All She Ever Wished For. Claudia Carroll

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       TESS

       The present

      And I’m still here, still sitting in the Pritchard’s musty old dining room, dare I say it? Staring at the grandfather clock, and having a pretty hard time staying awake.

      ‘No, no, what Immanuel Kant failed to grasp when he wrote about morality,’ says Desmond, holding court at the head of the table, ‘is that it all comes down to the individual. In an evolved society, morality is nothing more than a whim of the elective conscience.’

      This, by the way, would constitute a reasonably normal topic of conversation in this house. Not for the Pritchards your common or garden gossipy small talk about the latest Netflix blockbuster or what’s happening in the news, instead they roll out the conversational big guns right from the very first aperitif.

      ‘I’m afraid I have to totally disagree with you there, Dad,’ says Bernard, wolfing back his food and talking with his mouth full. ‘Otherwise, what could Kant have possibly meant when he wrote “morality is not the doctrine of how we may make ourselves happy, but how we may make ourselves worthy of happiness”?’

      ‘Well now, boys, in my opinion that theory has been the basis of all monotheistic religions for millennia now,’ Beatrice chips in, reaching out for a bowl of roast potatoes and piling them up high onto Bernard’s plate. And I swear to God, even though the groom-to-be practically begged me to help him lose half a stone before the wedding, he works his way through the lot of them in under a minute, shooting a guilty little look at me as if to say, ‘yes I know, complex carbs are strictly off the menu, but as a guest under my mother’s roof it would seem churlish to refuse’.

      Beatrice seems to notice how hungrily Bernard is eating and I can see her glancing at him a bit worriedly, same as she always does every time we’re invited here for dinner. But then I seem to walk into this trap every time we cross the Pritchard’s front door – and it’s the one and only tiny little niggle that I have in coming here.

      According to Beatrice, you see, her only son was, physically speaking, a fine hunk of a man until I came along, but now, apparently, I won’t be content till I’ve turned him into a skeletal shadow of his former self, living off nothing more than handfuls of nuts and seeds in between ice cold showers and five-mile jogs at the crack of dawn, that is.

      Useless for me to protest the cold, hard reality, which is that when Bernard and I first met, he was overweight bordering on obese, with a BMI of 28.9. He pleaded with me to help him get in shape and that’s exactly what I did, so he’s now down to a reasonably healthy fourteen stone and with a cholesterol level that’s not going to land him inside of an A&E department in the next few years.

      But instead of acknowledging that Bernard is looking years younger and infinitely healthier, according to Beatrice I’m slowly starving the poor guy into an early grave and I think that accounts for a large part of the reason she insists on us coming over for grub at least once a week. Once when she was a bit under the weather after a few G&Ts too many, I even heard her mutter to Desmond, ‘at least this way I know the poor boy is getting a proper big feed every now and then’. She even slips him doggy bags to take home whenever she thinks I’m not looking.

      Anyway, back to the dinner table, and on and on the three of them debate, cajole and shout over each other about their own personal theories on German philosophers, while I sit quietly staring through the gloomy half-light at yet another dusty pile of books scattered all over the floor, wishing to God I could contribute at least something to the conversation. Anything rather than sitting here mute, nodding along like I’ve the first clue what they’re all talking about.

      After a while though, kind-hearted Bernard seems to cop on that I haven’t uttered as much as two words since we sat down – to cremated rabbit stew, by the way, with roast spuds soaked in oil and a bit of wilted cabbage on the side; the kind of food they serve in all those old men’s clubs all along St Stephen’s Green. I’m vegetarian but hate to be rude, so instead of actually eating it, I’m really just cutting up food then rearranging it, hoping no one will take any notice. Though to be perfectly honest, after a few stiff drinks I doubt if our host and hostess would pay the slightest bit of attention to me if I burst into a chorus of ‘All the Single Ladies’ and started twerking around the table.

      ‘I’m afraid my dear Aged Ps,’ Bernard chides gently from across the table, ‘that we’re being rather neglectful of our guest.’

      ‘Begging your pardon, Tess dear,’ says Desmond, who basically looks like a computer-aged replica of Bernard himself, right down to the dandruff and the fact that clothes always look crumpled and slightly dishevelled on him, in Bernard’s case no matter how many times I bloody well iron them.

      ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, how rude of us,’ says Beatrice a bit reluctantly. ‘Then of course let’s change the subject, to something that might interest Tess for a change.’

      Silence. Then more silence, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock outside in the hall. Then Desmond pipes up, ‘Oh, I know! Have you seen the Joshua Reynolds exhibition that’s just opened at the Chester Beatty, Tess, dear? I read the most wonderful review, you know, apparently it’s quite unmissable.’

      ‘Ehh, no, I’m afraid I haven’t as of yet,’ I tell СКАЧАТЬ