‘Well, just now I’m a sort of temporary Cook,’ said The Prawn, whose manners were far better than William’s.
‘Temp’ry! Temp’ry!’ the stranger puffed. ‘Can’t be a temp’ry Cook any more’n you can be a temp’ry Parson. Not so much. Cookin’s cookin’! Let’s see your notions of cookin’.’
William had never heard any one address The Prawn in these tones, and somehow it cheered him. In the silence that followed he turned on his face and wriggled unostentatiously through the fern, as a Scout should, till he could see that bold man without attracting The Prawn’s notice. And this, too, was the first time that William had ever profited by the instruction of his Scoutmaster or the example of his comrades.
Heavenly sights rewarded him. The Prawn, visibly ill at ease, was shifting from one sinewy leg to the other, while an enormously fat little man with a pointed grey beard and arms like the fins of a fish investigated a couple of pots that hung on properly crutched sticks over the small fire that William had lighted in the cooking-place. He did not seem to approve of what he saw or smelt. And yet it was the impeccable Prawn’s own cookery!
‘Lor’!’ said he at last after more sniffs of contempt, as he replaced the lid. ‘If you hot up things in tins, that ain’t cookery. That’s vittles4 – mere vittles! And the way you’ve set that pot on, you’re drawing all the nesty wood-smoke into the water. The spuds won’t take much harm of it, but you’ve ruined the meat. That is meat, ain’t it? Get me a fork.’
William hugged himself. The Prawn, looking exactly like his namesake well boiled, fetched a big fork. The little man prodded into the pot.
‘It’s stew!’ The Prawn explained, but his voice shook.
‘Lor’!’ said the man again. ‘It’s boilin’! It’s boilin’! You don’t boil when you stew, my son; an’ as for this’ – up came a grey slab of mutton – ‘there’s no odds between this and motor-tyres. Well! Well! As I was sayin’ –’ He joined his hands behind his globular back and shook his head in silence. After a while, The Prawn tried to assert himself.
‘Cookin’ isn’t my strong point,’ began The Prawn, ‘but –’
‘Pore boys! Pore boys!’ the stranger soliloquised, looking straight in front of him. ‘Pore little boys! Wicked, I call it. They don’t ever let you make bread, do they, my son?’
The Prawn said they generally bought their bread at a shop.
‘Ah! I’m a shopkeeper meself. Marsh, the Baker here, is me. Pore boys! Well! Well! … Though it’s against me own interest to say so, I think shops are wicked. They sell people things out o’ tins which save ’em trouble, an’ fill the ’ospitals with stummick-cases afterwards. An’ the muck that’s sold for flour … ’ His voice faded away and he meditated again. ‘Well! Well! As I was sayin’ – Pore boys! Pore boys! I’m glad you ain’t askin’ me to dinner. Goodbye.’
He rolled away across the fern, leaving The Prawn dumb behind him.
It seemed to William best to wriggle back in his cover as far as he could, ere The Prawn should call him to work again. He was not a Scout by instinct, but his uncle had shown him that when things went wrong in the world, someone generally passed it on to someone else. Very soon he heard his name called, acidly, several times. He crawled out from the far end of the fern-patch, rubbing his eyes, and The Prawn re-enslaved him on the spot. For once in his life William was alert and intelligent, but The Prawn paid him no compliments, nor when the very muddy Pelicans came back from the bridging did The Prawn refer in any way to the visit of Messrs. E. M. Marsh & Son, Bakers and Confectioners in the village street just outside the Park wall. Nor, for that matter, did he serve the Pelicans much besides tinned meats for their evening meal.
To say that William did not sleep a wink that night would be what has been called ‘nature-faking’;5 which is a sin. His system demanded at least nine hours’ rest but he lay awake for quite twenty minutes, during which he thought intensely, rapidly, and joyously. Had he been asked he would have said that his thoughts dealt solely with The Prawn and the judgment that had fallen upon him; but William was no psychologist. He did not know that hate – raging hate against a too-badged, too-virtuous senior – had shot him into a new world, exactly as the large blunt shell is heaved through space and dropped into a factory, a garden, or a barracks by the charge behind it. And, as the shell, which is but metal and mixed chemicals, needs the mere graze on the fuse to spread itself all over the landscape, so did his mind need but the touch of that hate to flare up and illuminate not only all his world, but his own way through it.
Next morning, something sang in his ear that it was long since he had done good turns to any one except his uncle, who was slow to appreciate them. He would amend that error; and the more safely since The Prawn would be off all that day with the Troop on a tramp in the natural history line, and his place as Camp Warden and Provost-Marshal would be filled by the placid and easy-going Walrus, whose proper name was Carpenter,6 who never tried for badges, but who could not see a rabbit without going after him. And the owner of the Park had given full leave to the Pelicans to slay by any means, except by gun, any rabbits they could. So William ingratiated himself with his Superior Officer as soon as the Pelicans had left …
No, the excellent Carpenter did not see that he needed William by his side all day. He might take himself and his bruised foot pretty much where he chose. He went, and this new and active mind of his that he did not realise, accompanied him – straight up the path of duty which, poetry tells us, is so often the road to glory.7
He began by cleaning himself and his kit at seven o’clock in the morning, long before the village shops were open. This he did near a postern gate with a crack in it, in the Park wall, commanding a limited but quite sufficient view of the establishment of E.M. Marsh & Son across the street. It was perfect weather, and about eight o’clock Mr Marsh himself in his shirt-sleeves rolled out to enjoy it before he took down the shutters. Hardly had he shifted the first of them when a fattish Boy Scout with a flat face and a slight limp laid hold of the second and began to slide it towards him.
‘Well! Well!’ said Mr Marsh. ‘Ah! Your good turn, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said William briefly.
‘That’s right! Handsomely now, handsomely,’ for the shutter was jamming in its groove. William knew from his uncle that ‘handsomely’ meant slowly and with care. The shutter responded to the coaxing. The others followed.
‘Belay!’ said Mr Marsh, wiping his forehead, for, like William, he perspired easily. When he turned round William had gone. The Movies had taught him, though he knew it not, the value of dramatic effect. He continued to watch Mr Marsh through the crack in the postern – it was the little wooden door at the end of the right of way through the Park – and when, an hour or so later, Mr Marsh came out of his shop and headed towards it, William retired backwards into the high fern and brambles. The manoeuvre would have rejoiced Mr Hale’s heart, for generally William moved like an elephant with her young. He turned up, quite casually, when Mr Marsh had puffed his way again into the empty camp. Carpenter was off in pursuit of rabbits, with a pocket full of fine picture-wire. It was the first time William had ever done the honours of any establishment. He came to attention and smiled.
‘Well! Well!’ Mr Marsh nodded friendlily. ‘What are you?’
‘Camp-Guard,’ said William, improvising for the first time in his life. ‘Can I show you anything, sir?’
‘No, thank’ee. My son was a Scout once. I’ve just come to look round at things. No one tryin’ any cookin’ to-day?’
‘No, sir.’
‘’Bout’s well. Pore boys! What you goin’ to have for dinner? Tinned stuff?’
‘I expect so, sir.’
‘D’ you like it?’
‘Used to it.’ William rather approved of this round person who wasted no time on abstract ideas.
‘Pore boys! Well! Well! It saves trouble – for the present. Knots and splices in your stummick afterwards – in ’ospital.’ Mr Marsh looked at
the cold camp cooking-place and its three big stones, and sniffed.
‘Would you like it lit?’ said William suddenly.
‘What for?’
‘To cook with.’
‘What d’you know about cookin’?’ Mr Marsh’s little eyes opened wide.
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘What makes you think I’m a cook?’
‘By the way you looked at our cooking-place,’ the mendacious William answered. The Prawn had always urged him to cultivate habits of observation. They seemed easy – after you had observed the things.
‘Well! Well! Quite a young Sherlock, you are. Don’t think much o’ this, though.’ Mr Marsh began to stoop to rearrange the open-air hearth to his liking.
‘Show me how and I’ll do it,’ said William.
‘Shove that stone a little more to the left then. Steady – So! That’ll do! Got any wood? No? You slip across to the shop and ask them to give you some small brush-stuff from the oven.8 Stop! And my apron, too. Marsh is the name.’
William left him chuckling wheezily. When he returned Mr Marsh clad himself in a long white apron of office which showed so clearly that Carpenter from far off returned at once.
‘H’sh! H’sh!’ said Mr Marsh before he could speak. ‘You carry on with what you’re doing. Marsh is my name. My son was a Scout once. Buffaloes – Hendon way. It’s all right. Don’t you grudge an old man enjoying himself.’
The Walrus looked amazedly at William moving in three directions at once with his face aflame.
‘It’s all right,’ said William. ‘He’s giving us cooking-lessons.’ Then – the words came into his mouth by themselves – ‘I’ll take the responsibility.’
‘Yes, yes! He knew I could cook. Quite a young Sherlock he is! You carry on.’ Mr Marsh turned his back on The Walrus and despatched William again with some orders to his shop across the road. ‘And you’d better tell ’em to put ’em all in a basket,’ he cried after him.
William returned with a fair assortment of mixed material, including eggs, two rashers of bacon, and a packet of patent flour, concerning which last Mr Marsh said things no baker should say about his own goods. The frying-pan came out of the trek-cart, with some other oddments, and it was not till after it was greased that Mr Marsh demanded William’s name. He got it in full, and it produced strange effects on the little fat man.
‘An’ ’ow do you spell your middle name?’ he asked.
‘G-l-a-double-s-e,’ said William.
‘Might that be your mother’s?’ William nodded. ‘Well! Well! I wonder now! I do wonder. It’s a great name. There was a Sawyer in the cooking line once, but ’e was a Frenchman and spelt it different. Glasse9 is serious though. And you say it was your ma’s?’ He fell into an abstraction, frying-pan in hand. Anon, as he cracked an egg miraculously on its edge: ‘Whether you’re a descendant or not, it’s worth livin’ up to, a name like that.’
‘Why?’ said William, as the egg slid into the pan and spread as evenly as paint under an expert’s hand.
‘I’ll tell you some day. She was a very great cook – but she’d have come expensive at to-day’s prices. Now, you take the pan an’ I’ll draw me own conclusions.’
The boy worked the pan over the level red fire with a motion that he had learned somehow or other while ‘boiling up’ things for his uncle. It seemed to him natural and easy. Mr Marsh watched in unbroken silence for at least two minutes.
‘It’s early to say – yet,’ was his verdict. ‘But I ’ave ’opes. You ’ave good ’ands, an’ your knowin’ I was a cook shows you ’ave the instinck. If you ’ave got the Touch – mark you, I only say if – but if you ’ave anything like the Genuine Touch, you’re provided for for life. An’ further – don’t tilt her that way! – you ’old your neighbours, friends, and employers in the ’ollow of your ’and.’
‘How do you mean?’ said William, intent on his egg. ‘Everything which a man is depends on what ’e puts inside ’im,’ was the reply. ‘A good cook’s a King of men – besides being thunderin’ well off if ’e don’t drink. It’s the only sure business in the whole round world; and I’ve been round it eight times, in the Mercantile Marine, before I married the second Mrs M.’
William, more interested in the pan than Mr Marsh’s marriages, made no reply. ‘Yes, a good cook,’ Mr Marsh went on reminiscently, ‘even on Board o’ Trade allowance, ’as brought many a ship to port that ’ud otherwise ’ave mut’nied on the ’igh seas.’
The eggs and bacon mellowed together. Mr Marsh supplied some wonderful last touches and the result was eaten, with The Walrus’s help, sizzling out of the pan and washed down with some stone ginger-beer from the convenient establishment of Mr E. M. Marsh outside the Park wall.
‘I’ve ruined me dinner,’ Mr Marsh confided to the boys, ‘but I ’aven’t enjoyed myself like this, not since Noah was an able seaman. You wash up, young Sherlock, an’ I’ll tell you something.’
He filled an ancient pipe with eloquent tobacco, and while William scoured the pan, he held forth on the art and science and mystery of cooking as inspiredly as Mr Jorrocks, Master of Foxhounds,10 had lectured upon the Chase. The burden of his song was Power – power which, striking directly at the stomach of man, makes the rudest polite, not to say sycophantic, towards a good cook, whether at sea, in camp, in the face of war, or (here he embellished his text with personal experiences) the crowded competitive cities where a good meal was as rare, he declared, as silk pyjamas in a pig-sty. ‘An’ mark you,’ he concluded, ‘three times a day the ’aughtiest and most overbearin’ of ’em all ’ave to come crawling to you for a round belly-full. Put that in your pipe and smoke it out, young Sherlock!’
He unloosed his sacrificial apron and rolled away.
The Boy Scout is used to strangers who give him good advice on the smallest provocation; but strangers who fill you up with bacon and eggs and ginger-beer are few.
‘What started it all?’ The Walrus demanded.
‘Well, I can’t exactly say,’ William answered, and as he had never been known to give a coherent account of anything, The Walrus returned to his wires, and William lay out and dreamed in the fern among the cattle-flies. He had dismissed The Prawn altogether from his miraculously enlarging mind. Very soon he was on the High Seas, a locality which till that instant had never appealed to him, in a gale, issuing bacon and eggs to crews on the edge of mutiny. Next, he was at war, turning the tides of it to victory for his own land by meals of bacon and eggs that brought bemedalled Generals in troops like Pelicans, to his fireplace. Then he was sustaining his uncle, at the door of an enormous restaurant, with plates of bacon and eggs sent out by gilded commissionaires such as guard the cinemas, while his uncle wept with gratitude and remorse, and The Prawn, badges and all, begged for the scraps.
His chin struck his chest and half waked him to fresh flights of glory. He might have the Genuine Touch, Mr Marsh had said it. Moreover, he, The Mug, had a middle name which had filled that great man with respect. All the 47th Postal District should ring with that name, even to the exclusion of the racing-news, in its evening papers. And on his return from camp, or perhaps a day or two later, he would defy his very uncle and escape for ever from the foul business of French-polishing.
Here he slept generously and dreamlessly till evening, when the Pelicans returned, their pouches full of samples of uncookable vegetables and insects, and The Walrus made his report of the day’s Camp doings to the Scoutmaster.
‘Wait a minute, Walrus. You say The Mug actually did the cooking.’
‘Mr Marsh had him under instruction, sir. But The Mug did a lot of it – he held the pan over the fire. I saw him, sir. And he washed up afterwards.’
‘Did he?’ said the Scoutmaster lightly. ‘Well, that’s something.’ But when The Walrus had gone Mr Hale smote thrice upon his bare knees and laughed, as a Scout should, without noise.
He thanked Mr Marsh next morning for the interest he had shown in the camp, and suggested (this was while
he was buying many very solid buns for a route-march) that nothing would delight the Pelicans more than a few words from Mr Marsh on the subject of cookery, if he could see his way to it.
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Marsh. ‘I’m worth listenin’ to. Well! Well! I’ll be along this evening, and, maybe, I’ll bring some odds an’ ends with me. Send over young Sherlock-Glasse to ’elp me fetch ’em. That’s a boy with ’is stummick in the proper place. Know anything about ’im?’
Mr Hale knew a good deal, but he did not tell it all. He suggested that William himself should be approached, and would excuse him from the route-march for that purpose.
‘Route-march!’ said Mr Marsh in horror. ‘Lor’! The very worst use you can make of your feet is walkin’ on ’em. Gives you bunions. Besides, ’e ain’t got the figure for marches. ’E’s a cook by build as well as instinck. ’Eavy in the run, oily in the skin, broad in the beam, short in the arm, but, mark you, light on the feet. That’s the way cooks ought to be issued. You never ’eard of a really good thin cook yet, did you? No. Nor me. An’ I’ve known millions that called ’emselves cooks.’
Mr Hale regretted that he had not studied the natural history of cooks, and sent William over early in the day.
Mr Marsh spoke to the Pelicans for an hour that evening beside an open wood fire, from the ashes of which he drew forth (talking all the while) wonderful hot cakes called ‘dampers’; while from its top he drew off pans full of ‘lobscouse’, which he said was not to be confounded with ‘salmagundi’,11 and a hair-raising compound of bacon, cheese, and onions all melted together. And while the Pelicans ate, he convulsed them with mirth or held them breathless with anecdotes of the High Seas and the World, so that the vote of thanks they passed him at the end waked all the cows in the Park. But William sat wrapped in visions, his hands twitching sympathetically to Mr Marsh’s wizardry among the pots and pans. He knew now what the name of Glasse signified; for he had spent an hour at the back of the baker’s shop reading in a brown-leather book dated AD 1767 and called The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy by a Lady, and that lady’s name, as it appeared in facsimile at the head of Chap. I, was ‘H. Glasse’. Torture would not have persuaded him (or Mr Marsh), by that time, that she was not his direct ancestress; but, as a matter of form, he intended to ask his uncle.
The Man Who Would Be King: Selected Stories of Rudyard Kipling Page 68