in publishing or as a librarian because I can’t imagine why they would all be so informed and opinionated about books otherwise, but I discover Dita and Mandek work at the laundry with Toma. Sabina, the youngest of us all, is a cleaner at the local police station.
‘Good jobs,’ explains Sabina, ‘fit around my family. I never take worries home with me.’ I nod, that’s undeniably true. I also discover that it is Dita and Mandek’s home that I’m in. I thank them profusely for inviting me.
‘Any friend of Toma’s is our friend,’ they tell me. No one mentions the lottery win. Notable because people rarely talk to me about anything else nowadays. I don’t think Toma has told anyone about my luck or his good fortune. I feel relieved. If he had, I could not have been just another guest.
I move around from one group of people to the next. A mixed bunch, they remind me of the sort of friendship groups Jake and I used to make on holiday when we were much younger. Transient people from many different sorts of walks of life. All with stories and histories but none of those histories are shared. It makes an interesting party. There is a freedom in talking to these people who have been brought together through chance and circumstances. They did not go to school together, nor do their children, they did not meet at child birthing classes, they don’t even live in the same neighbourhood but are scattered across the town and county. Their lives aren’t intrinsically entwined through years of responsibility or habit; there is a sense that they are choosing to spend time together because they value the moment.
Within the first hour of being at the party, I encounter people from five or six different birth countries. Yet, despite having come from different places, we have all arrived in the same spot this Saturday night. A terraced house in a small British town, and everyone seems happy about it. Their viewpoints may not have originally been the same, but they have found commonalities, unity and harmony. They want to make the most of it.
We want to make the most of it. I count myself in amongst this melange of people who wish to harvest joy tonight.
The air has a sense of energy and delight. People excitedly try one another’s dishes – it appears the catering was a case of everyone bringing the dish they most like to prepare; no one was given instructions as to whether that dish ought to be sweet or savoury. However, as clingfilm and tinfoil lids are peeled back it seems that the rich thick stews, spicy meatballs, pretzels, strudels dumplings, buns and breads were designed to complement each other as precisely as if Sara the party planner had written up elaborate directions. There’s a big bowl of punch. If anyone knew the ingredients at the beginning of the evening, by the time I try it, the mix is certainly unclear. It’s sweet; I can taste pineapple and rum but then I witness someone add a bottle of vodka. It’s careless and crazy but I couldn’t be enjoying myself more. Toma also catches his friend Vladislav adding the vodka. ‘Good man, fulfil our cultural expectations,’ he says, slapping his friend on the back. He turns to me, ‘You better eat plenty of syr smazeny,’ he warns.
‘What’s that?’
‘Breaded fried cheese.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ I comment and dive in. I meet the couple Toma lives with, Joan and Frank. An English working-class, salt-of-the-earth pair. Frank has brought his slippers with him to the party, Joan rolls her eyes at this but doesn’t seem too disgruntled. ‘It’s a party, Frank, you are supposed to dress up.’
‘Like this one?’ he asks pointing at me. I just laugh because his ribbing is well meant.
Joan is concerned about the washing-up and spends most of the evening in the kitchen, rinsing glasses and moving food from one plate to another to ‘clear some space’. It seems every time a dish is finished, another one lands on the table as more guests stream through the door. Not only does each and every one arrive with food and drink, but their entrance precipitates ever-increasing cheers of excitement. ‘Probably cos they’ve brought drink,’ comments Frank with a grin.
Joan tuts, rinses another plate under the tap and says to me, ‘I hear it’s you we have to thank for finding us our Toma.’ I smile, sip my wine. ‘He’s like a son to us.