Are You Ready Now?
Susi Lovell
Thinking about the rooftop story gives Charlotte the sensation of falling the wrong way down a telescope. As she falls, she becomes smaller and smaller until there she is, a good sixty years younger, in the farm laborer's cottage of her childhood, all of them – Mum, Dad, Jennifer, herself, Paul and little Lizzie – squeezed around the table for their Sunday lunch in the tiny front room with the pale green walls and cracked linoleum floor. Outside the window her mother's geese crane their necks across the path, the lilac tree bursts with purple blossom, and from the other side of the wall come fingernail scratches as Blackie teaches her kittens how to search for mice around the coal pile in the lean-to.
"Now," her father is saying. "Is everyone ready? Then let me tell you about…" He loves to tell stories over Sunday lunch about his youth in a small village on the edge of the Vienna Woods, before Anschluss and his escape to England. He's learned his English from reading The Times so is always very correct in his vocabulary and grammar if not in his pronunciation. He says willage, for example, and melancholy.
Sunday lunch, if it has been a good week, is roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes and cabbage. If it hasn't been a good week, there might just be potatoes, cabbage, the stories and an apple from Mrs. Dwight's orchard.
Mrs. Dwight said they could help themselves to any fallen apples, a sure sign, according to Charlotte's Mum, of a guilty conscience. She'd overheard Mrs. Dwight telling Reg, their next-door neighbour, that try as she might, she – Mrs. Dwight – would never feel comfortable with a man who spoke with an accent from you-know-where. She couldn't help but feel, she'd said, there was something fishy about a man who spoke that way.
That's why Charlotte's mother goes to the Women's Institute meetings on Tuesday evenings, to make sure the fishy talk doesn't take hold in the village. Sometimes Charlotte and Jennifer sit outside the hall on the grassy slope and listen to her clear voice rising above the others: And did those feet, in ancient times, walk upon England's mountains green… She is more careful when it comes to the baking competitions and knows better than to use her special sponge cake recipe. Envy, she tells her children, is a deadly sin, one that makes the world see spies behind every apple tree.
Charlotte always knows when her Dad is thinking about his story by the look on his face. He draws the blade of the carving knife along the sharpening steel (if it is a roast beef week), over, under, over, under, his bushy eyebrows low, a little frown sometimes, lips pursed. Then a gleam comes into his eyes, and the corner of his mouth tweaks in the beginnings of a grin.
He places the knife and steel down on the table. "Is everyone ready?" he asks. "Then let me tell you about the time when my friend Fuchsi and I…"
"Were drunk," says Jennifer.
“Were naked,” shouts Charlotte, being at an age when she can think of nothing more hilarious than taking off one's clothes.
“Were dancing on the rooftop.” Paul slides off his chair to do a little dance, knife and fork still in his hands, dripping gravy on the linoleum floor. Lizzie in the high-chair is too young to help with the story; she simply bangs her spoon on the table and lets out her train-whistle scream.
“Now calm down and eat your food and let your father tell his story,” Mum says, mindful there might not be roast beef on the plates next Sunday.
Dad starts again. “So! It was late one night and my friend Fuchsi and I were…”
“Running.” For once Charlotte is faster than Jennifer.
“From the soldiers,” Jennifer says. “Because you’d taken the tires off their bikes.”
“No, no, that's not it.” Paul is angry because the bicycle story is his and Jennifer shouldn’t have used it. “That’s not it at all.”
“And the soldiers were mad," Jennifer says. "Because they didn’t know you’d taken the tires off, because you and Fuchsi were laughing…"
"It's not that one."
"Because they rode over the cobblestones…”
“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Paul canters around the table, clutching himself.
“Because it hurt,” Charlotte explains to Lizzie.
Paul hoists his bottom back onto his chair. “No, it’s not that one. It’s the one where Dad and Fuchsi were riding the horse up the staircase and…”
“And Oma got mad.”
"Please don't talk with your mouth full," says Charlotte's Mum.
“And chased them with the broomstick.”
“Up the drainpipe…” says Jennifer.
“Up the peach tree.” Paul's knife and fork clamber up towards the ceiling.
“Up the vines,” screeches Charlotte.
Charlotte and her sister and brother each have their own preferences so although the story comes out differently every time, their Dad and Fuchsi often end up drunk, usually naked, and nearly always dancing on the roof. Sometimes, after dancing on the roof, the two boys climb over the eaves-troughing to slip into the house through an attic window; other times they drop down the chimney, sending clouds of black dust over Oma or Opa or the cook or the dinner. Occasionally they fall. If the two boys fall, there has to be something to break the fall because Charlotte and Jennifer and Paul aren't interested in a sad story – a rose bush is acceptable, or an open-backed truck full of heuriger grapes on its way down from the vineyard, or huge feather pillows left airing on a balcony. Then Oma or the cook or a neighboring hausfrau, awakened and annoyed by the disturbance, would come rushing out, gasp “Ach! Du lieber Himmel!” and faint at the sight of Dad and Fuchsi naked on the feather pillows, still dancing.
At some point Charlotte's Dad puts down his knife and fork, finishes chewing and says: “Now, let me tell you the real story.” But by then they are too far gone in their own stories to stop and eventually he gives up and laughs along with them.
Charlotte's Dad has been dead for years. Her own children are older than he had been when he'd told his stories over Sunday lunch. Yet, sitting in her comfortable chair, listening to the steady tick of her parent's grandfather clock in the hallway and watching the sky turn dusky rose through the window, Charlotte can still see the gleam of delight in his eyes as he slides the carving knife blade over and under the sharpening steel, over and under, over and under, the deepening grin as he carves. She waits for him to place the knife and steel down on the table and look up, eyes dancing, unable to wait a second longer to share his story. And she's listening, she's ready now. She longs to hear it, the real story, the one he had wanted to tell, the one she hadn't heard.
"Now," her father is saying. "Is everyone ready? Then let me tell you about…" He loves to tell stories over Sunday lunch about his youth in a small village on the edge of the Vienna Woods, before Anschluss and his escape to England. He's learned his English from reading The Times so is always very correct in his vocabulary and grammar if not in his pronunciation. He says willage, for example, and melancholy.
Sunday lunch, if it has been a good week, is roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes and cabbage. If it hasn't been a good week, there might just be potatoes, cabbage, the stories and an apple from Mrs. Dwight's orchard.
Mrs. Dwight said they could help themselves to any fallen apples, a sure sign, according to Charlotte's Mum, of a guilty conscience. She'd overheard Mrs. Dwight telling Reg, their next-door neighbour, that try as she might, she – Mrs. Dwight – would never feel comfortable with a man who spoke with an accent from you-know-where. She couldn't help but feel, she'd said, there was something fishy about a man who spoke that way.
That's why Charlotte's mother goes to the Women's Institute meetings on Tuesday evenings, to make sure the fishy talk doesn't take hold in the village. Sometimes Charlotte and Jennifer sit outside the hall on the grassy slope and listen to her clear voice rising above the others: And did those feet, in ancient times, walk upon England's mountains green… She is more careful when it comes to the baking competitions and knows better than to use her special sponge cake recipe. Envy, she tells her children, is a deadly sin, one that makes the world see spies behind every apple tree.
Charlotte always knows when her Dad is thinking about his story by the look on his face. He draws the blade of the carving knife along the sharpening steel (if it is a roast beef week), over, under, over, under, his bushy eyebrows low, a little frown sometimes, lips pursed. Then a gleam comes into his eyes, and the corner of his mouth tweaks in the beginnings of a grin.
He places the knife and steel down on the table. "Is everyone ready?" he asks. "Then let me tell you about the time when my friend Fuchsi and I…"
"Were drunk," says Jennifer.
“Were naked,” shouts Charlotte, being at an age when she can think of nothing more hilarious than taking off one's clothes.
“Were dancing on the rooftop.” Paul slides off his chair to do a little dance, knife and fork still in his hands, dripping gravy on the linoleum floor. Lizzie in the high-chair is too young to help with the story; she simply bangs her spoon on the table and lets out her train-whistle scream.
“Now calm down and eat your food and let your father tell his story,” Mum says, mindful there might not be roast beef on the plates next Sunday.
Dad starts again. “So! It was late one night and my friend Fuchsi and I were…”
“Running.” For once Charlotte is faster than Jennifer.
“From the soldiers,” Jennifer says. “Because you’d taken the tires off their bikes.”
“No, no, that's not it.” Paul is angry because the bicycle story is his and Jennifer shouldn’t have used it. “That’s not it at all.”
“And the soldiers were mad," Jennifer says. "Because they didn’t know you’d taken the tires off, because you and Fuchsi were laughing…"
"It's not that one."
"Because they rode over the cobblestones…”
“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Paul canters around the table, clutching himself.
“Because it hurt,” Charlotte explains to Lizzie.
Paul hoists his bottom back onto his chair. “No, it’s not that one. It’s the one where Dad and Fuchsi were riding the horse up the staircase and…”
“And Oma got mad.”
"Please don't talk with your mouth full," says Charlotte's Mum.
“And chased them with the broomstick.”
“Up the drainpipe…” says Jennifer.
“Up the peach tree.” Paul's knife and fork clamber up towards the ceiling.
“Up the vines,” screeches Charlotte.
Charlotte and her sister and brother each have their own preferences so although the story comes out differently every time, their Dad and Fuchsi often end up drunk, usually naked, and nearly always dancing on the roof. Sometimes, after dancing on the roof, the two boys climb over the eaves-troughing to slip into the house through an attic window; other times they drop down the chimney, sending clouds of black dust over Oma or Opa or the cook or the dinner. Occasionally they fall. If the two boys fall, there has to be something to break the fall because Charlotte and Jennifer and Paul aren't interested in a sad story – a rose bush is acceptable, or an open-backed truck full of heuriger grapes on its way down from the vineyard, or huge feather pillows left airing on a balcony. Then Oma or the cook or a neighboring hausfrau, awakened and annoyed by the disturbance, would come rushing out, gasp “Ach! Du lieber Himmel!” and faint at the sight of Dad and Fuchsi naked on the feather pillows, still dancing.
At some point Charlotte's Dad puts down his knife and fork, finishes chewing and says: “Now, let me tell you the real story.” But by then they are too far gone in their own stories to stop and eventually he gives up and laughs along with them.
Charlotte's Dad has been dead for years. Her own children are older than he had been when he'd told his stories over Sunday lunch. Yet, sitting in her comfortable chair, listening to the steady tick of her parent's grandfather clock in the hallway and watching the sky turn dusky rose through the window, Charlotte can still see the gleam of delight in his eyes as he slides the carving knife blade over and under the sharpening steel, over and under, over and under, the deepening grin as he carves. She waits for him to place the knife and steel down on the table and look up, eyes dancing, unable to wait a second longer to share his story. And she's listening, she's ready now. She longs to hear it, the real story, the one he had wanted to tell, the one she hadn't heard.
