On Brunswick Ground by Catherine de Saint Phalle Page B

with thresholds. She talks about where you come from and where she comes from, immediately putting land under everyone’s feet. Then she moves on to what you share with her – anything from womanhood to liking the coffee. She repeats people’s names after her phrases, which anchors them still more. I heard a talk once by a psychologist expert in hostage situations. They use the same procedure. It makes me wonder about Bernice. I somehow feel Mary may have winked at me, but of course I can’t be sure.
    â€˜Billie told me her stepmother likes working with you.’
    I stop asking myself why she wears this thing and tell her how relieved Mitali and Ian are that Billie is going to be okay. Suddenly, without Sarah, it’s easier to talk to her. We end up all having a second coffee. I ask Mary if she’s still staying with Sarah.
    â€˜Yeah. We’re getting along quite well.’
    I gulp my surprise. She volunteers more information.
    â€˜We’ve been seeing films like maniacs. And I might have a job soon – at The Monthly , designing their layout, if I’m lucky.’
    Her hands are curled on the table. I stare at them. Surely they can reveal some clue? They are slightly podgy with stubbed fingernails, a bit like a child’s hands, except that they seem preternaturally agile. They look clever , as if they knew things. They act with sudden decision. Full of character and economy of movement, they don’t waver or hover around the cup like mine do. I peer into the veil and catch the colour of her eyes for the first time – bright blue. Gosh. Mary doesn’t have to have coal dark eyes as if her father were a sheik, but I certainly didn’t expect the full force of this Yves Klein statement. I have to stop myself thinking about her burqa again, but my mind keeps returning to it like a dog to its bone.
    Bernice is chatting happily to the academic. They both went to the same university. I find myself surprisingly comfortable in Mary’s presence. Instead of being busy wondering on which side of my arse I am going to sit or where to park my elbow on the table, I discover we’ve both read The Ballad of the Sad Café, Mollie Panter-Downes and Stefan Zweig – unrelated, unexpected bridges out of the blue. Loving the same book is like finding out that you’ve travelled to the same remote village, or busy city. Mary and I exchange emails when they get up to leave.
    Bernice returns to prams and men. Since I’ve seen her last, she has set sail towards a series of decisions. They’re all aligned in front of us. They feel slightly disembodied but Bernice’s enthusiasm blows colour and shape into them. For a moment, they glow; I can nearly see them: the pram, the toys, the cot, the clothes, the school. They all heave into reality, but then she slumps forward on her elbows and sighs.
    â€˜It’s so hard to do it alone. I wanted a family. I’ve always wanted a family.’
    We stare at each other as they deflate, the balloons from the party in her mind.
    She tosses her fringe.
    â€˜Has Mary been a Muslim for long?’
    I say I don’t know.
    â€˜It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’
    I nod and open my hands in doubt. Maybe we’re all extreme, too busy hoping instead of living – Bernice hoping for a husband and child, me for Jack, Sarah to reach her daughter, Jack his memory. Mitali is the only one who’s gone beyond hope, just trying to accept what has already happened.
    Bernice looks at her tiny watch and jumps to her feet. She has to rush off to her radio station where she will interview people and bring to light every atom of humanity they may possess. They don’t see her tiny handbag, her track record with men, or her slightly knock-kneed gait, they don’t see her bright lipstick on the bad days or her woebegone dimpled elbows digging into Sarah’s bar top, all they hear is her merry laugh and her trusting