In Pursuit of the English - Doris Lessing [59]
‘Well, Flo, you’ll never better today,’ Rose would say, caressing her stomach with both hands.
‘Flo, you’re the best cook I’ve ever known,’ I’d say.
And Dan would finally get up and stretch himself, and say: ‘And now for some real food. Where’s my fish and chips?’
‘Ah, get along,’ Flo said, delighted, absorbing our grateful admiration and smiling. ‘Get along with all of you. If you like what I cook, then that’s all I ask. And there sits Oar, all this time, not a mouthful taken, what shall I do?’
This would be the signal for either Rose or Dan to take the child on to their laps, and try and fill her mouth by force. Aurora sat, quite passive, watching her mother, who stood across the room, hands on her hips, anxiously watching this operation. When her two cheeks were bulging out tike a monkey’s, she leaned over and emptied her mouth on to a plate; then shut her lips tight against the invading spoon wielded by her father or by Rose.
‘Well, I don’t know, dear,’ Flo would say helplessly to me. ‘How do you acount? After all, I cook nice, don’t I?’
‘Flo, you’re the queen of cooks.’
‘Then why doesn’t my Oar ever eat a mouthful?’
‘Just don’t bother. If you don’t bother, she’ll eat.’
‘Ah, listen to you. Don’t bother, she says. Oar’d let herself die of starvation and not even notice. Oar, have a little mouthful of something, darling, sweetheart, just to please your mother, please. Oar.’ Aurora, already on the floor with my son and the puppies, would frown, stiffening up her mouth. If Flo persisted, she would let out her routine roar of protest, and go right on playing, her lips pinched together against the threat of food.
‘Oh, leave her,’ Rose said.
‘Then we’ll wash up.’
We women washed up. It was now about four or five in the afternoon. The men were putting on overalls and getting tools and paint out. Sunday was a hard-working day for everyone. Dan and Jack went off to paint the walls of the stairs, or fix a door. Meanwhile, Flo and Rose got out buckets and brushes and began scrubbing.
‘We’re too full to move.’ Flo said, every Sunday. ‘But all that food. We’ve got to work it off. That’s right, Rose. You clean out the oven. Because it’s not fit to cook in, the way it’s full of grease and smells, and how can I cook supper for tonight the way it is?’
‘You don’t think we’re going to eat again today?’ Rose said.
‘Those men’ll be down, you see, seven or eight, and they won’t say no to my fish stew, with ray garlic and my onions, you’ll see.’
And later that night, about eleven, there would be a second meal, and again we ate, and ate, and ate.
‘That’s right.’ Rose would say, as we staggered upstairs to bed. ‘You eat what’s offered. And besides, we’ve got to eat proper just once in the week. Though, of course, now you’re here all the time. I suppose Flo feeds you up in the week, too.’
‘No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t cook for herself.’
‘Then what does she do with herself, I’d like to know. Because if she’s not cooking, she’s too stupid to live.’
Rose was bitter about Flo at this time, on two counts. For one thing, because she herself was miserable and self-punishing, she was allowing herself to be exploited badly, Flo would come up the stairs at ten at night, and although Rose had bathed and was clean for bed, she would go down and scrub and wash for Flo when asked – grimly, silently, but without protest. ‘If she hasn’t got any conscience, making me slave for her, then that’s her lookout, not mine.’
The more Rose was depressed, the more she sank under Flo’s thumb.
The second reason was that now I had given up my job and was spending my time writing. Or trying to write; for I was discovering that coming to England had disturbed me, and it was going to take some time to get started again. But I was in the house with Flo, And Rose said: ‘So now it means you’ll be Flo’s friend, not my friend.’
‘I don’t see why,’ I said.
‘It stands to reason. Before you worked. You were like me. But now you’re like Flo, sitting around at home and talking.’
‘But I’m trying to work.’
‘Yes? Well, it’s not your fault.