The Cook (12 page)

29

The following day when the breakfast things had been all cleared away, Conrad told Betsy that he and Mrs. Hill would teach her how to set the table for lunch in a proper way; the way she had been setting it all along was wrong and no longer acceptable.

“There are many proper ways to set a lunch table,” he explained to the sullen-looking maid. “Today you shall learn one of them.”

Betsy didn’t answer.

Mrs. Hill had stacked the dishes they were going to use on one end of the dining table. The silverware was in a tray on top of the sideboard. “Bring the tray here, Betsy,” Mrs. Hill said.

Betsy hesitated for a moment, and then went over and picked up the tray. Conrad watched her closely. As she carried the tray to the table she suddenly stumbled—

Conrad’s arm shot out and grabbed the heavy tray with silver, which was just starting to fall from Betsy’s hands onto the stack of new dishes . . .

Almost simultaneously Conrad’s other hand slapped Betsy hard on the side of her face.

“Don’t try that again,” he said coldly. “You might lose more than your job, remember that.”

For a moment Betsy was too stunned to react, and then, very gingerly, she began rubbing the side of her face, where a large red welt was just beginning to rise.

“Now we shall begin our lesson,” Conrad continued. “Mrs. Hill, lay the table so our dear maid can see what settings look like.”

Mrs. Hill started to comply, when Conrad stopped her.

“Wait—Betsy, bring Mrs. Hill one of your aprons.—You have a loose dress on, with large buttons,” he explained; “and loose clothes with large buttons guarantee breakage: something gets caught in a fold, a button catches on the table-cloth . . .”

Mrs. Hill murmured an apology. “Of course,” she admitted. “I should have known better.”

Betsy came back with an apron; Mrs. Hill tied it around herself and began to set out the dishes.

Betsy watched; at least, her eyes were directed toward Mrs. Hill’s efforts. Every so often Betsy touched her cheek where four finger-length welts had risen.

After Mrs. Hill had laid out six settings, Betsy tried her hand.

“And don’t break anything,” Conrad warned her.

“Now,” Conrad said after Betsy had completed one setting, “let us see what you have wrought. To begin with, why do you have that knife on the left side of the plate? It is not on the left side in any of the other settings. It is on the right side.”

Betsy mumbled something about being sorry, picked up the knife and placed it on the other side of the plate.

“That’s better. But it is not good enough. The blade of your knife, Betsy, is turned away from the plate. In every other setting it is turned toward the plate. The blade, Betsy, in case my terminology confuses you, is the cutting edge of the knife—you know, the part you saw away with on a piece of meat . . .”

*

Betsy duly turned the knife around.

“Oh, that’s much better.—And now,” he continued, “the handle on that cup. In every other setting it is facing to the right. You have the handle sticking out to the left. Do you have some specific reason for your choice?”

Betsy turned the cup around.

“And now the design, Betsy. In every other setting the design on the plate . . .”

And so on, until Betsy’s setting closely resembled those of Mrs. Hill’s.

“Now, Betsy, you shall lay another setting. Remember, just like the other ones on the table . . .”

The lesson continued till noon.

The family ate off the old dishes at lunch. Conrad said it was necessary to wash all the new dishes and glasses thoroughly. Mrs. Hill said she understood, and asked Conrad whether he trusted Eggy to wash the new things.

“I think it would be better if we did it. Eggy would not understand why things that look clean need to be washed. He might think he was being punished, unjustly. Such feelings could lead to carelessness.”

That afternoon Mrs. Hill washed the glasses, and the next afternoon—following another lesson with Betsy—when Mr. Hill did not go to the mill, Mrs. Hill brought him into the kitchen and the two of them, in white aprons, washed all the new dishes while Conrad and Harold prepared the evening’s dinner.

Betsy’s lessons continued for the next two weeks, but as Conrad had warned Mrs. Hill, they were waging a losing battle with the girl. What she learned one day she forgot the next. Or conceivably, she did learn, but just refused to apply her knowledge.

“And if she can’t learn a lunch setting,” Conrad said, “she certainly will never manage a dinner setting—not even for the family, much less if we have guests.”

Mrs. Hill agreed completely. “I would have to watch her every move,” she said. “If I have to do that, I would rather set the table myself. At least that way I won’t have to worry constantly that the silly girl might break something.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Conrad said.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t broken something already . . . It’s only because we watch her like hawks.”

“What about Mrs. Wigton—is she proving more tractable?”

Mrs. Hill replied that she was not. “She complains that she has nothing to do now. She said that now that I do everything she doesn’t know what’s going on in the household. She said she didn’t know why we bothered to keep her, that we didn’t seem to have any need of a housekeeper.—She is very upset.”

Conrad was sitting on his stool and Mrs. Hill was leaning against the kitchen door. “Speaking of not bothering to keep someone,” he said; “there’s the matter of Rudolph. He was drunk again tonight and of no use whatsoever.”

“Yes, he was terrible,” Mrs. Hill agreed. “But Benjamin didn’t mind doing his work.”

“I know.”

Just then there was a light tapping on the kitchen door.

Mr. Hill’s head appeared around the corner, and he asked timidly whether he might come in.

“I thought maybe Harold was here,” he explained apologetically. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.—He’s not in his room.”

“He’s in my room,” Conrad said, “studying the books.”

Mr. Hill lingered by the door, not knowing what to say.

“Did you want to speak to him?” Conrad asked.

Mr. Hill shook his head and said it was not important. “I was just wondering whether he is going to the mill tomorrow. Did he say anything to you?”

“No, he’s not going to the mill tomorrow,” Conrad answered. “We’re having an all-day lesson in basting. Why—is there something important happening?”

“No, no, nothing important. It’s just that we were considering some renovations, and I thought . . .”

“Can’t someone else handle it?”

“Oh, yes, yes, certainly. It’s just that I thought someone from the family . . .”

Conrad glanced at him sharply. “Aren’t you going?”

Mr. Hill replied rather sheepishly that he was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. “I actually don’t like to go to the mill any more. I don’t know why. It just doesn’t interest me any longer. I’d rather stay here at the mansion. It’s much more interesting here. Something new always seems to be happening . . . things keep changing here. At the mill it’s always the same—day after day the same routine. But here . . .”

Mrs. Hill smiled at Conrad. “If Benjamin had his way,” she said, “he would never go to the mill again. He much prefers to be here. He likes to do things here—don’t you, Benjamin?”

Mr. Hill allowed that she was correct.

“Well, I can understand that,” Conrad said. “A household is always more interesting than any kind of business. Probably because it’s more personal. It has to do with the very lives of the individuals involved. Business is removed from life. Business is necessary only to support life. It is not an end in itself. Business is a means. The house is the very end, because that is where life is. Or to put it more strongly—it
is
life.”

Mr. Hill nodded vigorously. He said that was exactly the way he felt. “Why, I get more pleasure, more personal satisfaction, out of fixing drinks for everyone, or carrying in a heavy tray, than I could ever possibly get from doing anything at the mill. And like cleaning all the new dishes—I enjoyed that! And tonight, when Rudolph couldn’t—”

“Good,” Conrad said. “But speaking of changes and speaking of Rudolph—that’s one change which must be made immediately: Rudolph must leave. He’s worse than useless.”

Mr. Hill agreed that Rudolph would be released the next day, with a month’s wages in lieu of notice.

Conrad said that was perfectly satisfactory.

“There’s also the matter of Maxfield,” he went on. “He shouldn’t be fired. He’s just sick. But if he doesn’t get well soon, he should be pensioned off.”

Neither Mr. Hill nor Mrs. Hill had anything to say against this proposition. Maxfield had been invisible for quite a while, and was practically forgotten. In any case, Mrs. Hill and Conrad had relieved Maxfield of much of his authority. And Mr. Hill enjoyed performing the tasks which had been traditionally the responsibility of the butler . . .

Conrad stood up, and Mr. and Mrs. Hill left.

30

Betsy refused to learn her new duties, with the result that Mrs. Hill increased her efforts to groom Mrs. Wigton. Mrs. Wigton, however, proved no less recalcitrant than Betsy; this finally led Conrad to suggest to Mrs. Hill that they talk to her and point out which side her bread was buttered on. “The example of Rudolph might prove instructive,” Conrad said.

Rudolph had been fired, as Mr. Hill had promised, and three days later he had frozen to death in the snow within forty yards of the shed, where he had slept for years. Conrad had been drinking at the Shepard’s Inn that night, and the dogs had been waiting for him outside the door. There was thus no hue and cry when Rudolph fell in the snow, with a bag of pheasants clutched in his arm for Conrad. Conrad discovered him several hours later, as stiff as a frozen side of beef.

But Mrs. Wigton only broke down and cried when Mrs. Hill talked to her. She said nothing about wishing to comply with her employer’s demands. Even the statement that Maxfield was not indispensable hadn’t shaken her apparent resolve, and when a few days later Maxfield was indeed pensioned off and removed from the house, she still gave no indication of a willingness to perform the work of a maid.

Maxfield had been deteriorating rapidly. In fact, it seemed as if complete rest and careful feeding were bad for him rather than good, and at last Conrad had suggested that a doctor be called in: “. . . we have done all we can.” Mrs. Hill agreed, and Dr. Law arrived very early the next day.

He stayed with Maxfield nearly half the morning. Conrad had prepared a snack for the doctor, and Mr. Hill was just getting ready to take it upstairs when the door was pushed open suddenly, almost knocking the tray from his hands.

Dr. Law strode purposefully to the center of the kitchen. Then he turned around and gave everyone a long, professional look—almost as if he wanted to see if they were sick.

He himself radiated good health, and only his hair suggested middle or advanced years—it was white, snow-white. His neat, forked beard was also snow-white.

Conrad stepped forward. “I was just sending you something to eat.”

Dr. Law began balancing lightly on the balls of his feet. “Were you?” he said.

“Yes.” Conrad indicated the tray Mr. Hill was still holding. “There are some sweet rolls and butter and coffee.”

Dr. Law’s eyes did not follow Conrad’s to the tray. “I never eat between meals.—Now, about Maxfield,” he went on, turning to Mr. and Mrs. Hill. His voice was cold, clinical. “He is too old and debilitated to perform ever again the duties of a butler. I have no doubt of this prognosis. I am positive.”

He paused, as if expecting some resistance. But no one seemed surprised by his words.

“Maxfield will be lucky if he can get around without help,” he added.

Mr. and Mrs. Hill shook their heads sadly.

“Sometimes it happens,” Dr. Law continued. “A man gets old before his time. Maxfield is such a case. He is like a man of ninety. Yet he is several years younger than I.”

“A very old ninety at that,” Conrad agreed.

“It seems so strange,” Mrs. Hill was saying. “I knew he had a bad stomach for some time, but then suddenly he just seemed to age—”

The doctor cut her short. “As I said, Maxfield is senile. He will never work again. Good day!”

Dr. Law left the kitchen as unceremoniously as he had entered, and a few moments later Conrad said he was sure Mr. Hill would rather have someone else break the news to the old butler, so he volunteered to do it himself. “I will spare you that pain,” Conrad declared.

Mr. Hill smiled gratefully.

“. . . so it’s agreed. Four weeks from this Wednesday we shall have Rennie and Monte Springhorn here for dinner. By that time you will be able to manage the two main courses, Harold. Paul will do the pastry; Charles, the soup. I shall do the sauces.”

Conrad rose to his feet. Mr. Hill picked up the tray with drinks, and the three of them went into the dining room.

Conrad and Harold sat down at the table—Harold next to Daphne—and Mr. Hill served drinks all around.

Conrad raised his glass. “A toast . . . To the success of our first dinner at the mansion for guests from the City!”

Mr. and Mrs. Hill looked delighted. The glasses were emptied.

“And now a second toast . . . To the success of Harold’s first attempt at being in charge of the kitchen.”

Mrs. Hill beamed an affectionate smile at her son.

The toast was drunk.

“A third toast,” Conrad went on, looking fixedly at Mrs. Hill: “To the success of our new dishes and our new table settings.”

Mrs. Hill smiled, blushed, and lowered her eyes.

“Oh, I hope so,” she whispered.

“Now,” Conrad said after they had all set down their glasses, “let us get on to the actual business of the dinner.”

The next afternoon at the Shepard’s Inn, Conrad told the other cooks what the menu would be, and said he would teach them whatever was necessary.

Conrad bought Charles and Paul a final round of drinks; then Charles returned to work at the Prominence Inn, and Paul left to do the shopping for Conrad and himself.

“Well, Harold,” Conrad said; “what do you think? Are you looking forward to the occasion?”

Harold answered that he certainly was, but that he just hoped everything would go all right.

“Don’t worry, it will . . . at least from your end. But Mrs. Wigton—I doubt that she will do.” Conrad finished his beer. “But even that’s not a problem. Mrs. Hill knows that part of it perfectly. She only needs some practice.”

Conrad called to Nell for another round: “. . . and bring that paté over!”

Conrad leaned back in his chair: “Harold, I feel like a young man, and yet, next week I’m having another birthday—I won’t tell you how many I’ve had before. But every time I have a birthday I feel one year younger.

“It’s Friday—a good-luck Friday. I can tell you exactly what I did the last time it was a good-luck Friday: I spent the entire day at the Steward’s Club in the City with many of my friends. We talked and sipped wine and liquor until it was dinnertime, and then I had my favorite birthday dinner. A very simple dish . . .”

Conrad trailed off.

“Is there anything I can get for your birthday?” Harold inquired diffidently, handing Conrad a cracker thick with paté.

“Not a thing, Harold. But thank you.”

“Oh, but there must be something . . .”

Conrad shook his head. He said the only material possessions he needed were the tools of his trade—mainly knives and books—and he already had the best; and the proper attire for dining, which he had in sufficient quantity and quality. “More than that,” he went on, “I don’t need for my life. With those exceptions, I have no need of or affinity for material possessions. They don’t interest me.—But let me tell you about my birthday dinner. As I said, it is an extremely simple dish. I have it only on my birthday, to proclaim the event and to insure the pleasure of the dish. It comes from my book on Mountain Peasant Fare, and it originated in the mountains of . . .”

Harold kept spreading paté on the crackers and handing them to Conrad.