Four Legs

On the morning Clara came for the kitchen table, Arthur ate his toast standing by the sink.

The table was upside down on two blankets. He had removed three legs and was considering the fourth, which had not forgiven him for the damp winter of 2004. A socket wrench lay beside the marmalade. Every so often he picked it up, tried the bolt again, and put it down without comment.

Helen would have had a comment. Something about his determination to make breakfast more difficult than it needed to be. Or a suggestion that he take it out and shoot it, which had been her solution to most problems involving furniture.

He finished the toast. The kitchen clock said ten past nine. Clara had said nine, but he had known that to mean some time before lunch.

When the van arrived, he was standing on one end of the wrench.

“Is that an approved technique?” she asked from the door.

“For people who know what they’re doing.”

“Right. I’ll wait until one turns up.”

She wore a red coat he hadn’t seen before. Her hair was shorter, cut at her jaw, and there was a fresh burn along the inside of her wrist. He saw it and looked away. At twenty-eight she would not appreciate a question about whether she had been careful.

“You’re late.”

“The first van smelled of diesel.”

“It’s a diesel van.”

“Inside, Arthur.”

“Oh.”

They looked at each other across the overturned table.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He had packed the mugs the previous evening. Finding them required opening three boxes, because he had labelled all the kitchen boxes KITCHEN. This seemed to give Clara pleasure.

“Very systematic.”

“I know what’s in them.”

“What is?”

“Kitchen things.”

She took off her coat. Underneath was an old green jumper of Helen’s, the sleeves turned back twice. Arthur almost mentioned it. Then he remembered that Clara had worn it at Christmas and he had almost mentioned it then as well.

The kettle sounded loud in the bare room.

“You’ve taken the pictures down,” she said.

“Buyer’s coming to measure on Monday.”

“So?”

“So I’m moving out.”

“I know that.”

He put teabags in the mugs. One had a cartoon badger on it. The other said BEST MUM in letters that were beginning to wear off.

He switched them before handing one to her. She noticed.

For thirteen months they had been stepping around small things in this manner, careful not to break what was already broken.

“Where are you going?” Clara asked.

“A flat over a shop. Near the workshop.”

“What shop?”

“A place that sells phones.”

“All right.”

“It has a separate entrance.”

“I assumed you wouldn’t have to go through the phones.”

He had wanted her to ask about the flat. Now that she was asking, he wanted to stop describing it.

She went to the back door and looked at the garden. The rosemary bush leaned across the path. Helen used to trim it with the kitchen scissors and then complain that everything she cut tasted of lamb.

“What happened to the blue chair?”

“Went to the charity place.”

“I said I might want it.”

“You said you didn’t have room.”

“I didn’t then.”

He turned the badger mug by its handle.

“You said the table was the only thing you wanted.”

“No. You asked what I wanted. I said the table.”

He could hear the difference, now she had said it. He couldn’t work out what to do with it.

“The van’s out there,” he said.

“Yes. I saw it when I drove it here.”

They got the fourth leg off together. Clara held the table steady while Arthur put his weight on the wrench. The bolt shifted with a noise like a quiet complaint. He caught his knuckles against the frame and said a word Helen had forbidden at breakfast, though not, inconsistently, at any other meal.

Clara laughed.

Under the tabletop, near the edge, someone had drawn a small dog in permanent marker. Arthur rubbed a thumb over it.

“You did that.”

“I know.”

“You blamed the dog.”

“I was eight.”

“We didn’t have a dog.”

“I wasn’t a very good criminal.”

They wrapped the legs in old towels. Arthur found the numbers he had pencilled on them the last time he dismantled the table. Clara carried them out two at a time. He let her. They lifted the top between them, turned sideways through the door and stood in the drive breathing rather more heavily than either wanted to acknowledge.

The van was long enough. Arthur checked the load straps, then checked them again.

“You don’t have to come,” Clara said.

“Somebody has to put it back together.”

“I’ve met a screwdriver.”

“It’ll need levelling.”

“I’m sure the coast has people who can do that.”

He tightened a strap that did not need tightening.

“I’ve told the hire people I’m driving.”

She watched him for a moment, then handed him the keys.

“We’re not going straight there.”

“All right.”

“There’s somewhere I want to stop.”

“How far out of the way?”

“Some.”

He didn’t ask again. It was more journey than she had offered him in a year.