The Expensive Cravat | Chapter 1: Sitting up

The Expensive Cravat

We all "sat up", as they called it.  A curious phrase which contradicted what we were expected to do, which was to sit down.  The anomaly was probaly fixed in Rachel's childhood when "sitting up", as opposed to sitting normally, was compulsory.  Nevertheless, not wanting to appear rude, I sat bold-up-right, with my chest pushed out as far possible without busting a rib.  I felt a right tit if I’m honest, but what could I do?

Meals were always an ordeal for the Petersons. As I waited I scanned the runway and counting the receptacles that cluttered the table.  The contents of the cast iron blood red saucepan were transferred to a similar vessel then placed with a family of heavy-weight dishes on ornamental metal trivets to protect the oak.  In time, these spuds and sundry "veg" would find themselves on plates ready to eat.

Derek, that’s Rachel’s husband, had been "sitting up" for nearly thirty-five years and Gretta, their daughter for nearly twenty.  The family accepted having to sit up straight for Rachel and apart from slightly pronounced sternums the Petersons were, more or less, free of disability.  Derek, though, did suffer from wheeziness and drawn-out bouts of "sitting up" didn’t make breathing any easier. 

The wine too waited dutifully by the fire. It was undoubtedly a good one, smooth, as wine buffs say - very smooth.  I momentarily wondered whether it might be a fruity one, or perhaps possessed a hint of something or other, but I really hadn’t the nostrils for wine.

"Fifty pence a bottle in France”.

Derek knew everything about France and wanted to live there one day.  He hoisted the bottle to eye level and pointedly examined the label. Then, in a soft Anglo-French accent, proceeded to announce the grapes origin and hinted about the quality. 

"Produce of St. Emilion 1982," adding with the softest of sniffs "you can't beat a good Bordeaux, can you Rachel"? 

Lowering the bottle to within an inch of his not inconsiderable nostrils he produced a bolder sniff, and concluded, "superb…" 

"Do you like Claret Jack?" Rachel asked politely. 

Derek tilted the bottle and gave the label another once over. 

I knew Claret was wine, but what category it fell into was a mystery to me.  What I did know was that if I drank anymore of it I would have serious digestive problems later.  

Sitting up straight next to Derek was Gretta.  Derek and Rachel, who was at last dishing up the veg, had been desperate for one of each before Gretta came along.  It was such a nuisance.  Right up to the birth Derek was convinced Rachel was expecting a boy. The theory for the origins of male offspring, according to Dr. Derek was nothing much to do with chromosomes, or DNA, but personality.  If, the theory went, one or other of the parents could be forceful enough a male would be produced.  To Derek this appeared the truth and remained so even after Julie was born. At first Derek was unable to accept it.  He had certainly tried, but perhaps Rachel that hadn't concentrated hard enough during the process?  A couple of years later, an oh-so-determined Rachel and Derek, created Raymond and, at long last, they were a family.

Despite the difficulty I was experiencing holding myself in a perpendicular position, I waited patiently to eat .  You see I hadn’t the series of additional muscles that Derek and Rachel had built up over the years, which had enabled them to complete the Sitting up performance effortlessly.  While we were waited, salivating like Pavlov’s dogs, Rachel commuted to and fro the Kitchen collecting an array of salad, more vegetables, and finally the main dishe Chicken-a-la-Crème.   I counted eighteen vessels of one sort or another that between them took up all but the tiny triangle of table reserved for the wine which was due, any moment, from its ideal warming position next to the fire.  It was all very odd, not just because we’d been sitting there parched for forty-five minutes, but because the fire, guarded by two splendid ceramic King Charles Spaniels, wasn’t even lit.  It just flickered an impotent glowing red thanks to a special bulb that shone through a coal-effect piece of plastic.  Nevertheless, while it was a poor substitute for the real fire that used to be there in Auty Hilary's day, it was a nice little example of 1950s electric heating.

Then, quite suddenly, the conversation on the merits of the French Stick over other World Breads, paused. The air became still and strangely no sound at all came from the kitchen. No one dared move. "Please start," Rachel announced, as if she  surprised that we wern't already tucking in.  My first reaction was to swiftly pick up my knife and fork, but I quickly realised my folly as the others made instead for a bulky looking handkerchief held in a smooth fake-ivory ring.  Oh look, I thought, I have one too…  I put down my temporarily redundant utensils and watched how Derek and Gretta unravel their cloth and place on their laps.  I left mine where it was being quietly confident that I could consume my dinner without soiling my trousers too much.

I just knew somehow, after years of being deprived of a trouser safety net that I could satisfactorily convey food from plate to mouth. What I wasn’t so sure of was whether I would have the same level of success filling the plate itself.  Skills do have to be learnt, and I had no experience of loading shafts of asparagus at arm’s length.  Rachel was very kind and offered,

"Would you like some carrots Jack?" 

As if by magic several lengths of lightly-buttered Carrot slid to their destination.  "Want some Daddy?" Gretta asked.  Derek took the dish and in one seamless movement he was served replacing what was left of the Carrots next to the Broccoli with a manual dexterity I had not seen before - or since.  Gretta proudly told me later that she had once seen her father serve an entire meal of over sixteen items in under twelve minutes and the whole time had managed to remain seated.  It was really quite astonishing.  In time we had our plates prepared with food to eat and Rachel had joined us. 

"Are we alright?" Rachel queried, and we all said, "yes, fine thank you." Well, except Gretta and Derek who both had the experience to add a, "mmmm..., that looks delicious." A micro-second too late I stuttered an, "I can't wait - mmmm..." but it didn’t really work. In the end though I hadn’t done that bad. Three out of a possible thirteen foods I'd served without aid:  Potatoes, Cabbage, and Parsnips, the rest were either provided by Rachel, or Gretta, who I couldn't help noticing looked tense.  Was it because Gretta was unhappy about my performance serving myself, or perhaps my shoulders were too far forward as I spiked that miniature Courgette?  

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