have dared except for one thing - I'd noticed that
her shopping basket always contained ready meals for one, so I reasoned
that she probably didn't have a boyfriend, and, well, as they say,
faint heart never won fair lady!
I immediately found out that she'd recently moved from Manchester to
take up a local teaching post; unbelievably, I'd pulled an educated,
middle-class young woman and I didn't know what to do with her!
Fortunately I had a couple of days on late shift at the supermarket to
plan a strategy, and settled on an evening at the cinema followed by a
meal, maybe French or Italian - I wasn't sure what such a top-drawer
woman would make of my regular restaurant, the rather downmarket Star
Of Sialkot. I looked up the films at the multiplex and my heart sank;
the choice was between five Hollywood blockbusters all of which seemed
to promise lots of violence and car chases. Fortunately there's an art
house cinema in the town which was showing a French classic - Un Homme,
Une Femme Et Un Chien, so I booked us in and spent a while in the
library swotting up on the film. The arty film critic informed me that
the key to the film was to "grasp the innate dichotomy", which I
memorised as a conversation piece.
The evening was a disaster; the film didn't start until eight and
lasted three hours; three hours of grainy non-action sequences which
didn't seem to follow on interspersed with dialogue which may have lost
something in the translation to English subtitles; it certainly lost
me, and Ros started to fall asleep halfway through. We were so late out
of the cinema that we had to grab a bite at McDonald's instead of the
fine continental cuisine I'd been looking forward to.
"So, did you grasp the innate dichotomy in the film?" I asked
brightly.
At this point several startling things happened; a spray of masticated
burger and strawberry milk shake flew from Ros's beautiful mouth and
spattered the table, allowing that mouth to emit a startling sound akin
to a flock of ravenous, honking geese sweeping through the restaurant;
concerned fellow-customers approached to give assistance, fearing that
Ros was having a seizure, but she finally managed to assure them that
she was merely laughing.
I sat nonplussed; this wasn't meant to happen at all!
"Innate dichotomy!" she howled, each syllable punctuated by a snort as
she gasped for breath.
"Where did you pull that one from?"
Somewhat huffily I explained that I'd had to do some homework to try to
keep up with the classiest and cleverest lady I'd ever had the good
fortune to date, even if the outcome had been to make me look even more
stupid than usual.
"Classy, am I?" she replied thoughtfully, swilling the word around her
now-empty mouth as though it were a fine wine. "Clever" was obviously
taken for granted.
" Tell you what," she said, "next time I'll choose where to go, OK?
Give me a ring when you've got a free evening."
Next time! There was to be a next time after all! And I realised that
she'd also made herself vulnerable by leaving the onus on me to follow
up, or to leave it be. As soon as I got home and checked my duty roster
I rang her to arrange a second date. And a third?

I found out that Ros did not, in fact, hail from Manchester but from
Leeds, where most of her family still lived in a huge, ramshackle old
house which would have made a great hotel conversion had it not been
situated in the inner-city suburb of Harehills. My parents, by
contrast, live in a more modest home but in the smartest suburb of our
home town; when Ros found out that they lived nearby she pressurised me
into booking a visit - and with my family you really do have to book in
advance. She promised in return to take me over to Leeds on my
once-a-month free weekend.
I was not all that keen to take Ros to meet my parents, with whom my
relationship was adequate but edgy; most of my time there was spent
trying to avoid conversational potholes. I reckoned my parents would
give Ros nine out of ten for looks, eight out of ten for brains and
minus twenty for skin colour, but commonsense dictated that in our
small town they would soon find out about our relationship and the last
thing I wanted was to appear in any way ashamed of Ros, so I bit the
bullet and rang Mum.
The meet-the-parents session was no better than our first date; Mum
tried hard to keep the welcoming smile on her face, but it immediately
turned into a half-grimace when I introduced Ros. Dad then assumed that
I'd chatted her up on the supermarket checkouts, and showed great
astonishment when told that she taught sociology at the grammar school,
though he tried to make amends by ascribing his surprise to the fact
that the traditional grammar school offered a sociology option as
opposed to offering a black female teacher option. So they changed the
subject to more interesting ones, and told us how Rich had bought a
house once owned by one of the Rolling Stones, and that Steph had spent
her bonus on a new sports car - I was tempted to reveal exactly how
Steph earned her bonus, but thought better of it. Perhaps they were
really making an effort to approve of Ros, but some things are too
inbuilt and the overwhelming impression from the day was that Luke had
Disappointed Again.

I must admit that I wasn't looking forward to going to Leeds,
particularly when Ros revealed that the whole family would be on hand
to meet me; she had five siblings and if any of them were like Rich and
Steph, or if her mum Victoria harboured the same prejudices as mine but
in reverse, I was in for a very hard time.
The house in Leeds didn't look at all prepossessing, the cracked front
stairs straddling a patch of weedy soil leading up to a solid-looking
door which was urgently in need of a coat of paint; however, But
Victoria's welcoming grin didn't twist into any kind of death rictus
and her hug, although potentially lethal in ferocity, appeared
genuinely warm. I was surprised to find I was not the only white person
in the household; Ros's elder brother Leon had become a Roman Catholic
and married a cheerful Irish nurse named Bridget. They appeared to be
on a personal crusade to repopulate the world with honey-coloured
children, having four youngsters who wandered the house in various
states of undress. Her elder sister Donna had done well for herself,
marrying an Indian pharmacist named George who walked around wearing a
bemused but not unhappy expression; they were the only ones not
currently living in the house in Harehills, having bought a smart
detached residence in leafy Moortown, but, according to Ros, they and
their two boys were around often enough for it to make little
difference. Then came the two younger sisters; Anthea was a secretary
and single parent to two-year-old Ben whilst Icilma, a personal fitness
instructor, was living there with her partner, a gym coach named
Albert; they had no children as yet but looked horribly healthy and
glistened as they prowled the house together like a pair of panthers.
The baby of the family, a serious-looking young man with thick glasses
names James Junior (usually contracted to Junior) had escaped to
university, but had been reeled back for the weekend in to join in the
sizing up of myself. I got a hug from the entire family; Albert's was
nearly as deadly as Victoria's and I made a mental note never to join a
gym.
The interior of the house was very roomy, as of course it needed to be.
The main sitting room was more like a tech college common room, being
furnished with a great assortment of elderly chairs and settees; Ros
and I were escorted to the most respectable-looking whilst Victoria
held court from the largest armchair. The wallpaper was covered by a
variety of objects; a picture painted by Ben, a poster of Bob Marley
and, in pride of place, a framed mass-produced artwork depicting Jesus,
whose red heart throbbed painfully on the outside of his white linen
robe. Ros vacated our settee to help Bridget sort out the lunch, her
place being taken by George who had obviously been primed to ask the
clever, searching questions. The fact that I was under scrutiny was
obvious; the opposite settee was largely taken up by the bulk of Albert
whilst Anthea and Icilma filled in the small space on either side and
stared at me with intense concentration as George teased out all the
painful details of my failed education, dull job and horrible family
life; Victoria appeared to be preoccupied with giving orders to the
kitchen staff, but every few seconds an appraising glance would be cast
my way. I was beginning to sweat, which was not helped when huge
bowlfuls of chicken curry appeared from the kitchen, the first and
largest being given to myself as the honoured guest. The curry was hot,
but at last I felt on home ground, having overcome many a Bellyblaster
Balti from the Star Of Sialkot in my time. I was determined to gain
full marks on this round at least, and ate the lot with relish.

A lot of crazy, plus a few normal, things took place that Saturday.
Both beer and spirits seemed to flow like water, and I realised I had
to drink slowly or they would have me well away before the evening was
through; Junior took me to one side and intimated that he had, like,
some good stuff stashed away in the garden shed if I fancied a smoke at
any time; Anthea and Icilma appeared to have started a competition as
to who could give me the most hugs on any pretext - I really wanted to
hug Ros, of course, but she always seemed to be in the brotherly arms
of Leon or the beefy arms of Albert; this was a touchy-feely family par
excellence. We listened to the football results amid a cacophony of
howls and roars; as far as I could make out, everyone supported a
different team though nobody ever actually went to watch any of them
play. Soon afterwards a great mound of sandwiches appeared, and when
these were suitably depleted George and Donna and boys took their
leave, the other five children being put to bed at various intervals
during the evening. That, of course, was a signal for the evening to
get crazier still; Anthea's current boyfriend, a bus driver, turned up
after his late shift with a crate of beer and a determination to dance,
so the ratty furniture in the main living room was pushed as far into
the corners as it would go, the telly was switched off and the hi-fi
switched on and Bob Marley came down off the wall, through the smoke,
beer and rum and into our souls as we went jamming into the small
hours, and occasionally someone who was not quite stoned would remember
hunger and emerge from the kitchen with warm pasties for all.
"Time for bed, children," called Victoria eventually, clasping me to
her huge breast for the last dance. I felt a mild stab of irritation;
it should have been Ros I was holding close, but she had unaccountably
disappeared.
"You and Ros can have my bed," she chuckled in my ear as she paraded me
around the room, "it's a fine old bed, me and Jimmy conceived six
children in that bed, and it ain't through yet. Though, of course, we
have to replace the mattress from time to time!"
But when she read the alarm and anxiety on my face she stopped
chuckling and dancing and steered me towards a settee where she fixed
me with a frown.
"Course, if that ain't good enough, I'm sure the Hilton or somewhere
can fix you up a nice bed with real white sheets an' all!"
"No," I stammered, "I'm sure your bed's fine. It's just that Ros and I
haven't ? well, we're not yet ?"
Victoria softened her frown and grabbed my thigh with a firm paw.
"Now you listen here, child. There's folks round here who call my girl
ho and bitch; they can't stand to see her being both good-looking and
well-educated with it. Now I don't hear you call her those names; you
call her clever and classy. That's nice. And you treat her nice too. So
I figure you'll carry on the same way and treat her real nice tonight.
Or perhaps you want, say, an older lady to tell you just how?" she
suggested, rolling her eyes at me. I swallowed and shook my head.
"Thought not, mister smooth supermarket man!"
And she propelled me through her bedroom door, gave me a push in the
direction of a huge iron-framed bed and closed the door behind her. Ros
was already in the bed, of course.

Some time later I must have touched Ros in a ticklish spot, for she
suddenly let out a huge honking laugh which reverberated through the
house; then, from other rooms, a parody of honking ensued, which
subsided into much giggling and creaking of bedsprings.

Needless to say, next morning the house was a hive of inactivity,
although apparently Leon and Bridget had managed to get to early Mass
before Bridget went into work. Victoria had a huge dinner to prepare -
George and Donna were coming back later, and every pot and pan in the
kitchen seemed to be of a massive size - so around nine o'clock she
roused everybody, served breakfast and kicked us all out to go to
church, except for Leon who of course had already been and would be
spending the morning peeling a mountain of vegetables as a penance. The
local Baptist church was a pleasant mix of black and white and was
quite informal and lively with a cr?che and children's classes, which
was just as well as we'd brought Leon's four as well as Ben; no-one
seemed inclined to ask who the parents were, maybe they assumed they
all belonged to Ros and I.
One of the consequences of working in a supermarket is that you get to
see exactly what the public is buying on a day to day basis -
important, of course, as you then have to ensure that the produce on
the shelves matches the demand. It's become very noticeable that fewer
and fewer people take the time to cook, and those that do seem to
prefer cook-in sauces and things which take five minutes in a pan;
there are shelves full of these things whilst fresh meat and fish take
up less and less space in the store every year. Which explains how I
knew that the delicious smell, which was wafting its way across hungry
Harehills as we walked back from church, must have been coming from our
house. After lunch I came into my own; food stocks had diminished
somewhat since my arrival, so all the guys in the house went to
replenish supplies whilst the women washed up. There was a local branch
of the supermarket chain where I worked, so we took advantage of my
staff discount card, but even so the bill came to over two hundred
pounds which was paid in cash, a rather tatty pile of cash scoured from
various wallets and back pockets. As the discount card was intended for
the exclusive use of myself plus immediate family I expected some
dispute, and indeed the cashier frowned and was about to make some
objection when she realised that I was accompanied by a small
timid-looking Indian man - plus four large menacing black guys who
looked like they might turn the place over at a whim. We crammed the
goods into George's smart Mercedes and he drove home, Albert riding
shotgun over the groceries whilst the rest of us walked back.
"Hey, man, you doin' all right," conceded Leon, "my Bridget got the
treatment too, worse still, if anything, us being Catholics an' all.
But she soon came back for more!"

Did I say "our house"? Well, that's about how it is. You see, the old
bed had woven its spell and Ros is now pregnant, and the responses from
our respective families couldn't have been more different. General, and
unprintably vulgar, celebrations in Leeds, but when I told my parents
they were at first rather nonplussed, wondering how me, the rank
outsider, could have beaten Rich and Steph in the reproductive stakes.
Then they realised that their treasured first grandchild would be
mixed-race, and went bananas, accusing me variously of having been
seduced by some money-grabbing black chancer (not true: Ros earns far
more than me), of rampant promiscuity (only slightly true: Steph and
Rich could put me to shame in that department) and of giving no thought
to what they, the neighbours and anybody else might think (completely
true, I'm glad to say). It turns out that the worthies at the grammar
school are none too thrilled either; having a female black teacher on
the payroll was look-how-we've-moved-with-the-times good publicity, but
an unmarried pregnant female black teacher was a token gesture too far
and Ros is leaving at the end of the year; being feisty, she'd be
inclined to brazen it out, but really this town doesn't hold anything
for either of us any more. However, the supermarket have been very good
and arranged me a transfer to a big Leeds store in August, though I'll
have to be a mere deputy produce manager for a while.

And, of course, Rich had it completely wrong - I suspect he's wrong
about a lot of things, far more than he realises. For I've learnt that
life, and love, aren't cakes to be sliced and fought over. They're more
like jokes; if you've got a good one, you need to share it around. And
then, like me, you'll never be hungry for love and laughter again.