(18/20) Changes at Fairacre (7 page)

It seemed a good idea to browse through several glossy magazines for ideas, and these were so absorbing that I found myself studying articles on child behaviour, breast-feeding, bird migration and the pollution of our beaches, before realizing that I had spent an hour in these pursuits and was no farther ahead with my culinary plans.

I turned to the pictures. That rum and chocolate and coconut cake looked really impressive, but the recipe had over a dozen listed ingredients. Also one needed several bowls in use, including one lodged over hot water whilst engaged in melting butter and chocolate together.

I like something simpler. Ten to one the milkman would call at a crucial moment of butter-and-chocolate merging, and all would be lost. Then think of the washing up of all those messy saucepans, bowls and spoons. Besides, a lot of people did not care for rum, or coconut, for that matter.

I turned to another magazine. Did I want a loan in order to buy a house? Was I adequately insured against accidents in the home, hospital treatment, and car crashes? Was my marriage unsatisfactory? (Well, no. I was not bothered about that, priase be.) Had I ever considered becoming a counsellor, or a warden at a residential home?

This was getting me nowhere. I turned firmly to the cookery pages. This was better. 'Spring On The Table'. A rather ambiguous title, surely? However, the pictures were splendid, and the salmon soufflé looked just the thing. But, come to think of it, one really wants the guests absolutely ready and waiting at the table in order to present them with the perfectly-risen dish. Suppose the Winters were late, or the Bakers, for that matter? Too risky, I decided. Far better to be less ambitious and have something I could prepare the day before, such as cold gammon and chicken.

But I am a messy carver, and it might be one of those cold cheerless spring days when one would relish a Lancashire hot-pot or steak-and-kidney pudding, and forget such elegant dishes as cold soup sprinkled with caviare.

I had a look at
Mrs Beeton.
Under April she gives a comprehensive dinner menu for ten people, for eight and for six, and I studied the last eagerly. Would my four guests enjoy six courses starting with tapioca soup, and going on to sweetbreads, oyster patties, haunch of mutton, capon and tongue? Would they have room, after that lot, for rice soufflé, lemon cream, Charlotte à la Parisienne, or even rhubarb tart? I doubted it, and doubted too my ability to provide it.

In the end I settled for a round of gammon, a tongue, both cooked beforehand and carved in the privacy of my kitchen before the guests arrived. In this way, the more shapely and presentable slices could be neatly arranged with some hardboiled eggs on a lordly dish for handing round, whilst the fragments could be hidden in the fridge for home consumption another day. This, with a cheese and tomato quiche, new potatoes and a salad could follow a warming bowl of mushroom soup; and I proposed to make apple meringue and a treacle tart which no doubt the men would like.

All this mental effort had quite tired me, and I went to bed early. I had forgotten to bring up my library book, but
The Diary of a Country Parson
is always by my bed.

I opened it at Wednesday, March 12, 1794, and read with delight the dinner that Parson Woodford provided for five guests that day.

We had for Dinner some Skaite, Ham and Fowls, a whole Rump of Beef boiled etc., a fine Hen Turkey rosted, Nancy's Pudding and Currant Jelly, Lobsters, Bullace and Apple Tarts, Cheese with Radishes and Cresses.

My own menu looked decidedly parsimonious beside that. But how much more digestible, I thought smugly, as I turned off the light.

The day after we broke up I went to visit Dolly Clare, carrying some magazines and a bunch of daffodils. It was a blustery day with a hint of rain in the air which misted the windscreen and dampened the roads.

I found Dolly sitting by the fire looking as serene as ever but, to my eyes, thinner than usual.

'I don't really want much in the way of food,' she confessed when I enquired after her health. 'I suppose I don't need it these days. I get so little exercise. Mrs John brings me a delicious lunch each day, but it's really too much. Very often half is left, and it seems such a terrible waste.'

'Have you told her?'

'Yes, indeed, but the dear soul continues to bring it. I haven't the heart to say more.'

I told her about Parson Woodforde's dinner party and my own plans. As always, she showed the liveliest interest.

'Tongue!' she cried. 'Now I always liked tongue, but haven't had it for years.'

'Come and join us,' I said. 'I could fetch you in the morning, and bring you back after tea. Will you come?'

She shook her head and laughed. 'My dear, I'm really not up to visiting anyone these days, but it's lovely to be invited. I shall just think of you enjoying that tongue.'

'I shall bring you some on the Sunday,' I promised. 'Better still, I'll bring you enough for two and perhaps you'll let me have it with you.'

She readily agreed, and when I made my way home I felt glad that I could do something, even if it only rose to putting aside some helpings of ham and tongue, to tempt my old friend's appetite.

I had a week before my little party, but before that occurred I was going to be at the mercy of the decorators.

Luckily they would be working upstairs, painting mainly, but also doing some much-needed tiling round the bath and wash basin.

It was one of the reasons for staying at home this Easter holiday. I wanted to keep my eye on the progress of the work, to catch up with such things as taking curtains and bedspreads to the cleaners, having the sweep, getting two decrepit teeth seen to, and shopping for some summer clothes.

Also, I needed to watch my expenditure, and even the most modest guest house would strain my resources at the moment. The painters, the cleaners and the dentist would deplete my bank account seriously enough, without my gadding about in foreign, or even local, parts.

And there was another reason for staying at home. I was worried about Dolly Clare, and did not want to leave her. I called as often as I could, and I knew that Mrs John was in and out several times a day. The doctor too was kind and attentive, dropping in to see her at least once a week, but I wished that I could do more.

I had suggested that she should come to stay with me for as long as she liked, but she was adamant about staying in her own home, which I well understood. I wanted to be at hand if she needed me, though, and this was probably the strongest reason for being glad that I was not going far during this particular holiday.

On Monday morning the two decorators arrived. I had not seen them before, but they had been recommended to me by Mrs Richards's husband Wayne, who was a builder. They seemed a cheerful pair and arrived in a battered van which rattled with pails and paint pots inside, and had an aluminium ladder along the top.

'I'm Perce,' said the fat one.

'I'm Bert,' said the thin one, and I led them upstairs to survey their task.

'Oh dear, oh dear!' sighed Perce.

'Looks a bit rough,' agreed Bert, lugubriously.

I refused to be alarmed. I have come across this sort of approach before. It means another twenty pounds on the bill, if taken seriously, but as I already had their estimate carefully tucked away in my writing desk, I did not worry.

'Bert's going to rub down in the bathroom,' Perce told me, 'while I tackle this 'ere bedroom.'

This was the spare room. Once done, I proposed to sleep in there while they did their worst in my own bedroom.

'D'you mind if we has the tranny on?' asked Bert, patting his portable radio lovingly.

'As long as you keep the volume down,' I said in my most schoolmistressy voice. 'I've some letters to write, and some phoning to do.'

I left them to their work and descended to my room.

Ten minutes later there was a tap on the door. Bert smiled at me. 'You wouldn't have such a thing as an old dustsheet for the floor? The one we've got's a bit skimpy.'

I mounted the stairs and produced a dust sheet from the bottom of the airing cupboard. From the bathroom came the sound of someone screeching and gulping out what I supposed was a song. Fortunately it was somewhat muffled by the closed door, but the heavy drumming made the house throb.

I returned to my letters, only to be disturbed by Perce slamming the front door, and I watched him ambling across to the van. He clambered in and drove off.

He had still not returned when I climbed the stairs again with a mug of coffee for Bert at ten-thirty.

'Where's Perce?'

'He had to go back to pick up some thinners. He won't be long.'

Morning prayers appeared to be emanating from the radio, and I added my own to them. The bathroom was so thick with dust from the rubbing-down operation that it was difficult to breathe, but Bert seemed unperturbed.

I went downstairs to my own coffee. Before I had taken a sip, Bert appeared. 'Could you spare a minute, miss? There's a nasty crack across the top of the door. It may need some time spent on it if it's to be a proper job.'

I climbed the stairs again, and surveyed the crack. It looked pretty superficial to me.

'You must do what is best,' I said. 'If it needs filling, or whatever, then do it. But I should get Perce's opinion when he gets back.'

'Right. I'll do that.'

I went back downstairs to my tepid coffee. Why, I wondered, do men seem to need so much assistance, not to mention praise and commendation, for their tasks? I did not consult anyone about my teaching affairs - just got on with them, and faced the consequences.

At twelve o'clock Perce returned, and joined Bert upstairs. A quarter of an hour later, they both went to the van, and sat inside with their lunch boxes on their knees, and the radio on full blast.

Tibby wandered in, mewing protestingly.

'I know, Tib,' I said. 'I know.'

To give them their due, Perce and Bert were almost finished by Thursday of that week, and I felt that I could begin my preparations for the Saturday lunch without too many requests for pieces of old rag, a dustpan and brush, a kettle of boiling water, old newspapers, a cold chisel, (are there
hot
chisels, I wondered?) and even
'the right time,'
now and again. (Who, in any case, is going to give an enquirer the
wrong
time?)

I started on the quiche first, and enjoyed rolling out the pastry to bake it blind. It was going to be filled with cheese, tomatoes and eggs for I had an idea that Miriam Baker, née Quinn, had become a vegetarian. Of course, I thought, rolling busily, if she was one of the really strict ones, vegan or something, the eggs would be turned down, and in that case she would simply have to graze on the salad.

There is something very soothing about cooking if one has the kitchen to oneself and nothing too demanding to cook. With the work almost completed upstairs. I pursued my own plans happily. The tongue and the gammon were waiting to be boiled. I had most of the shopping done. Last minute jobs such as mixing the mustard and taking the egg stains from the forks before general cleaning of the silver, and making sure that there were enough matching napkins - not easy in a household of one - now loomed, but I was beginning to feel that I had the whole campaign well in hand.

I might have known that Fate would pull the rug from under my feet.

Perce and Bert told me at five o'clock that the bathroom tiles would need to be changed over the wash-basin as they were 'too big in a funny sort of way'. (
How
funny? Strange? Comic? Sinister?) They would have to get a smaller size in the morning - that is, Bert said, shaking his head, if they made that particular size in that colour. Should they bring a few samples out to show me? If they couldn't get the same thing, would I like a different one - say, in a
toning
shade? They could get plain white, of course. It was up to me. After all, it was my bathroom, they said fairly, and looked relieved at the thought.

'Does this mean,' I demanded, 'that you won't finish tomorrow?'

They looked aghast at such a direct question.

'Not our fault, miss. Just a bit of a slip-up over the sizing. If we can get the right ones first thing, we ought to get everything done tomorrow. What's the rush anyway?'

'The rush, as you call it, is that I shall have people here on Saturday, and no doubt they will use the bathroom. I want it to be finished.'

Now they both looked hurt.

'Well,' said Bert sadly, 'if that's how you feel, I think we'd better settle for white tiles behind the basin.'

'There's just a chance we might be able to order the same as the others, of course,' added Perce, 'but them tile firms take their time sending down.'

'The same if you can get them, white if not,' I said, in the tone I use to infant malefactors. 'But the job's to be finished by tomorrow. Understand?'

'Very well, miss,' sighed Bert, more in sorrow than anger, in the face of such feminine unreasonableness. 'We'll call in at the stores on our way home.'

I watched them clamber into the van. They were busy talking to each other. It was fortunate, I suspected, that I could not actually hear their comments.