by Allan Frost
Occasionally, she walked the trolley around so much that the cable wrapped itself around the table legs but on the whole it was a wonderful piece of equipment, unlike most of her utensils which must have been in the kitchen since the Boer War. The Foot-Warts were not noted for throwing money around.
Euphemia knew why Hives had bought it. In her younger days, she thought nothing of carrying heavily-laden trays across the corridor into the dining room. But age takes its toll and she wasn’t so strong. For the last few years, she’d adapted by dividing the meals onto several, lighter trays; that had worked very well for a while but during the period leading up to her birthday she experienced some difficulty holding them steady.
Again, hero Julio Hives (she sighed at the thought) came to her rescue . . . with BluTak. It stopped bowls and tureens sliding around the trays, although they still had a tendency to list to starboard. The downside was trying to lift containers off the tray so, after several more accidents, ingeniously inventive Hives bit the bullet, paid a rare visit to Wellingley and bought her the largest, most expensive trolley he could find in a Debenhams Blue Cross sale.
She’d responded by knitting him a slightly overlong scarf whose stitches are so loose it doubles up as a fishing net on his days off. It might have served better as a scarf if she’d been as tight with the stitches as she was with her money. But, as ever, it’s the thought that counts.
She took another sip of coffee and began preparing the salad, most of which had come from a small garden plot just behind the kitchen. She loved stagg— . . . pottering around it with Julio, especially when their hands stank of rosemary or sage; it somehow brought them together. Talking of rosemary, she’d forgotten the herb bread!
The clock on the wall said almost ten o’clock (the minute hand had fallen off and now came in useful as a cocktail stick); just enough time if she used Julio’s Panasonic bread maker, another of his gifts: was he trying to tell her something?
Her coffee had gone cold by the time the bread maker sprang into action. She poured another cup and was on the brink of lacing it with a restrained dribble of Lamb’s Navy rum when something made her stop short.
‘Lunch today is an important occasion. Nothing must go wrong! Do you understand? Absolutely nothing!’ Julio’s words echoed inside her head, drowning out the beat of the drums.
She put the bottle down.
Just this once, she thought. I won’t touch another drop until the visitors have left. Promise? Promise!
As the morning progressed, Euphemia was true to her conscience. Sunlight shone through the high windows, its rays reflecting cheerfully off aluminium and stainless steel pots and pans (hidden during the 1940s to stop them being turned into allied aircraft) suspended from racks fastened to the ceiling. She began humming hymn tunes to herself for the first time in years. Hives heard a blast from the past and appeared from nowhere.
‘Something wrong, Euphemia?’ he enquired, nervous in case she’d tanked herself up more than usual.
‘Nothing at all, Julio, nothing at all,’ she replied. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
He sniffed the air but couldn’t detect any familiar tell-tale signs. Utterly confused, he muttered something and left.
Now why should he think something was wrong? Euphemia couldn’t come up with a good reason at first but, as the hour hand approached eleven o’clock and she removed peppermint essence from the herb and spices cupboard, a ray of sunshine lit up the plastic Lemon Fresh CrockWasher bottle half full of faded yellow liquid. It must be a sign!
The liquid was, in fact, Strega liqueur, brought back from a visit the Foot-Warts had paid to friends in Tuscany in 1988. It had lain in the liqueur chamber of the cellar until she rescued it (without Julio’s knowledge) last week.
The brightness of the sun refracted through the bottle and caught her smack between the eyes. It reminded her of Moses and the burning bush and other Bible stories told at Sunday school when she was a girl.
Her head was clear now. She could see, as if on a flashing billboard, the error of her ways. Yes, she did have a strong affinity with even stronger drink. She tried to argue with herself.
‘I don’t have a problem with alcohol . . . supplies at Blister Grange are plentiful.’
‘Don’t be smart! You’ve been an alcoholic for years!’
‘No, I haven’t!’
‘Then why do you hide booze in shampoo bottles? Why do you have headaches all the time? Why does your hair change colour so often? Why can’t you remember going to bed each night? Are you still a virgin?’
‘Leave Julio out of this!’
‘Why do your hands shake all the time? Why do you have to lace all your drinks? Why have you forgotten how to cook tasty food? Why do you keep a catering-size bottle of peppermint essence in your apron pocket?’
‘All right! All right! I get the message! Loud and very clear! Stop it! Stop it!’
Her hands shook uncontrollably. She sensed Julio’s presence, turned and saw him peering around the doorway.
His face said it all. Confirmation.
‘Oh, Julio, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I tried, dearest, I tried. But you wouldn’t be told.’
‘I’m so sorry, I really am. I mustn’t go into the cellar ever again!
This was bad news indeed. Yes, her addiction was all down to him. On the other hand, it was the only place they could meet undisturbed. But it was full of temptation. He’d have to come up with an alternative venue.
‘I’ll think of something,’ he said tenderly. ‘Come now, Euphemia. Pull yourself together. The guests will be here soon and there’s much to do.’
For the first time since he first saw her, on her hands and knees cleaning the hall floor in the 1960s, Julio kissed her. Not in the style of Clark Gable as she’d hoped, complete with a burning building backdrop, but the saucepan bubbling away on the cooker was a start.
‘Yes, Julio. Of course,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘Don’t want to get the sack before we’ve had a chance to resign, do we?’
‘We’ll talk about that later.’
The rest of the morning flew by. Hymns gave way to singing old favourites like Oh what a beautiful morning and I’m gonna wash that dye right outa my hair. For once, Julio felt his spirits lift to hear such wonderful sounds emanating from the kitchen. Even Lady Cynthia stuck her head round the door to make sure Euphemia hadn’t suffered a relapse.
It was all going so well.
Euphemia couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt so happy without feeling drowsy. And squeezing the rest of the Strega down the sink to a solo rendition of I’ve got that lovin’ feelin’ gave rise a great sense of achievement.
All finished!
She sat down to admire the overladen trolley. She’d really pulled all the stops out this time, and no mistake! This was the start of a new life, a new beginning! She couldn’t wait to get her talented hands on Julio!
As if hearing her thoughts, Julio appeared at the door.
‘They’re ready,’ he said anxiously. His eyes were drawn to the sumptuous spread on the trolley. He gazed at her with genuine, if astonished, admiration.
‘Just like the old days!’
‘Yes, indeed, Euphemia! Just like the old days! Shall I take the trolley through?’
‘Not this time,’ she replied, ripping her apron off with the exaggerated flourish of a night club stripper, dusting herself down and adjusting her green tresses. ‘I can manage.’
Hives led the way across the corridor and opened the doors to the dining room.
‘Lunch is served, ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced.
Euphemia, barely able to hide a broad smile, pushed the trolley with pride towards the serving table halfway down one side of the room.
The lunch party sat at the far end of the thirty-seater table.
Everyone (except Hilda, whose head rested gently on a leather place mat) gazed with Pavlovian expectation at the grand culinary display.
The trolley came to an abrupt halt. Try as she might, it wouldn’t budge.
Euphemia shoved hard.
Must be the brake.
But there wasn’t a brake.
She pushed a little harder.
Then harder still.
She braced herself and put all her weight behind the trolley, ready to give it a really good shove.
At that very moment, the plug at the far end of the extension cable shot out of its socket in the kitchen.
Euphemia, the trolley and all its lavish contents flew the full length of the dining room before crashing unceremoniously into the far wall.
VIII
Sir Algernon Ponsonby Foot-Wart’s austere features found themselves face to face with Euphemia's. His and several other distinguished Foot-Wart portraits were dislodged by the impact but it was Algernon’s which actually fell on top of her head.
Hilda, roused by the noise of the impact, woke up.
‘Must have dropped off,’ she yawned, stretching her arms. ‘Have we had lunch?’
Her eyes drifted in the general direction of the commotion. Tim and George appeared to be busy wrapping electric cable around one of the servants.
‘What’s happened?’ she called. ‘Someone gone mad?’
‘Slight accident,’ said George. ‘Stay where you are. No, don’t try to get up.’
Euphemia was eventually extricated from the tangle. She sat, dazed, covered from head to toe in food.
Rabbit soup ran down the walls onto the oil painting of Sir Jasper Foot-Wart (quite appropriately, thought Sir Cedric, considering the old lecher had behaved like one during his lifetime) while the rest of lunch had splattered and scattered across the polished floor to present much the same appearance as that of a Jackson Pollock action painting.
George and Tim lifted Euphemia onto a chair after Hives thoughtfully covered it with a few napkins. It would make less mess for him to clean later.
‘What happened?’ Euphemia groaned.
‘It’s all right, Crimp,’ said Cynthia, sympathetically. ‘Only a slight mishap. Just sit there for a few minutes. Sarah, could you stay with her while I get something to clean up the mess?’
‘I’ll do that, ma’am,’ said Hives. ‘I think it best if Miss Crimp is left alone for a while.’
Cynthia nodded.
‘Is that our lunch?’ asked Hilda. ‘Why is her hair green?’
‘It should have been,’ said Cedric. ‘And very good it looked, too. Well done, Crimp!’ He didn’t mention her hair.
Euphemia smiled.
‘Thank you, sir. Did I cause all this mess? I’m so sorry!’
‘Not at all,’ he replied graciously. ‘These things happen. Don’t worry yourself, my dear.’
‘Get her a brandy, Hives,’ said Cynthia. ‘She’s had a shock.’
‘No, thank you, ma’am,’ said Euphemia, stopping Julio dead in his tracks. ‘I think I’ll just have a nice cup of tea.’
Tim caught Hives looking very uncomfortable out of the corner of his eye. He could see distress and concern etched into his features.
‘How about if we help clean up and then go to the Priorton Arms for lunch?’
‘Oh, Tim! How can you even think about food at a time like this?’
Hives could see sense in the suggestion. They were guests: it wasn’t their place to clean up. And besides, he’d rather he and Euphemia were left alone.
‘If I might make so bold, sir,’ he said to Sir Cedric. ‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Miss Crimp needs a few moments to recover and I can manage on my own.’
‘Sure you don’t mind, Hives?’
‘No, sir.’
Euphemia gazed at Julio with love and admiration. Sarah noticed. They needed a bit of time to themselves.
‘If you’ll excuse us, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll put the kettle on. Come, Miss Crimp, let me take your arm.’
Hilda was in good form when they arrived at the Priorton Arms a brief journey later. The rest must have done her good. Something rather dramatic had happened at Blister Grange but the details would have to wait until she was able to interrogate George later in the privacy and comfort of their own home. She’d have such a lot to tell the ladies at the WI!
All she had to do now was get an invite to Priorton Hall, especially since the Easons were likely to become titled, and she’d be top of the list for other society gatherings! Things were definitely looking up! She resolved to put her mixed feelings towards Lady Cynthia on one side for the time being. The more outrageous the information she could gather, the better!
The party entered the inn’s empty lounge with its oak beams and low ceiling and walked past the 1960s juke box: Tim remembered how it played scratchy 45s when he first came to Priorton. Although set to random play, it seemed to know which songs were appropriate at any given time. Sadly, it had died and its remaining disks sold.
Sarah had a quick word with one of the girls behind the bar and led the way through to the dining room. The barmaid followed, took their orders and returned promptly with drinks. Hilda had orange juice: she needed to recover from the after-effects of the sherry.
‘I meant to ask when George accepted the lunch invitation,’ said Hilda. ‘Why has Sir Cedric been down in the dumps?’ She was not known for her tact.
Cedric shot a glance of annoyance at Cynthia.
‘Have I been down in the dumps?’ he asked pointedly.
‘You know you have, Cedric,’ she replied. ‘Since last autumn. But he’s been a lot brighter this last week or two,’ she added.
Cedric smiled: yes, it was remarkable how a spirited time in Cynthia’s pink boudoir had lifted his spirits.
‘Not getting any younger, and this business of what’ll happen to the Grange when we’re gone has been troubling me. And hearings at the courthouse have been a trifle . . . boring.’
‘But you like being a judge,’ said Cynthia.
‘Not recently. I do miss Fiddlit and bent solicitors like him. No excitement any more. Nothing to exercise the old brain cells.’
‘I’ll have a word with Blossom as soon as I can,’ said George.
‘No, it’s not just him, dolt that he is. I don’t seem to get the difficult cases I used to. The clerk tells me it’s not her fault. Some faceless nobody obviously thinks I’m past it. Well, I’m not!’
‘Of course not, dear.’
‘Still got my faculties, as well you know, Cynthia.’ He gave her a meaningful glare. She blushed crimson.
‘You’re top of the league as far as the force is concerned,’ George agreed. ‘But if you give up, what will happen to the courthouse in Priorton? It’s only kept open because of you.’
‘Indeed it is, Chief Inspector! The County boys in their striped suits did their level best to shut it down four or five years ago, but I showed ’em! Produced the Royal Charter of 1244.’
Hilda looked at her watch.
‘Quarter to one?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘The year,’ explained George. ‘Not the time.’
Mention of a charter made Tim’s ears prick up.
‘What did it say?’
‘Only that, in consideration for sums paid to the king, Priorton was to benefit from its own King’s Bench in perpetuum. The original charter has been ratified by every monarch since then. It only survives because the government can’t be bothered to waste valuable (Valuable! I ask you!) Parliamentary time to revoke it. Can’t understand it myself; they waste everybody else’s time and tax us to the hilt to pay for their junkets and cronies!’
‘Calm down, Cedric, we get the point. You’re not in session now,’ said Cynthia calmly.
Lunch arrived, this time without mishap. They tucked in.
Barely a thought was given to Euphemia’s grand spread or the trouble Hives would take to clean up the mess.
Once Miss Crimp had calmed down and retired to the drawing room with a mug of hot, sweet tea, Hives donned his brown overall and set to work. It wasn’t easy for someone of his age to pe
rch on top of a step ladder while wielding a mop but it hadn’t taken too long to wipe the gunge off the walls. They would, however, need a new coat of paint.
The family portraits didn’t seem too bad either, apart from Sir Algernon’s with the gaping hole where Euphemia’s head had made contact, and Sir Jasper’s which had a sliver of lettuce hanging from his nose like something unmentionable in polite circles. Hives decided to leave it there as a mild protest. Rabbit food for someone whose proclivities were rabbit-like during his lifetime seemed wonderfully appropriate.
His elation was, however, short-lived. The sight of Euphemia’s superb display lying on the floor was heart-rending. Thank goodness she hadn’t seen the full extent of the disaster! The trolley was a complete wreck as well. Julio exhaled deeply and shook his head. What a terrible shame. And what would her reaction be when she recovered?
Eventually, the dining room was cleaned and restored to a state close to normal. Julio removed his overall and tentatively put his head around the drawing room door. Euphemia heard the handle squeak.
‘Julio? Is that you?’
He entered, sat beside her on the sofa and gently put an arm around her shoulders. She looked up and smiled sheepishly.
‘I’m sorry, Julio. You did warn me nothing must go wrong with lunch. I let you down.’
‘No, Euphemia,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You did wonderfully well. It wasn’t your fault at all. I should have checked the trolley cable.’
‘Was that what it was? Oh, what a relief! I thought I’d lost all my strength.’ She paused. ‘Is there much damage? Are they cross with me?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he replied. ‘A couple of walls need a new coat of paint, but that’s about all.’
It was a while before either spoke again. The silence echoed to the rustle of a thousand thoughts.
‘I didn’t touch a drop after you warned me,’ Euphemia said quietly. ‘I am an alcoholic, aren’t I?’