Dinner in the Looking Glass.

I’m not too impressed when he snaps at the waiter, asking for our order and telling no one in particular, but maybe me, that it has been a long day. He never asked what I wanted, just told the poor man one mussels, one prawn cocktail, two Dover soles and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Looking right and left without moving my head I see all these gentle diners, all gently conversing, or gently enjoying overhearing other’s conversing. Well dressed, immaculately dressed, but none of them in unseasonably light chiffon. Not like me. My wee dress looks awkward now. Had my Alice in Wonderland joke gone wrong? Still, I’m gonna carry on with it, it’s what I do. The name of the restaurant is The Looking Glass after all.

‘Can you tell me please, which way I ought to go from here?’

He gets it straight off, my White Rabbit. That’s one of the things I love about him, a wile good sense of humour, irony an’ all.

‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.’

Before I can conjure up something clever and funny, food arrives. Presented with a flourish that seemed to pronounce ‘my goodness, look, at this I’ve painted the white rose red. Clever me, you will be pleased.’

‘He was a fish footman wasn’t he?’ I chirp, wanting to keep up the theme.

He lifts his wine glass, swirling and sniffing before sipping. ‘I’ve something we need to talk about.’

Boys- a-dear, what was this? The long-awaited proposal? I didn’t straighten my hair and put on my new Alice Band for nothing then.

Chewing a mouthful of soft fishy prawns I begin to dig into the shredded lettuce, composing my features. “Give nothing away. Never let on.” I tell myself.

 ‘I don’t think..’

‘Then you shouldn’t talk.’

‘Stop it. I am talking and I’m saying you should stay in Northern Ireland. Good idea.’

My shocked tongue has difficulty moving. ‘No I don’t, not really. Anyway, I’m coming back here. I miss you, I want us to be together.’

I push away the remains of the soggy pink prawn cocktail. This is a desperate bad dream, I’ll wake up soon.

Like the Cheshire cat, a smiley waitress appears and whisks the plates away. Less dramatic in her exit than the fish footman had been, I reckon women and dirty dishes are never quite up to the mark of a flourishing waiter.

I have to say something and a wee wonderland- inspired bit of nonsense is all I can manage.

‘It’s no good going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’

 There is an awkward pause at our table, the atmosphere banjaxed as the waiter returns balancing platters. I can see that although other gently conversing diners are still gently conversing, some are now quietly laughing, sniggering a wee bit even, sideways glancing in our direction.

I spin the stem of my wineglass between my palms and look up. He doesn’t meet my eyes but concentrates on sipping, no sniffing or swirling this time, as the Dover soles are settled in just the right place.

Poor things. Untouched and rapidly cooling, mine lie there looking right miserable on my plate. One visible eye looks up in surprise. A floundered fish, steeped in butter sauce and accompanied by about four peas. Do chefs here believe four peas make a dinner? Not in Ireland they don’t.

The eye is staring out of the side of its head almost as though it hopes to flip off the plate and back to its happy sunny seaside home. I reckon you’re supposed to think about fish being reared and caught in a sunny sea. It makes you feel better about eating them. I’m assuming Dover is a happy place.

‘Reeling and writhing at the bottom of the sea.’

‘What?’

‘Mock turtle I think. Must have lived like these strange creatures.’

The mock- turtle-Dover-soles are neither reeling nor writhing of course, just settling back into their puddles of melted butter and capers. My appetite begins to come back, maybe the wine helps.

Cold crisp wine in a fancy glass, not crystal, just cut. Another illusion. As the wine slips down my constricted throat, the fruity liquid eases my pain a wee bit. One more try with the weighty silver cutlery and then the skin of the sole is broken. My sole has been broken, has his?

I look over at his plate, so I do. A sole stripped bare to the bone, nearly finished, only the remains to tidy up, lies there. It could have borne a label ‘Job Done.’ ‘ Executed’.

And then I think of the Queen of Hearts, crying ‘off with their heads’. Their fates had been decided without trial. Have mine?

I poke reluctantly under the sole’s skin and pull out a fleshy piece, speared on the tines of my fork and wobble it into my mouth.

Delicate faint herby-wine flavours trigger the memory of other celebratory events,—grand feasts and wee feasts, holidays and meals taken out of doors. No celebration this time, all fallen apart just like the flesh of my fish.

 I pick at the tiny green capers. That’s the word for it. Was this our caper? A bitter nugget of a fruit, more valued as a giver of flavour than a thing of substance. I has thought we were a thing of substance. Maybe no more.

 ‘You really should stay there. I want you to.’

Despair leaked out across the table, I tried to block it before it became a rivulet of certainty.

‘But what about us? I love you White Rabbit, I just want to be with you.’

‘I can’t be tied down. And I think you are completely mad.’

‘We are all mad here.’

‘I don’t understand a word you say, all this “white rabbit” nonsense. I need to be free. You need to be free.’

By now my nose and eyes are both doing what tears do and leaking despair was not only seeping across the tablecloth but permeating my heart and watering my face. I push the poor sole away and bow my head in my hands. I won’t gurn in front of him, so I won’t.

‘Please, take me home.’ I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

 ‘Just like Alice said, I must be mad to come here. I won’t stay and finish this.’

Through my fingers I peek elegantly groomed heads turning in our direction. We are causing a right barney in this posh Looking Glass restaurant. Shame oozes out of every pore. Mortified. No White Rabbit now, he has become the Knave of Hearts, and he has stolen more than tarts.

And now, out of the blue, I remember what the original White Rabbit said.

‘ Don't let him know she liked them best,

 For this must ever be

 A secret, kept from all the rest,

 Between yourself and me.'

Get on with it wee cutty, I tell myself as I push back my chair. You don’t need him. Wake up. He is nothing but a pack of cards.