To his delight, she looked slightly flustered.
‘No…I mean…I just thought you might have something else you wanted to do,’ she said.
‘Tell you what I do want to do, and that’s eat,’ Jonathan admitted. ‘I’ve been out all day in the Ray, and I’m starving.’
‘The Ray?’
Of course, stupid of him, she wasn’t local, she wouldn’t know what he was talking about.
‘It’s a channel of water out in the estuary beyond the mud-flats,’ he explained. ‘You sail out on the falling tide, then you can spend all day out there sailing and swimming and having races and that, and playing cricket on the Ray Sands. It’s brilliant. Do you sail?’
Scarlett shook her head. Her ponytail of dark, almost black hair shivered in glossy waves.
‘We lived in the country.’
‘Can you swim?’
‘Oh, yes. I learnt at school. I got my hundred yards certificate.’
‘Then you’ll have to come out with us one day. If you want to, that is.’
He found he was holding his breath. How wonderful if she said yes.
‘Thanks—yes.’
He felt like punching the air. Fancy taking her out for a whole day on the water! His mind raced, turning over how to bribe his friend to let him have the boat to himself, what time they would have to start, all the things he wanted to show her. But for now he had to keep her attention.
‘Are you hungry?’
She appeared to consider.
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
She sounded almost surprised. He ran over the logistics in his head. It was just about the worst time to start cooking now. He came up with an interim plan.
‘Let’s go and get some chips, then. Irma or Marlene might want the kitchen at the moment, but we can go in when the pub opens and everyone’s busy.’
‘Marlene?’ Scarlett said.
‘Yes, she’s the other live-in barmaid. Haven’t you met her yet?’
‘No. Won’t your mum be expecting you?’ she asked.
Jonathan had to stop himself from giving a derisive laugh. His mother, expecting him? That would be the day.
‘Oh, she doesn’t know I’m in yet,’ he said, which was true. ‘You never know quite when you’re going to be back when you’ve been out in the boat. So do you fancy some chips?’
Scarlett nodded.
‘Yes, please. I’ll just go and get some money.’
Suddenly it seemed very important that she didn’t leave.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got some,’ Jonathan assured her, jingling some change in his pocket.
‘But I—’
‘Look, I’ll get them this time and you can next, all right?’
She hesitated a moment, then agreed. He couldn’t believe how smoothly it was going. In the past when he’d tried to talk to girls, they’d either go all giggly and silly or look at him as if he were some lower form of life. But Scarlett talked to him like…well, not quite like a friend, because there was more to it than that. He didn’t know what, couldn’t put a name to it, but it was there all the same.
Walking with her along the sea front, Jonathan felt ten feet tall. They could all see him with this pretty girl, all the people he knew. He glowed as the funfair attendants called out to him, the girl behind the ice cream stand waved, the elderly Italian lady winding pink candyfloss round a stick blew him a kiss. When they got to the chip shop, he was greeted like a long lost son by the big motherly woman behind the till whom he always called Aunty Marge, although she wasn’t any sort of relation.
‘Ah, here’s our Jonno! Talk about return of the wanderer. You been avoiding us or something? Look at you, you’re fading away. You need a good feed-up, you do. Douggie!’ she called to the equally large man sweating over one of the fryers. ‘Nice big bag of chips for our Jonno. And stick a pickled egg in while you’re about it.’
Jonathan grinned. ‘Thanks, Aunty Marge. And my friend Scarlett here’d like some chips as well.’
Scarlett stood up well to being scrutinised.
‘Scarlett, eh? And where’ve you sprung from?’
‘My dad’s just started work at the Trafalgar.’
‘Oh, so you’re going to be living down here, are you? Going to be one of us. What do you think of it so far?’
Scarlett shrugged. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.
Jonathan winced inwardly. Aunty Marge was not going to take kindly to such a lukewarm reaction.
‘All right? All right? You’ve come to live in London’s playground and that’s all you can say for it? Shame on you! You’ve not been trying hard enough, Jonno. Go and show her all the sights. Give her a ride on the speedway.’
‘I’m going to, Aunty Marge,’ he assured her.
‘Right.’ Aunty Marge gave Scarlett one more up-and-down look. ‘Pretty girl. Needs more flesh on her bones, though. Better stick an egg in hers as well, Douggie.’
To the annoyance of the queue of hungry customers, Jonathan and Scarlett’s bags were handed over ahead of everyone else’s. They shook on lots of salt and vinegar, Jonathan paid and they both promised to come back soon.
Outside seemed pleasantly cool after the steaming heat and overwhelming smell of boiling fat in the chip shop. He watched as Scarlett tried a chip. It was so fresh out of the fryer that she could hardly hold it. Crisp on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside, Aunty Marge’s chips practically melted in the mouth.
‘Cor, lovely!’ Scarlett mumbled, breathing air in to stop her mouth from burning.
‘Best chips on the Golden Mile,’ Jonathan claimed. ‘Come on.’
He led the way across the wide road, past seafood stalls and ice cream kiosks to lean on the rails overlooking the beach. He loved this view, loved it in the winter when it was empty and windswept, and in a different way now in the summer, when it was crowded with day-trippers. Families were packed together on the pebbly sand, the mothers and fathers sitting in deckchairs with their knitting and their newspapers, the children digging sandcastles, paddling and filling pails of water. At the water’s edge, a big open sailing boat was waiting for passengers to come aboard for a ride out on the sea. Beyond that, cockle boats bobbed at their moorings and, as a backdrop to it all, marching out into the sea was the pier.
‘So where do you come from?’ Jonathan asked in between chips.
‘A village the other side of Rochford.’
‘And what brought you here?’
‘My dad needed a job.’
‘It’s just the two of you, is it?’
‘Yes.’
It was obvious that she was uncomfortable, that she didn’t want to talk about it. He recalled what his mother had said about the new cellar man. ‘Bit of a loser, if you ask me. But what can you do? It’s high season and we need someone.’ He tried a different tack.
‘It was nice, your village?’
‘Oh, yes—’ Scarlett started to tell him about it, a faraway look on her face. It all sounded pretty ordinary to him. She went on to describe the pub where she had lived, the Red Lion.
‘It was such a nice little place.’ She sighed, licking her finger and dabbing up the last pieces of crispy potato round the bottom of the bag. ‘It had lovely old beams, and lots of horse brasses, and benches against the wall outside. My mum and me kept it all spick and span. And in the summer I always kept a nice jug of wild flowers on the bar. Just to make it look homely, like. And at Christmas we really went to town, holly and ivy and paper chains and everything. It looked really lovely. And people used to cycle out from Rochford, and even from Southend just to have a pint with us. My dad kept the best pint for miles around. Everybody said so.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Jonathan said politely. ‘A proper village pub. Very different from the Trafalgar.’
He gazed out to sea, to where huge cargo ships were making their way up the Thames to the London Docks, deliberately avoiding looking at Scarlett as he asked the obvious question.
‘So why did you move her
e?’
‘Oh…well…you know…like you said, it’s different. A new start.’
She tried to make out it was a good thing, but it didn’t quite sound convincing.
‘Right,’ Jonathan said. He knew just what was going on. He gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Parents, eh? What can you do with them? They say it’s all for the best and they’ve got your best interests at heart and all that sort of rot, but when it comes down to it, they never listen to you.’
Scarlett hesitated, then said, ‘Too true.’
In front of them, the beach was beginning to clear. Mums were packing up picnic baskets and cleaning sand off tired children’s feet, dads were folding away the deckchairs and searching for lost buckets and balls. Jonathan glanced at his wrist, realised he wasn’t wearing a watch and stretched across to take Scarlett’s arm, turned it slightly and looked at the time. The living warmth of her arm beneath his hand sent a hot thrill through him.
‘Thanks,’ he said, as casually as he could. ‘I left mine at home. No good wearing one on the boat, it might get ruined in the water. It’s gone half past six; shall we go back and get something proper to eat? The chips made a nice amuse bouche but I’m dying for a proper meal.’
He could have kicked himself. It sounded so pretentious.
‘Amuse bouche?’ Scarlett questioned, her forehead creasing in thought. ‘Mouth amusement?’
Jonathan laughed with relief. She hadn’t thought he was trying to get one over on her.
‘Well done. That’s more than most people know. It’s a French restaurant term. It means a little twiddly tasty bit before the real starter, or in between courses. Something to keep the appetite interested before the next main event.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Scarlett said airily.
Jonathan screwed up his chip paper and lobbed it into the nearest litter bin.
‘Come on, the kitchen’ll be all ours now.’
As they made their way back through the raucous crowds and close-packed heat of the Golden Mile, he tried to decide just where to take her. What was she going to think if they stayed in the staff kitchen? It was going to look really unfriendly, as if he thought she wasn’t good enough to be invited upstairs. But his mother was so adamant about not letting staff into their private quarters. Not that Scarlett was staff, of course, but that was stretching the point a bit. He tried to assess the odds against his mother coming in and finding them there. It was high season, and it was Friday evening, the second busiest night of the week. She should be run off her feet in the bar all night. But if she was to pop up for something…no, it just wasn’t worth the risk.
By the time they arrived at the dark rear of the Trafalgar, Jonathan had made his mind up. He led the way to the staff kitchen, which looked out over the yard.
‘I’ll just run upstairs and get some stuff,’ he said. ‘You won’t have had time to do any shopping, will you, what with moving and all that?’
‘No, well, there wouldn’t be much point, would there? We’ve got nowhere to cook,’ Scarlett said.
Jonathan was mystified. ‘But this is the staff kitchen. Didn’t you know that? You and Irma and Marlene share this.’
‘Oh…’
He could practically see light dawning on her expressive face.
‘My dad must’ve forgotten to tell me,’ she said.
‘Yeah, right,’ he agreed. ‘Look, make yourself at home. I won’t be a mo. Perhaps you could put the kettle on for me?’
‘OK.’
Mercifully, she didn’t seem put out to be left there. He raced upstairs, unlocked the heavy door marked ‘Private’and went into the kitchen. If only he had known he would be cooking for a girl! As it was, he would have to improvise with what was around. He opened the cream-coloured door of the American refrigerator and took out bacon, eggs and cream, then rummaged in the cupboards for pasta, onions, garlic, olive oil and ground coffee. He piled the whole lot into a basket together with the chopping board, his French chef’s knife and the percolator. A glorious mix of excitement and nerves churned inside him. Supposing she didn’t like his cooking? Supposing she laughed at him? But she couldn’t—she mustn’t—because that would mean the end of their friendship before it had hardly started.
He galloped downstairs again to find the kettle starting to whistle while Scarlett leaned against the chipped enamel sink staring out at the back yard. There was a horribly bleak expression on her face that cut right through him.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, dumping the basket on the table.
Had his mother been in and had a go at her? His heart sank at the thought.
‘Oh…nothing…’ She straightened up, forcing a smile.
‘Only you looked…well…’
‘I’m all right. Really. What on earth have you got there?’ She moved over to look at the contents of his basket.
‘Just a few things to make a meal. Would you like to be my commis chef?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have that boiling water in a big saucepan with salt in, please, and butter and some olive oil in a frying pan.’
‘Olive oil?’ Scarlett questioned. ‘Olive oil’s for putting into your ear when you’ve got earache.’
Jonathan stopped himself from laughing. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know, any more than most people in this country did.
‘Mine isn’t,’ he said, handing her the bottle. ‘Mine’s for cooking, and making salad dressings.’
Scarlett made a face and looked at the French writing on it. Cautiously, she poured a small pool of oil into a pan. Jonathan got on with skinning and chopping a couple of onions. Scarlett stared at him as he sliced them expertly with a rocking motion, just as he had been taught.
‘How did you learn to do that? Did your mum show you?’
Jonathan laughed.
‘Mum? No, Mum hates cooking. I’ve got French relatives. I go to stay with them most summers.’
Wonderful summers with lovely Tante Jeanne-Marie, who tucked him under her wing with all her other chicks and made him feel loved and wanted. Racing around on bikes and swimming in the river with the cousins…
‘And they make you do the cooking for them?’ Scarlett was saying.
He wrenched himself back from sunny days in Mont Saint Etienne.
‘Far from it! I’m allowed to help. My aunt’s a wizard cook. Her brother’s a chef and owns a restaurant. They’re all really keen on food. It’s not like here at all. They all sit round the table and discuss what they’d like to eat for the coming week, then they go to the market together and buy the fresh stuff, and they argue while they’re going round even if they’ve agreed beforehand what they want, like, if they’ve bought some lamb, should they cook it this way or that, and what other things they need to get to go with it, and whether they’ve got the right stuff in the larder at home. It’s really interesting. It makes you think about tastes and flavours and textures and how things go together and complement each other.’
Scarlett was gazing at him in amazement. Jonathan felt hot, and then defensive. Food was important. If she didn’t realise it now, then he would prove it to her. He crushed a clove of garlic with the blade of his knife, chopped it into minute pieces and put it in the pan with the onions where they sizzled merrily, giving off a glorious smell.
‘What was that?’ Scarlett asked.
‘Garlic.’
Garlic was what foreigners were supposed to stink of. Well, at least foreigners knew how to eat.
‘Are you doing something French now?’ Scarlett wanted to know.
‘No, this is Italian, because I’m starving and there’s nothing like a big plate of pasta for filling you up,’ he explained. ‘Pass us the spaghetti, would you?’
‘Spaghetti?’
Scarlett looked at the ingredients on the table. She was searching for the stuff that came in a tin, he guessed.
‘In the blue packet,’ he prompted.
She found the right thing and watched as he opened it up.
‘It’s like long thin macar
oni,’ Scarlett said.
‘Same family. It’s all pasta.’
Jonathan stood it in the pan, gradually pushing it under the boiling water with a wooden spoon as it softened.
‘Have you got an Italian aunty as well?’
‘No—I learnt this off Mrs Mancini along the road. She’s only got girls, so she sort of adopted me. I was a really skinny kid, and she used to sit me in her kitchen and feed me up until I couldn’t move.’
There was a time when he’d spent more time with the Mancinis than he had at home. He was always made to feel welcome there.
Jonathan chopped, stirred and tasted. He added bacon lardons, beaten eggs and cream. Finally he drained the spaghetti, mixed it with the sauce, divided it between two plates and put one down in front of Scarlett with a flourish.
‘Spaghetti alla carbonara!’
‘Wow—’ Scarlett looked suitably impressed. ‘It smells delicious.’
She picked up her spoon and fork and tried to capture the slippery pasta. Jonathan remembered the first time he had eaten spaghetti, when he was about eight, how Mrs Mancini had stood behind him and guided his hands, her comforting warm body pressing into his back.
‘It’s a so-and-so to eat, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There’s a knack to it—look—’
He demonstrated. Scarlett copied, with much laughter.
‘I did it! I did it!’ she cried, as she managed to get the perfect amount of spaghetti twiddled round her fork. She carried it to her mouth, and her eyes closed with pleasure. ‘Mmm—gorgeous—’
Jonathan relaxed. She liked it. Everything was well with the world. They ate and they talked, they found they liked the same music, the same films. Jonathan made some proper coffee in the percolator, another new taste for Scarlett, and they began a long argument over whether Rock Hudson was a better actor than Clark Gable. He was just acting out a scene to prove his point when the door opened.
‘Jonathan, I thought I could hear your voice. What on earth are you doing in here?’
It was his mother. Jonathan broke off in mid-sentence.
‘I was just…’ he began.
Bye Bye Love Page 4