2008 - Recipes for Cherubs

by Babs Horton

  “And Alice? Did she love Aunt Alice?”

  “Oh, she loved Alice in her own way. Everyone loved Alice. Alice was pretty and biddable whereas I was not. I was simply an enormous irritation to her.”

  Catrin understood what she meant. Ella Grieve would not have been a prissy, quiet child; she would have been stubborn, lively and headstrong.

  “And my mother didn’t get on with her mother?”

  “Oh, my goodness, no she didn’t. This place used to resound with their constant catfights. They truly disliked each other. Mind you, Hester was, er, fiery, to say the least.”

  “I never met her.”

  “No, well, you didn’t miss much. She died before you were born.”

  “And you didn’t like her?”

  “You are a very perceptive child. No, I didn’t like her. The truth is, I couldn’t stand Hester. She was a selfish old cow.”

  Catrin hugged herself, tried to hold back a rising giggle. She wasn’t used to grown-ups being direct with her; they usually hedged around the truth.

  “It’s small wonder that your mother turned out the way she did. She didn’t have much of an example set her.”

  “What sort of an example did she have?”

  “Well, Hester was a proper flibbertigibbet, and that’s putting it mildly. Truth is, she was a tart. One man at a time wasn’t enough for her. She led my brother William a right old dance with her flirting and canoodling. She’d had a fling with most of the men in the village by the time she left.”

  Catrin drew in her breath with a whistle. When the girls at school talked about their grannies, they described them as grey-haired, cake-baking sweeties, but her grandmother had been a bit of a trollop, by the sound of it.

  “My grandfather was your brother, wasn’t he?”

  Ella nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes. He was the eldest of the four of us and far too soft for the likes of Hester. He let her get away with too much, just to keep the peace.”

  “He died, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was killed in the war. Your mother was only young at the time and quite inconsolable after his death.”

  “Was she? She’s never talked about him to me.”

  “Sometimes people can’t talk about those they love and have lost. She spent even more time up at Shrimp’s after he died, as far from her mother as she could get. She was more like a daughter to Alice than a niece.”

  “Until she did whatever awful thing it was that she did?” Ella turned her head away quickly. “That we won’t discuss. I think it’s time we thought about some lunch.” Catrin’s heart sank at the mention of food. Then she thought of her mother sitting down to a plate of beans in the company of nuns and lunatics and she brightened up and followed Ella into the castle.

  20

  Catrin woke earlier than usual, took Recipes for Cherubs from its hiding place under her bed and opened it eagerly. Her spirits lifted as soon as she looked at the painting of Maria Paparella smiling broadly and holding out the loaf of focaccia as though it were a gift. She wondered if Maria baked the bread for the other people whose portraits were in the book.

  Had Luca Roselli, the handsome boy with the dark curly hair and small scar on his cheek, sat down to eat this bread with the little dwarf, the silken-haired, green-eyed Bindo? Had the man with the funny name, Piero di Bardi, broken bread with Ismelda Bisotti, the girl with the infectious grin and sparkling eyes? Were they all friends, who had sat together laughing loudly as they shared a meal?

  There were other paintings of people who looked like a load of old misery-guts, not the sort of people who would enjoy a good laugh.

  There was the frosty-looking widow Zanelli, who reminded Catrin of Sister Lucy because they both looked as if they had a bad smell under their noses. There were two mealy-mouthed little girls, twins by the look of them, pretty as pictures with porcelain skin and their hair in ringlets. When you looked closely, though, you could see that they had hard eyes and mouths which would flit from a pout to a sulk in an instant. She didn’t like the snooty look of Signor Bisotti, who had a mouthful of bad teeth and shifty eyes. The scariest of them all was the hawklike priest, Father Rimaldi, who glared out from the page, a murderous glint in his narrow eyes. He wouldn’t be a barrel of laughs, that was for sure.

  She wondered if Santa Rosa was a real place and whether all these people had been real people, too, or figments of the artist’s imagination. If they were real they would have gone to mass in the ugly old church, dipped their hands in the cool water of the cherub fountain or hurried across the cobbled piazza to pay their respects to the tiny saint in its niche on the convent wall.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what sort of lives they’d lived, whether they had been happy, rich, poor or sad. What had become of them all? They would all be long dead by now, but someone had wanted their memory to live on because they’d taken the trouble to preserve their faces in this peculiar book.

  She replaced it under the bed, thought about washing, thought better of it, dressed and hurried out of the castle and across to the Café Romana to see Tony Agosti.

  In the castle kitchen Catrin laid out the ingredients for focaccia on the table: a block of salt, a packet of yeast, a bag of flour and a bottle of olive oil. She’d never heard of anyone cooking with olive oil before. The infirmary sister at school doled it out as a medicine for earache, wedged in tight with a squeaky dab of cotton wool.

  She’d blushed when Tony handed her the bottle of virgin olive oil. ‘Virgin’ was a rude word. Mary Donahue, who knew everything about everything, said her sister Bridget wasn’t a virgin and so no decent man would ever marry her.

  You could tell girls who weren’t virgins because they walked with their feet splayed at ten to two and had a brazen look about them.

  ‘Virgin’ was something to do with having babies, and that meant doing S.E.X. She didn’t know much about that, either, except it was dirty and painful and made you get F.A.T.

  Mary Donahue said that to do S.E.X. women had to buy pretty nightdresses and they had to lift them up for the men to have a good gander at what they’d got and then the man shook a packet of seeds that landed in the woman’s belly button and made a baby that came out of her B.U.M. – yuk! It was all too horrible and made her feel sick to think about it.

  She pushed the unpleasant thoughts from her mind and began to read the instructions for making the bread, and then set to work excitedly.

  She mixed the yeast and the water, added the flour and salt, and mixed them all together. She began to knead the dough, softly at first, pushing her knuckles down tentatively into the mixture…

  She imagined the mound of dough was her mother’s face, and bubbles of anger began to fizz in her belly. Small bubbles at first, growing bigger, filling her up until her ribs swelled and she felt as if she would burst, as if the air was being forced out of her body and she couldn’t breathe.

  Katherine Isobel Grieve. Kizzy. Smiling at any man who passed.

  She pinched the dough spitefully.

  Kizzy bloody Grieve, who filed her nails and never looked at you when you spoke to her…

  Slap.

  Who made her lips into a bow and smoothed them with lipstick. Red lipstick. Thick and sticky as blood.

  Pinch punch first of the month and no returns.

  Pretty, pretty Kizzy twittering like a bird. Pretty Polly, Pretty Polly.

  Slap slap slap.

  Pretty Polly Kizzy who hadn’t even bothered to tell her about things.

  Punch.

  A smear of red on white cotton…

  “Didn’t your mother tell you about the curse?” Sister Lucy had said with a scandalised voice.

  No. No. No.

  “Don’t go near boys or men. They’re only after one thing.”

  And it wasn’t your sweets. Dolly mixtures. Jelly babies.

  Slap pinch slap.

  She squeezed, pinched, whacked and thumped the dough until her skinny arms ached and beads of sw
eat pinpricked her forehead.

  She caught sight of herself suddenly in the small mirror above the sink. She stepped closer and scrutinised her face. There was a smudge of flour on her nose, an unusual glow to her skin and her eyes were brighter than usual. For a moment, despite her anger, she thought she looked almost pretty.

  When the dough had risen as if by magic, she divided it into three equal lots, made dimples and pressed sprigs of rosemary from the garden into the dimples, and then she dribbled olive oil over them. Finally, she sprinkled the loaves with crumbled block salt, put them on a battered baking tray and slipped it into the hot oven.

  Later, when she opened the oven door a warm fragrance enveloped her. She lifted the loaves out carefully and put them to rest on a misshapen rusty rack she’d found in the larder.

  She looked down proudly at the golden focaccia, the sprigs of rosemary crisp to the touch, the sea salt glistening tantalisingly.

  Each loaf looked just like the one that Maria Paparella was holding in the painting.

  She broke off a tiny piece and popped it into her mouth.

  The taste was wonderful and she chewed slowly, savouring it. She was almost tempted to snatch at the bread and stuff it all into her mouth, so great was her hunger. She swallowed hard, walked quickly away from the table out of temptation’s way. She picked flowers in the garden, purple and red blooms which she put in an old blue bottle she found in the larder.

  She was exhausted and yet exhilarated by the time she had finished, and she sat up in the window seat, impatient for Aunt Ella to come down for breakfast.

  When Ella came into the kitchen sunlight drizzled through the windows and filled the room with a syrupy light. She blinked, surprised to see that Catrin was already up, standing next to the kitchen table like a nymph, a shy smile lighting up her face, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed with excitement in a way that had quite transformed her.

  “Good morning, Aunt Ella. Look, I made us some bread for breakfast,” she said hesitantly. “I thought it might be good for me to do some cooking for a change.”

  “You don’t take after your mother, then. She couldn’t cook to save her life.”

  “She still can’t,” Catrin replied with a grin.

  “I must admit that I’m not much cop at cooking, either.”

  “I know,” Catrin answered.

  Ella looked cross for a moment, but then her face relaxed into a smile. Catrin thought she looked quite nice when she smiled.

  “It’s not just me who thinks so. Tony Agosti said you were a hopeless cook.”

  “Did he, now? I’ll be having words with him.”

  Catrin grew flustered, hastened to add, “He said lots of nice things about you, too.”

  “Maybe I’ll let him off the hook, then.”

  “My mother said that the food at Shrimp’s was wonderful.”

  “That was nothing to do with me. Gladys Beynon used to do all the cooking. I was more of a dogsbody.”

  “Tony was telling me all about her.”

  “She came to work for us when my parents were alive, and she was with us for years.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Ella winced. “I don’t know if she’s even still alive. She left just before Shrimp’s closed for good.”

  “What did Aunt Alice do at Shrimp’s?”

  “This and that. She was good with the guests in her own little way.”

  Catrin had noticed that sometimes it was easier than others to draw Aunt Ella into a conversation, but if you mentioned something she didn’t want to talk about she clammed up and an uncomfortable air grew up around them.

  Catrin changed tack. “Have something to eat, Aunt Ella.”

  Ella pulled a chair up to the table and watched as Catrin poured the tea, noticing that she needed two hands to lift the teapot. Her arms were pitifully thin, the blue veins too close to the surface.

  Catrin took her tea without milk or sugar.

  “Your Aunt Alice didn’t take milk. She had an allergy to dairy products – and cats as well. Have you the same?”

  Catrin shook her head and lied, “I just don’t like milk, or any dairy food, really.”

  “This bread you’ve made looks very good. May I?”

  Ella broke some off, spread it thickly with butter and popped it into her mouth.

  “Now that is gorgeous, mouth-wateringly delicious.”

  Catrin wriggled with pleasure. It felt good to have made something all by herself which people enjoyed eating. Maybe that’s why Maria Paparella looked so full of joy as she held out her loaf.

  “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “From an old book called Recipes for Cherubs which I found upstairs. It’s full of recipes and paintings.”

  “Well, I never. That’ll be Alice’s old book. I thought my mother burnt it years ago.”

  “Why would she burn it?”

  “Oh, she said it put daft ideas into Alice’s head and gave her dreams.”

  Catrin sat quite still. If the book had been burnt she would never have seen the paintings, never have read the recipes.

  “Where did Alice find the book?”

  “God only knows – she was always sniffing about in the castle. She called it her colouring book of clues.”

  “Clues?”

  “Oh, it was all gobbledygook. Alice always had her head full of nonsense; she thought the book had clues in it which would help her find the lost treasure of Kilvenny.”

  Catrin sat up very straight. “Is there treasure here, do you think?” she asked excitedly.

  Ella shook her head and smiled wryly. “There’s nothing much of any value here. Alice was a fanciful child. She used to talk to the pictures in the book, make up imaginary friends, stuff like that.”

  “When you saw the book, did you think there were clues in it?”

  “I never saw it. I’m not much of a one for books and Alice guarded that one as if it were gold dust. One thing’s for sure, though: if this bread is anything to go by, the recipes are damn good.”

  “It’s called focaccia and it’s Italian.”

  “How strange that you should be making me Italian bread.”

  “Why strange?”

  “Because if my life had turned out differently I’d always planned on going to Italy but I never got there, and yet here I am eating Italian bread with a great-niece I never thought I’d meet.”

  “Why did you want to go to Italy?”

  “I had a good friend who told me a lot about it; they’d spent several years out there studying art.”

  “Your friend was an artist?”

  “Wanted to be one.”

  “And why didn’t they become one?”

  “Wanting isn’t enough. The desire to paint was there, but not the talent.”

  “I see. And your friend, was he from Kilvenny?” Catrin asked, turning her head away.

  Aunt Ella wasn’t easily fooled by sneaky questions and her lips set in a straight line, but then suddenly she laughed. “Subtlety isn’t your forte, Catrin, something we have in common.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry your head about it. By damn, I’m enjoying this bread.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “You know, after all those years on my own I never thought I’d take delight in eating again or enjoy eating in someone’s company, and then you turn up out of the blue and, although we didn’t hit it off straight away, I somehow feel as if we were meant to meet.”

  For the first time they sat together easily, Ella eating hungrily while Catrin tore small chunks off the bread and ate them guiltily, chewing each piece over and over to savour the taste.

  “You don’t have a big appetite?” Ella asked, wiping a smear of butter from her chin.

  Catrin shook her head. “Not in the mornings, but when I’m hungry I eat loads, like a horse really. I’m just lucky that I don’t put on weight,” she lied with a smile.

  Ella nodded but wa
s not fooled.

  Catrin put down her morsel of bread, bit her lip anxiously and said, “I’ve been thinking. I know I can’t go back to school for the holidays and if we do get hold of my mother she’ll be furious if she has to come back from Italy, and the only other place I could go would be my godfather’s, but I’d really rather not go there.”

  “Who is your godfather?” Ella asked, helping herself to more bread.

  “Dr Campbell.”

  “Dr Campbell?” Ella spluttered.

  “Dr Arthur Campbell. Do you know him?”

  Ella regained her composure. “No. I’m sorry, my tea went down the wrong way. You don’t like him?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Just a feeling in my water.”

  Catrin looked around as if fearful of being overheard. “No. And I hate his wife.”

  “He has a wife?”

  “Oh yes, he’s married but they haven’t any children.”

  Ella got suddenly to her feet. “That bread was delicious. I’ll clear away, shall I?”

  “Mrs Campbell gives me the creeps,” Catrin continued, picking up a crumb and slipping it into her mouth.

  Ella busied herself clearing the table, her mind racing.

  What the hell was Kizzy Grieve playing at? Why hadn’t she told Catrin that Arthur Campbell was her father, instead of this sham about him being her godfather?

  “What does he do, this Dr Campbell?” Ella asked nonchalantly.

  “He’s a psychiatrist, a very clever one, some people say.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  Catrin shrugged. “Oh, he’s clever but he’s very bossy and asks too many questions and he…” She faltered, almost dropping her cup.

  “He what?”

  “Well, he’s just not much fun to be with and the thing is, Aunt Ella, I was wondering if I could maybe stay here in the castle for a while. I wouldn’t be any trouble to anyone.” Catrin’s eyes were wide with entreaty.

  “And is that why you made the bread? To soften me up?”

  “No! Well, maybe a bit. I just wanted you to like it. I’ve never cooked anything before, never ridden a bike or even paddled in the sea before I came to Kilvenny.”