Second Thyme Around (6 page)

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Authors: Katie Fforde

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

BOOK: Second Thyme Around
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‘Oh bloody hell! What am I to do with the wretched things? I haven’t got a grill to put them under.’
‘You could put them in their tin on the hot plate and sort of fry them,’ suggested Janey. ‘Or sprinkle them with chopped herbs and pretend they’re not roast potatoes at all.’
‘Well, that would be true, at least. But I’ll try the frying thing first. God! I hope the lamb is cooked.’
When tested, the lamb oozed pink fluid. ‘What shall I do? It’s probably completely raw. I’ll poison us all.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Janey. ‘Lamb is supposed to be pink.’
‘Everything all right in here?’ Lucas’s voice boomed from behind them, making both women jump.
‘Fine!’ snapped Perdita. ‘Go and sit down, or pour
everyone else some more sherry. You go and sit down too, Janey. I’m better off on my own.’
‘Mrs Anson wants to know if you want her to cook the vegetables,’ Lucas persisted, peering over Perdita’s shoulder at the mess beyond.
‘No. Tell her, thank you, but I’m managing just fine. Now everybody get out of my way and let me get on!’
After Janey and Lucas had gone back to the sitting room, Perdita shifted the sack of compost which prevented the door from closing, and shut it firmly. Then panic lent inspiration. She put all the vegetables into her wok, stirring them violently with a couple of wooden spoons. Then she took Janey’s advice about the potatoes and stuck them in their tin on her hottest ring at its highest heat. While everything spat and cracked behind her, she drained the meat juices into a saucepan. Good gravy might disguise poor roast potatoes. She stuck the lamb back in the oven, which she switched off, and – after another quick glance at Delia – flung a handful of flour into the pan with the meat juices.
All three plates of her ancient electric cooker were going full bat, but Perdita concentrated on the gravy, adding salt and pepper, and the heeltap of a bottle of wine she had opened rather a long time ago. It thickened, and turned a purplish colour. She added the vegetable juices from the wok, which did nothing for the colour.
‘Oh, for some gravy browning!’ she beseeched, knowing it had been on her list and she had just forgotten to buy it. For a mad moment she contemplated sprinting across her land to Kitty’s and hunting in her cupboards for some. There was bound to be something, be it in a bottle or a packet, and it would be so old the price would still be in shillings and pence, but Perdita wouldn’t have cared.
No, that was ridiculous. She turned over the potatoes and was gratified to see faint singeing at the edges of
some of them, but the gravy was still an unattractive pinky-beige colour. In desperation she turned to her own cupboard and found some soy sauce. She tipped in a large quantity, knowing it would make the sauce dreadfully salty, but anything which meant she didn’t have to serve gravy the colour of raw sausages was OK by her.
To her huge relief it worked. It even tasted all right. Perdita decided to quit while she was ahead and declare the meal ready. But as she was tipping veg and potatoes into dishes she realised that someone would have to carve the leg of lamb which was now sitting on a bread board, oozing quietly.
Kitty had never learnt to carve. Her husband had always done it, and after he died, she just hacked bits off whenever she cooked a joint. William probably couldn’t carve either, which left herself, raised in the Kitty method of removing meat from bones, or Janey. She would die before she would ask Lucas.
She stood in the doorway of the sitting room. The gathering didn’t look like a hive of social intercourse. Lucas was reading a book, Kitty had produced her needlepoint, and Janey and William were exchanging stilted sentences, but not appreciative glances. Perdita sighed.
‘Janey – give me a hand?’ she asked.
Janey, glad to get away, came at once.
‘It’s the carving,’ said Perdita. ‘Do you think you could do it? The table’s not big enough so we’ll have to do it in here. Do you mind?’
‘Perdita, I don’t
mind
giving it a go, but I’ve never carved more than a slice of cheese in my life. My dad always does it.’
‘Oh. Well, you’re a bright girl, good at cooking, I’m sure you’ll be able to do it all right.’
Janey ran her thumb over the knife Perdita produced. ‘You haven’t got a steel, have you? Something to sharpen it with?’
Perdita shrugged. ‘Possibly not. I’ve just got what Kitty gave me. There may be a better knife somewhere.’
The second knife was no sharper than the first, and the handle was loose. ‘Perdita, why don’t you just ask Lucas? Then if he makes a hash of it,’ Janey obviously thought this was highly unlikely, ‘it’ll be his fault.’
Perdita considered this fairly tempting idea, but decided it constituted a cop-out. ‘No. I’ll carve myself. It can’t be that hard.’ She took the knife from Janey and made a pass at the leg of lamb. The knife bounced off it and landed on the top of her thumb. Fortunately it was too blunt to cut her. She stuck the point into the meat the next time and managed to hack her way a couple of inches into it before hitting a bone. ‘Bugger!’ she muttered.
‘Why don’t you let me?’ asked Lucas, from the doorway.
‘OK,’ said Perdita, deciding that copping out was better than taking more bits off herself than off the joint. ‘We’ll get the rest of the meal on the table, you carve.’
While she and Janey brought through plates, gravy, serving spoons and the vegetables, Perdita spotted Lucas sharpening the knife on the back doorstep. Then, while she was finding space for everything on the table, he turned the leg of lamb into a row of tidy pink slices, which he laid out on the somewhat stained and chipped serving plate she had dusted down for it. He brought it in and stood holding it. It looked quite appetising.
‘Wow,’ she said, forgetting for a moment who she was talking to. ‘That looks really nice.’
‘Goodness knows what it tastes like,’ said Lucas. ‘Now where do you want to put it?’
In the end Perdita put a trivet on top of the wood-burning stove and put it there.
‘Now, where is everyone going to sit?’ asked Perdita rhetorically. ‘Kitty, you sit there, with William on one side. Now Janey, sit next to William, and Lucas next to Janey. I’ll sit next to Kitty.’
‘And me,’ said Lucas. ‘Shall I serve out?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Perdita, handing round vegetables.
When at last everyone was served, Perdita and Lucas squashed into their places. They had to sit with their knees sideways and were hideously uncomfortable.
‘Do please start, everyone,’ said Perdita, too tired to care if she could reach her plate or not.
‘Well, here’s to our hostess,’ said Lucas blandly, his sarcasm as silent as it was obvious.
‘Yes, here’s to Perdita,’ said William, missing the undercurrents, and everybody joined in the toast.
Perdita took a huge gulp of wine and was pleased to note that Kitty’s dear departed husband had not let them down; the wine Kitty had found in his cellar was delicious.
And so, by some miracle, was the food. The lamb, undercooked by Kitty’s standards, tasted perfect. The potatoes, while not exactly brown, had developed enough of a suntan to be appetising, and the sprinkling of rosemary Perdita had added out of desperation gave them a certain sophistication. The vegetables were crisp and the gravy was tasty. Everyone except Lucas delivered a cacophony of praise for Perdita, all of them knowing that cooking wasn’t her thing.
‘Darling! This is
delicious,’
said Kitty. ‘I didn’t think I liked lamb rare, but this is really tender.’
‘No thanks to me. That was the organic butcher,’ said Perdita.
‘Well, the veggies are down to you,’ said Janey. ‘And cooked just right.’ She blushed and glanced at Lucas to see if this comment on culinary matters was acceptable to him.
‘The vegetables are fine,’ agreed Lucas. ‘No marks for presentation, but they taste fresh.’
‘So, what about the gravy?’ Perdita demanded provocatively.
Lucas regarded her. ‘Let’s not spoil a pleasant occasion by discussing it.’
‘I think it’s jolly good,’ said William. ‘Is there any more?’
 
‘And what is this?’ asked Lucas, as Perdita handed him a glass dish.
‘It’s trifle,’ said Perdita.
‘I was afraid it might be,’ said Lucas.
‘Now, now, young man. Don’t criticise until you’ve tried it,’ said Kitty. ‘That’s a family recipe, handed down the generations.’
‘I thought you and Perdita weren’t actually related.’
‘Oh, just shut up and eat it,’ muttered Perdita, rather to Janey’s surprise.
‘Oh,’ he said after a spoonful. ‘No jelly. I’m almost disappointed.’
‘It’s delish,’ said Janey. ‘Can I have the recipe?’
‘If you promise not to give it to Lucas,’ Perdita replied. ‘I don’t want it turning up on the Grantly House menu as one of his creations.’
Eventually the meal drew to a close. Coffee and various sorts of tea were made and drunk, and Kitty’s chocolates were handed round, and Perdita was just racking her brains for some neutral topic of conversation when Kitty got slowly to her feet.
‘Well, I think I should be going …’
‘I’ll give you a lift back,’ said Perdita, jumping up.
‘Nonsense. No need to break up the party. It’s only a step.’
‘No.’ Perdita knew her old friend was longing for her afternoon snooze. ‘You walked here, carrying all those bottles, that’s plenty of exercise for one day.’
‘I’ll drive Mrs Anson back,’ said Lucas firmly. ‘Then you don’t have to leave your guests, Perdita.’
Perdita and Kitty both regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Have you got a decent car?’ asked Perdita.
‘Well, it’s a hundred per cent better than your van.’
‘Lucas has got a lovely car,’ murmured Janey, a touch dreamily.
‘Very well,’ said Kitty. ‘If you will be so kind, I would be glad to accept your generous offer.’ Kitty, while never having driven herself, appreciated travelling in fast cars. ‘No need to see me out, Perdita dear. Lucas will look after me.’
While reluctant to see Kitty driven away by the Demon King, she didn’t feel she could object when Kitty herself was so keen, so Perdita just kissed her friend and thanked her again for her largesse with regard to the wine and sherry.
‘Right,’ said Janey. ‘Let’s do the washing-up.’
William got to his feet, obviously dying to go home and watch some sport, and added, ‘Yes.’
‘Certainly not! I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to wash a thing. But if you’re going, William, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving Janey a lift? She came with Lucas and although I could run her back …’ She left her sentence unfinished.
‘Of course I can give Janey a lift.’
Janey didn’t look terribly enthusiastic. ‘Well, if you really won’t let us wash up, let us just take some of these things out.’
When they were alone in the kitchen, Perdita said, ‘He’s nice, isn’t he? William?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Janey immediately. ‘He’s lovely. I really like him.’
‘He’s much nicer than Lucas, isn’t he?’
‘
Nicer,
yes, but nothing
like
as sexy.’
Perdita, who had reached a stage in her life when ‘niceness’ was not an insult, but a characteristic to be cherished, was aware that Janey had yet to attain this maturity. She saw them both into William’s car, knowing her matchmaking had not come off. She felt extremely
tempted to do what she knew Kitty was now doing, curling up in a chair with the radio on and her eyes shut, but the washing-up would be even less appealing if she waited until dark to do it.
 
 
The kitchen looked like it had been turned over by a particularly untidy gang of burglars, only instead of taking things, they seemed to have brought dirty dishes with them, and piled them on every surface. There was more crockery than Perdita knew she owned, and every glass, plate, cup, jug or dish had been used.
Already depressed by the failure of her matchmaking attempt, and tired from the effort of cooking, she decided, philosophically, that doing the washing-up couldn’t make her feel any worse; why save something so intrinsically unpleasant for when she was feeling happy? Besides, the lighting in her kitchen was so bad you couldn’t see to do anything after sunset, which was horribly early at this time of year.
She put on the radio and the mellow tones of an actor told her that the classic serial was something Russian and depressing. Par for the course, she thought, and attached a length of hose pipe to her hot tap. This she led into a black plastic bucket on the floor and added a squirt of washing-up liquid. While she filled a second bucket, she loaded the first with dirty plates. When she heard a loud bang on the front door she muttered an expletive and turned off the tap. She knew that by the time she got back to her washing-up, the light would be gone, the water would be cold, and the serial would have got to its tragic denouement. If people wanted to buy salad, they should buy it before lunch, not after.
Her annoyance was rapidly replaced by anxiety when
she saw it was Lucas. ‘Oh my God! Is Kitty all right?’
‘Yes, of course! She’s indestructible. She got me to clean out the gutter before I left. No, I came back to help with the washing-up,’ he said.
‘Well, you can’t.’ Relief gave Perdita confidence. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m better off doing it on my own.’ She took hold of her door. ‘Now if you wouldn’t mind – my water’s getting cold.’
This would have disposed of the most dogged doorstep salesman, but Lucas pushed his way into the house with a combination of force and determination. ‘I need to talk to you about the kitchen,’ he said.
Perdita, having failed to keep him out of the house, was determined to keep him out of that devil’s brew of grease and dirty crockery. ‘You can’t!’ she repeated. ‘At least, not in it, and not now. Say what you want to say out here, and be very quick.’
Lucas stalked purposefully towards the kitchen door. Perdita flew to it, barring his way like a Cavalier maiden protecting her hidden lover. ‘Really, you can’t go in!’
‘You’re forgetting that I carved the lamb.’ Lucas was every bit as ruthless as a Roundhead soldier intent on rape and pillage. ‘I know exactly what state the kitchen is in.’ Perdita found herself swept aside and watched helplessly as he opened the kitchen door. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he demanded, seeing the buckets.
‘The washing-up,’ snapped Perdita. ‘What’s it look like?’
‘Good God! You’re not camping. Why don’t you use a bowl, like everybody else?’
‘Because I hate washing-up bowls! A bucket is far more efficient. You can actually submerge the stuff, for one thing. I have one bucket for washing and another for rinsing. Then they can drain in the sink. When I’ve taken everything out of it, of course.’
Lucas shook his head. ‘You’re mad. Why can’t you do
anything the same way as anyone else?’
‘Why can’t you tell when you’re not wanted? I’m quite happy with my washing-up. It’s nothing to do with you how I choose to do it. I didn’t ask you to come back and help me!’
Lucas looked about him. ‘No, I know. But you must admit it’ll take you hours on your own. And why don’t you put the light on? It’s black as pitch in here.’
‘The light is on,’ sighed Perdita. ‘Can’t you see it?’
Lucas saw the single, naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. ‘For Christ’s sake! No wonder you don’t like cooking, if you try to do it in this black hole!’
‘I don’t try to do it in this black hole! I don’t try to do it, full stop! Today was a one-off, never-to-be-repeated experience.’
‘Well, I can see why.’
‘Well, I’m glad you can see something, because after the sun goes down, I can’t! But I can just about manage the washing-up by feel, so if you wouldn’t mind buggering off, I can get on with it.’
‘Why the hell don’t you get some lighting in there?’ called Lucas from the sitting room. He came back with a table lamp. ‘Where can I plug this in?’
Perdita sighed. ‘Unplug the microwave.’
Lucas swept up the large quantity of post, junk mail and important letters, which sat on top of the microwave and put it in a pile on a chair.
‘Don’t put it there! It’ll get lost!’
‘It’s only junk mail anyway,’ said Lucas disdainfully.
‘It’s not, and anyway, I like junk mail.’
Lucas paused. ‘You
are
mad. How can anyone like junk mail?’
Perdita shrugged. ‘It gives me something to read over breakfast, and I don’t have to do anything about it. And the polythene bags it comes in are useful,’ she added, slightly shamefaced about her anti-social preferences.
Lucas tutted explosively. ‘For God’s sake, woman, get a grip!’
Perdita took a breath in order to tell him, in no uncertain terms, exactly how hard a grip she had on life, and no thanks to him, when she observed that he was getting stuck into the washing-up with a speed and efficiency her kitchen had not previously witnessed. She watched for a moment and then decided that it was her washing-up and not for him to do. ‘You’re slopping water on the floor. Let me do it.’ She elbowed him out of the way and sank to her knees. ‘Put the kettle on, if you want to be useful. This water’s gone cold.’
With a growl of irritation, Lucas filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘I need to talk to you about the cooker. It won’t do for the programme, you know. Nor will the lighting.’
‘The television people will bring lighting. Even I know that much.’ She scrubbed at a dish she would normally have left to soak for a few days. ‘And as for the cooker, I told everyone, from the very moment they had the idea of making the programme here, that the whole kitchen was totally unsuitable.’ She shifted uncomfortably on her knees, regretting that her bucket idea, though excellent in many ways, involved kneeling on a wet kitchen floor in her best jeans. Lucas sneering at her from on high didn’t help matters.
‘The kitchen is fine, or it would be if it wasn’t such a goddamn pigsty, but the light and the cooker are a disaster.’
‘Well, I’m sorry about the cooker, it’s the only one I’ve got, and even if I could afford to, I wouldn’t dream of replacing it just to please you and your television company.’ She sank the last plate into the bucket of rinsing water and decided to put the many roasting tins out in the garden for the foxes to clean out.
‘No. I want to replace it.’
‘What do you mean?’ She retrieved the plate, got up and rubbed her back.
‘I mean, I will buy you a new cooker, so I don’t have to use that one.’
‘Don’t be silly. You may be a prima-donna-type chef these days, but surely even you can’t be so prissy you can’t use a perfectly ordinary electric cooker.’
‘That cooker is not ordinary! It should be in a museum. I’m sure it’s not safe.’
‘Of course it’s safe! What’s wrong with it?’
He stepped round her in order to inspect it and made aggressive stabs in its direction, switching knobs, pulling out plates and generally attacking it. ‘It’s only got three tiny burners, the grill doesn’t seem to work, it wobbles, and I doubt you can get the oven very hot.’
‘It was hot enough to cook the lamb!’ she said, not sure what temperature it had got to.
‘But not hot enough to roast the potatoes.’
Perdita toyed with the idea of pretending they weren’t meant to be roast potatoes but rejected it. She scooped several wooden spoons, a wet tea towel and a colander out of the sink. ‘I thought television cooks did things mostly on top. And it’s all cheating, anyway, isn’t it? I’m sure they just paint things with varnish to make them look brown.’
She was sorry she had her back to him and so missed seeing his eruption of fury. She had to make do with wraparound sound, which was several decibels louder than the recommended maximum. It was odd how, when she had been married to him, his fury had terrified her. Now it just made her want to giggle. She turned and leant against the sink, biting her lip.
‘Perhaps you’re too scrupulous to be a television cook, Lucas.’
He heard the laughter in her voice and strode towards her, bringing his hands down hard on her shoulders. ‘I suppose you think this is funny!’
‘Well, of course I do! It’s hilarious! You coming into my house,
my kitchen,
to do a cookery programme. You must see the funny side! Or have you completely lost your sense of humour?’
It was important to make him laugh, then he might let her go. Having Lucas’s hands on her shoulders was unsettling. He always had had the ability to arouse her with the lightest, most innocent of touches. It seemed that he still had.
His mouth twitched, first in one corner, and then it curled into a grin made more attractive by the fact that he tried to suppress it. ‘I suppose it is a little bizarre, and not something I would have imagined happening six months ago.’ His hands slipped off her shoulders, down her arms and away. ‘It must have been a shock for you, seeing me again after all these years.’
Not as much of a shock as this note of concern in his voice. ‘Well, yes. But it must have been just as much of a shock for you.’
‘Not really. I knew Kitty lived in the area, after all. And I saw your name under Bonyhays Salads.’
‘Of course. But if I hadn’t delivered salads to you, you wouldn’t have looked me up?’
‘Why not? I know we parted on bad terms, but I would have hoped we could have got over that.’
She turned away from him and put her hands into the sink, trying to make it look as if she was doing something. ‘Bad terms doesn’t really cover it, Lucas. You abandoned me for another woman, in the most hurtful circumstances possible.’
‘I know, and I’m not proud of it. But you’ve got over it, haven’t you? You seem fine.’
She turned back to him. ‘Yes, of course I’m fine. But it’s no thanks to you, and you really couldn’t expect to swan back into my life and for me to forgive and forget.’
‘I didn’t say anything about coming back into your life,
Perdita. Just that I would have looked you up and hoped we could have been civil to each other.’
‘Then it’s a shame that’s obviously quite impossible, particularly as you’ve got yourself involved in a television fiasco which seems to need my co-operation!’
‘I can do without your co-operation! I can easily find another picturesque cottage where, possibly, you don’t have to do the washing-up on the floor! But can you do without the money? They’ll pay you for using your kitchen, though not much. They’ll give you something, and pay for all the vegetables they use.’
‘I run a flourishing business. I don’t need my life messed around by a television crew.’
‘If your business is so flourishing, why don’t you drive a half-decent van? Why don’t you have a cooker that works? Surely, even if you don’t cook, you’d like an oven to heat up your ready-meals.’
‘“Need” and “want” are different things! I have everything I need, and most of the things I want.’
‘Then buy a van.’
‘I don’t want to!’
‘But you do
need
to,’ he shot back at her. ‘And you can’t afford one.’
‘If I really needed, or wanted, a new van I could use the money you gave me.’ She hadn’t meant to mention this money. It was a symbol of a time of failure and misery in her life, and she had tried to blot it out of her consciousness. Somehow it flung itself into the conversation uninvited.
Lucas frowned. ‘Then why the fuck don’t you?’
‘Because I would rather deliver my vegetables in a wheelbarrow or in a sack on my back than use a penny of your blood money – money you sent me to make yourself feel better about ditching me!’
‘I sent it because I thought you might need it! I could ill afford to do without it at the time! I should have known
that you would have fled back to dear Auntie Kitty and she would have picked up the pieces and put your life back together for you!’
This statement – pretty much the truth, though it didn’t give her one iota of credit for her own efforts – sent Perdita’s anger to heights it previously hadn’t known. She stormed out of the kitchen in search of her handbag. It took a maddeningly long time to find, and by the time she stormed back into the kitchen with a cheque, the saucepans and several vegetable dishes were draining in the sink.
‘Here’s your money! I hope it comes in useful!’ She thrust the cheque at him, knowing she would have to do some very rapid financial fiddling to get the money out of the building society, and into her current account before her bank manager summoned her for an explanation.
Lucas handed it back. ‘I don’t want it. It’s yours. Why don’t you do something useful with it?’

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