There was a short pause. She was waiting for me to respond.
‘Oh, I see. So you don’t have, like, a recipe or anything?’
Grace put her hand to her mouth and laughed. ‘I’m so sorry, Gavin, I quite forgot,’ she said, waving her hands a little as if embarrassed. ‘I’m so used to everyone being able to cook I rudely forgot you might need some assistance.’
She opened a drawer in the unit behind her and extracted a silvery sheet. She placed it on a table and it glowed slightly. She brushed her fingers over it and it glowed with greater intensity.
‘Can you show me the Jalhaffa and nut roast recipe?’ she said. The sheet changed as she spoke and a text appeared on it.
‘Oh my God,’ I said. ‘What is that?’
Grace looked at me and then at the sheet. ‘Oh, it’s the house Book. I thought William would have explained it; did he not have one with you in the flying machine?’
‘He had some clever gizmo he called a map.’
Grace nodded as she spoke. ‘Yes, map, house Book, school Book, all much the same.’ She picked up the sheet and handed it to me. ‘There’s a recipe on The Book.’
I stared at it and sure enough, in a fully recognisable form there was a recipe on the sheet; it didn’t look like a screen as I might recognise it, it looked like a piece of quality paper. It didn’t send out bright light but it did glow in some way I couldn’t really discern.
Grace put a scarf around her shoulders and headed to the door. ‘There are to be nine people eating this evening – just tell The Book and it will adjust the amounts you need. If you can’t work anything out, ask The Book, that’s what it’s for. Good luck,’ she said with a smile that was at once slightly patronising and utterly beguiling.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and she was gone.
Yet again I sighed and shook my head. I was standing in the kitchen of a house, all incredibly normal. I was looking at a recipe on a piece of paper, the light I was reading by was a smooth rectangle set into the ceiling above me, the kettle boiled instantly, the tap turned on without any action, the power was free: everything was simultaneously the same and utterly, bafflingly different.
I started to look around the kitchen for the things I’d need to prepare a meal for nine people, wondering why I was cooking all of a sudden – who had decided that I should cook?
I stared at what Grace had called The Book. It was just a dormant piece of paper with a recipe on it, a recipe for nut roast.
‘What do I need to make a nut roast?’ I said to myself. The image on The Book changed – it was a plan of the kitchen I was standing in. It had highlighted the items I’d need, like a treasure map.
‘Oh cool,’ I said. Again the image changed and highlighted the fridge. A small text box showed the current temperature: three degrees Celsius.
I turned and worked out where the fridge was from the plan I could see on the book. I opened a panelled door and there was a fridge, very recognisable and full of all manner of produce, everything in glass jars and bottles.
‘Brilliant,’ I said and then closed my eyes as the light inside the fridge and the kitchen became dazzling and unbearable.
‘Blimey, what the fuck!’ I shouted. The light hurt my eyes; it was beyond dazzling, it was burning. I stumbled about, I suppose looking for a switch. ‘Turn it down or something!’ I screamed.
The light immediately dimmed. I stared around the kitchen in amazement. How on earth was I ever going to cook when there was such fun to be had with The Book? I assumed it was The Book that was registering my speech and acting upon it – I assumed that but I had no idea. How did it all operate? I hadn’t noticed the people in the house affecting anything when they spoke the day before. No one said ‘boil’ to the kettle when Grace had made me tea. I was getting more confused. I looked at The Book again, which had returned to the recipe page.
‘Dim,’ I said as I looked at the light panel in the ceiling. The light faded down. ‘Bright.’ And the light faded up. Simple I know, but it kept me amused for some time.
I eventually started cooking, found a large jar of hazelnuts in a cupboard that in turn led me to all the other ingredients I needed. The Jalhaffa was a kind of red jelly thing, a lump of some sort of wobbly material that I had to put in the blender with the nuts.
I turned to The Book. ‘What is Jalhaffa?’ I said to it very clearly. ‘Jalhaffa?’
The image changed instantly to a Wiki page. Blimey, Wikipedia had lasted over two hundred years! I read the text. ‘Jalhaffa is a protein rich nutripaste developed in India with a varying range of fat and carbohydrate levels. It contains over a hundred nutrient sources and every vitamin the human body requires for health and longevity.’
‘Fantastic,’ I said, then stood back a little as I saw a comment added to the bottom of the Wiki page. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself saying ‘fuck me’ and seeing that appear too.
I started to grind everything in a brilliant grinder thing that just seemed to know how to grind. I added the other ingredients, the fresh herbs I found in the small garden area at the side of the house. I was able to identify them by taking the floppy sheet book thing with me, comparing it to the images that appeared without my asking and picking the correct herbs.
Everything in the little herb garden was so neat and well cared for, no sign of rubbish or waste anywhere. Everything was fresh and clearly grown very locally. I opened no packets, no plastic bags; there were no polystyrene meat trays, fruit in plastic boxes, yoghurt pots. Well, there was no yoghurt, no cheese, no eggs, milk, butter or meat. Everything they ate, it seemed, was made from fruit, nuts, vegetables or pulses.
I did have to spend ten minutes looking at the first glass jar that had no obvious sealing system, just a glass lid. I twisted it, tried to prise the top off with my thumb: nothing.
‘Open,’ I said. The glass lid made a tiny hiss and released itself. There was no sign of a mechanism, no levers or sealing rings I could make out; it just opened. I shook my head and carried on.
I set the oven to 220 degrees by telling it to do just that, then put the nut roast in, checked the recipe and said, ‘Twenty-three minutes.’
‘Aha, good to see the chef hard at work,’ said Mitchell, his large frame filling the doorway. I did my best not to look surprised. Mitchell was the man who’d driven the electric tractor thing when I’d first landed. I didn’t hear him come in, and although he didn’t exactly shock me I did wonder how long he’d been watching me.
‘Hi there,’ I said as casually as I could. ‘I’m very worried you are going to get a rather sub-standard supper. I am no chef, believe me.’
Mitchell washed his hands at the sink. ‘Well, something smells very nice,’ he said. ‘Did Grace suggest you make a nut roast?’
I nodded. Mitchell smiled. ‘That’s what she got me to cook many years ago.’
I nodded, expecting to hear more. Mitchell poured himself a glass of water and sat down. There was no more.
I carried on chopping leaves for the salad as The Book had instructed. I was desperate to ask Mitchell about whoever it was who had previously come through the cloud, but thankfully, due to his quiet demeanour, I had the opportunity and time to think it through. I didn’t want to get Grace into trouble. Maybe this was a secret; maybe she had let slip something these strange, seemingly kind people really didn’t want me to know.
I carried on chopping, then felt slightly angry. What the hell, I had the right to know what was going on. My life had been torn to shreds. If they had done it, I wanted to know why, and equally importantly, how.
‘Mitchell, can I ask you something?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get Grace into trouble.’
‘Why should Grace get into trouble?’ There was no threat or anger in his question. It was just a question.
‘No, no, she shouldn’t. Absolutely not,’
I blathered. ‘But she told me something inadvertently I think.’
‘She wishes to have your child,’ said Mitchell.
Try and picture the silence. However long you may be able to imagine that silence, double it, triple it. I stood by the kitchen table with the knife I was using to chop salad leaves, utterly static. For a long, long time.
Mitchell was staring at me calmly for this long, long time. He eventually smiled. ‘Is that not what she was talking about?’ he asked.
‘She wants what?’ I said.
‘It might be difficult for you to understand. I have spoken to Paula about it and she explained to me how different things were in your time. I maybe did learn about it when I was a child but I fear I may not have listened as well as I should.’
‘I’m really confused – no, wait. I was already confused before you told me that. Now I’m more or less a full-on mental case. Grace wants to have my baby.’
‘It is, I admit, a little complicated,’ said Mitchell slowly. ‘I am sorry I said anything now.’
‘I don’t even know what you mean. Grace wants me to give her a baby. What does that mean? Why me? I’ve only just met her! We’ve barely spoken. What is going on?’
I admit I was a little scared of Mitchell. He had just told me in effect that his wife wanted to sleep with me. If she was his wife, or his partner – I hate that term – or his reciprocating breeding benefactor or whatever weird phrase the human race had come up with.
He sat forward in his chair and rested his chin on his clasped hands, staring at the floor for a while and then slowly up at me.
‘I fear I sometimes leave Grace a little bored, but I have to be true to myself,’ said Mitchell with careful thought.
I allowed my eyebrows to rise.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s very important and very difficult.’
So what was Mitchell’s relationship to Grace? Was he her brother, her teacher, her husband? I had no idea.
‘Why difficult?’ asked Mitchell.
‘I mean, remaining true to yourself. I find that difficult,’ I said.
‘Surely only in relation to others,’ said Mitchell, again speaking slowly and with care. ‘The pressure you feel from others to conform to what is perceived to be the norm, yes, that pressure can be difficult, but to be true to yourself, surely that is simple.’
Now he was getting a bit too philosophical and hippy-like for me. I hadn’t noticed if Mitchell had his hair tied into a ponytail but I wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘I say this because—’ Mitchell stopped. He seemed to be looking at his feet, well, his big boots. I was holding a spatula, standing in front of him feeling incredibly aware of what was taking place. He looked up at me. ‘Because I can see that although you come from another place, although the transition has been very difficult, distressing even, you have remained true to yourself. I admire that and I know Grace does too. I hope you can be true to her.’
I put the spatula on the table and shook my head.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Is Grace your wife?’
Mitchell smiled at me. ‘I know what that means to you. In some ways you would understand it as such. The easiest way to explain is that Grace and I have made a child. Henry. He is eleven years old.’
I nodded. Things were starting to clear.
‘But that was eleven years ago. Grace was a very young woman when she was with child, and she is still a young woman. I am not so young.’
‘I’ve got no idea how old anyone is here. How old are you?’
‘I’m sixty-eight years old,’ said Mitchell.
‘Get away!’ I squealed. ‘No way are you sixty-eight!’
Mitchell smiled warmly. ‘I am telling you the truth; I was born in 2143.’
I stared at Mitchell without embarrassment – he looked forty. He looked like a very fit forty-year-old: a thick head of hair, lean, strong, obviously very active. His teeth were good, his eyes were bright, he wasn’t stooped, and he didn’t limp or grunt when he moved.
‘Sixty-bloody-eight!’ I said again. ‘How on earth do you look like that when you’re sixty-eight?’
‘I have tried to live a good life,’ said Mitchell slowly. ‘I have tried to make things better. It’s not always easy. If it were easy, I believe I would not be trying hard enough.’
‘Mate, let me tell you, where I come from, you’ve been doing it right. Most sixty-eight year olds where I come from have more or less given up. They look thirty years older than you and they’ve retired.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Mitchell. At first I thought he was being sarcastic, but his face told me otherwise. He really didn’t know what that meant.
‘Retired – they’ve stopped working, sort of given up. They spend their days pottering about, reading, going on cruise holidays, gardening, taking up golf or watercolour painting. I don’t know what they do; I suppose they wait to die.’
‘That doesn’t sound very useful.’
‘No, it isn’t, well, it wasn’t. I take it people don’t retire now.’
Mitchell smiled gently and shook his head. He was staring at me rather intently. ‘I would ask that you be discreet, with Grace. Maybe you could not mention what I have said to you. I have no wish to be secretive or distrustful, but for the good of all, some sensitivity might be beneficial.’
I nodded as he spoke. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything,’ I said, not sure exactly what I wasn’t going to say.
The door from the garden opened and a young lad walked in. He smiled at me.
‘Hello, I’m Henry,’ he said.
‘Oh, hi there. I’m Gavin.’
The boy smiled again and left through another door into the rest of the house. Grace entered through the door from the garden carrying a basket filled with apples.
‘Hello, how’s it going?’ she asked. ‘Have we got anything to eat?’
I smiled, feeling very awkward. Suddenly I was in possession of information about this woman, her relationships, her children, and I wasn’t supposed to say anything.
‘It’s all fine, it’s just about ready,’ I said.
Grace smiled at me and put the basket down on the table. She didn’t seem to glance at Mitchell; her eyes were on me alone. ‘Well done you,’ she said. ‘Everyone should be here presently.’
13
I finally sat down at the only empty space at the kitchen table in Oak House and stared around at the small gathering. Seated directly opposite me was Grace; next to her was young Henry. He was staring at me intently and showed no sign of embarrassment or fear. Also present were Mitchell, William, Halam and Paula the historian. Sitting next to Paula was a middle-aged woman called Shazny and next to her a young and again startlingly tall young man called Tony.
‘So,’ I said with a big grin. ‘Shall we eat?’
‘Splendid!’ said William. ‘This all looks excellent.’
He was being kind. My nut and Jalhaffa roast was more of a nut pile; it hadn’t really held together. It looked rather more reminiscent of something a dog leaves in the middle of a carpet when it’s eaten something from the rubbish. A grey pile of chunky goo.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘This is the first time I’ve cooked for so many people.’
‘It is delicious,’ said Paula, who had already started forking big piles of grey mush into her mouth. ‘Truly.’
I noticed the young boy pushing chunks around with his fork. Grace leant over to him but she was looking at me and smiling. ‘Just don’t look at it, Henry. Close your eyes and eat – it truly is very tasty.’
The young lad Henry did as his mother told him and a small ripple of laughter went around the room. Henry continued chewing and looked around the table; he was clearly enjoying the attention.
‘Tastes good,’ he said eventually.
‘Horraaah!’ said William.
A discussion erupted without any obvious introduction about the fruit trees in the far orchard. It was clearly something that had been discussed before; I only took a little of it in. I know nothing about fruit trees but clearly there was a problem with some kind of blight. A fungus infection of the bud tips, according to William. He knew of remedies but he was worried – it was the first time they had seen it for many years.
I carried on eating and trying to look like I was interested. I was trying not to stare at Grace, which was very difficult. I occasionally glanced at Mitchell, who seemed to be fully engrossed in the fruit tree discussion.
Halam suddenly nudged me and I jumped. I think he may have nudged me as I was staring at Grace and wallowing in her beauty like a fool.
‘Gavin, I am so sorry,’ he said.
‘What?’ I asked, trying so hard to be casual and probably failing.
‘We are all sitting here chattering away about our petty day to day problems, eating this lovely food you have prepared.’
‘Great nut roast,’ said Tony, the young man at the end of the table.
Halam nodded. ‘Indeed, it’s exceptionally good, but we have been ignoring you, and indeed William has been full of stories of your flight today. Tell us, Gavin, now that you have seen more, what do you make of our humble island?’
I smiled as best I could, glancing around the table at the small group. They all appeared so benign – surely they weren’t up to anything underhand – but I felt vulnerable and anxious in a way I had never experienced before.
‘Well, I don’t know where to start. It’s all changed beyond recognition,’ I said, taking a drink of some kind of delicious elderflower juice. ‘I cannot begin to tell you what it was like.’
‘Well, we have some idea of what it was like,’ said Paula, who seemed even bigger in the small kitchen. ‘We have an enormous amount of archive material, as I was saying to you earlier.’
News from Gardenia Page 11