Love & The Goddess (39 page)

Time passed and the second Friday in October arrived. This was the day of Ron Clarke’s repeat cookery exam. I’d met with him on Wednesday to give him a choice of two briefs, allowing
him sufficient time to ensure all the necessary ingredients were ordered in for Friday. I hadn’t liked his attitude but I’d kept my mouth zipped as I knew he was just looking for a
chance to say I’d marked him unfairly.

“I spent two months working in a French Michelin restaurant and they couldn’t understand how I didn’t get top marks in my exam,” he’d sneered. “And do you
know that mark militates against me when applying for a full-time position?”

“I’d have thought if you’d gotten on so well in the Michelin restaurant they’d have given you a glowing reference to counteract any exam mark,” I said, smiling at
him, but he’d merely tut-tutted in his customary off-hand manner. I knew from experience that Michelin restaurants often disregarded professional qualifications and only took on young chefs
as gofers. Then, if the gofer earned his stripes by starting at the bottom, he could work through the ranks, but it required exceptional talent, stamina and patience along with a “yes
sir” attitude and a “how high do you want me to jump?” willingness. I couldn’t see Ron Clarke fitting in there. I offered to help him in his choice of menu and he
immediately rebuffed me.

“I have my own ideas after being in France. I’ll make my own choices. If you don’t mind …
teacher.
”

James briefed him on matters of hygiene but he was equally dismissive, telling him we were both “hygiene freaks” since they didn’t bother with all that nonsense in France.

Friday morning he arrived dressed in full chef’s regalia, an enormous chef’s hat on his head with the words “cordon bleu” embroidered in royal blue. Much sharpening of
knives started up as he looked at me threateningly, his eyes narrowing. Then, pointing a filleting knife at James, he said, “What’s he doing here?”

“Mr Mitchell is co-examining with me to ensure you are happy with your result this time around.”

“No way, I’m not having it. Every other student had only one examiner and you think it’s fine to bring your best friend in here to support you.” He was about to rip off
his apron when James asked, “Well, what about Miss McGrory? I happen to know she’s free at the minute.”

“Oh, the new one. That’s all right. I’ll put up with her but not with you.”

“I’ll relieve Miss McGrory then.”

As James headed out of the door, I thought I detected a hint of a smile from Clarke. I realised I was dealing with someone who didn’t believe in playing straight. I should have guessed,
since his politician father was renowned for double-crossing people while smiling sweetly at them and promising the sun, moon and stars if he got their vote. Still it wasn’t fair to assume
the son was cut from the same cloth. “Carry on with your preparation while we’re waiting for Miss McGrory, then.”

Helen McGrory had joined the staff last year as a part-time teacher. She had earned a good reputation in the Dublin college where she had full-time hours, but had given that up to move back in
with her aging mother who suffered from Alzheimer’s. Fifteen minutes later she arrived, similarly attired to me with a white butcher’s apron tied over a lab coat and her hair secured in
a net. Smiling a greeting, she went to the nearest sink to scrub her hands before coming back up to the podium where I stood with my paperwork spread out on the table. I handed her two A4 sheets, a
breakdown of the marking scheme with blank areas to fill in comments and marks, and Ron Clarke’s cookery brief.

“I’ve only one copy of the menu he’s chosen but I can get you another.”

“No. I have it. James gave me his copy. An interesting and extremely challenging choice, I have to say.” Her eyes were wide as she glanced over the elaborate menu. “I’m
dying to see his pressed duck. I believe the restaurant he worked for in Paris is famous for it.” Now how on earth did she know anything about him working in a French restaurant, never mind
what it was renowned for? I felt a shiver of apprehension run down my spine.

He was certainly a student with unbridled enthusiasm, but he was sloppy. He fought with the duck as he tried to bone it, turning the leg inside out as he yanked and pulled on the bone until it
flew out of his hand. He slipped over backwards and the duck hit the window, leaving skid marks down the glass as it plonked into the sink. I almost laughed out loud before my mirth turned to
compassion. After all, he was around the same age as Julie and I knew how conflicted she was in trying to assert herself. I walked over to him as he was pulling himself up, all red-faced and
flustered.

“Are you okay, Ron? At least your duck hit the sink rather than the floor. Let me give you a hand.”

“No thanks,” he snarled at me like a rabid dog. He had serious anger issues.

I had regularly helped students during exams and not docked marks from them, but this boy was determined to go it alone. Watching him was agony as he thumped pasta around with a rolling pin and
horsed it through a ravioli cutter. I had to intervene in his treatment of the lobster as the poor creature kept climbing out of the pot of boiling water, one side of it partially cooked as it
fought for survival. I told him, “Please kill the lobsters humanely by piercing the head, between the eyes, with a sharp knife or skewer. It’s cruel to cook them alive and the
endorphins produced by their fear will toughen the meat and ruin the flavour.”

With the continuous clatter of pots and pans, he was a one-man symphony, producing only cacophony and chaos. His wash-up now filled five sinks. I looked at Helen and we rolled up our sleeves to
tackle the colossal mountain of dirty plates. As we cleared it, the pile never seemed to diminish, with Clarke feeding in more pots, pans, crockery, cutlery and equipment.

By twelve thirty he had his table set with a white damask tablecloth, a beautiful printed menu standing at the top beside a silver stem vase holding one red rose and a sprig of gypsophila. All
the wash-up was done and put away and each of his dishes was well presented as he placed them on the table. I was about to tell him he could leave when he produced a very professional-looking
camera from a bag under the table and started taking photographs of the dishes and table layout from various angles. When he’d finished, he looked at me with a steely glint in his eyes, his
jaw puckered. He’d managed to make things look a lot better than they were by adding clever garnishes he’d prepared the night before.

“Very good, Ron. You may go now,” I said. “How do you feel that went?”

“I think I did brilliantly. What time can I come back to collect all this?”

“Exactly one hour.”

As soon as he left, Helen McGrory said to me, “That was definitely overly ambitious for his standard.”

What a relief. At least we were singing from the same hymn sheet. I’d sent James a text to come over and join us in case there was any discrepancy in the marking. After he arrived, the
three of us tasted the food. “Ravioli’s like shoe leather. Duck’s okay, but it’s not what you’d call pressed duck,” James said.

“No, you’d need to press it overnight. I had to stop him from stacking a tower of your precious cookery books on top of the bird this morning.” I laughed at the look of horror
on his face.

“You mean he didn’t have the proper equipment to do it?” James’s eyebrows had almost taken flight.

“Since I saw him stick his fingers in the ice-cream after handling raw duck, I’m afraid to taste it in case of salmonella,” said Helen.

When the hour had passed, Ron Clarke arrived as Helen left for lunch. “So did I get my distinction?”

“I haven’t totted up your marks yet. I’ll let you know on Monday.”

“Well, I won’t stand for him having any say in my results.” He pointed at James.

“There’s no need for such antagonistic remarks, Clarke.”

“I’d say plenty more to the two of you if I didn’t have to hold with political correctness.” Ron returned to the business of packing his dishes into a large cardboard
box.

I was about to say something firm when James put his finger over his own mouth, signalling me to keep quiet. As soon as Ron had gone, I spluttered, “He still thinks he deserves a
distinction!”

“No way. You heard Helen. We’re all of like mind.”

“God, I’m tight as a spring.” I tried to swivel my head, while massaging my vertebrae with my right hand. “I’ve had a very stiff neck recently. Maybe it’s
because I find this business with Ron Clarke such a pain in the neck.”

“Kate, forget about him. It’s over. Do your meditation and the Qui Gong Raúl taught us,” James advised me.

Monday morning arrived and I was in the middle of collecting books from my locker in the staff room when Helen McGrory handed me a copy of her exam report on Rob Clarke. At
sixty-nine per cent, her mark was slightly more generous than mine but it wasn’t going to bring him close to a distinction. Ten minutes later, as I was speaking to James, Mike Darcey’s
secretary came up to me, asking me to call into the head’s office. James winked as he stood up to follow me.

Darcey was sitting at his desk, peering out over his glasses. “Well, have we a result?”

“It’s not as good as his summer result but we can allow his previously higher mark of seventy-two per cent to stand,” I said.

“And I’ll stand by Kate on that one. I saw the finished exam,” James offered.

“With due respect James, it has nothing to do with you since Helen McGrory was co-examiner.”

“There’s no disagreement between me and Helen,” I insisted.

“I’ve just spoken to Helen and she’s willing to up her mark to a distinction for the sake of peace.”

“What? There must be some misunderstanding!”

“I’m merely saying, we need to find the marks somewhere.” He began nervously scattering papers about in front of him.

“I have principles and I’m not going to be blackmailed by one student who’d enjoy telling everyone it’s possible to intimidate Ms Canavan into giving you a higher mark.
It’s an insult to the other students who work very hard to achieve their mark in an honest manner. The result stands.”

“Well I’m not interested in your principles, Kate. The student has a clear case of you discriminating against him. His father rang me Friday afternoon and he said if there were any
discrepancies in his son’s marks, he’d bring this department to court. I have to answer to the college authorities and nobody wants negative publicity. I’ll ask you firmly one
more time to concede on this occasion, please.”

“No.” I was about to turn my back when he called my name.

“Ms Canavan, I insist, and if you go against me I’ll have to discipline you.”

I looked from his face to James, who had turned a deadly pallor. I began to shake with anger. “How dare you! I haven’t a notion of falsifying a mark to suit a local
politician.”

“Well if you don’t, I’m going to suspend you.”

“On what grounds?” I asked furiously.

“Discrimination against a student.”

“But you can’t do that!” James said.

“If you value your job, I’d advise you to keep your mouth in check, James.”

“Don’t worry about me, James,” I said, suddenly fired up. “I’ll walk out of here with my integrity intact and my head held high and as for you …” I
threw Darcey a filthy look. “You can stuff your suspension and your job.” With that I boldly walked out of the door, relief flooding over me.

Maybe I was prone to the odd bout of mania whenever things seemed to fall totally and irretrievably apart, like when I thought I would lose my breast soon after my marriage broke up. Or was it
that when things seemed so utterly hopeless, the need to control and manipulate vanished and in the process I lightened up and started living in the present moment? In some strange way, I always
felt I could totally surrender to Spirit when there was nowhere else to go.

James was concerned that I had made a rash decision and he asked Ella to meet us at the Gourmet Tart coffee shop in Salthill.

“I think you have a clear legal case for suing Darcey,” Ella said.

“No Ella, I’m very clear in my mind. I don’t want to go back. I’m not interested in a legal battle. Maybe this is the incentive I need to finally write my
book.”

“Helen will be delighted,” said James gloomily. “I don’t mean in a malicious way, but she hadn’t a hope of getting a full-time position due to cutbacks. Now
she’ll walk straight into your job – a permanent, pensionable job. That’s like gold dust in the present climate. Are you sure you’re not self-sabotaging by leaving like
this?”

“No, I’m very clear. It just seems like fate.”

“So I presume you’ll take Billy’s offer?” Ella inquired.

“No. Unfortunately it’s gone. I rang Billy straight away and his voicemail said he was in Paris. Afterwards I got on to his manager who told me the contracts have been signed with a
French woman. He told me Billy will be upset but they couldn’t go back on it at this stage.”

“Oh no …” James was even more horrified.

“Look for some reason, I’m cool with all this. I’ve been head-hunted by restaurants offering me jobs over the years but I never took the bait. Now I think I’ll be open to
anything and I’m going to trust something will crop up. When I walked out the college door, I felt a great weight lift off my shoulders. I hadn’t realised that maybe I was burnt out
from the tedium of doing the same job for almost a quarter of a century. This need to hang on to security has haunted me all my life. It’s time I worked at letting that attachment
go.”