Lunching at Laura's

by Claire Rayner

  ‘My dear chap,’ he said and again his voice was deep and rich. ‘How delightful to see you! Come in, come in. I was just about to get the ice for your vodka. Come in –’

  16

  ‘Enjoy it? That’s hardly the word,’ Joel said solemnly. ‘It was a religious experience.’

  ‘You don’t have to go right over the top,’ Laura said. ‘Just say it was magical, wonderful, superb, something simple like that.’

  ‘It was magical, wonderful, superb,’ Joel said promptly. ‘And a religious experience,’ and she laughed.

  ‘I’ll tell Angie,’ she said. ‘He’ll like to know that. As a good lapsed Catholic it’ll give him something to be shocked about.’

  ‘Angie?’

  ‘My chef. Remember? You asked about him before.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’d forgotten. What does his name come from? I mean, I’m beginning to realise that most Hungarian names have English equivalents – I’ve been doing my research, you see. Karoly is Charles and Istvan is Steven and –’

  She laughed again. ‘Oh, Angie isn’t Hungarian. He’s Angelo. Angelo Alzano. Italian. But he started to work for my father when he was a boy and he’s more Hungarian than any of us now.’

  ‘Does he do all the cooking?’ He looked round the restaurant, busy and happy and humming with the noise of replete people talking and shook his head admiringly. ‘I’ve been watching the way things work. Everyone seems to have totally different dishes – there’s no overall favourite as far as I can tell – but no one seems to have to wait very long and everyone seems more than content with what they’re eating –’

  ‘I should hope so!’ Laura said and bridled a little. ‘The day everyone isn’t happy with what they get here, and the day anyone has to wait too long for a meal, is the day I shut up shop. It’d mean we had no right to be in business any longer.

  It’s always been like that here. The best of food, served in the best of ways. And yes, Angie does do it all. With assistance of course. But he’s the one with his spoon in the pot – excuse me –’ And she was gone, weaving her way through the tables in response to a signal from a customer who wanted her that had been so slight that Joel hadn’t noticed it at all.

  He watched her go and relaxed. He’d spent a lot of time thinking before he’d actually been able to bring himself to accept her invitation to come to the restaurant for dinner. All through the days that had followed their encounter in the Yard he’d argued with himself about what he was doing. He almost decided to go back to Balfour and Crowner at the office and tell them that he’d changed his mind after all, that his preliminary searches had shown him that there was no way he could make the film he’d suggested. What was more, he’d also come to the conclusion that coming to work in London at all had been lunacy. It was time he faced the fact that he’d made a big error of judgement and took himself back to Toronto with his tail between his legs. There were plenty of people there who would be glad to let him pick up where he left off, who would give him a chance to make the sort of films he was interested in, plenty more who would seize on him to make commercials because of his track record. And there were more important things than bloody film-making after all. Like just being relaxed and happy and being with friends –

  And he had sat in the small dull flat he had rented in Kilburn and remembered with a considerable amount of dripping sentiment the good old pals he’d left behind him and the super girls who’d been such fun and especially Liz who’d clearly been so unhappy when he’d announced his departure for London, and made himself thoroughly miserable.

  And then inevitably he had experienced a total turnround. He’d woken up the following morning full of anger at his own mawkishness and stupidity. He was over-reacting at being back in his parents’ home, that was the thing. The place he’d heard about all through his childhood and about which his mother had never ceased to talk with yearning home-sickness had overwhelmed him, that was all. It had flooded his mind with its strangeness and ordinariness and its shabbiness and its age and its noise and its colour and its excitement and its dullness. Quite what he’d expected to find here he hadn’t known; whatever it was, it wasn’t this amalgam of suprise and odd emotions and self doubts. But he could cope with that, he’d told his reflection firmly as he shaved. He could, he could, and he would. And the first thing he’d do would be to go and have dinner with that interesting woman with the blazing smile which had turned out to be not quite so blazing, but still interesting.

  Even so it had taken him over a week to find the courage to pick up the phone and remind her of her suggestion, and even then he had almost backed down. She had replied by saying simply, ‘Hmm?’ and he’d found that disconcerting and asked sharply who that was even though he recognised her voice perfectly well. And the cool tones had said, ‘This is Laura Horvath. Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh! I wasn’t –’ he said. ‘I mean. I didn’t think I’d got the right number. You didn’t say it and –’

  ‘I never do,’ she said. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Joel Coplin,’ he said, knowing she was going to say, ‘Who?’ and determined to slam the phone down on her when she did. But she said at once, ‘Yes, of course. You’re coming in as my guest to have dinner and talk about your film. When can you manage?’

  ‘Tonight?’ he’d said.

  There had been a little pause and then that cool voice said, ‘Tomorrow. Tonight I have people in who will do all they can to monopolise me, and that means not only that I’ll be rather bored but that I won’t have time to talk to you. Will tomorrow be all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘And thank you,’ and hung up, furious now that he had to wait so long. Having managed to bring himself to the point of calling her, it now seemed outrageous that he should have to sit and twiddle his thumbs for a full twenty four hours. But her explanation had been clear and believable. There was no need to be paranoid, to tell himself, as a small inner voice somewhere was trying to, that she didn’t really want to bother with him at all, that she had only agreed to tomorrow night out of pity, that she’d be getting rid of him as fast as she could –

  But fortunately he had been able to suppress such foolish notions and had arrived for his dinner promptly at eight, and bearing for her a box with one rose in it.

  He’d worried a lot about that; she’d invited him as her guest and he couldn’t possibly offer to pay for his dinner without offending her; yet at the same time he couldn’t arrive bearing huge gifts and over-lavish offerings. That would be just as offensive. He’d thought that the rose was just right until just before he’d walked into the Yard, at which point he realised despairingly that it was puny, meagre, mean, picayune, every diminishing word he could set tongue to; but since it was too late to get anything else, he’d given it to her anyway; and been rewarded with a moment of total silence and then a look of plain amazement and finally a wide smile; not like the smile that he had first noticed on her face, but a warm one for all that.

  ‘How very charming!’ she had said as she had taken it from its box, a tall yellow rose with petals so dark inside they looked like apricot plush. ‘This is the nicest thing that’s happened to me today –’ And she had put it in a tall vase on her desk, in isolated splendour, and he had seen her touch it several times as he had eaten his solitary meal, watching her as she moved between her tables and talked to her customers and generally kept the place running with ballbearing smoothness.

  He hadn’t ordered his meal; just asked her to give him what she thought best and he was glad he had. It had tasted wonderful. First the Hangover soup, a melange of vegetables and broth that was the best he’d ever had, and then a pile of meat and onions with tiny dumplings in a fragrant thick sauce that seemed to melt into his mouth and fill his whole head with taste. He had managed to talk to her after he’d eaten that and asked her what it was.

  ‘Goulash?’ he ventured. ‘Is that the famous Hungarian goulash that everyone goes on about?’

  She laughed. ‘You mean Guly
as – I suppose goulash is as close as most people can come to it. No, that’s a soup, really. Meat of course. But lots of potato and little bits of csipetke – that’s tiny bits of dough, cooked with it – like dumplings but not exactly. What you had was paprikash which is a sort of elegant stew.’

  ‘Stew?’ he said. ‘You can’t call that a stew! Such a dreary label for something that tastes so extraordinary.’ ‘Not really stew, I suppose. That’s what we call porkolt – a paprikash has paprika of course, but also sour cream and – look, if you want a cookery lesson, it’s the kitchen you need. Angie’ll explain all this.’

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ he said and lifted his glass to her. ‘I wish you had time to sit and talk.’

  ‘Have some plum pastry to finish with and then I’ll come and sit with you when you get to coffee. Another fifteen minutes, no more. Then everyone’ll be settled –’ And again she left him, but he was content enought to sit and watch her as he finished his wine – and he’d found that half a bottle had been no effort to deal with, which surprised him because he had never been a great drinker – and wait.

  When she came at last she was carrying two glasses of amber wine and she set one in front of him as Miklos poured coffee for them both. He looked at it doubtfully. ‘I’ve already had more wine than I usually do.’

  ‘This is different. This is Tokay. The Wine of Kings and the King of Wines,’ she said. ‘Try it.’

  He did and liked its sweet fruitiness with an odd and interesting undertaste that was faintly bitter, and said so and she bent her head like a duchess accepting a compliment.

  ‘Of course you like it,’ she said tranquilly. ‘It’s Tokay,’ and sipped her own.

  They sat in silence for a moment and then she said surprisingly, ‘Heavens, but it’s good to sit down! I don’t usually get so tired, but today –’ She shook her head. ‘It’s been fearful. Maxie had a row yesterday with Dan and decided today he had a migraine. It happens about once a year, with those two. It’s part of their lives now. Dan niggles at Maxie and eventually Maxie gets a migraine and Dan feels lousy about it and goes to see him and they make it up till the next time. Tomorrow they’ll walk in here with their arms round each other’s necks, but today –’ She stretched her shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck with both hands. ‘Today’s been murder.’

  He was all compunction. ‘I shouldn’t have come!’

  ‘Don’t be silly! We’d made an arrangement.’

  ‘You should have let me know it was a bad day.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ she said and dismissed his protestations with a wave of her hand. ‘I’d have put someone else at this table, wouldn’t I? Don’t be silly. Now, let’s talk about your film. What do you need to know?’

  ‘Everything. Anything. Whatever you want to tell me.’ She lifted her brows. ‘That’s impossible. I need questions to answer.’

  ‘All right. Questions.’ He set his glass down, already half empty. The Tokay tasted much more agreeable than he would have expected so sweet a wine to be. ‘Who was the first of your family to work here in this restaurant?’

  ‘My great grandfather,’ she said at once. ‘And great grand-mother, of course. Though she didn’t actually do much in the restaurant as far as I know.’

  He folded his arms on the table and leaned forwards so that he was closer to her; the other diners were getting a shade noisier now as they reached the brandy and cigars stage and he didn’t want to miss a word. ‘What were their names?’

  She leaned forwards too, copying his posture and their heads were close together as she began to explain. Her eyes seemed to be looking at him but they weren’t seeing him, of that he was sure. She looked blank as she talked, as though she were watching scenes far away down the end of a long reversed telescope.

  ‘Their names? Viktor and Maritza. I can remember my grandma telling me about them. I was only five when she died. But still I remember – she used to talk about the old days a lot. Not that she remembered the old country, of course. She was born here. Only Aunt Kati was born in Hungary. The others, they were all English born. But still Hungarian.’

  She smiled then and her blank gaze sharpened and she looked at Joel directly. ‘My family really is terribly Hungarian. They all behave as though they’ve only just got off the boat, even though we go back so far here in London, peppering their talk with Hungarian whenever they can. I don’t, I must admit. I’ve forgotten so much – when I was little I understood a good deal of Hungarian, but it’s all gone now. My Uncle Istvan and my father – they used it a good deal. I sometimes think my father spoke it to annoy my mother.’

  She smiled fleetingly. ‘They loved each other in their own way, but they got at each other a lot. You know what I mean? And she was so very English that he used to put on a great Hungarian act to irritate her. It used to make me laugh, I’m afraid, though it annoyed my mother dreadfully.’

  ‘Would you mind if I wrote some of this down?’ he said, not wanting to damage the magic web of intimacy that he felt had grown between them, but knowing he’d never remember it all without notes. ‘Not about your parents irritating each other, of course. Just the important details, names and dates, you know?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said and leaned back and he cursed inside his head. He had damaged it after all. ‘If you really need to.’

  ‘It would help.’ And he reached for his notebook and pen. The sooner he sorted out the impediments of his trade the sooner she’d be able to forget them and relax again. ‘When did Viktor and Martiza come here!’

  ‘1888. It’s the sort of date you remember. They came from Buda. Not Pesth, and not Budapest. From Buda. They were always very fussy about that, apparently. It makes a difference, it seems.’

  ‘How old were they?’

  ‘Oh. Quite young. Viktor was twenty-eight. Big man, even then. Square sort of face, curly hair. I have a picture somewhere.’

  ‘I’d love to see it.’

  ‘If I can find it some time,’ she said vaguely and looked down at her hands, wrapped round the glass of Tokay. He felt that she was regretting opening out so much to him and he leaned back, attempting to be casual.

  ‘And his wife, Martiza?’

  ‘She was very young. Only twenty-one. She had a dreadful time, poor thing.’

  ‘How dreadful?’

  She lifted her shoulders at him and shot a sharp glance from beneath her lashes. ‘In the way women always have had. Too many babies, too soon. Too many dying. Kati was just two when they came here and Maritza had just had another baby who’d died. And there were more who died, three or four. Can you imagine that? All those pregnancies and nothing but dead babies to show for it?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine it.’ And that seemed to please her, for she smiled at him.

  ‘Women do better today, don’t they? Or I suppose they do, I’m not always sure – anyway, after they got here, Viktor found a job. As a waiter in a Greek restaurant. They weren’t badly off, apparently, or so my grandmother used to say. She told me her mother had been very clever with money, always managed to look after it. They got here with all sorts of furniture and goods. Not like some of the people who emigrated who arrived in just the clothes they stood up in. They had silver and linen – all sorts of things –’

  ‘Where did they live?’

  ‘In the East End, where all the Jewish refugees were. They were coming in then in their thousands, apparently. I’ve never been able to be sure what was what with religion and Viktor and Martiza. My grandmother was a fearful snob and rather prejudiced I think. She always said her mother was a real lady, one of the Catholic aristocracy who had married beneath her.’

  She laughed, then, a soft chuckle. ‘It’s so odd. I feel as though I’m seven years old again and listening to Gran’ma nattering on and on. I used to sit in her lap and she’d talk and talk. I loved it. But now when I listen to what she said – inside my head, you know – I realise she was actually rather awful. By modern standards, that is. By
her own, not at all, I suppose – but she used to tell me her father was just a peasant, no good at all, a gambling peasant. What a dreadful thing to say about your own father! She said he was Jewish too.’ She grinned then. ‘Obviously that was the worst she could say, as far as she was concerned, but I hope he was. I think it’s rather nice to be a good mixture. Part Jewish, part Catholic, a bit Hungarian, very English and –’

  ‘And very nice,’ he said and then could have bitten his tongue out for she looked suspicious suddenly and her eyes seemed to harden as she stared at him.

  ‘I do appreciate the help you’re giving me,’ he said then as casually as he could, and bent his head to his notes. ‘It’s really so nice of you.’

  She relaxed as he used the silly word again in so colourless a way, and he breathed again, for he had actually held his breath for a moment. He liked this woman, wanted to get to know her better, to make a friend of her, but it was clear she wasn’t going to be an easy conquest. She was more English than perhaps she realized, he thought as he kept his head down over his notebook. Reserved, scared of allowing anyone to get close –

  ‘Hello, Laura!’ a voice said behind him, and he lifted his head, startled. But he didn’t at once turn to see who was there, because he couldn’t take his eyes from her face. She was looking above and beyond him and smiling and there it was again, that blazing dark-eyed look that had drawn him so strongly across the Yard that sunny morning last week. And now he did turn his head as the newcomer came alongside them, and pulling an empty chair from an adjoining table, sat down.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you? he said.

  ‘Oh, no, not at all!’ Laura said. Her voice was different too, a little huskier than it had been and a touch breathless. ‘I – Mr. Coplin here is doing research for a television film. Social history. He’s looking for information about the families of the area. I’m telling him about ours.’