In the Kitchen

by Monica Ali

  He froze in the face of the endless tasks ahead. Would it make any difference if he remained at his desk, not moving, not speaking, not thinking? The world could go on without him, on its own relentless course. He stared at the page and admired its blankness; he wished that he too could be blank.

  ‘Shoot me,’ said Oona, ‘if I forgettin’ someting.’ Her voice began to bring him round. It was like listening to a saucepan lid lifting on the boil, a little escape of steam. ‘You lookin’ a bit sleepy there, darlin’. I goin’ make us a niii-ce cuppa tea.’

  Gabriel threw down his pen, his energy abruptly restored. He looked at Oona and clenched his fists beneath the desk. Rage gripped him by the throat. He fought to draw enough breath. It occurred to him that he would, perhaps, drop down dead of anger. Gripping the sides of the desk as though he would turn it over he struggled to gain control. A nice cup of tea! Didn’t she know there was work to be done? Were they to put their feet up with a nice cup of tea? Incredible. The woman was out of her mind.

  ‘Chef?’ said Oona.

  There was a hell of a lot to get sorted. Gabe caught sight of a stack of suppliers’ brochures on the floor. He had piled them there when he started the job, meaning to sift through and discard as many as possible. There had never been the time. No time like the present, he decided, jumping up. He was immediately diverted by a flyer pasted on the wall: Kondiments King, it read, We’ve Got Sauce! A grotesque tomato man with stick legs and arms grinned out, ketchup spouting from his head. The flyer was spattered and smeared and curling up at the edges. Why had he not taken it down immediately? He ripped it off the wall and tossed it on the floor. The patch of crumbling plaster which was revealed began to flake and fall. Gabriel looked round wildly, kicking over the brochures as he turned. There was fungus growing in a tiny damp patch over the skirting board. He began to rub it off. There was clutter on top of the filing cabinet. A tennis ball, one glove, a meat thermometer, a box of paperclips, a plastic box, a tin of lipsalve, two yellowing copies of the Sun. Who the hell kept making this mess? He cleared it all off, on to the floor. Too many things on the desk. He scraped everything into the drawers and closed them. He sat down again to an empty desk, feeling better. He could have a clear run at things now.

  Barely had he noticed that Oona was gone when she returned with two mugs of tea. She looked at the littered floor but said nothing. She squeezed herself into the chair.

  Gabe shoved the debris aside with his foot so it formed a kind of snowdrift against the back wall. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Bit of a tidy-up.’ He took a sip of tea. There was a tremble in his hand as he raised the mug. What he needed was an early night. Tomorrow he’d be right as rain. ‘How we fixed on the lunch service?’

  ‘Chef,’ said Oona, ‘we fixed just fine. Suleiman, love him, havin’ a few problems with the fresh custard. All this lumpy business. Have to pour it down the drain. The next lot look even lumpier and Suleiman, you know he so serious, he stirrin’ and stirrin’ and the lumps coming bigger and bigger, I say, “Suleiman, you got to let it alone. Sometimes a ting just ain’t meant to be.” ’

  ‘It’s a question of temperature,’ said Gabe, back, more or less, on an even keel. ‘Of being precise.’ His father was dying. He had to deal with a dead body. He had to deal with the police. His job was high-pressure, his girlfriend was away … He’d got a bit wound up. It was natural. But it had been brief, and it was over now.

  Oona threw up her hands. ‘You do every last little ting right, but sometimes it don’ turn out like you plan.’

  ‘Oona,’ said Gabe, ‘it’s custard. If you do everything right, it turns out right.’

  Oona blew sceptically through her teeth.

  ‘Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. It’s the protein in the egg that thickens the custard. At about forty degrees the proteins start to expand, they are what’s called “denatured”. As the temperature rises they begin to link up, network with each other and the sauce gets thicker. You need to get above seventy degrees. If you go higher than eighty, you start to get lumps. An ideal temperature is seventy-five degrees. It’s chemistry, Oona, nothing else.’

  ‘Don’ know about that,’ said Oona. She shook her head. ‘Sometimes you have to say to yourself, this ain’t meant to be.’

  ‘Chemistry O-level. I did it as a project. Thought it up myself, actually.’

  ‘And sometimes you have to say to yourself, this is meant to be.’

  ‘I found a meat thermometer when I was clearing up,’ said Gabe, hunting around in the snowdrift. ‘That’ll sort Suleiman out.’

  ‘It’s like my niece,’ said Oona, rubbing at her bosom, knocking her diamanté hairclips on to her lap. ‘Crying over this boy, boo-hoo, never let it alone. But what the point? I arks you. “Aleesha,” I say, “you not suppose be with Errol. You suppose be with someone else.” ’

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ said Gabe, strangely moved by Suleiman’s dedication. He sniffed, and rubbed his nose.

  ‘Nuttin but a ragamuffin, you arks me. She better off by her own self, that the truth.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind making it myself,’ said Gabe. ‘Roll my sleeves up, you know.’

  Oona fixed her hairclips back on to her coat. ‘What? No, no, Mr Bird and his powder come to the rescue. You have a sit and relax. Chemistry,’ she said, laughing. ‘Don’ know how it is with custard but when it come to boy and girl, chemistry the ting.’

  For the next hour Gabe made calls to suppliers, marking pleasing ticks against his list. According to the list, the next call would be to his father. He punched two numbers and hung up. He scratched his head, burrowing around in the bald patch. Next time he got as far as five digits and again he cut the line. They had already spoken once and Gabe had promised he would call again today. ‘Not so bad,’ his father had said when Gabriel asked how he was. Jenny told me, said Gabe. I’m sorry I didn’t call you before. ‘Aye,’ said his father, ‘well. We’ve all got to go some time.’

  Gabe wanted to say something significant. He couldn’t manage a scrap. ‘Love to Nana,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you next week, Dad.’ And this was the best he could do.

  He would ring his father, but not without thinking what to say. Get your brain in gear before you open your mouth. Another sterling piece of advice from Dad. Never was short of advice, had to give him that. He’d be doling it out sometimes, sitting in his chair by the fire, big hands laced over knitted waistcoat, an inch or two of shiny leg showing between sock and trouser hem, and Mum would creep up behind him and start to act the fool. She’d do rabbit ears above his head, stick out her tongue, make kissy-kissy faces and cross her eyes. Gabe would poke Jenny to make her laugh and get in trouble. Jenny would pinch him, slyly, on the arm. ‘I know what you’re doing, Sally Anne,’ Dad would say, without turning round. ‘These children will grow up long before their mother ever does.’

  Mum did grow up, thought Gabe, after Nana moved in. He never saw her acting silly after that. Maybe it was Nana’s influence, maybe it was Mum getting old. Gabe preferred her before, when she did just as she pleased.

  He was eight years old and hopped-up on life, running down Astley Street with the pincushion in his hand. He knocked on Mrs Eversley’s door and old Mr Walmsley’s, without even breaking his stride. If Bobby or Michael were playing out after tea they’d have a proper game of knock-a-door-run. He ran into the house and through the lounge. She wasn’t in the kitchen. ‘Mum,’ he called. ‘Where are yer?’ The biscuit tin was on the table and he thought about raiding it but he wanted to show her first what he’d made. He’d worked on the pincushion nearly all term. It was in the shape of a daisy, with a yellow centre cross-stitched into the middle.

  ‘Mum,’ he shouted. He tackled the stairs like a rock wall, using his hands as well as his feet. ‘Come on.’

  He raced into her bedroom, thanking his lucky stars that Jen had gone round to Bev’s after school. Now he would get Mum all to himself. He slid right into the foot of the bed, banged his shin and dropped th
e pincushion. He bent down and when he straightened up again she said, ‘Arise, Sir Gabriel,’ and touched his shoulders with a curtain rod.

  Gabe stood puffing and panting, chiefly out of surprise.

  Mum laughed. ‘Stop your gawping, Gabriel. And tell me what you think.’

  She was twisting and turning in front of the mirror, wearing a pair of frilly bloomers, a skirt that seemed to be made of metal hoops joined by some sort of gauze, and a corset that pinched her breasts together. Her cheeks were pink as candy floss and she had ringlets, just like Jenny’s porcelain doll. She twisted some hair around a finger and said, ‘Rags. Nana used to do them for me, every Sunday for church. Know what?’ she said, straining to see her back in the mirror, ‘I used to hate them then.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Gabriel. ‘You look …’

  ‘Get away,’ she said, ‘wait ’til you see the whole thing.’

  ‘Whole what thing?’ said Gabriel, sitting down on the bed.

  ‘The dress, you dummy. Haven’t even got that yet.’ She shrieked and jumped on top of him and tickled him under his arms.

  ‘Well, I think you look right lovely,’ said Gabriel, when she finally let him go.

  Mum sat next to him and adjusted her corset. She held his face between her hands. He could see the bedroom window, the half-pulled curtains, reflected in both her eyes. Her long, slim nose was flecked with powder. The nostrils flared slightly as she breathed.

  ‘I was born wrong time, wrong place. I’ve told you that before.’ Her laugh was like a scatter of silver pieces. She jumped up and curtseyed, long and low, and held out her hand which he took. ‘No wonder I’m never on time for anything,’ she said, looking solemn. ‘I’m a whole two centuries behind.’

  They went downstairs and danced in the kitchen to whatever came on the radio, Val Doonican, Perry Como, the Beatles, The Who, moving in what they imagined to be the stately fashion of courtiers, breaking out occasionally into a frenzy of rock and roll. Dad came home, trailing Jenny and a cloud of poison gas. ‘It’s past six o’clock,’ he said, his ears colouring.

  Mum clamped her hands over her breasts as if she feared they would be confiscated. ‘Don’t,’ she yelled at Dad. ‘Don’t tell me who to be.’

  She burned some sausages and made chips that were oily on the outside and raw in the middle. Dad stood over Gabe and Jen until they’d eaten everything on their plates. ‘It’s good food, that. Yer mum’s made it.’

  Everyone had to suffer.

  Mum had her dressing gown over her corset and crinoline; her ringlets looked greasy and damp. She stood at the sink, smoking, while the rest of them choked down the food. Jenny got up from the table, went out to the back yard to be sick and came back and ate the rest of her chips. Gabe heard her being sick in the night. The costume came out again a few times. Mum talked about what colour the dress would be, with how many ribbons and bows. Then Dad got a promotion and they moved away from Astley Street, up to Plodder Lane, and Mum cut up the crinoline and Jenny played hula with the hoops. Gabriel found the pincushion under the bed, when everything had been packed away. ‘I made that,’ he said, blushing. ‘Did you, dear?’ said Mum. He didn’t remember seeing it again after that.

  Plodder Lane sat at the north-east edge of Blantwistle looking down on the likes of Astley Street. Number 22 belonged to a newly built row of houses, with aluminium-framed windows, paved drives and carports. There was a garden at the back instead of a yard, and beyond the garden was farmland, great big runny-eyed Friesians staring into the wind. From the dining-room window, at the front of the house, Gabriel liked to watch the dark grey-greens of Rivington Moor, shifting shades beneath the hurrying clouds. Looking down into the basin between, he was gravely impressed by the sight of the mills, Rileys and Cardwells, Laycocks, Boorlands and the rest, the narrow streets flocking to them, the houses huddled in orderly queues. That he was surrounded by countryside surprised him. He had known, he supposed, that it was there. Sometimes Dad took them for walks on the moor. But when they were living in Astley Street, the world was made of red brick, yellow flagstone, grey cobble, and the coloured glass marbles that he liked to roll along the cracks.

  The Howarths moved into number 17. ‘You can breathe a bit up here,’ said Mr Howarth. ‘I’ve got nowt against ’em but who wants to smell curry, seven o’clock in the morning to eleven o’clock at night?’

  Dad opened two tins of Watneys. ‘Right you are, Tom.’ He shook his head. ‘Got nowt against no one, have we, but what I want to know is, have they thought it through? They bring ’em in now, all right, there’s work to be done. But what happens, thirty, forty year from now, when it’s them what’s taken over the town?’

  ‘Who?’ said Jenny, looking up from dressing her doll.

  ‘Breed like rabbits ’n’ all,’ said Mr Howarth, wiping ale from his chin.

  ‘I want a rabbit,’ said Jenny. ‘Dad, can I have a rabbit? I won’t let it poo in the house.’

  She wasn’t allowed a rabbit. Mum said she could but Dad said no, of course. Mum said let’s be rabbits, then, if we can’t get a real one. They spent an afternoon hopping round the house, rubbing noses and nibbling carrots, until Jen sat on Mum’s feet and refused to let her hop any more.

  Mum loved the new house, particularly the sliding doors from the sun lounge to the garden. She’d stand one foot in, one foot out, and say, ‘This is the way to live.’

  For a while there were no arguments about tea. Mum would wait by the front door for Dad, lead him into the kitchen and sit him down with a peck on the cheek. She bought some lacy white aprons and walked around in them, talking about baking chocolate cakes and waving a wooden spoon. Gabriel thought she looked beautiful, even more than when she wore the thing with metal hoops. She went to Lorenzo’s and had a pixie cut, right over her ears, a wispy fringe that got in her big brown eyes. She wore the new style of trouser suits and shirts with collars that kept extending. She said her breasts were too small and she didn’t like her nose but Gabriel thought everything was just right. ‘I’m sorry, Jen,’ she would say, ‘you’ve got my nose. Just hope you get a bit more up top.’

  After school they would rush in, hoping to find her in the mood for a game. They played knights and dragons and turned the whole house upside down. They sat at the kitchen table, ‘reading’ tea leaves and saying who or what they wanted to be when they were ‘born again’. ‘I’m coming back as an Arab stallion,’ said Mum. ‘Or maybe an astronaut, I fancy going into space.’ Jenny wanted to know if you really could come back and have another life. ‘Hindus think so,’ said Mum. ‘Is Mr Akbar a Hindu?’ said Jenny, meaning the man who bought their old house. ‘I expect so, love,’ said Mum.

  One afternoon, they got home and she’d turned the whole sitting room into a Bedouin tent, flowered sheets draping the walls, Mum sitting cross-legged smoking a hubble-bubble pipe. Another time she was stretched out on a plank between two ladders, painting the ceiling with clouds and butterflies, which Dad painted over, of course. The next week she had written a play, on the back of last year’s calendar, a scene for every page or month, and wanted Gabriel and Jenny to star. Jenny threw her school bag across the room. ‘I’ll have your part, young lady,’ said Mum, striking a theatrical pose. Jenny hurled herself at Mum’s legs. She sat on Mum’s feet and squeezed her knees. ‘Just you wait,’ shrieked Mum, trying to kick her off. ‘What do you want me to do? Cooking and cleaning and shopping and cooking. I shouldn’t do anything else! Just you wait, madam, it’ll be your turn soon enough. See how you like it then.’

  In the early days at Plodder Lane there would often be a new purchase to admire, displayed in the kitchen or lounge. A lamp like a fibreglass hedgehog, glowing purple at the end of every spine;a fondue set with twelve blue-handled forks; a clock in the shape of a cow, that went moo on every hour; Lladró porcelain figurines of elegant ladies, opening a parasol or sitting on a swing. After a while these purchases went underground. ‘Come up,’ she’d beckon, from the top of the stairs. ‘Now, don’
t tell Dad, but isn’t this divine? I’m putting it up the top of the wardrobe behind the blankets for now, but if you ever want to have a look at it …’ wrapping up the pomander set, electric knife-sharpener, cigarette box with jet and onyx inlay, ‘you just let me know and we’ll come and take a peek.’

  Sometimes she went out walking and forgot all about the time. Slipping through the sliding doors, mud streaking the backs of her trouser legs, pixie hair licked forward, tightening her face, she said, ‘Well, that was lovely, I must say. A proper tonic. Don’t tell your dad.’

  The only thing that got her down, it seemed, was him. He drained the happiness out of her. Every cup of tea she put down in front of him was like a cup of her own blood. When she was sad she watched television, anything, she seemed to like the test card, or lay in bed chain-smoking Virginia Slims. Gabe crawled under the covers with her and stared at the ceiling. There was ash across the pillow. Mum sat up and stubbed out her cigarette. She left the ashtray balanced on her knee. Gabe looked at her and noticed for the first time that she was not much bigger than him. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘how you wanted to be born two hundred year ago?’

  She lit another cigarette and blew smoke across his face. ‘Born too late. That’s what I said.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t have had me then, see. Me and Jenny. Because we’re only born, like, now.’

  She didn’t answer him.

  ‘And we’re, you know, like, glad that you’re our mum.’

  ‘I’m sick of this bedroom,’ she said. ‘Look at it. It’s so brown.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Gabe. ‘Do you think the Hindus are right?’

  Mum lay down with her hair in the ash. She turned on her side, her face close to his, and adjusted her white lawn nightgown. ‘Gabriel,’ she said and clamped her hand across his cheek. ‘Maybe I was born too soon. All the things Jenny will get to do. D’you see?’ The Virginia Slim burned dangerously close to his ear. ‘But you get this life, understand, you get this … and you must … because if you don’t, all right, you see what happens, don’t you, now, you’ve seen.’ She moved her hand away and Gabriel caught sight of the white ash tower before it crumbled into the bed.