by Celia Imrie
‘I meant like Fanny Craddock, you know, and Johnnie, her long-suffering husband – I mean, not that you’re going to be long-suffering . . . or my husband. Oh dear. Sorry.’ She bit her lip and winced. ‘But, yes please, Brian. All help accepted. But don’t feel obliged, just because you’re renting the bedroom.’
Brian rubbed his hands together and surveyed the room. ‘I’ll just get myself smartened up a bit before everyone starts arriving.’
‘Arriving?’
‘For tonight’s Cookery Club.’
‘Tonight’s?’
‘That’s what it said on the card.’
‘But I . . .’ Theresa gasped. ‘Didn’t it say tomorrow? The third?’
‘Today is the third. The same date as the room became available.’
Theresa realised what must have happened. In all the kerfuffle around her, while she was writing out the cards for the room to let, she had written down today’s date as the start date. She must have also put it on at least one of the cards, maybe more, for the Cookery Club.
She glanced at her watch.
‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’ll be here in half an hour. I’ve got to get this room looking decent. I spent all afternoon working on the bedrooms.’
She pulled off the rubber gloves and headscarf and ran into the kitchen.
‘Oh God!’ she cried. ‘I don’t have any pans. Or ingredients.’
Brian stepped forward. ‘Let me help. I could go out to the Huit-à-8. That’ll still be open.’
‘No, no,’ cried Theresa. ‘You won’t know what I need. I’ll have to go.’
She grabbed her wallet and pulled on her coat.
‘I’m so sorry to ask you this, Brian, but could you arrange the chairs and make it look a bit nice? I’ll be back as soon as I can. If anyone arrives . . . well . . . Sit them down.’
She ran up the hill to the little corner shop. It was tiny. She knew it would be hopeless in there, quite impossible to find ingredients that would make anything impressive. But there was no choice. It was here, or nothing.
She glanced along the shelves. They held rows and rows of tins. There was also a freezer full of frozen ready meals.
Theresa grabbed a basket and darted round the aisles. She started at the hardware section, which held mainly cleaning things, mops, bleach, dusters. The only pans she saw there were one very small, thin frying pan, a baking tray and a pile of shallow cake tins.
She put them all into her basket, along with some wooden spoons. What on earth could she make in those? Quiche? How boring.
She went next to the fresh produce. Mostly it consisted of wilted aubergines, most of them on the verge of being ready for the bin. There were some oranges, a few large apples and some very nice-looking tomatoes.
Her cooking dictum had always been that the most important thing to have in any kitchen was the best, most fresh, top-quality ingredients. Well, the tomatoes qualified, so she ladled all of them into bags. Tomatoes! What was she going to make? Salad du tomates? Tomato soup?
Tomatoes and cake tins!
She picked up an apple and inspected it.
Well, with cake tins and an apple she could make an apple tart. She snatched any fresh herbs that looked half decent before rushing up the other aisle and grabbing some rolls of pastry and, for good measure, a few more things from the small chiller compartment: butter, a few cheeses. Then she stormed the grocery shelves, picking out all the usual essentials that any cook kept in a kitchen: flour, olive oil, sugar, salt, baking soda, mustard, eggs. All the while her head was whirring through recipes she had read and dishes she had cooked or eaten.
She stopped in front of the cabinet of wines. She put six bottles into the basket and immediately it was both full and too heavy, so she staggered over to the counter left it there and grabbed another.
Once all the pupils – customers – attendees (what on earth would she call them?) arrived, everything would be all right, for a moment at least, if she passed round some wine and nibbles. Then, while everyone socialised, she could tell them that this first class was going to be more of an introduction, a taste of what she planned to do in the future classes.
She grabbed packets of crisps and nuts and got a large pot of olives.
She quickly paid and, laden with six heavy plastic bags, she staggered back to the flat.
When she got in, Brian was chatting to some very nice young girl with very long blonde hair and a very short skirt.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said the girl, standing up and smoothing her skirt down to prevent exposing herself. ‘I’m Jessica, by the way, and I’m awfully early, I do realise, but I’m new here, you see, and I had no idea that this address was so near to my hotel.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘On the map it looks miles away!’
‘No problem at all, Jessica.’ Theresa plonked the shopping bags on the floor and Brian took them and carried them through to the kitchen.
‘I hope you don’t mind waiting, Jessica. Do take a seat, while I make a few preparations. Would you like a glass of wine?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Jessica hesitated for a moment. ‘Whom do I pay?’
Theresa shuddered. She found the whole subject of asking for money deeply embarrassing.
‘If you like,’ Brian shrugged. ‘I can take care of that.’
‘Would you, Brian? And open a pair of bottles and sprinkle some crisps around the place.’
Theresa turned the oven on, then frantically opened the cupboards and, seeing how dusty they were, knew she had no choice but to don the rubber gloves and give them all a quick wipe before putting everything away.
She still had no idea what she was going to make during the class, but to soothe herself, she decided immediately to make some cheese straws. It would certainly get the welcoming smell of cooking into the room.
Using one of the wine bottles as a rolling pin, she rolled out the puff pastry, then spread it with mustard and grated some Cantal (the nearest French cheese she could find to Cheddar) on to it, before folding over, adding more mustard and cheese, and rolling again. She glanced over and saw Brian chatting merrily to Jessica as she cut the pastry into straws and laid them on a baking tray, ready to pop into the oven. She put some cayenne pepper into a bowl, ready to dip them all when they came out, to make matchsticks.
She looked at her watch.
Zero hour.
Only one taker! Two, if you counted Brian. Perhaps this was it. Maybe no one in Bellevue-Sur-Mer wanted to cook in public. But Carol and David had definitely said they were coming, hadn’t they? It was all Carol’s idea, for heaven’s sake.
Perhaps there was only the one sign out there with the wrong date, and Jessica would be her only taker tonight, and then Carol and David and a second batch of cookery students would turn up tomorrow.
She wondered which day Carol had put down. She hoped she would arrive soon. At least Carol always made things go with a swing.
While Theresa rinsed all the cake tins she wondered why Carol was so damned nice to her. Everyone here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer, really.
Everyone except Sian, of course. But Sian was clearly demented.
Whenever there was a pause in Jessica and Brian’s conversation, Theresa felt that the quiet was extremely disturbing.
‘You two all right?’ she asked, a tad too brightly. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
The waiting seemed so stilted. She wished she had a music player of some kind, or a radio, anything to break the awkward silence.
While the oven warmed up she made her way over to the others.
‘Have lots of people signed up?’ asked Jessica. ‘I’m really looking forward to picking up a few cookery tips. I can barely boil an egg.’
‘Quite a few people have said they’re coming,’ said Theresa, crossing her fingers and hoping for the best, but fearing that it would be just the three of them.
‘Oh, goody,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m really looking forward to meeting the locals. Have you been living here long?’
/> Both Brian and Theresa laughed.
‘I’m afraid we’re the newbies,’ said Theresa. ‘But hopefully some of the long-time residents will be coming along tonight.’
Seeing the other two sipping, Theresa poured herself a glass of wine.
‘I suppose all we can do is sit and wait for them to arrive.’
Theresa winced, and hoped that Jessica hadn’t seen it. With only two takers, the proceedings would be acutely embarrassing and at the same time she would have to continue on for years and years before she recouped.
She took a great gulp of wine and perched herself on the edge of a seat.
Sally had cooked a little dinner for herself and Faith. They were almost through the main course, accompanied by a bottle of local rosé. Pale pink with a light delicate flavour, the wine was deceptively intoxicating.
Sally had managed to draw Faith out of her shell, though she was cleverly steering away from anything to do with any of their children.
She told Faith about the writers and painters who had all settled in Bellevue-Sur-Mer and the surrounding hilltop towns and villages in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and about the lovely houses that were open for viewing. Sally’s favourite was Villa Kerylos, the mad dream of a Hellenophile who, in the 1900s, had recreated an Ancient Greek villa just down the road. It came complete with Ancient Greek furniture and few, if any, concessions to the modern age. Sally laughed as she told Faith how, when she had first gone round it, she had thought that if she were the man’s wife, and was expected to live in those conditions, she’d have made a mighty fuss, and, as soon as he was away, arranged for a comfy plush settee and a decent bath to be brought in.
‘Go on.’ Sally poured the remains of the bottle into Faith’s glass. ‘You have the wish.’
Faith’s face crumpled again.
‘Oh, thank you very much for being so kind.’ Faith downed the glass and closed her eyes. ‘Poor Alfie. I don’t know that I can have been a very good mother.’
‘No one thinks they have been a good mother, believe me. And from what I can see, the only people who imagine themselves to be Mother of the Year have truly awful children.’
‘I spoiled him, you see. I think that was the problem. I gave him too much. When his father died, that was the final straw. His father stood up to him, you see.’
Sally dreaded what was coming next – tales of paternal beatings, perhaps?
‘At his father’s funeral, Alfie came to me for money.’ Faith wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I couldn’t believe it. But he looked so forlorn, so troubled. I knew it must be something pretty serious, so there and then I wrote him a cheque.’
Sally had no idea how to respond, so she sat still.
‘That was the first cheque of many. I wanted him to make a life for himself, get a wife, settle down, start a family . . . but the girls came and went. And all the while he kept running back to me for money. Five thousand here, eight thousand there.’ Faith looked up from her glass. ‘I’m so sorry. You don’t want to hear all this. He’s a good boy, really. Just unlucky.’
The doorbell rang.
Sally excused herself and answered. It was Carol and Zoe.
‘I’m gathering people to come and support Theresa. You know, the one who bought the flat you fancied? She’s starting up a cookery club.’
Sally lowered her voice.
‘Another time, Carol. Tonight, I just can’t.’ She indicated towards Faith with her head. ‘Tricky. Hello, Zoe. My God, don’t tell me you’re going, too? I thought you disapproved of classes and clubs.’
‘I do. But Carol’s giving me a lift to the airport. I’m off to Montreux.’
‘To the music festival?’
‘Skiing,’ said Zoe. ‘As you know, Sally, I’m never happier than when I’m on the piste.’
‘Yes, Zoe. We’ve noticed.’
‘There’s no need to be bitter,’ said Zoe. ‘It’ll only end in wrinkles.’
Sally shrugged to Carol.
‘Well, Zoe, have a nice time, and give my love to the waterspout.’
‘That’s in Geneva.’
‘I’m sure you’ll make up for it.’
‘Girls, girls, girls!’ Carol laughed. ‘Break it up.’
Sally briefly considered turning to Faith, breaking the tense atmosphere and suggesting they go along with Carol to the Cookery Club, but realised this was not the time.
‘Maybe next one, Carol. We could both come. Sorry.’
Sally shut the door and returned to the table.
‘You see, Faith. It’s a lovely place, here in Bellevue-Sur-Mer, and there’s quite a local support group. I’m sure you’ll love it here, once you settle in.’
Sally uncorked another bottle and took some ice cream out of the freezer to thaw a little.
But she was intrigued to know more about Faith’s son.
‘Alfie? Is he an only child?’
‘Yes.’ Faith sighed. ‘We both doted on him, his father and I. Though his father was stricter than I ever was.’
‘Didn’t you say he works in the City? Surely that should bring in a decent wage. Bonuses. All the things that make people so envious.’
‘He never seems to last long anywhere. And on top of that he keeps investing in projects that fail.’
Sally wondered why that would affect his personal finances. Didn’t people who did that kind of thing lose the bank’s money, never their own?
‘Is he part of that financial sector that places bets on currencies and things?’
‘Oh, don’t ask me, Sally. I don’t understand any of his business stuff, I’m afraid.’
‘My daughter’s in business too. We should try to get them out here at the same time and they can talk money together!’
A short silence ensued. Sally topped up their glasses.
‘You know, from what I saw, Alfie seemed to be quite perky at the thought of you moving here. If you were just the money tree you think he thinks you are, he’d want you to stay in England. He’s obviously trying to make it up to you for past indiscretions.’
Faith made no comment.
‘With that lovely house he picked for you he’s probably making a hint. Boys are like that. They can’t ever say what they really mean. He must want to come over and stay with you, but doesn’t have a way of suggesting it.’
‘And your son?’ asked Faith. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s – well – he’s a traveller.’
Sally thought about her own children and how seldom she saw them. She looked at Faith and realised it could be wonderful to have someone who had similar worries, someone to share a confidence with.
‘I have to confide in you, Faith, that if one of them wanted to come out and stay here with me that would be my dream come true. My own two kids never come to see me. My daughter arrived yesterday and stayed for all of a minute. That’s all the time I seem to deserve.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Faith. ‘You are a lovely person.’
‘I don’t think my children think so,’ Sally replied. ‘But I suppose the thing we forget is that though we think of them as bound to us in some mystical way, they think of themselves as individuals, not connected much to us at all. Just as we did with our own parents.’
‘You’re right.’ Faith nodded. ‘I only really realised how much I loved my mother when she died, and I no longer had her to turn to. It must be the same for them.’
Faith took another gulp of wine.
‘I think Alfie changed when I wrote him out of my will.’
Sally resisted the urge to gasp. This whole story was unravelling like some Victorian sensation novel.
‘In the new will I left the lot to cancer research. That’s what took his father. Prostate cancer. I believed it would be for the best. I thought that, if Alfie didn’t think he’d have all our money to come into when I turned up my clogs, it would make him sit up and concentrate on work, and stop running to me for money, praying for me to die so that he could have the res
t.’
‘I’m sure that isn’t it.’ Sally could see how agitated Faith was, and feared for her. ‘If you’ve written him out of your will, surely it must be in his interest to keep you alive!’
‘Yes. And he certainly seems a lot more cheerful since I agreed to buy the house here. Like a new boy. He doesn’t ask for money, and has become again like the little boy I loved so much. That’s why I have to buy the house, even if it means I have to do without in order to do so.’
‘But surely if you bought somewhere smaller . . .’
Faith shook her head. ‘He chose it and I don’t like to upset him. You see, the last time I did that he . . .’
The sentence dangled. Faith swigged down the remains of her glass.
‘He . . . tried to kill himself.’
Sally found it hard to fill the ensuing silence. She wondered how she would react if Marianne or Tom had ever tried anything like that, the cry for help.
She said one word only.
‘How?’
‘Pills.’
‘Oh Lord, Faith. How awful. What did you refuse that made him do that?’
‘He wanted, no, I mean he “needed” one hundred and fifty thousand, right there and then. But that would have been half my savings – the money I need to live on. I couldn’t do it.’
‘I see.’
‘He took a bottle of paracetamol. Twenty pills. Luckily he said they’d gone straight through him, and all that happened was a nasty case of diarrhoea.’
Sally froze.
Alfie was not to be trusted.
She knew that this story of his had to have been made up – a tactical lie.
Sally knew all about the real dangers of paracetamol. In her early theatre days she had known a fellow actor who had accidentally overdosed on it. He’d only taken nine pills over a short period after some heavy dental work. The toothache went, and the boy had seemed fine for a few weeks. Every day he came into rehearsal, as usual. Then, during the technical rehearsal, he had suddenly keeled over. He was taken to hospital, where he died the next day.
In the few days between his death and the funeral the whole company had asked the same question: how?
Sally, being who she was, had gone into the hospital and asked for answers. A kind nurse had explained how easy it was to kill yourself with only a few paracetamol tablets. Once they got into your system they worked silently and, worse than that, irrevocably.