Twenty-One
I must genuinely have aristocracy somewhere in my ancestry because I have adapted shamefully quickly to having a housekeeper around, keeping the kitchen stocked and the place clean and tidy. Not only does she do my laundry and change my sheets, but she also irons. Irons! She even irons things I’ve traditionally scoffed at my mother for, like socks. Somehow, when Mrs Jenkins does it, it’s masterful. I now know I could never revert to Adam’s Clapham lair, where you’re more likely to find a stray three-year-old moth-eaten sock covered in cobwebs and dust balls and lodged under a sofa cushion than a sleekly ironed pristine one.
Perhaps the best benefit of Mrs Jenkins, though, is the massive fry-up she prepares for Sir John every Saturday, which she graciously now extends to me. It’s become a particularly delicious routine to make my way to the kitchen at 10:30am to be greeted by the sizzling of bacon and the rich aroma of the coffee roast of the month. The weekly fry has the added benefit of putting Sir John in his mellowest (or least glowering) mood.
However, this Saturday, as I make my way to the kitchen, it’s unusually silent, and rather than the delicious frying smells that coalesce with the coffee scent and summon me from my bedroom, there’s just the bitter scent of burning. I open the door hesitantly, genuinely concerned that I’ll find an unconscious Mrs Jenkins lying on the kitchen tiles, so I’m both relieved and concerned when I open the door, and she’s not there at all. Instead, I’m greeted by the sight of Sir John, impeccably dressed and sitting in front of a stack of blackened toast.
I open my mouth to speak, but he intercepts.
“Mrs Jenkins has a cold,” he says forlornly, picking up a piece of cremated bread and courageously trying to scrape off the blackened bit before realising it’s actually more charcoal than bread and mournfully putting it back down. On the stove, there’s a pot of congealed baked beans (How do you get baked beans wrong? How?! From a can! Even Adam can do that). I give thanks that he hasn’t attempted any bacon or sausages. Yet.
I hear his stomach give a hungry whine of despair. Mine whinnies back. I interrupt their animated conversation to offer to try again with the toaster (a machine I suspect Sir John has never interacted with before).
“I’ve already used all the bread to make this.” Sir John gestures sadly to the plate in front of him, which resembles a Borrower’s funeral pyre more than an acceptable start to a Saturday.
“Coco Pops?” I venture.
“Gone! Gone yesterday,” Sir John answers in grief. Both stomachs restart their chorus of anguish. I have no desire to start cooking for Sir John, who takes a delightfully critical approach to any fare presented to him.
I think of the great new love of my father’s life. “Why don’t we go out for brunch?” I suggest.
“Brunch?” Sir John doesn’t have the energy to inject this with his usual level of incredulity and horror.
“You know. It’s not quite breakfast…”
“I know what brunch is. I don’t live in an attic,” he snaps. “It’s what lazy-do nothings who can’t be bothered getting up at a decent time of day and have too much money to fritter away eat.”
I somehow refrain from pointing out that turning up at 10:30am for your housekeeper to serve you breakfast is hardly going down the pit at dawn with nothing but water and a few soft pebbles to chew on.
“Well, it is a bit indulgent, but it’s OK every once in a while. It’d give us the energy to crack on with a fair bit of writing today. In a way, the… er, ‘toast’ might not.”
Sir John harrumphs, but in a way that suggests he is very open to persuading but needs to work through the charade of reluctance first.
With no food or coffee, I’m not prepared to indulge. “Well, if you don’t want to, I might just pop out by myself and leave you to your toast.”
“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I suppose I’ll try this brunch idea and see what the fuss is about.” He sighs with the burden of the huge imposition I’m placing on him.
“Well, do you know any places around here?” I ask.
“There’s a café on Harris Street I’ve been to before. I’m sure we can prevail upon them to come up with some sort of brunch .” His weak, starved attempts to muster contempt are somewhat endearing. I admire his commitment.
“Right,” I take charge. “Harris Street it is.” It’s not the most glowing endorsement, but it’s definitely a step in the direction my stomach needs us to go. There’s an agonising fifteen minutes as Sir John looks for his coat and makes us go room to room to check all the windows are closed, but finally, we’re out and walking.
Sir John is a mercifully brisk walker – to the point I’m even struggling to catch up. Ten minutes later, and as I struggle for breath, we arrive at the café. It’s not quite the rustic, shabby chic I have come to expect in my brunching spots. The front has a sign made of driftwood with “Christoff’s” spray painted on in blue, and we’re shown to our table by a woman with a ginormous nose ring and what looks like a series of genitalia designs in a tattoo sleeve down her left arm. The scent drifting from the next table suggests the young couple on it haven’t been strangers to marijuana already this morning.
Over the gentle didgeridoo soundtrack playing as background music, I gently enquire, “Sir John, when exactly was the last time you came here?”
Sir John is studiously reading the menu. “I think it was 2009. 2008 perhaps.”
“Hmmm. Is it possible it’s changed hands since then?” I ask, absentmindedly playing with the ketchup dispenser – a plastic figurine of Queen Camilla dressed only in lingerie.
Sir John lowers his menu. “Possibly,” he concedes, without even a hint of acknowledgement that he has suggested this place.
The menu itself offers quinoa waffles, kimchi-infused rice porridge and zucchini crepes. The next few minutes are absolute agony as Sir John demands information on each dish from me, as resident brunch expert, before snorting in exasperation as I give my best guess. I have now explained approximately twelve times that this isn’t the typical kind of brunch I have. Still, I’m under no illusions that I am being held responsible for every element of this morning’s adventure.
“Holy halloumi fritters,” Sir John reads with distaste before giving me a meaningful glance. “I think I’ve underestimated just how much ‘brunch’ is a symptom of everything wrong with modern Britain.”
“What about the veggie full English?” I ask as I fight to keep my hanger at bay. Sir John acknowledges that it is the closest thing to his breakfast expectations and “will have to do.”
I call the waitress and give her my order. It takes Sir John a moment to stop reading the Latin motto encircling a flaming skull tattoo on her shoulder to give his. I shoot him a small warning glance in case he has any aspirations of voicing any tattoo-related opinions. Mercifully and uncharacteristically, he doesn’t interrogate her. Probably the hunger.
“And what would you guys like to drink?” our waitress continues, oblivious to her near miss at having to justify her tastes in body art. “We’re currently doing a two-for-one on Mesopotamian Mango Dawn juice. They have mango juice…”
“Two of those would be great,” I interrupt as another pang reminds me of how ravenous I am. I never pass up a two-for-one on anything. I am truly my father’s daughter.
The drinks arrive, complete with bamboo eco straws, and Sir John approaches his like nitroglycerin, giving it a cautious sniff, lifting out the straw and peering suspiciously at the floating fruit inside, stirring it and sniffing it again, before very tentatively taking a sip. I’ve already taken several huge gulps of mine. Whatever it is, it’s delicious. Two sips in, and I already feel a million times better.
Sir John, for once, doesn’t utter a word of complaint other than to mutter, “Probably full of sugar.”
Such is the deliciousness of the drink that we’ve both finished by the time our veggie breakfasts appear. I’m left with the feeling of blissful contentment that I presume comes from finding a tasty way to imbibe so many vitamins in one go.
Even the waitress seems surprised at how well they have gone down, as we order two more.
Sir John is making short work of the halloumi on his plate. He takes another gulp of the juice, “I suppose I can see some of the rationale for why brunch has become so multvi… Uni… Multiversal.”
As my stomach fills, I reach an almost Nivana-like place of contentment. “Multiversal isn’t a word,” I say, tackling the chilli mushrooms left on my plate.
Sir John harrumphs but otherwise doesn’t react to my cheek, instead busily concentrating on chasing the last bit of tomato around his plate, his usual impeccable table manners slightly forgotten. “Well. I suppose you’re the wordsmith,” he says and then chuckles as though he’s said something very witty.
The influx of food and healthy juice makes me feel almost dizzy. I take another large sip to steady myself.
Emboldened, I ask, “So, how are you enjoying the writing process, old bean?”
(Where the hell did ‘old bean’ come from – could the marijuana scent from the couple next to us be affecting us? Oh God, are we getting high on second-hand weed?)
My suspicions grow as Sir John chuckles in response. Dishing out the highest praise he can muster, he tells me, “You are far more tolerable than some of the wordy bores they first tried to foist on me.” He takes a generous sip, “I suppose.” He chuckles again.
By now, we’ve polished off both the breakfasts and our second round of juice.
“Waitress!” Sir John bellows. She drifts over and gives us a curious look.
I take over. “Can we order two more of the metropolitan…”
“Mesopotamian,” Sir John corrects, stifling a tiny burp.
“Of the Mesopotamian magic mango drinks,” I conclude.
The waitress raises an eyebrow. “The Mesopotamian Mango Dawns?” she asks drily.
“Yes,” we both say simultaneously before giggling.
Who would have thought that brunch would bring us together so well?
“I admit,” Sir John says, as our third round of mango magic arrives, “I’m almost glad Mrs Jennings has a cold.”
“Jenkins.”
“That’s what I said. What about you? Are you enjoying the project? It’s boring, isn’t it?”
He holds up a hand before I answer, “It’s alright. I know it is. No one wants to read about some old fart’s time in government forty-odd years ago.”
“They do! They do!” I say, banging on the table for emphasis. “But we have to have more personality. We have to get more of the personal sparkle in. I know you hate it.”
“I do hate it,” Sir John admits, but quietly, not with his usual bombast. “Does it really have to have all of that guff?”
“If you want it to sell…” I reply.
“Well, my accountants want it to sell,” Sir John replies, almost sadly. “Ordinarily, I couldn’t care less.”
“Oh?” I hiccough.
He beckons me closer before continuing in a stage whisper as loud as his normal voice, “The coffers are depleted, old girl. I have a ministerial pension. And what’s left of my parents’ legacy. But it’s all dwindling away.”
“Oh dear.”
“Dwindling, dwindling away,” he sings, slightly unexpectedly. “Nothing to leave my daughter Ophelia.”
“Well then,” I say, banging the table again (it’s now my favourite thing to do). “We’re just going to have to make it a bestseller.” I hiccough triumphantly.
“Hmmm. No family stuff.”
“Surely your daughter won’t mind,” I reason, “If it’s for the coffins?”
“She will.” This time, he whispers for real. “We don’t speak. Haven’t for years. A card here. A phone call there. Nothing else.”
“But you’re lovely,” I say, warmed by our brunch bonding. “You’re a lovely old bean.”
He waves the compliment away, knocking over the cheeky Queen dispenser. “It’s very complicated.” He has a slight slur to his voice this morning I notice; I begin to worry that the shock of Christoff’s and Her Majesty’s lingerie has given him a mild stroke.
“You have to tell me these things,” I say in my most serious tone, becoming aware that I also have a slight slur. “As your ghostwriter, I’m like your lawyer or priest.”
He nods seriously. “Very well. The truth is we were separated, Laura and I. It was a very… complicated time. Very stressful. For all of us. During that time, she had moved out. She was driving back to her new place after visiting our daughter, and… there was a car crash.”
To my alarm, Sir John’s eyes water.
“But Ophelia can’t blame you for that!” I debate slapping the table once again but hold off.
“She thinks…” Sir John breaks off suddenly. “Oh, it was all a long time ago. That’s quite enough for now. Even for my confessor,” he says more decisively, draining the last of his juice.
I feel a warm wave of gratitude that he has confided so much. “Look. That’s OK. We’ll make it work. Just trust me.” I reach across and pat his hand.
He hiccoughs in response and looks down with horror. I realise it’s not his hand I’m patting but the busty brassiere of the plastic Camilla lying prone on the table.
I quickly pick up my empty glass. “Another?” I ask.
He nods and calls the waitress over.
“Can we have two final glasses?” I ask cheerily.
Her curious look has turned to one of mild alarm. “OK, but you know these have quite a high percentage in them…”
“Percentage of mango?” I ask, confused.
“Percentage of vodka,” says the waitress firmly.
“There’s no vodka in these!” hiccoughs Sir John in horror.
“There are two shots of vodka in each drink,” says the waitress, pointing to the menu. “I thought you knew that!”
“We didn’t know that,” I protest.
“Who serves vodka with breakfast?” asks Sir John indignantly. “What is this place? This is like Sodom and Canberra.”
Suddenly, his bellow turns into a wheeze and then into a giggle.
“Drunk! Drunk, and the sun’s not yet over the yardarm. This hasn’t happened since my navy days.”
I laugh, too, as the waitress shifts from foot to foot and mutters.
“Sir John, one more for the road?”
“One more for the road. Old bean,” he agrees.