The Cook

by Harry Kressing

  Mr. Hill took a long puff on his cigar.

  “In six months,” he said, “I will give you a raise in wages if you prove to be satisfactory.”

  4

  “. . . In the old days I would have been called the house steward. But today I am the butler. My name is Maxfield. I am in charge of the resident staff—of all the resident staff.”

  Maxfield eyed Conrad coldly from across the narrow table.

  “By that I mean—in case you miss my point—you are directly answerable to me.” Again he paused, significantly.

  “For what?” Conrad said, returning his gaze.

  Maxfield’s lips tightened at the question, and then a small quiver appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “The housekeeper, Mrs. Wigton,” he continued, choosing not to hear, “is also answerable to me. If on occasion—say, a dinner party—you think you have need of her services in the kitchen, come to me. Do not go to her. I will pass on your request. Her services might be required elsewhere in the house.”

  Conrad glanced around the small room. It was very tidy, but all the furniture was old and ill-matched.

  “This is the housekeeper’s room,” Maxfield said. “Mrs. Wigton and I take our meals here—after the family has eaten.”

  “I suppose,” Conrad murmured, “my room is even smaller.—Where do the other servants eat?”

  Maxfield frowned. “The other members of the staff . . .” he began pompously, but did not continue. He had suddenly turned a sickly shade of gray, and putting both hands to his mouth, sought vainly to smother half a dozen spastic hiccups.

  “Indigestion?” Conrad asked.

  Maxfield nodded weakly. When he was able to talk again he explained that his was an extremely sensitive stomach and that certain foods simply did not agree with him. Paul, the temporary cook, knew this, but disregarded it completely. Indeed, only the day before, Maxfield had been forced to take to his bed after eating one of Paul’s vile concoctions.

  Maxfield proceeded with his briefing.

  The other members of the staff—Betsy, the maid; Rudolph, the footman; and Eggy, the kitchen boy—ate in the kitchen.

  Conrad would be responsible for all the food purchases. Whether he did the actual buying was up to him. Paul usually sent Eggy into town, or Rudolph when he could be spared.

  Conrad would keep a strict account of all expenditures.

  “And now I’ll show you your room.”

  At the rear of the mansion, wooden steps led up to the third floor.

  As Conrad had expected, his room was small. It contained a table, a chair and a narrow bed—about a foot too short for Conrad.

  Maxfield noticed the discrepancy and murmured that he would suggest that Master Harold speak to one of the carpenters at the mill.

  “Where is the kitchen?” Conrad asked.

  “We were just going there.”

  On the way Maxfield advised him that Paul was not only a poor cook—he was also a terrible gossip. Nothing he said should be believed. He exaggerated and made things up. Conrad would do well to turn a deaf ear.

  When they entered the kitchen Paul looked up from the stove—and dropped his ladle, so startled was he by the tall, gaunt figure in black.

  “This is the new cook,” Maxfield told Paul curtly. “And over there,” he continued to Conrad, “is Eggy, your kitchen boy. Eggy!”

  Eggy was slowly washing dishes. He turned around.

  “This is your new master,” Maxfield told him

  Eggy squinted across the kitchen, and grinned.

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s short-sighted and short-minded,” Maxfield said. “You can go back to your work now, Eggy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Eggy likes his work . . .”

  Smiling nervously, Paul started toward Conrad, evidently with some notion of shaking hands. But seeing Conrad look right through him and make no move to uncross his arms, he thought better of it.

  Paul was a youngish man with carroty-red hair and a snub nose. His skin had been bleached white by kitchen steams.

  “If you want to get your things—” Maxfield began, but Conrad ignored him, and brushing past Paul, who had to sidestep quickly, went over to the stove and examined the burners and the oven.

  In answer to his question, Paul said the stove was in perfect working order.

  Maxfield lingered by the door. Obviously he did not want to leave Conrad alone with Paul, and so Conrad began questioning Paul about the kitchen facilities. After about fifteen minutes the buzzer above the door sounded, and Maxfield left.

  Conrad then started asking Paul about the food he prepared for the Hills.

  No, he never made any pies or cakes. All pastries came from town. No, he never made any soups. The Hills didn’t like them. No, he never made any sauces—just a little meat gravy.

  Fish? No, the family never asked him to serve fish. They seemed to get enough of that at the Vale mansion. Brogg, the Vale cook, was famous for his fish dishes. No one was expected to compete with him. Moreover, the only really good fish came from the Vale lakes and was never available in the fish markets in Cobb—Brogg and Mr. Vale saw to that.

  “What do you prepare for breakfast?”

  Paul replied that it was always the same: ham and eggs, cereal, toast and coffee.

  “Lunch?”

  “Sandwiches. Betsy makes them—”

  “And for dinner?”

  Paul wrinkled his snub nose. “Mostly I give them a salad, meat, one vegetable, potatoes—boiled or mashed—and fruit or ice cream afterwards.”

  “Do you serve them that every night?” Conrad asked disgustedly.

  “Yes, sir,” Paul admitted. “It’s not that I can’t cook. I like to cook, but Mr. and Mrs. Hill don’t care for anything fancy. They always say they don’t want to be experimented on—”

  Conrad cut him off. “Do they have large appetites?”

  The young man answered with long, slow nods. “They eat like horses, sir.”

  Conrad took the ladle from Paul’s hand, dipped out a little of the broth in which the meat was cooking—and went to the sink and spat it into Eggy’s dishwater.—“And with the taste, apparently, of pigs.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s very good—”

  “Who interferes in the kitchen?”

  “Only Mrs. Wigton, the old hen. She tries to tell me how to do the cooking—she used to be a cook a long time ago.”

  “None of the family sticks his nose in the kitchen?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “Never?”

  “Well, after there have been guests for dinner Mrs. Hill usually stops by and says she appreciates all the work I did and hopes it won’t take me too long to get the kitchen cleaned up.”

  “And the daughter . . . ?” Conrad began looking in all the cupboards.

  “No. Ester is a real beauty but she’s haughty. I almost never see her. But Harold’s okay. He’s not like his sister. He’s friendly. Sometimes he drops in to ask me how I’m doing, and he smells whatever I have cooking and he always says it smells good. And sometimes he asks me questions, about how I made something . . .”

  “And Mr. Hill?”

  Paul yelled at Eggy to start peeling some potatoes, and then told Conrad that Mr. Hill dropped in about once a week to pass the time of day. “He’s very busy overseeing the mill and the estate,” he explained. “He doesn’t have much time for anything else. Harold helps him, but he doesn’t seem to be very interested—he stays at home most of the day doing nothing. I think Mr. Hill is disappointed . . .”

  Conrad had seen and heard enough. “Do you go to any tavern in Cobb?”

  Paul ran his hand through his red hair.

  “I don’t drink much, sir. But when I do I go to Ben’s. That’s where most of the domestics go. The only other place they go is to the White Door, but there are too many fights there.”

  “All right, I can reach you at Ben’s then,” Conrad said,
and stepping around Eggy, who was bent over a bucket of potatoes, he went out the kitchen door.

  5

  Later that night, after the servants and the family had retired and the house was quiet, Conrad went to the kitchen and warmed up some meat he had brought in his rucksack. While he ate he set some dough, and then he went outside and walked around to the side of the house, alert for the sound of dogs.

  The moon had come up, and far away the Prominence was outlined against the purple sky. Even from that distance its Gothic mass dominated the landscape.

  Conrad sat down on the damp grass and looked at the Prominence.

  He stayed there for about an hour, until he began to feel the chill; then he strolled once around the house and returned to his room.

  Conrad had just finished buttering the muffin pan when the kitchen door opened and a squat, sour-faced woman entered.

  Though Mrs. Wigton had been apprised by Maxfield of Conrad’s unusual appearance, she nonetheless started at the sight of him. She had pictured him in black, whereas now he was all in white, and wearing a great chef’s hat that made him look nine feet tall.

  But recovering: “I’m Mrs. Wigton,” she informed him, “the housekeeper.”

  “I’m Conrad, the cook,” he returned. “What do you want?”

  Flustered both by the question and the menacing coldness with which it was asked, Mrs. Wigton muttered something about just thinking they should get to know each other.

  Conrad replied there would be plenty of time for that if it should prove necessary, which he doubted. He added that if she had no other business with him she could return to her duties, and henceforth would be well advised to stay clear of the kitchen.

  Mortified, Mrs. Wigton huffed and declared she would speak to her mistress.

  A little later Eggy appeared. Conrad told him he was late. He wanted him in the kitchen by six-thirty, and asked where he slept. Eggy stuttered out that he slept in the shed behind the house, with Rudolph. Conrad said that if he didn’t get up on time he himself would wake him, rudely, and then he told Eggy to begin rewashing all the dishes—they were streaked and dirty. He should change the dishwater more often and use a little elbow grease.

  Eggy, who had begun to quake as Conrad berated him, set to with rather more of a will than he had evinced the evening before.

  By the time Betsy came in, breakfast was just about ready. Conrad made only one innovation in the meal Paul had described: instead of making toast he baked some muffins.

  Betsy looked the typical maid-of-all-work—a simple-minded slattern of indeterminate years. Her uniform was ill-fitting, the lace more gray than white, her cap without starch.

  “Wash your hands,” Conrad snapped, without so much as a glance at them, “twice, and with soap.”

  But Betsy just looked at the startling figure before her.

  Conrad pointed: “In the sink.”

  For a moment the girl continued to stand there, then curtsied gracelessly and ran to the sink.

  While she scrubbed her hands, Conrad asked her several questions about how she served—pointed and simple questions, requiring only a yes or no. He explained a few changes, made sure she understood, and then told her breakfast was ready.

  He looked her hands over before she left—except for the nails they were clean—and he told her not to put her fingers in the food, promising to cut them off if he ever caught her at it.

  Betsy, tray in hand, executed another curtsy . . .

  While the family ate, Conrad fixed breakfast for Mrs. Wigton and Maxfield. Mrs. Wigton got the same as the family, but for Maxfield he prepared a bland gruel and a very light custard.

  Betsy made several trips to the kitchen, curtsying each time until Conrad told her to stop.

  “Is the family eating heartily?” he asked her on one of her trips.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have they said anything?”

  “You mean, whether they like it?” Betsy asked, her eyes bright with comprehension. “No, sir. But I think they do, because they’re eating all of it . . .”

  “Like pigs,” Conrad muttered to himself.

  Betsy looked hungrily at the food Conrad had prepared for the housekeeper and the butler. “Should I take breakfast to the housekeeper’s room?” she asked timidly.

  “Do they usually eat breakfast before the family finishes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Betsy left, she nearly bumped into an ox-like figure in bright-red livery who suddenly loomed in the doorway, completely filling it.

  “I’m Rudolph,” the figure announced, looking at Conrad.

  Conrad told him to get out of the way so Betsy could get past him.

  Rudolph obliged quickly, coming into the kitchen.

  He showed no surprise at the sight of Conrad. Indeed, there was no discernable expression on his face—just a face with features, exceptional only in their bluntness. Brown hair straggled down over a brutishly low forehead.

  “I’m hungry,” Rudolph declared.

  Conrad almost smiled.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. What would you like to eat, my good man?”

  Rudolph hesitated—as if he were not used to being asked.

  “Anything,” he said at last; “whatever there is.”

  Conrad told him to sit in the corner, and then got out a large bowl. He had cooked the scraps left from last night’s dinner into a kind of mush; he ladled this into the bowl and handed it to Rudolph. Rudolph, after sniffing it, began eating ravenously.

  He served the same to Eggy.

  When Betsy came back he also gave her a bowl of the mush, but just as she started to eat the buzzer sounded.

  She returned at once, saying that Mrs. Hill would like to know if there were any more muffins . . .

  After breakfast a tall, statuesque woman came into the kitchen. “I’m Mrs. Hill,” she smiled, concealing her surprise at Conrad’s appearance. “I just wanted to tell you that your muffins were delicious.”

  Conrad inclined his head and thanked her.

  And before Mrs. Hill left: “Could we possibly have some more muffins for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

  6

  After paying a second visit to the three butchers, Conrad decided to buy his meat from Albert’s Butcher Shop, where he had thrown the leg of mutton on the floor.

  The butcher remembered him, and seeing Eggy trailing in his wake: “You are the Hills’ new cook? I’m glad to see you again.”

  Albert was a porcine-faced man with greedy eyes. His eyes were the principal reason Conrad had decided to patronize him.

  Conrad examined all the meat in the case and then demanded to be taken to the storage room. Albert said there was nothing back there that wasn’t in the case, but as Conrad turned to leave the shop he quickly relented.

  Conrad at last found something that would do, but Albert said it was impossible—it would mean ruining several other cuts from the large piece of meat. Conrad said it was either that or nothing.

  After Albert had cut it—with assistance from Conrad, who had taken the knife from his hand and outlined precisely the piece he wanted—he named the price of the meat. Conrad told him he wouldn’t pay it . . .

  “But after I’ve cut it—” the man whined.

  Conrad told him to eat it himself, and ordered Eggy to follow him.

  Albert followed him to the door, sniveling and protesting—and not till Conrad was already outside the shop did he ask Conrad how much he would pay. When Conrad told him Albert raised his eyes to heaven and began protesting with even greater vehemence. But Conrad replied that he would still be making a robber’s profit . . .

  While Albert wrapped the meat for him, Conrad decided on his own dinner and said he wanted two chicken breasts. Albert declared he did not sell chicken parts. Conrad retorted that he would then buy all of the poultry for the Hill household at one of Albert’s competitors’, and probably all of the meat too.

  “. . . and now I want some bones,”
Conrad said after they had settled on a considerably reduced price for the chicken breasts, “and several pounds of meat scraps—what I call meat scraps.”

  For the large package of bones and scraps, which Eggy shouldered along with the roast and chicken, Conrad paid nothing at all.

  Before Conrad had gone shopping that morning Maxfield had come into the kitchen, and it was immediately evident that his manner had greatly changed from the night before.

  He thanked Conrad for his special breakfast. He said it was very considerate of him.

  He also said that Mrs. Wigton had been terribly put out with Conrad, but that as she ate her breakfast her ire had slowly subsided. For one thing, her breakfast wasn’t cold, as it had usually been when Paul was the cook. And for another, it wasn’t just thrown on the plate in any which way. And for another, the muffins. She admitted they were delicious.

  “And I agree with her on that,” Maxfield said with a shy smile, the first he had vouchsafed Conrad. “She let me have a half of one . . .”

  Conrad looked disapproving. “I didn’t fix you a special breakfast to have you undo it by eating something not meant for you.”

  Conrad was probably the only person who had ever shown him any genuine concern, and the old butler hung his head sheepishly.

  “Now, there’s one thing,” Conrad continued; “those dogs . . .”

  He said he had been looking around near the edge of the woods for a place to plant some herbs when the dogs had suddenly appeared and set upon him. Whose responsibility were they?

  Maxfield said they were Master Harold’s dogs. They were vicious brutes, and friendly to no one but Harold. Only he could do anything with them but he really didn’t like them. They had been given to him by his godfather, Mr. Vale, and that was the only reason he kept them.

  “Who feeds them?”

  Maxfield replied that no one fed them. They hunted for their food.

  “What about the left-overs from the kitchen?”