Chapter 41
So far her plan had worked; enough, anyway. Nothing much had happened; so maybe nothing much would. No flare-ups. No tantrums. No dictates. No thundering dismissals. Nothing. Typical Sunday mid-afternoon meal. So far Claire was optimistic.
They sat in their customary spots.
It was an archetypal depiction of the British commoner's most cherished principle: every man's home is his castle. Da occupied his higher-than-yours throne, at one end of a solemn table. Ma was at his right; his instant helpmeet. Claire was at her assigned position, at the lower end of the table. She looked, as she did every Sunday, into the measuring eyes of Jack Stiles: father, master, judge and patriarch (though starting to age around the edges, she saw today).
Claire was supremely comfortable where she sat. Happy, actually. For two score years, this chair in this darkened room had been her assigned spot, her place; since she'd descended from the high chair, trading in babyhood for person-hood. And for all those years, she'd stared at Jack Stiles, having thoughts.
Unless of course relatives came by to visit.
Then she was banished to the table's bottom rung: father at the peak, then distinguished guests, mother midway, then other guests, then everyone's children swirling somewhere underfoot. Then Claire; maybe off to the side, with her plate in her lap. No matter. Family protocol. Nothing to rise up in arms about. There was a lot of that in any family, she knew.
This Sunday she was just happy to be small and insignificant and full of unsuspected powers.
She knew the world saw her — a young woman no longer all that fresh — as a dubious commodity.
Name and classification: Claire, female, age so-and-so, spinster so far. No viable offers on the table. Virgin? Assumed. Hopes to marry? No idea; she didn't get out much. Disappointment might be her family's burden. God's will was God's will. She had a certain fixed value in society's warehouse; that value was falling fast.
Before them, the table beckoned.
Food steamed.
There was real butter, a luxury Mrs. Stiles against odds somehow managed to unearth week after week (no one asked how). In the unlighted parlor adjacent, the radio was off. No music during meals, her father believed. Meals were for thanks. Prayer. Gratitude. You righteously and rightfully and right-mindedly worshipped the plenty our (not their) God provided ... despite our wanton human persistent ineptitude and moral decay.
We did not deserve.
Yet YOU have provided, oh Lord.
Radio music might come later on Sunday, optionally; a lot depended on her da's mood and the uplift injected by a good dessert.
"The potatoes, if you would, Mrs. Stiles."
She would. The potatoes made their usual circuit, through him and on. And then the mashed turnips. And then the meat, today a heavenly roast, ruddy as an Englishman's rump. Again: not, not, not a bare-naked thought Jack Stiles would share with his wife. Sulfur forbid.
A good roast made Jack inexplicably happy. And carefree in his thoughts. Everything was ersatz now in this time of war. Ersatz coffee. Ersatz fats. Ersatz meats that came from god knew how many unsuspected places on God knew what kinds of animals, if even they were animals. Not tonight, though. Tonight was a thick, impressive, bountiful, juicy, recognizable English roast beef, sound and solid. A day for celebration. And appreciation. A day for gravy, too. "Thank you, Mrs. Stiles. It looks perfectly delicious."
Claire said, "It does, Ma. It's grand!"
"Would you like more, dear?" her mother implored. "You took almost nothing."
"I'm fine."
"Does Claire look thin to you, Jack?" Mrs. Stiles.
He angled his head toward his daughter. Noticing her for the first time? He said, "You do look thin, kitten." He called her kitten when he expected her to like him; an old thing between them. "All the girls look thin these days," he then announced. Mrs. Stiles nodded, as expected. "Sure," he said. "There's not enough to eat, you know."
"It's healthier," Mrs. Stiles insisted. "Not having all you want."
Jack Stiles wasn't quite settled. He considered his wife's reasonable sentiment from several angles. It wasn't past him to tell her she'd said something incredibly stupid. "Aye," he said finally, though. "'Tis,"
The meal proceeded. Claire watched her father. Watched his fork heave another full load between his creased lips. Watched his sketchily shaved cheeks stretch to accommodate another helping. Saw the excess decorate a corner of his mouth; yellow-orange turnip this time. He lifted his napkin and smiled at his daughter.
"Da, I've got something to say." Claire heard the words burst out of her.