Oli Hudson

Oli Hudson is a writer of prose, some poetry and television. He lives in Camberwell. In the anthology is an extract from a novella called Four Days in the Life of Tom Leech; a short bit from the opening called ‘Breakfast’. In the online journal is a longer section from the same novella called ‘Luncheon’.
Contact: omait001 [at] gold [dot] ac.uk

Four Days in the Life of Tom Leech

 

Luncheon 

In the old days I might have called what I just attended a job interview. But to be honest, what constitutes a job interview to me, is the tangible possibility of employment. This chat, had been a pre-interview for a nonexistent position that had, no doubt, already been filled several times over. Despite another setback, I decide to concentrate on the positives, and after all, I have a working day’s worth of suit wearing to enjoy.

The suit: In this modern world of smart phones and intelligent finance, you still can’t deny the feeling you get from putting on a suit and tie. Or a waistcoat even, if you want to be a real man. I have spent most of my adult life avoiding it to great personal cost, but on a day such as this I can appreciate the power of the suit, and this suit isn’t even mine. My Dad started wearing waistcoats around thirty- five. I’ll be thirty-five soon and I could only wear a waistcoat if it was mandatory, if it was part of my job like I was a waiter or snooker player. If I was a waiter, then I could wear a waistcoat and be legit. I think my Dad started wearing waistcoats because he felt like he had risen, through hard work, to the status of real menswear. He was earning decent money, he'd fathered a couple of kids, he could stand in his garden on a Sunday morning in pyjama bottoms and a waistcoat with honour. Well done him. I don’t have that sense of achievement. But for one day at least, I can wear this suit with brio and maybe take advantage of the other benefits afforded the suit; like a bit of respect. And where better to bend my plastic pride than London’s St James’.

Sometimes these inner-city lanes can feel like the back-streets of Heaven. In this part of town there’s some guy working all night hoovering nooks and polishing crannies. A giant hair dryer has been installed in the sky, gently fanning the branches; the trees nod their approval, a perpetual slow nod to the skies. A gentleman combs each strand of his silver hair with a comb from his comb pocket. A grey lady in a tartan jacket yawns an epilogue and her Jack Russell sits in wonder before the sun claps through the clouds. A half-smoked cigar rolls down the pavement. In such civility I feel like the new kid in class, standing in front of it all, slowly figuring out who likes who, who the brain is, where to fit. And on any other occasion I would say the back but today maybe, one row in. And for that, I would like to thank my suit.

‘Are you hungry?’ says a voice.

I look down to see the tartan lady and her dog, looking up at me, their eyes so polite.

‘You look hungry,’ she says.

‘Do I?’

‘My name’s Irene but you can call me Mrs Belchamber.’

When I was younger I was so afraid of getting old. I would never grow strong enough to successfully complete a press up and couldn’t picture a stage further. And now, in some ways, I wish I was old. To not care what people think. To not fear approaching for fear of reproach. She places a letter in my hand and folds my fingers. 

‘You see that shop down there on the right?’

‘I’m Tom, by the way.’

‘Tom darling, you see the shop on the right?’

‘The cigar shop?’

‘No.’

‘The smart place, the shoe place?’

‘No.’

‘The café?’

‘The cheese shop.’

‘I don’t know where I’m looking.’

She thrusts my arm up and points it in the direction of café but angles it slightly to the right.

‘Oh my God, Smythfield and something, I was looking in the wrong place, I’m such an idiot’.

‘I’ll wait here.’

She takes a couple of steps back and places herself around the corner of the street with an eye on the cheese shop but with the cheese shop blind to her.

‘Could you give them the note? I’m tired.’

‘Do you want me to find you a chair?’

She looks at me confused for a moment. At least, I think it’s confusion.

‘Just give them the note.’

I make my walk across the road towards the cheese shop, narrowly avoiding a scooter and three anxious cabs, trembling their way through town. This shop looks like it might be older than London. Like London was built around this shop. Ancient oaks cut down and carved into a simple frame, shaped by sweat and time. It all started here when two mongers washed up on the Thames and decided this was the perfect spot for cheese trading. Maybe the Thames was an ancient cheese route; at one time sailors the globe over crammed their ships with Cheddar, Camembert, Moskovsky... Manchego and set sail for London’s Brie-lined streets. Today, only Smythfield and Smythson remains of these long-dead days.           

Inside I am greeted by one hell of a stink. If you magnified the air you would see individual whole cheeses all floating around, breathed in and out by cheese lovers. Pure, solid, multi-dimensional, flesh and bone, inside and out, wall-to-wall cheese. I am approached by a young woman in a fancy-pants apron and freckles, who quickly asks if she can help but without saying anything I pass her the letter. She looks at it carefully, opens it, scans it and with a distress in her eyes, she looks at me.

‘Did you know her?’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Belchamber.’

‘Mrs Belchamber?’ I say, ‘Yes, good friends.’

‘It’s very sad.’

‘What did she have to say? She’s off cheese?’ I laugh. She does not.

‘She died.’

I take the letter back, it reads...

Dear Smithfield and Smythson,

Of 88 Jermyn Street London. I am sorry to report that Mrs Irene Belchamber of 17 Love Lane Mayfair Acc No 13425, has died very suddenly of food poisoning. Yours Sincerely, Alexis Shotter QC

I have no idea how to react when informed of a death. Especially the death of someone you just met. Too dramatic could come across funny, I think. Too silent, blunt.

‘I’m shocked,’ I say.

And I further feign shock with a shake of the head, hand the letter back and flee. I am surprised to find Mrs Belchamber, still in position on the corner of the street. She turns to me with a straight grin.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I mumble.

‘What did they say?’

‘She seemed upset.’

‘Good,’ she turns down the street before hollering back to me.

‘Lunch?’ she shouts.

I have misjudged Heaven. It’s not the sleepy place I had imagined, but maybe this dose of understanding is a good thing.

‘Short term I get it, but long term I can’t see it working,’ I chew, as I take another bite of steak. Mrs Belchamber is making a Bearnaise, which is some sort of Hollandaise she explains but with tarragon. It sounds good.

‘I’d rather die than pay a penny more,’ she snaps and she walks over to the kitchen table, spooning the white speckled mixture onto my plate.

‘The older you get, let me tell you.’

On entering the house, a paper-trail had been thrust into my hands. On close reading, it became clear that Mrs Belchamber had written on many occasions to Smythfield and Smythson about the quality of her weekly cheese delivery and had tried to cancel it on several more, but despite these numerous moans, she had ended up in some kind of customer service black hole. The bills and the cheese kept on coming. Her inability to resolve this stalemate by return of post had caused her to take a rather dramatic decision; to report her own death by hand; my hand. ‘But come on Mrs Belchamber,’ I counter, as I spread the custard like liquor onto my steak and prepare for an introduction to French culinary skill, ‘You can afford it.’ Mrs Belchamber places the pan on top of the hob and turns back to me, pulling out a chair.

‘Darling Tom...’ She pauses as if preparing to make a declaration, ‘Don’t be a bore. I didn’t invite you round to lecture me.’ She takes a seat, ‘Besides, we should discuss your footwear.’

It has come to Mrs Belchamber’s attention that I am wearing trainers with my suit. They are brown leather trainers. Technically, they fall into some kind of sportswear category but you couldn’t play any sport in them. To me, they look smart enough to be paired with a suit but not according to Mrs Belchamber. It seems to have caused her some discomfort. There are many important rules when it comes to dress in this world, most of which I was aware of but Mrs Belchamber seems especially pernickety about them.

‘You can’t wear plimsolls to a job interview,’ she laughs.

‘It wasn’t really an interview. Mrs Belchamber?’

‘Yes Tom.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Is it rude?’

‘No, I don’t think so. How rich are you?’

Mrs Belchamber folds one arm under her elbow and rests her chin on her clenched hand.

‘Are you like yacht rich? Offshore bank account rich? Or no mortgage but can’t afford cheese rich? Old money poor.’

‘Do you need money?’

‘No. I’m just interested.’

A prolonged silence. Mrs Belchamber gets up from the table and leaves the kitchen. I hear steps climbing the stairs. I hope I haven’t offended her. I really was just interested to hear her story. I should have known. Never talk money with rich people, they really don’t like it. I start stuffing my face with steak, just in case she comes back down with a rifle in her mitts or a butler to throw me to the pavement. It never occurred to me before, but it really isn’t easy to eat steak quickly. Somehow, my big mouth has made me aware of how small my real mouth actually is. You can’t fit much steak into this mouth. And my jaw is incapable of piston-like chewing. I give up. If this is to be my last mouthful of rare beef, then I better savour it. If nothing else, I have acquired a new-found love of Bearnaise sauce from this lunch-time escapade. The steps descend the stairs again and Mrs Belchamber enters the kitchen with a shiny black shoe in each hand.

‘What size are you?’

‘8ish?’

‘These should fit,’ and she places the pair on the table.

‘Thank you.’

‘Cheese?’

Mrs Belchamber walks over to the fridge and takes out a large whole Stilton on a plate with a flowery rim. It’s huge. It has a marble texture, grey like plaster; like those casts from Pompeii. Perhaps a Stilton shaped hole had been discovered and plaster had filled the void between the ash layer. She stands the relic on the table before fetching crackers from the cupboard. One small slice has been removed but the rest remains intact.

‘Wow.’

‘Taste it.’

I cut a chunk off the side and import it to my plate on my knife. When it drops it echoes. This is cheese of the bluest blue and may well be too mature for this green palate. I spread the oozing mould onto my fork and usher it to my mouth. My tongue churns and my nose clogs on tasting. I make a face like a full child; no more, no-no-no, that’s enough.

‘Oh my God.’

‘I told you Tom,’ she giggles, ‘I’d rather die than pay a penny more.’

It’s funny sometimes you only notice things when leaving. I don’t know what I was thinking about when we walked in but I somehow missed the butterflies in the hall. These butterflies could never fly though. Their fragile frames weighed down by gold and lead. Forever suspended here. I run my hand across the wall and wait by the door as Mrs Belchamber curls her fingers around two locks and deftly pulls it ajar, and I step back out onto Earth.

‘Mrs Belchamber?’

‘Tom.’

‘If you had one piece of advice, what would it be?’

She opens the door a little wider and rests her shoulder on the frame.

‘You want my advice?’

‘If you have any, I’m sure you must, I mean, if you have any.’

She smiles. ‘Always wear smart shoes to a job interview, Tom. You didn’t pick up on that?’

‘Of course, yeah, it wasn’t really an interview but yeah,’ I smile back and turn towards the street.

‘Tom.’

‘Yes.’

She takes a deep sigh and sincerely states, ‘Safety in numbers.’

I think about it for a moment but I’m not sure I really get it.

‘Safety in numbers?’

‘Yes. My mother used to say it to me.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, it means, safety in numbers, Tom. You know, you’ve heard the saying?’

‘Safety in numbers, right. I think so, yeah, but... I don’t get it.’

‘It means. What does it mean? Don’t spend too much time on your own Tom. If you can.’

‘Right. No. That makes sense.’

Mrs Belchamber puts her hand on my cheek. Every now and then, no matter how old you get there’s moments like this. A moment when you’re looked upon like you’re still a kid. Like you still have so much to learn. I like them, these moments, because most of the time, I feel like I know nothing. I take a deep breath and prepare for enlightenment.

‘Some day my dear, you’ll be surprised what you’re willing to do for company.’

I droop my head a little into her palm, accepting the warmth.

‘My cat died.’ 

‘I’m sorry.’

I stand on the steps and Mrs Belchamber stands in the doorway.

‘So long Tom,’ she says.

‘So long Mrs Belchamber,’ I say. And Mrs Belchamber closes the door.