Oddly Enough, page 11
“Lou?” Gareth called from the back door, and she peered into the utility to look at him. He was standing on the outside mat in grass-encrusted wellies, his ear protectors still on. “Are you okay? Has it stopped?”
She gestured to him to take the ear protectors off. “They’re not ringing now, dear. I’m sure they’ve just got bored.”
He pulled the ear protectors off but clutched them in both hands, as if ready to put them back on any moment. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m quite sure I am, dear.” She turned to go back into the kitchen, and stopped as he spoke again.
“I don’t suppose … could you make me a cup of tea, please?”
She looked at him for a moment, then smiled. “Of course. Would you like a biscuit, too? I got some nice ones at the market.”
“Oh, yes please.” He gave her a very small smile, then said, “You can get anything at that market, can’t you?”
She glanced at the sink. “You wouldn’t even believe it.”
And then she went to make the tea and open the biscuits, and eventually to plug the phone back in, wondering how long it would last this time. Before the rage and frustration all bubbled up again, with a new target or the same old ones, and she had to go back to the market, and to the little stall that was only ever there when she needed it to be, or that she could only see when she needed to. The little stall that sold strange things in small envelopes, things that had to be scattered in the tea to bind the charm, and burned to release it.
Charms that promised to change things, although they themselves were different every time. Different, and sneaky. She didn’t trust them. The nightmares and insomnia after she’d grown tired of him blustering about immigrants had lasted far longer than the charm had. The bank error that had lost all their money (and almost the house), after his complaints about the homeless and disenfranchised, had been slow to be corrected. And now that tearful note to his voice after the phone calls. His hesitancy now.
No, she didn’t trust the charms, and she didn’t like them. But now she’d found them, she didn’t know how to stop, either. Because they worked. And she didn’t know how else she could cope with him, other than to leave. And she didn’t want to do that, for reasons she wasn’t even entirely sure about herself.
Or maybe she was, she thought, as Gareth traipsed inside in his socks and sat staring at his dismantled phone. Maybe she was too old to leave, not for her, but for him.
Which was no real reason, but it was her choice.
Just as it was her choice to break the charm before it went too far. Which she could always do, couldn’t she? She always had, anyway.
We can break him.
She shivered in an odd mix of horror and delight, and put a plate of biscuits in front of him.
“Howard’s hedge is looking worse than ever,” he announced, with some satisfaction. “I’m going to have to have words.”
“Must you?” she asked, pouring out the tea.
“Someone has to.”
She glanced at her bag, where a new envelope nestled inside one of the inner pockets. She didn’t need it yet, but she would.
Learning was a lifelong endeavour, after all.
The Pie of Hate
I’m not really a story prompt person. For some reason they always feel a little constrictive, like someone shoving an idea in front of you and yelling, “Write this now!”
And pretty much the best way to ensure I won’t do something is to tell me I must do it immediately. In a creative sense, I mean. Obviously if you tell me I must vacate the area immediately because there’s a sea serpent on the loose, I’ll get my shoes on and retreat to a good vantage point from which to watch sea serpent shenanigans.
But every now and then Twitter and its many story prompt bots throw up something that catches my imagination. In this case:
Somewhere, a sous-chef bakes a pie of hate.
Almost as good as sea serpents, that.
“And I need it by three p.m.”
Of course you do, Simone thought, and spotted the dog nosing around the sack of potatoes the kitchen porter was peeling. Today’s outfit involved a lot of pink feathers and rhinestones. The dog seemed to feel her scrutiny and looked up, baring its teeth, then lifted a leg to wee against the sack. Simone swatted a potato off the bench, landing it close enough to the dog to make it jump away, yipping anxiously and widdling on the floor as it went.
“Careful!” Mrs A snapped. “You almost dropped that on Fabien!”
Oh, if only. The dog was trying to bite the porter’s leg now. It shouldn’t even be in here. If they got inspected— her train of thought was broken by Mrs A snapping her fingers close enough to Simone’s nose that she felt the wind of the movement.
“Are you even listening? My God – just the best and the brightest in here, aren’t you?”
Simone wiped sweat from her face with her forearm. “Mrs A, I can make you a pie, but we’re getting ready for lunch right now. Having it done for three’s going to be difficult.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion on it. I told you what I wanted. If you’re not capable, I’m sure we can hire someone who is.”
For a brief, satisfying moment, Simone considered just saying, okay, switching her burners off, and walking out. But she’d come here for the experience of working under a head chef whose talent was only surpassed by his ability to be absent the majority of the time, and she wasn’t going to let a pie spoil things. She stretched her face into something that felt like a smile. “I will make sure you have a pie by three p.m.”
“I want you to make it. Everyone knows you make the best pastry.”
Simone bit back a sigh. This was not on the job description. She had the whole damn kitchen to run, a busy Saturday lunch and dinner ahead, and when the head chef did finally turn up he’d spend most of his time swanning around tasting things and doing his best Gordon Ramsey impression without ever actually getting his hands dirty. She wasn’t sure she’d actually learned anything from him yet, other than the (admittedly excellent) dishes he came up with – although she wasn’t sure when he created them, as she’d never seen him touch a pan in the kitchen. Mostly he spent his time posing for photos with the diners and charming Mrs A, which included indulging her bonkers requests. Last week Simone had been tasked with putting together a five-course menu for a bloody doggy dinner party at the same time as getting Sunday lunch out.
Thank God for Zack. The sous-chef had not only managed to get all his people desserts done, but he’d also made something bizarrely beautiful and dog-friendly for their canine guests, too. She wondered if he was ahead enough to take on some of her prep again. Because he was an amazing pastry chef, but she still made better pastry than him. She made better pastry than any chef she’d ever encountered, which was just a simple fact. One of the top pastry chefs in London had told her she had magic fingers when she’d worked with him briefly. He’d then tried to demonstrate his own magic fingers, and she’d emptied a bowl of lemon tart filling over his head before walking out. Really, considering some of the places she’d worked, doggy dinner parties weren’t that bad.
“Alright,” she said now. “Any specific meat, or just meat?”
Mrs A unfolded a flyer and peered at it. “It doesn’t say. Just savoury pie competition.”
Simone wasn’t surprised that Mrs A wanted a pie that she could pass off as her own, but she was at least a little surprised that the hall’s owner wanted to enter a Women’s Institute competition. This must be her next big thing – Mrs A, the domestic goddess, impressing all the local village ladies. Not that anyone would believe for a minute that she’d actually made the pie herself, but that was beside the point. She could go and bestow the largess of her presence on the village fête that was already underway in the grounds. Simone had no objections to Mrs A being out of the restaurant for the day. But she could have given them a little warning. Aloud, she just said, “I’ll see what we’ve got that looks the best.”
“Good.” Mrs A spun on her heel. “Fabien? Fabien!” She walked off, screeching for the dog. Simone pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if it was too early for a drink.
Lunch had begun. The kitchen roared with clattering plates and hissing pans, with swearing and laughter and the growl of extractors. It looked like chaos from the outside, gas burners roaring and chefs swinging past each other in some precarious choreography, someone shouting for service, someone singing off-key, someone else roaring for another pan, dammit, who took his bloody pan? To Simone, it was both familiar and hectically beautiful, and she glanced at the clock on the wall reluctantly as she dropped salmon in a pan to sear and pivoted back to plate up the potatoes.
“Zack!” she called. “Cover me? I need to get this damn pie done.”
“Of course, chérie!” he said, flinging oil into a pan with an exaggerated flourish. He liked to affect some sort of weird French accent, but Simone thought he was actually from Birmingham. The accent slipped quite badly after a few beers. “Tell me how you want me.”
“Oh, hilarious.” She slapped his bum with her spatula as she passed him. “Don’t let the heat ruin your hair.”
She was working butter into pastry flour, her eyes on the front line, shouting to the porter to bring another tray of garnish through, or to clean that spill before someone slipped, and wondering if the head chef planned to show, when the dog came into the kitchen with his ridiculous strut.
“Goddammit! Get that bloody dog out of here!” she bellowed, hands thick with dough. “Freddy!”
The porter spun toward her shout, his eyes wide with alarm, and the plates stacked in his arms toppled out of his grip with the slow-motion inevitability of a slinky let loose on the stairs. “Nooo—!”
“Freddy, dammit!”
The dog yipped, the sound almost lost in the calamitous explosion of plates shattering on tile, and bolted down the front line, tail tucked between his skinny legs. Zack yelped, aimed a foot at the dog, slipped on a half-squashed chip and lurched into the stove, catching the handle of pot and launching jus across the pass. A waitress squeaked and ducked, barely avoiding the sauce. Albert dropped his pan and lunged after the dog, who was cowering in the corner by the fridges, shaking so hard his rhinestones were clattering. He saw Albert coming, gave a miserable howl, and bolted again, leaving Albert sprawling to his knees behind him. Freddy dropped into a crouch, arms out like a goalie while the older man cursed creatively from the floor and Zack tried to calm the waitress. It was only her first week, and she had already regarded the chefs with something close to terror before having jus flung at her.
“Get. That. Dog!” Simone didn’t often shout, but she was almost screaming now. Fabien feinted left. Freddy flung himself forward, his grunt turning to a yelp of pain as he belly-flopped amid the shattered plates. Albert tried another grab, slipped on a shard of soup bowl, and landed on his back as Zack came bounding through the carnage, whipping a tea towel like a lasso. Simone wasn’t at all sure what he thought that was going to accomplish, and as Fabien sprinted for the back door she jumped from behind her counter and scooped him off the ground in a shower of half-made pastry. He wriggled and snapped, whimpering in fright, and she trapped him against her chest. “Stop it, you little git, or I’ll shove you in the freezer,” she told him. He stopped wriggling and stared at her in round-eyed fright. Although he usually looked like that.
Someone said hesitantly from the pass, “Check on?”
No one moved. Albert sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He’d hit it on the fridge. Freddy picked a splinter from his palm. Zack offered Albert his hand. Simone shook her head at them all.
“Check on!” she shouted. “Move, move!”
There was a sudden scramble of activity, and she glared at the dog. “This is all your fault.” He wagged his tail hesitantly, and started licking buttery flour off her hands. “Stop that!” He stopped, and she became aware that there was … a smell. She closed her eyes. Oh, no. No. Horrible bloody animal. Horrible bloody scared animal. “Freddy,” she said, “Has … is there …” she trailed off, and the young porter looked at her quizzically, broom in hand. Then he looked at her apron, and his eyes widened.
“Oh. Oh, Si, the … he … the dog …”
“I thought so.” She tightened her grip on the creature and headed for the pantry. “I’m going to go and change. And put this bloody creature out of the way somewhere.”
By the time she got back into the kitchen, smelling marginally less of dog by-products, the head chef was standing over her pastry bowl, frowning at it like it was personally insulting him. He looked up as she approached the bench.
“Coffee break, Simone?”
“No, chef.”
“Calling home to Mum?”
“No, chef.” She kept her face still, biting down on the words she wanted to say. No point getting fired before she quit.
“Not that busy, are we? Two chefs fine to run the whole service?”
Well, they kind of have to, since I’m not allowed to say no to making a bloody pie for Mrs A. “No, chef.”
“Huh. Better get back to it then, hadn’t you?” He swept out of the kitchen, whites immaculate, and Zack made an extravagantly rude gesture at his retreating back. Simone grinned.
“You guys alright? Need anything?”
“We’re on it,” Zack said. “Get your pretty little tart made, you tart.”
Albert grunted something that might have been amusement or might have been more swearing, and Simone went back to her pastry, stopping to check Freddy. He’d managed to convince the pretty new waitress to patch up his hands, and was singing something tuneless to himself as he went back to the sink. All back to situation normal, then.
“Has anyone seen Fabien?” Mrs A demanded. She stood with her hands on her hips, blocking the pass and scowling at Albert, who scowled back and grumbled something under his breath.
“Mrs A?” Simone said, leaving the pan of braising meat and ushering the woman out of the way. “Is everything alright?”
“Fabien was meant to be with my useless assistant,” the woman said, and Simone felt a pang of sympathy for the assistant. “But the silly boy went and let him out of the office. I thought he might have come down here.”
“Mmm, no,” Simone said. “Probably a bit busy for Fabien down here, anyway.”
“He does like it, though. I imagine he’s looking for scraps. You don’t feed him, do you? He has a strictly monitored macrobiotic diet.”
“No, we don’t. But we’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“Well. Do that. And how about that pie?”
“Just doing the meat now, Mrs A. It’ll be finished in time.”
“I should think so, too.” She crossed to the stove, almost sending Zack crashing into the counter as he tried to avoid her, hot pan raised at eye level and spitting on his hands. “Watch where you’re going,” she snapped at him, and leaned over Simone’s pan, sniffing the rich dank aroma of the cooking meat. Zack swore soundlessly at her back and shot a furious look at Simone. She gave him a what can I do shrug.
“Well. It smells acceptable,” Mrs A said, and straightened up, smoothing the flat front of her dress. “Just make sure it’s done in time.”
“Will do,” Simone said, and watched the woman walk past the stoves and out of the door into the dining room.
“So what’re you playing at?” Zack demanded. Lunch was over, clean down and dinner prep under way, the pie collected and borne off, exquisitely golden and still softly steaming, to be judged. “Where’s the mutt?”
“Out of the way,” Simone said, and checked the prep list. “Have you got the chocolate fondants done?”
“Oui, chérie – out of the way how?”
“Just out of the way so he doesn’t come crashing through in the middle of damn service again, okay? What are you, the dog police?”
“No, but I don’t want her in here in the middle of service again, either.”
Simone patted his cheek. “It’ll be okay, poppet. Now get your faux-French bottom into pastry and do the meringues.”
“That’s harassment, that is.” But he went to get the eggs from the pantry anyway, and she hoped she’d pushed the dog’s sparkly pink costume deep enough into the rubbish. She didn’t want that being spotted.
The final judging of the savoury pies was done by the Women’s Institute chair and a local (and painfully minor) celebrity. He’d enjoyed the gin tasting quite a lot, and was trying to impress some of the younger W.I. members with his recollections of being disqualified in the first round of Stars In Their Eyes. He’d performed a Sonny and Cher number, but his Cher had dropped out, so he’d elected to perform both parts, donning and removing a wig frantically through the whole thing. It was, one of the women muttered to another as they watched him butcher a bacon and egg pie, a shame that they’d bothered with the whole celebrity thing. They’d have been better off getting the local pub’s Newfoundland to judge. He’d been in the newspaper too. Her friend smothered a chuckle and told her to behave herself. She was just looking for an excuse for when her spinach and feta pie didn’t win.
Dierdre, the Women’s Institute chair, stopped in front of Mrs A and examined her pie with a critical but appreciative eye. Even cooled, the crust had a luscious golden sheen to it, and she could smell the rich scent of the meat wafting from the top. The minor celebrity joined her, grinning at Mrs A a little owlishly, and the landowner graced him with a smile. She extended one slim hand and leaned forward enough to allow him a good look at her generous cleavage.
“Mrs A,” she said.
“Divine,” the minor celebrity breathed, and Dierdre rolled her eyes. She had thought she was too old for eye rolling, but it turned out there was plenty that called for it at this particular fête. This pie, for one.
