by Prue Leith
‘Don’t be such a snob! As long as it tastes and looks terrific, that will do. And it will if your guys cook it.’ Kate plonked a big book on the kitchen worktop, and started to page through it. ‘Let’s think about the look of it all.’ She stopped at a picture of a market spice-seller, his spices piled high in perfect pyramids on dishes laid out on the pavement. ‘I want this sort of rich, multi-coloured look. Lots of brown, orange and saffron, yellow and ochre.’
‘OK, OK, I get it. The advertising equivalent of authentic.’ He hugged Kate round the shoulders and said. ‘Only teasing. It will be great. Only don’t call it British Raj.’
‘Why not? Nostalgia is the big thing now.’
‘Maybe for the Brits. Maybe not for the Indians.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, we can lend you some Indian stuff: I’ve got those two big elephants, you know the ones, covered in mosaic and mirror. They’d look good on the buffet. We could hire silver thalis for the guests to eat off, and Talika has a chestful of Indian fabrics, saris and silks. Great colours.’
‘Thanks, Amal. This has got to be the best Indian party ever seen in the famous Durbar Court. I want to pull all the stops out and impress Oliver.’
Amal looked at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘You think a lot of our grandee Foreign Secretary don’t you? Fancy him, do you?’
‘Of course not!’ Kate punched his arm lightly. ‘But I like him. He’s great, not a bit like he looks and he’s not a grandee at all. Last time, he helped me carry the rubbish out to the car at midnight.’
‘Maybe he fancies you.’
Kate burst out laughing. ‘Not a chance. He’s got a wife and two horsy daughters that he simply adores.’
Pat and Hank were finally going home after Easter, and Kate could hardly wait. She loved her mother and knew she’d miss her once she’d gone, but she spoiled Toby so. The boy had begun to believe he was the centre of the universe and Kate was forever biting her tongue to avoid an argument about sweets or toys.
But more than that, Kate wanted her house back. She longed for her old office, with no Hank on her computer, and for the ordered separation between domestic and professional catering that she had managed before her mother invaded her kitchen. And she wanted Toby to sleep quietly beside her again.
She reminded herself daily that the house belonged to her mother and that she and Toby were lucky to have it. For two weeks she had managed to repress her protests, or most of them, and to concentrate on the pleasures of a proper family to feed, and on the luxury of affection and company and help around the place. But now she just wanted a return to their old life.
One day Pat was dusting the sitting room while Kate was trying to work at her makeshift office.
‘Kate,’ said Pat, ‘I’m sorry to go on about it, but why won’t you come to Arizona in the summer? You know you could do with a holiday and Toby could get to know his cousins.’
It was an ongoing discussion, but Kate could not resume it now. She closed her eyes briefly to dispel the irritation. This was the third time her mother had interrupted her this morning, once to enquire about the whereabouts of the furniture polish, once to show her photos of Toby at the zoo, now this. It was hard not to complain. It wasn’t only having to start again at the top of the list of figures she was adding up, but her mum’s persistence about the Arizona holiday got to her. She was like a terrier with a bone.
Kate looked up and said, her voice as relaxed as she could make it, ‘Mum, we agreed to talk about this at the weekend, didn’t we? I’ve got to finish this in fifteen minutes and then I’m out of here. I’ve a meeting. I told you. Remember?’
Pat put both hands in the air, her yellow duster waving like a flag of surrender. ‘OK, OK, I’m so sorry, darling.’
Before dawn on the Thursday before Easter, Kate crept out of the house and into her van. As she turned the ignition she thought, please don’t break down now, it’s three in the morning and I haven’t had any coffee.
Happily, on the second attempt, the engine coughed into life and Kate set off for the flower market at New Covent Garden. She was buying for a big wedding party on Easter Saturday. As the flowers were to be simple pots or jugs of spring blooms, Kate, in a flush of enthusiasm, had decided to do them herself rather than subcontract to a professional florist. Why not, she’d thought, it’s hardly difficult, and I could do with the money.
Now she thought she must have been mad. The catering for this wedding would provide quite enough stress without this. She negotiated the market barriers, paid the attendant, parked her car and made for the main warehouse.
Still feeling half asleep, and desperate for coffee, she bought a paper cup of some not-altogether-disgusting hot drink from the café and carried it into the enormous market where, as always, the scent of millions upon millions of the freshest flowers hit her like a blast of heaven.
Suddenly wide awake and glad she’d come, Kate walked through the aisles doing a preliminary recce: she’d too often made the mistake of buying the first flowers she liked, only to find something more inspiring or radically cheaper later. Since the flowers had to stay fresh till Saturday, she would buy everything in bud. The weather was warm for April and she didn’t want her tulips extravagantly open or the narcissi drying at the edges by the time their big moment came.
One of the stalls selling florist’s supplies of ribbons and wrapping paper, tubs, vases and buckets, also had a stack of cheap straw hats. Puzzled, Kate asked, ‘Why beach hats? And it’s a bit early for summer, isn’t it?’
‘Nah. Them’s Easter bonnets. Kids decorate them at school and stuff.’
Not at Toby’s school, she thought, but what a great idea, we’ll do it at his birthday party. She bought a pile of the hats, a collection of ribbons and some narrow buckets for holding her flowers until needed.
Kate walked rapidly, darting from stall to stall selecting tulips, jonquils, flat-faced narcissi, hyacinths and giant snowflakes, multi-hued primulas and polyanthus. She bought a few extra of each for Toby’s party.
She had forgotten how much she liked the flower market. It wasn’t just that it smelled so good, but the stall holders were full of banter, calling her ‘Darling’ or ‘Princess’ which, though she knew the words were meaningless, nevertheless made her feel merry and attractive. It was a lot more fun than shopping in the Cash and Carry.
But it sure wasn’t quick. If she wanted very little from one stall, say a single box of jonquils, she would pay for it and then carry it all the way to her van. But mostly she paid for her purchases and asked the stall holder to keep them while she found a porter with a barrow. Then they’d do the rounds, up and down the aisles, Kate studying her shopping list and receipts and praying she wasn’t forgetting anything. They’d load up the barrow and trundle the boxes to the car park. Maybe, she thought, florists deserved what they charged.
By the time she was on her last trip, some of the stall holders were packing up and the area immediately outside the big shed was strewn with odd bunches of abandoned flowers. Kate watched a huge van drive over a perfect bunch of purple anemones. She winced at the thought of the delicate petals being smeared into the dirt. On an impulse she darted forward, dodging moving vans as she ran over to scoop up two bunches lying undamaged next to their squashed neighbour. She cradled them in her arm, pleased with the success of her mercy dash and the fact that she’d got two free bunches.
* * *
Saturday dawned bright and sunny and the wedding reception went well. Kate’s arrangements of mixed spring flowers, lightened by tiny twigs of yellow-leafed spring willow, were a big hit. She had bought small, cheap, deep-blue teapots, stuck gold heart-shaped stickers all over them and then filled them with a mix of all the flowers. There were three pots to a big round table and they looked charming.
At the end of the reception, Kate, as usual, offered the flowers to the hosts, the guests, her staff, anyone who wanted them. She hated the thought of fresh flowers being junked because no one could be bothered to carry them home.
&
nbsp; But there were still a lot left over, which she rescued for herself. She would add them to the flowers she’d saved for Toby’s party.
The Easter Monday sky was a pale cloudless blue. Kate had chosen Kew for their outing, an occasion that was to double as Toby’s birthday treat and a farewell treat for Pat and Hank, who were going home to Arizona immediately after Easter. It would be a chance to show Hank picture-book scenes of English spring.
Kate was glad to see Hank so impressed. Kew was at its glorious best, with clouds of cherry blossom just out and swathes of tulips in the grass. The trees were in tiny shiny leaf and the grass so bright in the sun it made you narrow your eyes.
Toby had invited six of his friends. Talika came too, and it took all of them to carry the picnic boxes, rugs, coats, boots, flowers and straw hats to their chosen picnic spot. By one o’clock they had staked their claim and spread two thick picnic rugs on the slightly damp grass. Kate stayed behind to sort out the lunch while the others set off to explore. As the three grownups walked sedately together the children ran excitedly in all directions, never going too far, always returning to safety before setting off again. Like puppies off the leash, she thought.
They had party crackers and paper hats, and lunch was entirely hand-held. There were tortilla chips, biscuits, strips of naan bread, and crudités to dip into or spread with taramasalata, cream cheese, hummus, pesto, peanut butter and fish paste. There were also mini sausages and fingers of cheese.
‘Kate, when did you do all this?’ said Pat. ‘I could have helped you.’
‘I didn’t, the whole lot came from Ocado. Ordered online and delivered. I decanted everything out of their containers and into dishes this morning. I couldn’t quite bring myself to lay out a picnic in packets and plastic tubs.’
‘Eureka!’ Pat turned to Hank. ‘I do think this is the first time my daughter has ever bought ready-mades!’
‘Well, I owe my conversion to you,’ said Kate. ‘If you hadn’t fed the foxes with my coq au vin, I might never have realised that most of the world can’t tell the difference.’
After ice creams and coffee, both bought by Hank from the café, Kate laid out her boxes of flowers, hats, ribbons, sticky tape, and scissors. ‘OK, then,’ she said, ‘we’re all going to make Easter bonnets and I’ve got prizes for the best ones. What you have to do is help yourselves to any of these flowers and ribbons, and decorate one of the hats with them. Any way you like.’
She cut a length of elasticated ribbon, tied it round a hat and tucked a little bunch of primulas into it. ‘Like that,’ she said, ‘only I’m sure you can do it better.’
Pretty soon all of them, adults included, were industriously decorating hats. The children loved it, and Toby, who had groaned and complained that Easter bonnet making was boring and too girly, changed his mind and squabbled happily with Sanjay over who got the red polyanthus and the bright blue hyacinths. With a bit of help from Hank, Toby produced a hat circled in concentric rings of red, white and blue.
Kate was enjoying herself. An afternoon with three generations of family was, she thought, the sort of life she longed for Toby to have.
When everyone had done a hat, Pat took photographs of them one by one to email to the parents. She got a passing stranger to take a picture of them all together, wearing their completed bonnets, standing under a white cherry tree.
Then Hank and Kate did the judging, making sure each child won a category: funniest bonnet, prettiest bonnet, most original bonnet, etc. Toby won most patriotic, which had to be explained to him.
Hank and Talika took the children off to the Xstrata Treetop Walkway while Kate and her mother cleared up the mess of cut ribbons and paper hats, of discarded anoraks and caps, and made two trips to carry everything back to the car.
Walking back to meet the others, Pat said, ‘Darling, have you thought about Arizona?’
‘Mum, I just cannot afford it.’
‘But darling, it will cost very little. If we buy the tickets now, we’ll get good deals and you’ll be staying with us …’
‘I know, Mum. I can afford the tickets, but I cannot take the time. I can’t afford to have no income, and not be here to land contracts. Nothing Fancy has only really been going five years and I don’t dare turn down anything. It’s still too fragile to trust it to other people. That’s the problem.’
Kate watched her mother’s eager face change to anxiety and then fall, making her at once look heavier and older, defeated. Pat dropped her gaze to her shoes, saying nothing.
Suddenly Kate could not bear to disappoint her.
‘Maybe Toby could come to you on his own,’ she suggested. ‘I could travel with him, maybe stay the weekend, then leave him with you?’
Pat’s face lifted as rapidly as it had fallen a few seconds before. She looked deeply into Kate’s face, smiling, close to tears.
‘Darling, that would be so wonderful. We’d give him such a great time.’
As Kate looked over the shoulder of her mother’s enveloping hug, she thought, Oh God, what have I done? How will I survive without him?
At four-thirty they were all at the Victoria Terrace Café for tea. The table was decorated with balloons and the centrepiece was Toby’s birthday cake, made by Talika in the form of a long green snake with black eyes and forked tongue. Pat was busy taking more pictures when a man wearing the blue uniform of Kew Gardens appeared.
‘Which of you is in charge here?’ He looked across the table to Kate, then to Hank and Pat. He ignored Talika.
‘No one. Or all of us,’ said Kate. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘I am afraid there is, Madam. It is against the regulations for anyone to pick flowers in the gardens, as I am sure you know. There are notices at all the gates. Your party has obviously picked a great many flowers.’
Kate shook her head, ‘No, we haven’t.’ She laughed, ‘Though I can see the evidence is a bit stacked against us. We—’
‘Madam, I do not think this is a laughing matter …’
‘But it is …’
He produced a notebook, ‘If I may have your name and …’
‘You see, we brought the flowers with us, to decorate the Easter bonnets …’
The man looked at her, contempt in his eyes. ‘I am afraid that cannot be so.’ He looked around, under the table. ‘You have no flowers with you apart from those in your hats, no receptacles, buckets, boxes—’
Hank cut in. ‘That’s because we took them back to the car, so as not to litter your gardens. I’ll show you if you like. We cleared—’
The official ignored Hank. ‘Madam, I do not want to insult you, but I saw one of the children, with my own eyes, picking blue hyacinths from a border.’
Kate was suddenly angry. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said calmly, steel in her voice.
‘This one,’ he said, pointing at Toby. ‘The one with the red, white and blue.’ He said to Toby, ‘You did, didn’t you?’
Toby, eyes round and stricken, looked at the man without speaking. Pat put a protective arm round his shoulders, and Hank stood up.
‘Look, fella,’ he said, ‘you’re frightening the boy. You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’
Kate said, ‘But why would Toby do that? Toby, you didn’t—’
At that moment, Kate heard a familiar voice behind her.
‘Kate McKinnon, what do we have here? Birthday party, am I right?’ It was Oliver Stapler.
Kate jumped up, her face flushing. ‘Oh, Oliver, hello, what are you doing here?’
Oliver introduced his wife. She did not look a bit as Kate had imagined her, which was overweight and tweedy. This woman was slim and attractive. Her skin looked almost transparent and there were blueish veins at her temples, tender and delicate. ‘Ruth, this is Kate, I told you about her. She’s the caterer who does all those—’
‘Yes, I know who she is. You’ve told me more than once about her brilliant cooking.’
Ouch, thought Kate, that was not said or m
eant kindly. She chipped in hurriedly, ‘This is my mother, Pat, and her husband, Hank, and Talika my friend. She’s the one who makes the cherry chocolates you like. And this lad here is Toby, my son.’ She knew she was gabbling, but Oliver’s sudden appearance had thrown her. And the Kew man was still waiting for an answer. ‘It’s Toby’s birthday, but it seems we are in trouble here.’ She indicated the official.
Oliver looked across the table and then quickly walked round it, arm outstretched. ‘I’m Oliver Stapler, is there anything I can do to help?’
The man put out his hand, which Oliver shook, asking, ‘And you are?’
‘James Todhunter.’
Oliver looked directly into the man’s eyes and smiled. ‘What’s the problem, Mr Todhunter?’
But Mr Todhunter had folded his tents. Kate felt sorry for him rather than satisfied. She would have persuaded him in the end about the flowers, but he’d been unfairly routed by fame and authority. Oliver’s face was a familiar one, and even if he didn’t know exactly what Oliver did, he knew when he’d met his match.
‘No Sir, I think I’ll just leave it. I’m sure it won’t happen again.’ And he turned tail and walked away, his back stiff.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Oliver.
Kate shrugged, her good humour restored. ‘Oh, it was wonderful. The perfect misunderstanding. He took one look at all the Easter bonnets and concluded that the flowers had been filched from Kew. But I’d bought them in the flower market.’
Oliver looked at the various hats, some of which, after an afternoon of tree-top walking, were a bit bedraggled. He laughed. ‘I do see. A natural enough conclusion. Poor chap.’
Kate said, ‘Mrs Stapler, Oliver, I don’t suppose you’d like to join us for a cup of tea? And a piece of birthday cake – Toby is about to cut it.’
To Kate’s surprise Oliver said, ‘What do you think, Ruth, shall we join the young man’s party?’ He bent to Toby and said, ‘What do you think, Toby? Another couple of grown-ups at your birthday tea? Would you mind?’