by M A Bennett
I would hazard a guess that I knew more about the new books and the new plays, the new films and the new music, than they did. It was odd to think that I could probably teach them about the swinging culture of our decade. But what they could teach me were the rules that no one outside this charmed circle knew. The unchanging, unwritten ways that had not altered for centuries. That’s why I am here. And tonight I found all the right things to say – the right questions; the right answers. I laughed with others; others laughed with me.
This feeling of rightness lasted for exactly one and a half courses. We had the champagne toasts, and the prawn cocktail passed without incident. Then the second course came and I was so busy talking happily to Serena about tiger hunting in Ranthambore that I ate without thinking. The meat was delicious, and it was only by chance that I glanced down at my plate. Circles of some sort of dark meat in a wine sauce. I put down my fork with a clang.
‘What meat is this?’
They all looked at each other and started to laugh. Gideon said with relish, ‘Finest medallions of beef.’
No longer caring for table manners, I spat into my napkin. I rinsed out my mouth and spat that too, then used the damp napkin to wipe the inside of my mouth. But it was no use. I’d swallowed some. I looked straight at Rollo and, in contrast to our conversation earlier, he would not meet my eyes. Of course he had known about it. He was master here. He had ordered the menu. This was why he had looked so sheepish when I had mentioned dinner in the Long Gallery.
I stood. ‘I thought we were friends.’
For a moment the mask slipped and he looked genuinely sorry. But then, sensing the eyes of the other Medievals upon him, the supercilious look was back and he played, once again, to the gallery. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
That turned my stomach almost more than the beef.
I pushed back my chair and ran.
I didn’t know where the kitchen was, but I knew there must be one and I knew it would have what I needed.
I knew from my mother that kitchens were always at the bottom of a great house, so I headed down the back stairs until I found a flagged passage. Pushing my way past a couple of startled maids, I headed towards the cooking smells that made my nausea worse and burst through a pair of swing doors.
There, a tableau of industry froze before my eyes, like a roomful of waxworks. A plump, red-faced cook paused with a ladle above a steaming pan. The kitchen maids, holding pottery bowls steady, stopped mid-whisk. Ina, knife in hand, looked up from the scrubbed wooden table and a pile of chopped herbs. No one spoke until Ina burst out: ‘Aldrin!’
Her words, like abracadabra, magically galvanised the room.
The cook dropped her ladle and a curtsy at the same time. She shot Ina a look that made the girl chop assiduously, dropping her head to hide her scarlet cheeks.
‘Mr Aldrin, is it? A pleasure to have you in my kitchens, I’m sure, sir. Is there anything we can assist you with?’
Her astonishment was palpable, but I could not, just then, trouble myself with the etiquette of a guest bursting into the kitchens. ‘Carbolic soap, if you have some.’
‘Of course, sir. Spillage on the dress shirt, is it? If you’d care to change it and give the soiled one to your valet, the laundress will make sure to clean it before the stain sets.’ She thought I didn’t know how things worked in a great house.
‘I would rather take care of it myself,’ I said sharply.
The cook’s obsequious manner deflated a touch. ‘Very good, sir. Ina.’
Ina jumped a little.
‘If you’ve finished with that parsley, take Mr Aldrin to the pantry and show him the carbolic soap.’
Ina got to her feet. ‘Follow me, sir.’
It was cool in the pantry and we were alone.
‘What’s wrong?’ Her face was full of concern.
I could not answer her fully yet. ‘Get me the soap, please,’ I said. ‘And a large basin.’
Bemused, she located the soap from one shelf, a basin from another, and wordlessly handed both to me.
Steeling myself, I did what I had to do. I took a big bite of the soap and swallowed it down. A moment later, the inevitable happened and I heaved my insides out into the basin. Luckily the workers in the kitchen were making such a row resuming their labours that my exertions could not be heard.
I took out my handkerchief and wiped my mouth. Sweating, I loosened my tie and sat back in the chair, head resting on the cool wall. When I could speak I said, ‘I’m sorry you had to see that.’
‘Me too,’ she said.
I tipped my head forward and looked at her. She started to smile. I smiled too. Then we both laughed. I stopped first – it hurt.
‘Are you all right now?’ she asked.
‘I would not say no to a glass of water.’
She went away with the basin and came back holding a full glass of water. I drank it down, beginning to feel better. She’d brought a tinderbox and lit another lamp. The cold room felt warmer with Ina in it, and now I could see shelves of dry ingredients, tins, copper pans and plates. The place was no bigger than a large cupboard. She pulled up the only other chair.
‘What in the name of all the saints was that all about, man?’
‘It was the beef.’
She bristled a bit. ‘The medallions? I helped cook those myself. Nice bit of beef from the butcher – fresh this morning, they were.’
‘I did not mean they were “off”.’
‘Oh. Doesn’t beef agree with you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s forbidden. I can’t eat it.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because in my religion we believe that cows are sacred.’
‘Cows?’ She sounded incredulous.
‘Yes. We worship them. They wander round the streets and no one can hinder them.’
‘What, in all the traffic?’
‘Yes. The cars just have to go around them.’
‘That’s … that’s fairly odd.’
I was not having that.
‘Is it odder than feeding five thousand people with a few loaves and fishes?’
She shrugged. ‘I s’pose not.’ She picked at the frill on her apron. ‘Do you think they knew?’
‘Of course they knew. I have been at STAGS – that is our school – for seven years. Every time there is beef I just have the potatoes or the vegetables, or plain bread and butter. They know all right.’
She said nothing.
‘Let me ask you a question. Who orders the menu?’
‘Lord de Warlencourt. He always does – he sees cook after breakfast every day.’
Rollo. I had suspected it, but knowing for sure was worse. ‘So it was just another prank. All of a piece with last night.’
She pulled her chair an inch closer. ‘What happened last night?’
I told her.
‘Sounds right enough,’ she said, and I wondered then what other humiliations had been visited upon her during her employment here. Anger rose in my throat, just as the vomit had done, burning with acid rage. ‘Oh.’ I spat. ‘Oh, it is no good.’
‘What’s no good?’
‘Trying,’ I said. ‘Trying to play their game. Trying to say the right things. Do the right things. I even killed Reynard for them.’
She looked shocked. ‘Who’s Reynard?’
‘The fox. The hunt, today. We found it, and killed it.’
‘You killed a fox?’ Her face was a mask of shock.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought it would make me like him.’ I registered the slip. ‘I thought it would make me like them.’
Her eyes were full of sympathy. ‘And did it work?’
I shook my head.
‘The problem is,’ she said, ‘killing a fox does make you like them. It makes you a shit.’
I looked up, shaken from my self-pity.
She laid a hand on my arm. ‘Why try to copy their worst traits? Why kill a defenceless a
nimal to be like them? Why strive to become something that’s …’ She searched for the word. ‘Rubbish.’
I was interested. ‘What would you do?’
‘What would I do? Or what would I do if I were you?’
I think I knew the answer to the former. She would have to keep quiet, or else lose her job. ‘The second one.’
It might have been the lamp, but it looked as if the light of battle flared in her eyes. ‘Fight back. Let them know who you really are.’
I slumped. ‘I’ll always just be Mowgli to them.’
‘Then embrace that.’
‘What do you mean?’
She pulled her chair closer still. ‘Embrace the spirit of Mowgli, man.’ She waved a V sign at me with both hands, like the hippies did. ‘Instead of trying to prove you’re not him, prove you are him.’
‘I am afraid I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘What was his power over everyone else in the jungle?’ she asked. ‘Even the tiger?’
‘Man’s red flower,’ I said. ‘Fire.’
‘Hmm,’ she said, thinking.
‘You are surely not suggesting I burn down this whole house?’ I said. I had a sudden fantasy of setting Longcross, and everyone in it, aflame with the royal lighter that always lit first time. But the moment of madness passed. ‘Because if Longcross is razed to the ground, I think you would be out of a job. And I would be in prison.’
‘Haway. I didn’t mean that. I just think you need to take the fight to them. Burn them as they burned you.’
And then I had it.
The bhut jolokia.
I leaned forward and took Ina’s cold hands in both of my own. ‘What is next on the menu?’
‘They’ll be eating the vichyssoise now,’ she calculated.
‘The what?’
‘The soup. You’ll have missed that.’
I was not thinking about my own belly. ‘Then what is the main course?’
‘Venison mess.’
Deer stew. That could not be more apt for my STAGS compatriots. ‘Perfect. Can you do something for me?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Come with me and just follow my lead.’
‘All right. What’s going on?’
‘You will see.’
I strode back out through the kitchen, which was once again a hive of activity. ‘I have instructed this girl to collect my soiled shirt,’ I said haughtily. ‘Send her to my room in a moment or two.’
The cook bobbed her head. ‘Yes, sir. She’ll be up directly.’
I left the kitchen sedately, then ran up the back stairs. In the atrium I could hear the sounds of the Medievals making merry from the Great Hall, but I ignored them. Soon enough the laughter would stop.
I dashed up the grand staircase to my room. Ignoring the boar’s head and the trick basin, I went straight for the top of my wardrobe and my lovely caramel-leather weekend suitcase. I placed it on the bed and flipped the catches.
It had taken me just one short term at STAGS to realise that the food there needed to be significantly spiced up. At the very first Christmas holidays, when I returned to India, I collected some chillies from the kitchen to take back with me. I have used them to cheer up the dreary cottage pies and hotpots ever since, and keep them topped up on each visit home. Over the years I have learned that, in order not to run out of chillies and have to endure a bland and beige end to my term, I have to bring the strongest, hottest chillies my continent can provide. And that means the bhut jolokia.
Bhut jolokia, also known as ghost pepper – because they are so hot they can kill you. The bhut jolokia measures over a million units on the Scoville scale, which measures the heat of chillies.
One bhut jolokia pepper keeps me going through the entire term and beyond. But I always bring three in my case, just to be sure. The tiniest sliver, curled in my palm and carried down to Commons, is enough to cheer up the grey cuisine and give me a much-missed taste of home. I just have to remember to carry the tiny slice in my left hand, because if you touch your eyes after touching a bhut jolokia, however fleetingly, your eyes will burn so agonisingly that you will want to tear them out of your head.
I found the bundle I was looking for and unwrapped the rough canvas square. The chillies lay there, red and glossy as blood, ridged and shrivelled as if desiccated by their own heat.
There was a soft knock at the door and Ina slipped into the room. I was tempted to give all of the chillies to her, but that would be too much. I did not actually want the Medievals to die, just to suffer as I had suffered. In the end I picked up just one of the chillies and handed it carefully to my new friend as if I was carrying a grenade.
‘Take this,’ I said. ‘Chop it up small, small, small and put it in the venison stew. Mix it in well. All right?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Then – and this is really important – wash your hands. Take that carbolic soap you gave me and wash them once, twice, three times. Have you got that?’
She nodded, eyes bright. ‘Yes,’ she said again.
I had a moment of misgiving for what I was asking her to do. ‘I am responsible for this,’ I said. ‘Not you. I will see you don’t get into trouble.’
I could see that, in all the excitement, she had not thought of the danger to herself. Now it dawned. ‘How will you do that?’
‘Because I will confess. Do you not see? I want them to know it is me.’
She nodded. ‘I get it.’
‘Very well. Quickly then.’
She headed for the door.
‘Wait,’ I said, remembering. ‘I need to give you my shirt. It is our alibi.’
‘Shall I turn my back?’ she asked.
‘Better wait outside,’ I said. I wanted to protect her reputation. It was the most precious thing she had.
She looked at me like she had been given a present. ‘You’re so sweet,’ she said.
That was the first time a girl had ever called me so, but there was no time to reflect. When the door closed I quickly pulled off my dress shirt and took a new one from the wardrobe. Decent again, I opened the door. I kept hold of the shirt for a moment so she had to meet my eyes. ‘Thank you, Armstrong,’ I said. ‘Really. Thank you.’
She smiled. ‘Good luck, Aldrin,’ she said. ‘See you on the other side.’ Then she wrapped the chilli in the shirt and bounded down the stairs.
I went back into my room and retied my bow tie. My hands seemed to be shaking. When I’d finished and smoothed my hair I went back downstairs. Inhaling deeply as if I was going to take a dive, I opened the double doors to the Great Hall and walked back in.
The Medievals had all clearly been drinking heavily, because I was hit by a wall of noise – talking and laughing and singing. There even seemed to be a food fight starting – at least one bread roll flew across the table. Gideon and Charles had their trousers down and were showing their bottoms to each other like monkeys, singing ‘Blue Moon’ tunelessly and collapsing with laughter. Rollo was the first to spot me and actually got unsteadily to his feet. ‘My dear chap,’ he said, feigning – or feeling – concern. ‘Are you all right? You’ve been an age.’
‘I just had to take some air,’ I said pleasantly. At which they all began to make realistic vomiting noises.
‘Mea culpa,’ said Gideon. ‘My idea. I have to take the credit.’
I might have known. Despite Rollo being the host, Gideon seemed to have some sort of leadership role in the various methods of torture being practised upon me this weekend. Perhaps I’d been wrong about him. Maybe Gideon was the Walrus after all.
‘Beef disagreed with you, did it?’ he said as I sat down, unsuccessfully attempting to hide his grin.
‘You know it didn’t.’
I glared at Rollo. He would not look at me but poured me a glass of wine with his own hands, waving away the footman who jumped forward to help.
I said to the room at large: ‘You know why I’ve been avoiding beef at school for the last seve
n years.’
Gideon blinked, his pale blue eyes blank. ‘Not the foggiest, old bean.’
One eye on the door, I took a drink of the wine to settle my nerves. ‘Well, let me enlighten you. I consider the cow to be sacred. I consider the cow to be a nurturing and providing being who gives me milk. I consider a cow to be a member of my own family. Would you eat a member of your own family?’ I looked at all of them in turn. ‘Silly question; you probably would. Do you hold anything sacred, Gideon?’
Now no one would meet my eyes except Gideon, still arrogantly defiant.
He sketched a salute. ‘Queen and country, old boy. Queen and country. And God. But the actual God, you know, not your fairy-tale ones.’
‘Fairy-tale?’ I said quietly, just as, at the same time, Rollo said, ‘Steady on, Gidders.’
‘Still not clear?’ Gideon asked pleasantly. ‘I mean, not your damn silly superstitions. Sacred cows, indeed.’ He laughed. ‘Winston Churchill said Indians were a beastly people with a beastly religion. I didn’t know he meant it literally.’
Sickened, I thought of Father. He revered Churchill. Did he know this? My pity for him seemed to rise in my throat. I washed the bile down with the wine and spun my glass, which was somehow already empty, between my fingertips. ‘Oh, it gets better than that,’ I said lightly, pretending it didn’t matter, pretending I didn’t care. ‘There are all sorts of “funny” beasts in this fairy-tale.’ The glass fell over and I left it lying where it was. ‘Our god Brahma, the creator of the world, has four heads. Vishnu, the preserver of the world, has four arms. And blue skin. Oh, and you’ll like this.’ I was warming to my theme. ‘Shiva, the destroyer of the universe, has blue skin too. She also has a third eye and carries a trident. And then there’s Ganesh.’ My voice was getting louder and louder. ‘The god of prosperity and wisdom.’
‘Does he have blue skin too?’ hooted Miranda.
‘No, but he has the head of an elephant. And he travels with a rat.’