The Italian Affair

by Helen Crossfield

“Thirsty work, humpin’ onions,” he remarked.

  If I knew Jace, that wasn’t the only thing he’d been humping. But I kept the thought to myself. I made some tea and we chatted for a while about the surf at Newquay, the beach picnic that was planned, and all the usual local gossip, including the thrilling topic of the moment which was a lorry which had overturned on a narrow bridge down in Dunmere that was carrying full consignment of men’s shoes. By the time the lorry driver had climbed out of his cab and hiked to a call box and returned, the lorry was empty. According to Jace every Tom Dick and Harry was to be seen sporting gleaming new footwear, swearing that they had picked them up for a song at Trego Mills.

  This was definitely a county that still had wreckers in the blood.

  What had puzzled the poor lorry driver was that the stretch of road had been deserted, and he couldn’t figure out where the looters had come from.

  “But then, he was from up country,” Jace said dismissively, with a lazy smile.

  Up country could of course mean anything, but just not Cornish. It could even mean from (Lord preserve us) Devon. I smiled and looked down. Sure enough, a very snazzy pair of what looked like Italian loafers were on his feet.

  “Oh, before I forget, mum said she’s got the curry leaves in, and the kaffir lime leaves. She wants to bring ‘em over herself if that’s alright?” Jace slurped through a mouthful of thick brown PG tips.

  I always wanted to give Jace a delicate china tea, or a scented brew to match his complexion, but he insisted on what he called a ‘proper workman’s brew’. So PG tips it was, served in one of Nancy’s thick lumpy home made efforts. I’d tried, over the years to accidentally smash as many mugs of Nancy’s as I could, but this one proved utterly impervious to knocks and bangs.

  “What are ‘em for, then?” Jace enquired, nodding towards the onions.

  I wasn’t really sure yet. I’d been asked to come up with some roasted, stuffed vegetables for a new ‘home café’ range that a leading supermarket wanted to start. They had employed one of the leading TV chefs of the moment for their TV ad campaign, and to my horror he’d actually had some ideas of his own. I like working on my own, and really didn’t want some London trendy sort poking around with my recipes, or God forbid, coming up with his own ideas. That sort of thing had to be firmly nipped in the bud. I’d encountered it before, but had seen them off – they were all usually much too busy anyway, being interviewed for magazines and turning up on their friends TV chat shows enthusing about a new way to cook polenta with sun dried olives.

  “Me mum does ‘em lovely in the oven, with herbs and stuff, you should ask her,” Jace said, wiping his tea moustache away with the back of his hand.

  “I will, thanks.”

  Jace went over to look out of the window that faced the sea. I could tell that he was trying to gauge the rollers, to see if it was worthwhile taking the afternoon off and rolling on his wet suit. He sucked his teeth, and sighed. I joined him at the window and looked out, the sea was the colour of gooseberries, dappled with sunshine and had quite a few white horses. The waves looked quite high to me, but obviously Jace didn’t think so. With a look of regret he went to sit down at the table, and took out a battered tobacco tin.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll roll it in here, but smoke it outside,” he smiled at me, giving me the ritualistic speech.

  I rolled my eyes at him, and pushed an ashtray towards him to catch the stray bits of tobacco and grass that would fall onto my table.

  I found it best never to talk to Jace, or any of the boys about their dope smoking. Their feeble minded rants about the medicinal and or political properties of ‘the weed’ made me lose the will to live. The only thing that I knew for sure was that it made anyone who smoked it very, very boring. It also, for some strange reason, made them slip into a black worm hole of ancient vocabulary. ‘Man’, ‘Crash’, and ‘Dude’, seemed to go hand in hand with it. Very worrying.

  “Any more news than, Jace?” I asked. I loved the gossip that all the boys bought with them, but Jace usually had a certain pithy style to the telling of it, which always had me weak with laughter.

  He narrowed his eyes in consideration. “Well, you know about Breadpuddin’?” he asked.

  Indeed I did. She was a newcomer to the village. Why she had been nicknamed Breadpudding, I really don’t know, but most people had a nick name here, and the roots to most of them were lost over time. She caused a near riot when she had hired a fork lift to remove an ancient standing stone from her front garden. All the locals were so up in arms about it they had got together a petition, and when that hadn’t worked they had simply used their own farm machinery and plonked it right back where it belonged. Then they had all formed a circle at midnight (just after chucking out time at The Ram) and had circled the stone, chanting ‘A curse on all who touch the stone.’ It had sounded great fun, and apparently a good time was had by all, ending up back at The Ram for an official lock in.

  “What’s she done now?” I asked eagerly.

  “She’s only tried it on with Will, that’s what.” Jace sat back to watch my reaction with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  “What?” I screeched, obligingly.

  “Yep, proper scared, he was. Came out of her front door lookin’ like a dog’s dinner, all done up in some see through night dress or somethin’ and asked if he would help move her bed. Fair jumped on him. He said he wouldn’t mind that so much, but he’d only gone there to see if he could flog ‘er some dodgy duck eggs!”

  I snorted with laughter. The image was irresistible. Will was a strapping boy, but very shy. He got tongue tied in the presence of any female, God knows what he’d been like in the face of naked lust on Breadpudding. Who, I must tell you, resembled the original hennaed lady, with a simply enormous shelf like bust. Her poor little husband quivered behind her, looking very like one of those husbands depicted on seaside postcards, a tiny pale excuse for a man, permanently living in dread of her awful temper.

  “I do hope Will didn’t oblige,” I said, spluttering with giggles.

  “Nah… although he did wonder, ‘cos of the eggs, see.” Jace said confidentially.

  “Yes, I see.” I said, straightening my face.

  It was easy to forget just how poor some of us are here. Cornwall is deceptive. Everyone associates it with clotted cream, childhood holidays spent on glorious sandy beaches, gingham curtains blowing in the breeze and well kept fishing ports, servicing the wealthy tourists. But it’s really not like that. It’s the poorest county in England. Nearly everyone has two, or even three jobs to try and keep the wolf from the door. The tin mines are gone, and tourism has stayed. Sort of.

  “So, has Will recovered from his shock?” I said.

  “I reckons so. He’m beat me at arrows last night,” Jace said with a grin.

  Jace wandered out the back door to sit on the steps and lit up. A breeze wafted through the kitchen, making Nelson look up suspiciously. He glared at me, and shuffled around a bit.

  It did seem very unfair, I was the only person I knew who had two bad tempered pets. Nelson had been in this house since I was a baby, and had very over developed ideas of who was actually in charge. He was a lovely looking bird, and would occasionally, when the wind was blowing from the west, deign to perch on my shoulder and gently nuzzle my ear. He was, if I am truthful, just as likely to take a nip at you. He also spoke, usually at really inopportune moments. He had repeated (ad nauseam) at my parents funeral wake, “bugger off you lot” in his loud screechy voice, which reduced Nancy and me to tears of mingled grief and laughter, but I don’t think the multitude of grieving aunts and cousins, not to mention the vicar, was impressed.

  Baxter, on the other hand, whom I’d had great hopes for, were slowly being eroded. He was a westie, given to me by Nancy for a birthday present. A lovable bundle of white fur with two boot button eyes. He too, was distinctly gruff in his manner. A bit like a very old man in a gentleman’s club in St James’s, who discovers th
at some young cad is sitting in his seat. Oh well, perhaps now summer was nearly here they’d both mellow out a bit. Oh God, I was sounding like the boys, ‘mellow out’? I went to shut the kitchen door. Perhaps the fumes of Jace’s joint were slowly but surely addling my brain.

  From the side window I saw Baxter pulling Nancy along on his lead. Nancy had gathered a bunch of flowers, and was clasping them to her chest with one hand, whilst allowing the dog to drag her up the hill. Her silver hair had completely come undone in the wind, and was blowing wildly around her face, and her long silk scarf was in danger of throttling her. In fact, she looked pretty much like everybody’s idea of an aging bohemian: amber necklaces, home spun skirt, flapping sandals and all. That’s where the surprise came, I think. She looked like an old hippie but spoke like the leader of the sensible tribe from planet kindness.

  She was my mother’s older sister, and had somehow never left Penmorah after my parents funeral fifteen years ago, for which I was profoundly thankful.

  Nelson shuffled on his perch, and then gave a screech. I knew what that meant, and sure enough, two seconds later, the phone rang. I never knew if the parrot had supernatural abilities, or maybe his hearing was so acute he could pick up on noises inaudible to us mere humans. Whatever it was, it was disconcerting.

  “Hello, Fin, darling. What’s the weather like in glorious Cornwall?”

  It was the angel of darkness, otherwise known as my manager, sparring partner, guru, and general all round bossy boots, Harry.

  The only reason he wanted know what the weather was like so that he could taunt me with the game. The game involved him trying to catch me out. I had to give the correct lunch time soup to fit the general weather and circumstances of our day. You know, if it was a perfect autumn day where the crisp golden leaves were drifting round the foot of the beech trees, willing you to be five years old again and roll around in them, and there was just a hint of chill in the deep blue sky, well, that was easy. It had to be wild mushroom, didn’t it?

  “Hmm, let me think.” I looked out of the window again, noting the scudding clouds and the pale blue sky. “Oh, OK, got it. It’s watercress soup, with a hefty dollop of cream swirled round in the middle, alright?”

  “Hmm, well, not a lot of thought went into that one did it? Anyway, I’ll let it go, just because I’m that sort of magnanimous person –“

  I snorted derisively.

  “I’ll have you know, I could have chosen the soup that Napoleon, when he was pining away on Elba craved, which was his childhood chestnut and goats milk concoction.” I said tartly.

  I like to throw in a bit of food history with Harry, so he doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot. Actually, in a fit of authenticity I’d made it once. It was truly disgusting.

  “ – and I am afraid my darling I am the bearer of bad news.”

  Oh God, the last time Harry had said that I’d had a particularly gorgeous clam chowder rejected. I’d spent month getting the recipe and quantities right, not to mention working to a ridiculously low budget.

  “Come on then, out with it, don’t leave me in suspenders. It’s that bloody cheese and spinach pie, isn’t it? I told you that –

  “No. No, it’s not the pie. It’s worse than that.” Harry sounded horribly smug, and not unamused.

  “I’ll thcweam and thcweam until I’m thick, just tell me! “ I said warningly.

  “Oh, alright, alright Violet Elizabeth. He wants to come down and meet you.”

  “Who does?” I said.

  “The TV chef, that’s who.”

  I detected a note of glee in Harry’s voice.

  “I hope you told him that it was impossible,” I said, sternly.

  “Well, no not really, you see, he’s insisting.” Harry said, trying to smother the laughter in his voice.

  “Well, he can insist all he bloody well likes, the answer is no. I’m not running some bloody B&B for bloody TV bloody chefs, am I?”

  Harry snorted with amusement.

  “No, Harry, I mean it. He is not coming here.”

  It was as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

  “The thing is Fin, this is a really, really large contract for us, and well, he is the star, and he’s insisting. Anyway it’s not for a week or so. Besides, it’ll do you some good. Shake you up a bit. You never know, you might like him. Besides, you and Nancy have loads of rooms, so it’s not exactly a problem is it?”

  We ended the conversation with me accusing Harry of being a swine and a bounder and him blowing kisses down the phone to me.

  Nelson cocked his head on one side and I went to stroke him. He ducked his head down appreciatively as I ruffled his neck feathers.

  “Oh Nelson, I don’t want the bloody TV chef here. What shall I do?” I whispered.

  Nelson winked at me and continued to bob up and down.

  It’s not that I am averse to company, it’s just that I know from experience what cooking is like with another person. Hell – to sum it up in one word. It’s not that I’m a control freak, you understand, although I do like things the way I like them – but, hey, who doesn’t?

  I’m not very scientific, or that hygienic, some prissy fools would say, having a dog and a bird in the kitchen with me. But I get along fine by myself. I have notebooks scattered all over the kitchen and I make comments in them as I see fit, and then and only then, when everything is right, I’ll write the recipe up.

  Harry once had to do it for me and swears that it drove him mad, trying to decipher my handwriting and wondering about the comments I’d written in the margin. Add the bishop’s nose for instance had nothing to do with the clergy, it was the name of the local cheese I was using. Same with knobby russet – it was just a reminder to use some more of the apples of that name. I hope you gather from this description that I am not, and never will be, an elegant Elizabeth David genius in the kitchen, but more a bumbling amateur that has struck lucky.

  TV chefs wouldn’t stop for an hour to separate Nelson and Baxter from a near death grapple, or want to listen to Nancy reminisce about the time she met Quentin Crisp. TV bloody chefs would want to talk about portion control and fat content.

  “Bloody, bloody TV chefs,” I said indignantly to Nelson as I banged around to make Nancy a cup of tea and to find a vase to put the flowers in that I’d seen her carrying.

  I heard Nancy and Jace laughing outside the kitchen door, and I carried out Nancy’s tea to her, and joined them sitting down on a bench that was against the sunny granite wall of Penmorah House.

  “Thanks, Fin. We had a lovely walk, we went the cliff top way, Baxter chased two rabbits, but luckily did not catch them.” She said, swapping me the tea for her bunch of wild flowers and grasses, and untangling her scarf and necklaces.

  I bent down to stroke Baxter. He wriggled under the bench and lay on his side. He obviously considered that he had earnt a well deserved rest. I pulled some burrs from his coat, and he deigned to lick my hand, but then settled back to his snooze.

  Jace handed Nancy the joint and she puffed in contented silence for a while. It always struck me as being hilarious that Nancy at the age of seventy had none of my anti-dope feelings, but then I was a mere stripling of thirty eight.

  Perhaps it was something I’d grow into?

  I broke the reverie by complaining bitterly about the bloody TV chef. Jace and Nancy laughed.

  “Don’t worry we’ll put him in the yellow room, the bed is very lumpy and if it rains, the window leaks,” Nancy said comfortably.

  “Yeah, and I’ll get him slaughtered at The Ram, an’ he’ll be that hungover he won’t want to cook,” Jace said helpfully.

  I laughed and relaxed. The granite wall behind me was warm to the touch, the honeysuckle was out and an early fat bee was buzzing around – how bad could it be? I could handle a jumped up chef for a couple of days. I leant down and tweaked a leaf of lavender, and pinched it under my nose. Lavender was meant to help when you were feeling stressed – it may or it may not, of course, but it
certainly smells good.

  Nancy finished her tea and we all walked into the kitchen together chattering about the beach picnic. Jace was persuading Nancy to try on his wet suit and brave the rollers with him, and she was happy to be try and be persuaded.

  We’d just got inside when Nelson spied Baxter. He flapped his wings, as a prelude to a launch upon him and screeched at the top of his voice “Little bastard!”

  We all rounded on Baxter and shut him outside and went to calm the parrot down.

  He glared at us all balefully and then added to his already very unsuitable vocabulary. “Bloody TV Chefs!, bloody TV chefs!” he crowed, looking very, very pleased with himself.

  Oh dear.

  Chapter Two

  Some marriages are made in heaven. My parents, for instance. Other examples I could site would be peas and mint, chicken and mushroom, Edward and Mrs Simpson, bacon and eggs, strawberries and balsamic vinegar, Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner, beef and horseradish, Richard and Judy, oh you get the picture. But onions? Hmm, well, maybe something cheesy and herby. Rosemary, perhaps? Although it’s not my favourite, as it can overwhelm things very easily.

  I glanced over at my kitchen wall full of cookery books, to get some inspiration. I strongly resisted my favourite mediaeval recipe book, given to me by my friend Martha, whose intriguing first recipe started with “First pluck your peacock…” and pulled down a Mediterranean vegetable book and started to skim through it.

  Baxter’s ivory nails made a clicking sound on the wooden floor as he came over to sit next to me. With a sigh, he settled himself down. Nelson, for once was quiet, and the kitchen was very peaceful. The sun was fading and I knew that it would get chilly quite soon, but I was too comfortable to get up and put the heating on. I made do with sliding my bare feet under Baxter’s warm little body. Without the radio on, or anyone talking I could hear the sound of the sea, which I know to anyone living in the centre of a city must sound like bliss. It was, on the whole. But on a stormy day in November when the waves were crashing and the sky was dumping water on us, I would gladly have exchanged a little bit of inner city warmth for the drama and wetness of Cornwall. But, today was lovely. Or would have been, if I could get the niggle out of my mind about the bloody chef.