The Cook (11 page)

27

Conrad and Mr. and Mrs. Hill were eagerly looking forward to the arrival of the new dinnerware; indeed, from the time Mr. Bayard had hand-carried the order to the shop in the City, that was practically all the three of them talked about. That Conrad and Mrs. Hill were excited was only natural. But that Mr. Hill was so interested can only be explained by the profound effect the dinner with Mr. Bayard had had upon him.

The morning after that evening, Mr. Hill did not go to work. He lingered over the breakfast table till it was time for lunch. After lunch he retreated to his den and did not reappear till about an hour before dinner, when he came into the kitchen and said hello to Conrad.

Harold was in the kitchen, working on that evening’s dessert. Father and son smiled at each other, and Conrad told Mr. Hill what Harold was doing. Mr. Hill was very interested and watched Harold for several minutes. While he was looking over his son’s shoulder, Betsy came in and reported to Conrad that Maxfield was still too ill to come down and fix drinks.

Conrad turned to Harold.

“You can let that go now,” he said; “fix the drinks instead.”

Harold started to wash his hands. Mr. Hill watched him for a second, then went over to him. “I’ll fix the drinks, Harold. You finish what you’re doing.—I know what your mother and Ester want, but what is it Daphne takes?”

“It’s all in the cupboard there,” Conrad said, indicating the door above the end of the worktable. “The rose and yellow bottles are Daphne’s. Two parts of the rose to one of the other.”

Mr. Hill quickly went to work, and Harold returned to the large tray of curiously shaped dough. “I hope it comes out all right,” Harold smiled.

“It will,” Conrad assured him.

Mr. Hill left with the drinks, and when he returned he asked if Conrad and Harold would care for something.

“Yes,” Conrad answered. He gave Mr. Hill very specific instructions on how to fix two drinks for Harold and himself, and after Mr. Hill had made the drinks Conrad sat down on his stool and tasted one, licked his lips and pronounced it excellent. Mr. Hill smiled his appreciation for the encomium, murmuring that he had only followed directions.

The next evening Mr. Hill again made and served the drinks, and for the rest of the week—during which time he did not spend five hours at the mill, all told. Each evening Harold and Conrad took a half-hour off from their duties to savor their drinks—a different one each time. On Saturday night when the Vales were over for dinner, Mr. Hill prepared the drinks for all. Rudolph was in the kitchen that night and somehow got the idea into his head that he should serve the drinks Mr. Hill was preparing. But when he stepped forward to take the tray, Conrad ordered him to leave it alone and get back into the corner.

“You’re too drunk to be of any use,” Conrad told him. “You’re of no more use than Maxfield, who’s been lying in bed for the past week, sick or feigning sickness. We’d be better off without both of you.”

Mr. Hill did not wait for Conrad to finish berating Rudolph but left with the tray of drinks.

“Rudolph will have to go,” Conrad declared when Mr. Hill came back to ask Conrad what he and Harold wanted. “He’s corrupting Eggy. Eggy never had a drink in his life till the other night. Rudolph threatened him and made him drink. That night I had to do the dinner dishes myself—Eggy was too drunk and sick to do anything. And Betsy—if I had waited for Betsy to do the dishes they’d still be dirty—at the rate she moves.”

Mr. Hill listened to Conrad but answered nothing in return, which was the way it had been since the night of the dinner: he would listen to Conrad’s remarks and nod, but no more. In fact, when Conrad had served the family breakfast that Saturday morning, Mr. Hill broke off his conversation with Mrs. Hill when Conrad appeared. He even stopped eating. Later that morning Mrs. Hill came into the kitchen and told Conrad what they had been talking about.

Mr. Hill was excited about the dinnerware, which was due to arrive the following Wednesday.

“He can’t wait,” Mrs. Hill said. “He’s as excited as I am.—When do you think we should begin trying to teach Betsy the new table settings? We don’t have much time, and knowing that girl’s stupidity and stubbornness . . .”

Conrad said he wasn’t sure, but he was afraid they would have to wait until the dishes arrived. He doubted whether Betsy would be able to learn from the illustrations in the book. “I don’t believe she could be made to understand that the illustrations represent actual tables with china and glasses and silver on them. It would be a feat of abstraction beyond her. However, we’ll talk about that later.”

Later was that evening, after the Vales had left. The dinner had been elaborate, with course after course coming until the Vales were so stuffed they could scarcely move. Because of the dinner’s timing complexities, Harold had remained in the kitchen helping Conrad, and had not joined the guests. He even served one of the courses—one he had prepared almost entirely by himself. If the Vales were surprised at the sight of the son of the house appearing with a large silver tray in his hand and a small cook’s cap on his head, they contained their surprise and took their lead from Mr. and Mrs. Hill, who smiled approvingly at Harold and inquired whether he had made the particular dish he was bringing.

Conrad served the next course and came back to the kitchen with the silver tray which had borne Harold’s effort:

“See, it’s empty. Not a bite left on it.”

Harold smiled at the empty tray.

“They must have liked it,” he murmured.

“Of course!”

Harold looked very pleased.

The two of them worked steadily until at last Conrad said they were through and could relax and eat their own dinner.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “This is the first time you have worked all the way through a dinner.”

“Tired,” Harold admitted.

“Very understandable. But you’ll get used to it.”

“I think we used every pot and pan in the house.”

Conrad started to reply that he was sure they had, when a screechy voice from the direction of the sink interjected: “And every dish too!”

Conrad turned around: Eggy never talked without being spoken to first.

“What did you say, Eggy?”

Eggy giggled, and then repeated his remark. “And I’ll have to wash every one too!” His eyes rolled foolishly.

Conrad walked over and pulled Eggy off the stool by his ear.

“You’ve been drinking.—Rudolph, of course.”

Conrad propelled Eggy toward the back door. “Sleep it off. I’ll wake you later. And you will wash every single dish, if you have to stay at the sink all night. You will get no food till you’re all through.”

28

But when Conrad roused Eggy a few hours later with a sharp kick in his rib cage, Eggy proved to be more drunk than when he’d been chased from the kitchen. He could barely stand, and his eyes would not stay open.

“Has Rudolph given you more to drink?” demanded Conrad. “If he has he’s worked his last day here.”

But Eggy was in no condition to understand the question.

Disgusted, Conrad threw Eggy back on the old mattress, covered him with a few blankets and left.

“Shall we wash the dishes ourselves?” Harold asked when Conrad told him that Eggy was still incapacitated.

“No. We’ll leave them till the morning. Eggy will have to work all day Sunday. It’s as simple as that.—Go to bed, Harold. You look completely worn out.”

Harold, stifling a yawn, admitted he was.

After Harold had left, Conrad sat on his stool.

In a few minutes Mrs. Hill came in; she always waited till she heard Harold go upstairs to bed.

“That was a delicious dinner,” she smiled. “Everyone ate till he was stuffed. And the Vales! They’re so plump and jolly now, and they eat more than anyone else. I’ve never seen such a change come over a couple. Before, they were pale and in delicate health, and afraid to eat anything but fish. But now they gobble down everything in sight, and always seem to be looking for more—”

“Eggy’s drunk,” Conrad interrupted. “Rudolph gave him liquor again. He was too drunk to do the washing-up.”

Mrs. Hill frowned.

“I’ve sent Betsy to bed,” Conrad went on after a moment. “She’d be at it all night, and then be of absolutely no use tomorrow. Harold was too tired to help. He worked very hard this evening.”

Mrs. Hill pursed her lips: she had made a decision.

“Well,
I’m
not too tired.” She started toward the pantry. “Are the aprons still kept in here?”

“Only Harold’s.”

Mrs. Hill found Harold’s apron, wrapped it around her, tucked it in and made it very neat. “There!” she said. “It will do just fine. Now, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Conrad removed his apron and laid it on Eggy’s stool by the sink.

Mrs. Hill returned shortly with a slightly embarrassed-looking Mr. Hill. “Benjamin is going to help,” she announced.

Mr. Hill smiled but said nothing.

“It will help you sleep,” Mrs. Hill went on; “a little exercise after a large meal never hurt anyone.”

Mr. Hill made no objection. On the contrary, he seemed rather eager to please his wife. Mrs. Hill fastened Conrad’s apron around Mr. Hill’s middle, folding it practically in half. Mrs. Hill then spun him around to face Conrad.

“How do we look?” she asked, posing beside her husband with a pert little smile on her face.

“Perfect.”

“Betsy,” Conrad began, as he leaned back and watched them, “will never make a decent parlormaid. “We can try, but I don’t think we’ll be successful. I have already made numerous attempts to broach the subject of table settings. But she only stares at me stupidly. She believes there is only one way to set a table. I have told her we are getting new china and that each person henceforth will have approximately twice as many plates before him as he used to. She thinks, however, that the only time more dishes are put on a table is when more people are sitting there.”

Mrs. Hill, her arms in dishwater up to her elbows, asked whether it might not make a difference when Betsy saw all the beautiful dishes and glasses. “As you said this morning, perhaps she actually has to see the things before she can believe they exist.”

“Possibly,” Conrad admitted. “At least we shall try. But I believe we should start grooming Mrs. Wigton for Betsy’s work. She can learn. She is an intelligent woman. And then, if Mrs. Wigton proves satisfactory we can let Betsy go.”

Mrs. Hill looked thoughtful.

Conrad continued: “Of course, Mrs. Wigton will have to be relieved of some of her other duties. That’s only fair. But I’m sure none of them is too onerous or esoteric for someone else to perform. You and I already handle all of the household accounts. Maxfield has nothing to do with them any more and Mrs. Wigton does no more than submit requisitions to you. I see no reason why she should not be relieved of that responsibility. You know much better than she what is required in the house by way of repairs, replacements and additions. The mistress always knows, or should know, more than the housekeeper. Naturally, minor details of the day-to-day household operation can still be left to her.”

Conrad paused.

The two white-aproned figures continued their steady labor. They were almost through with the dishes, and then there was the imposing collection of unwashed pots and pans . . .

Conrad got up and ladled himself a bowl of broth.

“Tomorrow,” he went on matter-of-factly, “Mrs. Wigton will be told that she need no longer bother herself with requisitioning anything needed outside the housekeeper’s room . . .”

“I will have to ask her certain questions,” Mrs. Hill said quietly. “There are some things I’m not completely sure—”

“That’s only to be expected. But Monday is the first of the quarter, and when we do our inventory this time Mrs. Wigton can get everything ready instead of Betsy, and you can do the actual tabulating. And while you’re about it, tell Mrs. Wigton about the new dishes and glassware, and the new table settings we are going to institute.”

Mrs. Hill nodded slowly at these suggestions and said she thought they were very good.

Mr. Hill, who had said nothing up to this point, looked up from his chores for a moment and smiled at Conrad in a very friendly way. “Our new dinner settings are coming this Wednesday, aren’t they, Conrad?”

Conrad assured him they were.

“I just can’t wait!” exclaimed Mrs. Hill. “I’m so tired of all these old broken and unmatching sets. They’re so ugly. I’m surprised anyone has been willing to eat off them.”

Conrad sipped his broth.

“When our new settings arrive,” he said, smiling ever so slightly, “we need not fear inviting anyone. We are getting the very best.—Rennie will come down, so will Monte Springhorn, and many more. We will entertain in style.”

Mr. and Mrs. Hill exchanged anticipatory glances.

Mrs. Wigton made it clear on Sunday that she did not approve of Mrs. Hill’s assuming both immediate and ultimate responsibility for the condition and upkeep of everything necessary to the operation of the household. The table linen, for example: she could not understand why henceforth Mrs. Hill should decide when replacements were required. Surely that was the responsibility of the housekeeper. And the silver polish—that was another thing: why should Mrs. Hill decide when it was getting low? From time immemorial the decision to order new silver polish had been the housekeeper’s. And uniforms for Betsy? Mrs. Hill should only decide what style the maid was to wear, and even that decision should be made only after consultation with the housekeeper as to practicability, etc. Mrs. Hill, however, informed her that in the future she would decide when the maid needed something new.

All of Mrs. Wigton’s complaints fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Hill merely told her she was being relieved of some of her responsibilities: “. . . not because of incompetence, Mrs. Wigton. I’m sure you’ll understand that, but because you will have new duties. It would not be fair to expect you to do both.” Mrs. Hill left the new duties unspecified. If Mrs. Wigton wondered what these might be—and she undoubtedly did—Conrad’s presence dissuaded her inquiries: he stared at her so blackly every time she raised an objection that she was reduced to making her sentiments known by little else but a persistent and sullen silence.

Her sulking continued through Monday, which witnessed a still further paring of her traditional duties as housekeeper: instead of Betsy getting everything ready for Mrs. Wigton to examine and count—and the results of the inventory then being passed on to Mrs. Hill—Mrs. Wigton got everything ready and Mrs. Hill did the actual appraising and tabulating. Throughout the taking of the inventory Conrad appeared continually and maintained a watchful eye over all, occasionally giving Mrs. Hill advice and direction.

At last the dinnerware arrived, in five large crates.

“I think we should have some drinks,” Conrad said after the crates had been set in the dining room. The whole family was gathered around the crates with the exception of Ester; she had been told of their arrival but had merely grunted the reply that she’d see them in due time. Daphne, petite and beautiful now, was standing close to Harold, her eyes shiny with excitement.

“Daphne, would you care for a drink?” Conrad asked. “And you, Harold?”

“I never drink in the afternoon, Conrad,” Daphne replied gently. “But if you say it’s all right . . .”

“Today is an exception.” Conrad turned to Mr. Hill, who was smiling at him expectantly—almost conspiratorially.

“Shall I serve it now?” Mr. Hill asked.

Conrad nodded without saying anything, and Mr. Hill beamed and left the room. He returned shortly with a large steaming punch-bowl—a concoction of fruits and liqueurs, which had taken him all morning to prepare under Conrad’s direction.

“A two-glass limit for Daphne,” Conrad said. “For the rest, the limit is their capacity.”

Mr. Hill, smiling and happy, filled everyone’s glass.

“And one for yourself,” Conrad reminded him.

And so, sipping their drinks, they began the unpacking.