The Playing Fields

Chapter 3

"These are fresh from the garden out back." She said with pride, carving a couple of slabs of beefcake tomato onto his plate, the billowy sleeves of her muumuu trailing across the butter dish. Hanging lamps filled the atrium with a pale yellow glow, muting the colourful display of their dinner plates on the red, checkered cloth. Nigel smiled weakly, watching the pale juice seep away from the blood red circles in the middle of his plate into the surrounding potato salad and spareribs. He kept his eyes down, studying the curved rack of dark brown, meat covered bones, wondering exactly how one ate the unfamiliar item.

"Pick 'em up, like this." She said, tearing a bone from her own rack and stripping the meat off with a gleeful chomp. "It's pork. I barbeque them out on the deck."

He tentatively followed her lead, grasping the bones and pulling firmly, dismayed when they slipped from his fingers and plopped onto the table. "Oh dear!"

"Gotta show 'em whose boss my boy." Victoria picked up the errant rack, ripped it apart, and dropped it back onto his salad. "There, try that now."

The rest of the meal passed without incident, and Nigel found he was thoroughly enjoying his first real Canadian meal. The smoky tang of the ribs had blended lusciously with the ripe flavour of homegrown tomato and creamy potato salad. He gnawed the last bone clean, and wiped his mouth, sagging back with a contented sigh.

"That was absolutely delicious, Aunt Victoria. Mom and dad would kill for food like this."

"Let's drop the aunt business Nigel, okay? It's just Victoria." She stood up and gathered the plates, shuffling out to the kitchen, her gown flowing dramatically. "Let me get this stuff in the dishwasher, and I'll fetch dessert."

He sat patiently, watching the unexpected picture of his aunt as she bustled about, looking for all the world like one of her coloured pots come to life. Nigel had expected her to be a stately, reserved woman; a woman with regal bearing and well-modulated speech, something more befitting a London stage performer. She did not show even a trace of her native accent. A niggle of concern stirred his thoughts over just how beneficial this experience might be. Victoria sailed back to the table with a pair of plates laden with apple pie and huge scoops of vanilla ice cream.

"Made this, this morning. The apples are from my neighbours tree, they're Spys."

He looked up sharply. "Your neighbours are spies?"

"No!" A wide grin. "The apples. They're called Spys, but if you want to know the truth, she is a little nosy." Victoria let out a noisy laugh and pressed her fork into her pie with gusto. "Eat up, son."

*****

"So, Nigel, tell about this writing you're doing."

They lay side by side in lounges, on the stained cedar deck, watching the western sky change from pinky grey to a deep bluey black. The coffee was as delicious as the meal, and Nigel felt the tension of his long trip seep out of his body, leaving him feather light and relaxed.

"Well aunt- uh, Victoria, for as long as I can remember I've been wanting to write a play, live, for the stage," he glanced over to see how she reacted, "and uh, well... it's been a bit of tricky terrain. Quite frankly, my endeavor has not been going well at all."

"With all those wells, I can see you might be on dangerous ground. Do you have a specific theme? What's this play you want to write supposed to be about?"

"Well..." he paused, blushing when he saw her eyebrows rise. "My idea was to write a drawing room comedy," he hurried on, "you know, smart crisp dialogue, among society's upper class."

She crinkled her face in a regretful frown, disappointed with her sister's duplicity. "Okay, if that's going to be your theme, what's the plot?"