Chapter 19 #2
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Jane, adding a little cheekily, ‘It’s not affected him so far. Would you like a little brandy, John?’ She asked it as if an affirmative answer was a foregone conclusion.
‘Thank you, I would.’
Vincent volunteered. ‘I’ll go.’
‘I think maybe I should rustle up something for lunch,’ said Frank. ‘Are we all ready for a bit of nosebag?’
‘I could force something down. Want a hand?’ asked Tim.
‘No, you’re good, mate. I’m going to prepare that Christmas Eve hash for later and as for now, how does soup sound to everyone? Soup and cheese toasted sandwiches? I found a great big tin of tomato soup in the pantry.’
‘That sounds divine,’ replied Jane.
‘I’ll help you,’ said Elizabeth, raising a warning finger at Frank. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’
‘No, I will.’ Grace left her seat. ‘I know you don’t like me in the kitchen with you but maybe in these circumstances…’
‘I won’t turn you down… in these circumstances.’
Though Frank had never said that he didn’t want Grace in his kitchen, that was a ‘Mandela effect’ conclusion she’d drawn for herself. A convenient misapprehension she chose to believe.
‘You’ve got too much hair, John. I’m not shaving it to put a plaster on so let’s keep our eyes on it but I think it’ll be fine.
I’ve cleaned and sterilised it as best I can and it’s already started to knit so you’re obviously a good healer, but don’t be tempted to scratch it as the chances are it might itch as your nerves wake up. ’
Jane had done all she could. She zipped up her first-aid case and wrapped all the wipes, cotton wool and bits of grit together to put in the bin.
‘Thank you,’ John said. ‘You’d have made a good medic, I think.’
‘I was always very thorough when I needed to put my nurse’s hat on, I’ll give myself that.’ She smiled at him.
‘Who did you nurse?’
‘My sons,’ Jane said. ‘When they were children.’
‘I remember my mum staying up all night and putting cold cloths on my head when I was poorly once,’ John recalled. ‘I must have only been little but I remember it, clear as day.’
Elizabeth tried to imagine her own mother doing similar and failed.
Penelope Dudley couldn’t bear to put herself out for anyone else, not even her own daughter.
She’d had a nanny when she was younger although Elizabeth had no fond memories of her, like so many people had of theirs.
She was called Olwen Uzzle and had long hairs growing out of her nose.
She was snappy and impatient and smelt of yeast and cheap soap and slapped Elizabeth’s hands and legs for the slightest misdemeanour, with the full permission of her parents who were of the ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ mentality.
That was the only saving grace of having to go to boarding school, because the services of stinky Olwen (as Elizabeth referred to her in her diary) were finally dispensed with.
Roo started to ask, ‘How many son—’ but was interrupted by Vincent walking in with a nip of brandy.
‘Here you go, John. Purely medicinal.’
Both of John’s hands came out to take it and Jane registered the look on his face: Rapture.
‘Oh my, that smells good,’ said John, breathing in the bouquet before he placed his lips to the glass and sipped as reverently as if it were communion wine.
‘You look as if you’ve not had one of those in a while, John,’ said Jane.
He let the brandy sit in his mouth before swallowing, before answering her.
‘There’s none of this in jail.’ He took too large a mouthful then, coughed and laughed at himself. ‘That’s strong stuff that. Smooth though.’
‘Ten-year-old cognac according to the bottle,’ agreed Vincent. He doubted Mr Ingleton had anything on his shelves that was akin to some of the paint-strippers he’d had on nights out.
‘Do you stay in the jail yourself then? As staff?’ This from Tim.
‘Well, it’s a bit out of the way so yes… we’re holed up there for weeks at a time.’
‘And you got the short straw working over Christmas?’ asked Jane.
‘Aye.’ Shifting the glass between his hands, John slipped one arm out of his coat sleeve, then the other. ‘That’s better. I’ve warmed up now.’
He had on a blue-grey shirt and black trousers that were a much better fit than the newly divested coat.
Tim lifted it from the sofa. ‘I’ll hang this up; it’s still damp. It looks too big for me, never mind you.’
‘It’s not mine. I just grabbed the nearest one when the alert went off.’ John Brown took another gulp from his glass. ‘This a royal train, is it?’
‘No, it’s called the Yorkshire Belle. It’s going to Scotland for Christmas. Well, at least it should have been. Do you want to dry your boots as well? Take ’em off and put ’em by the fire. I can go and find you some slippers,’ said Vincent.
‘I will in a bit,’ said John. He closed his eyes. ‘I’m rather tired.’
‘Why don’t we leave you for a while to have a rest?’ said Jane. ‘We’ll give you a call when lunch is on the table.’
‘Aye, that’d be grand. Just five minutes.’ He already looked half-asleep, though the brandy glass was locked between his two hands.
They moved down to ‘Old Tom’, except for Vincent who went to find a spare pair of the complimentary slippers. Looking at the size of the boots John had been wearing, he was going to have to source a pair big enough to fit Coco the clown.
In the galley, Grace was gently warming a huge pan of soup while Frank was dicing the onions and chopping up carrots for that evening’s supper.
The beef in the fridge was far too good a quality for a hash but as there was no chuck steak to be had, they’d have to suffer yet more superiority.
He’d cook it low and slow with some gravy he’d made from the powder he’d scooped from a labelled tin and later add the veg and the potatoes that were presently parboiling.
He’d throw in the sprouts for Roo at the last minute or they’d end up like his old mum’s used to.
She’d put them on to boil for the Christmas dinner in late September. He couldn’t do with a mushy sprout.
‘Well, this is nice, innit?’ he said. ‘I might let you help me in the pub now we’ve proved we can share a kitchen.’
‘I’d rather clean,’ replied Grace. He didn’t comment but she knew how he’d have taken that. She might as well have said that she didn’t want to breathe the same air as him.
Frank put the cheese sandwiches Grace had made into the hot oven.
‘I wonder how everyone’s getting on back home. I mean, if the weather’s like this there, I don’t expect them to keep it open.’
He’d left the pub in the capable hands of two of the bar staff who had worked in the pub for years before they’d taken it over. They knew the place inside out and were as reliable as the country’s meteorologists weren’t.
‘I’m not even thinking about it,’ said Grace. ‘What would be the point when there’s nothing we can do?’
He wondered what she was thinking about though. He had no idea what was in her head these days. Once upon a time they were on such a wavelength, they’d finish off each other’s sentences.
‘What do you make of this new guy then? The pie scoffer?’
‘I think he’s a very fortunate man,’ said Grace, nudging down the heat under the soup. Then she stuck a spoon into it and tasted it. ‘You might need some more Worcester sauce in this, you can’t taste what you’ve put in.’
‘Hark at you, Nig-ella.’ He hadn’t meant to put the emphasis on the latter part of the name, but he had. Of all the chefs to pluck out of the air… Of all the ways to say it.
He tried to gloss over it, smother it with other words, actions. He lifted up the bottle of sauce, screwed off the lid.
‘Everyone says Worcester but it’s Worcestershire. Gobful, though. No wonder people—’
‘Has she been in touch?’ Grace asked, tight-lipped.
Frank shook some more of the bottle into the soup. This was a conversation he didn’t want to have, not now, not here. He had planned to build up to it with small, tentative but sure steps, but with one stupid slip of the tongue he’d just ruined all that.
Since he didn’t answer immediately, because he was thinking what was best to say, he effectively answered her.
‘She has, then,’ Grace said. ‘I knew it.’
‘Let’s not do this now, Grace.’
‘Now?’ she said, honing in on the word. ‘So when were you going to inform me what’s been going on behind my back? When you’d got me trapped alone in a cottage with no means of escape so I’d have to listen to you?’
He sighed. ‘I haven’t heard—’
‘You’re a liar.’ Grace’s lips contracted over her teeth. She was in fight mode. Again.
‘I—’
They were interrupted by Vincent and Tim appearing in the doorway.
‘There must be something we can do. That smells bloody gorgeous,’ said the former.
‘Yep, we are just about ready to serve up,’ said Frank, switching on his public persona. ‘Grace, if you’d start to ladle the soup in the dishes, Vincent and Tim, our waiters du jour, will take them through.’
Grace did as he requested, her face stone.
Frank flipped the sandwiches in the oven, the hand gripping the spatula shaking with the effort of holding himself together.
God, what a mess. And less than ten minutes ago he’d thought there was a glimmer of light on the horizon, but it was just the shimmering mirage of an oasis in the desert, conjured up by stupid hope and desperation.