In the Kitchen (7 page)

Ivan's semi-autonomous republic as grill man was reflected in the way he'd been boxed off on the schedule. Gabe would have to do something about that.

Albert too was out on a limb, but that was natural enough for a pastry cook.

And then there was Oona at the top of the page. My righthand woman, he thought, not without bitterness.

'Everything on target for tomorrow, Oona? You been checking things through with the boys?'

'Ho, yes,' said Oona, in a way that suggested she were responding to a double entendre. 'Don't you worry!'

'I'm not worrying, Oona, I'm ...' He was about to say 'managing', but thought it might sound as if he were just getting by.

'No need to worry at all,' said Oona, laughing for no apparent reason.

The Sirovsky launch was tomorrow evening. All the chefs were in today, preparing everything that could be prepared in advance. 'Just take me through where we're up to,' said Gabe.

Oona pulled a sheet from her folder and studied it, mumbling to herself.

'Black bean cakes, salsa fresca, vitello tonnato ... ho, was there a problem with the ... no, it's all right ... wild mushroom strudel ... I think Victor said the chicken liver parfait was ... ho, but he was ... and then the devilled ...'

'What's that?' said Gabe, looking round.

'What now, darlin'?'

'Scratching noise. If there's a mouse in here ...'

'Ain't no mouse,' said Oona. 'A bitta dry skin on me heel. Just givin' it a little old scuffle on me shoe.'

Gabe looked at Oona's feet and quickly looked away. 'So. No questions, no problems, nothing else I need to order in.'

'Hopefully no,' said Oona. She showed her gold tooth and touched it like a lucky charm.

'Think, Oona. We don't have much time.'

'I hope it all OK.'

'Hope? Shouldn't come into it, Oona. Hope's irrelevant.'

Oona smiled at him with pity and forbearance, as if he were making an unwarranted fuss.

'Right,' he said, swallowing his irritation, 'let's decide what we're doing for service. Gleeson reckons he's only got three people to give us, so we need to call an agency, get five, maybe six more waiters.'

'Darlin', I know just who I goin' call and, you know, Suleiman was sayin' what he suppose do with the red pepper mousse? He suppose put it in the endive right away, or wait until the mornin'? And we clean out of the mushrooms, what's they called? Shanti-someting-or-other, fancy mushroom ting, you know.'

'Chanterelles. I'll go and see Suleiman about the mousse. Anything else, Oona, now you're in the mood to tell?'

The executive sous-chef pursed her lips and gazed up at the ceiling, waiting, perhaps, for divine inspiration. Her eyes had a sparkle, even in this dead, yellow light. Her cheeks were fat as ripe black figs. Despite everything she was a handsome woman. For a moment Gabe had a vision of Oona as a young girl in a white dress, kneeling in church, gazing up at the altar. She must have been a sight to behold.

Calling himself to order, he opened his notebook, thinking he would prioritize his workload for the rest of the day. In the kitchen the cooks bobbed and weaved. Suleiman slid on an oily patch but saved himself and earned a cheer.

Gabe held his pen over the page. His mind became fogged. Impossible to pick out a single thought. His wrist locked and though he wanted to write any old thing, to begin the process, he could not make a mark.

He froze in the face of the endless tasks ahead. Would it make any difference if he remained at his desk, not moving, not speaking, not thinking? The world could go on without him, on its own relentless course. He stared at the page and admired its blankness; he wished that he too could be blank.

'Shoot me,' said Oona, 'if I forgettin' someting.' Her voice began to bring him round. It was like listening to a saucepan lid lifting on the boil, a little escape of steam. 'You lookin' a bit sleepy there, darlin'. I goin' make us a niii-ce cuppa tea.'

Gabriel threw down his pen, his energy abruptly restored. He looked at Oona and clenched his fists beneath the desk. Rage gripped him by the throat. He fought to draw enough breath. It occurred to him that he would, perhaps, drop down dead of anger. Gripping the sides of the desk as though he would turn it over he struggled to gain control. A nice cup of tea! Didn't she know there was work to be done? Were they to put their feet up with a nice cup of tea?

Incredible. The woman was out of her mind.

'Chef ?' said Oona.

There was a hell of a lot to get sorted. Gabe caught sight of a stack of suppliers' brochures on the floor. He had piled them there when he started the job, meaning to sift through and discard as many as possible. There had never been the time. No time like the present, he decided, jumping up. He was immediately diverted by a flyer pasted on the wall: Kondiments King, it read, We've Got Sauce! A grotesque tomato man with stick legs and arms grinned out, ketchup spouting from his head. The flyer was spattered and smeared and curling up at the edges. Why had he not taken it down immediately? He ripped it off the wall and tossed it on the floor. The patch of crumbling plaster which was revealed began to flake and fall. Gabriel looked round wildly, kicking over the brochures as he turned. There was fungus growing in a tiny damp patch over the skirting board. He began to rub it off. There was clutter on top of the filing cabinet. A tennis ball, one glove, a meat thermometer, a box of paperclips, a plastic box, a tin of lipsalve, two yellowing copies of the Sun. Who the hell kept making this mess? He cleared it all off, on to the floor. Too many things on the desk. He scraped everything into the drawers and closed them. He sat down again to an empty desk, feeling better. He could have a clear run at things now.

Barely had he noticed that Oona was gone when she returned with two mugs of tea. She looked at the littered floor but said nothing. She squeezed herself into the chair.

Gabe shoved the debris aside with his foot so it formed a kind of snowdrift against the back wall. 'Right,' he said. 'Bit of a tidy-up.' He took a sip of tea. There was a tremble in his hand as he raised the mug. What he needed was an early night. Tomorrow he'd be right as rain. 'How we fixed on the lunch service?'

'Chef,' said Oona, 'we fixed just fine. Suleiman, love him, havin' a few problems with the fresh custard. All this lumpy business. Have to pour it down the drain. The next lot look even lumpier and Suleiman, you know he so serious, he stirrin' and stirrin' and the lumps coming bigger and bigger, I say, "Suleiman, you got to let it alone. Sometimes a ting just ain't meant to be." '

'It's a question of temperature,' said Gabe, back, more or less, on an even keel. 'Of being precise.' His father was dying. He had to deal with a dead body. He had to deal with the police. His job was high pressure, his girlfriend was away ... He'd got a bit wound up. It was natural. But it had been brief, and it was over now.

Oona threw up her hands. 'You do every last little ting right, but sometimes it don' turn out like you plan.'

'Oona,' said Gabe, 'it's custard. If you do everything right, it turns out right.'

Oona blew sceptically through her teeth.

'Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. It's the protein in the egg that thickens the custard. At about forty degrees the proteins start to expand, they are what's called "denatured". As the temperature rises they begin to link up, network with each other and the sauce gets thicker. You need to get above seventy degrees. If you go higher than eighty, you start to get lumps.

An ideal temperature is seventy-five degrees. It's chemistry, Oona, nothing else.'

'Don' know about that,' said Oona. She shook her head. 'Sometimes you have to say to yourself, this ain't meant to be.'

'Chemistry O-level. I did it as a project. Thought it up myself, actually.'

'And sometimes you have to say to yourself, this is meant to be.'

'I found a meat thermometer when I was clearing up,' said Gabe, hunting around in the snowdrift. 'That'll sort Suleiman out.'

'It's like my niece,' said Oona, rubbing at her bosom, knocking her diamanté hairclips on to her lap. 'Crying over this boy, boo-hoo, never let it alone.

But what the point? I arks you. "Aleesha," I say, "you not suppose be with Errol. You suppose be with someone else." '

'He's a good lad,' said Gabe, strangely moved by Suleiman's dedication. He sniffed, and rubbed his nose.

'Nuttin but a ragamuffin, you arks me. She better off by her own self, that the truth.'

'Wouldn't mind making it myself,' said Gabe. 'Roll my sleeves up, you know.'

Oona fixed her hairclips back on to her coat. 'What? No, no, Mr Bird and his powder come to the rescue. You have a sit and relax. Chemistry,' she said, laughing. 'Don' know how it is with custard but when it come to boy and girl, chemistry the ting.'

For the next hour Gabe made calls to suppliers, marking pleasing ticks against his list. According to the list, the next call would be to his father. He punched two numbers and hung up. He scratched his head, burrowing around in the bald patch. Next time he got as far as five digits and again he cut the line. They had already spoken once and Gabe had promised he would call again today. 'Not so bad,' his father had said when Gabriel asked how he was. Jenny told me, said Gabe. I'm sorry I didn't call you before. 'Aye,' said his father, 'well. We've all got to go some time.'

Gabe wanted to say something significant. He couldn't manage a scrap. 'Love to Nana,' he said. 'I'll call you next week, Dad.' And this was the best he could do.

He would ring his father, but not without thinking what to say. Get your brain in gear before you open your mouth. Another sterling piece of advice from Dad.

Never was short of advice, had to give him that. He'd be doling it out sometimes, sitting in his chair by the fire, big hands laced over knitted waistcoat, an inch or two of shiny leg showing between sock and trouser hem, and Mum would creep up behind him and start to act the fool. She'd do rabbit ears above his head, stick out her tongue, make kissy-kissy faces and cross her eyes. Gabe would poke Jenny to make her laugh and get in trouble. Jenny would pinch him, slyly, on the arm. 'I know what you're doing, Sally Anne,'

Dad would say, without turning round. 'These children will grow up long before their mother ever does.'

Mum did grow up, thought Gabe, after Nana moved in. He never saw her acting silly after that. Maybe it was Nana's influence, maybe it was Mum getting old.

Gabe preferred her before, when she did just as she pleased.

He was eight years old and hopped-up on life, running down Astley Street with the pincushion in his hand. He knocked on Mrs Eversley's door and old Mr Walmsley's, without even breaking his stride. If Bobby or Michael were playing out after tea they'd have a proper game of knock-a-door-run. He ran into the house and through the lounge. She wasn't in the kitchen. 'Mum,' he called.

'Where are yer?' The biscuit tin was on the table and he thought about raiding it but he wanted to show her first what he'd made. He'd worked on the pincushion nearly all term. It was in the shape of a daisy, with a yellow centre cross-stitched into the middle.

'Mum,' he shouted. He tackled the stairs like a rock wall, using his hands as well as his feet. 'Come on.'

He raced into her bedroom, thanking his lucky stars that Jen had gone round to Bev's after school. Now he would get Mum all to himself. He slid right into the foot of the bed, banged his shin and dropped the pincushion. He bent down and when he straightened up again she said, 'Arise, Sir Gabriel,' and touched his shoulders with a curtain rod.

Gabe stood puffing and panting, chiefly out of surprise.

Mum laughed. 'Stop your gawping, Gabriel. And tell me what you think.'

She was twisting and turning in front of the mirror, wearing a pair of frilly bloomers, a skirt that seemed to be made of metal hoops joined by some sort of gauze, and a corset that pinched her breasts together. Her cheeks were pink as candy floss and she had ringlets, just like Jenny's porcelain doll. She twisted some hair around a finger and said, 'Rags. Nana used to do them for me, every Sunday for church. Know what?' she said, straining to see her back in the mirror, 'I used to hate them then.'

'Mum,' said Gabriel. 'You look ...'

'Get away,' she said, 'wait 'til you see the whole thing.'

'Whole what thing?' said Gabriel, sitting down on the bed.

'The dress, you dummy. Haven't even got that yet.' She shrieked and jumped on top of him and tickled him under his arms.

'Well, I think you look right lovely,' said Gabriel, when she finally let him go.

Mum sat next to him and adjusted her corset. She held his face between her hands. He could see the bedroom window, the half-pulled curtains, reflected in both her eyes. Her long, slim nose was flecked with powder. The nostrils flared slightly as she breathed.

'I was born wrong time, wrong place. I've told you that before.' Her laugh was like a scatter of silver pieces. She jumped up and curtseyed, long and low, and held out her hand which he took. 'No wonder I'm never on time for anything,' she said, looking solemn. 'I'm a whole two centuries behind.'

They went downstairs and danced in the kitchen to whatever came on the radio, Val Doonican, Perry Como, the Beatles, The Who, moving in what they imagined to be the stately fashion of courtiers, breaking out occasionally into a frenzy of rock and roll. Dad came home, trailing Jenny and a cloud of poison gas. 'It's past six o'clock,' he said, his ears colouring.

Mum clamped her hands over her breasts as if she feared they would be confiscated. 'Don't,' she yelled at Dad. 'Don't tell me who to be.'

She burned some sausages and made chips that were oily on the outside and raw in the middle. Dad stood over Gabe and Jen until they'd eaten everything on their plates. 'It's good food, that. Yer mum's made it.'

Everyone had to suffer.

Mum had her dressing gown over her corset and crinoline; her ringlets looked greasy and damp. She stood at the sink, smoking, while the rest of them choked down the food. Jenny got up from the table, went out to the back yard to be sick and came back and ate the rest of her chips. Gabe heard her being sick in the night. The costume came out again a few times. Mum talked about what colour the dress would be, with how many ribbons and bows. Then Dad got a promotion and they moved away from Astley Street, up to Plodder Lane, and Mum cut up the crinoline and Jenny played hula with the hoops. Gabriel found the pincushion under the bed, when everything had been packed away. 'I made that,'