Lunch

We arrive early. Small bowls of crisps sit on a coffee table by the
sofa. I reach for a handful and shoving them into my mouth spit them
back out again. Stale.

My grandfather wafts into the room offering drinks, my step grandmother
is just behind him carrying a large jug of dark coloured Pimms and a
tray of glasses.

My mother looks as if she's about to take some crisps and I mouth
'stale' at her. She nods and withdraws her hand.

There are no cats around today although the two used cat litter trays
are in their usual place underneath the fridge.

I take a sip of my triple strength Pimms. My step grandmother holds the
crisps out and shouts 'crisp?' at me. I decline, she looks put out and
takes the bowl over to my mother who also refuses.
'Well somebody bloody well better eat them or they'll go stale' she
says throwing herself into an armchair.

The doorbell rings and my heart sinks; they have invited guests ( who
in fact turn out to be very good company).

My grandfather sits down beside me and after briefly expressing regret
over the disintegration of my parents marriage confides that he is
having one of his funny turns and I am not to be surprised if he has to
leave the table unexpectedly. I say I won't be and tell him that he's
looking well. He looks alarmed and says emphatically that he is in fact
very unwell.

MY step grandmother then spends many minutes apologising for the size
of the dining room. My grandfather agrees, lamenting the fact that when
guests are seated he cannot walk all the way around the table to serve
the wine.

They then both reminisce about the old house, it's lovely spacious
dining room and how much they both miss Fulham.
'We hate Putney' they say in unison. I ask why and receive an imploring
look from my step grandmother as if she can't actually say why out loud
but would desperately like me to know why.

We are then ushered into the dining room with yet more comments about
its pitiful size.

Sitting on the sideboard is a plate of congealed coronation chicken and
some soggy tomato salad. It does not look particularly inviting but it
is what I have every time I come here and so I am expecting it. I have
eaten a large breakfast.

'Sit down and I'll bring in the starter.' There are plates of white
toast with the crusts cut off dotted around the table and I'm thinking
chicken liver pate.

My step grandmother leaves the room and re-enters carrying clear glass
soup bowls containing a cold grey liquid with what can only be
described as frothy scum floating on the top. She tells me the name of
it but I have blocked it from my memory. Among the ingredients are beef
stock, sherry and cream cheese.

'It hasn't set properly she says placing a bowl in front of me. The
contents move around the bowl as she sets it down causing the bubbly
scum to bob around. It smells of cold leftover chicken livers and
alcohol. My stomach lurches and I feel my jaw tighten. I know without
tasting it that it is going to be the most nauseating thing I have ever
eaten.

I look across at my mother and she is laughing hard. Raising her spoon
she winks at me. I reach for the toast and spread a thick layer of
butter on it.

Two slices of heavily buttered toast later I am ready to try my first
spoonful of cold meat soup. I fill the spoon only half full and bring
it slowly up to my mouth. I block my nostrils and pucker up my lips
ready to slurp. It's no good. I put down the spoon and butter my third
slice of toast.

I try again. Bringing the spoon to my lips I suck in the watery grey
soup having carefully avoided scooping up any of the scum. I swallow it
straight down trying not to let it run over my tongue for too long. The
taste of sherry fails to mask the taste of cold meatbones and liver. I
know that If I eat this I will without doubt be sick.

I try and remind myself that I am thirty three and not three. I look to
my mother for help. She is still laughing. Everyone apart from my
grandfather has finished theirs. He is however suffering from funny
turns and so has a ready excuse.

My step grandmother leans over me as she clears the plates,
'I'm sorry you didn't like it.' I smile weakly and stand up to carry
plates into the kitchen, avoiding the cat litter as I go.