So they grated and grated and grated and grated, while Prince Charles salivated and kept watch for any bits of cheese that flew on the floor. “I probably shouldn’t have him in here where we’re working but if you don’t mind, I don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. One dog compared to a houseful of cats is nothing.”
The mound of cheese grew until it approximated the bagful of flour. “Good,” said Cathy. “Now take half the flour and half the cheese in your bowl and I’ll take the rest. Mix it. With your hands, girl,” she exclaimed, as Gerry just stood there looking at the massive quantities. “We’re cooking for a hundred people, remember?”
Gerry dug her hands in. At least it was dry. It wasn’t unpleasant. After a while, Cathy said, “Okay. Now we work quickly because we don’t want the butter to melt.” She took about a dozen pounds of butter out of the fridge and gave half to Gerry along with a knife. “Chop into little cubes and throw into your bowl.” When this was done, it was back in the bowl with bare hands.
Surprisingly, a heavy dough began to form. “That’s it?” Gerry asked. “Don’t you use recipes?”
“That’s it. This is a recipe, given me by an old and dear friend. Now, cover with plastic film and chill. It needs a few hours, so before we move on, how about a break?”
Turned out, Cathy’s idea of a break was to take Charles for a walk around her property and drink a quick coffee before getting back to work.
They cut the crusts off of at least twenty loaves of bread, buttered the slices and cut them in squares, triangles and fingers before storing them in giant plastic containers. “That’s for the canapés,” Cathy explained. “Can you chop these onions?”
Gerry blanched as Cathy slung a ten-pound sack onto the counter. She chopped and she chopped. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She found if she just left the tears and didn’t blow her nose, it wasn’t so bad. “This is disgusting!” she said. “I must look horrible.” Charles whined and scratched to go out.
“I’m not looking,” said Cathy, busy setting pots of eggs to boil on the stove. She released the dog. “Do you know the best way to make hard-boiled eggs?”
“I know a way. You boil the heck out of them.”
“No. They only need five minutes, then put on the lids, turn off the heat and set your timer for twenty minutes. Soak in cold water for a while and they’ll be easy to peel. Which, when you’re doing six dozen at a time, is a good thing.”
“I’m finished.” Gerry took a roll of paper towel outside and tidied herself up. Charles looked sympathetically at her out of bloodshot eyes. “You know, don’t you, Charles? You know.”
When they returned to the kitchen, Gerry propped the door open. Cathy was frying the onions in many different pans. (The eggs were on the counter in their pots.) “I need your hands, Gerry.”
“‘Back into the valley of death, rode the six hundred,’” Gerry dramatically recited. “Or, words to that effect. Save yourself, Charles!” Charles flopped back down the kitchen steps outside, lay with his nose facing away from the kitchen.
“I need you to stir.” Cathy handed Gerry two wooden spoons. “Keep the onions moving. You have four pans. I have four pans. It varies from ten minutes to half an hour, depending on the onions.”
“Cathy, how do you do it?”
Cathy looked nonchalant. “Well, I don’t cater for such large groups often. I’m more likely to cook a meal for from six to twenty guests, something like that. But I’m enjoying this. I like making party food. Besides, we’re halfway done — for today.”
“Do I get a break for lunch?” whined Gerry.
“Leftovers from the weekend. Roast beef and pickle sandwiches with sweet potato oven fries.” Gerry made a happy little noise and stirred with a will.
The onions finally turned a warm golden brown, the eggs were peeled and stored, and lunch was eaten. Then they began to make the cheese straws.
Cathy demonstrated. “Tear off a good big lump like this. Whack it down onto a piece of waxed paper. Put another piece of paper on top and roll out till they’re about this thick. Remove the top paper and cut the dough into roughly six-inch-long strips about an inch wide. It doesn’t matter. We don’t care if they’re all exactly the same size. They just have to taste good.”
She’d done her first lump of dough, start to finish, in about five minutes. Gerry’s took twenty, with much sticky mishandling of the dough. Cathy watched this struggle, then couldn’t stand it any longer. “I’ll roll, you cut and twist. Right?” After that, things went much faster, and by the end of a few hours, they had two hundred cheese straws baked and cooling. Gerry was limp.
“I never realized cooking was so exhausting,” she said, nibbling a cheese straw. “And you do this day after day?”
“Well, but it’s varied. I’m never bored. If you can come in Friday morning, that would be great. We’ll assemble the canapés and transport them over to your place.”
That night, as she fell asleep, Gerry could have sworn her hands were still cutting and twisting hundreds and hundreds of cheese straws.
“Why,” she moaned the next morning, “does everyone suddenly want me to bake?”
Prudence smiled sweetly. “We all want you to learn how to feed yourself, so you don’t wind up living on coffee, cat meat and wine.”
“Point taken.”
“Besides, when you make something nice to eat and share it, you’re giving a part of yourself — your time, your skill. People, good people, appreciate that.”
“What are we making?”
“Hot milk cake.”
“Hot milk cake.”
“A cake made with hot milk in the batter. An old recipe.”
“How old?”
“Well, my mother made it, so…old. Lots of beating involved but the good news is we have a mixer. It’s a very simple recipe. I’m going to leave you and go check the cat boxes. See how far you can get.”
Half an hour later, when Prudence returned, Gerry was carefully sliding a round cake tin into the hot oven. “It’s just following instructions!” she said gleefully. “I can bake!”
Later Prudence showed her how to test the cake by first patting it gently, then inserting a toothpick into the centre to see if the batter was still at all gummy. If the toothpick was dry, it must be cake.
“We’ll finish it just before the students come.” As Gerry stood around, gloating over the smooth golden top of her cake, Prudence said, “You’re dismissed. Class is finished,” and Gerry left to prepare for the art component of the day.
After lunch, Prudence produced a bag of icing sugar, a small sieve and a paper doily. “You want to make sure it’s completely cooled or the sugar will melt and become absorbed.” Gerry the artist figured out what to do and gently decorated the cake.
As the class filed into the studio, they sniffed appreciatively. Cake was in the air.
Gerry was a believer that practice was one key to success in the arts, so she asked to see what they’d sketched from the first class and had them repeat that exercise, but this time with a time limit. She assured them it didn’t matter if they didn’t finish; it was just an exercise.
Then she asked them to choose one of the large objects in the room — a piece of furniture, the fireplace, a window — and draw that. “From micro to macro. We learn to focus in different ways, depending on the subject and our intention.” A gentle tap on the door rescued the students and Gerry from any more philosophizing on art, and not a moment too soon. Only Christine looked interested; the rest were starting to get a glazed look in their eyes. They were far more interested in cake.
“Teaching is hard,” said Gerry to Prudence as they tidied up the dishes.
“It’s work. It’s supposed to be hard.”
“Anyway, they’re all coming to the vernissage, so that’s five for sure, eight with you, me and Cathy.”
&nbs
p; “I wouldn’t worry. Free wine and food? You’ll be mobbed.”
After a night spent tossing through dreams of running out of refreshments and guests getting really, really angry with her, Gerry woke to a rainy morning. She felt tense and had to calm herself, saying, “You can do this. Just prioritize.” She began to assemble and hang the components of her exhibition. Mr. Shipton dropped off their garden painting, then Gerry walked to Cathy’s and to Mr. Parminter’s to collect their house paintings. She had room in between them to hang a few of her miniatures of flowers. Then she went around the house and assembled Aunt Maggie’s efforts and arranged and hung them. Finally, she took the other miscellaneous paintings and put them up in the gallery.
By two o’clock she was done, changed and headed to her first fortune-telling experience.
The Two Sisters’ Tea Room was on the main drag of Lovering. One large room, it was usually only half full but today was packed.
One table with two chairs had been moved to a back corner and it was there that Gerry supposed the medium sat. She was with a customer who appeared to be breaking down in tears, wiping her face, hiding it with her hands.
Other customers besides Gerry cast furtive glances. She didn’t want to stare, so looked around the room. Shelves lined half the walls: teacups, teapots, cream and sugar sets and many tea varieties in tins made for a colourful display. The other walls held examples of local artists’ work. Gerry got up and had a look. Maybe she could —
“You have to pick out your cup.”
Gerry jumped. “What?”
The inevitable teenage girl repeated, “You pick out the cup you want. Over there.” She gestured at a tall set of open shelves. Gerry walked over and, without really thinking too much about it, chose a white china cup and saucer with a broad crimson band running around the top of the cup and outer edge of the saucer. A thin gold trim completed the lush effect. She returned with the cup to her table. The girl returned too. “What kinda tea?”
“Do you have Earl Grey? I’ll have a pot of that. Oh, and a scone with everything.”
The weeping customer left and another edged over to the table. Sheesh, thought Gerry. I hope this one doesn’t go to pieces.
The teenager reappeared with the tea and scone. “You getting your fortune told?”
“Yes. At three o’clock.”
“Don’t strain the tea.”
“What?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Don’t strain the tea. Pour it. Drink it. Then leave the leaves in your cup. She reads them.”
“I see. Thanks.” Gerry did as instructed as she wolfed down the scone with butter, clotted cream and strawberry jam. She’d not had time for lunch. Her tea leaves formed an unsightly clump at the bottom of the cup. The previous customer left and went back to her friends at her table. It was three o’clock, so Gerry approached, bearing her cup. “Mrs. Smith?”
The woman was about sixty, plain, with thin light brown hair pulled back in a skinny bun. She was the opposite of exotic, and Gerry found this reassuring. Mrs. Smith smiled and nodded and looked in Gerry’s cup.
She asked Gerry to pour a little tea from the teapot on Mrs. Smith’s table into her cup, swirl the contents, then spill the excess liquid into her saucer. Now that there were leaves splayed on the inside of the cup’s side, she could begin.
“You are generous. You are kind. You have known some sadness but not too much. You are resilient. You are trying to ignore some signs, some warnings.”
Gerry tried to maintain a poker face so Mrs. Smith wouldn’t know if she’d hit a sensitive area with her remarks, but Mrs. Smith just seemed to be looking at the tea leaves. “Three, no four signs — the fourth one will be repeated — but you don’t want to think about them. The first and fourth signs should combine to open your eyes. Do you have any questions?”
Gerry thought for a moment. “Will I make enough money to support my — family?”
Mrs. Smith smiled. “You will always work hard and always have enough.”
“Will I have a husband, children?”
Mrs. Smith nodded. “But not right away.”
That suited Gerry. She wasn’t ready to settle down. But she got a warm feeling, thinking of the future. Mrs. Smith continued. “There are shadows, but beyond these, a darker one.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “Someone is trying — I can’t see — no, it’s gone.” She straightened up. “Pay the girl, please.”
Gerry rose. “Thank you,” she said politely. She strolled out into the afternoon drizzle, her mind roiling. What signs? What in recent memory struck her as a “sign”? She wasn’t someone given to noticing such portents. And then, given what she’d just been sipping, it struck her: teacups! Twice Marigold had tipped a teacup. Then what might be the third? The figurine buried in the garden? If those were three, then what was the fourth? And it was about to be repeated. She looked at the time, squealed and headed for home.
Doug had been and gone, had rigged up three of his “objects” on rocks by the shore. A long thick extension cord connected them to the house’s outside outlet. A timer prevented Gerry from checking the effect.
She fed the cats. She put up the explicatory cards on the walls of the gallery, found a few typos and stomped upstairs to retype those cards. She got distracted by what she was going to wear and spent an hour pulling clothes out of the cupboard and trying them on, much to the delight of Bob, who pounced on every discarded garment. She decided on two alternatives and laid those clothes aside. She got hungry. She ordered a pizza. She ate the pizza. She paced from room to room, fretting about the parking, the cats, the food. She phoned Cathy. No answer. She dashed next door to see Mr. Parminter but got no reply when she knocked on the back door or went around to ring at the front one.
She went home. She looked for Lightning and gave her an extra feed and some attention, which still just meant chatting to the beast while it crouched in a corner, vibrating with negative energy.
She searched for Marigold and finally found her asleep on Aunt Maggie’s bed. She tried a long hot bath and fell asleep in it, only to wake an hour later feeling completely refreshed. She clumped downstairs into her studio and finished the portrait of Mitzi — three months early! She became inspired and made herself laugh designing a label for Cathy’s catering company. Stribling’s Fine Foods with By Appointment to Prince Charles underneath — and with a coat of arms that featured sausage rolls, cheese straws and a pair of bassets, rampant.
Whatever that means, she thought. She hoped it meant on their hind legs, because that’s what she’d drawn. Something else I have to look up. What was the other thing? She couldn’t remember, yawned, and finally went to sleep.
12
Prudence must have come in extra, extra early, because when Gerry woke up it was nine o’clock and Bob and Marigold were both gone. She sat up with a jerk. Prioritize, her brain screamed. Get a move on, a calmer voice urged. Right. I can do this. I have until seven tonight. I have until seven. Right. Right. Gotta go to Cathy’s. Okay.
Shouting, “Bye, Prudence,” in the direction of the kitchen, she jumped in her car and drove to Cathy’s. She raced to the kitchen door and surprised a sleepy-looking Cathy, sitting in bathrobe and slippers at the table. “I’m here!” she said dramatically and fell into the room. Charles gave her a sorrowful stare, then subsided onto his side with a long, shuddering sigh.
“Coffee?” Cathy offered.
“Um, okay. Aren’t we in a hurry?”
“I couldn’t sleep so did the chicken livers in the middle of the night. I can handle the rest, dear. I just need you to take some trays and the cheese straws.”
By ten, Gerry had delivered the snacks that were ready to her own kitchen and was stacking them in the fridge. “What are you doing here?” Prudence had her arms full of cat towels for the laundry. “I thought you’d be hours.”
“I know. Cathy has it so u
nder control, she just wants me to go back after lunch for another load of trays, then she’ll bring the rest at six and start putting on the finishing touches.”
“You could go get the wine,” Prudence suggested.
“The wine! Right!” Gerry drove to Lovering’s tiny liquor store and picked up her order. Is there anything else I need while I’m in town? she wondered. “Paper napkins! Plastic cups!” she said aloud.
The guy in the liquor store suggested the grocery store probably had those, so she drove there and made her purchases. When she got back in the car, she looked at its clock: only ten thirty. She drove home and unloaded her purchases.
“The red wine goes here on the table and the white wine goes in the fridge, of course.” Prudence was laying a white cloth on the living room’s long table.
“We’re out of room in the fridge!” Gerry exclaimed hysterically. “No room for the wine!”
“Nonsense,” said Prudence. “I’ll make room. You arrange the cups and napkins on the table. Then I need you to go for a walk.”
“Go for a walk,” Gerry repeated.
“Yes. Settle down. Go up into the woods. Wear your rubber boots. It’ll be wet.”
Gerry was putting on her boots when she heard the by-now-familiar “beep, beep, beep, beep.” “Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no!” she said as she ran into the road.
Sure enough, the Hudsons had chosen the day of her art show to replace the damaged fence. She walked slowly over to them, trying not to hyperventilate. “Hi,” she managed to say casually. “How long do you think it’ll take?”
The older giant spoke. “Couple of hours now. Lunch. ’Nother hour. Two, two-thirty.”
“I see,” she said in her best lady-of-the-manor voice. “Thank you so much.” And escaped.
It was a beautiful day but it took Gerry some time to notice it. She crossed the road and followed the grass and dirt lane that divided Andrew’s cottage from Cathy’s spacious lawns, up past the cow pastures and into the woods. After she crossed the train tracks, the forest became older, full of mature trees that darkened and cooled the path. She stopped at the old sugar shack.
The Cat Among Us Page 12